content warnings: 18+, smut, size difference, human reader, threesome, rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, fem reader
[an AU where jake never defects to the na'vi side, the reader is a human scientist]
word count: 1.1k words
jake was breathing hard before he even touched you. he pulled you onto the edge of the table, his big hands sliding under your thighs to hike your legs up. the metal gave a sharp, annoying creak under your weight.
"you're already shaking," jake muttered. he leaned in, his thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth to pull your lip down. he looked at how wet you were, the sticky sound of him testing you filling the quiet shack. "look at that. so impatient."
you let out a needy little whimper, your fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. "jake, please."
"yeah, i got you," he huffed. he didn't just slide in; he took his time, the broad head of him stretching you open until you were sobbing into his neck. the sound of him sinking into you was loud—wet and heavy. you gasped, your back arching off the table as he bottomed out. "fuck. you're so tight."
he started to move, his hips grinding against yours with a messy, rhythmic slap. you couldn't even get a word out, just broken moans every time he hit your cervix.
quaritch stepped up behind you then, his large, scarred hand coming around to cover your mouth. he didn't do it to be mean; he just wanted to feel the vibration of your cries against his palm. he leaned over your shoulder, his chest a solid wall against your back.
"stop being so fussy," quaritch grunted into your ear. he reached down, his fingers slicking you up even more where you and jake were joined. the sound was loud—disgustingly wet—as he worked you. "sully's giving you exactly what you asked for. take it."
jake groaned, his forehead dropping against yours. he was sweating, the freckles on his skin glowing a dull, flickering blue. he reached up and replaced quaritch’s hand with his own fingers, letting you suck on them to keep from screaming.
"that's it," jake panted, his pace getting faster, rougher. "just suck on my fingers and keep those legs open. you're doing so good for us."
the table was rattling now, the metal legs practically walking across the floor with every heavy thrust. you were a mess—tears running down your face, your hair sticking to your forehead, and the constant, squelching sound of jake pounding into you.
quaritch wasn't letting up either. he was right there, biting at your earlobe and keeping his hand heavy on your hip to make sure you didn't slide away. he was watching the way jake’s blue skin moved against yours, his own breathing getting jagged.
"she's gonna break if you keep fucking her like that, corporal," quaritch joked, though his voice was thick.
"she's fine," jake gasped out, his eyes rolling back as he felt you start to twitch around him. "she... fuck, she's milking me, miles. look at her."
you couldn't help it. the double friction of jake inside and quaritch’s hands all over you was too much. you let out a muffled, high-pitched wail against jake’s fingers, your whole body clenching. jake didn't stop—he drove in one last time, deep and hard, his whole body locking up as he came.
you fell back against quaritch’s chest, sobbing for air, your skin slick with sweat and whatever else.
"see?" quaritch murmured, his rough tongue catching a tear on your temple. he didn't let go of you. he just held you while you came down, his hand still possessively cupping you. "told you she liked it."
jake stayed there for a second, just breathing against your neck while you tried to catch your breath. his grip on your wrists was still firm, his skin hot and damp against yours. the only sound in the shack was the heavy thud of his tail hitting the table and your own shaky, ragged inhales.
"my turn," quaritch grunted.
he didn't wait for an answer. he grabbed your hips and pulled you further down the edge of the table until your ass was hanging off the metal. jake let out a low, protested groan as he was forced to pull out of you, the wet, suctioning sound of it loud in the small room. jake didn't go far, though. he stayed right there, hovering over you, his hands moving to cup your breasts while quaritch dropped to his knees between your legs.
"look at this mess," quaritch muttered, his voice a dark, gravelly rumble.
he didn't hesitate. he leaned in and buried his face in you. the first lap of his tongue felt hot, catching the drips of jake's spent heat and your own slick arousal. you let out a sharp whine, your fingers tangling in jake’s hair as your back arched off the table again.
"whiny already?" jake teased, his voice vibrating against your ear. he leaned down, his teeth grazing your nipple through the damp fabric of your shirt. "you just got done coming. stay still for him."
quaritch wasn't being gentle. his tongue was rough, mocking the same deep, rhythmic pace jake had just used. he was focused, his nose buried in your curls, making loud, lapping sounds that made your face heat up. he sucked at your clit until you were shaking, your thighs twitching against his shoulders as you tried to close your legs.
"don't you dare," quaritch growled against your skin, his hands locking around your knees to keep you pinned wide. "i told you i wasn't done."
he went back to work, his tongue flicking fast and mean now. the wetness was everywhere—smeared across his face, dripping onto the floor. you were making those pathetic, high-pitched noises again, your head tossing from side to side on the metal.
jake was watching the whole thing, his eyes dark and blown out. he reached down, his thumb replacing quaritch's tongue for a second just to feel how swollen you were before quaritch pushed his hand away to keep going.
"she's close again," jake whispered, his hand sliding down to cover your mouth as your breath hitched. "you're gonna take it all for him, right? be a good girl and just take it."
you couldn't even nod. your brain was just white heat and the feeling of quaritch's rough tongue ruining you. when he finally hit the right spot, your whole body went rigid. you let out a muffled scream into jake's palm, your toes curling as another orgasm ripped through you, even harder than the first.
quaritch didn't stop until you were limp, your legs shaking so hard you couldn't keep them up anymore. he sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too proud of himself.
"there," quaritch said, his voice thick. "now we're even."
jake let out a huff of a laugh, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "you okay, baby? or do we need to carry you back to bed now?"
SUMMARY leon kennedy didn't believe in love at first sight. he couldn't, not with his line of work. that is, until he met you. you were everything he was not. you looked for the light in the dark, so innocently positive. you hadn't seen the horrors he has. maybe that's why he fell so hard. it was nice coming home to someone who saw past the brooding, moody persona he held. everything about you was perfect and he selfishly wanted you all to himself. he married you quickly, he knew from the moment he met you that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. about a year into your marriage, leon comes home to find you gone and the house trashed, as if you fought like hell. desperate to find you and bring you back to him, leon is more than willing to travel to the ends of the earth to find you. he is willing to risk it all, for you.
PAIRINGS re6!leon kennedy x wife!reader
ERA pre re6! with mentions of re9!
TROPES love at first sight, grump x sunshine, soulmates, damsel in distress, orpheus & eurydice retelling
⋆.𐙚 ̊ CHAPTERS:
chapter one: come home with me
→ SUMMARY! leon's boring vacation takes a wonderful turn when you walk into the bar he's been solemnly drinking in.
chapter two: wedding song
→ SUMMARY! it's the day he's been anticipating since he met you: your wedding day.
chapter three: all i've ever known
→ SUMMARY! it's your wedding anniversary and leon cannot wait to see you.
chapter four: songbird vs. rattlesnake
→ SUMMARY! leon is on a mission, something you were used to. but this time is different than the others.
chapter five: wait for me
→ SUMMARY! leon begins his journey to the underground society in search of you.
chapter six: come home with me (reprise)
→ SUMMARY! leon finally finds you, but it’s not how he expected.
chapter seven: wait for me (reprise)
→ SUMMARY! leon strikes a deal with the devil.
chapter eight: epilogue
→ SUMMARY! the end.
AUTHOR'S NOTE!
hello my friends and welcome to hadestown! this story is heavily inspired by obviously the musical and myth as it is a retelling of the tragedy of orpheus and eurydice! this was originally only going to be like 4 parts but i got carried away oops. i'm so very proud of my story and coming up with this so i hope everyone will enjoy it as much as i do!
i do not know how frequently i will update but i will try my best to stay consistent although its unlikely... also all chapters will have a link connected to them once its published!
Hello lovely, I hope you’re having a great day. I thought it was about time I made a list dedicated to my favourite boys, so welcome to my Mafia!Stucky masterlit!I love to write in my spare time, and the fiction I create is for 18+ readers ONLY. Also, everything is character x fem!reader, and please, read the tags carefully before continuing.
✧ you're mine // Steve loves showing off what's his, you. What does he do when he sees someone staring at what's his?
(smut, angst, dark)
✧ i need more // You’d been off all day, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Steve. He’d do anything to make you feel better, so when you started begging him to help you have some release, he didn’t hold back.
(fluff, smut)
✧ ruined orgasm - kinktober // He had given you one rule: do not interrupt the meeting. So, of course, you had to walk straight into the meeting that had all of America’s most notorious gangsters
(smut)
✧ Steve's birthday wish (P.1) //Steve’s birthday was approaching, and you had no idea what to get him. Bucky suggests asking the Mafia boss what he would like, but would you regret your decision when you hear what Steve truly wants?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ When Two Become Three (P.2) // It has been a few weeks since Steve sat back and watched you be pleasured by his best friend, Bucky, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Especially, the part where Steve confessed his fantasy to have a threesome, but would you ever agree to it?
(fluff, smut)
✧ one more meeting // For all of the years that you had known Steve and Bucky, you had never seen them lose control of their anger. All of the murders and violence are always calculated, calm, and dangerous. But today, that all changed, and for the first time in years, you were truly scared of the boys you loved.
(fluff, smut, angst, dark)
✧ repeat after me // It wasn’t often that you had to attend a party with your boyfriends, but today, you found yourself at one, filling you with anxiety and dread. How will the boys react when they find you close to a panic attack and starting to doubt their love for you?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ how many? // Steve had finally found time to take you and Bucky on holiday. What he doesn’t tell you, however, is that today, he wanted to see just how many times he and Bucky could get you to orgasm.
(fluff, smut)
✧ I can’t lose you // Being the girlfriend of the Mafia leader and his second in command had its dangers, but for years, you'd never had to experience this—until now. How will the boys react when you're put in danger?
(fluff, smut, angst, dark)
✧ No touching // You blatantly ignored their instructions, and now you have to suffer the repercussions of your actions.
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ I don’t care // 'The reader has a menstrual cycle, this one just a little worse than others, and Steve and Bucky are worrying and helping her through it.'
(fluff, smut)
✧ The one weakness // It wasn't often you were by yourself, so when you quickly go to the coffee shop, what happens when the enemy is watching and waiting nearby?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ overwhelming // It had been your birthday a few days ago, and Steve and Bucky had made it their mission to give you the most lavish party, followed by intense, long nighttime activities. However, something didn't feel right as you lay in bed on Monday morning.
(fluff)
✧ the fun game // Steve and Bucky had forgotten about your date, leaving you waiting for two hours in the restaurant. How will they react when you decide to play your little game as payback, and how far can you go before they finally snap?
(fluff, smut)
✧ harder, please // Your mind was clouded with lust and pleasure, as you begged repeatedly for more from Bucky, but what happens when you get hurt in the process?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ protect and forget // Life as the girlfriend of the Mafia boss and his second-in-command was not always smooth sailing; everything did not always go to plan. Two weeks before your birthday, a threat was made to your life. What happens when Steve and Bucky begin to push you away as they search for the threat?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ All Eyes On You // “Do you know what we would have done if we had turned up to that restaurant and seen you all dolled up like that? We would have bent you over the table in front of everyone and shown them exactly who you belonged to". - Steve Rogers
(smut)
✧ You belong to me. These girls knew you were dating Steve and Bucky, so why did they think it was okay to have their hands all over you?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ Don't fall asleep // It was supposed to be a typical day, but not in fate's eyes, as you and Sam are hit by a drunk driver. How will Steve and Bucky react when they hear their girl has been hurt?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ rule number one. // It was Bucky's birthday, but even a surprise party won't stop Steve and Bucky from punishing you for not looking after yourself.
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ Last Hope (CH. 1) (CH. 2) // Before dating Steve and Bucky, your life felt like a steel cage you couldn't escape because of your family business. There was no happiness or hope, but what happens when the infamously heartless mafia leader, Steve Rogers, finds you alone?
(fluff, smut, angst, dark)
✧ our little bean // You stared unblinking at the Doctor who had just told you the news you couldn't quite comprehend. You were on birth control, so why is the test in his hands saying that you're pregnant? Accidents happened, but is this a happy one? (Yes it is).
(fluff, angst)
✧ the limit // Everyone has a limit, this includes Steve and Bucky. What happens in different situations where each of you felt compelled to use your safewords?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ sick day // Bucky had warned you that dancing in that rain without a coat would lead you to be ill, maybe you should have listened more to his warning.
(fluff)
✧ accident’s happen // You were visiting a friend when you were accidentally hit in the face, leaving behind a cut across your cheekbone. How will Steve and Bucky react when they see their girl injured?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ everyone is breakable // Steve and Bucky were invincible in your eyes. They'd never been injured or in a situation where you thought they weren't the ones in control. That is until one day Bucky doesn't return from meeting with a client.
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ winter soup // There was no better feeling than a bowl of hot soup when you're feeling unwell and, what's even better is when it's delivered to your door every day by your new guard. It tasted amazing and you could always trust everyone in the Mafia... right?
(fluff, smut, angst)
✧ something new // The mafia leader was known to be possessive and enjoy showing off his girl but what happens when he wants to do this by being intimate in front of his gang?
(smut)
✧ pegging - kinktober // Steve had once instructed bucky how to pleasure you but what happens when you’re the one being given the instructions?
(smut)
✧ cockwarming - kinktober // You’re feeling needy and restless so Steve offers you something to suck on, much to Bucky’s amusement.
(smut)
✧ double penetration in one hole - kinktober // You were adament to prove Steve wrong and do something you’ve never done before.
(smut)
✧ fear play - kinktober // You woke up to darkness, your phone was missing and, all you could was silence echoing around the house but, you knew you weren’t alone.
(smut, dark)
✧ role reversal - kinktober // For once, you were the one shouting at the enemy, demanding that they leave your office. Steve and Bucky were in awe so you tried to keep up this confidence and burn off some energy with them.
(smut)
✧ Duke, Duchess and Knights // You get so lost in the fantasy dream that when it turns into a nightmare, you're not sure what reality is when you wake up screaming.
(fluff, angst)
✧ Merry Christmas // It was a simple question: Have you been naughty or nice this year?
(fluff, smut)
✧ Safety Measures // It was the anniversary of Steve and Bucky saving you from your sadistic brother. Usually, it was a time of celebration for you, but this year, you couldn't help but feel paranoid and unsafe.
(Angst, Smut, Fluff)
✧ edge of glory // Defiance is something you are not accustomed to, but when the love of your life is in danger, there is no stopping you. Now, the repercussions of your actions have you contemplating the decisions that you've made.
(Angst, Smut, Fluff)
✧ being on top // After Steve's life is threatened, you're left reeling in how fragile life is and what better way to remind you what's life about than having the Mafia leader handcuffed to the bed for you to play with?
(Angst, Smut, Fluff)
✧ seven // One week is all it takes for your world to come crashing down. Even though you could have everything you'd ever wanted, for some reason, something isn't right. Will your emotions and the smothering of overprotective Stucky come to an end?
(Angst!, Smut, Fluff)
✧ into the deep // A garden party pushes you too far—and into unexpected subspace. Bucky and Steve bring you back with firm control, soft words, and the reminder that you’ll always belong to them.
(Angst, Smut, Fluff)
✧ sweet & armed // In a world of danger and dominance, she’s the soft center — until the day she proves she can bite just as hard as they bark.
(Angst, Smut, Fluff)
✧ taught in love // When trust is tested and old wounds resurface, you decide it's time to shift the power.
(Angst, Smut, Fluff)
✧ anchor me // When an unexpected wave of illness leaves you shaky and off balance, comfort comes in the form of tender care, warm hands, and the two men who would do anything to keep you safe.
(Smut, Fluff)
✧ the drop // When a dangerous mafia operation threatens everything, you find yourself emotionally unravelling in ways you can't control. Steve and Bucky--your ruthless protectors and tender lovers--must learn to see the signs before it's too late.
(Smut, angst, Fluff)
✧ Pretty Little Burden (AU!) // You're a chaos-wrapped assassin with a bloody reputation and a sharp tongue to match. When a job goes sideways, putting you face-to-face with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes—the city's most feared mafia leaders, tension ignites instantly. What begins as a dangerous partnership quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and a connection none of you saw coming.
(Smut, angst)
✧ taking myself back // You’re the heart of a dangerous mafia empire, but when someone violates that safety in a sinister way, the men who would burn the world for you must learn to hold you gently while you heal.
(Smut, fluff, angst)
✧ quiet the storm // There were moments in your life when your head became loud with thoughts toppling over one another, endless lists, tasks that were never completed. You tell yourself you can handle it. You even promise Sam that you could. But when the noise starts to drown you, the only two people who can quiet it are the ones waiting at home. How will they react when you suggest something even Steve and Bucky are unsure about?
(Smut, fluff, angst)
✧ framed in sin // An ordinary morning takes a turn when a new accessory catches the attention of both you and Bucky. And Steve knows exactly how to use it to his advantage.
(Smut)
Drabbles
The first to give their jacket when reader is cold
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort
☆ closer ── @writersrkive I F
Jake has always been a lovely and caring husband, but one morning he starts acting more affectionate than usual. Even with the village duties, he is not hiding the fact that he wants to be close to you. Your mate's attention reminds you of when your relationship first began, and it fills you with youthful excitement. But you can't help wondering, is there a reason behind his change in attitude?
☆ “well i don’t want y/n” ── @lilacnavi I A + F + S
you’ve overheard neytiri telling jake he needs to have a mate soon and she mentions how you were the best singer in the clan, only for your heart to break when you hear him say “well i don’t want (y/n).”
☆ sun lily ── @newtkive I F
jake sully loves nothing more than to rage bait you, and being in a 9 ft alien body just makes it better.
☆ the shadow and the sign pt2 ── @/newtkive I A + F
the olo'eyktan's son, tsyeyk suli, finds a false bodied avatar lost in the forest. unknowing of eywa's plan, he almost kills her.
☆ human!jake ── @/newtkive I F + ~S
☆ cheater, cheater pumpkin eater ── @lolli-apop I A + S
Jake Sully is slowly—and painfully—coming to terms that he's fallen out of love for Neytiri during a midlife crisis. His new point of devotion? Kiri's best friend, you.
☆ sex education pt2 ── @makoodles I A + F + S (ft. neytiri)
Jake is worried about his little human best friend that's starting to get all interested in Na'vi men. It's only natural that he takes the time to show you exactly what to expect, isn't it?
☆ “why can’t you just say it?” ── @carpecaelo I F
jake is a skxawng, but he's your skxawng.
☆ fantasize pt2 ── @jeanbie I F + S
It's official - Jake is sick and tired of Norm giving him shit. While he can't claim to know as much about Pandora as Norm does, there's still a few things Jake can afford to do to piss him off even more for the fun of it, and it just so happens that Norm's sister works as a scientist in the lab - which to Jake spells perfect revenge in its simplest form.
☆ ice cold ── @junebugonjupiter I A
You used to be with Tommy before his death, and now that you've fallen in love with his twin, Jake has doubts about where your really heart lies.
☆ all of you ── @lovemyavatar I A + F
☆ i don’t recognize you anymore ── @persefolli I A
jake takes it too far with his authority, and manages to lose his family in the process.
“He betrayed humanity” they said, “He's one of them” they said. “He's got a family” they said. He won't come back, you knew.
Whatever, whatever.
Your house is on fire and your children are gone,
...And you were going to burn him
🏷️🏷️ (NOT THOROUGHLY TAGGED/ THERE MAY BE UNTAGGED ELEMENTS) || Jake Sully & Daughter reader || Mature || Graphic depictions of violence and death || Angst || Several original characters || Quaritch x f!reader || Eventual smut || Untaged elements - my tags aren't thorough || 🏷️🏷️ (Check my ao3 for more specific tags)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, perv!bucky, dom!bucky, touch starved reader, sexual tension, mutual pining, dry humping, mating press, oral (f receiving), p in v, fingering, edging, begging, degrading, size difference kink, praise, dirty talk, masturbation, breeding kink, overstimulation, name calling and pet names: "slut" "baby" "pretty girl"
word count: 13.7k
he's a busy man! masterlist
a/n: wanted to write a fic based on sabrina's song house tour. i was inspired by @houseofhyde's (literally sabrina carpenter) fics and if you haven't already, read her manchild series and check out her man's best friend inspired anthology coming soon! huge thank you to my girl @wildflowersandvibranium for helping me w/ the color gradient. thank you to @heldbybarnes and @its-in-the-woods for helping me w/ the moodboard. thank you to @juniebjonesin for being my beta-reader. thank you to @chateaubarnes for the divider. <3 much love.
synopsis:
Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.
You paused in front of the full-length mirror hanging in the foyer of your sprawling three-story house. A skimpy swimsuit was snug to your body, an expensive pair of sunglasses perched on top of your head, along with a chilled cocktail in your manicured hand to top it all off.
You adjusted the sheer cover-up knotted loosely at your hip that revealed just enough skin…though never quite enough.
With one quick glance out the window towards your backyard, your breath hitched immediately.
There he was again—your pool boy, hard at work.
The usual white tank he wore clung to his chest, already slick with his sweat. His arms flexed with every pull of the pole, muscles tightening beneath his sun-warmed skin, his hair falling into his eyes as his broad back bent and straightened as he moved around.
The sight alone sent butterflies to your stomach.
You sucked in a sharp breath, smoothing your hair and bringing your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose. Sliding open the glass door, you were welcomed with the hot sun and a slight breeze, bringing with it a faint smell of chlorine.
“Good morning, Bucky,” you called, your voice cheery with an inviting smile.
Bucky glanced up from the water, sunglasses reflecting you back at yourself.
“Morning.”
Then, a small nod before returning to his work.
It wasn’t much, but still, your smile didn’t falter. Ever since you hired Bucky to work for you as your designated pool cleaner, you couldn’t help but grow a little… attached.
You were a single woman living in a house big enough to hold a family of ten. Or twenty. Too much money, too much time on your hands, and not enough sex.
So when a strong, quiet, devastatingly attractive man showed up to work under your roof, what was the harm in having a little fun? Watching him became your guilty pleasure, like keeping your own personal eye candy by the pool.
First, it started with harmless admiration.
You’d catch yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, stealing glances under your sunglasses or through the window when you thought he wouldn’t notice. You’d watch very closely—the way sweat dripped down his neck and in between the crevice of his chest.
And his arms.
God, his arms.
You couldn’t help but imagine how they might feel cinched tight around your waist, or how those rough, calloused hands might look wrapped delicately around your throat.
Silly thoughts, really. Inappropriate, even.
He was just the man you paid to clean your pool. You never said anything, of course. Just… quiet looks, very long sips of your drink, and the guilty thrill of knowing you liked the view far more than you should.
You leaned back into the reclining chair, stretching your legs out before crossing at the ankle, your fingers idly twirling the straw in your cocktail.
“It’s so hot out today,” you said, tilting your head towards him. “But I can’t really complain with a view like this.”
Bucky didn’t react. He didn’t even look at you either. Just a quiet grunt, his expression unreadable behind the darkness of his sunglasses.
Very typical.
Second, it became something physical. A physical attraction.
The mysteriousness of him left too much room for your imagination to run wild. He rarely said anything beyond the occasional “Good morning” or a low grunt, and more times than not, you found yourself aching for just a little more.
“You know, if you ever need a break, my house is always open and well air-conditioned,” you offered lightly, finishing it with a soft laugh to make it sound playful instead of… well.
Predatory.
The truth was, for all its size, your house was lonely. A word, a glance, even the smallest scrap of attention would have been enough—and somehow, the person you wanted it from was the man fishing leaves out of your pool.
It was no different than coworkers developing crushes just from seeing each other every day—or feelings sparking within a friend group simply from being around one another so often.
So really, it was only natural to feel this way… wasn’t it?
You wanted to feel him. All of him. His muscles, his jawline, his back…
You wondered how hot his body would be pressed to yours—how his fingers would feel sliding into you, stretching you, filling you, instead of your own.
You hated to admit it, but you have touched yourself to that thought before.
Once.
Twice.
Maybe more.
Bucky barely looked up. “I’m okay. Thank you,” he said, voice quiet, rough, and dismissive, before turning back to the pool like the conversation had already ended before it even began.
Your lips curved up in a sly smirk as you tried again.
“Are you sure? Do you want anything to drink then? A lemonade? Water? Or maybe a cocktail?” your tone stayed breezy, playful, all as if you weren’t holding your breath for an answer.
“No, ma’am,” he replied casually, eyes still fixed on the pool. And he still didn’t look up.
You exhaled slowly, swirling your straw before taking another sip. God, he was infuriating. And yet, the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.
And last but not least, it became a game. A challenge. As maddening and one-sided as it seemed, you couldn’t help but crave it.
You were a rich, young and beautiful woman. Realistically, you could have anyone you wanted and you knew it. You were used to being fawned over, used to nobodies tripping over themselves just to ask for your number. But the fact that you couldn’t so much as snag the gaze of your pool boy?
That ignited something inside you.
For once, you were the one chasing.
And you didn’t mind it one bit.
“So, do you have any plans after this? I was thinking of making a quick lunch if you would like to join me.”
Silence. Just the sound of water swooshing gently against the pool’s edge and the light scrape of the skimmer gliding across the surface. He paused, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, near your water pipes. His shoulders straightened like a thought came to mind.
Then, he finally lifted his head to look at you. Your heart thumped faster in your chest.
Finally.
“Can you come here for a second?” he asked, his voice straightforward and blunt as he set the skimmer down.
You couldn’t help the smile creeping on your lips. You rose from your chair, setting your cocktail down on the side table. You smoothed the cover-up around your hips as you made your way over, anticipation already fluttering wildly in your chest.
The entire time, Bucky’s gaze followed you from behind his shades. You hoped he noticed the way your bikini clung tight to your curves, the subtle sway of your hips as you moved towards him.
You flashed him a charming grin, crossing your arms over your chest—subtly accentuating the way your breasts pushed up against your arms.
Too bad his sunglasses hid his eyes. You had no way of knowing if he had even noticed.
“Follow me,” he said, curling his fingers to motion you closer.
“Okay,” you agreed softly, letting him guide you.
With his back to you, you couldn’t help but admire the view—the width of his shoulders, the way he moved. You were so caught up in the silhouette of him that you hardly noticed where he was leading you until you found yourself at the side of the house, standing before the jumble of water pipes and filters.
He stopped abruptly. “Stand here.”
You moved closer, your heart beating so fast it could leap out of your chest. The way he stood there, watching you, commanding you to come up to him… it all made your skin heat up in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Closer.”
Your breath caught in your throat, one large hand brushing against your lower back to guide you into position. The touch was casual, almost incidental, yet it was enough to make your legs feel a little weak.
He held your gaze for a moment, his hand still resting lightly on your lower back. You wanted nothing more than to reach up and remove his sunglasses yourself—just to see his eyes, to know if he was feeling the same spark you were.
Then, finally, he broke his gaze and tilted his head towards the filter.
“There’s an issue with the filter,” he explained. “It’s clogged worse than I thought. I’ll need to check it a few extra times this week to make sure it’s running properly.”
Oh.
Your shoulders slump slightly, the thrill of his attention immediately colliding with a pang of disappointment.
You followed his gaze to the pool and let out a very long and disappointed sigh. “Is that so?”
He grunted quietly, his hand retreating from your back. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I’ll start on it. Should take a while to get it fully unclogged.”
You swallowed, trying to force a nonchalant smile. Infuriatingly dry, and yet every word, every glance—or lack thereof—only made the fiery spark inside you burn brighter.
“How ‘bout you come inside for a second?” you offered quickly. “Cool off a little before getting back to work… I mean, look at you—you’re sweating like crazy.” You added a soft chuckle, letting the words hang teasingly in the air, hoping, praying he’d catch the bait.
Bucky’s head tilted up, looking past you and up at your three-story house. His expression was frustratingly unreadable, leaving you guessing at what might be running through his mind. After a long pause, he finally looked back at you.
“No, thanks.”
It was just as you expected. With a soft sigh, you masked your disappointment with a small shrug.
“Suit yourself,” you murmured as you already turned your back away.
“But…”
You paused, glancing over your shoulder.
“I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” Bucky said, his tone flat like he was granting you a concession.
Your lips curved slowly up into a grin, that warmth coming back to life in your chest. It wasn’t much—but it was something. And with him, even the smallest thing felt like a victory.
“Lemonade, coming right up,” you said lightly, your tone playful.
This time, when you turned toward the house, there was a little more pep in your step, the sway of your hips unconsciously enthusiastic. It felt good, being given something to finally work with—even something small.
What you didn’t see was the way Bucky’s eyes followed you, hidden safely behind his sunglasses. You missed how his gaze lingered on the curve of your ass through the sheer cover-up, how his jaw clenched once you finally slipped out of view.
From outside, he could see everything.
The way you moved around the kitchen with far too much energy for something as simple as lemonade. How you dragged out a step stool to reach the tallest cabinet, just to pick the nicest glass for him. How you filled it with ice, frowned because you put too much, dumped it out, then poured it again until it was perfect. How you even fussed with the lemon slice on the rim like you were serving royalty and not some random pool cleaner.
And the sight was fascinating.
He loved watching you—a wealthy girl who could have staff do it for you—going out of your way to make a drink for someone like him.
Of course he knew about your coy smiles, your lingering stares when you think he’s not looking, the way your hips sway when you walk away, the skimpy bikinis you wore despite never once stepping foot into the pool.
He noticed everything.
He just chose not to bite.
Because watching you try—watching you put all that effort into getting a reaction out of him—was far more entertaining than giving you what you wanted.
As you leaned into the fridge for the pitcher, your sheer cover-up rode higher over your thighs, the thin fabric stretching to reveal the curve of your ass underneath. You bent forward slightly to grab some more lemons from a lower shelf, and…
The sight made his throat go dry.
His cock stirred, thickening and rising slowly, an ache pressing against the confines of his work pants. He shifted his stance, trying to will the sensation away, but it was no use. The pressure was unbearable, insistent, and tight. Every movement reminded him of just how badly he needed you.
Bucky glanced toward the kitchen again, making sure you were still occupied. When the coast was clear, his hand slid to his crotch, fingers brushing over the straining fabric as if adjusting himself would ease the discomfort.
It didn’t.
The brief contact only made his cock twitch in his pants even more.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his hand palming his bulge through his pants.
He had to bite back a groan as his cock throbbed, begging for more. It was so risky squeezing himself when you were only a few steps away, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
You had no idea what you were doing to him. And the cruelest part was knowing you wanted him too—that fact alone made it harder to keep his control.
Bucky knew he could easily barge in and ruin you, ruin all that polished perfection you surrounded yourself with.
He’d dirty up your pristine house in an instant. He’d bend you over the arm of your thousand-dollar couch. He’d fuck you across all three glossy floors. He’d bury himself deep in your king-sized bed until you couldn’t bear to go to bed without him.
His hand pressed harder against the outline of his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he growled to himself as filthy images flooded in his mind.
He wanted to so badly drag that sad excuse of a cover-up off your body, bunching it around your bare waist and bending you over the kitchen counter that you hardly use to cook for your own. He wanted to take his time and savour you—make you finally crumble and beg for his attention instead of throwing out coy smiles and teasing comments.
His thumb circled the swollen head straining against his pants, the friction was delicious but it was not nearly enough.
Fuck, did he want to split you open on his cock, watch your spoiled composure shatter as you clawed at him for more with those greedy, manicured hands.
He squeezed himself harder, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the doorway where you could reappear any second. The risk of being caught only made his cock throb harder.
Imagine if you walked out right now, catching him red-handed—
The sound of the door opening snapped him back to reality. He yanked his hand away, standing up straight and turning his back just as you stepped outside with his glass of lemonade with a bright and oblivious smile on your face.
“Here you go,” you said brightly, handing him the glass.
“Thanks,” he muttered back, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second before he took it.
He tipped the glass back, his Adam's apple bobbing as swallowed, and you found yourself staring at his throat like you were thirsty yourself. He let out a satisfied sigh as he set the glass down on a nearby table.
He gave you one quick glance under his sunglasses before nodding his head once. “It’s good.”
Dry.
Flat. Like always.
And you, of course, didn’t notice the irony that just a mere seconds ago, he had his palm against his cock, groaning your name under his breath. Now here he was, still as stone, acting like you barely existed.
But for you, that tiny moment, your fingers brushing against his when you passed the lemonade, was enough to send your heart skipping like a schoolgirl’s.
It was ridiculous, really, how something so brief could make you feel so electric.
You forced a small smile and slipped back into your chair, twirling the straw in your now half-melted cocktail. You tried to play it cool, but your eyes kept dragging back to him again and again.
You were hypnotized with the way his hands toyed at his belt like he was adjusting himself, the movement of his shoulders as he crouched low by the pump system near the pool’s edge—everything about him just made it harder to resist.
Bucky leaned over the filter housing, twisting the valve to let off the hiss of trapped pressure. You watched as he unlatched the clamps holding the lid in place, muscles hard at work under his sun-warmed skin.
With a low grunt, he lifted the heavy top free, setting it aside before reaching down into the canister. He worked quietly, pulling free a clogged-up basket stuffed with leaves, stringy muck, and god knows what else. You weren’t really paying that much attention to the filter anyway.
“Mm,” he muttered, giving it a shake, water splattering onto the pavement. “The filter's jammed up worse than it should be. I’ll need to check on it a couple more times this week, make sure it doesn’t back up the whole system.”
He tilted his head. “Gonna take a look at the pump’s pressure next.”
He dropped the basket back into the filter housing and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Then, with a low grunt, he hooked his fingers at the hem of his damp white tank and lifted up and over his head.
You nearly spilled your damn drink.
His chest stretched out, broad and solid. His muscles shifted as he tugged the fabric free and tossed it aside. Sunlight caught on every line—the ridges of his abs, the sharp cut of his V disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-slung work pants.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, heat flooding in your belly.
Your thighs pressed together, desperate to soothe the ache between them. You wanted to keep watching, but every flex of his back as he crouched over the filter only made it worse. You pictured your hands running down the hard grooves of muscle, his body hovering over yours—
God. It was so indecent, sitting here and openly staring at him.
You knew you couldn’t take it anymore when he started to grunt as he bent down to check the pipes. The sound was nothing but seemingly innocent, but to your ears, it came out unbearably filthy.
Clearing your throat, you scrambled to your feet, your drink wobbling dangerously in your hand.
“Well,” you said quickly, voice rising high in pitch. “It’s getting… really hot out here, so I’ll just—” You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”
You didn’t wait for an answer—not that you were going to get one anyway. With your face burning, you hurried back towards the safety of your house, desperate for cool air and four walls protecting you from the sight of his addicting sweat-slicked body.
Bucky glanced up, peering at you through his shades as he watched you scurry off inside, your cover-up lifting around your bare thighs.
That was cute. For someone whose entire game was trying to catch his attention, you bolted the second you actually got it.
He bent back over the pipes, but his focus was shot to hell. Every few seconds, his gaze followed back to the house, tracking you through those wide, spotless windows until you disappeared past a wall… only to reappear again in your bedroom.
The blinds were wide open, curtains parted to give him a clean view of your perfect body. You hadn’t even realized—or maybe you did, and this was your invitation for him to watch you.
From where he stood at the pool’s edge, he had a perfect line of sight—your figure moving across the room as you wiggled out of your flimsy cover-up and tossed it carelessly onto the floor somewhere. He watched as you paced around the room, flustered and restless.
The sunlight peeking through your windows lit you up like a goddess, a carving that was made to be worshipped by him.
You looked edible.
And Bucky wanted a taste.
Just as he was about to force his gaze away to focus on the filter, you did something that made his throat go completely dry.
You let out bikini straps slip from your shoulders. The top fell loose and he felt his chest—and his pants—tighten as you stood there, bare and unaware. But what really got him was the sight of you crawling into your bed, removing your bottoms and letting your polished fingertips glide down your bare torso and disappearing in between your smooth thighs.
“Jesus Christ…” he muttered as his cock began to stir again.
Watching you make lemonade earlier was one thing. But this—this was just obscene. Standing out here in your yard, shirtless, watching you touch yourself like you were putting on a show for him alone.
It should’ve felt wrong. He should’ve felt like a creep—like a pervert. But it didn’t stop him.
Because this was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to stare at you? After all, you were likely touching yourself to the thought of him anyway, so it was only fair for him to watch you in return.
Your hair sprawled across white silk pillows, your legs stretching open as you began to work yourself with desperate little touches. Bucky’s cock strained with every twitch of your fingers. He could already imagine it—how wet you’d be for him, how tight.
If it were his hand between your thighs instead of yours, you’d be clawing at him, begging to keep going—or to go easy.
Fuck. Watching you earlier had been bad enough, but this? This was pure torture.
He could already imagine it, how wet you would feel against his fingers, how easily you would open up for him if it were his hand between your thighs instead of your own.
His cock pressed hard against his zipper, begging for just an ounce of relief. Palming himself wasn’t enough, and if he wasn’t going to storm upstairs and fuck you into your mattress, he’d have to settle for his hand instead.
You had your head tossed back against the pillow, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth hung open. Bucky couldn’t hear you, but God, he wished he could.
With a low growl, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, zipping his fly down quickly and desperately. His hand slipped into his waistband, pulled out his cock, already warm and heavy in his palm. The rush of cool air against his swollen tip made him hiss through his teeth, and his fist tightened around the length.
Bucky watched as you rolled your hips against your own fingers, your lips parting to gasp, he couldn’t hear but could damn well imagine.
His fist worked over his cock, giving himself small and teasing strokes. But the longer he watched you, the harder he pumped himself. His breath hitched right along with yours, even if you couldn’t hear him.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he rasped under his breath, this thumb sliding over the leaking tip of his cock. “Fuck yourself nice and deep… open up that pretty pussy for me.”
You gasped again, your head sinking deeper against the pillows, and he groaned, imagining it was because of him, because of the way he would sink his cock into you and split you wide.
“Bet you’d be so fucking tight around me,” he grunted, hips rocking into his hand as he pumped faster. “I’d stretch you out so good, make you scream my name instead of keeping it all quiet like that.”
Every shake of your body, every subtle move of your wrist, only made him harder, needier. His balls were tight and aching, but still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t drag his eyes away.
“Goddamn, look at you,” he muttered, voice strained. “So perfect… so fucking sweet—thinkin’ you’re in control all the time.” His hips bucked into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles as he stroked harder. “You’ve got no idea, do you? How bad I wanna ruin that pretty little image of yours....”
Your thighs trembled, your lips parting in another voiceless cry, and he groaned deep in his chest, pumping himself faster. You were getting close, he just knew it.
“I’d fuck you stupid, baby,” he hissed, gaze locked on the way your legs started to shake. “Have you begging, drooling, makin’ a mess all over my cock until you couldn’t even say my name without whimpering.”
He braced one hand against the edge of the filter housing, knuckles going white.
“You’d be mine. Only mine. I’d keep you tucked away in this big house, fuckin’ you on every damn floor until you forget anyone else even exists,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you have no one else over but me.”
His hips jerked, strokes getting messier as the image of you whimpering beneath him filled his head. Through your window, your back arched, your eyes squeezing shut as your fingers moved frantically between your legs.
“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he hissed quietly. “Cum for me, cum on my cock like I’m right there…”
Your body trembled, chest rising up and down rapidly. Bucky felt his own release rising hard and fast. The sight of you—silk sheets wrinkling beneath you, hair sprawled out over the pillows—tore a groan clean out of his chest.
Good thing you couldn’t hear him.
You turned your head, cheek brushing softly against your tousled hair, looking like a goddamn angel.
Then your eyes fluttered open.
Straight out the window.
And Bucky’s stomach dropped.
Shit.
He immediately yanked his hand off himself and stuffed his cock back into his pants, turning his body toward the filter like he had been working on it the whole time. His breathing came hard through his nose, heart beating fast as he grabbed the nearest tool and pretended to check the pipes, praying you hadn’t seen him.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. His heart was thudding in his ears, his cock still aching—slick and completely unsatisfied in his pants.
He sucked in a deep breath as he tried to steady himself, trying to look like he hadn’t just been seconds away from blowing his load all over the pool deck.
Play it cool.
Work the pipes.
Don’t look back up.
Meanwhile, from above, you lay your back against your pillows as your gaze swept out the window and down to your pool.
Bucky was still out there, bent over the filter and hard at work. His broad back was gleaming with sweat, and even from here, you could see his chest rising and falling heavily, his breaths coming in sharp.
A faint smile tugged at your lips. Of course he looked wrecked—he had been out there all morning, under the sun, hunched over pipes and skimmers and God knows what else.
He was really, really hard at work.
Your smile dropped to something… guiltier. Poor guy, out there sweating through his work while you’ve been upstairs, sprawled out in silk pristine sheets, doing… well, not much of anything useful.
And even though he didn’t ask for it, he deserved another lemonade.
You sat up and threw on a simple shirt and shorts this time. It wasn’t like you were going for a swim with the filters all messed up, and it wasn’t like that bikini had done much to catch his attention anyway.
You stepped outside, the glass of lemonade slick with condensation. The sun hit you right in the face, forcing you to squint as you raised a hand to shield your eyes.
“Round two!” you called, your sandals smacking lightly against the patio.
Bucky’s shoulders stiffened before he stood up straight and turned to you. He cleared his throat, his fingers brushing over yours for the briefest second before he took the glass.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice raspy and thick. He looked down at you, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His jaw clenched—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, or… more like he didn’t trust himself to speak.
You were a different sight than before. Your hair was a little mussed, you had on a plain shirt—a few sizes too big—hanging over your body. It was so big that he barely noticed your tiny shorts riding up your thighs.
No skimpy hundred dollar bikini. No sheer cover-up. And this time, no obvious attempt at allure.
And still, he wanted you.
Because even like this—especially like this—he was still hard, still unsatisfied, his cock pressing hot and heavy against his zipper.
He swallowed hard before tipping the glass back. He downed the lemonade in one long chug, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow until the glass was completely empty.
You smiled, hands behind your back. “Better than the first time?”
He exhaled slowly, handing the glass back to you.
“Yeah.”
It was another sweltering afternoon, and you were sprawled out on the pool chair with a book in your hands—a book you hadn’t turned a page in for the last fifteen minutes. Your eyes kept straying past the print, landing on Bucky where he knelt by the water pipes.
Today was even hotter than yesterday, and he was out there shirtless, sweat dripping down his skin as he worked. You had on a different swimsuit—still skimpy, still expensive—and the heat was making you sweat right through it.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the view, you would’ve already given up and gone inside to the comfort of your AC.
You set the book down on your lap. “Bucky,” you called, tilting your head towards him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? It’s okay to take a break, it’s so damn hot out here.”
He didn’t even glance up from where crouched. He twisted a wrench, the metal clinking sharp against the pipe.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
But the sun was glaring down on you both mercilessly, beads of sweat sliding down his temple, down his throat and over his chest. You were already burning up just by sitting still—so with him out there working, he seemed anything but fine.
You wiped at your damp forehead with the back of your hand, moving uncomfortably against the recliner with a huff. The heat was unbearable, and the bikini that was supposed to make you feel sexy felt sticky, suffocating, and gross.
“Bucky,” you tried again with a weary sigh, “come inside. Just for a minute. I’ll crank up the AC and grab you a drink. You’re going to pass out if you stay out here. The filter can wait.”
He didn’t bite. He never did. Even your own patience felt like it was melting under the sun.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said roughly, tightening the wrench with another twist.
He still didn’t look at you.
Normally you would laugh it off, throw out another playful line his way, and try again until you wrung even the smallest reaction out of him. But the heat, the sweat, and the mounting frustration of constantly chasing his attention had you clenching your jaw instead.
“Fine,” you muttered, sharper than you intended, snapping your book shut and rising to your feet. “Suit yourself.”
Without another word—or even glance—you turned and marched back into the house, letting yourself be greeted by the cool air over your skin as the door clicked shut behind you.
Bucky froze from where he crouched, wrench going still in his hand as he watched you stalk off and shut the door in a way that clearly indicated you were not coming back.
What the hell was that about?
You never just… got up and left.
You usually retreated in the house with a smile on your face, and every single time, you kept coming back, circling him with that playful little persistence of yours.
His jaw clenched, tossing the wrench aside with a heavy clatter. He dragged a hand down his sweaty face, cursing under his breath.
He stood up slowly, letting out a little groan at the strain. Sweat was dripping down his temple and soaking through the waistband of his pants. The sun was cooking him alive, and maybe that was why he was starting to feel a little frustrated himself.
Because the truth was, he wasn’t fine.
The heat was suffocating, and his head was spinning with an irritation he couldn’t quite put down. It wasn’t just from the sun—it was you.
The way that bikini clung to your curves, the shine of sweat down your chest, the needy whine in your voice when you begged him to come inside.
Christ. He was hard again, cock straining against his sweat-damp pants. He hated how quick it happened. He hated how easily wound up he got every time you looked at him, and he hated how you walking away only made it worse.
The pool gurgled behind him, the filter still clearly needing work, but his focus was all over the place.
All he could picture was you inside, cooling down with that little frown on your lips—disappointed that he wasn’t in there with you. You were probably already stripping out of that bikini. Maybe laying down, legs pressed together, trying to take the edge off the way you had yesterday.
And because of those thoughts—those relentless, stupid thoughts—Bucky lasted all but five minutes.
Five full minutes of pacing along the pool, knowing the pipes needed his full attention when all he could focus on was the tight ache in his chest and the heavier one pressing against his zipper.
When his gaze inevitably looked up towards the house, there you were through the spotless windows.
Laid out across the couch, your skimpy bikini straps were digging into your skin as you slouched against the cushions—not even caring that you were dirtying up the expensive furniture with your sweat.
You crossed your legs at the ankle as your eyes fluttered shut, chest rising and falling softly. You weren’t even looking at him.
And fuck—he couldn’t take it anymore.
He tugged off his work gloves and tossed them by the skimmer, muttering something grumpily under his breath that even he couldn’t catch. His boots stomped heavily against the patio as he made his way to the back door.
He paused at the door, his eyes glued on your body through the glass. He should knock. Hell, he should turn around and get back to the pipes before he did something stupid. But despite his thoughts, his fingers wrapped tight around the handle anyway.
This was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? The way you always lingered near him, flirted shamelessly, always tried to tempt him closer without ever saying it outright. You have been waiting for him to step inside this house for weeks.
In Bucky’s mind, he was finally giving you what you wanted.
The door slid open with a low scrape, the blast of cold air brushing against his warm body. He stepped in as if he already lived there, heavy boots already dirtying the once-pristine plush rug.
Your eyes fluttered open at the faint sound of the door closing.
“Bucky…?” your voice was soft and confused as you took him in.
A big, broad, sweaty Bucky, standing in your living room for the first time since he’d started working for you.
“What are you doing in here? Is everything okay—”
“Almost done with the filter,” he cut you off with a rough voice, his gaze trying to steer away from the tempting lines of your body. “Just needed to use the bathroom.”
You blinked at him, thrown off guard by the excuse but too caught up in the fact that he was finally in your house to even question it. “Oh—yeah, of course. Come on.”
You scrambled to your feet, suddenly self-conscious in nothing but your swimsuit. When you pictured Bucky entering your home, it wasn’t like this. In your head, you would’ve coaxed him in with a drink, maybe with a teasing smile here and there.
Not because he needed the bathroom.
So yeah, his unexpected presence threw you off. But still… at the end of the day, it was better than nothing.
“This way,” you said over your shoulder, leading him down the hall.
Your house had never looked better—freshly waxed floors were reflecting under the light, except Bucky’s dirty work boots were now leaving a trail. Your walls were decorated with curated art and frames that were probably worth more than most people’s salaries.
But Bucky didn’t spare a glance at any of them.
His eyes were locked on you.
And you could feel his heavy stare weighing down on your nearly bare back.
The walk to the bathroom was short, yet it felt endless. Because for once, you had nothing to say. You stopped in front of the door, fingers twisting the knob before pushing it open.
You could feel him behind you, close enough that his breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Your pulse quickened, and your mouth went dry.
If you turned around, if you so much as looked up at him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your composure.
You cleared your throat. “Well… this is it,” you said, flicking the lights on.
The mirror above the sink lit up instantly, creating a warm glow across the tiled room. And in the reflection, you saw the two of you framed in the doorway.
And then you caught him.
His gaze wasn’t on the bathroom at all—it was on you.
You saw the way his jaw was clenched tight as his eyes trailed over the slope of your bare shoulders, his gaze lingering on the thin bikini straps pressed against your soft skin.
You didn’t say a word. And truthfully, you didn’t want to—because if you spoke, you would snap him out of it.
You wanted him to keep staring at you. You wanted to feel his eyes dragging over your body slowly, down your shoulders, over the curve of your waist and hips, to every inch of bare skin your bikini left exposed.
He wasn’t touching you, but his eyes felt like a touch—scorching, intimate. It made your stomach twist and your thighs press together. Through the mirror, you watched as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his chest like he was fighting something back.
God, did that stare burn so bad.
You wanted him to touch you—just a light graze of his fingertips, the heat of his palm against your waist. Anything.
For a second, you’re convinced he might actually do it—close that little bit of space between you, press you up against the doorframe, and give you what you’ve been craving.
But instead, he tore his gaze away. He stepped past you into the bathroom, his shoulder brushing yours. The brief contact had a soft gasp catching in your throat, your body already trembling at something so small.
“Thanks,” he muttered before reaching for the door and shutting it behind him.
You were left standing in the hall, your pulse thudding loudly in your ears. You felt your skin warm where his shoulder brushed yours—you almost felt feverish. You should’ve gone back to the couch and pretend like nothing happened.
But instead, you found yourself pacing in the living room, restless and unable to sit still.
Bucky was in your house. He was actually in your damn house.
And yet, the worst part was knowing that the second he came back out, he’d go right back to normal—back to his work, back to being dismissive, like none of this had ever happened.
But as the minutes dragged on, your heart couldn’t help but slam harder in your chest with each second he remained behind that closed door. Any normal person would assume that he was… taking a number two. Instead, a dangerous thought crept in—the idea that maybe he was in there because he felt it too.
Because he couldn’t hold back any more than you could.
That he was in there touching himself.
Because of you.
By the time the bathroom door creaked open, your breath was shallow with anticipation and your palms clammy.
Your head whipped to the hall just as Bucky stepped out, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His hair was damp, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the sweat, or from splashing water over his face.
“Uh—are you… are you okay?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
He dragged a hand over his stubbled jaw, his expression unreadable as his eyes took you in.
“I’m fine,” he said, dismissive as ever—yet his voice was rougher, like gravel.
At this point, you expected him to brush past you, head back outside and lose himself in the pipes. That’s what he always did, and that’s what you told yourself to expect.
But he didn’t move.
You interlocked your fingers as your hands rested in front of you, looking prim as if he was the owner of the house and you were the one serving him.
“Um—do you, uh, want something to drink before you head back out?” you offered. “Or you could sit down for a bit, maybe relax for a second? It’s hotter today than yesterday, and—”
“I want a tour,” he cut you off.
“A house tour?” you blinked, flustered. “O-okay… let me just change—”
“No need,” he interrupted calmly, his eyes flickering briefly down to your body before coming back to your face. “It’ll be quick anyway. Gotta fix those pipes.”
Your cheeks warmed up. A house tour was the last thing you expected out of him, but you weren’t complaining. Maybe this was his version of a break. You straightened your shoulders and tried to play it cool.
“Alright… well, we’ll start here,” you said, gesturing to the living room couch where you had been lounging earlier. You walked him past the coffee table, and with your back now turned to him, you couldn’t help but if his eyes were lingering on your body the same way it did at the bathroom
“This couch,” you continued, forcing yourself to sound light and casual, “is where I usually read or watch movies. Very comfortable, and it gets plenty of sunlight.”
Bucky stood close behind you. “Vitamin D,” he said. “Very important.” He glances down at the couch. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
If it were any other man, you would’ve been revulsed at the thought—your pristine, expensive couch soaking up sweat from someone who had been working in the sun all day.
But Bucky wasn’t any other man.
“Please,” you reassured, motioning with a smile. “Be my guest.”
He let out a quiet huff as he settled down, the cushions sinking under his weight. His broad shoulders stretched across the backrest, making your large couch look small. One hand slid along the cushion, testing the give of the fabric.
“It’s comfortable,” he said flatly.
You laughed a little too quickly, the nerves getting at you. “I get only the best. I… spend a lot of time here.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, and for a second, you thought that he’d get up and give one of his usual gruff responses. But instead, he patted the empty cushion beside him, inviting you as if the house wasn’t under your name.
“Have a seat.”
Your breath got stuck in your throat. “Uh—okay,” it was unexpected, but you shrugged and settled down anyway, your bare thigh grazing against his. “Sure.”
He leaned back into the couch, arms stretched lazily across the top, one long leg crossing over the other. For someone stepping into your living room for the first time, he sure sat there like he owned it.
You perched on the edge of the cushion, hands folded primly in your lap while he looked as though he belonged—like this was his space, not yours.
“Can I ask you something?”
You turned, eyes slightly wide at the sudden question. “Anything.”
He looked around the room with an unreadable expression, taking in the expanse of the clean kitchen, the wide dining area, and the chandelier dangling on the high ceiling.
“Your house is big,” he said. “Most houses I work for, there’s a family, or people coming and going. But here…” his eyes land back on you. “You’re always by yourself. Why is that?”
You felt yourself going stiff. The bikini you put on to draw him closer suddenly felt like a mistake—because right now, with the way his eyes pinned you, you wished you were wearing anything else.
“I don’t really…” you hesitated, fingers fidgeting in your lap. “I don’t really like having that many people over. It makes it dirty, and I like the solitude sometimes, you know?”
His head tilted slightly. The silence that followed felt tense, until his mouth quirked up in a faint smirk. “So that’s why your house is so clean?” his voice was rougher, almost teasing. “Would be a shame if someone like me were to come in and dirty it up, wouldn’t it?”
“W-what?” you stuttered, but tried to hide it with a small laugh.
Spurred on by your flustered reaction, his smirk grew wider as he leaned in closer, his voice coming to a growl.
“What’s wrong? Thought you always wanted me to come inside your house.”
The way he said it, voice deep and husky, made your stomach twist and your legs press together. He wasn’t just talking about the house, and you both knew it.
Bucky’s eyes swept lazily around the room before settling back on you.
“I want to see the rest of your place,” he said, “but your couch… it’s pretty damn comfortable.”
You opened your mouth, unsure if you should argue or joke, but the words never made it out. He shuffled, leaning closer, his thick thigh pressing harder against yours.
“Scoot closer,” he murmured.
You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous, but you did as he asked and slid closer until the heat of his body filled every inch of space beside you.
That’s when his hand glided gently on your bare thigh. His fingers were rough. Warm. His thumb moves in slow circles against your skin, testing you.
“Tell me more about the living room,” he coaxed, his tone deceptively casual.
He looked at you and spoke as though he wasn’t even touching you, as though his hand wasn’t resting heavy and warm on your thigh. His touch was deceptively gentle, but it was enough to make your whole body tremble.
Enough to leave you aching for more.
“Um… well, I usually… uh—read here… watch movies and sometimes, you know… just nap,” you stammered.
It was insane, really— how confident you were when trying to coax him in. But your words faltered as his head leaned closer, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck. A soft kiss, then another, each one carving into your skin as his hand traveled higher.
“And the rug…” you blurted out, desperate for composure. “It’s one of my favorites—it’s a limited-edition Oushak. Handwoven, cream and pale blue… only ten of them in the world.”
A soft press of his lips, followed by the scrape of his teeth and the slow glide of his tongue over your neck, left your breath caught in your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh, creeping dangerously higher to the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms.
“Where is it from?” he muttered against your skin.
You knew he didn’t care for the answer, yet you gave it to him anyway. “An—ah—it’s, uh… it was imported, um—from… f-from Turkey? Or Persia—somewhere like that—I don’t, I can’t—”
Your words were barely making sense now, every syllable trembling off your tongue. Because it had been so long—so long since anyone touched you like this. And being touched by the man who you secretly sought after made your head spin like crazy.
His hand slid up higher and wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you close against him. You let out a soft gasp, your body trembling as you pressed into his hard, warm, and muscular frame.
“Bucky…!” you breathed, your hands rising instinctively and brushing against his bicep.
But before you could go any further, his hand shot out immediately and caught your wrist. His grip on your wrist was gentle, but the movement was rough as he guided your hands back down to your sides with ease.
“Keep your hands at your sides.”
You sucked in a deep breath, both embarrassment and arousal tingling inside you. The audacity of him—to be so commanding here, in your own damn house. He worked for you. It should’ve been the other way around. And yet, you cursed yourself for nodding because you were just simply too flustered to resist.
He grinned faintly at your obedience.
“Go on,” he said, lips ghosting over your ear as his hand caressed your naked waist. “Tell me more about the house.”
“Bucky,” you hesitated, blinking up at him. “What are you… what are you trying to do—”
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he grunted, his nose brushing against your jawline. He pulled away slightly to catch your gaze, his blue eyes dark and desperate, pinning you in place. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to come inside?”
“Well… yes, but—”
“Then go on.” He pressed, leaning closer. “Let’s relax for a bit, yeah? Just lay back…” he looked around the living room slowly, “and tell me more about your beautiful home.”
His hand slid down your waist and around your back, his touch firm but careful as he guided you back against the couch cushions. He moved with you, settling himself between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart.
“Bucky..” you whispered, your voice shaky even though you made no move to stop him.
He lowered himself slowly, his stubble grazing against the sensitive inside of your thigh. One kiss, then another—each torturously gentle, each one leaving your body trembling even harder.
“Go on,” he encouraged as he pressed another kiss higher. “Tell me more about your living room.”
Your head fell back against the couch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you tried to string words together.
“Um… the… the ceilings are high—so high, and the chandelier… it’s uh, imported crystal. Very… elegant.”
Bucky’s lips curved up against your thigh, a soft, raspy chuckle vibrating against your skin. His mouth traveled higher until, finally it pressed firmly against the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. The sudden heat of his lips over your most sensitive spot made you jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as your body shook.
“B-Bucky…” you panted, your hips bucking up instinctively, desperate for more contact. “Please…”
You felt the teasing curl of his smile against you. The thin fabric was already damp with your arousal, and the realization that he could feel it—that he could smell it—sent a hot flush of shame and need up your neck.
“Mmm,” he hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.
“You’re soaked, baby. And you smell so fucking sweet,” his tongue flicking over your clothed folds. “What was that you said about your… chandelier? Imported crystal?”
Then, his tongue flicked out, dragging over your wet folds through the fabric, the damp barrier doing nothing to dull the sensation. The light, tormenting trace of him had your hips rutting up shamelessly, chasing more friction, more of him.
“Oh, God—Bucky. I need you—”
Your thighs quivered around his head as his tongue traced you again, the sticky fabric preventing you from feeling the real thing. He was playing with you, tormenting you, making you unravel with just the smallest movements of his mouth.
“Need me? What could you need from me that you don’t already have, baby?” he taunted, his hand rubbing up and down your thigh. “You’ve already got a fancy rug, a chandelier… so don’t be greedy now, sweetheart.”
Your hands fisted the cushions harder, nails biting into the fabric as your legs quivered around him. “I can’t—I need more, please, I need—”
Before you could finish, he shoved your bottoms to the side, exposing your slick heat to the cool air. A guttural groan escaped him at the sight, his eyes darkening as if he had been starving for this. He didn’t hesitate—didn’t want to waste another second as his mouth dropped back down, tongue flattening against your folds in one long, hungry lick.
“Oh my god!” you cried, your back arching as your hands flew to cover your face, too overwhelmed to do anything else. “Bucky—”
“Mm..” He hummed against you, savoring your taste before dragging his tongue even slower, teasing your sensitive clit. “Tell me more about the house, baby. The floors… they’re waxed, aren’t they?”
God. Here you were—sprawled out and nearly naked on your couch with your pool cleaner’s head in between your legs. This very moment felt like straight out of a dream, but here he was, asking about your wax floors.
“Y-yeah…” you panted. “The… the floors, they’re… w-waxed every—oh, fuck—every week.”
“Every week, huh?” he muttered into you, lips curling before he dove back in, sucking hard on your swollen clit until you cried out. “That why they shine so pretty?”
You have a very good feeling he isn’t just talking about the floors anymore. You could barely answer, choking on your moans, thighs shaking violently around his head. Your grip on the couch cushions grew desperate, clawing at the fabric for any ounce of stability.
Then came his fingers. Two, thick and rough, sliding through your soaked folds, teasing, spreading you open.
“F-fuck…” you gasped, hips twitching uncontrollably.
Without warning, he shoved them inside deep, curling instantly against your softest spot. Your cry was sharp, needy, your back arching off the couch.
“B-Bucky!”
He didn’t let you adjust—his tongue fucking your clit in rhythm with the hard thrusts of his fingers, pumping into you wet and fast, filling the room with the sounds of your pussy squelching against his hand along with his deep grunts and groans.
“That’s it, baby,” he grunted. “Cry for me. Fuck—you sound so fuckin’ pretty…”
The sound of his mouth, your wet pussy squelching from his fingers filled the air. Your body was unraveling, every nerve tightening as your stomach knotted hard, the edge of release coming into you with brutal speed. “I—fuck… feels so good. I’m so close, I’m—”
But just as you were about to come undone, he stopped.
His mouth pulled away. His fingers slipped out with a wet pop as he left you trembling, wet, and aching for more.
A broken whimper left your lips as he casually tugged your bikini bottom back into place, covering the mess he’d just made of you.
“Bucky—why—” your voice cracked as you tried sitting up.
He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.
“You’ll get more when I’m ready.” He leaned back, calm as ever, while you trembled beneath him. “Now… are you going to show me the rest of this pretty house?”
You whimpered, legs still trembling. “Bucky… please…”
He pushed himself up slowly, adjusting himself in his work pants, the heavy outline of his cock impossible to miss. His eyes dragged over you—every curve, every shake of your body as you arched unconsciously toward him. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip at the delicious sight. Watching you come apart for him was already driving him mad.
When he took a step back from the couch, you moved without thinking.
“Wait…” you scrambled, crawling to the edge of the cushions. Your hands trailed along the thick muscle of his thigh until they found the waistband of his pants. You tugged gently, voice desperate and a quiet whisper. “I… I want to taste too—”
His eyes darkened instantly, locking on yours, and before you could pull him closer, his large hand wrapped around yours. The grip was firm, authoritative, and deliciously commanding.
“No,” he growled. “Tour first.”
Your brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief.
You were frustrated, aroused, and utterly confused. Why was he torturing you like this? Didn’t he know that you needed him so bad? You were so close, and you can still feel your pussy fluttering against the thin fabric of your bikini—aching for him. A frustrated whine left your mouth as your nails dug into his hand, trying to tug him closer anyway.
But Bucky only shook his head, smirking faintly at your desperation. He leaned down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath making your skin prickle.
“You wanted me inside,” he said quietly. “Now show me your house.”
None of this made sense. You couldn’t understand why he was dragging this out, why he wouldn’t just give you what you were begging for. But God, you couldn’t stop yourself from listening. You were already addicted to him enough—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand… it could undo you completely.
So you swallowed hard, nodded, and stood up. Your legs were weak, trembling with every step as you moved ahead of him, leading him towards the staircase.
“That’s it,” Bucky purred behind you, deep and mocking. “Good girl. Lead the way.”
Your fingers held onto the banister as you climbed, your thighs brushing with each step, the subtle friction of simply walking making you go mad. The fabric of your bikini felt suffocating and sticky, and you knew he could see it in the way your hips swayed as you walked.
“You’re shaking,” he taunted softly. “Legs that weak already? And I’ve barely touched you.”
“Bucky…” you whispered, not sure if you were pleading or warning.
“Keep going,” his hand brushed against your lower back, steadying you like he owned your body. “Show me more of this big, empty house that you’re so proud of.”
When you reached the landing, you paused, swallowing hard and desperate to catch your breath. But Bucky was already closing the gap, his chest brushing against your bare shoulder blades.
“This is… the hallway,” you said quickly, gesturing down the long stretch of polished wood and soft lighting. “I, um… had these sconces imported from Italy. They’re—”
“Imported,” Bucky cut you off, his tone slightly mocking and amused. “Everything in this house’s imported, huh?”
Your cheeks burned, and you tried to keep walking, pointing towards a piece of art hanging on the wall. “That’s an original oil painting, early 19th cent—”
His chest pressed harder against your back, trapping you between him and the wall. Warm breath brushed over the shell of your ear, and then his mouth was on your neck again—soft kisses, then rougher as his hands slid around your waist.
“B-bucky…” you sighed, “please, can we just—”
“Keep going,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”
His hands gripped your waist tight as he rolled his hips forward, his hard length grinding against your ass through the barrier of his work pants. The friction was maddening as he rutted up against you, hard and slow.
“Th-that… that painting… it’s, um, early 19th century—ah!”
Your words broke apart the minute his lips found that sweet spot just under your ear, sucking until you whimpered.
“You already said that, baby,” he growled. One hand slipped up, cupping your breast through the tiny triangle of your bikini top, thumb flicking over the hardened bud. “C’mon, give me something new.”
His other hand pressed lower, flattening against your tummy as he rutted against you harder, each thrust of his hips pushing you forward a step.
“F-fuck…” he hissed through gritted teeth, his breath ragged in your ear.
His rutting grew rougher, his cock thick and heavy against the curve of your ass through his pants. Your palms splayed flat against the wall, the sconces rattling faintly from the impact.
You were a shaking, whimpering mess under him. “The—th-the flooring,” you babbled, “mahogany… oh god, imported from Brazil…!” Your words were caught off by a sharp moan as his hands slipped under the bikini, squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple.
“Imported,” he repeated mockingly, panting as he ground against you. “Fuck, baby, you feel that? You’re makin’ me so fucking hard.”
“Bucky—please, please,” you whined, shamelessly pushing your hips back into him, grinding against the thick outline of his cock. The friction sent sparks up your spine, your thighs quivering and clit throbbing.
“Shit,” he cursed, forehead pressing into your shoulder as his hips rutted against you harder, sloppier. His hands roamed and fondled you roughly as he fucked against you through his pants. “Gonna make a mess in my work clothes if you keep wiggling that ass against me.”
You gasped, head tipping back helplessly against his chest. “Then do it—fuck, please—”
“Goddamn, you’re fucking desperate,” his hand circled up around your neck, not choking, but squeezing gently as he held you in place and rutted faster. “Keep talkin’ about the house, pretty girl. Go on. Tell me about your perfect little hallway while I ruin you right here.”
You nearly collapsed and his hand finally slid under the thin band of your bikini bottoms, his fingers brushing through your slick heat.
“B-Bucky!” you gasped, hips jerking when the pad of his finger circled your clit. The contrast—his hand working you, his hips grinding rough and needy into your ass, it had your body unraveling in seconds.
“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me. So good, baby.”
You whimpered and clawed at the wall, your body caught between his rutting cock and those ruthless circles around your clit. “Please—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” he panted, hips stuttering as his cock pulsed and leaked hard against you, the friction almost unbearable for him too. “Gonna come for me right here in your pretty hallway? Fuck—me too, baby, me too—”
But just as your body tensed, pleasure right there at the edge, he tore his hand away. His hips stilled, chest heaving against your back as his grip on your waist tightened before letting you go.
The sudden loss felt like ice water in your veins.
“N-no, no,” you begged, looking over your shoulder with pleading eyes. “Please, not again. Why—”
He chuckled as he pressed a mocking kiss to your cheek. “Not yet,” his hand caressed down your thigh while the other tugged your swimsuit back into place. “Tour’s not finished.”
Your body was trembling beneath him. You’re about to turn around, grip onto his shirt and start begging, but his rough voice cut through.
“Show me your bedroom.”
You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, every nerve frustrated from being denied. “Bucky…” you whispered in plea, but you didn’t dare to finish your sentence with the dark look he was giving you.
His fingers came up and brushed your cheek in a teasing stroke, making you jolt. “You gonna keep me waiting? Or do I need to find it myself?”
Your knees nearly buckled, the thought of him striding into your private space—into the most intimate part of your house made your heart beat even faster in your chest. With a shaky breath, you straightened up while still clinging to the wall for support, and nodded.
“This way,” you said, legs trembling as you took small steps down the hallway.
Behind you, you could hear him exhale a soft laugh, amused at how weak and needy you were from so little.
Your hand trembled as you turned the knob, pushing the door open to your bedroom. The soft scent of your perfume was floating in the air, laced with fresh linen and the faint sweetness of flowers from the vase on your nightstand.
“This is it,” you said softly, stepping aside so he could see.
The room looked pristine. Large windows—where you could get the full view of him, of course—with sheer curtains to let in the afternoon light. A perfectly made bed with ivory sheets, not a thing out of place.
It was your sanctuary. Your most private place.
And now he was in it.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe, his eyes taking in every inch of the room before landing on you again.
“Figures,” he said. “Perfect. Clean. Polished. Just like the rest of the house.”
You fidgeted, your palms brushing nervously over your thighs. “I… I like to keep things neat. It helps me feel—”
“Safe?” he interrupted, his voice almost a growl. He pushed off the frame and stepped closer to you. “Then why’d you invite me in, sweetheart? I’m the messiest thing that could ever happen to this house.”
Your breath caught, your heart hammering in your chest. “I didn’t let you in,” you whispered. “You… invited yourself in, actually.”
His jaw ticked, a dangerous flash of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Lay down,” he ordered suddenly, his voice rough and demanding. “On the bed. Now.”
Your gaze darted from his still-sweaty and still-dirty work clothes to your untouched, pristine sheets. The contrast made your stomach twist.
“Uh… I don’t know—”
“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed, crossing his large arms over his broad chest, muscles flexing. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since the day I started working for you, and now that I’m standing here, you’re telling me you don’t want me in your bed?”
“Well,” your eyes flicked from his sweat-stained shirt to your spotless sheets. “I don’t mean to offend, but… you’re dirty—”
Before you could even finish, his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was rough, greedy, stealing the rest of the words right off your tongue. His rough stubble scraped against your skin, his lips bruising yours.
“I was rubbing all over you in your hallway—” another hard kiss, “had my tongue and fingers buried in your pussy—” his hand grabbed your hip, dragging you closer against him as he kissed you harder, “and now you’re worried about cleanliness?”
Bucky’s mouth left yours, lips stealing kisses down your jaw and down your throat. You were panting, clutching desperately at his shirt.
“You think I care about these clean sheets?” he muttered against your skin. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me—every damn day, like you want me to ruin every inch of this perfect house?”
Your heart was beating so hard it hurt. “Bucky…”
He leaned back, eyes boring into yours with a hunger you couldn’t quite explain. His thumb brushed over your trembling bottom lip.
“Fine,” he grunted. “If you’re that worried about the bed, I’ll just have to fuck you on your pretty waxed floors like a slut, then.”
Before you could respond, his hands wrapped around tight around your waist, lifting you up and gently setting you down on the floor. The cool hardwood hit your bare back, your hair spilling across the glossy wax as he hovered over you. The contrast made your skin prickle—your perfect, polished sanctuary versus the filthy way he was pinning you down in it.
“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, spreading your thighs wide with one big hand while his other gripped your jaw to keep your eyes on him. “The thought of me ruining all your hard work—dirty boots, sweaty body, cum dripping down your nice clean floors.”
A broken moan tore from you, your back arching under him as your thighs trembled. “Bucky—please…”
“Please what?” he taunted as he ground his hard cock through his work pants against your barely covered pussy. “Please fuck you like the needy little slut you are? Right here, on the floor you polish every damn week?”
He pulled away slightly to pull his shirt over his head. Then his fingers made quick work of his belt, tugging his work pants down until his cock sprang free. Thick, heavy, the flushed head already slick with precum.
A hiss escaped his lips as his fist wrapped around the hot shaft, working himself with a few steady pumps as his hands tugged at your bikini, while his other hand yanked your bikini bottoms down your thighs in a single rough motion.
You gasped, trembling, your pussy slick and finally bared for him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, running the tip along your warm folds. He tapped against your clit once, making your hips jerk. “Look at you… already dripping.”
He smirked, leaning over you. “You’ve been trying to get me in this house for so long. Always flirting, always begging. This is what you really wanted, isn’t it?” he nudged himself against your entrance, just enough to make you cry out. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Say it.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, your voice turning into high, breathless moans. “Yes—yes, I wanted this, I wanted you—please, Bucky—”
“That’s a good girl,” he cooed as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming as he pushed in slowly. Your mouth dropped open with a whimper, fingers digging into his broad shoulders.
“God—you’re so tight,” he grunted, jaw clenching as he eased just an inch deeper. “Relax, baby. I’ll be gentle… just—let me in, fuck…”
But gentle wasn’t easy with you clenching and fluttering around him like that. You whimpered louder, your back arching off the floor as the thickness of him split you open. “Bucky—too big—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Just breathe… let me in, baby.”
He tried to push in deeper, inch by careful inch… but every time he pushed forward, the tightness of your body made his breath hitch. The control he promised you was slipping with every squeeze of your body.
“Too damn tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes flutter shut—trying to keep it together, because damn, did he want this just as badly as you did.
“Could’ve had it on the bed… make it nice and comfortable for you,” another inch, another cry from you. “But no, you didn’t want to dirty it up. So now you’re taking it here, on the floor, like a dirty slut.”
He pushed deeper, almost halfway in before pausing at the tight sensation. He tipped his head back, lips falling to let out a frustrated groan.
“Fuck—but I’m too big, aren’t I?” he slowly pulled back, then back in, fucking you with what’s already inside your clenching pussy.
Your walls fluttered around him, your body trembling as it slowly began to adjust to his large size. The initial sting turned into a deep, burning and delicious stretch, each shallow thrust easing him in further.
“Th-that’s it,” he coaxed sweetly, voice breaking as his hips rolled carefully, testing your limits. “Good girl—taking me so fuckin’ sweet…”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, hips shifting beneath him to meet his slow movements. The pain was melting into pleasure, and every tiny adjustment of your hips let him sink a little deeper.
You were opening up for him, and he could feel it.
His jaw clenched, hovering over you with one hand against the floor to balance himself, and the other gripped in your hip.
“Spread your legs a little higher, baby,” he rasped, voice restrained.
Before you could move yourself, he caught the back of your thighs and pressed them up, folding you into a desperate and messy version of a mating press. The angle had you gasping, crying out at the sudden, deeper stretch.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Look at you—pretty little thing… takin’ me like this.”
But just as he adjusted his knees on the polished wood, his boot slipped against the waxed and smooth surface.
He lost his grip for just a second, and the slip forced his hips forward in one hard, uncontrolled thrust.
Slamming all the way in.
“Oh my god!”
A helpless cry ripped out of you as your back arched off the floor—hot pleasure and pain shot through your body. Tears blurred at your eyes at the overwhelming stretch, the sudden fullness of him stealing breath from your lungs.
Bucky’s moan was just as wrecked, his forehead leaning against yours as his body shook.
“Shit—fuck—baby… I didn’t mean to—oh, goddamn…” he tried to pull back, but your cunt fluttered too tight around him, clamping down so hard he groaned again, shuddering from the sensation.
You clung to him for support. “S-so full—oh my god, Bucky, don’t—don’t move—”
“Fuck… I–I can’t… s’too late, baby. Feels too good now.”
His words were a growl, ripped straight from his chest as he drew his hips back and slammed forward again, burying himself to the hilt. The waxed floors squeaked beneath you with every rough thrust, the sound swallowed by your moans and his ragged grunts.
“My god… look at you,” he rasped. “All that whining about me being dirty, but here you are—getting ruined on the fucking floor.”
You couldn’t answer or even form a single word—the only thing leaving your lips were strangled moans and broken gasps. The stretch, the fullness of him—it was overwhelming.
And addictive.
“Bucky—” you sobbed, head falling back against the polished floors as tears spilled. “I—oh my god—”
“Shh,” he hushed, voice mixed with gentleness and possession. “Take it. Take all of me. You wanted me in your house, baby? Then fucking have me.”
His thrusts grew harder and deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. Every slam of his hips resulted in another cry from your throat as your body shook beneath him.
You were gone.
Utterly undone.
You were reduced to a babbling, slutty mess.
Bucky’s thrusts were relentless as he fucked you deep. His hand clamped down on your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
“Bet you regret not going on the bed now, huh?” he gritted between shaky groans. “Could’ve had me stretch you out all soft on those pretty sheets… but no—you had to take me right here. On the floor like a dirty little slut.”
Your walls clenched hard around him, and his eyes darkened. His cock twitched deep inside you.
“What do you say, baby?” his voice was rough and possessive as his pace quickened, impatient for an answer. “Want me to breed you while you lay there nice and pretty on your comfy bed?”
You tried to answer, but only broken whimpers and pathetic gasps left from your lips. The words wouldn’t come out, but your body gave you away—your thighs trembling, pussy fluttering desperately around him, already begging without words.
“Uh-uh,” he pinned you down harder, his nose brushing yours as he stared into your eyes. “Don’t just lay there. Tell me.”
But your brain was fried. Completely scrambled by the way he was splitting you open—so you gave the only answer you could.
You nodded, frantic and whiny, tears brimming as your lips formed a silent plea.
Bucky groaned in approval, his control snapping. “That’s my good girl.”
He pulled out, and the sudden emptiness left you whining. His hands gripped your waist firmly, lifting you effortlessly off the floor. A startled yelp escaped your lips as your legs curled around him for support, clinging to his broad body.
He set you down gently on the bed, but his hands didn’t stop exploring—grabbing, gripping, teasing every curve.
He stepped back to the edge of the mattress, and before you could even say anything, he yanked your bikini top off in one rough motion. The straps snapped, falling away to leave your chest bare, nipples already hard and flushed from the heat between you two.
A low growl rumbled from his chest at the sight of you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he groaned, already tugging down the rest of his clothes until he stood completely bare. “So fucking beautiful.”
Bucky got on the bed and pressed himself against you, the heat of his heavy cock meeting your dripping folds yet again. You let out a soft gasp as he filled you again slowly this time.
“Think you can take me again, baby?” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tight, tilting your body up to meet every stroke. Each movement was hard, fast, and unrelenting, making you gasp and whimper with every hit.
“F-fuck… yes, Bucky!”
Bucky’s eyes rolled back, jaw tight, as he leaned over you, pressing his forehead to yours. He shifted your legs back into the mating press, hands gripping your hips to tilt you up just right.
“Gonna go even deeper this time, baby,” he panted. “Need you to feel every inch of me.”
“Oh my god, Bucky—fuck… you feel too good,” you moaned, looking up at him with soft and pleading eyes as he fucked into you.
“Look at you, all fancy and perfect… and I’m the filthy pool boy inside you,” he growled, voice rough and raspy. “Taking my rich girl… making you mine.”
Your hips jerked instinctively at the words, thighs trembling around him. “P-please…” you whimpered, fingers tight on his shoulders.
He smirked darkly, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Shut it, baby… you don’t get to talk right now. You just get to feel me—filling you up, making that tight little cunt all mine.”
His hand dug into your hip, pulling you closer as he slammed in deeper.
“Bet you never thought someone like me would get you this wet… taking your perfect little pussy and using it, huh? Fuck, you love it… don’t you?”
Your back arched, hips rolling with his thrusts, and the heat building tight in your stomach, building fast. With a loud and deep groan, he drove into you harder, faster, every stroke pushing you closer.
“Fuck—cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I can feel you squeezing me so tight… fuck, I’m right there too—”
“Bucky—” you gasped, nails dragging down his bare back as your legs trembled violently around his waist. “I’m gonna cum—please, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
That was all it took for him.
“Fuck, sweetheart!”
He slammed into you one last time—hard. Hot streams of his release spilled deep inside you, filling you up while your own orgasm shook you, your body convulsing around him. The wet, messy sound of your cunt milking every drop only drove him further, leaving the both of you trembling, coming undone together in a haze of sweat.
The two of you collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled and sweat-slicked, your chests rising and falling as you caught your breath.
“Good girl,” Bucky’s arm draped possessively across your waist, his hand tracing lazy circles along your hip. “That was so good, sweetheart. You took all of it, baby.”
You rested your head against his naked chest, the warmth of him calming you down. All the while, he’s pressing soft kisses to your sweaty forehead, fingers treading your hair in a gentle and soothing manner.
“Have you… really noticed the way I’ve been trying to catch your attention?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest.
Bucky let out a quiet and amused huff, his big palm gliding lazily up and down your spine.
“Yeah,” he said casually. “It was pretty damn obvious.”
There was a brief pause for a moment, just the sounds of your breathing filling the air.
Then, a teasing little smirk curved your lips.
“Well, did you think I didn’t notice you too?”
He raised a brow and tilted his head down to look at you, confused. “What do you mean, baby?”
But you didn’t look up at him.
“When you… stood outside my window. Watching me…” you dragged your nails down his ribs, feeling him tense beneath you. “…jerking off… while I touched myself, thinking about you?”
Bucky froze beneath you, his lips parting but no sound coming out at first. His blue eyes widened and his face flushed in embarrassment.
“You—fuck, you saw that?” his voice broke, suddenly not so cocky anymore.
“Mhm,” you hummed, grinning as your hand slid down his stomach. His abs twitched under your touch, and before he could even process it, your fingers wrapped around his still-hard sensitive cock.
He gasped, body jolting at the contact. “Shit—baby, wait—”
But you didn’t wait. You stroked him slow and steady, relishing the way his entire body trembled under yours. He was the one in control, taunting and commanding… but now?
He was a mess, chest heaving, fists clutching the sheets as he tried and failed to keep his composure as you worked him with your hand.
“You looked so desperate out there,” you teased, leaning down to press your lips against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper. “Stroking your cock while you watched me play with myself. Did it make you crazy? Knowing you couldn’t touch me?”
“Fuck,” his hips jerked up and his legs trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, head shaking. “Baby—please… I’m too sensitive—oh!”
His head fell back against the pillows, a strangled moan coming from his throat as your wrist twisted just right, drawing another bead of precum from him.
He was so sensitive, every stroke making his thighs twitch and his hips buck up helplessly into your hand. “Please, please…” he moaned, “please… my god, it’s too much. Fuck…”
“Not so smug now, huh?” you purred, giving him a firmer squeeze that made him hiss through clenched teeth. “My poor, dirty pool boy. You’re just as needy for me as I am for you.”
Before he could respond, you straddled him slowly, the head of his cock nudging against your puffy and wet folds as you settled onto his hips. His whole body went taut, a groan ripping from his chest as his hands instinctively gripped your thighs, trying to stop you.
“Fuck…” he whimpered, eyes glued to where you were teasing him, your wetness smearing over his flushed tip. “Baby, I can’t—shit, I’m still—”
A soft and not-so-innocent giggle left your lips. You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw as your hips rolled just enough to make him twitch beneath you. He sucked in a sharp breath, his cock throbbing helplessly against your drenched heat.
“House tour’s not done, Bucky,” you whispered, your smirk brushing against the corner of his mouth. “We’ve still got a third floor.”
❝ my house was especially built for you! ❞
thank you for reading <3
Summary: Years after leaving the Arctic, the creature finds himself traversing the West Country of Somerset, surviving but rarely living. Until winter draws him to seek shelter on a farmstead surrounded by frozen corpses. Inside, a woman. Inside, he burns. It is time now for the creature to live and to love.
Tags: pining, creature POV, third-person, menstruation, prose, sexual awakenings, masturbation, oral, cunnilingus, scent kink, blood kink, frottage, vaginal sex, first-time orgasms, falling in love, sexual tension, character study sort of, monster fucking, the male gaze, lust, romance, rough sex, enthusiastic consent, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past sexual abuse, longing, the creature will have a massive penis... im not sorry
The dead follow the dead, he supposes in his idle moments, as he journeys across this land he has not yet trod. The souls he tore from their beating husks, and the ones he left living. These phantoms fill each indent his steps press into the snow. They never part from his side; he hears them forever, sees them hauntingly in the recesses of his endless remembrance.
Inescapable musings of the mind.
A cruel proof that he is, and ever was, that son—that innocent creature—Victor once claimed as his own ere death seized him, and the thing Elizabeth glimpsed before names could be given to such convictions of survival and desire. All who crossed him are but shades now, held upright only by the frail stitch of memories, and what a tumultuous existence such do they create.
To live is to suffer—to regret—to behold. Death, by celestial design, is an end to all such torments.
So it is with a heaviness in his heart that the creature presses onward, passing through tundra, over ice-lakes, along the edges of forbidding cliffs. Each landscape offers a ruthless comparison to his own abominable form. Trenches of grafted skin, valleys of unfeeling flesh born bruise-blue, and the winding rivulets of scar tissue that stitch his strange biomes together. The land knows him, responds to him, and thus he walks and walks… never remaining in one place long, though a quiet ache stirs in him to settle somewhere—with someone—within whose shelter he might be warm for a fleeting hour.
Yet for many years, he wanders, pausing only between those wanderings to rest, to feed, and to watch mankind perform what mankind must: to kill, to sow, to breed, and inevitably, to die.
Eventually, the creature comes upon a homestead much like the countless others in which he has taken refuge, standing further out from the town squares of many names, beyond the distant city he has heard spoken of as Bath. England, they call their land. Somerset. Somersetshire. The West Country. So many titles for a single corner of the world, and yet to his wandering eye, it appears scarcely distinguishable from any place laid low beneath winter’s first mantle of snow.
It is here, standing amidst the ravaged, snow-burnt corpses of barn-hard animals, that he senses some manner of destination has at last been reached, as though the very air quivers with sweet tavern song. It has been long since he rested, and longer still since he paused to observe humanity in isolation. Yet no smoke curls from the chimney. The dead things are as unyielding as stone beneath his boot, and before him, slumped against a cobbled wall, lies the carcass of a great bear...
An ill wind stirs about the farmstead. Silence reigns.
Thick, matted fur shifts with the breeze as he draws closer. Some affliction carried this beast to its end; he sees it in the frozen strands of red saliva, in the raw, abraded skin about the mouth as though rubbed away by ceaseless spittle and spume. The eyes… fierce still, though robbed of all life. A rabid creature, cursed to perish with rage in its heart.
The creature lays a hand upon unbroken patches of fur, noting the several bullet wounds that mar its shoulder and ribs. Violence is inevitable—natural—the ceaseless rhythm by which life contends with life.
Inside the farmhouse, there is little warmth. Loneliness strips away what small intrigue had drawn him in. The air feels hollow here; the home, equally so. Yet then... a sound. A soft spit, a faint crackle. He turns toward the hearth, where pulsing grey embers of an old fire, rekindling wary imaginings he had sought to quell with the simple comfort of being unseen, unbothered, untouched by strangers.
A field mouse snuffles forth from a folded pile of hearth-mats; other small eyes glimmer between the grooves of a dwindled stack of logs. They watch him, and he inclines his head in dignified acknowledgement.
“Would that I could... wander as soundlessly as yourselves…” he murmurs, his voice roughened by cold and disuse.
The mice creep cautiously nearer, curious about something so immense that does not seek to harm them, he supposes. He lowers himself, allowing the fine whiskers of one to brush the tip of his finger.
Does he not smell like a man? If not, then what do these gentle creatures perceive in him? Do they sense a fractured kinship, some half-recognized likeness of flesh? Or do they behold something unnatural, yet harmless—an oddity in their quiet dominion, accepted so long as he leaves the ghosts of malice at the threshold?
“Do not be afraid,” he says to the rest of them, letting each small creature approach to sniff at him, their tiny noses trembling with quick, nervous motions. A little bite does not trouble him; such pains are trifles, a small price to pay for companionship, however fleeting. They deem him harmless, several darting back toward the log pile by the hearth, where the last lingering threads of warmth gather.
But the other—the bold one who first greeted him—scuttles between his feet, issuing a faint, trilling song. He follows it with his yellowed gaze as it pauses near an inner door left slightly ajar, whiskers flicking as though urging him onward.
The mouse slips inside and vanishes.
Curiosity, that old half-feared lull, draws him slowly to his full height. He steps toward the door and lays a broad hand upon it, pressing it open with care. Here, he finds the home occupied...
... by a woman.
She kneels beside the bed of a dying man, her fingers of pale agony clutching at flannel, linen, and foul-smelling bandages that hang in tatters from a face wheezing its last breaths. Infection has claimed him; foam gathers at the corner of his mouth, and the stench that rises from him is putrid even in the winter air. He had been attacked by the bear now dead outside in the snow, and whatever sickness felled that beast now steals this man’s soul. The marks are clear as day despite the wrappings smothering half his visage. His bare chest—black-blooded and heaving in shallow tremors—lies exposed. Bite marks swelling in pus-filled dimples across his flesh.
There is hot tea cooling upon the nightstand…
He steps nearer without thought, his presence betrayed by the wooden squeal of a loose floorboard. When his eyes drift from the offending plank, he finds the woman watching him—seeing him—yet she does not scream. He stands in stillness, waiting for her delayed terror to make manifest, yet her lower lip merely quivers; she turns her face once more toward the man whose breath froths with bloody foam. A loamy shore at the onset of a storm. Though this, he knows, will be the man's last breaking waves.
“He’s come for you, Thomas,” the woman whispers, unkindly. She sounds nothing like the weeping widows he has observed over the years—her tone bitter as the winter air pressing upon the walls.
The man whistles through the last effervescence of breath, his eyes rolled back, unseeing and unhearing.
"Do you not hear me?! You… you great… lousy sod.” Anger shapes her voice, yet her grief draws the creature nearer, for death alludes him still and so allures him with perilous fascination.
“Death has come to carry you off… and—” Her words fracture. Muffled sniffling breaking through the rise and fall of the storm outside, “—and good riddance to you! Do you hear me now? Riddance to you!”
The creature stands in the half-light and watches her lose someone she hated, or loved, or most surely someone upon whom her life had once depended. She all but shakes the man’s final breath from his lungs, spitting curses as his soul flees his body—cursing his pride, that boastful rot that had seeped through their home, through her body, and brought him at last to this pitiful fate.
“I shall die without you, you know. And you dare lie here, mocking me with the absurdity of it…”
The creature steps forward. The weight of his tread carries across the small room; she turns to find him standing there. In her delirium of grief and rage, she seems to take him for Death himself.
“Go on, then… carry my Thomas over the shadowed waters. Take him from my sight.”
“Not Death,” he answers, plain and simple. “Only... a traveler.”
A spark of fear flares in her eyes, blanching her already pale skin to something near ivory. Yet just as swiftly it drains away, replaced by a flush of reddened spite. She rises to her feet—tiny, slight, but alight with a fire that startles him. Her small frame is all trembling fury and softened contours melted into form; it gives him pause, her body stirring something unfamiliar within him.
“Prove it, then,” she demands.
So he offers to help bury what he quickly understands is her late husband. With his strength, she is able to put the man she loathed to rest at last. The winter ground is frozen hard, iron-stiff beneath its crust of snow. Had he not come upon this isolated dwelling in this corner of England, the risk of such a sickness spreading would have risen—an invisible plague upon the land.
His fists break through the ground where the shovel fails, carving out hunks of frozen earth with unsettling ease; each thrust of his hands rends the soil as though he were cutting through wet clay. She stands a little apart, arms wrapped tight around herself, bundled in furs and blankets, watching him toil. Tears gather in her eyes despite her rigid effort to keep them at bay, and when they spill, she wipes them away with a sharp, almost angry gesture—as though denying the dead her grief.
When he glances toward her, there is gratitude in her face, yet a wary uncertainty runs through it. She is a woman torn between fear and helplessness, unsure whether to trust the monstrous strength that now serves her.
At last, when the grave is carved deep—deep enough that nothing shall claw through it when spring returns—he bends and lifts the deceased man as though he were no heavier than kindling. The body, wrapped in the bed sheets upon which he died, hangs as a pale, limp bundle in his arms. He turns to her then, seeking permission.
She gives a small, tight nod, and he lets the body fall into the waiting darkness. At once, he turns back to the earth, shoving mounds of ice-packed soil upon the corpse.
“Never did love him,” she murmurs, her voice thickened by misery. “A respectable man he was—I grant him that. Never raised a hand to me… least not one I did not deserve…”
He works faster at that, displeased by the words she speaks, though a quiet ache rises in him all the same—a longing merely to be spoken to, to be acknowledged, to stand in the presence of another who knows he is there… who knows he is listening. Her words and their meaning gnaw at him as the burial pit fills.
“But,” she breathes, a cloying exhalation steeped in disgust, "he took pleasure in my flesh where I found only revulsion... and often enough that keeping me housed, fed, warm... it counted for naught. Less than nothing."
While he stamps the grave flat beneath his heavy soles, the woman regards him strangely. "What say you to that, Death?”
"I say..." he pauses, glaring down at the blackened whiteness of earth and frost beneath him, "... good riddance."
She nods and spits upon the grave when he is done, declaring to the snowy landscape, “I shall fare these last hours happy he is gone, then,” before rushing back inside.
The creature remains where he stands, fixed amidst the oddity of her grief. He gazes down at the swarthy patch of disturbed soil. For a fleeting moment, he considers spitting upon it as well, but thinks better of it; this sorrow is not his to offer, nor his anger to add upon the rotten man. It belongs to her alone.
Instead, he grants her time—space to feel and perhaps, forgive—as he turns to the frozen beasts fused to the hardened earth. Perhaps some meat could be salvaged, yet each carcass proves burned by frost, stiffened through and through. Uselessly wasted...
When he steps back into the house, the woman is crouched before the hearth, stoking the fire. Her furs and blankets lie pooled about her kneeling form, drawing his eye once more. He has seen men and women alike in every manner of undress through his years of wandering. Her shift is unlike the filmy, costly silks he has glimpsed elsewhere, but stained by sweat and chill, clinging to her form... raw, decadent, comely. It catches the creature unawares.
A doughy hip is given great detail, where the linen gathers at her waist. Her spine bows, shoulders trembling lightly, drawing his gaze down the line of vertebrae towards her bottom. It is plump beneath thin cloth, stirring strange curiosity in him. What might it feel like in his hands, he wonders.
“I fear the morning when I wake," she says to him, though her gaze remains fixed upon the flames, "and he is yet alive, poised upon that precipice between life and death... still wandering the shadowed waters of the deep nothing while it is only I left to entomb him in the ice."
The creature steps closer, drawn by her poetic rendering of agony, by the fire’s welcome heat, by the curves softened beneath her shift, and by some strange friction in the air that snaps at the tip of his nose like lightning roused from a brewing storm.
“Tell me…” She turns to peer at him over her shoulder, her face lit in amber and gloom, still remarkably untroubled by the sight of him. “What art thou, if not Death’s messenger? A vision? Certainly no mere man… no, you are too unnatural.”
Unnatural? A gentler word than most would give the monstrous visage he bears.
“I am but flesh… and blood,” he says softly, as though the words themselves might be what finally startles her into screaming. But she does not scream. The only sound is the wind pressing against the shutters—cold prowling at the edges of the house, threatening to swallow her small, defiant fire.
She turns her face back toward the hearth and gives a thin, weary nod. “So you say, and very well. I have no strength left to argue the point. I merely wished to convey my thanks for the help you have given me.”
"You are... welcome." He does not think he has been given the opportunity to say those words aloud before now.
“…Leave me now,” she murmurs. “I mean to die, and you may return for whatever you wish once I am gone. But I would pass from this world much as I entered it: alone.”
A log shifts; sparks leap and fall like fireflies.
“There is ale in the stores below,” she adds, her voice growing faint. “I have no taste for it, nor ever did. You may drink it when I am dead, if it pleases you.”
“Why?” He asks, stepping nearer, not enough to threaten, only enough that she may hear him above the wind’s long lament, as though the storm itself has begun mourning her passing before such a fate has come to be.
She answers him only with silence, so he continues, “You breathe… you speak, think, feel… Why then should you wish to die?” The only other human he has known who showed no fear of death was Elizabeth—the woman he laid upon the rock in the cave, her lifeblood spilling from her stomach.
“To be true, I have been melancholic all my life,” she replies at last. “Prayed it would lift when Thomas died, yet it weighs ever heavier now. Even as a child, I was a morbid little thing… and I shall not survive this winter alone. So I will die tonight and spare you the trouble of waiting.”
He crouches slightly, lowering himself to her level, and she turns her gaze upon him with startling readiness. She does not shy from his face, his great, unnatural mass—almost hungry with eagerness to see his odious glower. Though he keeps a respectful distance, the nearness is strange to him, but he yearns to be closer still. Always closer.
“Should you die,” he murmurs, “I shall bury you. But…” He bows his head, tangled tresses spilling from his cowl, shadowing his features. “I am not Death.”
Wherever he has never been welcome, he has longed to be… and she does not discourage him in the least when he dares to extend his cadaverous hand toward her. His fingers are too long, too cold, too discoloured to be mistaken for any common man’s, yet neither is he the specter she first believed him to be. Perhaps that is why he offers himself so readily? Because he hopes, against reason, to be seen as something other than charnel horror.
Spit clicks in her throat as she swallows, but—against his wildest imaginings—her hand reaches forth and settles within the cradle of his palm. Warm. Small. Soft. Feminine and delicate, despite the scrapes and bloodied nails, the calluses, the time-worn silvering dashes of her skin.
“I am strong,” he tells her, truthfully. “I have helped a family… once. Eased their burdens. I could… do the same… for you.”
“And what if I want to die?” She whispers, as though confessing a blasphemy meant for no ears but his.
She turns his offensively immense hand over and cups it between both of hers—two layers of living heat pressing into his deadened flesh. His lips part. Blood stirs through him in long, strong pulses, awakening something for which he has no innocent name. The creature closes his eyes, fleeing from the sensation before it overwhelms him. He dreams instead of springtime and sunrises, of sheep baying across the Scottish highlands, of anything other than the deep blood-ache gathering betwixt his legs. And yet Victor’s words come to him, as they often do in moments of peril, unwelcome and inexorable. He speaks them aloud…
"While you are alive, what recourse... do you have... but to live?"
She turns his hand over in hers once more and answers with plain, unornamented truth. “Living is arduous, my friend.”
Friend. The word strikes him like fire, consuming him as the hearth snaps and spits behind her. But she withdraws her touch, bidding him gently away with a weak wave of her hand. The storm outside howls, driving the snow sideways across the windows; yet the heat of her lingers within him, warm as embers against his cold-made flesh..
“Go on, now,” she urges softly. “The day has been long, and I am… weary…”
The creature glances from her slumped figure to the crooked-mouthed hatch that leads to the root cellar, where the air hangs dry and the stone walls promise shelter from the damp chill—shelter that might protect the strange warmth she has suffused within his flesh.
“If you would permit it… I would sleep down there,” he says, voice low, "I promise... I shall not bother you till morning." He gestures with a long, angled hand, though she does not turn to look at him; her gaze remains fixed upon the dying coals.
“Do as you will,” she murmurs.
The creature descends the short stair with care, knowing—somehow—that she will yet be there when he wakes… alive and well, or well enough to draw breath awhile longer. The cellar presses close about the breadth of him, but it is warmer, cozier than the house above. Surely, if she neglects to tend the fire, she will die before dawn, but she will not perish while he is welcome beneath her roof. Not while he remains..
Yet as he settles himself among his furs, he finds his thoughts wandering the long roads behind him: the years of travel; the places glimpsed only from afar; the food stolen from fearful hands; the fleeting acquaintances he made while cloaked in shadow; the moments when he, too, had died and been reborn. And he wonders—truly wonders—whether it would not be a mercy to allow her Death’s sweetest kiss.
He sleeps with envy knotted in his heart, despite Victor’s encouragements; her words turn over and over in his mind like a stone bounced by a riverbed.
'Living is arduous... my friend.'
Come morning, when he ascends the wooden steps, the woman lies curled beside a roaring fire, sleeping soundly. He pauses to watch her, noting the redness rimming her eyes, the fire poker resting beside her slack, sleep-reached hand, and the soft lift and fall of her form, now concealed beneath her dried and rumpled shift.
He drapes a knit blanket over her sleeping form before venturing out into the surrounding woods, for there had been little stored in her cellar—not enough to sustain her through winter, that much the creature knows. He is glad she rekindled the fire and chose life, and hopes only to help feed that choice with something richer than the potted meat, spoiled, judging by the sourness he smelled the night before
After several hours, he returns bearing three wizened crab apples, a small clutch of hazelnuts found beneath frozen leaf-litter, and his pockets filled with rosehips. When he approaches the homestead, he finds the woman not within, but standing outside, swathed in furs and blankets, gazing down at the small mound where her late husband rests. The upturned earth is already dusted with a thin fall of new snow. Her breath catches in the flurry when she notices him at a short distance—her cheeks red as the rosehips hidden in his pockets.
She looks at him, then back to the grave.
He comes to stand beside her, wondering if her welcoming of death is the reason she does not fear him—if indifference to life had made Elizabeth unafraid as well.
She swipes at a stray tear, and something unpleasant stirs within the creature’s beating heart.
“You mourn a man who… forced himself upon you?”
She clutches her heavy, fur-lined garments closer about her shoulders. “Not much else a man does to a wife,” she says. “Gentlewoman to charwoman… all women, in truth. Each used as though made for naught else but bearing—and when babes do not come, we are thought good for naught but fucking.”
The look she bestows upon him then, amidst the snowflurries that melt the moment they touch her cheeks, reopens that terrible, bewilderingly wonderful wound within him. “Tell me, do you truly hold yourself so different?”
“I do…” The words come easily to his lips, unlike so many sounds and intonations that require such effort.
“When you grow lonely,” she presses, her voice sharpened by accusation, “as men are wont to do, will you not simply… take?”
The creature thinks of Victor and Elizabeth and grimaces. No, he thinks. Not like them. He recalls, instead, the ecstatic couples in barn lofts, of passions taken when they believed themselves unobserved—the way women moaned, seemingly pleased by their lovers’ touch. Yet he has also witnessed the other kind of taking: the horror of men and what they can do to each other, to their women...
There was the time he pried a man off a corset-torn lady, saving her only to be met with her terror, for she feared the creature more than her attacker, fled shrieking to warn her village… driving him south, then west… then here…
The creature looks upon this mournful, understandably suspicious woman—dressed in her heavy, form-blotting winter garments—and cannot imagine allowing lust to move him toward curdling what ought to be love and passion. To twist something so precious into something so obscene. Words falter, so he reaches into his pockets instead and offers her a small handful of rosehips, then another brimming with hazelnuts. She stares at them, her lashes stiffening with frost as tears well, tiny crystals forming within their trembling beads.
“Is it my body you would have in payment for your nuts and berries?”
“No—never.”
“Liar,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “Men never ask not of a woman.”
He desires nothing of that sort, not least the kind she fears—only a safe corner in which to weather the winter, only the chance to see her live as long as any soul ought. So he tells her the truth, crude in its honesty perhaps: “I am no man. Let me sleep in your cellar… and I will toil in your husband’s stead… but I shall not lay his burdens upon you.”
Her eyes soften at that, uncertainty melting into something gentler.
“Perhaps… you are not Death come for me,” she murmurs, “but you are no angel, neither. Then again, Lucifer was an angel, he was. Wasn’t he? Fallen, but beautiful too—just as you.”
More ache rises within him. The notion is rotten, unkind. She calls men liars, yet here she stands, flinging 'beautiful' at him with such careless ease that he is left speechless, undone by a word he had never once believed could be meant for him.
She laughs not kindly, but softly, bitterly. “Aye, I s’pose you might stay then… as though I’ve any choice in the matter. I could not fend off a man a third your size, let alone someone such as you.”
She beckons him after her, inside her home, where the fire has dwindled to dull embers. He watches as she coaxes it back to life, stirring and feeding it while he empties his pockets upon the wooden table near her cast-iron implements.
When he shuffles closer, she is reaching for another log to lay upon the coals. Instantly, he thinks of the mice—his first friends—and begs her, gently, to stay her hand. She peers up at him, curious, though a touch impatient. She demands to know his mind, and he explains: the mice, their little home in the log pile, and how he might fetch more firewood from outside instead of disturbing the small creatures who had greeted him kindly.
“…giants making friends of vermin?” She scoffs, though her hands settle at last in her lap. “He doth not mate with mortal women but guards your stolen home, is it so?”
It takes the creature a moment to understand she addresses the mice and not him. When the truth dawns, something warm roots itself deep within his cold-curdled chest. Affection grows deep within him, startling and immense. Whatever allows him to feel pain also allows him pleasure, and need, and—
“Where did your…” He halts, swallowing as he weighs what to call the man he buried for her. At length, he chooses nothing at all. “…Where do you keep your axe? I shall… see to the wood.”
She gestures toward the wall beside two old chairs where a chipped axe hangs, the faintest lilt curving her mouth as though she cannot quite help it.
Outside, as the creature splits wood, his mind drifts to the woman within. He allows himself—against prudence, against the old torment of Victor’s warnings—to wonder what it might be like to procreate with her. He envisions them as he has seen delighted couples across his wanderings: faces held tenderly between palms, lips fastened in fervour, the soft, then erratic joining of flesh. Bodies fitting together by natural design… or by nothing but passion, as he once witnessed two men do in secret through a darkened window in the dead of night.
Memory stirs in his own flesh, in that lonesome organ between his thighs which rises whenever he thinks upon such encounters. He has no experience, save for the feel of his own hand and the swift, fleeting pleasure that stroking it lathered in spittle brings him.
There was a woman in a barn he saw last summer, riding a farmhand on a hay pile. The sounds she made were louder than the horses’ braying. When he feared she had been struck by some terrible pain, her smile parted wide and her naked form shuddered—seized by some strange affliction within the body. A peak, a precipice before the fall. It's akin to the spasms that claim him when he curls in upon himself and messes his palm… relieved of lust but alone in its efforts.
He wonders, as he works, what his own face might resemble were it twisted in such bliss.
The axe rises and falls. Chips scatter.
Tomorrow, he thinks, he will fell more trees for her log pile, which stands as barren as her meagre stores. Perhaps he might borrow a milking goat from some village he passed before reaching this place. Then he would need to raise a small barn. Could even fashion a pen in preparation for spring… so many tasks he might do, if he is permitted to remain.
But for now, he hauls several days’ worth of firewood beneath both arms and steps back inside.
The woman is preparing rosehips at the table, dropping each one into a deep pot filled with melting snow. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches him stack the firewood opposite the mice’s small dwelling. She uncorks a bottle of amber liquid and pours it over the hips and the snow, then cuts several chunks of hardened honey and casts them into the pot as well. A fragrant sweetness begins to rise as she joins him at the hearth, fitting the pothook into place and guiding the pot toward the licking heat.
He rests one elbow upon his raised knee, observing the snow melt and the mixture slowly begin to bubble. Yet it is she who scents the air more pleasantly to him—a warm, human pungency beneath the ale and sugared hips. He feels her eyes upon him, though he dares not look, lest he startle her.
“It is a foolish woman who trusts a strange man in her hour of peril… yet ever have I been foolish,” she murmurs.
“Does this fool… does she have a name?” he asks, at last permitting himself a brief glance at her framed by the firelight. The soft contours of her face stand in delicate contrast to the small crease between her brows. Contemplation, perhaps. Rounded cheeks carry a faint dusting of colour, like sun on a wintry morning. She is youthful still, yet hardened by the weariness of life.
“Annabel,” she exhales.
“Ann… ah’bel,” the creature repeats, and the shape of the word is a balm for his parched throat.
She nods, then startles him by placing a hand upon the heavy fur of his cowl, so near the place where his strange heart pulses blood through his patchwork frame. "And yours, my friend?"
Victor, he thinks, yet the thought is wrong, for he has no name. His creator never bestowed one.
Did Elizabeth call him something once? She was, in virtue and in colour, much the same as Annabel, though her station afforded her the luxury of unblemished skin and a certain spirited moxie. He remembers reverence when he recalls the woman Victor coveted: how she saw in him something greater than he believed he could be—pure and perfect, though unnamed.
Now he feels Annabel’s gaze upon him, waiting, steady, unafraid. And within that gaze, he feels the weight of all the death he has wrought—dozens of lives, nearly half, and a hundred bodies by now. Not nearly so pure as Elizabeth once imagined. Did she refuse him a name because she found him too immaculate for such mortal trappings? Or because she knew, deep within her tender heart, what he was capable of becoming?
His fingers twitch, yearning to reach for Annabel’s hand again. To be as bold with his touches as Elizabeth had been with hers? Never. Instead, he tightens his grip upon the piece of wood in his palm until it splinters. The sharp crack rises with the popping of the fire, but the woman before him does not flinch. She simply gazes at his fist, her eyes catching and holding the firelight like embers cupped in the dark.
Then Annabel turns, meeting his yellowed, putrid gaze, and wonders aloud with a curious lightness, “Never mind whatever memories your name conjures… You are wound so taut I daresay you could snap the Gurt Dog’s neck as quick as a hare’s bone.”
“What is this... thing you speak of?” he stammers, half-trembling beneath the sharpness of feeling.
She smiles briefly. It is the first time he has seen such a thing on her face—a flower breaking through the permafrost. With a gentle tug, she removes the broken log from his grip, its surface marked with the deep imprint of his fingers, and nestles it among the other coal-cracked logs in the fire.
“In time, I shall tell you,” she whispers to the flames as they take the new wood. “Winter is long, and dull besides. When the days grow slow and we find ourselves starved for talk, I’ll sing you fables of old. You may tell me your name then.”
The creature realizes there is little in the world he would enjoy more.
You can keep updated on this three-part fic on AO3 HERE. And if ya like, feel free to leave a comment or a kudos. They do warm my own cold heart. <3
Summary: The apocalypse has left you lonely and and keeping a baby to yourself, until you stumble across a camp and a grumpy guy that seemed to like no one, has seemed to only want to be open with me
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader
Includes: secret pregnancy, fluff, grump x sunshine
Part.6
•Masterlist•
I knew the moment the sun rose that Daryl would be on a war path and Zack was in a heap load of hell, I sat up in bed as the sun cast a warm glow along the room, looking next to me to Daryl who’s already awake and I could see a million thoughts racing in his mind
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask as his arm wraps around my hips
“Kinda” he grunts
“What’re you thinking about Dixon?”
“All the ways I’m gonna make him pay” I traced patterns along his arm to calm him even though his protectiveness warmed me and I couldn’t say it didn’t kinda turn me on too
“What’re you gonna do to him?”
“Make him pay, see he can’t touch the two girls I care about” his girls…..even though we didn’t know the gender there was just this feeling and him saying were his girls was unlike any other feeling
“I’m all onboard with it, that asshole left me tied up and slapped me around like I meant nothing” his fingers traced over the bruise along my eye and I could see the fire
He got out of bed and pulled on his plaid and pants, I’m quick to follow as he storms out of the house, our eyes land on Zack, who’s talking to Hershel, at the same time
Daryl’s set his sights and I follow as he walks with anger and the look on Zack’s face when Daryl grabs him by the collar is to die for, he looked horrified like a little boy
“Yer one sick son of a bitch, hitting and tiring up a pregnant woman, ya think ya got balls, let’s see how much of a man ya are when I throw ya to the walkers” Hershel didn’t do much and neither did anyone else as Daryl dragged Zack who was kicking and screaming like a child to the end of the property
“Hershel you can’t let him do this to me!” Zack yelled out as Daryl threw him to the ground as I stood behind him both looking down at the scum Zack really is
“Ya better run far cause if I ever see ya again imma put an arrow between yer eyes” he scrambled like a worm making it a few feet before turning to look back at me
“This isn’t over bitch” Daryl took one step and Zack was running off again and all of a sudden all the weight was alleviated from me
“Daryl you…..you have no idea how much that meant to me” he didn’t say anything other than a grunt and we walked back to the house where everyone was gathered around trying to pretend to be making breakfast
“Sooooo it’s true? He kidnapped you and locked you up…..hurting you?” Glenn asked like a worried little brother
“Yeah….hes crazy but hopefully he’s gone for good now, thanks to Daryl” we both sat on lawn chairs as the camp continued to move around us, bkth of us still tired and weak from everything
“You did good Daryl, thanks for protecting my girl” Glenn smiled poking my knee jokingly
“Yer girl huh?” Daryl’s eyes mischevious as he looked between me and Glenn knowing how when he’d call me his girl it clearly affected me in ways I could never explain
•
It’s been a week since that and it’s been bliss, always had fresh water and food, the group was getting along, well except for Shane and Rick
Daryl and Glenn were still protective and caring for me and in a world like this now, I couldn’t ask for more
Today the guys were gonna deal with this Randel guy and I didn’t want anything to do with it, I was on Daryl’s side to get rid of him, especially after what he told me happened to the woman that Randal’s group came across
The longer Daryl was out there looking the more worried I got, he told me if I ever felt like something was wrong that I pack up my essentials and be ready to run
Now being 6 months pregnant the stress was something I couldn’t afford, I tried to breath as I shoved our things in the backpack and our canned food we had left
As I left the tent I heard the familiar groaning of walkers, I turn looking out to the barn where a hoard of walkers are coming straight for us, I run back into the house where everyone is frantic and at the point to where I almost broke down Daryl comes through the door with Glenn
When his eyes land on me he comes to me in a few strides, cupping my face as my lip wobbles in panic
“I’m so scared Daryl”
“I know sunshine, I’ll get ya both outta here” I nod, the group makes a plan to split up and if anything goes wrong meet at the highway
Daryl told me to stay with Hershel and he’d come back to get me once he could, as a few of them went to try to take down the walkers but it was clear they’d quickly over take the farm
“Hershel come on! We have to go!” I yell but he doesn’t budge, I couldn’t wait around and risk me and the baby so I take a deep breath and run, as best I can I run down the dirt road, most of the group already gone
The walkers itching to grab me as I weave and dodge between them
I tried to keep the tears at bay as I keep pushing and fighting for my life, the dirt road led into a path of thick dark woods with only the dim light of the moon partially guiding me
•
Daryl’s pov
I promised her I’d come back, told her to wait and now the farm was empty and she wasn’t anywhere in sight, I hoped with everything that she got out with someone, that she was at the highway waiting for me
The walkers were coming and I couldn’t stay so I drove alone on my bike and all I can think about is where my sunshine is and if she’s okay
Summary: Steve wants your brother to sweeten the deal.
Pairing: Soft Dark Mafia!Steve Rogers x fem!Reader
Warnings: angst, scared/shy reader, physical abuse/violence against the reader (not Steve), mafia au, violence, kind of human trafficking?, mentions of cheating, fluff, innocent reader, more to be added
Happy September, lovelies! ❤️ Welcome to my Sexy September Scribbles Masterlist, and thanks to @societyfolklore and @soelstress for creating this event. I plan to share various ficlets featuring some of our favorite fictional men throughout the month here and on my sideblog, @navybrat817-sideblog. Please heed the warnings, and enjoy the nonsense! ❤️
Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics.
❤️ - 9/1 - “Slower.”
Inspirational - Bucky Barnes x Reader
Breed - Steve Rogers x Reader
Undress - Clark Kent x Reader
❤️ - 9/2 - “Don’t hide your face.”
Beautiful - Bucky Barnes x Reader
❤️ - 9/3 - “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.”
Partnership - Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Reader
❤️ - 9/4 - “Let me kiss it better.”
Kisses - Boxer!Bucky Barnes x Reader
❤️ - 9/5 - “Breathe for me, baby.”
Breath - Lee Bodecker x Reader
❤️ - 9/6 - “Can you be good for me?”
Healer - Warlord!Bucky Barnes x Reader
❤️ - 9/7 - “Don’t you dare come until I say so.”
Relief - Mob!Ari Levinson x Reader
Love and thanks for reading! ❤️ And if a particular new story strikes your fancy, come (s)cream and me in my inbox as I'd love to expand on some. 🥰
summary : welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!
warnings: minors do not interact. be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption.
all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.
*also known as bouncy white ass
❝ p*rnstar ❞ by @superbassbuck — 08.30.25
⇢ cam!bucky x reader
you’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. you’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen.
luckily for bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
❝ ... ❞ — 08.31.25
⇢ virgin!bucky x reader by @blowingbarnes
you decided to raid your mom’s wine cabinet and your feet took you to the fire escape right outside of bucky’s room. when everyone is home.
❝ intoxicated ❞ by @its-in-the-woods — 09.01.25
⇢ stalker!bucky x reader
old habits are hard to break. when bucky finds himself in a new place, looking to start over, he reaches for an old comfort. he thinks he won't cross that line again, won't become infatuated with you. but what happens when you want him too?
❝ white coat syndrome ❞ by @firingstars — 09.02.25
⇢ doctor!bucky x patient!reader
a phenomenon exists where a person’s blood pressure will rise when measured in a clinical setting, but is recorded as normal when measured at home or elsewhere. you’ve never been the type to feel anxious in medical establishments, but with your pcp retiring and transferring your care to her trusted colleague, you end up visiting your new doctor’s office more times in the last three months than you’ve ever had in the past year.
❝ hot to go ❞ by @opheliabbarnes — 09.03.25
⇢ firefighter!bucky x reader
❝ the merger ❞ by @chateaubarnes — 09.04.25
⇢ ceo bucky!bucky x reader
thunderbolt records is the number one music label in the country, and bucky barnes is its founder. you, his loyal assistant, have worked under him for years, doing your best to hide your growing feelings for him, which is made harder due to the fact that he spoils you with lavish gifts constantly for a job well done. you try to brush it off as nothing more than a generous boss showing appreciation for his staff, but when the presents keep piling up on your desk, you finally decide to confront him. what you expect to be a simple, professional conversation takes an unexpected turn when he looks you in the eye and says: “you’re my girl. i don’t need excuses to spoil my girl.”
❝ five-oh! ❞ by @barnesonly — 09.05.25
⇢ cop!bucky x reader
small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.
❝ smoke screens and sweet saccharine things ❞ by @flockoff-featherface — 09.06.25
⇢ mob!bucky x reader
bucky barnes, known mob boss, has been hiding a secret, just a little too long for even his own liking.
❝ sugar tits ❞ by @54nboo — 09.07.25
⇢ chef!bucky x waitress!reader
chef james barnes doesn’t like when the waitress parades around the restaurant for tips, and he really doesn’t like it when she lets the men think they have a chance with her.
❝ interrogation tactics ❞ by @heldbybarnes — 09.08.25
⇢ mean!bucky x reader
bucky doesn’t want mission intel—he wants your secrets. tied up and trembling, you confess every filthy thought as he edges you mercilessly, smirking, “guess you don’t want it that bad.” one orgasm is all he gives you—and you thank him for it.
❝ touchdown ❞ by @earthsmightiestbenders — 09.09.25
⇢ football!bucky x reader
The Liberty Knights—Brooklyn Western Academy's all-star football team—are on a winning streak. Not that you care. Except that you're forced to be at every. single. game. It doesn't help that your lab partner—Bucky Barnes—is the number one linebacker in the state. And that you have to play the school song after every touchdown he makes. And maybe you can't help but stare at his ass when he's bent over…
❝ wild about you ❞ by @wildflowersandvibranium — 09.10.25
⇢ zookeeper!bucky x reader
what’s wilder than a zoo, filled with twenty 2nd graders? the unexpected sparks that arise between their teacher and the charming zookeeper.
❝ operator, put your clothes back on ❞ by @rosesaints — 09.11.25
⇢ phone sex operator!bucky x reader
thank you for calling the stark naked hotline, where discretion is guaranteed and satisfaction is expected. our operators are trained to meet your every need—conversational or otherwise—and our private line is always open, especially after dark.
this isn’t your typical customer service experience. but then again, bucky barnes isn’t your typical employee.
alternatively: press 3 if you’re already wet.
❝ cherry on top ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — 09.12.25
⇢ enemies with benefits!bucky x reader
you and bucky barnes have always been… complicated, to say the least.
but it’s really not complicated at all: you hate his guts with a passion, and he hates yours.
maybe that’s why you started sleeping together—to take out your hatred on one another in the most efficient way plausible.
it’s just the cherry on top that he’s hopelessly in love with you.
❝ the vocal economy ❞ by @houseofhyde — 09.14.25
⇢ rockstar!bucky x popstar!reader
after a chance encounter at paris fashion week, you find yourself entangled in a web of sex, lies, and watchful eyes alongside the drummer beloved rock band the howling commandos. a problematic boyfriend is a rite of passage for every pop-girlie… but bucky barnes is not your boyfriend, he’s your drug. no matter how hard you try, can you truly quit him?
I Will Kill For Jake And Miles😈🔫 @witchywannabe3263 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
