Yeah i still imagine him teasing and perhaps groping him while he's on a date with a new guy. Bucky will get jealous and every time Steve gets home, he could hear this faint voice saying 'You like him huh? You want him to fuck you like i did?'
Ghost Bucky
I SURE FUCKING DO
And I love this fucking concept so bad!
Imagine, if you will, that interaction between them occurring when Steve's cleaning himself up after a nice, traditional, if not... boring... date. It was nice. Normal. A candlelit dinner. Conversation. Wine. Whatever. There wasn't not a spark but also not a real spark. The guy was... fine.
The guy was certainly not an intangible spirit who lives in his house, haunting his life, repeatedly seducing him and breaking his mind, perfectly timed to make the lights in Steve's steam-choked bathroom flicker and go out. Suddenly, he's in the dark. He isn't alone. Despite the hot, scorching trace of water crying down his skin, Steve is suddenly shivering and freezing cold as Bucky's icy hands descend upon his body.
"Buck!" He gasps.
"I scare you?" Bucky's hushed voice is hardly audible above the rushing water. Steve feels it more than he hears it, ice crystals forming on the nape of his neck.
His nipples are so hard. Already responding so eagerly, embarrassingly, to Bucky's touch.
Bucky teases.
Bucky touches.
Bucky surrounds him.
Steve whimpers. He isn't scared he's, he, he—
Bucky brings the lights back on, flickering, then steady, and—
Oh, god.
Steve makes a whorish sound, abruptly getting an eyeful of himself, alone, in the mirror. He knows Bucky is here, he can feel him, but he can't see him. In the mirror, it's just him. Just his own blush, drenched and plastered-back hairline to hard nipples on his heaving chest. Just his cock jerking and sticking up toward his clenching belly. Just his own shaking legs. He's a mess. Bucky does this to him. No one else would understand. How could they? Look at him, he isn't even holding himself up anymore. He's panting clouds of arousal into the steamy room, he's thrashing and squirming, he's wet, dripping, he's hot, so hot, and Bucky is so cold as he slips inside him, so, such, s—AH!
And it's coming over you like it's all a big mistake”
Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Summary: Reader escapes her abusive ex and moves to the alps. Bucky is in denial about some things, like what the year is, and if he’s dead. Part 1/6
Warnings: Mentions of an abusive boyfriend, Ghosts.
Masterlist Pt.Two
You shiver as a freezing cold breeze finds its way through the cracks of the window. The train is old, insulation and heat are nowhere to be found. You sit back in your seat cupping your hands for warmth, looking around at all the empty seats, you’re sure its only you on the train, no one wants to go to this tiny village in Austrian Alps. You made sure when you picked it, population of only 200, no one would find you there.
Some people might say you’re crazy for moving halfway across the world because of a crazy ex, but it wasn’t just that. You couldn’t shake the feeling of disappearing. How freeing it would be, to live just for yourself. You know it was the right thing to do, you had to much emotional baggage and you left it in the taxi at the airport in New York. It was also who you left in that taxi, they are the reason you walked into an airport with nothing but the clothes on your back and a purse.
They didn’t know you were hidden underneath three layers of shirts, pants, underwear, socks. You looked like a hobo, but no one could tell you had shorts, leggings, and jeans underneath your baggy sweats. No one noticed the sports bra overtop the strapless one, or the doubling of tank tops. Maybe they noticed the light blue of your favorite t-shirt popping out of the collar of your grandma's cable knit sweater. Did they notice the amount of gold bracelets or the diamond rings on your fingers? He didn’t, you hid your hands in your sleeves around him. TSA didn’t bat an eye though. Your purse contains everything, your whole life stuffed into a school bag you’d been pretending was a new purse. You made up the excuse that you needed more organization. You practically brought nothing; he’d notice if it was stuffed to the gills.
You told him you were picking up your cousin from the airport, you knew he wouldn’t let you go by yourself, so you couldn’t pack a bag. You just got extremely lucky when he said he’d wait in the taxi. That was 10 hours ago, and it was night then, it’s somehow 2 pm here. You were exhausted and freezing, you just wanted to get to your cabin.
You bought it in secret when your aunt died last year. Instead of putting you in her will, she left cash behind in the cat food container. She knew your situation, and she knew you’d be the only one to think about her cats after she died. When you found the money, it had a note saying to make a secret savings account, never tell a soul, one day the moment would come when you’d had enough. You know your aunt didn’t mean move to Austria, but what can you do when your abusive boyfriend is a secret agent for shield. You have to be this dramatic, taking chances wasn’t an option now. You had to go as far as you could. Even though disappearing excited you, it was very necessary. The chance was minimal that he would ever find you, but it was enough to keep you looking around the train.
When you make it to the tiny town you don't realize there is a welcome parade waiting for you. It really only consists of some local women and pies. They keep you entertained with their broken English, as you all hike your way up to your new cabin. They tell you how lucky they are to have you, how excited they are for summer and to be able to show you around more properly.
You thank one of the women as she hands you a key, "The bank sent this from the city.". You wave them off, turning the key and stepping inside. Once you're in the door you're standing in the kitchen, a countertop that doubles as a bar separates it from the open concept living room. A wooden staircase leads to a loft bedroom. You smile at the thought of no more slamming doors.
You do see one door, making your way towards it. Opening it reveals an outdated bathroom that needed some tlc. You covered your nose at the stench of mildew. There was a major leak, you need to find where it comes from so it doesn't get worse. You make your way up the stairs, and you search around for the cause of your grief. A sizable patch of mold is found behind your bed, under the windowsill. The realtor's photos did not disclose this damage.
As you’re bent over accessing the costs, you hear a loud creak come from downstairs. It's enough for you to jump up and run to the banister, searching for what caused it. You find nothing, you tell yourself it's just the wind and shake it off. It's too early to be getting spooked. This cabin is so old, there's bound to be creaks and whispers ever once and a while.
You make your way downstairs to have a closer look around. You check the cupboards to find that the women stocked you up with the basic necessities, sugar, flour, salt. You find farm fresh milk, cheese, and eggs in the fridge. You close the tin door; the women were nice enough to give you food but not enough to dust the place. You find some supplies under the sink and get to work.
You dust old pictures of strangers, as you're knocking down cobwebs in the corners a powerful scent clouds your mind. You stand against the wall, steadying yourself. Pine and mint, it is gone before it was truly there. No matter how hard you try to find the smell again, it's gone. You try to explain it away to yourself.
You're done by the time the sun finishes setting. The cabin envelopes you in a dim yellow glow from the old lamps. Ornate rugs where found, rolled up inside an armoire. The leather of the couch gleamed due to the scrubbing and polishing you did. A warmth fills the room, something you haven't felt in your own home in years. You run into the kitchen grabbing a glass of milk and a piece of pie.
You devour your pie and milk before you can find a watchable channel on the tv with an antenna. You settle on the hallmark channel. The acting is enough to make you cringe. But you know entertainment is slim pickings in the mountains. Throwing a fleece blanket around your shoulders your curl up into a ball. You start to fall asleep when the princess on the screen admits she was not who she said she was.
Right as your eyes close the front door bursts open. White flurries intrude on the warmth you created. You jump back, holding your chest. You know this is it, he found you that quick. When no one enters, you run and slam the door shut, locking it behind yourself. You can't help but laugh manically at yourself for clutching your pearls. Turning, you make your way upstairs, today was hectic, and you're too exhausted to deal with anything,
You wiggle your way into the flannel sheets. As you fall asleep you think about everything you left behind. Your family, a few friends, him. Your family was the hardest part. Your little brother Max will understand one day. You are going to miss out on so much, you just hope they don't hate you forever.
A stinging stabs your eye, and before you know it, tears are pooling on your pillow. It is all becoming overwhelming. Leaving your whole family behind, spending all of your aunt's money on a cabin, being alone in this cabin, the constant fear that he is coming. You had luxuries in New York; places to run, people that can hear everything. You don't know what he would do out here, especially because of what you did.
Before you can spiral completely you hear the faint sound of a train whistle. Strange, you think to yourself. The tracks are a mile away back in town, there's no way you should be able to hear them out here. The whistle sounds like it's getting closer and closer. You stand from the bed and look outside the window; you're greeted with darkness and still trees.
With no sights on a train, your heart jumps out of your chest when the house begins to rumble beneath your feet. It's like only the cabin was being affected by the nearby train. You walk to the center of the room, covering your ears as the whistle gets unbearably loud. The cabin starts shaking violently, causing a picture frame to crash on the ground. You let out a scream and fall to your knees.
Everything ceases. The house is silent, your rapid breathing echos off the walls. You raise your head, looking around, you half expect something to pop out at you. When nothing comes, you stand and slowly walk down the stairs. The only thing out of place, shattered glass.
You cross the room to the kitchen, grabbing the broom off the hook. You're still trying to explain it away and catch your breath as you sweep up the shards. Maybe there is a different set of tracks nearby. You're being paranoid because it's your first night. It will take time for everything to be okay again. You toss what is left of the frame, practically crawling back to bed.
You fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, exhaustion overtaking you. Your dreams are no reprieve from your fast-moving life. You're hurt really bad, and you're trying to flag down a soldier in the woods for help. He's running away from you, holding his shoulder, screaming a man's name. Its muffled, and his face is fuzzy, the only thing you could make out were images of dog tags.
You drift to a happier place as you smell mint and pine again. Instead of clouding your senses, this time it relaxes them. letting your dreams ease your anxiety while you slept.
Bucky Barnes - M Ghost x F Human (Reader) // NSFW - Kinktober Challenge
The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.
Content: NSFW/Lemon: MCU Bucky Barnes as a ghost AU, featuring Alpine the cat, flirting throughout, endearments (mainly “sugar” and “doll”, but “honey” and “pretty girl” too), reader uses endearment “baby”, touches (hand holding, hugging, cheek kisses), insecurities (Bucky’s arm), intimate touches (stroking reader’s bare body), kissing, receiving fingering, receiving oral (+ face-sitting), penetrative sex, orgasms (+ no protection), allusions to more, slight cockwarming
Kinks: face-sitting, cockwarming, mirror sex
Notes: this story is for @slothspaghettiwrites in their Marvelous Monster Mayhem Writing Challenge, with the prompt Send chills up and down your spine / Juices flowing down your thigh - Pony by Leon Bridges. It’s my first time writing fanfiction, too - couldn’t resist a monster AU.
Wordcount: 4950
Masterlist // My Ko-Fi
If ghosts were real, cat owners would be the first to know.
It was too late now; the lease had been signed, and with hindsight’s blessing, you wished Alpine had accompanied you for every tour of a potential new home. All traces of you had been moved into this new apartment, but the personality of your rescued cat seemed to have been lost along the way. She rarely twined her fluffy tail around your ankles as she weaved through your feet, becoming now the shadow to something in your home that you couldn’t see.
You felt them sometimes, though.
Not a touch as firm as you both wanted and dreaded – you would rather know sooner if whoever haunted you could touch you, could hurt you – but when your hairs stood on end in a room without open windows, Alpine beginning to purr as she looked to a space that was empty for your eyes, you couldn’t deny it was something more than the odd tendencies of a lonely kitten. That faint cold – almost reminiscent of a stuttered breath, followed you through your home, even into your bedroom. There was no way to lock a ghost behind a wall and if that tickling exhale crept too close, you feigned ignorance and called for Alpine, hand stretching over your bed sheets for a cat that wasn’t there. Still, though, they hadn’t touched you.
Yet.
As a kitten, Alpine had nibbled through several treat packets until you invested in a tin she couldn’t claw open. For a human – dead or alive, it seemed, unscrewing the lid was no struggle. From the time you left and returned home, the supply dwindled. The idea of installing cameras wasn’t one you were fond of so soon – uneasy about being watched even through your own installation, and it would only remind you of the stranger sharing your home.
Which led to the endearment falling in surprise when you returned much earlier than usual. Since moving, Alpine hadn’t greeted you by the door like she used you – she had company now, so why would she really be missing you? – but on an early finish from work, you found her curled against the left side of the sofa, beside a sloped depression in the cushion. Her little ears twisted at your presence, but they hadn’t moved. Rather than fleeing as the lightheadedness begged, you closed the door and pressed back against it for support.
“Hi, stranger.”
The room didn’t feel as cold as it often did in their presence. Something in the way the spirit hadn’t harmed you nor your cat emboldened you to step forward, only once, but that was close enough for the sofa cushion to move, like they were soon to flee.
“Don’t feed her too many treats at once,” you said. If your voice began to shake, it wouldn’t have been a surprise, but you couldn’t hear too well over the rush of blood in your ears; why were you humouring this spirit? Your voice held steady, unwavering in pitch despite the tingling in your fingers without anything to anchor you. “If she’s sick, you’ll be responsible for the vet bills, okay? She seems to like you, though. Maybe,” and you nearly bit your tongue against the stream of thoughts you couldn’t inhibit, but they hadn’t vanished yet, and it was the first time you had really been in their presence. “Maybe I would, too, stranger.”
By the time you had removed your coat to hang by the door, Alpine’s quiet purr rubbed against your calves, and the sunken cushion was slowly rising again. No shivers turned you from any rooms for the rest of that day, but a chill tickled along your spine in the instant after greeting them. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to occupy the cushion on the left side of the sofa now. In a way you hadn’t before, you were conscious that you shared your home with someone else – even without a reply.
Lunch breaks found you travelling the short distance home more often than staying. The groove remained and with each visit, you greeted them – a soft, “hi, stranger,” would fall to them before greeting Alpine, who was far more interested in the ghost ruffling her soft fur down to her flexing paws. Leaving your room to feed Alpine, you would hesitate in the kitchen just before turning back to bed, usually a mug warming your hands from the cold room.
“Morning. I hope I’m not speaking to an empty room,” you would sometimes add. It was hard to reason with the sudden tightness in your chest each time a call stayed unanswered. After living alone for so long, with only the cat now beginning to favour an invisible being, you began aching for another presence.
“I’m having a couple of friends over this afternoon,” you said one weekend. That knotting ache hadn’t eased over the last few days, and you hoped inviting people over to your new home would help, but it would also be the first time you had company with a ghost present. “You’re not an evil spirit, are you? You don’t hurt people?”
The temperature cooling always seemed an agreement, like when they came so close you trembled, and you took it to mean the same thing now, even with the temperature dropping so severely your breath puffed out visibly.
“I mean – you don’t seem like – I don’t think you would hurt anyone.”
Having company that continued a conversation helped distract you. They were enamoured by how much Alpine seemed to have matured now. She wasn’t so playful – with living beings, anyway. There had only been one uncomfortable moment, and it came solely from you when after welcoming them indoors, your friend sat on the left cushion on the sofa. Your breath caught and your arm stretched out as if to stop them, but fingers curled at your wrist and gently tucked your arm back to your waist. It wasn’t the touch of any of your friends – all before you, waiting for you to join them, but the touch of somebody standing close, their right hand somehow warm, calloused on their fingertips where they rubbed over your inner wrist.
They had felt how your pulse raced, but there hadn’t been the chance then to explain that your frantic heartbeat hadn’t been from fright, but the exhilaration that finally, you had proof of their existence. Alpine bumped her cheek against your wrist when she cuddled in your lap later, her little, pink nose twitching.
It may have been the first time they weren’t with you all day, after you’d felt them, but you felt lighter the next morning, waking after an undisturbed, warm sleep, and smiled walking into the kitchen. “Morning, stranger.”
Something pressed to your back – somebody’s chest, theirs, leaning against your shoulder blades. The room was colder but you weren’t, flushing from their firm touch. As your hand began to shake, so did your mug, and the steady run of rough knuckles along your nape, sloping carefully along your shoulder, your elbow, ended curling around the back of your hand. They hadn’t shown themselves to you but your hand moved, the softer skin on your forearm shifting from theirs against it.
“Morning, sugar.”
The quiet lilt to their masculine voice made your mug slip, and when his breath tickled your neck in a laugh, your knees nearly fell from underneath you.
“Careful. I scared you?”
“No! No,” you rasped, and your left hand circled his wrist on yours; though you couldn’t see it, you felt the twitch beneath the thin hairs against your palm. “You didn’t scare me. Promise. But I’d feel much better if I could see you.”
His fingers tapped lightly over yours. Hoping that once you turned, as he withdrew, he would reveal himself, you let his hand slip away. There wasn’t a chance for you to find it and draw him back – you would be reaching out into an empty room, and you needed both hands to support your mug with your body shaking. Instead, you staggered forward, not quite turning in full circles but searching for any sign he was with you.
“Tell me your name – please, what can I call you?”
It came from behind you, like he was teasing your lack of sight. First a flit of fingertips over your burning cheek, then, “something wrong with stranger?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with sugar, either, stranger.” You were sure to add the endearment as you span on your heel, and your stomach fluttered – he liked the nickname. “But it isn’t my name, and you know mine. Are you – are you even here?”
The pause dragged; your heart raced still, but with nausea stuck in your throat.
“Bucky.”
Behind you. “Bucky?”
“Bucky.”
“That’s another nickname, isn’t it?” He left you turning in an uncomfortable circle until you stopped facing where he had last been. “Thank you, Bucky.” For now, at least, you were satisfied, but cleared your throat. “So, when can I see you?”
His fingers brushed against yours, but he didn’t dignify you with a response then, nor the rest of the day. Knowing the warmth his words countered the frost of his presence made you speak to him more directly – asking open-ended questions, ones that couldn’t be satisfied through the presumption of a cold breath exhaled in agreement. Sometimes he ignored you, but whenever you left, he always said goodbye.
Touches were freer now – hands catching as you must have walked by, though it happened far too often to be just a coincidence, as were the indicators of his presence.
Before you made it to the kitchen – sometimes before even greeting him, your mug would be waiting, handle angled out for you. Making him laugh was a task harder some days than others, and with all you’d ever known being the press of his broad chest and the curve of his forearm, you couldn’t imagine his face well, if at all.
So, you turned your laptop on one morning, curled into the right side of your sofa, and after typing your new address, added ‘Bucky.’ He didn’t welcome questions that required too much of a response even after so long together, and breaching the topic of his death, or whatever caused him to remain haunting your home didn’t fill you with hope at an answer. The most common cliché was an untimely death – you hated the thought of it being where you lived, but when nothing came up in the search results, your fingers stilled over the keyboard, stumped for what else to search now.
“You won’t find anything.”
This flip in your stomach was an unwelcome one, a bitterness souring your mouth; the taste of guilt. He spoke again before you could, stammering over an apology, a justification for an invasion into a dead man’s limited privacy failing on your lips.
“I didn’t die here, doll. Didn’t out there, either.”
“Where – where did you-“
“I’m the part of me that did die.”
It left you with more questions than answers, and none you could verbalise. The room hadn’t gotten so cold you were shaking, but the unease weighing on your shoulders kept you still. “I’m sorry, Bucky. I shouldn’t have tried to find out.”
You imagined him shrugging – still unknowing of his mannerisms, but a heavy breath brushed your neck. “You never looked before?”
“Why would I?”
“To know who’s haunting you,” he said without any hesitation, and it had never occurred to you before. The thought of banishing him from your home through an exorcism (an attempted one, anyway), hadn’t either until the search results returned it, and the amount of trust you had for him left you speechless. “Why now?”
Chin tucked down to your chest, you whispered, “wanted to see you.” He chuckled on a deep breath, but you didn’t take it back. Of all the reasons to finally look for the purpose of his haunting, this must have been the furthest from his mind, and the sudden quieting of his laughter alerted you. “Why haunt here? Do you know? Bucky?”
“Friend’s old place. Are you telling the truth, sugar?”
“Was that before they rebuilt the apartments?”
“Before. Before the war. Honey,” he said, and in such a tone your heart nearly stopped. Soft and demanding all in one, the added pressure of his knuckles running over your jaw to coax your head back had it falling against his chest easily. “Is that how bad you want to see me?”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m the furthest thing from making fun.”
“Yes. Yes, I wanted to see you.”
Light stubble along his jaw dragged over your temple, the warm, smooth skin of his cheek leaning close. When his lips pressed gently to your cheek, it was impossible to keep your eyes from fluttering closed. Being so close nearly ended you, expecting chills but pleasant shivers tickled your spine, his breath jolting you back.
The screen of your laptop had darkened, a near perfect reflection of the man resting over the sofa mirrored. Without thinking – you might have been the first person since the war to be touching him – your hand rose fast to his nape, holding him close but flush to you, the warmth of his pink lips still burning on your cheek. Trimmed honey-brown hair ran through your knuckles down to the curled back fringe, but he never turned away, never looked from your wide eyes in your laptop. He might have even smiled and that was the face you would cling to in his absence – the crinkling of his eyes brighter when the hand still near your jaw traced your collarbones, finding your pulse again.
“Not all of me haunts you looking this pretty.”
You had forgotten in the brief and fleeting moment that despite his touch, his warmth and the weight of his against you, something cold leaning on your back, he wasn’t living. Bucky wasn’t here himself – was he alive, is that what he had meant? – and he was only in your company through a misfortune he didn’t want to share.
“Buck-“
“You make me feel alive.”
Chirping as she rose from her curled position, Alpine stretched out her paws and butted her head into your thigh. It was long enough for you to reach for her and away from Bucky, and he wasn’t there when you looked back, your cat nuzzling into the hand that had seconds ago been touching him. “Thank you for showing me,” you called out, and from being in his presence this long, his hand on your cheek didn’t make you jump. “Promise you won’t hide from me?”
He didn’t answer.
You didn’t need him to.
Quieter moments were filled with touches that were much more intimate than before. He’d let you see him when you worked from home some days, leaning over the sofa so you saw the curl of his smile touch your temple before he faded again. Sunlight sometimes glittered through him in a state of in-between but you never saw him fully, never in the light. Now you welcomed his proximity, he teased you openly when you invited your friends back; this time you occupied the cushion he favoured, and he must have perched on the armrest to run his right hand where he could, tickling your nape, coaxing the shivers in a much different way than before.
For an evening you were invited to your friend’s, you asked Bucky if he wanted to take care of Alpine. She liked him enough, and it would mean you could stay out a little later. He never showed himself before when you spent lunches at home, having a tangible presence either way, so leaving the camera out to make sure he fed her dinner instead of only treats wasn’t intended to catch him cradling Alpine against his sloped chest with only one arm. His legs being stretched out to your coffee was your main concern – brown trousers tight on his thighs where they crossed, and then you glanced back to where his shirt loosened just below his upper arm, cuffed there, chains resembling those of dog tags beneath his collar glinted.
You called home as a courtesy – out of guilt.
“Hi, stranger.”
Retreating to your friend’s hall, you had to lean into the doorframe, so you didn’t buckle with how wide his smile stretched when he leaned the landline to his ear, fingers returning to curling through Alpine’s fur. “Hey, sugar.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
“We miss you.”
“Yeah?”
“Missed you a whole lot, too. You have a good time?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I’m back,” you said, but you breathed it out in a way of a confession he wouldn’t understand yet. Really, you could’ve stayed longer, but after seeing what you were missing out on, you had to leave. With how uncomfortable he was showing himself completely, you always exaggerated how long it took to unlock the front door. The blur of white trilling at your heels stole your affections for too long, and you held out your hand into the empty space. “Where are you, Bucky?”
His hand lifted yours against his chest; you could identify the thin bumps beneath his shirt today as dog tags, and you clutched it tight like it could stop him running. “I need to… Bucky, I need to tell you something.” Though you didn’t let go of him, he softened his touch, bringing his palm to your cheek, but this time you didn’t let him lift your chin. “I saw you. Through my laptop earlier. I didn’t mean to see you – I saw you. I saw you.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw what you hide, Bucky.” You couldn’t hold him close when he chose to distance himself, and you couldn’t fault him for it. Unintentionally at first, yes, but you had wandered from your friends to treasure the moment further – just for the beauty of him cuddling your pet. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you said, but to a room you knew was empty without asking.
It was still too early for you to be sleeping but you found your way into bed. He could have the lounge, the lounge and the comfort of a sleepy cat, and however long he wanted before he felt comfortable coming to you again. The first couple hours from hiding yourself away were in fits of sleep – never really resting but tossing and turning until the quilt shifted. You tucked closer into the pillow so you wouldn’t accidentally kick her from the bed; Bucky must have left, gone somewhere by himself.
Hand stretching over the covers, you whispered, “hi, baby.”
“Hi, honey.”
This time, you did cry out; expecting Alpine and hearing him instead made you reach for the light, and to see him crouched down, kneeling by the bedside silenced any other noise except a choked apology. He wasn’t hiding now, in the dim light from your bedside lamp. The loose sleeve had been folded up once more, enough to bare the scarred stump of his upper arm, jagged above his elbow; he hadn’t told you the circumstances, but you remembered him mentioning an out there before. It had your throat tightening.
“I thought you were Alpine,” you croaked.
He smiled, one that didn’t lift to his eyes. “Thought we were trying new nicknames.”
“I like honey. Doll ages you, Bucky.”
“Sugar?”
You smiled this time. “Yeah?” It coaxed a sad laugh and you reached across the last remaining space to gently bump your palm to his, but it was by him that your fingers linked. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that earlier.”
“I meant it. Didn’t mean to spy on you – not like that. Well, I did want to spy on you – I don’t trust you not to use all my cat treats and ruin her dinner, Buck, but not like that.”
The soft twist of his fringe fell across his lowered forehead. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“’Course not,” you whispered. He tensed only for as long as it took you to move your hand from this and rest both gently on his shoulders. Running them lower softened him until his head rested on your thigh, breaths quiet as you ran your touch up and down. “It would never bother me. My home came with a ghost, and you think this’ll bother me most? You want to come sleep up here tonight? Do ghosts sleep?”
“I sleep enough, honey. Do you mind if I stay?”
“I love when you stay. Here or just near me, Bucky. I always do.”
His breath trembled when you rested your hand over his cheek, fingertips stroking back his hair. “I’ve seen a lot of people come and go,” he mumbled, cheek still to your thigh. “Do you plan on staying?”
“For as long as I can.”
Through the most peaceful of sleeps, his hand never fell from yours. He rarely hid himself away then, meeting you in the kitchen most mornings if he hadn’t spent the night beside your bed – never joining you, though the offer was always extended, if not for something more, but you hadn’t come to admit that to yourself yet; that the chill of the room was something you welcomed now, because it meant Bucky was near, and whenever he came close, it brought a kiss to your forehead, falling ever closer to your lips.
Finding space away from him somehow became the issue. Where Alpine had grown out of her tendency to follow you into the bathroom, it was one Bucky began developing, and after tying a towel around your bare frame, through the steam and fogged mirror, his body reflected behind you. It was the only forewarning before he tucked an arm over your waist, beneath the slip of the towel.
“Bucky!”
“You spied on me before, sugar. Seems fair to me.”
Breaths soft on your neck, he kissed where the droplets fell just as he traced from your damp hip to your thigh. He was careful – never touching too close, never really crossing the unspoken line, until he lifted his chin to run his nose behind the shell of your ear.
“That’s not all shower water,” he whispered, and for your body to prove so, your thighs tightened around his curling fingers. They lifted enough for your breathing to hitch and hold on the towel to falter. “Is it?”
His teeth left a sting nipping the sensitive skin over your pulse before he left you unsteady, clinging to the sink for support.
That wasn’t fair.
He might have argued it wasn’t fair to find you resting over the covers later that night, drifting through a closed bedroom door where you greeted him only in a sheer gown. It was one you had been saving for an occasion like this. His eyebrows rose a little, looking up to you and down once more.
“I remember those being longer, pretty girl.”
“Don’t you want to see what’s underneath?”
“Can see well enough already,” he hummed. “You going to show me?”
“Not if you don’t join me in bed.”
The sheer material was on the floor before Bucky was on you. Lifted by his arm framing your face, your noses bumped, breaths catching just at the feeling of one another close. He was still dressed when he kissed you – hesitancy damned, drawing on your bottom lip to coax a moan within the first seconds. You were careful with how you held him to keep him steady – not pushing him back just yet. With your hands running under his shirt, tracing the dips of his stomach, you tugged on the dog tags until you felt them cold on your chest, chain running over your nipples as he settled between your legs.
One kiss had ruined you enough to stay still when he knelt back, kissing down to your stomach before breathing your name. “Let me touch you.”
“I didn’t invite you back here to sleep, baby.”
He made you pay for that when he ran a finger over your juices, thighs twitching from the pressure of his thumb directly on your clit. Torn between watching as he groaned, and curling into the pillows, the ecstasy from having him run two fingers against your fluttering walls made you turn into the sheets and cry.
“Eyes on me,” he breathed. “Look at me when I make you come, doll.”
It took very little. Still high from his fleeting touch that morning, imagining and planning this moment since, Bucky pairing the drag of his thumb on your clit and the pumping from his wrist had you whining, legs rising to his waist. Your vision swam but you never looked away, and he made sure to have you watch when his hand pressed between his lips.
“How long can you stay like this?”
He grinned. It wasn’t an answer, but it answered enough. “Do me a favour?” The ghost seemed more a man when he rolled to his back, the material of his trousers strained at his hips. “Come sit up here for me?”
“Then I get to have you?”
His tongue traced over his lips and he nodded, a jerk to his chin all it took for you to grip your headboard, knees digging into the pillow by his cheek. Bucky nudged his face up, lips just meeting the slick skin of your inner thigh as you whined. “You need to tap me if I’m too much.”
He laughed and splayed his palm over your lower back. “You forget I don’t need to breathe.”
You took advantage of his reminder, for once not stung by it. Bucky groaned like he was a man struggling for air, his cheeks smothered by your thighs as you rocked against his parted lips. Each flick of his tongue ran over your sensitive clit and down, finding where you were most sensitive, what made you cry and drag a hand through his hair and scratch at his scalp.
How he knew you’d looked over your shoulder was beyond you with him never breaking apart, but finding the mirror behind you made you choke. It looked like you were straddling nothing, wanton and trembling in the air as his hand dug into your ass, the weight of your body on him shaking. The roughness of his stubble nestled against your thighs as his tongue traced your slit. When he pushed inside your heat, you sunk down heavier on him, toes curling as your second orgasm washed over you.
Bright eyes glazed eyes beneath you, his lips glistening. “Sugar sweet,” he said, sucking the taste of you into his mouth like he hadn’t had enough. “You can have me now, doll.”
Bucky shifted up to lean onto the headboard, but when you sought his buckle, he smoothed over your cheek. You blinked once, and he was laying bare. Waiting. There were some perks to death, evidently – and some that made you swallow hard, wanting to savour the moment, to taste him first, but you couldn’t wait. He was heavy in your palm and later, you would make sure to draw as many moans from him as he had you, but now you stroked over his swollen cock to guide him against you.
“C’mere,” he whispered, bringing your chests together as you slowly sank down around him. Your mouths fell, slow kisses matching the pace as you stretched around him. From the warmth in his flushed cheeks – imprints from how you’d clenched around his jaw, neither of you would be lasting long, and this was all you could manage without seeing stars from how he’d already tongue-fucked you to ruin. “Ride me, pretty girl.”
Your hand spread over his shoulders – mindful of the phantom pains of those scars, supporting you with every rise and fall of your hips on his. Bucky touched you everywhere; palm dragging over your breast, the lowered temperature of the room and his chain a welcome contrast to his kisses finding your clavicles, the hollow between where your breath hitched, and he made sure to hold you close when he began to lift into you.
“Buck,” you whimpered. You tightened around him when your thighs began to shake again. Clutching him against your body couldn’t stop your trembling. “Baby-“
“Let me see. Want to see how you look when I fill you.”
From the stuttered cry of your name as he stiffened, hips lifting one final time to empty himself, the warmth of him tipped you over. You arched back – him peppering kisses down to suck on your nipple, shivers running over your spine as you felt your thighs grow warm from his release. Until you could breathe again, you would keep him close, relishing in the pleasure of his touches keeping you just as tight. Between pants, you tasted yourself on his tongue, kisses shared between whispers.
“I won’t wake with you gone, will I?”
His touch didn’t falter like the slight shift in his face; lips no longer in such an easy smile, the crinkles of his eyes a little smaller. Perhaps it was a cruel thing to ask after taking the other apart – after he bared himself completely, still buried deep in you, but as he leaned into your fingers running over his features, temples to cheekbones to swollen lips, he looked like he’d never let himself slip.
Sam Wilson/fem!Reader, dark!Bucky Barnes/fem!Reader | 18+
A visit to your landlord uncovers a past.
► word count: 3.6k
► warnings(!): injuries, masturbation, hallucination. this is a dark fic.
|| Series Masterlist ||
A/N: A bit of a slow chapter but we’re nearing the end lads!
𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝔼𝕝𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟
“We’ve checked everything, sir.”
It was hard to believe. There must be somewhere they had overlooked. Something felt amiss, you knew it.
“There were no signs of a forced entry. Everything was locked. Well, except for the balcony doors, but she had opened those.”
Had they checked the attic? The basement? He was there in the parlour windows, and the next, he was at the bottom of the stairs, close to the front door. You refused to believe he had came in easily, as if he had apparated in.
“The door she claimed the assailant kicked showed no damage whatsoever.”
That was impossible. You had heard it. You watched it shake as he demanded entry. You had felt it, the vibrations from his heavy boots passing through the floorboards. If there were no marked footprints, there should’ve been at least a splinter in the wood.
“We’ve received complaints like these before regarding the Rogers’ house, but we can’t really do anything when there’s no evidence. A ‘ghostly’ touch on the ankle can’t be taken as evidence.”
And just like that, your case was dismissed. Your encounter, taken with a grain of salt. Your experience, dismissed as a mere ghostly tale.
You had almost wanted to show them the purples around your neck. To take off the makeup and show them, to pass them off as evidence of an assault. But with no recollection of the event, and no solid evidence, you refrained. It would only backfire; not only towards you, but towards Sam as well.
“Thank you, officers. For all your help, but we can handle it from here.”
It was a long night and it ended when the officers had left. They had searched your house, taken your statement, and calmed you down. They were polite enough, listening when you recounted your harrowing experience, giving you comfort in the form of a shock blanket. However, their quick dismissal left a sour aftertaste within you. The disheartening feeling of being seen as a hysterical woman.
You only had Sam who believed. You hoped he did.
“Sam, you believe me... right?”
“Of course, baby. Of course.”
Too shook up after last night’s incident, sleep evaded you until the wee hours of the morning, all the while curled up next to your saviour. He had soothed you, a protective arm at all times, giving you time. He never left your side throughout the night.
Now, huddled under the warm comforter of your guest room, you played last night’s events on loop. Heart palpating by even the sight of your bedroom door, Sam had decided a switch was in order.
At the end of the bed, Peaches laid in a white loaf by your feet, softly purring. She was a comforting presence, the heavy weight a reminder you weren’t alone. A guardian angel in her own way.
The day came and went faster than you could register.
In the morning, Wanda had came by with Vis to check up on you. She was worried after your abrupt goodbye on the phone and she was right to be. You missed their visit, being at the forefront of sleep. The warm serving of Paprikash you had for lunch was the sole indication of her visit.
Tony and Pepper had called and sent a large bouquet of colourful assortments with a ‘get well soon’ card attached right to your doorstep. They had heard from Sam, who had taken the duty of taking messages and answering your calls for you, citing your need for rest. Both had expressed the desire to visit, unfortunately corporate obligation had swamped them both.
In the late afternoon, Sam had came in with snacks in bed to soothe your cravings before dinner. He had prepared a few biscuits and fruits and made the grand gesture of feeding you with grapes.
“Some folks in the area actually came by to give these to you,” Sam said, shooing a hissing Peaches off the bed. Those two will never get along. “A Mrs Proctor and her grandkid, said you’ve met before at her shop. Seems like you’ve been making friends.”
You hummed, confirming the information. It’s been a while, yet you still remembered your little visit and the incident. Warm, welcoming grandmother and her sour, distrustful grandchild. But after your harrowing experience, you came to realize maybe the teen had known something; it wasn’t just a tale told to scare teenagers off the property on Halloween.
If the both of them knew, then the whole neighbourhood knew. It isn’t a secret when the local police visited you in the middle of the night. Word always traveled fast in small neighbourhoods.
“She sent her regards and hope you’ll come visit soon,” he continued. “Her grandkid told me to relay a message to you too.”
You eyed him, prompting him to resume.
“She said ‘all the best’.”
There was no help coming for you.
—
As the Sun slowly descended into the horizon, you received your last visitor at the end of the day. He came to the house while you were in the bath, finally having the energy to rid off the grime from the last horror.
You scrubbed your skin until it felt raw, the stinging a reminder to stop. You watched as the water swirled down the drain, bringing with it the impurities of the previous night.
You began dressing, the dark turtleneck a warm choice against frigid Autumn. Wiping the fogged up mirror, you stared at your reflection, observing your state. Your skin was deadly pale with dark rings concentrated beneath your eyes; a perfect representation of a troubled person.
Carefully rolling down the collar, you gently thumbed the delicate skin of your neck. What was once a large bruise had shrunk, covering you in patches. They were now a faded purple with a tint of green; a sign of healing.
They disgust you.
Your stomach churned looking at them. They were a reminder of a fog: thick, dense, a swallower of memories. You stared at them hard, racking your mind for a smidge of something, for anything. The longer it took, the uglier they became.
You unconsciously wrapped a hand around your neck, covering the ugly bruises from sight. It felt familiar, yet foreign. Slowly, you began putting pressure, firmly squeezing the sides. You felt an amounting rush.
You sat yourself on the opened toilet seat, back resting against the body. With the unoccupied hand, you hastily pushed your skirt and underwear aside. You worked yourself, rubbing your clit and running fingers down your lower lips, spreading your gathering slick. You let your mind stray away, forgetting the upsetting contusions, driven by only pleasure.
Mewling, you pleasured yourself, knees in the air. More and more, you squeezed thoughtlessly, cutting your airways to chase that building pleasure. You let your imagination wander; visualizing thicker fingers spearing you and heavier palms circling your throat. Intermittently you’d pull out, slapping your cunt while envisioning rough digits handling you. You didn’t envision the physique of anyone, just the feel of a touch. They were familiar, kept in the back of your mind like a hidden memory. You were sure they were not that of your boyfriend.
You were becoming dizzy, high off adrenaline from your asphyxiation. Nearing the tipping point, you quickened your ministrations until you finally snapped. Your thighs quivered as you came crashing, gasping for oxygen as you released your hold. Slick painted your thighs as they trembled. Eyes brimming with tears, you eyed yourself in the opposite mirror. You sighed, lost in blissful delirium; the sound of a woman spent.
Your bliss was short-lived when a knock came on the bathroom door.
“Baby, you okay in there? Your landlord came by for a visit, he just left.”
The tenor of Sam’s voice startled you, grounding you back to reality. You sprung up, adjusting your clothes and making yourself seem proper. Thighs still shaky, your legs felt like putty as you tried to stand up.
“In a minute!” you respond.
When you’ve deemed yourself decent enough, you opened the door. Sam’s toothy smile greeted you.
“My girl’s lookin’ all fresh and smellin’ beautiful,” he whistled.
“That’s silly,” you laughed, hitting his chest. Sam grabbed you by the waist, pulling you closer to plant a kiss on your lips.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Feeling slightly better.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t closer to the truth either. “Being taken care of really did wonders, I want this to last forever,” you kissed him again. “Just the two of us.”
“I’d love that as well.”
It was quiet for a time, the both of you lost in a peaceful bliss. Foreheads touching, you both focused on the moment; taking in the scent of your partner, hearing the beat of each other’s heart, and overall enjoying being in the other’s company. If given, you would prefer to stay like this forever. The beating of his heart, it grounded you. This was your safe place.
Minutes passed and you were both still locked in each other. It took a sudden loud thump in the ceiling for you two to part.
THUD!
You quickly jumped away, horribly spooked. You were on high alert, fidgety, and distraught. The loud noise triggered your flight or fight, leaving you frantically searching for the source.
“Look at me, look at me,” Sam called your name. He grabbed your shoulders, rubbing your forearms in soothing circles. “You’re fine. Breath, you’re fine. I’m here.”
Sam guided your breathing and you followed his rhythm. After a while, you were calmed once more. It was obvious you were still spooked, a second thud confirmed it when you shot up at the sound.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam’s soothing voice cooed. “Would it make you feel better if I checked?”
You frantically nodded. Sam hastily strided through the hall with you close behind. He pulled the attic hatch but it wouldn’t open.
“It’s stuck.”
Sam tried again, giving it a pull a few times. On the strongest pull, it finally relented, revealing the ladder. As it slid down, a large heavy object came tumbling along with it, thudding by your feet. Sam picked it up and upon closer inspection it was an album. The word “Memories” greeted you; it was the photo album you had found a week earlier. You felt a cold run through you.
“Now, what do we have here.”
He flipped through, stopping on the wedding photo of Mr Rogers and his wife, their fading faces smiling at you. Photos of their vacations, anniversaries, and holidays passed.
“Seems that he had a fulfilling life.”
Sam continued flipping before stopping on an older photograph. It showed a younger Mr Rogers and a brunette man with his arm slung over the shorter blonde. You immediately paled, recognizing this man. The same hair colour, except shorter. The same steel blue eyes, except brighter. The same chiselled cleft chin.
It was no doubt, this man was your intruder .
You felt the temperature plunge upon your realization; wondering why he had seemed familiar. Panic began to consume you as Sam continued to flip through, the blue eyes in each photo seeming more sinister than the last, haunting your subconscious.
Sam stopped when he noticed your trembling. Your eyes were glassy as you stared at the photo of the brunette decked in a peacoat.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sam asked, worried.
“T-this man,” you pointed to the photo. “It was him last night.”
“Are you sure?” Sam closed the album, giving you a concerning gaze. “Do you need to lay down?”
How dare he. He didn’t believe you. After everything, was it all pity?
“Yes, I’m freaking sure!” you shouted, tears spilling over. “And I do not need to lay down, Sam. I’m perfectly fine.”
It was tense from there. None of you spoke for a while. You could see a shine of regret reflected in his orbs, softening your anger by bit. Despite his reserved apprehension, he had saved and later, attended to you. He didn’t deserve your fury.
“I-I’m sorry for shouting, but why would I lie about this Sam?” you sighed. You were tired. “I don’t know who he is or if he’s even alive. I’ve never met him, but it seems like my landlord has.”
“Do you want to see him? Tomorrow?” Sam asked. “I can arrange it.”
“Yes, please,” you pleaded, giving him an empty smile. “Ghosts or not, I need answers.”
“Okay,” he slipped the album beneath his arm. “Let me check the attic first.”
Sam had checked every corner twice before climbing down. There was nothing unusual, saved for the coincidental album.
𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖
The wet concrete was a hazard as you exited the car. Fall brought in cold winds as well as the small drizzles and showers here and there. The smell of rain mixed in with mud was high as you and Sam took deliberate steps on the pavement.
The mailbox was a rusted red with ‘Rogers’ scrawled in white, the lawn an immaculate green spread that showed its upkeep. Opposed to the grandeur and foreboding nature of your rental, Mr Rogers’ abode was a small little thing. It looked old and worn, with a browning chimney and paint chipping off its sides.
You rang the doorbell and waited. Soon, Mr Rogers greeted you and welcomed you both in.
“Come in, come in. Make yourselves comfy, it’s not much but it’s home.” he ushered in. “Please, take a seat. I’m making some tea in the kitchen. It won’t be long.” Mr Rogers disappeared, leaving you and Sam time in his living room.
Similar to the exterior, the interior was just as worn, with the lumpy couches and yellow staining the ceiling. This house had seen better days but you couldn’t deny the certain charm. Off to the side of the living room, a fireplace stood, its mantle littered with framed photographs. You took a step closer to observe them.
There were many photos of Mr Rogers with his wife, but there were equally the same amount with that of this elusive ‘James Barnes’. All of them were of the brunette with shorter hair, clean shaven, and lean; a contrast of the man who had grabbed you. A feature that stood out were his eyes. They looked hopeful and bright in these, the opposite of what you’ve seen. You shivered at the memory of locking with them through many mirrors.
“I hope you’re both fine with regular black tea.” The older man came in, carrying a tray of bone china tea set and finger sandwiches. He poured you each a cup, placing them on the coffee table.
“It’s more than fine, sir,” Sam took a cup. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
It was quiet for a moment with everyone sipping their tea. You sat beside Sam on the lumpy couch to the opposite of the older gentleman. You didn’t know where to start.
“I heard of what happened,” Mr Rogers started to your relief. “Officers Matthews and McCray phoned me in the morning. They’re probably exasperated, those two. Always getting calls about my house.”
“Enough about that, I should be asking you about your well-being. How are you doing, dear?” he asked, giving you a forlorn expression.
The blues of his eyes began to change, taking on a much more steely quality. His platinum strands darkened and lengthened, becoming dull and greasy. His frail body began bulking and doubling in size. The wrinkles of his skin disappeared, pulling taut over his cheekbones.
He was morphing, taking on the figure that haunts you.
In his place was your monster.
A nudge surprised you, pulling you away. The face of your nightmare nowhere, Mr Rogers remained in his armchair.
“Hey, you alright?” Sam shook you, concerned. “We lost you for a minute there.”
“Um, yeah.”
You looked at him, eyes vacant. You turned towards the older man, he gave you the same look of concern.
“It’s nothing, just thought I— Sorry, it’s nothing.” you gave a nervous chuckle.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Mr Rogers asked, refilling your cup. “I know this is far from just a friendly visit. From my experience with past tenants, I understand if you want to leave. And don’t you worry about the deposit, I’ll give a full refund. It’s the least I could do.”
Relief filled your chest at hearing those words. This wasn’t what you had come here for, but it was a welcomed balm to your already tumultuous mind. It was one less thing to worry about.
“Thank you, Mr Rogers,” you said. “But that’s not actually what we’re here for.”
Signalling towards Sam, he uncovered the photo album from a canvas bag. You took it and carefully set it on the coffee table, spreading it open to a portrait of a brunette soldier.
“We’re sorry for bringing this here, but it dropped from the attic when we opened the hatch,” Sam explained.
You watched as the elder’s fingers ghosted over the lettering of the man’s name; James Buchanan Barnes . They were light, careful, afraid of ruining the piece of antiquity.
“Mr Rogers, can you tell us a bit about this man?” you asked, desperate for answers. “Were the two of you friends?”
It took a while before he answered, eyes never taking off the photo.
“Bucky was my best friend. We grew up together in Brooklyn and he always had my back. Though, he was always neckin’ with a dame once in a while,” he mirthlessly chuckled. “He was always there.”
“When my ma contracted TB and passed, Bucky always helped. Late on the rent? He’ll cover it for ya. Low on food? He can cook.”
He flipped through the album, recounting every tale that came with a photo and you let him. This was a man who missed his youth, left for only time to claim.
He recited how they went to Connie Island and how he threw up after riding the Cyclone. The many dance hall dates that left him for his friend. The many tales of how ‘Bucky’ had saved his butt in alley fights. The war they spent together fighting in Europe, defeating Nazi base after Nazi base. The war where he returned the favour of becoming ‘Bucky’s’ saviour.
“Bucky was all I had.”
He stopped at the last page, where a photo of them in uniform in the snowy mountains stood.
“What happened to him?” Sam asked.
A long stretch of silence filled between the three of you, not readying you for the answer you were to receive.
“He died. Fell off a train in the Alps. I never saw him again.”
And it was back to silence. A beat or two passed.
“What’s this sudden interest in him?” the elder man asked, accompanied by a mirthless chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be reciting his tale again after so long.”
You flipped the pages back to the portrait, stomach becoming queasy as you prepared to tell your tale.
“This man,” you paused, pointing at the photo. “He’s the one that came into the house the other night.”
“How…? Are you sure?” Mr Rogers’ breath hitched. “He’s been long gone for 75 years.”
“We’re not sure how,” you started. “But I have a theory.”
Sam handed you a flimsy folder. You opened it, taking out clipped pieces of paper. Most of them were screenshots of blog posts from previous tenants, recounting their part of the story living in your current residence. There was a similarity in their retellings that you noticed.
“These are some of the blog posts I managed to find on the house.” You arranged the papers on the coffee table, making them face the elderly man. “Sorry to sprung these on you, but I noticed a consistency in the hauntings that tenants before me have experienced.”
“Go on.”
You let out a breath before continuing, ”In each of the stories, everyone has said that they’ve seen an apparition of a man.”
You pointed to the highlighted texts, their descriptions of an encounter similar.
“Sometimes in an army uniform.”
You turned to the portrait film of ‘Bucky’ in his World War II uniform.
“And sometimes in a blue coat.”
You flipped to the photo of Mr Rogers and ‘Bucky’ on the Alps. It was too good of a coincidence.
“So, what you’re saying,” Mr Rogers put two and two. “Maybe it’s his spirit that has been haunting the house all along.”
“That’s a way to put it,” you confirmed.
He seemed to still be taking it all in. A conflicted expression on his face, full of sadness and worry. Minutes passed and everyone started to move on, with the elder steering the conversation away. You thought it would take time for him, after the sudden resurgence and recalling of a traumatic past. You thought he would have more questions. But he surprised you and Sam by bouncing back, carrying the conversation with the fond memories of his past. It seemed a bit odd, but you put it behind you.
The both of you ended up staying over for dinner.
“Won’t you keep an old man company? It can be quite lonely since I don’t have kids of my own.”
The evening flew faster, with Sam and Mr Rogers exchanging military stories over plates of spaghetti. They bonded over their shared experience, with you chiming in questions once in a while. You looked on in fondness, enjoying the time spent. Maybe you could do it again.
When it came time to leave, you both thanked Mr Rogers for his hospitality. You slipped him an invitation to have a meal at the house some time. However, before you could leave, the elder stopped you, a hand gripping your shoulder.
“Sorry dear, I needed to know. This theory of yours,” he said, forehead creasing. “You don’t believe in them, do you?”
You were caught in surprise by his sudden line of questioning, having thought of already getting past it. Nevertheless, you answered.
Hi! Congrats on 1200!!!! That’s incredible!!! I was wondering if you could do Ghost AU with Bucky? Bucky is the ghost and the pairing is with a human reader? I was also hoping I could make it for the story I’m writing! (Ghosts of the Past)? 🌸🧸🥺🥰🛵🌻? :D Thanks!
These are only slightly different, but whichever one you feel fits your story best, you’re free to use!
This is late because it wasn’t actually finished on day 17, whoops!
Warning: Consent issues - ghost!Bucky possesses Tony’s body and masturbates with it.
**
“A friend? Steve you have a friend!”
Bucky cheered as Steve walked in the door with someone behind him. The ‘someone’ was another man, a short brown-haired man with bright brown eyes and a curious gaze.
That gaze didn’t see Bucky, but then it wouldn’t. Steve didn’t see Bucky either. Bucky was a ghost and hadn’t been seen or heard since the day he died - decades ago. He was used to it, though he still enjoyed participating in conversations.
“You live here. It’s… nice,” the man said.
Bucky frowned as Steve laughed.
The house wasn’t nice. It was run down and dirty. Steve tried to keep it clean, but he was a busy man. This house had been the best that Sarah Rogers could afford, and Steve had inherited it after her death. There were too many leaks, too many holes, and too much history and dirt embedded into the place for it to feel clean.
Still, Bucky was offended. He’d been living in the house for over a hundred years, and he was very attached to it. The Rogers had done their best, and as far as Bucky was concerned their best was damn good.
“Don’t lie, Tony. I warned you that it was the opposite of that mansion you call a house.”
Bucky ran cold. He wanted Steve to have friends - Steve was lonely. But Bucky didn’t like the sound of rich friends. Rich friends meant Steve had nicer places to stay, which meant he wouldn’t be home - and Bucky liked Steve. Bucky wanted Steve to be happy, but he wanted Steve happy here.
“It’s not a lie,” Tony protested. “Look at all this potential!”
“You’re not destroying my house and replacing it,” Steve warned.
Bucky’s rage descended, and there was a cold breeze through the house. Destroy his house? No, no this friend of Steve’s was not welcome in Bucky’s home.
Tony shivered, feeling the effects even if not seeing the cause.
“Even if you don’t have heat? Kidding, kidding - seriously, you think the worst. I’m not going to destroy your house. It’s got good structure.”
Steve rolled his eyes.
Bucky frowned but stopped calling the wind. His house did have good structure. He eyed this Tony, friend of Steve’s. He would keep watch over this man to be sure that Tony did not try any tricks.
**
“Alright, I have to be honest. I have no idea how your heater is working,” Tony said as he scratched his head.
Steve shrugged. “If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“But it is broken,” Tony insisted. “Steve, it’s really, really broken. It should not work.”
Steve shrugged again. “It works.”
“But it shouldn’t!”
Bucky grinned. He liked confusing people.
**
“Steve, your electricity -”
“Leave it, Tony. The lights turn on, I paid the bill.”
“But these wires!”
Bucky cackled.
**
Bucky was intrigued by Steve’s friend Tony. Bucky watched as Steve set Tony up in a guest room that doubled as an art studio. There were paintbrushes and jars and canvases everywhere, and Bucky tried hard to contain his energy so he didn’t accidentally knock anything over.
He tried not to come in this room too often, usually, because once he accidentally tipped a can of bright red paint onto a canvas that Steve had just finished. But Tony made Bucky curious, and so Bucky followed this time.
When Steve left for his own room, Tony poked around at a few of the canvases. Bucky frowned and called up a draft. He kept the force gentle so he didn’t disturb Steve’s stuff, but made it icy cold so that Tony would leave things alone.
It worked - Tony dived for the bed and burrowed under the covers.
“I like you Steve but tomorrow I am fixing your damn heat and all these blasted cracks in the windows and walls and whatever the hell else there is.”
Bucky was torn between being pleased that Tony wanted to help Steve and offended that Tony thought the house needed fixing.
Well, maybe the house needed a bit of fixing. It would be nice if Bucky didn’t have to spend so much of his energy to keep the heater and electricity on. He had finally gotten the hang of it - the heat didn’t fluctuate and the lights didn’t flicker - though it would be nice to relax. Bucky worried a lot. Steve scraped all he could to be able to keep his family’s house, and there wasn’t much left over. If Tony could help…
Well, Tony wasn’t so bad. Bucky thought he was cute, actually. Tony’s brown eyes, that twist to his mouth, the curve of his jaw - Bucky reached out as if touch.
Tony shivered as Bucky’s fingers skittered along the skin. Tony wouldn’t feel it as a touch, Bucky knew, but Tony would feel something - Bucky could never quite figure out what it was. A blast of ice? A sparkle of electricity? An ache of emptiness? Bucky stroked again, down Tony’s neck, and Tony squirmed.
Bucky stepped back, but Tony kept wiggling. Then Tony tipped his head back against the pillow and sighed, relaxed.
Tony’s hand shifted back and forth in rhythm underneath the blanket.
Bucky couldn’t flush, but he would’ve if he still had blood. He’d never gotten that response when he touched someone.
The wind howled for a moment, Tony burying himself under the covers, before Bucky got ahold of himself again.
He had forgotten about this kind of thing. It had been so long since he’d felt the urge, and he’d never peeped on Steve. Steve was like his brother.
Tony was not like Bucky’s brother. Tony was new, and exciting, and hopefully tomorrow Tony was going to be helpful, and tonight - tonight Tony was stroking himself off, and tonight Bucky wanted to know what it felt like.
Bucky licked his lips, though he couldn’t feel the taste.
He stood over Tony. Tony’s eyes were closed, though it didn’t matter much - Tony couldn’t see Bucky anyway. Bucky reached out. He’d done this before, when Steve was younger. He thought he still remembered how to do it.
Before, Bucky had possessed for a noble cause. Steve had gone exploring in the attic, and the dust had activated Steve’s asthma. Steve coughed and coughed and coughed, crawling away and tumbling down the stairs, gasping for air, but couldn’t quite get his breath back. Bucky had been there, had taken over Steve’s body and forced it to breathe properly until Steve could do it on his own.
Now though, Bucky had no heroic intentions. He just wanted to touch himself again, wanted to know what that felt like.
Bucky fell into Tony, diving into Tony’s body and filling each crack and crevice until Tony was brimming with Bucky instead. There was a giant gasp of Tony/Bucky’s chest, and then Bucky blinked his eyes open to the ceiling.
Bucky was so warm. He’d forgotten so much - how warm humans were, how sheets felt against his skin, what it was to have a heartbeat pounding in his chest. So much life, teeming in him, and Bucky thought about dancing, thought about talking, thought about traveling -
His hand squeezed and Bucky groaned. He had a cock, one hard and aching, in hand, and that’s really what he wanted. He wanted to stroke himself off and come, wanted to remember how that feels. That’s why he’s here.
Bucky gripped himself and tugged, mouth falling open in a gasp. Sparks of heat pooled in his hips, and he thrust up into his next stroke. He relearned what he liked, what he enjoyed. He explored and touched and teased himself as he rose higher and higher toward that peak.
Oh, he remembered now. He remembered how much he used to like this when he was alive.
Bucky’s chest heaved for breath as he climbed and climbed and climbed. It was like his first time all over again, discovering what it was to touch himself. Heat rushed through him, racing along as his heart pumped blood and his lungs breathed air. He could touch, he could feel and he felt - Bucky exploded with sensation. He cried out with Tony’s voice as he went somewhere, somewhere high and flying and so damn good.
Coming down was like sinking into the warmth of Tony’s body all over again. Bucky felt his body relax against the sheets and sighed.
He didn’t mind being a ghost, didn’t regret not finishing the cross over to the other side - but there was something about being human. Bucky felt a tug of wistfulness. He could stay. He had enough energy to keep ahold of Tony for awhile longer. He was certainly tempted.
Bucky clung to the warmth for a few moments longer, then gently extracted himself from Tony’s body.
Tony blinked, eyes heavy, then dropped off into sleep even as his eyebrows remained furrowed in confusion.
Bucky sighed, though he no longer felt the air passing through his throat. He’d lived his life, and he would let Tony live his. Besides, Tony was the one who was needed to fix Steve’s heater and the electricity tomorrow.
Maybe Tony would come by more often in the future. After all, Steve needed more friends.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Thanos brought Steve to his knees, hands in the ash, facing the loss of Bucky again. What if the dead could see us? Reach across the void? What would Bucky's message be if he could speak to Steve after the snap?
Hallooooooo I'm just here again to tell you how much I love your writing and the way you portray Bucky as one whiny bitch has got me gripping my sheets NGHGGGGG Absolutely fucking love him in Here Kitty Kitty!!!!!
But I've been suddenly hit by a massive Subby!Steve beam and he's an even bigger whiny bitch than Bucky soooo
I present to you- Haunted Steve Rogers :>
Here me out!!! I read a post about ghost fucking and I can't stop thinking about Fresh faced Steve in the twenty first century with Ghost!Bucky Barnes who died in the early 2000s. They never met as children and Steve is mortified to find himself being haunted by a particularly perverted and thirsty AF ghost
Just imagine Steve out in Public, maybe in a mall or inside a packed train and he's just minding his own business until he feels cold wispy hands start groping him. Shivers breaks out of his skin at the cold touch and his complaints dies a quiet death when said cold touches slip down his nether regions.
Just Steve Rogers trying to keep quiet while Bucky molests him, squeezing and stroking his cock while he shakes with pleasure, barely standing and absolutely sweating under his clothing. He's pleading quietly, curling into himself and straining at the effort to not make a noise because Buck! We're in public! Not here please-
Just Steve Rogers trying to listen to a conversation happening in front of him while there's fingers stuck up his ass, cold and opening him roughly. The way his voice would hitch and a gasp leaves him once in while and him shakily telling the person in front of him that he's alright and that he's totally listening as if his prostate isn't being abused.
Just Steve Rogers in a meeting, continuously shifting in his seat. To other people, he's too pent up to sit still properly. The truth? He's got ghost! Bucky's dick buried in his ass, grinding into him and filling him up to the point he thinks he might choke on it. Steve can't beg, can't moan, can't even move because how the fuck is he gonna explain that he's being fucked by a ghostly being in the middle of a meeting?
The risk of being caught riles him up as much as Ghost!Bucky whispering filthy things in his ears like yeah you like that? Look at you, filthy as fuck and taking this dick up your tight ass- You're that desperate Stevie? That you'll have a ghost fucking you everywhere and anytime you want? Come on, open your eyes and look at all of these people in front of you, not knowing that Captain America's gagging for some ghost dick to screw him 24/7! How would they react knowing you're getting filled right now huh, practically a slut for it-
Imagine the mess on Steve's side, how he can go so many times even after coming!!! Just Bucky wringing one orgasm after another while he desperately fights for composure, barely standing and not making a sound, boxers absolutely drenched with his own release-
Or how easy just Bucky slips into him (magical ghost powers Ajdheje), accosting him and groping him wherever whenever he likes, leaching off Steve's warmth and life!! ACKKKKKK AIDHSIRJEORJFJ HEEHEHEHEHEH
-🫠🫠
"Here Kitty Kitty Kitty"
I'm glad you enjoyed whiny Bucky, lmao. He's a favorite for suuure 😏
And as for the idea of ghost!Bucky with freshly thawed Steve, I--
Holy fuck, I have seen some ghost-fucker content here and there (much with public stuff which is fun 🥴) but I haven't ever considered that with stucky and... I'm obsessed (possessed perhaps, lmao).
I'm especially obsessed with thrill seeker ghost!Bucky and stuttering, subby Steve, though. Goddamn.
I am enthralled with what you wrote! I have to say, though, my immediate thought--my immediate mental image, really--with this pairing was Steve with his leanly muscular, fawn-clumsy legs spread wide on his bed in the middle of the night, hips up, back arched, seemingly all alone and exposed. Moonbeams slip through his curtains into the room, lighting him up, dragging across his flushed, pale skin like a spotlight. His bare, shaven face is pressed hard into his white sheets--contrasting gorgeously, blank sheets, and the blood-hot flush painted with so much pigment, thick and wet, across his face. He's blushing from high on his cheeks all the way up to the hot shells of his ears. And for the most part, other than his quivering, open mouth and his heaving chest--face down, ass up--he's perfectly still. Debauched and statuesque in the middle of the night.
He should be chilled with the night air caressing his skin, but he isn't. He's burning up. The phantom hands on his skin are freezing but he's alive with flames, they're licking and scorching his skin, leaving him gasping, his hands scrunching the sheets into a wrinkled mess, fisting the fabric right by his head, both trying to hide the dirty ecstasy written over his pretty face in vain as Bucky's fucks him and just trying to have something, anything, to hold onto as his world is torn apart from overwhelming, crashing waves of pleasure.
Too much. Too good.
He can't see Bucky, but, oh, god, can he feel him.
Touching him. Fucking him. Groping him. Making handprints and bruises and bite marks appear on his warm, pink skin out of thin air.
He can hear him, too, whispering to him, fuck, he can almost feel it on the back of his neck, but he can't really. Of course not. Bucky isn't breathing down on him. He can't. He's just playing with him, drawing his pleasure out, pushing his nerves to the brink--Steve doesn't know what's hot and what's cold is anymore, Steve doesn't know what's real and what isn't, Steve doesn't know anything but pleasure like he's never felt before, given to him in the middle of the night when he's alone save for Bucky who makes him feel more alive than anyone else with a beating heart in their solid chest could.
(If anyone else were to walk in, though, god, it'd be a show. Steve writhing on his sheets without any influence. Completely stripped bare, exposed, and untouched..? Except, anyone can see the fingertip indents in his thighs as Bucky gropes him, anyone can see the wet, hot, open gape of his hole as Bucky fucks him, taking him from behind, anyone can see the tremble in his muscles as he crumbles under the influence of the unseen, anyone can see sweat glistening on his skin, anyone can see his fever, pink all over, anyone can see how much he loves it, his face twisted up in pleasure, lips hanging open, taking it like a good little slut. So desperate for dick he'll get it anywhere, anytime. He can't live without dick.)
Anyway--
I fucking love your idea. I love the thought of public ghost play, too!! I was just immediately on the bewitching hour, haunting ghost fucking vibe, lol.
I can just imagine Bucky always messing with Steve at the worst times, and when Steve tries to talk sense into Bucky behind closed doors, well, he just ends up a pile of mush as Bucky continues so there's not really any talking. What? They're in private now, isn't this what Steve wants? Isn't this what he was asking for?
Jesus.
They're trouble. They're both so hungry for touch, and they find it so easily in each other that no one else understands. It's kinky as fuck and it's sweet as fuck. I love it!!
