chinggay85-blog

[chinggay85-blog]

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 1)

Summary: Though your life was not perfect, it was familiar. There was routine. A system in place. You practically grew up there all your life. So, when two super soldiers take you away from it all, how do they expect a lab experiment to react?

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Not forced age regression yet, but heavily implied. Kidnapping . References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Reader cries/panics. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely.

Word Count: 1400+

A/N: As I say, if I can’t find a fic like it, I’ll just write it. Maybe you’ll like it too. Please read the warnings though. You are responsible for the media you consume. Also, let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Next

You wake with a jolt.

The air feels too still. Too clean. There’s something wrong. Your body’s stiff, your wrists ache, though they’re no longer bound. The sheets smell like detergent and lavender, not the cold metal and chemicals you were used to. You’re not in the lab. But this doesn’t seem like freedom.

You don’t move at first. You listen.

There are voices. Male. Muffled.

“She’s still sleeping?” One asks, firm yet laced with a hint of concern. It unsettles something deep in your gut.

“She’s just tired,” Says another. This voice is lower, rougher, but not unkind. “She’s been through a lot.”

You bolt upright.

The room is soft, painfully soft. Pastel walls, gentle lighting, plush toys sitting on shelves like they belong to someone half your age. There’s a rocking chair in the corner. The window is shut. There are no locks on the door, but that doesn’t mean you’re free.

You scramble back against the headboard, heart slamming in your chest.

Footsteps approach.

The door opens slowly, and you see them.

Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes.

You know them. Not personally, you would have never imagined ever encountering them, not like this, but you know. They’re supposed to be heroes. But the way they’re looking at you now, like they already own you. It sends panic twisting in your stomach.

“Hey, hey,” Steve says quickly, raising his hands like you’re a frightened animal. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

“No,” You breathe, barely audible. Your form is shaking now. “No, I don’t—this isn’t—where am I?”

Bucky takes a step closer, voice calm. Almost too calm. Like he has rehearsed this. "You’re home now. This is your room. We brought you here because the people who had you before? They didn’t take care of you. But we will.”

You stare at him. Then at Steve. “You kidnapped me.”

Steve frowns, as if the word offends him. “We rescued you.”

Your hands clutch the edge of the blanket like it’s the only thing grounding you. “I don’t know you. I want to leave.” Your words came out in a hurried manner as your eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for something. A way out? An exit? Anything will do at this point.

“You don’t need to leave,” Bucky says, slowly kneeling beside the bed like you’re a scared child. “You’re safe now. We’re gonna take care of you. Feed you. Keep you warm. No more experiments. No more pain.”

You shake your head, the pressure building behind your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“But we have decided,” Steve replies, still gentle. “You’re our little girl now. You just don’t remember what that feels like yet. But you will.”

“I’m not yours!” You shout, whether it be the conditioning or the fear breaking through. Your voice is sharp, almost shrill. “Let me go!”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t flinch. Neither of them do. They probably expected this. They simply look at you with something terrifying in their eyes. Not anger, not cruelty. But love. Warped, dangerous love.

“You’re scared. And that’s okay,” Steve says softly, stepping toward you. “New littles always are at first. But we’ll teach you. You don’t have to be strong anymore. You can let go.”

“I don’t want to let go,” You whisper. You don’t even know what that truly means. If you even know how to.

“But you need to,” Bucky says. “And it’s okay now. That’s why we’re here. To love you when you can’t love yourself. To hold you when it’s too much.”

You try to run.

You throw the blanket off and jump from the bed, but your legs are weak, your body too drained. Steve catches you instantly with ease before your body can hit the ground. He doesn’t hurt you. That almost makes it worse. He just holds you, firm and warm, like you’re something fragile. Like a child.

“Shhh,” He soothes into your hair. “You’re okay. You’re okay, baby girl.”

“No, no, no—” You fight, your voice breaking. “Don’t call me that. I’m not—!”

“You’re tired,” Bucky says firmly, yet still moves closer to stroke your back. “That’s all. Sleep a little. You’ll feel better. It gets easier.” The order comes out easy for him.

You sob once, harsh and sudden.

Because some part of you, the smallest part, wants to believe them. And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.

You can’t stop the tears now.

They come fast, hot, humiliating. Your body shakes as you struggle in Steve’s hold, but he doesn’t let you go. He just sinks to the carpet with you in his lap, sitting back against the edge of the bed as if this is routine. As if this is normal.

“I want to go,” You choke out, the words ragged against the lump in your throat. You know you didn’t have many things before, but at least it wasn’t as confusing and disorientating as this. “I want to go home. Please…”

“This is your home now,” Bucky rises with a sigh. His arms now folded across his chest. His metal fingers twitch, not with aggression, but with restraint, like he’s holding himself back. “You’re not going anywhere. You weren’t safe there nor would you be safe out there. You know that.”

“I don’t know anything!” Your voice comes out sharply, snapping at him as you try to pull away from Steve again. However, he holds you tighter. Not hurting you, never hurting, just keeping. Containing. “You drugged me…Took me—”

Steve’s voice comes quiet against your ear. “You were shaking when we first saw you. Do you remember that? Curled up in the corner of that place? That wasn’t living. That was surviving. Barely.”

He rocks you a little as he speaks, a gentle back and forth that makes your stomach twist.

You didn’t remember. You didn’t know they were even there, watching you. How long were they watching you?

“You didn’t ask,” You whimper softly, trying to find any rebuttal you could.

“We didn’t need to,” Bucky says, crouching now, eye-level. His eyes are hard, but not cold. Just…sure. Certain of himself, of what they’ve done. “You belong here. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”

“I don’t!” You cry out again, your voice cracking. “I’m not your little girl, I’m not—!”

“Sweetheart,” Steve soothes, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Shhh…I know it’s scary. I know your head’s telling you to fight. But you don’t have to anymore. Not here, not with us.”

You shake your head furiously, pressing your forehead into his chest to hide the tears, even though you hate how your body leans into the warmth. You don’t want to. You really don’t. But your resolve is starting to crack.

“I’m not little,” You mumble. “I’m not your baby.” Maybe if you repeat it enough times, it will come true. You know, deep down, it won’t.

“You are now,” Bucky says, simple and final.

You stiffen at his words, but Steve just hugs you closer, resting his chin gently atop your head like you’re something sacred. “He’s a bit blunt,” He murmurs. “But he loves you. We both do. So much already, baby.”

You start to tremble.

Because no one’s said that to you before. Not like this. Not without conditions or expectations or pain behind it.

You want to scream. You want to hit something. You want to run, even if your legs won’t carry you far.

But all you can do is sit there. Curled in the lap of a super soldier, a stranger, in a room that’s already been built for you like this was always going to happen.

Bucky rises again, slow, looming.

“I’ll bring her something to eat,” He says, turning toward the door. “Maybe that’ll help her accept us better when her stomach’s not empty.”

Steve hums in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Buck.”

Bucky pauses at the doorway. He looks back at you, one last time. His eyes narrow, jaw tight. “You’re not a prisoner. But don’t try anything,” He warns. “We’ll be kind. But if you think we’ll let you bolt out into the night and end up back in some lab’s basement? Think again.”

Then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

You stay frozen in Steve’s arms, your breath shaking in your chest. He’s warm. He smells like soap and leather and safety you don’t trust. You feel so small, despite your rage. Despite your fear and confusion.

Steve hums again, that same soothing sound, like a lullaby without words. “You’ll get used to it,” He says gently, brushing a tear from your cheek. “The softness. The quiet. The being wanted.”

You don’t reply.

Because part of you doesn’t believe it. And the rest is afraid that you might start to.

But no matter how pleasant these two strangers try to spin it, you’ve simply moved from one cage to another.

[chinggay85-blog]

Kill The Mirror~ Oneshot

Summery: After finding his wife Y/N and son Sebastian murdered, Bucky uncovers a horrifying truth—the killer is a version of himself. Desperate to save them, he turns to time travel, risking everything to undo the past.

Character: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warning: Emotional distress, Obsessive behavior tied to grief, death

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Morning spilled through the windows like golden syrup, coating the hardwood floors in warm light. Outside, Brooklyn buzzed with life—the soft clang of garbage trucks, the faint bark of dogs being walked, the trill of a saxophone from a street corner below.

Inside Apartment 4C, the world was slower. Still. Safe.

Bucky Barnes stood at the stove, flipping pancakes like he was defusing a bomb. His brow furrowed in intense concentration, the corners of his lips twitching every time he missed the flip by a fraction of a second. He wore only grey sweatpants and a threadbare Stark Expo t-shirt that hung a little loose on his frame—the shirt had once belonged to Y/N, and he wore it often, as if it still smelled like her.

Behind him, Y/N leaned against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug that read World’s Okayest Mom. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, and her eyes sparkled with a sleep-softened kind of joy.

“Bucky,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re burning them again.”

“I’m not,” he said, too quickly. He jabbed at a pancake with the spatula, flipping it with more force than was probably necessary. “They’re just… extra crispy.”

“They look like they survived the Battle of New York,” she teased.

“You’re lucky I’m cute.”

“No, you’re lucky I’m cute,” she replied, setting her mug down. “Because a lesser woman would’ve called the fire department by now.”

He turned his head, smirking. “That’s why you married me. For my culinary prowess.”

“I married you because you cried watching that video of a baby goat wearing pajamas.”

Bucky chuckled, shoulders relaxing. “That goat was emotionally moving.”

“And I thought, ‘This man? This is the man who’s gonna kiss me before every mission, even if it’s just recon in Jersey.’”

He winced. “Okay, I forgot. Like, once.”

“Three times.”

“I was distracted.”

“Don’t make it four, Barnes,” she warned, walking up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, voice low and honest.

They stood like that for a second—just breathing. Just being.

Then—

Thud.

Thud-thud-thud.

Little feet pounded against the hardwood. “Mama! Dada! I found my other sock!”

Sebastian skidded into the kitchen, a five-year-old blur of energy and chaos. His socks didn’t match, his hair looked like he’d slept in a tornado, and he dragged his worn-out stuffed panther by one leg.

“Victory!” Y/N crouched and scooped him up in a hug, peppering kisses across his face as he giggled.

“Dad, can I have a chocolate pancake?” Seb asked, turning to Bucky with pleading eyes.

“One chocolate chip pancake,” Bucky said firmly, pointing the spatula like a gavel. “That’s the rule.”

“Uncle Sam gives me two.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Soft. You’re soft.”

Before Bucky could mount a defense, there was a knock at the door.

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered, heading to answer it.

Sam Wilson stood in the hallway, holding a paper bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other. “I brought bribes,” he announced. “Sugar for the kid, caffeine for the under-slept parents.”

“UNCLE SAM!” Seb launched himself at Sam’s leg like a missile, wrapping his arms around it.

“Hey, soldier,” Sam laughed, ruffling his hair. “I’m gonna miss you too, little man.”

He handed the bag to Y/N—her favorite danish inside, of course—and kissed her cheek. “You good?” he asked gently.

Y/N nodded, smiling faintly. “Seb and I have a whole weekend planned. Pancake lunches. Saturday cartoons. Finger-painting on the walls.”

Bucky groaned. “Please, not the walls again.”

She grinned wickedly. “No promises.”

Sam sipped his coffee. “You sure you trust her alone with him? She’s the reason he tried to glue macaroni to the cat last month.”

“I heard that!” Y/N said, throwing a crumpled napkin at him.

They all laughed. It was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

But as Bucky turned to grab his duffel, the mood shifted—just slightly. Seb tugged on his pant leg.

“Dada? Are the bad guys super bad this time?”

Bucky knelt. “Yeah, but your old man’s tougher.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Always.” He cupped his son’s face. “There’s not a force on this planet that could keep me away.”

Seb hugged him fiercely, then scampered off to show Sam his newest crayon drawing—a lopsided family portrait with too many arms.

Y/N stood in the doorway as Bucky slung the duffel over his shoulder. They just looked at each other for a long moment.

“I hate this part,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “I’ll see you in three days.”

“Come home to me.”

“I swear it.”

He kissed her like he always did—slow, reverent, like it had to last forever.

He turned and walked away, not knowing that in doing so, he was leaving behind the last living memory he’d ever have of them

_____

The apartment door creaked open three days later.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s voice echoed through the silence. “Seb? I’m home!”

No reply.

No running footsteps. No laughter. No half-done drawing taped to the fridge.

Just quiet.

“Baby?” He set his bag down, panic slowly rising in his throat. His footsteps felt deafening.

Then he saw her.

Y/N was on the floor by the couch, crumpled awkwardly, blood pooled beneath her. One hand outstretched. Reaching.

Sebastian lay beside her. His face looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

“No,” Bucky breathed. He staggered forward, knees hitting the floor with a crack. “No, no, no—no.”

He pulled them into his arms, shaking, sobbing.

“Y/N, wake up. Wake up, baby, please—please. Don’t do this to me.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You promised.”

His hands cradled Seb’s tiny body. “My boy. My sweet boy. Please…”

His screams were hoarse. Raw. The walls didn’t echo. They swallowed it.

____

Rain fell like grief from a grey sky.

Umbrellas dotted the cemetery like wilted flowers. Two caskets. One adult. One child.

The Avengers stood in rows, dressed in black. Heads bowed. Shoulders trembling.

Tony stepped up first. His voice was low, rough. “Y/N was brilliant. Fierce. She once rewrote a protocol mid-battle because mine sucked.” A shaky laugh. “She saved my ass. Constantly.”

He looked at Seb’s casket. “And that kid? He could’ve run Stark Industries one day. No doubt.”

Natasha took the mic next. “Y/N never looked at me like I was broken,” she said. “She saw past all of it. I loved her.”

Steve placed a photo at the base of the casket. “She saved Bucky. Gave him a life. A reason to hope again.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Bucky showed me pictures of Seb every damn day. He said watching him sleep was the best thing in the world. He loved them more than life.”

Bucky said nothing.

Didn’t move.

____

That night, Bucky opened the door to silence. The kind of silence that had teeth.

The panther plush lay on the floor. A toy truck. A sock.

He collapsed to his knees, the weight of it too much.

He clutched the stuffed animal and howled.

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to protect you.” His voice cracked. “I swore…”

Flashback –

They had sat in the hallway together, backs against the wall, holding the positive test between them.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” Y/N said, eyes glassy.

He looked terrified—and then radiant.

Bucky kissed her stomach that night and whispered, “No matter what happens… I’ll protect you both. I’ll die before I don’t.”

And in the stillness of their apartment, with her hand in his, he meant it.

Present-

Now, he lay curled on the floor, the toy pressed to his chest.

The clock ticked.

Time moved on.

But somewhere in the shadows of his shattered soul, a thought ignited.

What if there was a way to change this?

What if the mirror wasn’t broken?

Not yet.

The apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city that never truly slept. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together, staring at the floor as if it held the answers he so desperately sought.

“You’re up early,” came a familiar voice.

His head snapped up, and there she was—Y/N—standing in the doorway, bathed in the morning light. She wore his old t-shirt, the one that always looked better on her, and her hair was tousled from sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

She walked over, sitting beside him. “Nightmares again?”

He nodded, unable to meet her gaze.

She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, turning his face toward hers. “I’m here,” she whispered.

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, savoring the warmth of her palm against his skin. “I miss you,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, leaning in.

Their lips met in a tender kiss, but as he opened his eyes, the warmth vanished. The room was empty. She was gone.

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he pressed his hands to his face, trying to hold onto the fleeting sensation. “Not again,” he whispered.

___

The skillet sizzled lowly as Bucky flipped pancakes with the ease of routine. The same brand of mix Y/N liked. The same spatula she used to swat at his shoulder when he got distracted. He moved through the kitchen on muscle memory alone—measuring, stirring, flipping—as if by obeying the rhythm of their mornings, he could summon them back.

The air smelled like sugar and warmth and something ghostly—nostalgia with an edge that cut.

He grabbed three plates. Three sets of silverware.

He placed a short stack on the first plate with extra syrup and a heap of strawberries—Sebastian’s favorite. On the second, he added two golden pancakes, light syrup, and a sprinkle of powdered sugar. Y/N always asked him not to go overboard, but she liked it when he did anyway. The third plate—his own—sat unfinished on the counter as he turned toward the hall.

“Y/N! Seb! Breakfast is ready!” he called, a slight lilt to his voice, like always.

No answer.

He waited. A moment. Two. Three.

Still nothing.

The smile he’d forced onto his lips began to tremble. “Come on, you two,” he called again, louder. “It’s getting cold.”

Still, the apartment remained quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock above the stove.

His chest tightened. “Sebastian,” he tried again, voice cracking. “Mama’s gonna be mad if you don’t come quick. And I made the chocolate chip ones. Just how you like.”

Silence.

His hand gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. “Y/N…”

Still nothing.

The facade collapsed.

His legs gave out beneath him as he dropped to the floor beside the kitchen table, his back pressed to the cabinets. His breathing turned ragged, and tears streamed down his cheeks before he realized he was crying. Not like before. Not silent and controlled. But guttural. Shaking. Shattering.

“I made breakfast,” he rasped, his voice broken. “I made breakfast, babe. Just like always. You’re supposed to come in, and he’s supposed to sit on my lap and steal my food and—and you’re supposed to smile and say I’m soft—”

He curled forward, gripping his hair. “Why the fuck did you leave me?” he gasped. “Why—why didn’t I come back faster? I was supposed to protect you.”

His sobs wracked his body, loud and choking. His metal hand clenched into a fist against the tile. Cold. Useless.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

The table still held their untouched plates. Crayons lay spilled on the floor beneath it, the same ones Sebastian had used to draw a crooked family portrait the week before. In the corner sat a stuffed panther with one ear chewed. The air still smelled like syrup and strawberries and the ghost of a life that no longer existed.

“I don’t know how to live without you,” Bucky whispered into the silence. “I don’t even know how to breathe.”

___

The nights bled into each other after that.

Sleep became a foreign country, one Bucky could no longer visit. The apartment lights stayed on deep into the early morning hours as he sat hunched over the living room coffee table, surrounded by files, photographs, and weapon fragments.

The Avengers had offered help. Sam. Natasha. Steve.

He declined them all.

He didn’t want condolences. He wanted answers.

Blood spatter patterns. Forensics. He memorized every angle, every smudge. He went back to the scene a dozen times. He stood in the exact spot their bodies had been found. Measured the distances. Noted the entry wounds.

But something about it—it wasn’t random.

It was precise.

Too precise.

That’s when he noticed the first clue.

A bullet casing wedged under the couch—one that hadn’t made it into the official evidence photos. He held it up under the light and froze.

7.62x39mm.

Russian.

His pulse quickened. He knew this casing. He’d used this ammunition before.

In his Winter Soldier days.

The next clue was a knife—wedged behind the radiator. Not left behind on purpose. Forgotten. But familiar.

He held it by the hilt. A black carbon-fiber grip. Double-edged. Issued to only one division he knew of.

He had killed with this blade before.

Every fiber of him recoiled.

“No,” he breathed, staring at the blade like it might speak. “No, it can’t be—”

The kills were clean. Instantaneous. A throat slit at the right angle. A child’s heart stabbed with precision that made his stomach turn.

This was a style he recognized like an old wound.

His own.

But not his.

His hands shook as he sat back, piecing it together with growing dread.

It was him.

A mirror.

___

“You look like hell,” Sam said over the comm.

Bucky didn’t respond.

“You’ve gone ghost on everyone. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

“I need more time,” Bucky muttered.

“Time for what?” Sam’s voice was sharp. “To drown yourself in guilt and caffeine?”

“I found something,” Bucky said slowly. “The killer… they used Hydra weapons. My weapons. Techniques only I know. Only I remember.”

Sam was silent for a beat. “You think it’s someone from your past?”

“I think it’s me.”

____

The wind clawed at Bucky’s coat as he stepped out of the cab onto Bleecker Street. The driver didn’t wait for a tip. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—hollow, sunken, a warzone behind them. Or maybe it was the way the sky above seemed too quiet, as if the world knew something unnatural was stirring.

He stared at the brass plaque mounted by the ornate front doors:

177A Bleecker Street.

The Sanctum Sanctorum.

He hadn’t been here since the Snap. Last time, it had been chaos—armies of the damned and sorcerers flinging eldritch fire. But now, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The doors opened before he could knock.

“Come in,” Doctor Stephen Strange called from within.

Bucky’s boots echoed against the marble floor as he stepped inside. The air smelled of ozone and ancient parchment, with a faint undercurrent of incense and something… otherworldly.

Doctor Strange stood in the main chamber, illuminated by the soft glow of levitating candles and swirling golden runes dancing through the air like fireflies.

He looked up from a floating tome, his face unreadable.

“I was expecting you,” Strange said.

Bucky swallowed. “How?”

“You’ve been clawing at the edges of time,” Strange replied, walking toward him. “Leaving a trail behind you like a bleeding wound. The universe noticed. So did I.”

Bucky’s throat felt dry. “I don’t care about the universe.”

Strange studied him. “But you care about your family.”

A silence passed between them, thick with unspoken pain.

“I want to go back,” Bucky said. His voice trembled. “I need to stop what happened. To them.”

“You’re talking about time travel,” Strange said slowly. “You’re not the first to want it. But time is not a revolving door.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky repeated. “I don’t care what it breaks. What it takes. I just want to stop this.”

Strange raised a hand, summoning a golden hourglass that rotated in mid-air. The sands within shimmered silver. “There are… ways. But they are costly. And uncertain.”

“I’ll pay anything.”

“That’s the problem,” Strange said, eyes narrowing. “You already have.”

Bucky said nothing.

Strange’s gaze softened—not with pity, but understanding. “I can give you four chances. That’s all the multiverse will allow. Four doors. Four branches. After that, the timeline becomes unstable. You’ll risk tearing a hole too wide to mend.”

“Four,” Bucky said, nodding. “Fine.”

Strange made a gesture, and the hourglass split into four glowing fragments, each hovering before Bucky like a burning ember.

“One chance to be too late. One chance to choose wrong. One chance to be powerless. And one… to face the real threat.”

“The real threat?” Bucky asked, eyebrows narrowing.

Strange didn’t answer directly. “You’ll know. Or you’ll fail.”

Bucky looked at the first fragment. The moment he reached for it, the world dissolved into light.

The world twisted.

Reality unraveled like smoke, and when it reassembled, Bucky was standing in a dim, familiar hallway.

The soft hum of fluorescent lighting overhead. Faint smells of stale coffee and old floor polish. Apartment 4C just ten feet away.

Home.

His heart pounded, blood rushing in his ears. The air was thick, slow, as if the world itself held its breath. He bolted toward the door.

“Y/N! Seb!”

No answer. Only the distant hum of a cartoon playing on the television inside.

Bucky fumbled with the keys—no, too slow. He rammed his shoulder into the door instead. It cracked off the hinges and slammed open.

And what he saw—

God.

“NO!”

Blood. So much blood.

Y/N was on the floor, her body twisted unnaturally, a crimson halo spreading beneath her head. Her eyes stared upward, empty. Her mouth was parted as if she had died mid-breath, mid-plea.

Beside her, their son—Sebastian—lay motionless, curled in on himself. One tiny hand still clutching his black stuffed panther.

Bucky dropped to his knees.

“Y/N—baby—no, no—please—” His voice cracked, broken glass in his throat.

His hands hovered uselessly, afraid to touch, to confirm what his soul already knew.

He pulled Seb into his lap, searching for any sign of life. Warmth. Breath. Anything.

Nothing.

“Sebby, c’mon,” he choked, rocking him gently. “It’s Daddy. C’mon, buddy—open your eyes.”

He kissed his forehead. It was cooling.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me…”

Flashback-

Laughter filled the apartment.

Bucky had just come in from grocery shopping, his left arm juggling three bags while Seb charged toward him like a rocket.

“DAD! We made muffins!”

Bucky laughed as Seb latched onto his leg. “Muffins? Without me?”

“You were slow,” Y/N called from the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing. “He insisted we add peanut butter. I tried to stop him.”

“They’re Panther Power Muffins,” Seb declared proudly, raising a chocolate-smeared wooden spoon like a sword.

Bucky stepped into the kitchen and pulled Y/N close with his flesh hand. She still had flour on her nose. He kissed it off.

“Panther Power Muffins, huh?”

“Wakandan-inspired,” Y/N said, grinning.

“By which she means: chocolate, banana, and chaos,” Bucky teased, making Seb giggle.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “The chaos is genetic. From your side.”

He kissed her again, softer now. “I’ll take credit for that.”

Seb shrieked in mock disgust. “EWWWWW!”

They spent the day inside. Bucky read to Seb from Where the Wild Things Are, doing all the voices. Y/N folded laundry and stole kisses every time he passed her. That night, they danced in the living room to some old Ella Fitzgerald vinyl, with Seb perched on Bucky’s shoulders.

They had no idea Death was already on its way.

Present-

Bucky held their bodies in silence. The tears wouldn’t stop. He had traveled through time, fought gods and monsters—and he couldn’t save the only two people who mattered.

His jaw clenched. His metal fist dug into the floor.

“I was so close,” he whispered. “So close.”

He leaned over and kissed Y/N’s forehead. Her hair was still soft.

“I’ll fix this,” he promised. “I swear it.”

The golden light began to pulse behind him.

The first fragment was spent.

Three doors remained.

Bucky staggered back into the Sanctum Sanctorum, eyes red-rimmed, clothes still stained with blood that no longer existed—at least, not in this moment of time. He barely felt his legs move beneath him.

Stephen Strange stood by a levitating table, arms folded, watching.

“You were too late,” the sorcerer said quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His voice had dried up sometime between sobbing and screaming into the void.

“Three attempts left,” Strange said. “Each one risks more. The more you twist the branch, the louder the universe screams back.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Send me again.”

Strange gave a final, long look—almost pitying—and gestured.

The second golden shard lifted from the air and pressed itself into Bucky’s chest.

He vanished.

⸻

Day of the Murder – Five Hours Earlier

This time, Bucky appeared on the rooftop of the building across from their apartment.

The city buzzed below. Sirens in the distance, wind tugging at his jacket. Late afternoon sun dipped lazily behind buildings, casting the streets in long, golden shadows.

Bucky adjusted the scope on the sniper rifle he’d borrowed from a Hydra weapons cache—one he’d sworn he’d never touch again.

No mistakes this time.

No more being too late.

He scanned the street. Watched. Waited.

And then—movement.

A figure approached from the alley below. Hooded. Tall. Purposeful. Dark clothes. Head down.

Bucky’s heart began to race.

There you are.

He moved like he was gliding through air, descending the fire escape with practiced speed, never once taking his eyes off the target.

The hooded man paused just outside the building’s entrance.

Too calculated.

Too calm.

Bucky dropped down behind him, silent.

He struck.

One hand around the neck, the other driving a knee into the figure’s back. The man grunted and fought back, but Bucky twisted and slammed him into the alley wall. Hard.

The hood fell back.

Blood.

A broken nose.

Brown skin.

A familiar voice gasping, choked:

“Bucky—?! What the hell?!”

Bucky’s breath caught.

No.

Sam Wilson’s eyes were wide with pain and confusion. Blood poured from his nose. One of his wings, compacted into a backpack harness, was twisted at an odd angle.

“No—nonononono—” Bucky stammered, his grip loosening.

“I was just coming to check on you, man!” Sam wheezed, spitting blood. “Y/N texted me—you weren’t answering. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bucky backed away, horror spreading like frost.

He looked toward the apartment.

No sound. No sirens.

But the knowing, soul-crushing ache hit him again.

He sprinted.

Three floors.

Bashed open the door with his shoulder.

And just like before—

The blood.

The stillness.

Y/N, lifeless.

Sebastian, eyes closed, small hand still clutching his stuffed panther.

Bucky collapsed again.

“No,” he whispered. “Not again.”

Footsteps echoed behind him. Sam stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to his nose, the other shaking with disbelief.

“Oh my God…”

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them knew how to breathe.

Flashback –

“Hey, tell me something,” Y/N said lazily as she lay on Bucky’s chest, their legs tangled on the couch.

“Hmm?”

“If I die before you,” she said softly, “you’ll promise me something?”

Bucky turned his head, brushing his nose against hers. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Just promise,” she said. “It’s not morbid. It’s real.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“Promise you’ll never stop telling him stories. About me. About us. Even the dumb ones.”

Bucky smiled sadly. “Especially the dumb ones.”

Seb had toddled in then, blanket dragging behind him, thumb in his mouth.

“Up,” he mumbled.

Y/N pulled him between them. “Family sandwich,” she announced, wrapping them both in her arms.

Bucky remembered thinking:

This. This is everything.

Present-

He buried his face into his hands. Blood on his shirt. Sam’s blood. Seb’s blood. Y/N’s.

He had made the wrong choice.

Killed the wrong man.

And still—he had failed.

Behind him, the golden light bloomed again. The second shard, now drained, floated back into Strange’s hand.

⸻

Sam’s voice echoed in Bucky’s memory even as the Sanctum reassembled around him.

“You’re not well, man,” Sam had said. “You’re not thinking straight.”

No. He wasn’t.

But what else was he supposed to do?

Strange said nothing this time. Just extended his hand to the next fragment.

“You understand now,” the sorcerer said at last. “Being early doesn’t mean being right.”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You have two chances left. You’re not just altering the past anymore—you’re straining yourself.”

“Good,” Bucky growled. “I want the pain.”

Strange nodded. “Then you’ll find it.”

And with that, the third door opened.

Golden threads of time wove through Bucky’s chest like lightning in reverse. His body tensed, pulled from one moment to another like a snapped rubber band.

And then—

Light.

Color.

Noise.

The present vanished again, and the world unfolded for the third time.

⸻

7 A.M. – The Day They Died

This time, he awoke in bed.

Warm.

Sheets tangled around his legs.

Soft morning light spilled through the bedroom curtains, dancing in streaks across the ceiling.

A small, solid weight pressed against his side—Sebastian. Curled between him and Y/N, drooling slightly on his shirt.

Y/N shifted beside them, eyes still closed, her fingers twitching in dreams.

Bucky froze.

They’re alive.

He didn’t move for a full minute. Just breathed them in. The scent of her shampoo. The warmth of Seb’s breath. The slow rise and fall of both their chests.

When he did move, it was slow—careful—like a soldier in a minefield. He kissed Y/N’s forehead. Then Seb’s.

This is the moment everything starts.

And he wouldn’t let go of it.

⸻

Morning Routine – 8:30 A.M.

Y/N was rinsing the dishes, humming Stevie Wonder under her breath. Bucky leaned in the doorway, silently counting their breaths. Every sound, every note—he absorbed it like a starving man.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

He smiled faintly. “Just admiring the view.”

“Gross.” She winked. “But acceptable.”

Seb ran through the kitchen wearing his pajama pants on his head like a hat.

“I am Captain Panther, defender of muffins and cartoons!”

“God help us all,” Y/N muttered.

Bucky chuckled, but something inside him wouldn’t settle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. The air buzzed—not with magic, but with wrongness.

Like a violin just slightly out of tune.

Y/N stopped mid-scrub, brow furrowing.

“You feel that?” she asked.

He straightened. “Feel what?”

She blinked, frowning. “I dunno. Weird déjà vu or something. Like… we’ve done this before. Exactly like this.”

Because we have, he thought.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping closer.

She nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He kissed her. “Let me handle breakfast.”

“No complaints here, Chef Barnes.”

But that feeling lingered.

⸻

Afternoon – 2:17 P.M.

He stayed with them all day.

Everywhere they went—every room, every step. He kept one hand near a weapon. Monitored the windows. Traced the corners of the apartment with his eyes, over and over.

Y/N noticed.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re acting like we’re in a bunker, Buck.”

He hesitated. Then: “Just… wanna keep you close.”

Her face softened. “We’re safe, baby.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do know that,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re here.”

But even as she said it, she glanced out the window. A flicker of something—a shadow that shouldn’t have moved.

He followed her gaze.

Nothing there.

And still.

The feeling.

⸻

Evening – 7:00 P.M.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Y/N made spaghetti—Seb’s favorite. Bucky smiled and played along, but his mind ticked like a clock. Counting moments. Watching signs.

Seb giggled as he slurped a noodle. “Papa, look! I made a mess!”

Bucky nodded absently.

Something’s wrong. It’s too perfect.

And then it came.

A subtle hiss.

Not loud. Barely audible beneath the whir of the dishwasher.

Bucky froze.

Y/N looked up. “What’s that?”

He rose fast.

Metal arm flashing, he slammed open the utility cabinet.

Gas.

A hissing pipeline.

Not natural gas.

Hydra tech. Leaking odorless, colorless, nerve agent. Invisible death, slow and silent.

“Grab Seb!” he barked.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She scooped Seb up.

“Out the fire escape—go!”

She turned, bolting. Bucky grabbed his knife, slashed the gas line, and tried to vent the pressure—but the leak was too far gone.

Then he heard it.

A cough.

Sebastian.

“No, no, no—”

He chased them to the hallway.

Y/N staggered. Dropped to her knees.

Seb’s stuffed panther fell from his hands.

“Y/N!” Bucky grabbed her.

Her face was pale, her lips turning blue.

“Buck—I can’t—” she gasped.

He caught Seb as he slumped forward.

“No—nonono—wake up—please—” he begged.

Their bodies were limp.

Silent.

The gas had gotten in sooner. Maybe earlier. Maybe hours ago. Maybe when the apartment was still laughing and filled with music.

He had been there. The whole day. And it hadn’t mattered.

The timeline doesn’t want them alive.

He screamed. A sound that tore his throat raw. He pounded the floor with his fists, cracked the walls with his rage.

And then—

The light found him again.

Golden.

Unforgiving.

___

He collapsed back into Strange’s chamber, gasping.

Sweat clung to his skin. His hands shook.

Strange looked up slowly. “I felt it. They changed tactics.”

“They?” Bucky snarled. “You mean me. Or whoever… whatever… did this.”

Strange frowned, brows furrowed. “No. I mean time.”

Bucky stood, trembling. “What the hell does that mean?”

“The timeline doesn’t like being corrected. It’s pushing back. What you saw—the gas—that was new. Different. This isn’t just a killer. It’s a branch collapsing in protest.”

Bucky’s eyes burned. “So I’m losing to fate now?”

“No,” Strange said carefully. “You’re losing to yourself.”

Bucky stared at the final fragment.

Only one left.

One last door.

Strange raised his hand. “If you open this one, there’s no going back. You could fracture your soul. Or worse—destroy the tether that binds you to this reality.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “I’m already a ghost in this one.”

Strange’s eyes softened. “Then may you find what you’re looking for in the last mirror.”

The fragment glowed—

And time shattered one final time.

The golden light swallowed him one final time.

Unlike the others, this wasn’t a pull — it was a plunge. Cold. Hollow. It didn’t feel like slipping through time.

It felt like falling into himself.

Bucky landed on his knees in the darkness of the Sanctum’s antechamber. His palms scraped the stone floor. The air was too still. Too quiet.

His lungs filled slowly, like they had to relearn how to breathe in this version of the world.

This was it.

The final door.

No second chances now. No more fragments to catch him if he failed.

He rose.

This time, he knew exactly when the murders happened. And now, he knew who was coming.

Himself.

The Winter Soldier. Not a memory. Not a ghost. But a living, breathing variant from another timeline. One who never broke free.

One who still obeyed Hydra’s last order.

Eliminate the asset’s weaknesses.

⸻

11:52 PM – One Hour Before the Attack

Bucky arrived at the apartment early. Too early.

He moved through the space like a shadow — securing every door, every window. Checking every wall. Every vent. Every water pipe.

He stood in the dark for minutes at a time, listening.

Sebastian was asleep in his bed, clutching his panther plush. Y/N was in the bedroom, reading. Her voice echoed softly as she murmured words to herself.

God, he missed the sound of her voice.

He closed his eyes.

Just one more hour.

⸻

12:44 AM – The Lights Flicker

It started small.

A low hum beneath the floorboards.

Bucky opened his eyes. Everything slowed.

The bulb in the hallway buzzed — then popped.

A whisper of cold air brushed his neck.

He turned.

And saw himself.

Standing at the far end of the hallway, near the front door. The long hair. The blank eyes. The cold sneer etched into the face he once wore.

But this wasn’t just another assassin.

This version of the Winter Soldier wore no mask.

Only contempt.

“You’re late,” Bucky said, stepping between the variant and his family’s door.

The Soldier tilted his head. “You remembered. Good. Makes this easier.”

Bucky stepped forward. “You’re not getting past me.”

The Soldier gave a thin, humorless smirk. “You think you’ve changed. But I know you better than anyone. You still want to kill. You just wear better reasons now.”

“I want peace.”

“No,” the Soldier snapped. “You want absolution.”

His voice was darker than Bucky remembered. Not mechanical. Human. Too human.

“They were going to make you weak,” the Soldier said. “Just like they made me weak, once. Hydra corrected that mistake in my timeline.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You’re not saving me. You’re killing what made me human.”

“They made you soft. Slow. You started smiling. Laughing. And look what happened. You failed them three times already.”

The Soldier stepped closer.

“You want me gone? Then stop me.”

They clashed like thunder.

Metal met metal — fists crashing, walls shattering. The air cracked with every strike.

The apartment trembled with the violence of it.

Bucky ducked a blade swipe and slammed his knee into the Soldier’s ribs. The variant spun and elbowed him across the jaw.

“You’re slow,” the Soldier taunted.

“I’m free,” Bucky growled.

They tumbled into the living room — furniture splintering beneath them. Bucky grabbed the Soldier’s arm and flung him into the wall, but the bastard rolled with it and landed on his feet like a wolf.

“I watched them die,” Bucky snarled, advancing. “I felt it. Again and again. And I swear to God��if you touch them—”

“I already did,” the Soldier sneered. “Three times. You just kept hitting rewind.”

Bucky roared, slamming into him.

They crashed into the kitchen. A knife block spilled. Both reached for blades.

Steel flashed.

Blood hit tile.

The Soldier’s knife slid across Bucky’s ribs — but Bucky’s metal fist caught him square in the jaw, sending him flying into the stove.

Glass cracked.

Smoke hissed.

Bucky grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down.

“This ends now,” Bucky rasped.

The Soldier laughed.

“Then do it. Kill me. You know you want to.”

Bucky raised the knife — hand trembling.

He’s right.

He could end it here. No more chasing. No more failure. Just silence.

But—

Seb’s laughter echoed faintly in his head. Y/N’s sleepy smile. The way they both looked at him like he deserved peace.

He dropped the knife.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s your way.”

He punched the Soldier unconscious — hard enough to make sure he stayed down.

Then Bucky stumbled to his feet.

And ran.

She was awake. Sebastian too — cradled in her arms, sleepy and scared.

“Bucky?” she gasped. “There was—there was noise—and I—”

He reached them.

He dropped to his knees and pulled them both into his arms.

“You’re okay,” he choked. “You’re safe.”

Seb clung to him. Y/N wrapped her arms tight around his neck, trembling.

“I had a dream you were gone,” she whispered. “That you kept… leaving.”

Bucky’s chest cracked open.

“I did,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m here now. I swear, I’m here.”

Sebastian cried softly into his shirt. “Papa… the bad dream was real.”

“I know, baby,” Bucky murmured. “But we beat it. We beat it together.”

⸻

Hours later, back in the Sanctum, Strange examined the variant — now bound, silent, and unconscious in a containment ward of magic.

“You succeeded,” he told Bucky. “You severed the loop.”

Bucky stood silently, arms around Y/N and Seb. Both had followed him back. Both still shaken. But alive.

“What happens to him?” Bucky asked.

Strange’s gaze hardened. “He’ll be judged by a higher force than us. This version of you… is a fragment. An echo. But echoes still carry.”

Bucky nodded.

“And the timeline?” he asked.

Strange didn’t answer at first. Then:

“You forced a correction. It held. But time is… alive, James. It remembers what was taken from it.”

Y/N stepped closer, holding Bucky’s hand tighter. “What does that mean?”

Strange looked between them.

“It means the door is closed — for now. But something else may come looking.”

⸻

Back in their apartment, finally safe, finally still, Bucky tucked Seb into bed.

The little boy didn’t let go of his panther plush the whole night.

Y/N watched Bucky from the doorway.

“You look haunted,” she said gently.

“I saw myself,” he whispered.

“I know.”

She walked to him, took his hand, and placed it on her heart.

“You’re here. You saved us.”

He didn’t speak.

So she kissed his knuckles.

“Whatever comes next,” she said, “we face it together.”

He finally exhaled.

Held her.

Closed his eyes.

Outside, the night was still.

But far, far away — in the spaces between time — something watched the broken loop.

And smiled.

-the end……….(?)

[chinggay85-blog]

Rose Blood and Marble Eyes~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky becomes obsessed with a kindergarten teacher hiding a monstrous secret—until obsession turns to partnership, and their darkness begins to bloom together.

Characters: dark!Bucky Barnes x serial killer!f!reader

Warnings: Depictions of abuse (emotional, physical, sexual), Stalking and obsession, past abuse, references to rape, organ removal, Serial killing, Psychological trauma, Sexual content . OK OK YA,too many warnings just know that’s it’s for 18+ readers….maybe?

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Bucky was alone.

Not metaphorically. Not romantically.

Utterly, viscerally alone.

His apartment was too quiet. No laughter. No messages. No familiar footfalls echoing through the hall. No Steve to brood with. No Sam to pull him into reluctant banter. Sam was always too busy now—leading teams, holding meetings, being good. And Bucky?

Bucky was a rusted-out weapon, laid to rest before anyone figured out how to turn him off properly.

He didn’t belong in this world, and the world didn’t care. It spun anyway. Relentlessly.

—

5:02 AM.-

Bucky woke with a sharp breath, drenched in cold sweat, clenching phantom screams between his teeth. It was always like this. Sometimes it was the chair. Sometimes it was the blood. Sometimes it was the soft sound of someone whispering in Russian just before they tore him out of himself.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time.

He didn’t sleep in a bed. The couch felt safer. Easier to escape from. He showered mechanically, his eyes hollow, his movements memorized. Water. Towel. Coffee. One mug. No sugar. Black as his thoughts.

By 6:30, he was walking. Leather jacket, hood up, earbuds in. Music he didn’t listen to. Just something to muffle the hum of the world.

The city was half-awake—delivery trucks, mothers yelling at toddlers, early birds pretending they loved mornings. He watched them all from behind invisible glass.

No one looked at him twice.

No one saw the man with a metal arm and haunted eyes.

He liked it that way.

—

It was a Tuesday. He knew because the sky was overcast and he’d worn his gloves instead of his leather jacket. Routine.

Until the knock.

Three soft raps. Not urgent. Not loud. Just enough.

Bucky frowned.

He never got visitors.

His hand ghosted toward the knife wedged beneath the coffee table. Just in case.

He cracked the door open.

And stared.

A small boy stood there. Freckles. Bowl-cut. Tiny blue backpack with cartoon sharks. One of his shoelaces was untied.

The kid sniffled. “Mister?”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah?”

“I’m Kevin. My mommy and daddy are fighting again. I don’t wanna be late to school. Can you take me?”

He pointed down the hallway toward apartment 1B. A crash sounded behind the door.

Bucky sighed. “Wait here.”

Mrs. Murphy didn’t even pretend to be surprised. She answered the door red-eyed, lipstick smeared.

“He just needs a ride,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, yeah, of course—thank you. Sunny Creek on Maple. He knows the way.”

That was it. No offer to repay him. No mention of trust. Just desperation.

Bucky looked down at Kevin.

The kid smiled. “Do you have a motorcycle?”

“No,” He lied. “We walk.”

They didn’t talk much. Bucky appreciated that. Kevin was too busy narrating his own life to notice Bucky’s silence.

“My lion’s name is Mufasa. I named him after the movie. Not the new one. The old one with the real drawings.”

Bucky grunted.

“I like glitter. It’s my favorite color.”

“Not a color.”

“Yes it is.”

Kevin skipped beside him. Bucky found himself slowing his pace so the boy wouldn’t fall behind. When they reached the kindergarten—a small colorful building nestled between two sleepy cafés—Kevin ran ahead.

And then Bucky saw her.

She was crouched down near the gates, tying a little girl’s shoelace. Her cardigan was yellow, cheerful. It had smudges of finger paint—red, green, and something that might’ve been chocolate. She had a warmth about her. Not fake. Not forced. It was the kind of warmth that made people lower their guard.

Her voice was soft, singing some rhyme under her breath.

Kevin ran up to her. “Miss L/N!”

She turned, beamed, stood.

And that was when Bucky’s breath caught.

She was beautiful.

But more than that—she was wrong.

Not in a monstrous way. In a polished, intentional way. Like porcelain. Like something sculpted to almost be real.

Her eyes met his.

Stillness.

“Kevin,” she smiled. “You made it. And who’s this?”

Kevin grabbed Bucky’s hand. “This is Mister Barnes. He brought me.”

She extended her hand. “Thank you, Mister Barnes. I’m Y/N. I teach Kevin’s class.”

Bucky stared at her hand, then at her face.

And he saw it.

Just for a second, her smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was a flicker—too cold, too sharp. He’d seen killers smile like that.

But then it was gone.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky murmured.

“Maybe we’ll see you again,” she said.

She turned and walked into the school, Kevin at her side.

And Bucky couldn’t stop staring.

“She’s not just beautiful. She’s… wrong. And I think I like that.”

That evening, Y/N stepped out of her car and into her neat little house with flower boxes by the windows. Inside, the walls were decorated with crayon drawings and cheerful quotes about children.

She walked past them all and locked the kitchen door behind her.

Then she opened the floor.

The entrance to the basement was hidden beneath the pantry shelves. She descended into cool, still darkness.

Glass jars lined the shelves like trophies.

Twelve in total.

Each with a floating human heart.

Each labeled with a name and zodiac sign.

She hummed as she peeled off her cardigan. Reached for her apron. Pulled on gloves.

She glanced at the man bound to the steel chair in the corner—taped mouth, panicked eyes, blood crusting the corner of his temple.

He whimpered.

“Shhhh,” she said, voice soft and practiced. “You’re ruining the moment.”

She crouched in front of him, tilting her head. “You stole from me.”

He whimpered again.

She stood and picked up the scalpel. Not yet. First, she needed to explain. That was part of it. The cleansing.

“I spent years crafting my signature,” she said, circling him. “A black rose soaked in blood. A single white knight chess piece beside it. Beautiful. Symbolic. I killed Damon under Taurus because he was born April 22nd. That monster used to rape me while saying he loved me. I took his heart and gave him meaning in death. He became art.”

She ran her fingers along the blade of the scalpel.

“And then you—some bored little blogger—decide it’s a trend. You post theories, videos. You dress it up like it’s a scavenger hunt.”

She stopped in front of him. Bent down.

“I bled for this. I cleaned bone for this. I am this.”

She leaned in, lips at his ear.

“You took my ritual and turned it into a punchline.”

He sobbed behind the tape.

She hummed.

“Art should be sacred, don’t you think?”

She began by slicing gently beneath the ribs, tracing the path over the sternum. The scalpel glinted beneath the surgical lights. She worked in silence. Steady hands. Detached mind.

The rib spreader cracked bone.

She didn’t flinch.

The man screamed behind the tape.

His heart thudded fast. Panicked. The way they all did.

She carved it free with reverence. Slid it into the sterile jar.

A new label awaited.

Taurus.

Name: Caleb Reed.

Offense: Plagiarism.

She placed a blood-soaked black rose and a white knight chess piece inside his chest cavity.

Then stitched it shut.

She sat back, sweaty and content. Her eyes fluttered closed as she listened to the final silence.

Peace.

The first peace she’d felt since that morning.

But as she cleaned the blade, her thoughts drifted again.

To him.

The man with the quiet stare. The ghost eyes. The metal hand.

James Barnes.

Not just broken. Disassembled.

She grinned.

“So that’s what you are,” she whispered. “You’re not like them. You see me.”

And for the first time in a long while, she felt something bloom in her chest that wasn’t rage.

Interest.

—

Bucky hadn’t meant to follow her. Not the first time.

It started as something passive, something almost innocent—a glance through the blinds as she stepped out in the early morning light, coffee thermos in hand, her smile loose and sleepy as she waved to the mailman.

But something about her lingered in his mind. Stuck like a splinter. Not the kind that hurts—but the kind that itches. Constantly. The kind that makes you scratch until you bleed.

She wasn’t like the others.

And that… that fascinated him.

__

He told himself it was routine. That he was watching out for Kevin. That he didn’t trust people easily, and Miss L/N seemed too perfect to be real. Teachers don’t glow like that. People don’t hum as they water sunflowers. The darkness of the world doesn’t miss people like her.

Unless she wasn’t what she seemed.

He started walking past the school more often. Didn’t matter that it was fifteen blocks out of the way. He made it part of his morning run. Routine. Harmless.

Until it wasn’t.

It began with the photos.

He wasn’t proud of it. But shame is just another flavor of obsession when it’s too late to stop.

The first photo was blurry—taken with trembling fingers through the crack of a kitchen window. She was sitting at the dining table alone, drinking tea, her cardigan sliding down one shoulder.

The second was clearer. She was tying Kevin’s shoelaces on the school steps, her fingers gentle, her mouth forming soft laughter that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He filled an entire folder with them.

Then a wall.

It started like a soldier’s mind-map. Just lines and data, sketches, printouts, scraps of conversations he overheard at the playground.

Y/N L/N. Age: 29. Birthplace: [Your birthplace]. Foster child. No priors. No tickets. Not even a parking citation. Worked as a nanny before finishing her teaching license. Has worked at Sunny Creek Elementary for six years. Beloved by parents. Praised by staff.

Too clean.

Too polished.

Too perfect.

Bucky didn’t believe in perfect.

At night, he’d sit in his bedroom, eyes roving the wall covered in her photos and strings and timelines. One red thread connected a blurry photo of a burned-out warehouse in Queens with a classified case report from Interpol. Another ran to a crime scene snapshot he’d hacked from a cold case in Delaware—same signature, same symbols.

The black rose.

The white knight.

Always the same pairing. Always placed delicately at the chest of the victims—like a calling card in poetry and gore.

He didn’t know why, but his gut screamed it was her.

She had no motive. No connections. No reason to be at the sites.

But the precision… the pattern… it was intentional. Like art.

He didn’t tell Sam. Didn’t tell anyone.

Not yet.

This was his.

__

The nights were the worst.

He began camping out across from her house, silent and invisible. The shadows welcomed him like old friends.

She always turned out the lights by ten-thirty. Her curtains were thin. Sometimes, he could make out her silhouette as she brushed her hair, folded a cardigan, moved like a lullaby through rooms that smelled of cinnamon and sugar.

He snapped a photo once—just once—when she fell asleep on the couch, curled beneath a yellow blanket with a picture book open on her chest. She looked like a dream someone had painted too delicately for the real world.

But dreams, he knew, had sharp teeth.

Then came the night everything changed.

It was cold. Rain misted the sidewalks like breath. Bucky had parked himself in the alley across the street from her house, sipping lukewarm coffee as his breath fogged the car windows.

10:46 PM.

The front door opened.

And she stepped out.

Not in her usual cardigans or floral skirts.

She wore black.

Tight. Functional. Efficient. A hoodie, pulled up low over her head. Gloves. Boots that didn’t make a sound.

No purse.

No smile.

No warmth.

Bucky’s body tensed.

She locked the door behind her. Walked down the steps. Didn’t glance around. Didn’t check her surroundings.

Which meant she wasn’t afraid.

That was the part that chilled him.

People wore black to blend in. To hide. To stalk. To kill.

He followed.

She walked two blocks south before turning into an alley behind a string of rundown apartment buildings. Her pace never wavered. She didn’t pause. Didn’t look back.

A man waited there. Bucky saw him only for a second—a flicker of motion, the glow of a cigarette, the lean of shoulders cocky and predatory.

Then they both disappeared behind the dumpsters.

Bucky’s pulse stuttered. He crossed the street, boots silent, shadow sharp. He approached the alley’s edge like a ghost.

He heard… nothing.

Not a grunt.

Not a shout.

Not a struggle.

Silence.

Dead and patient.

Then, five minutes later—she emerged.

Alone.

Face calm. Pace unchanged.

She passed within ten feet of him, her eyes blank, unreadable. She didn’t see him. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care.

Bucky waited ten more minutes before he went in.

The man was gone.

But the ground told a different story.

There was blood. Small, precise. Spatter on the wall. A trail that disappeared beneath a dumpster.

No body.

Just…

Two things placed with eerie precision.

A white knight chess piece.

And a black rose, soaked in blood.

Bucky stared at them.

Then slowly—without understanding why—he picked them up. Wrapped them in a handkerchief. Slid them into his pocket.

He didn’t go home that night.

He sat in his apartment stairwell until morning.

Just breathing.

Just thinking.

—

He kept the chess piece and the rose in a velvet box.

Not for sentiment.

For evidence.

Evidence of what, he couldn’t explain—not yet. But the weight of them in his palm grounded him, clearer than a thousand voices in his head. Her signature, her code. It was poetry scrawled in blood and silence.

He placed the box on a shelf in his room. Right beneath her photographs.

The wall was growing.

He had pinned every school calendar, every teacher’s workshop notice, every newsletter with her name at the bottom. He cross-referenced dates of unsolved murders and disappearances—scanning for geography, timing, zodiac signs. He didn’t know what the hearts and constellations meant to her. But they meant something.

The strings he ran between them weren’t random.

They were a map of her mind.

The hallucinations began again.

They used to be different. Ghosts of Hydra days. Blood in his mouth. Screaming in Russian. Screaming in English. Screaming in silence.

But now…

Now it was her.

He’d close his eyes and she’d be there. Standing in the doorway of his apartment, rain misting through her hair, eyes catching the dim light like wet marble.

“You saw me,” she’d whisper. “You really saw me.”

She’d sit beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, like a visiting shadow. Her voice would wrap around his bones. Sometimes she’d hum.

And sometimes she’d ask, “Do you think they deserved it?”

He never answered.

But he never said no.

He hacked into local police systems again—sloppy, reckless work he would’ve scolded himself for months ago. Not now. Not when every report, every cold file, every body he looked at fed the timeline on his wall.

There was a pattern.

Every victim male. Ages ranging from twenty-five to forty-five. All with a violent or abusive record. Charges dropped. Plea deals made. The system failed them. Or maybe the system never tried.

They were all born under same zodiac signs. And always—always—a white knight chess piece placed in their chest cavity. A black rose soaked in blood.

And their hearts were gone.

Surgically removed.

This wasn’t just a pattern.

This was a mission.

The worst of it?

There was no proof. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing but the calling card. Every crime was executed with surgical precision and artistic flair.

And yet Y/N L/N had no record. Not a parking violation. Not a note in a file.

He ran a background check three times.

It kept coming up clean.

Too clean.

Like someone had scrubbed it.

Which only made her more dangerous.

He followed her again.

He told himself he wouldn’t. But he did.

Night after night, slipping through shadows, boots on rooftops, eyes behind dark glass. He tracked her from school to home, from home to the local market. He memorized the way her fingers brushed across avocados. The way she helped an elderly woman into a taxi without hesitation.

She was the portrait of warmth.

Of goodness.

Of trust.

And none of it felt real.

One night, something changed.

She didn’t go home right after school.

She walked two blocks north, then into a coffee shop he’d never seen her enter before. She sat at a booth, facing the window, smiling as a man in a pressed shirt and expensive watch slid into the seat across from her.

Bucky froze outside the glass.

Was she on a date?

His stomach twisted. His fists clenched.

He moved to the other side of the street, ducked behind a newspaper stand. Watched. Waited.

The man smiled. Talked too much. Gestured with his hands.

She smiled back. Tilted her head. Laughed.

But Bucky saw it.

The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

They left the café together. Walked slowly. The man tried to take her hand. She let him.

Bucky followed.

All the way to the subway. Then three stops south. Then another alley.

His pulse was a snare drum in his throat.

She led the man behind an old nightclub—shut down years ago after a shooting. Broken neon still hung on the rusted door like a ghost tongue.

The man leaned in to kiss her.

And she let him.

But something was off. Her posture. Her eyes.

She stepped back, into the shadows.

He followed.

Bucky counted thirty seconds.

Then a minute.

Then nothing.

Then—

She emerged.

Alone.

Again.

No smirk. No panic. Calm. Hair smooth. Hands gloved.

And she vanished into the night like a song with no chorus.

He approached the alley when he was sure she was gone.

Same signs.

Blood.

Minimal.

Efficient.

A black rose on the wet pavement.

A white knight, set upright like a relic.

But this time—no body. Just the implication of absence.

The man was gone.

Erased.

Bucky took the chess piece and the flower again.

Added them to the velvet box.

__

He sat on the floor of his apartment, back against the wall, head between his knees. Sweat pooled at the collar of his shirt.

He should report her.

He knew that.

But something rotted inside him when he thought about it.

He didn’t want her caught.

He wanted to understand her.

He wanted to know why.

—

The dreams worsened.

Now she sat at the edge of his bed.

Whispered things in the dark.

“You know what I am,” she’d murmur, voice sticky with silk. “But you’re still watching. That makes you worse than me, doesn’t it?”

Sometimes she kissed his forehead before fading.

Sometimes she dug her nails into his chest.

He’d wake up gasping, his shirt wet with sweat. Hard. Ache curling in his stomach. Her name bitten into his mouth like a curse.

He never touched himself.

It felt wrong.

It wasn’t lust.

It was worship.

One night, she looked straight at him.

Not a dream.

Real.

He was across the street. She was closing her curtains. And her eyes—dark and still—met his through the glass.

Just for a second.

Long enough for his throat to lock.

Long enough for something cruel to slither across her lips.

Not fear.

Not surprise.

Something else.

Recognition.

Then she closed the curtains.

And Bucky didn’t move for fifteen minutes.

—

Bucky didn’t know when exactly it changed.

When the weight of truth tipped into something else—devotion, protection, obsession… love, if the word could even survive such dark soil.

He should’ve turned her in. Every fiber of his rational mind had screamed it from rooftops. He’d seen killers before. Had been one. Knew the darkness that lived in the quiet moments between death and sleep.

But Y/N wasn’t just darkness.

She was elegance carved from rot. Fire in a glass cage. And the world didn’t deserve to touch her.

So he watched.

And then he started helping.

It began with the detective.

A man named Harrow. Mid-forties. Former military. Just enough suspicion in his eyes to sniff at the edges of her trail.

Bucky saw him before Y/N did.

Harrow sat in a nondescript car three streets down from her house. Not writing, not talking. Just watching. With binoculars. With notes.

With interest.

Bucky waited until nightfall. Slipped into the man’s room like a shadow with hands.

There was no pleasure in it.

Only precision.

Harrow died quietly. No struggle. Neck snapped clean between Bucky’s palms. He made it look like a robbery gone wrong. Took the notes. Burned them.

Left behind a rose petal and a chess piece.

Not hers.

His.

A different kind of tribute.

Then there was the stalker.

From her college, if the photos Bucky dug up were right. The man had changed his name after prison. Now he worked maintenance three blocks from the school.

Bucky saw him near the playground. Saw how his eyes lingered. How his hand twitched when Y/N bent down to speak to a child. Too familiar. Too hungry.

That night, the man disappeared.

The body was never found.

Y/N never knew.

But Bucky made sure the man’s last sight was a pair of steel-blue eyes and the whisper:

“She’s not yours.”

The wall in Bucky’s bedroom grew thicker. Not with threats now, but with worship.

Photos of her. Sleeping, mostly.

He couldn’t help it.

She slept with one arm beneath her pillow. Hair fanned out like spilled ink. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way she never was while awake.

It felt sacred to witness.

He hung the photos with surgical care. Connected them with red string—not to trace evidence anymore, but to map his longing.

He knew how sick it was.

He didn’t care.

And then the notes began.

Short. Cryptic. Careful.

Folded in perfect squares and tucked in odd places.

One inside her mailbox. One beneath her windshield wiper. One on the back of a child’s drawing left on her desk.

No name. Just words. Fragments.

“Your blade is art. I’ve watched you carve justice.”

“He would’ve hurt you. I made sure he won’t.”

“I saw your rose. It was beautiful.”

Sometimes he left photographs, too.

Of her victims. But from angles she hadn’t taken.

From above. From rooftops. From behind dumpsters. Caught mid-action. Proof that he’d been there all along.

A twisted, voyeuristic kind of intimacy.

And Y/N…

She said nothing.

But she started locking her windows less.

The night she found the final note was different.

It wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t subtle.

It was taped to her mirror.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

She didn’t panic.

She didn’t scream.

She smiled.

And then she wrote a letter of her own.

Addressed only: To the Watcher.

She left it inside a hollow tree two streets from her house. The one she’d seen him pass three nights in a row. The one she knew he paused at just long enough to notice.

And Bucky?

He read it with trembling hands.

“Come find me. I want to meet the man who’s been holding my ghost.”

She left coordinates.

An abandoned farmhouse on the edge of the city.

No traps. No weapons. No SWAT.

Just an open door.

And a red string, tied to the porch rail, fluttering in the wind.

The house was old. Dead wood. Dusty floorboards. Windows like hollowed eyes.

Bucky stepped inside like a soldier returning to a battlefield he never fought in.

And she was waiting.

At the center of the room.

Alone.

No fear in her posture.

No judgment.

She wore black—hoodie, gloves, boots. But her face was bare.

Her eyes met his without hesitation.

Like she’d been watching him all this time.

He stood still.

And she asked, softly,

“How long have you been watching me?”

His breath caught. His voice was hoarse when he answered:

“Since the moment I saw you tie that kid’s shoe.”

Something flickered in her. A laugh, maybe. A sigh. A realization.

Then she turned. Walked to a crate at the far end of the room. Picked something up.

A knife.

She held it out to him. Balanced in both palms.

Not a threat.

An invitation.

“Would you help me?”

Bucky didn’t blink.

“Only if I get to keep your photo in my wallet.”

Silence.

Then—

She smiled.

And this time, it reached her eyes.

—

It was raining again.

Same as the night she killed her first victim.

But now there were two shadows beneath the streetlights.

Y/N crouched over the corpse, her gloved fingers brushing the blood off the victim’s face. It was a rapist. A repeat offender who preyed on women walking alone at night. The system had let him go.

She hadn’t.

And neither had Bucky.

He stood nearby, silent, watching her.

No words were exchanged.

She slit the chest open. Pulled the heart free.

Bucky caught the blood in a silver bowl before it hit the pavement.

They moved like choreography.

Like lovers who’d danced in death before.

After the body was staged—black rose across the chest, chess piece tucked into the exposed ribcage—Y/N stood, smeared with blood, heart still beating fast from the rush.

Bucky handed her a wipe.

She took it. Their fingers touched.

Still no words.

She looked up at him, breath uneven.

“You didn’t hesitate tonight,” she said.

He met her gaze.

“I haven’t hesitated since the day I saw your blade.”

Her lips parted.

“I didn’t think anyone could ever understand.”

“I don’t,” he whispered. “I just belong here. With you.”

A pause.

Long enough to feel.

And then—

She kissed him.

Hard. Messy. Blood between their mouths. Her hands in his hair. His arms around her waist like iron.

It wasn’t romance.

It was release.

And it tasted like justice.

—

They didn’t move in together.

Didn’t call it love.

But everything shifted.

Bucky began watching her more openly. Guarding her.

When a teacher at school brushed her arm too long, Bucky shattered his side mirror that night.

When a parent lingered too close during a class pickup, Bucky followed him home and made sure he never came back.

Y/N never asked him to.

But when she saw a photo on her desk the next day—a candid of the flirty teacher walking home, timestamped and labeled “handled”—she didn’t question it.

She just smiled.

And left a rose in Bucky’s mailbox.

Their partnership deepened.

She chose the targets. Marked them. Lured them.

Bucky cleaned up the aftermath.

Burned tapes. Scrubbed footprints. Redirected police scanners.

When she carved, he watched.

When he snapped necks, she steadied his shoulder.

It was a silent kind of love.

A worship painted in arterial red.

—

Their next kiss happened after the third kill.

In a hotel bathroom.

Blood on her wrists. Splatter across Bucky’s jaw.

She grabbed his shirt, pulled him in.

He kissed her like a man drowning in flame.

—

The wall in Bucky’s apartment changed.

Her photos remained. But now, her victims were there too.

A map. A timeline.

She visited once. Saw it.

Didn’t speak for a full minute.

Then she turned to him, eyes burning.

“You’ve been building this for how long?”

“Since the moment I knew what you were.”

She touched one of the red strings. Then his jaw.

“Show me how you see me.”

He led her to the bedroom.

They made love like animals who’d never known tenderness.

—

They never said “I love you.”

They didn’t need to.

They said it in other ways.

In the way Bucky traced her spine with reverence.

In the way Y/N let him see her after a kill—vulnerable, open.

In the way he kissed her scars.

In the way she whispered: “I picked the next one. Want to help me paint?”

And he said, “Only if I can sign it with you.”

They killed a man in a suit two nights later. A politician. Child molester. Her pick.

She gutted him. Bucky burned the files in the fireplace. Their bodies moved like clockwork. Precision. Elegance.

When it was done, they stood side by side, soaked in blood, watching the embers flicker.

Their eyes met.

He leaned in. She didn’t stop him.

The kiss was savage. Teeth, blood, breath. It wasn’t gentle—it wasn’t love—it was hunger, raw and feral.

Her fingers curled in his hair.

He pulled her closer by the waist.

After, they sat beside the corpse, legs touching, not speaking.

She let her head rest on his shoulder.

—

He saw the way Mr. Grady—the PE teacher—smiled at her.

He saw how his hand brushed hers when he passed her the clipboard.

That night, Bucky waited in Grady’s parking lot. Slashed his tires. Left a chess piece on his windshield.

No killing. Just a warning.

Y/N didn’t say anything. But the next day, she brushed her hand along Bucky’s arm when no one was watching.

It was enough.

They never called it love.

But every time she chose a victim, he was there.

Every time someone looked at her wrong, he noticed.

Every time she smiled, he remembered the first time she looked up from Kevin and met his eyes—and how he’d known, instantly, that she was the mirror of everything broken in him.

And he couldn’t look away.

—

The rain came down like judgment—unforgiving, slamming against pavement in dense sheets, the sky splitting open with flashes of cold light. It wasn’t the sort of rain that soothed or healed. This rain punished. It erased. It silenced. It devoured the evidence of sins left behind in alleyways.

Y/N was running.

Her breath tore out of her lungs in ragged, uneven pulls, her boots striking the slick asphalt with panicked rhythm. Her hoodie was soaked through, clinging to her body. The thin black gloves she wore were dark with blood, the knife still clenched in her right hand trembling with every step.

The blood wasn’t hers.

But that didn’t matter.

She was losing control. She had always been careful, methodical, ritualistic. Her kills were paintings—precision and meaning in every cut, every placement of symbols. But tonight… tonight something had gone wrong. Sloppy. Rushed. She had underestimated him. He fought back harder than she expected. He screamed.

Loud enough to attract attention.

A flash of red and blue in the corner of her vision. Sirens. Shouts. That was her cue.

She didn’t get scared. Not usually. But fear had taken root somewhere deep in her belly tonight, cold and slick like oil. This wasn’t a bump in the road. It was a fracture. A crack in the glass. And she wasn’t sure if it would hold.

She turned sharply down a service alley, hopping over a collapsed garbage bin, the sting of adrenaline singing in her veins. Her heart beat like a war drum in her chest, more animal than woman now, operating purely on instinct.

Behind her—footsteps. Not uniformed ones. Slower. Heavier.

She skidded to a stop beside a crumbling brick building and pressed herself against the wall, forcing her breath to slow. Her blade was ready.

But she didn’t use it.

Because she recognized the gait. She felt it before she saw him.

Bucky stepped out of the rain like a shadow made flesh.

His black jacket was slick with water, hair plastered to his face, his expression carved from stone. The metal of his vibranium arm glinted coldly in the stormlight. His eyes met hers beneath the dripping hood she hadn’t realized had fallen from her head.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t ask what happened.

He just held out his hand.

Y/N stared at it.

Her fingers twitched. This wasn’t part of her plan. Nothing was supposed to reach her. No one. Not like this. She was made to be untouchable. Untethered.

She didn’t trust easily. She barely even breathed around people. And yet… she found herself stepping forward, sliding her hand into his.

It was warm.

No words. No hesitation.

They ran together.

—

Her house was completely dark when they arrived. She had no lights on timers. No neighbors who paid attention. It was one of the reasons she chose the place. The perfect quiet. The perfect cover.

Inside, she peeled off her hoodie and shirt, soaked through to the skin. Her gloves joined the pile on the kitchen counter. Her knife—she didn’t even need to hide it. Bucky had already seen worse.

He closed the door behind them. Locked it. Then bolted it for good measure.

Y/N stood with her back to him, bracing her hands on the edge of the sink as her chest heaved. Rain dripped from her hair. Her undershirt was stuck to her spine like a second skin.

She didn’t speak.

But he came to stand behind her anyway.

“You need to burn the clothes,” he said finally, low.

She nodded once, still facing the sink. “Already planned to.”

“There’s blood on your neck.”

She reached for a towel, but he beat her to it. Gently, Bucky brushed her hair aside and ran the cloth down the line of her jaw, his fingers grazing her skin.

She flinched—not from pain. From awareness.

His voice was quieter when he asked, “What happened?”

Y/N swallowed. “He wasn’t alone. Or… maybe he was. But someone saw me. Heard it.”

“Where?”

“Harper Street. By the loading dock.”

“Did you take the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Cameras?”

“Probably. I was careful. But not careful enough.”

He was silent for a moment. Then: “I’ll handle it.”

She turned then, slowly, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“You know why.”

They stared at each other in the quiet stormlight filtering through the kitchen window. Her walls were bare. Her knives were clean. Her hands—no longer shaking.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly.

“Too late.”

“I could kill you.”

He smirked, slow and dark. “Try.”

She stepped toward him.

The tension coiled between them like a blade poised at the base of her spine. She should’ve pushed him away. Told him to disappear. Told him to stop helping. To stop seeing her.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she reached up and slid her fingers into the wet strands of his hair, tugging him down. His mouth crashed into hers, sharp and breathless. No hesitation. No preamble. Just hunger.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tender.

It was a release.

Her back slammed against the hallway wall as he lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer. Their mouths clashed with teeth and tongue, feverish. She wanted to consume him. And he… he let her.

Buttons popped off her shirt, one by one. His metal hand left goosebumps where it touched skin. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, dragging, marking.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

He took her against the wall like it was meant to be this way—urgent, primal, wordless. His breath was hot at her ear as she moaned, legs tightening around him. He held her steady, thrusts deep and bruising.

And she loved it.

Because it was him.

Because it was her.

Because for the first time since her first kill, she didn’t feel alone.

When it was over, she collapsed with him onto the floor, hearts racing in tandem, breath tangled in sweat-slick skin. Her face buried in the crook of his neck, his arms around her waist.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t need to.

Later, hours later, they lay in her bed in silence. The rain had slowed to a whisper. His hand traced idle patterns against her bare back. Her head rested on his chest.

“You should hate me,” she whispered.

He stared at the ceiling. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

He turned to her, brushing hair from her face. “Because I know what it’s like to be made into something the world fears. And I know what it’s like to stop caring.”

She met his eyes. There was no softness in them. Just a brutal kind of honesty. A shared madness.

“You’re not afraid of me,” she murmured.

“No,” he said. “I think I was waiting for you.”

She swallowed. Then: “You shouldn’t wait in the dark.”

He smiled.

“That’s where I live.”

The morning after was deceptively calm.

Golden sunlight spilled across the hardwood floors of Y/N’s bedroom, washing over tangled sheets and exposed skin. The world outside her home seemed too quiet, too still—as if it knew something monstrous had taken place within and dared not disturb its peace.

Bucky was already awake when she stirred.

He hadn’t moved much. He lay beside her, on his side, elbow bent, cheek resting against his knuckles as he watched her sleep. His eyes were unreadable—half-shadowed, even in daylight. Not peaceful. Not relaxed. Just… watchful. Like a predator with nowhere to go.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, then turned her head toward him slowly, her voice rough with sleep. “How long have you been staring at me?”

His mouth lifted into a crooked smirk. “Long enough to memorize every eyelash.”

She let out a snort and rolled onto her side, the sheet dragging low across her bare hips. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the pillow as she regarded him. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he murmured, and then, more seriously, “You always look like that when you sleep?”

She blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to dream.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling again. Then she said, “I haven’t dreamed in years.”

There was something haunting in her tone—so quiet it almost didn’t exist. But Bucky caught it. He always did. He tucked her hair behind her ear, thumb grazing her cheek.

“Good,” he said. “Dreams lie.”

A silence settled between them. Not awkward, but thick. Weighted.

Then she sat up, stretching with a wince. Her back cracked. Bucky’s gaze dragged down the length of her spine with open hunger, but she was already halfway out of bed.

“Come on,” she said, tugging on a loose t-shirt and not bothering with anything underneath. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He quirked a brow. “Already?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she called over her shoulder, padding barefoot out of the room. “You’ll want shoes.”

They descended the narrow stairs to the basement, her bare feet thudding softly against wood while Bucky followed behind her, now dressed but still sleep-rumpled. The air grew colder as they went lower. The light dimmed.

He noticed the entrance to the basement was hidden beneath the pantry shelves. She stopped in front of it, pulled out a key from around her neck, and undid the lock with a soft click.

“You trust me now?” he asked, watching her closely.

She didn’t answer. Just pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Bucky followed.

The room was nothing like the rest of the house.

The concrete walls were stained in places, uneven. The temperature dropped instantly. One half was used like a surgical prep room—clean stainless steel counters, industrial sink, shelves stacked with plastic tarps, gloves, sealed surgical blades, chemical bottles. Everything labeled. Everything exact.

The other half?

That was the shrine.

Preserved hearts sat in glass jars, suspended in amber fluid like relics of a darker religion. There were more than he expected. Dozens. Each one meticulously catalogued, labeled in her neat handwriting.

A black blood-splattered rose lay dried and flattened in a case by itself. Next to it—a chessboard with missing pieces. The white knight wasn’t there. He knew why.

Bucky moved forward, slowly, his breath fogging the glass of one jar.

He didn’t speak.

She stood silently behind him, watching his reaction with unreadable eyes. “This is who I am,” she said, her voice low and quiet. “You wanted to see. So look.”

He turned toward her.

“I saw,” he said. “Before you even opened the door.”

Her gaze darkened. “Why didn’t you run?”

“Because I’ve been running all my life.” He stepped closer, bridging the gap between them. “And when I saw you… really saw you… I stopped.”

She looked away. “You don’t even know everything.”

“Then tell me.”

Y/N’s lips parted, then closed again.

And then she whispered, “His name was Damon.”

He stepped closer, eyes catching the label on one:

“#1: Damon - Taurus - May 12”

Flashback-

She was twenty. Bright-eyed. Fragile. A music student who worked part-time in a bookstore and thought the worst thing that could happen was a failed piano recital.

Damon had been a charming man with dark eyes and soft hands. A baritone laugh that she used to feel in her bones. He brought her flowers. Kissed her wrists. Called her “songbird.”

She thought it was love.

It wasn’t.

It was a storm. Slow-moving. Invisible until it crashed down around her.

At first, it was subtle. The isolation. “Why do you hang out with them?” “Your friends don’t really get you.” “They’re just jealous of what we have.”

Then it was control. “I didn’t say you could go out.” “That dress is too tight.” “Who are you texting at this hour?”

Then came the bruises.

Then the silence.

Then the pain between her legs she didn’t know how to explain.

The night she bled on the bathroom floor and he told her it was her fault. That she was frigid. That no one would ever want her.

Something snapped.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t run.

She waited.

Waited until he fell asleep drunk one night, his belt still coiled on the nightstand like a snake. She walked into the kitchen, pulled out the knife he always used to carve the roast, and returned to the bedroom.

She straddled him.

He woke up the moment she plunged the blade into his chest.

But it was too late.

She didn’t stop.

She carved his heart out.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then, she placed it in a glass jar. Her first trophy.

The rest of the night was methodical. She erased him from the world. Chopped the body. Burned the rest. Changed her name. Disappeared.

And she never looked back.

Until now.

Back in the Present

“I didn’t kill for justice,” she said softly, standing in the middle of her basement of horrors. “Not in the beginning. I killed because I wanted to. Because something in me cracked, and when it did… it felt right.”

Bucky stepped closer.

“And now?” he asked.

She met his eyes.

“Now I kill because they deserve it.”

-the end

[chinggay85-blog]

Nasty Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky eats you out and he’s nasty about it

Warning: ABSOLUTE FILTH, Bucky eating your pussy, smut smut smuttt, cum eating, pussy spanking

word count: 1.1k+

Nasty Bucky who spits on your pussy while eating you out just to watch it slide down your puffy folds until it dips to your entrance. shoving his tongue inside your hole and fucking his saliva deeper inside, chuckling against you when he feels you clench around his hot tongue. “you like that, sweetheart?” words hot and thick against your sticky cunt.

Bucky gets impatient with not having an answer and pulls away just to spank your pussy, using his metal hand. “asked you a question,” he says sternly, catching your attention. you immediately squeal, voice breaking with a “y-yes! oh god, i love it, Bucky!” you can barely make out a muffled, “good girl, just needa use your words f’me” before he’s spreading your folds open wide, watching as you blossom pink and flushed for him before licking up your slit and sucking your clit directly into his mouth.

Nasty Bucky who lets his tongue wander when he’s going down on you, slipping inside your ass and feeling your pussy clench around his metal fingers that are still stuffing your cunt full. “quit squirmin’, doll,” he pulls his fingers out, coated in your slick, just to meanly slap your pussy, again, twice before spreading your thighs further.

His tongue licking around your puckered hole, “gonna let me fuck you? want me to fill you up the way no man ever has?” his voice deep and rough, eyes flaring with something possessive, getting off on corrupting you.

Nasty Bucky who fucks you hard just to see you squirt all over him. his thrusts are nothing short of cruel, swollen tip pushing against your abused g-spot over and over again. you feel the pressure building, your thighs threatening to close from the intense feeling but Bucky won’t have it.

his strong palms are shoving your legs apart and driving his hips even harder into the same spot. you try to warn him, voice wavering with each rough crash of his pelvis against your ass, but he only presses his hand down on your lower stomach, amplifying the sensation until you finally spray.

his chest is glistening from your gushing pussy and you feel a wave of embarrassment knowing you’re the direct cause for the sheen on his abs. Before you can think too much about it, Bucky’s pulling out and diving face first into your cunt. “Hey hey, it’s okay sweet girl, you just needed a good fucking huh?”

he licks at your folds, thumb rubbing harsh circles into your clit as your juices continue to flood his face despite you trying your hardest to make it stop. he runs his face back and forth across your silky skin and groans hoarsely, basking in your taste as he shoves his tongue inside your pussy.

“James!! s’ too much—fuck!” you cry out, muscles giving out as you try to push his head away. he pulls his head back only to spit on your pussy, giving her two more rushed licks before sitting up on his knees once more, stroking his cock and fucking you right back in the same rhythm, a dirty combination of slick and squirt decorating the lower half of his face, coating his lips and that damn smirk you love so much.

Nasty Bucky who fucks you in missionary just to watch you cry. the way he rams his cock into you is nothing short of mean, his eyes half lidded in lust and his fingers intertwined with your own as he holds them above your head. you’re rendered helpless, forced to take every rough thrust of his hips even when it’s too much. your cunt begins clenching around him too tight, the slight pain that the stretch of his fat cock gives you growing more intense with each relentless thrust.

you can’t even help the big tears welling up in your lash line or your bottom lip quivering as you begin to pout at him. “B-Buck, it’s too deep. fuck, you’re too deep!” you begin to whine out, head turning back and forth against the plush pillow, body being run for all its worth and feeling the twitches throughout your frame in an unfamiliar pattern—you’re at your limit. and he’s still not through.

“just gotta make sure i get all of it, you know this, doll,” his nose is dragging along the column of your throat, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he ensures every inch of his cock is snug inside your overstimulated pussy. your eyes shut and the tears begin to fall, your heels digging into the dip of his spine to pull him even deeper, body conflicting itself and somehow still begging for more.

“there she is, that’s—fuck sakes—that’s my good girl,” he praises once he feels you pulling him in even closer, head pulling back to look you in the eyes before flattening his tongue against your jaw, licking all the way up your cheek and savoring the salty taste of your tears.

“taste so sweet. you’re cryin’ for it. My baby’s poor little pussy can’t get enough even with all your whinin’,” his words are punctuated with a soft chuckle before he begins lapping at the opposite side of your face. his wet tongue moves slowly across your skin, the humiliation causing soft sobs to fall from your swollen lips but his hips never stop moving. his leaky tip rams against your cervix with each thrust while he presses a wet kiss to the corner of your eye. “so pretty when you cry, we both know how much you want this, how much you need it.”

Nasty Bucky who can't help himself from eating his own cum out of your pussy. he'd long since lost count of how many times he felt your cunt flutter around him, coming over and over from his insatiable desire to fuck you for all he's worth. he didn't give you time to recover after an orgasm, and if you're honest, you can't be sure you can tell the difference between one ending and the next one washing over your overstimulated body.

Bucky had inhumane stamina, the super serum obviously had its perks, and the bedroom happened to be one of the places it showcases the best. He can go for hours, never getting tired of your broken moans ringing through his ears or that frothy ring of your cum that coats the base of his cock. but when he does finally come, it doesn't mean he's anywhere close to being done with you. He could never get tired of you.

Nasty Bucky who fills you with so much of his cum that it can't possibly all fit inside of your pussy. it spills out even with him still driving his hips forward to push it deeper, making a mess of your thighs, and his heavy balls as it overflows. The soft silk sheets beneath you now soaking with a mix of your cum. Bucky simply doesn't care and groans out in a raspy tone as he feels his orgasm last longer than normal, his cock somehow still filling you with more of his hot, sticky load.

when he eventually pulls out, he's immediately dropping to his stomach and pushing the backs of your thighs towards your chest. you've never looked so messy before, he's sure of it, as he licks up the thick stream of white pouring out of your sloppy folds. his eyes shut as he revels in the taste of your combined cum, bumping your clit with his nose while his tongue laps at your quivering entrance as he cleans up the mess he made of you.

He humps the sheets with messy thrusts, “open those eyes for me angel.” You open your eyes and Bucky groans against your cunt, he sucks and bites your clit and it has you whimpering. The look in his eyes is so soft in comparison to how he’s wrecking you. He kisses your clit and moans loudly, his cum spilling all over the sheets but his eyes never left yours.

[chinggay85-blog]

bad luck part 2 - nsfw winter soldier/bucky barnes

find part 1 here! not related to my pre-existing winter soldier series.

disclaimer: dark themes. Bucky turns into the winter soldier obviously. fully consensual smut by both parties although not explicitly stated. you have been warned, read at your own discretion.

~~~

every touch that used to bring you happiness is nothing but a dagger through your heart nowadays.

a gentle hand on your lower back sends you reeling. flashbacks of not him coming up behind you, reaching into your pants...

"are you alright, doll?" Bucky asks of you when you don't quite catch what he's said to you.

"yes, sorry," you say, coming back to yourself.

you feel the headache coming on as you lie to him.

his lips on the skin of your neck, his teeth digging in a bit rougher, reminding you of what it feels like to be his...

"sorry, baby, I'll be gentler," he murmurs to you when he sees your less than enthusiastic reaction.

"no, that's not-" you try to protest, but you can't. now isn't the time for that discussion. "it's okay, baby."

you appreciate his concern, you do. but the stinging feeling in your eyes only gets worse as he gets softer, gentler, a further reminder of what it is that you're not telling him.

~~~

not even a moment after you fell apart for not him in the kitchen, he'd dragged you out of the compound and back to your apartment.

he'd put you on your hands and knees on the bed, sharply smacking the back of your thighs and your ass as he fucked you rougher than you'd ever taken it before.

the noises that filled the room were nothing short of obscene, grotesque, disgusting.

your voice was no longer your own, high-pitched moans falling from your lips left and right. you ignored the sound of his skin slapping against yours harshly, his motions making you jolt forward every time.

he leaned against you, laying his chest to your back, his thrusts never faltering once. the smacking sound was thus replaced with squelching noises from between your legs that made you want to hide with how loud it was, a reminder to the both of you of how badly you wanted this.

"mine," he grit into your ear, metal fingers tracing down your stomach to the junction where you met. he laved his fingers up and down from your clit to where he stretched you open, the feeling nothing short of torture. it seemed a sign of his possessiveness, proof that he owned you wholly by touching you at his pleasure, not yours.

the second he decided to give into you, to touch you properly, your knees buckled, and his arm around your pelvis was all that managed to hold you up. he's so strong, holding your entire body weight up while pounding you from behind...

inhuman.

he's inhuman.

and as your orgasm ripped through your whole body, your mind conjured up thoughts of what everyone has told you about the man behind you.

dangerous. terrifying. ruthless.

psycho killer.

but how can he be any of those things when he treats you like you're the only thing in the world that matters?

~~~

the next morning, Bucky woke before you, so you didn't have the time to consider how to approach this conversation.

he bombarded you the second you awoke, and although you would've liked a few minutes to actually get your head on straight, you couldn't blame him for wanting to know. for being scared.

of himself. of the Winter Soldier. of what he might possibly do to you.

"baby, what happened yesterday?" he asked you. "I don't remember coming to bed last night. I... I lost time. the last thing I remember was being grabbed on the street."

you had no clue what to say. you had no choice but to come up with it as you went.

"you went for a run, baby, and didn't come back. I was worried," you told him, still half-asleep, praying that your lie made sense by time you'd both fully woken and cleared your heads. "I didn't tell anyone yet."

"what? why not?" he questioned. protocol, especially when it came to Bucky, was to report anyone missing the very second you believed it to be an issue.

"I know it was stupid, and I should have," you told him. "I was scared. but if I thought it had been anything serious, you know I would have."

"it was serious. they grabbed me. those goddamn words are the last thing I remember," he said angrily.

you watched as he paced around the room. yes, he was pissed, but you tried to tell yourself it wasn't directed at you. you might have royally fucked up, but he was pissed that it happened again.

not because of you.

"clearly, he knows to come back here. it's happened twice now, and I didn't know either time," you offered, lying through your teeth.

"but what if I hurt you?" he hissed. "we're both naked, for god's sake-"

"don't read into it," you blurt out, trying to distract him from that line of thinking. "clearly you didn't hurt me either time. I'm fine."

you tried your best to brush it off, to not let him think out loud for too long lest he begin piecing it together.

you knew he didn't believe you.

~~~

of course, later that day, you'd been forced to go to the compound and report the situation.

and yet again, you lied.

you sat there and just took the lecture as you were reprimanded for not immediately reporting him missing.

"you know better. you know not to take things like this lightly, especially not when it comes to him!" Steve had told you.

you flinched when he said 'him.' it made it sound like Bucky was lesser than, like he was more fragile, just because of his vulnerability to his alter ego.

"I know. I'm sorry," you told Steve. "but like I told Bucky, he didn't hurt me! he came back to me both times, and he didn't hurt me!"

Steve gave you a look, and for just a fraction of a second, you wondered if he knew. if he could look into your mind and if he just knew that you were lying.

"and you're sure you didn't see him?" he asked.

you did the worst possible thing you could have.

you hesitated.

"I'm positive."

~~~

every day, you feel worse and worse.

you owe it to your team to tell them the truth. a professional obligation.

but more than that, you owe it to Bucky to tell him the truth. a personal obligation, an obligation you've willingly taken on by way of choosing to be his significant other.

and what are you doing?

hurting him.

just to keep your dirty little secret safe.

because maybe deep down, deep in a part of your soul you don't want to examine, you can't fathom the idea of never seeing the Winter Soldier again.

of never being his again.

~~~

ever since that mission when he turned, you've been different.

he doesn't want to attribute it to that. he wants to believe that maybe it's just something he's done, or said, that maybe it's something he can fix. that there's something he can do to bridge the widening gap between the two of you.

even if he can't fix it, he still hopes it's him. he hopes that you're just bored of him, that you're falling out of love with him, because in that case?

in that case, he can still love you from afar without hating himself for it. he can live knowing that it wasn't his fault, that your relationship just wasn't meant to be, even if it absolutely destroyed him.

but the timing makes this particularly confusing.

none of this happened until after he was reported to have been turned. your relationship had been perfect, even up to the point where he forced you to promise you would shoot him if you had to. even that hadn't put a dent in the happiness and love you two shared.

it was after. after he'd lost time. after his alter ego had been brought to surface once more.

it can't be a coincidence that you start flinching every time he reaches for you after the Winter Soldier saw the light of day again.

worse even, there's not a bruise on you. not a scratch that might indicate that he'd done something to hurt you.

and that only makes him trust himself even less and less, because what else could possibly be happening here?

~~~

the ball of anxiety that's been sitting in your stomach for weeks never seems to lessen.

you think Bucky has noticed that something is wrong with you, that you're not entirely your normal self, but he hasn't brought it up with you just yet.

well, he hadn't.

"I want talk to you," he told you one morning as you both sat lazily on the couch. normally, you'd have your legs draped across his lap as you read a book and he watched the morning news.

you sit on the other side of the couch now, far away from him.

"yeah, baby?" you ask, sticking your bookmark in between the two open pages and looking to him.

"are we okay?" he asks you. the pure terror in his eyes is evident now, on full display for you to see the way he's afraid of what your answer might be. that he's concerned you don't love him anymore, or any other insane explanation he's come up with in his head.

"we're fine," you smile at him. it's definitely not convincing.

you're the reason he's doubting your relationship. you're the reason he's doubting himself, the reason he's doubting the fact that he has control over his own mind. this is entirely on you.

it's all your fault.

that fact eats away at your nerves like an amoeba.

"yeah, but you don't... like right now, you're sitting so far away. I miss you sitting on top of me. I told you, you could never annoy me by doing that," he pleads, voice so soft you think you might break. "you don't seem to want to have sex anymore. you're constantly in your head, and never in the real world, with me. so please, just tell me, are you sure we're okay? are you okay?"

you want nothing more than to tell him, yes. I love you more than life itself, but if I admit the truth to you, you'll leave me because you'll think I'm not safe with you.

hopefully not because I lied.

what you actually do is scoot closer to him, wrap your arms around his neck, and press his forehead to yours.

"we're okay. I love you, and I will love you until the day that I die, okay? even then, even in death, I'll still love you."

he nods against you, your reassurances calming his nerves slightly. "yeah. yeah, baby. I love you too."

in that very moment, a countdown started in your head.

a countdown until the moment your relationship inevitably falls apart, because at this point, that's the only way it's headed.

if you don't tell him, your relationship ends because you continue to lie, continue to pull away, and one or both of you won't be able to put up with it anymore.

if you do tell him, your relationship ends because you tell him the truth, he's the one to pull away, and he refuses to come anywhere near you ever again for the sake of keeping you safe from him.

hopefully not because you lied.

you've never felt so alone in the arms of the love of your life.

~~~

when another mission is proposed, you say no. you downright refuse to let the entire thing happen, refuse to let Bucky go.

more than just refusing, you throw a tantrum.

"this cannot happen, don't you understand? this is what they want! they want to hurt him, to take him back!" you yelled at Steve.

"this can be it. the end of all endings. to put hydra down, for good," he reasoned with you. "and, I'm sorry, but we need him."

"NO!" you screamed. "I won't sign off. I won't go with him. just, no. I won't let this happen."

you weren't even saying anything of significance at this point and you knew it. you were throwing around words because you were upset and didn't want to risk facing your reality again.

because you're not ready to lose Bucky.

Steve politely said your name, trying to get you to calm down.

your mind was in conundrum, trying to rationalize this, trying to escape from what you've done.

how you've hurt him, how you've hurt everyone.

they'd all be better off without you.

"you're not going at all," Steve told you, and immediately, you knew that the decision was final. they never planned to bring you along in the first place.

you began shouting again, trying to take back what you'd said earlier, that this would only happen if you agreed to be there-

Steve finally put his foot down.

"I brought you in here to tell you this is going to happen one way or another. I had hoped I would have your support on this."

another punch to the gut.

your whole world is falling apart. your career, your relationship, your sense of self. you're watching it all go down the drain like a diamond earring, and you're trying to grasp for it, and you've almost got it.

"this is happening this weekend. you are not to report to the compound on Friday, are we clear?"

it's over.

the countdown finally has an official expiration date.

you turn around, slam the door as you leave, and you don't look back.

it's all over.

~~~

you tried. you really tried to get Bucky to understand, to listen to reason, that this whole mission plan was utter bullshit.

you immediately ran home, knowing he's already there, knowing Steve had likely told him before he told you. you still had a chance to change his mind, to get him to refuse.

"baby, please, do not do this. they're going to hurt you again. they'll get into your head," you told him, running your hands through his hair as you looked at him with wild eyes, ready to cry.

"but, if this works... then that's it. no more hydra," he tells you. his voice is shaky, and you hate it. you despise the fact that he's going to have to relive his traumas, that he has to confront it head on, again.

"I don't want to see them hurt you again," you repeat. god, this whole thing has made you lose every critical thinking bone in your body.

"if this works, and we finally get rid of them, then they'll never be able to hurt me ever again. don't you understand?"

you pause. your heart feels like a hollow void in your chest. you're asking him to bow out, to do this for you, when in reality?

he needs this.

he needs the closure. he needs to put this to bed once and for all.

"I need to do this for me," he tells you, and then his own tears start.

if you weren't already the worst person in the world, you would most certainly feel like you were now.

~~~

you do as you're told and you stay home on Friday.

you don't bother even getting out of bed. you force yourself to get up and shower, but anything else is beyond your mental capacity right now.

you can't stop thinking about it: his worst trauma has been nothing but a highly gratifying sexual experience for you.

and you fucking hate yourself for it.

the thought leaves you hunched over the toilet, dry heaving the destitute contents of your stomach into the bowl a number of times throughout the day.

you have no choice but to break up with him. even if all goes according to plan, and the mission is successful in taking down hydra, you can't keep doing this. to him, or to yourself.

he deserves to know. you can't keep living off of the excuse that you want to protect him and salvage your relationship.

because you're not protecting him. you're stabbing him in the back.

so you'll break up with him, and you'll hand in your letter of resignation.

it doesn't hurt so bad, you think, to accept that you've completely tarnished your career by lying, by withholding crucial information about key missions and about one of your team members.

it won't hurt as bad as it will to have to tell Bucky the truth.

~~~

you'd be lying if you said it didn't cross your mind that this mission might lead to the resurfacing of the man causing all your problems right now.

but you've been doing a lot of lying recently anyways.

especially when you call the Winter Soldier the one causing all your problems. that's bullshit. this is all on you.

so you wish you were surprised when you get a phone call from Steve on Saturday evening.

"I'm so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this-"

you don't let him get through his sentence.

"spit it out," you say.

you forced yourself to get up, to get out of the house today. you're in the middle of the grocery store when you answer the phone.

"he turned. and he's gone. so we're assuming he's coming to yours," he tells you.

the last time this happened, it took him a few days to get back to New York. to get to you.

"we need you to stay at the compound until he resurfaces. we'll send a team to your apartment to subdue him."

a million different angles run through your head in an instant, wondering if this is really the best course of action. even if you try to argue with Steve, you realize, he's not going to listen to you.

"okay. will do," you concede.

you know what will happen. the soldier has proved by now that he's coming for you, no matter where you are. he's gotten past compound security before without spilling even a single drop of blood.

something in his programming has changed.

you try to tamp down your beating heart and your overwhelming nerves as you abandon your groceries and head straight for the compound.

~~~

you're asleep when it happens.

in a random bedroom on a random floor that you're not even sure the number of, he comes in late in the dead of night.

he strips all the clothes from his body as he walks up to the bed, gazing at your form covered by blankets and sheets, hiding you from him.

he slips into the bed behind you, burying himself under the covers warmed by your body heat, and begins to strip your sleeping clothes away from your skin.

you're awoken to a harsh bite on the side of your neck, accompanied by two hands wrapped around your torso, pinching and plucking at your nipples now exposed to the cold air of the night.

"fuck, it's you," you whisper, trying to wake up, trying to experience this moment to the fullest.

being anxious won't help you now, and you don't know if this will ever happen again.

the thoughts don't cure your anxiety, but they help enough to let you enjoy the feeling of him curled around you.

he doesn't bother responding, which is enough confirmation for you. you turn your head behind you to face him, and slot your mouth with his, adjusting the rest of your body to follow.

you let yourself get caught up in the way his hands hold your head so tightly, gripping your hair into a ponytail to force you into compliance. he kisses you like he owns you, and fuck, you know does.

all the emotional distress, all the physical desire, the withdrawal from every aspect of your life, is all because of him. it's all because he's your secret that you're too afraid to let go, that you're so desperately clinging to.

every decision, both big and small, and every thought and feeling you've had over the last couple of weeks. it's all because of him.

you knew it was time to fess up a long time ago. but somewhere along the way, you got too caught up in it, in the thought that:

he does own you.

he uses his body weight to push you onto your back and he crawls on top of you, trapping you underneath him. you hear him groan into your mouth as he grinds harshly down against you, the feeling of his rock-hard dick pressing up against your stomach, seeking a release that he's so rarely granted.

you don't want this to be the last time you see him.

you're going to pretend that it is.

"let me use my mouth," you breathe when he pulls away from the kiss, only for a second. "I want to, please," you plead.

he all but growls at the sound of that, and then you're moving, again, watching him move to lay on his back. you watch his flesh hand stroking himself as though he can't go a single second without the stimulation.

positioned between his legs, you watch him hiss and groan as his metal hand tangles itself in your hair, holding your head right above where he needs it.

"let me," you urge, tapping his wrist.

and, by god, the Winter Soldier listens to you.

he yanks his hand away from himself, and in a second, your mouth is on him, sucking on the tip like it's your holy grail. his hips jut up, forcing himself further into your mouth and past your gag reflex.

"mine," he hisses as your throat works around him, adjusting to the sudden intrusion. he glares down at you, looking at the way your lips spread over his cock.

you get lost in it, making it your life's goal to bring him to climax on your tongue, to force him to have the best orgasm he's ever had. you take your time, relishing in the sensation of his hands tightly gripping your hair, taking care to taste every inch of him. the whines he lets out are surreal, adding to the pleasure you feel just by pleasing him as such.

you stay there a while, eventually resting your cheek on his thigh, your fingertips dipping into his skin everywhere you can reach.

you want to bring him to climax, you want to feel the weight of his release on your tongue-

he doesn't grant you that luxury.

he yanks you off of him, replacing your mouth with his hand once again as he throws you back onto the bed next to him for the last time. you're again taken by surprise at how quickly and efficiently he can move.

his gaze follows his hands as they come to the front of your thighs, pushing them apart, watching carefully as he puts your cunt on display.

"mine," he repeats, and then he proceeds to dip his tongue into your dripping hole, making you scream out.

he doesn't stay there long before he's crawling over you once more. he's fucking impatient as hell, you've learned, so it shouldn't be a shock when he doesn't waste a single minute before thrusting his cock into you.

“fuck, Bucky,” you moan out instinctively at the feeling.

he doesn’t like that, you find. he really doesn't like that.

“no,” he hisses in your ear, sounding absolutely enraged. he looks back and forth between your eyes for just a moment before looking down to the column of your neck.

next thing you know, he's wrapping his metal hand around your throat and squeezing.

Bucky’s never dared choke you before.

you instinctively bring your hands to his, as would be typical in the field, trying to defend yourself and fight for your life.

but you’re still breathing. and you're not trying to fight for your life right now.

fuck, you think. when the other person isn’t actually trying to kill you, this feels…

you whine at the sensation of his hand pressing so perfectly on the sides of your neck, just enough to make you lightheaded.

“no,” he repeats.

what?

then it comes to you: you accidentally called him Bucky.

“I’m… fuck, I’m sorry,” you sob. the feeling of his hand on your neck makes every sensation so much more heightened. your voice comes out strained, completely wrecked from the pressure around your throat.

he keeps his hand firmly in place as he moves faster, fucking into you with a passion. you’re sure he’s pent up, he’s been asleep for so long.

asleep? gone? where does he go when Bucky’s around?

where's Bucky right now?

you don’t think he’d tell you if you asked.

“mine,” he whispers, repeating it over and over in time with every rough thrust he gives to you. “not his.”

fuck.

you can’t deal with this right now.

“harder,” you urge him. you don’t want to think about this, about the stress of having to explain this to your poor boyfriend. about having to leave your entire life behind because of the trail of lies you've left in your wake.

Bucky doesn’t deserve any of this.

the soldier doesn’t hesitate, giving it to you with a force like you’ve never felt before. he’s so deep, you might even start cramping, it’s that good.

suddenly he’s bringing his flesh hand to hoist one of your legs over his shoulder, forcing you to take the new position, to take the way he’s making you fall apart so easily for him like it's a mission he refuses to fail.

"say it," he hisses between grunts, looking down at your face as it contorts with each one of his movements.

"I'm yours," you affirm. "all yours."

his hand on your neck and the other on your hip both tighten their grip on you, hard enough to feel the pinch on your skin. he brings his mouth to your chest and begins biting up and down your collarbone, your chest...

you can't help but wonder if he might know what you know. if he, too, treats every time like the last time.

he leaves his marks all over you, hickeys splayed across your breasts and all the way up to where his hand meets the skin of your neck. you're covered in the reminder that it was him who fucked you, him who owned you.

there will be bruises on your hip and your neck in the morning, you're sure of it.

as he doubles down on fucking you within an inch of your life, your head grows fuzzier, and your orgasm draws nearer.

"yours, all yours," you tell him, whining louder as you get closer.

and, as if it's the only word he knows how to say,

"mine," he repeats, both of you losing yourselves in each other and coming harder than you possibly ever have.

~~~

if you said your whole world came crashing down the next morning, that would be an understatement.

you wake up to find him laying next to you, out cold. your pajamas are tangled in the mess of the sheets on the bed, his clothes in a trail from the door to the side of the bed.

it's late in the morning, you can tell, by the way the light passes through the cracks of the blinds on the window.

you force yourself to stand from the bed and head to the bathroom, plopping yourself down on the toilet, purposefully avoiding looking in the mirror.

you already know what you're going to see.

you bury your head in your hands because you know: the countdown is over. it's just a matter of when he wakes up and the explosion happens.

you stand, flush the toilet, and step up to the sink.

there's no escaping your reflection now.

bruises in the shape of fingertips around your neck, same as on your hip and your thighs. hickeys all over your skin, so many that you didn't even know was possible for one man to inflict.

you called him Bucky, so he marked you to make sure you knew who it was that did this to you.

and then...

it happens.

Bucky appears in the reflection behind you, and everything blows up.

you see the look of delirium on his face, freshly awoken from slumber after he lost the last few days. he takes in the sight of you in the mirror, and flinches back as though you've just put a gun to his head.

"Bucky, I can explain," you begin, turning to face him, putting your hands on his shoulders, your voice shaky. "let me explain."

his eyes roam over the marks all over your body, never meeting your eyeline. he takes them in over and over again, particularly the ones on your neck, and there's only one explanation.

"did he- did I do this to you?" he whispers. he sounds petrified, like he's just found out that his worst nightmares have come true.

because to him, they have.

"yes, but Bucky, wait," you plead with him as he steps back from you.

"no, you're not safe with me," he tells you, avoiding your gaze, his heart breaking in his chest. "this is what I was worried about."

"Bucky, stop, just look at me-"

"you have bruises around your fucking neck! from my fucking hand!" he yells back, his voice cracking. his eyes dart to yours, the look in them wild and terrified like you've never seen before.

he looks at your neck once more, and then down to his metal hand.

"he could've killed you. I could have killed you."

"but he didn't, it was just-"

"did he force you? did he make you, did I make you-"

"-goddamnit, Bucky, I wanted it!" you yell back at him. you've been holding this in for so long, and your whole life has already blown up because of it. what's the point in holding it in any longer?

the room goes quiet.

"yes, he fucked me, every time. and I lied to you about it, every time."

the look on his face is as though he's just seen a ghost.

"and I let him choke me, because I wanted him to, but you didn't hurt me," you admit, the tone of your voice turning to pleading.

~~~

he's at a loss for words.

you're the most precious thing in his life, and he put his hands on you. he did god only knows what to you, all while he wasn't conscious. while he couldn't stop himself, couldn't protect you from himself.

and now you're telling him that you wanted it?

he turns around and begins shrugging clothes on, and you follow his lead, pulling on your own clothes to hide the evidence written all over your skin. all the while, he continues to speak, trying to wrap his head around this.

"no, you're lying to me," he tells you. "you're lying because you don't want to upset me."

you begin raise your voice again. you have no choice; it's all open, it's all on the table now, and you're done lying to him.

you're done.

"I'm not fucking lying to you, Bucky!" you yell at him. "I've spent the last month and a half lying to you so that this moment, this one, right now, wouldn't happen! because I can't stand to see you look so scared of yourself!

"I wanted this! every goddamn time, I wanted him to, and I lied to you about it. and I lied to myself, telling myself I was protecting you, when in reality? I was only making it so much worse. I was so fucking selfish, and I'm sorry."

your eyes sting worse than ever before. you feel so helpless, the ache in your chest seated so deep that you think you're about to have a heart attack.

he looks like he's about to speak, like he's about to scream, or cry, or curse you out. he doesn't.

his entire temperament suddenly changes, and you can tell: it's over. there's no emotion on his face, and he just stares at you blankly.

your jaw stutters, trying to tell him something, anything.

no words come out.

he grabs his shirt off the floor and storms out. you run after him, yelling out to him, "wait-"

you freeze.

everyone's standing in the hallway, freshly returned from the mission, listening in on your conversation. Bucky's already ran past them down the hall.

"we heard yelling. we came to make sure... that everything was okay," Steve offers.

no, everything is not okay, you want to say.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," you offer weakly.

but it's too late.

you've already ruined everything.

~~~

part 3 coming soon.

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[chinggay85-blog]

Bucky is the type of man to kiss the ground Malyshka walks on

Bucky worships his wife. He is unapologetically in love with her.

Bucky never planned on being married and after meeting her, Bucky couldn't imagine a world where she wasn't his.

Before their desserts made it to the table on their second date, Bucky had the proposal planned.

He knew he was falling for her. He knew she was the one. And he knew, he knew, she was going to be everything he ever wanted.

And when you're as certain as he was, you go all in. Bucky wasn't going to risk losing her by being nonchalant, playing games or wasting time.

Bucky locked her down. The same she locked down his heart.

He's never regretted moving so fast with her. Because when you know, you know. He wishes he had met her sooner. Something he tells her all the time.

Their life has been incredible and he still has amazing things in store for the two of them.

[chinggay85-blog]

We Couldn’t Stop

Title: We Couldn’t Stop Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers 

Summary:  During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.

Word Count:  7k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms

A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for April Kinky Bingo Square: A3- Threesome Card Number: KB003

The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.

You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.

You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.

"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.

"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."

"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."

That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.

"I’ve almost got- "

The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.

A soft spray hit you all in the face.

It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.

You stumbled back, coughing once.

"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"

"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."

"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."

"Close it," Steve ordered.

Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."

"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.

The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.

You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.

You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.

Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."

Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?

"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.

"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "

"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."

You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.

"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.

"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval. 

"Buck.." His tone warning. 

"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."

"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."

And just like that, you were cut off again. Biochemical- engineered arousal.

"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."

That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.

You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.

"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."

"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."

"Worked up?" Bucky turned on him, eyes flashing. "You don’t feel that?"

Steve’s jaw flexed. "Of course I feel it."

"Then quit acting like you don’t."

You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.

And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder. 

Hours had passed.

You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.

You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.

Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.

Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.

"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.

Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.

It didn’t.

You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.

You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.

A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.

And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.

“Don’t- don’t do that.”

You froze. “I- I can’t- ”

Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.

You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.

Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.

"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.

Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"

"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."

"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "

"Fuck this. She needs someone."

"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.

"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.

Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.

Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.

"Please... please someone- "

Someone pulled the curtain back. Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak. It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”

Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.

They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.

You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.

"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.

At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.

You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.

Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.

"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.

Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.

"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."

Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.

Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.

Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.

"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

They were both on you.

You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.

Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.

Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.

You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.

You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.

Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.

“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”

Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs. “She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.” The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.

Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.

The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”

“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”

His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.

You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.

Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.

Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.

"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.

“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.” Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.

Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.

"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"

"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.

"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."

You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.

And then it broke.

You came- hard.

Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.

It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.

You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.

And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.

You were still shaking. Still needy.

Still burning.

You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.

"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"

Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.

Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.

Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.

You wanted him in your mouth.

You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.

“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”

You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.

Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.

“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.

You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.

He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.

The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.

Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.

It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.

They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.

You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.

They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.

“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”

You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”

Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.

“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.

"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."

Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.

“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”

You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.

“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”

And then it snapped.

Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.

“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”

He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed. 

The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”

Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.

Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.

His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.

You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.

“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.

You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.

And then one thick finger pressed inward.

You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.

You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.

“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.

“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.

“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.

Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.

“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.

Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.

As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”

“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”

You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.

Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”

The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.

You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.

“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”

You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.

You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.

The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.

“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.

But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.

“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”

You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.

You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.

“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.

You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.

Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.

Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”

Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.

Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.

“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”

“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.

“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”

And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.

Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.

“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”

Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.

“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”

Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.

“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.

“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.

But it didn’t stop there.

Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.

“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.

Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”

Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.

“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.

Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”

You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.

“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”

Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.

“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.

“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”

They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.

“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”

“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”

Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.

They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.

You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.

“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.

Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”

Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.

And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.

You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked. You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.

You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.

Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.

Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.

Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.

“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”

You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.

“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”

You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.

Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.

He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.

“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.

“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again

TAGS: @buckybarnesfic, @ruexj283, @yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora, @hextech-bros

[chinggay85-blog]

Devoted Possession

Summary: To the outside world, including Steve Rogers, you're just a close couple. But as Steve begins to notice subtle shifts: distance, lies, unease, he starts suspecting something is wrong. In the moments he tries to confront you both about it, you and Bucky, still cloaked in innocence, continue playing the part. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark reader. Yandere themes. Implied stalking/watching immensely. Implied death. (Hydra agent)

Word Count: 1.8k+

A/N: I could definitely continue this, but I wanted to focus on an outsider’s perspective for this one. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist | Obsessive Love (Part 1.)

Steve Rogers wasn’t the kind of man to jump to conclusions. He believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt, in second chances and quiet patience, especially when it came to Bucky.

So when he noticed that you and Bucky had grown closer, he smiled. It was good, he thought. Bucky deserved someone kind. Someone who made him laugh again, even if it was that small, fleeting kind of laugh Bucky rarely let out. Steve had seen it once or twice when you were around; a twitch at the corner of Bucky’s mouth, a softening in his eyes. That alone made Steve relax.

At first.

But it didn’t take long before something felt… off.

It wasn’t anything either of you did directly. It was the way Bucky always seemed to be near you, not in an obvious way, but always hovering somewhere just close enough. You could be in the training room, tying your shoes, and there he'd be, watching silently from the other side. You could be in the kitchen pouring tea, and he’d already be there, leaning against the counter, mug untouched.

Steve noticed that you didn’t mind. If anything, you seemed to expect it. Like it was natural. Like Bucky belonged there beside you and only you.

He chalked it up to trauma at first. Bucky had latched onto you for comfort, and you were returning the favor. It made sense. You were both quiet, careful, observant. You matched him in energy: soft tones, gentle steps, secrets tucked behind subtle smiles. But the balance between you was strange and way too in sync. Almost too practiced like you didn’t just understand each other, you anticipated each other.

And then there were the missions.

Steve began to notice how people who flirted with you on assignments, even jokingly, never got a second chance. Not because you rejected them. No, you always smiled in that sweet, calm way of yours, tilting your head like you didn’t even notice the attention.

But Bucky noticed and Steve began to suspect that something was happening after the fact.

A Hydra defector who had been “too handsy” with you during an interrogation mysteriously disappeared between transport stops. No trace. No camera footage. The others brushed it off. “Probably escaped.” But Steve caught the look in Bucky’s eyes that night when he told you, “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

You had responded sweetly. "I know. I wasn’t worried."

Steve didn’t question it out loud. But he felt a small crack in his chest open. Still, he said nothing. Because love made people protective, right? Bucky had been used, abused, weaponized for decades. If he felt like he had something, someone to protect now, who was Steve to challenge that?

But the more time passed, the stranger it became.

He once walked into a quiet common room, only to find Bucky sitting silently beside you, his metal fingers grazing the side of your wrist while you calmly read a book. You were smiling, a soft, dreamy thing, but what startled Steve was how Bucky’s eyes weren’t on the book. They were locked on your face, unmoving. Like he was memorizing you. Like if he looked away, you might vanish.

Steve coughed to break the tension, but neither of you flinched. So, he brought it up gently that night. “You and Bucky seem close lately.”

You looked up at him with wide, harmless eyes. “He makes me feel safe,” You’d said, sweet as sugar.

Steve nodded slowly. “That’s good. Just make sure it’s… healthy, okay?”

You tilted your head like you didn’t understand. “Healthy?”

Steve smiled tightly. “Yeah. Just… keep looking out for each other. That’s all.”

But behind your eyes, something unreadable flickered, a quiet promise wrapped in silk. You nodded. “Always.”

The word didn’t do much to ease Steve’s concerns. Time continued to pass with strange things coincidences occurring, the love between you two growing even stronger. It all felt off to him when he knew he should have been happy for his best friend. Maybe because Bucky was his best friend that he went to seek out Bucky alone one day, but Steve didn’t know.

He didn’t know that Bucky’s room was now yours too, not officially, not in front of anyone else. But Bucky had long since cleared a drawer, laid out an extra blanket, and memorized the sound of your heartbeat in sleep.

Steve didn’t know about the way Bucky trailed fingers down your back while you whispered in the dark, your voices blending together in quiet, mutual reassurances that no one else mattered. He never heard Bucky’s voice saying no one else deserved you.

He didn’t know about the list Bucky kept in his head. All the names of everyone who ever made you uncomfortable, who looked at you too long, who smiled at you the way only he should.

And he certainly didn’t know that you had your own list too.

Not violent, not confrontational. No, yours was different. You didn’t need to hurt anyone. You just needed to watch. To gather things like passcodes, schedules, weak points, and tuck them away like puzzle pieces. If anyone got too close to Bucky, you knew exactly how to make them leave. An exposed secret. A missing key. A harmless rumor whispered in the right ear.

And you always smiled. You always stayed sweet. That’s why no one ever suspected a thing.

Except, maybe, Steve.

Because was definitely starting to feel it, the way the air shifted when you were together. The way your devotion to each other was too complete. Too consuming.

So, here he was. It was late, the kind of quiet that settled only after everyone else had gone to bed and the Tower seemed to exhale. The hallways were dim, just the soft amber glow of the lights lining the floor. Steve didn’t usually walk this floor after midnight, but something had pulled him from sleep.

A feeling.

He was standing outside of Bucky’s door. It was closed, nothing out of the ordinary. Quiet. Unremarkable. Except your room was dark too. Empty.

Steve stood there a moment longer than he meant to, staring at Bucky’s door, then to your door across the hall, then back again. He hadn’t seen you all day. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen you much at all lately unless you were with Bucky. And that wasn’t unusual, not on the surface, couples got close.

But this wasn’t just close. This was… something.

He lifted his hand and knocked twice. There was silence for a moment then the soft sound of movement. The door opened after a few seconds to reveal Bucky bare-chested, relaxed, and not alarmed. But not surprised either.

Steve’s eyes flicked over his friend’s shoulder, and there you were. Sitting cross-legged on Bucky’s bed, one of his shirts drowning your frame, a book in your lap. You looked up and smiled, warm, gentle, like someone caught in the middle of nothing suspicious at all.

“Steve,” You greeted softly, tilting your head. “Everything okay?”

Bucky didn’t move to block the door, but he didn’t step aside either. “What’s going on?”

Steve swallowed. It was dawning on him that he shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. But the pressure in his chest had grown too heavy to ignore.

“I just… wanted to check on you two.”

Your smile widened, so sweet it nearly stung. “We’re fine.”

Steve’s eyes lingered on you, on how comfortable you looked in Bucky’s bed, in his space, like you belonged there. Like you'd always been there.

He turned his attention to Bucky. “You haven’t been on rotation lately. I figured you’d say something.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift. “Didn’t have to. Nat swapped with me.”

Steve nodded slowly. “You didn’t tell me.”

In response, he just shrugged. “Didn’t think I had to. She offered.”

Something inside Steve twisted. Not the lie, Nat probably had offered. But it wasn’t the truth either.

You glanced at Bucky, then back at Steve with wide, concerned eyes. “Did we do something wrong?”

“No,” Steve stated quickly. “No, it’s not that. I just…” His jaw clenched. “You two seem… close.”

“We are,” Bucky said before you could. His voice wasn’t defensive, just final. Undeniable.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your cheek on your knee, still watching Steve. “Is that bad?”

Steve exhaled. “Of course not. It’s just…” His gaze drifted around the room again, catching the second mug on the nightstand. The way your boots sat neatly by Bucky’s dresser. How a photo of the three of you, taken months ago, had been moved, slightly askew, like someone couldn’t stand the sight of it being centered on all of you.

Bucky watched him scan the room in silence.

Steve met his eyes again. “I just want to make sure no one’s getting hurt.”

Silence.

Your smile didn’t drop, but it dimmed, just a little. Your tone remained even though, but had a hint of confusion in it. “You mean… like emotionally?”

Steve hesitated. “That, and… otherwise.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. Just slightly. “No one’s getting hurt.”

It was the first time Steve almost didn’t believe him.

You stood up then, walking slowly to Bucky’s side. Your hand slid up his arm, fingers wrapping around the crook of his elbow. Not clingy. Just natural. Just claiming.

Steve tried not to stare at your actions. “You two would tell me, right? If something felt wrong?”

“Of course,” You whispered, tilting your head again, the innocent confusion in your tone too pure to question, too calm to accuse.

But Steve felt it again building in his chest, that pressure. That wrongness. And he couldn’t identify or say why, but it terrified him more than anything else. You both looked so perfect standing there, close and quiet and composed, like a picture that had never been touched by blood or secrets.

Like you’d never hidden anything at all.

“I just want you to be okay,” He sighed at last.

“We are,” Bucky said firmly.

You nodded, stepping a little closer to Steve. “You don’t have to worry about us, Steve.”

And for a moment, Steve swore something flickered behind your eyes, just a shadow, a shimmer of something deeper. Something that didn’t match the smile on your lips.

He nodded stiffly. “Alright. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Steve,” You both echoed in perfect harmony.

The door closed quietly behind him. And the moment it did, Bucky exhaled. Slowly. Like he’d been holding it the whole time. You remained silent and turned to him, melting into his arms, into your rightful place in his bed, where the rest of the world couldn’t see the possessiveness in your fingers or the way your heartbeat sped when he held you tighter in his arms.

“He’s starting to notice,” You murmured.

“I know.”

“Do you think he’ll do anything?”

“No,” Bucky whispered, brushing your hair back with his metal hand. “Not yet.”

You smiled into his chest, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. A honey-laced weapon.

“He’ll learn eventually,” You whispered. “You’re mine.”

“And you’re mine,” Bucky growled.

And the rest of the world could burn.

[chinggay85-blog]

Digital Bath - Four

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Alpha/Omega dynamics, mentions of knife violence, mentions of blood, language, stalking, scenting, knife play.

Stalker Dark! Omega Reader x Alpha! Bucky Barnes

Previous: One, Two, Three

gif by @romancegifs​

Summary | A shy but obsessive and dangerous Omega sets her sights on the perfect  Alpha - Bucky Barnes - who has a little darkness of his own.

The slam of the door doesn’t make you flinch as you stare out of your peephole, hands on either side of the door while you watch him. You’re freshly showered, still clad in a towel while drops of water run down your legs, your eyes unmoving from the sight in front of you. You have to hand it to Bucky Barnes – he’s more efficient than you gave him credit. The smile on your face when you saw him rub his wrists together fades for the moment, your head pressing against the door as you inhale his scent.

He’s close to rut. A week or so away, give or take a few days. You aren’t stupid, watching him stare at the door for a moment before he walks away. You’re well aware that the minute you open the front door and touch anything, your scents will collide.

Sending you right into a breakthrough heat.

You have to stay focused on your task, turning back to your bedroom to dry off. You know Laura has received your flowers and the card, sickeningly sweet with well wishes in your flourished handwriting. She’ll be in the hospital for another two weeks until she’s released on bed rest. It was too risky to say much else when you heard the news, putting on a concern façade before you had left the office.

Caroline was another story. You certainly hadn’t underestimated her. Jealousy ripples through you at the thought of his lips on hers, heartbeat quickening with the thought of him between her thighs.

Giving her a knot that should be yours.

Your scent spikes, eyes narrowing in the mirror as you let the towel slip down, a slow smile easing onto your lips as you realize what’s happening.

You’re going into heat.

Keep reading

[chinggay85-blog]

Breakable

You know how there is a piece in Fragile where Bucky meets an Omega who works at the foundation for Omegas?

This one is for you, @flordeamatista. Tumblr doesn't like my music links but this was written to 'Don't You Know' by Jaymes Young.

Dark Alpha! Bucky Barnes x Omega! Female Reader

Word Count: 2,150

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Alpha/Omega dynamics, coercion, a little bit of world building, mentions of pregnancy.

Summary | They always say never meet your heroes. Bucky makes you feel differently.

Tonight is a special occasion.

Peeking your head through a sliver of space between the doors, the once drab space in the Stark Observatory has now been transformed into something special. Red, white and blue, patriotic but not over the top, fits the theme for the night.

After all, it isn’t every day Captain Steve Rogers celebrates a birthday.

Even more momentous is the rumor that his wife will be attending. Not so much a rumor, as you look at the caterers running around, muttering about a special entrée that you realize they are talking about her in particular. Carmen nudges you in the back, your hiss of surprise making her laugh. Always one for pranks, Carmen doesn’t take her job seriously as much as you do, even now as you’re aware she should be at the front of the entrance, greeting people as they come inside.

“So the rumors are true? She’s actually going to be here?” Carmen inquires, closing the doors while you shrug. “Oh, come on. You’ve been trying to get the lowdown for a while.”

“Not a while,” you remind her, smoothing out your dress. “It’s a big deal. I’ve read about her. Left her job as a surveillance analyst when she met Steve. Just, up and left her job and she was the first Omega to take on a job in the Avengers compound. She gave it up for love, Carmen. No one ever sees her. All Steve does is talk about how much he loves her and how proud of her he is.”

“The model Omega,” Carmen says with a nod. “I wonder what she’ll be wearing.”

“I forgot,” you mutter, rolling your eyes at Carmen’s words. “Probably something expensive.”

“I’d expect nothing less. He’s giving a speech tonight, right?”

“Mhm,” Carmen replies. “Him and Sergeant Barnes will be giving a speech to commemorate the anniversary of our housing initiative.”

Eyes going wide in surprise, you’re speechless, trying to remember if you saw Barnes’ name on the guest list. He’d never confirmed his attendance, let alone shown up at any of the events since you last saw him.

For a moment, you wonder on the off chance that you meet again, if he’ll remember who you are.

🍷

Lush music plays, the lively band playing music from an era bygone. It harkens back to a time that he remembers clearly, looking around at the various designations.

All of them under one roof, pheromones lingering and the sour scent of suppressants that makes his nose wrinkle in disgust. Even here, a place that is dedicated to safety, there’s still distrust. Not that he can blame them, of course.

They’re easy prey.

“Ah, Sergeant Barnes,” an Omega calls out with a wave.

It’s Doctor Constance Gracey, head of the rehabilitation center for wayward Omegas. She’s quick to reach his side, the elder Omega grasping his hand with both of hers, giving him a gentle smile.

“I am so pleased that you’ve decided to come. I know you choose to lay low these days but I appreciate everything you’ve done for our center. I heard you received a tour of our new rehabilitation wing?”

“That I did, Connie,” Bucky agrees. “You have a very informative tour guide.”

“Oh good, that makes me happy to hear. It’s been a rough few months with the new laws and taking in so many that need care. I’m grateful she was able to discuss our initiatives with you. Did you have any questions?”

“Not yet. It is amazing what you’ve been able to do in such a short time.”

“We have generous donors,” Constance hints, letting him go as she sees another guest. “Enjoy the party tonight. I can’t wait for your speech.”

He flashes a smile at the thought of the speech, one thought up while they were building the framework for another housing development.

The uniform puts them at ease, just like Steve said it would. Omegas and Betas fawn over him while he scans the crowd. Steve isn’t here yet, not with the wrangling with his wife he’d had to do early in the day.

When his time comes, he’ll have an Omega who knows her place without being told.

Still, the upbeat music keeps him in a good mood while he mingles, catching a particular scent every now and then that makes his head turn. It disappears almost as soon as he seeks it out, only to continue on his way.

🍷

“Just go say hi,” Carmen quips, pushing you back outside. “You’re supposed to be out there getting more face time, remember? You’re the poster child for our cause.”

The slight frown that takes hold on your face makes Carmen hook her arm over your shoulders, pulling her toward you.

“You know what I mean. You have a damn good story to tell about why this place means so much to you. That’s more money for the foundation, ya know? Use that charm… and go say hi to Sergeant Barnes.”

One thing is for sure.

The man knows how to command a room. Everyone he meets, he shakes their hand or embraces him, his smile infectious that even you can feel your mood brightening. Still not convinced that he remembers you, you’re silently counting all the guests that are continuing to come in, greeting those you know and introducing yourself to those that you don’t.

When you hear your name being called, you turn, nearly tripping over yourself at the sight of Sergeant Barnes, extending his hand to you.

“I’m not sure if you remember me,” he begins with a smile. “But you were my tour guide a few months ago.”

“You remember me?” you question, blinking owlishly before you remember to take his hand and shake it. He draws you toward him, your footsteps gliding over the marble.

“I do,” he answers, the timbre of his voice making you shiver. You can feel his thumb swiping over your wrist, his scent intoxicating.

“It’s nice to meet you… again, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky,” he corrects you, letting go of your hand. “I’ll see you a little later?”

You nod, Bucky laughing at your silence.

“I mean, yes,” you answer quickly, Bucky giving you a head nod before he leaves.

“Did he… did he scent you?” Carmen asks from behind, making you jump.

“Carmen!” you nearly shout, realizing where you are. “Stop that.”

“Did he?”

Carmen looks serious, watching Bucky head toward another guest. “Or was I seeing things?”

“No one scents people in public,” you quip, hiding your hands behind your back. “It isn’t… respectable.”

“Seems like he did to me. I like Alphas,” Carmen says, her voice lowering to a whisper. “But… just be careful, okay? Maybe he didn’t mean to but if you’re close to a heat…”

“I’ll be fine. It was just a mistake.”

Carmen raises a brow at your quick excuse.

“So which one was it?”

🍷

That scent of yours.

He relishes it, even after you’re gone again, his nods to a long-winded patron of the foundation who speaks of the days of yore, sharing his own experiences as a once young Alpha who had defended helpless Omegas.

“Much like yourself and Captain Rogers,” he says fondly. “I like to think of myself as a hero to those in need as well. Very grateful that you’ve continued to support such a noble cause.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Bucky answers, giving him a hearty slap on the back. “Where would we be without them?”

He can hear it before he sees it, the small whispers and gasps of people turning around.

Steve stands at the entrance, his arm linked with his wife’s while he surveys the scene in front of him. Catching Bucky’s eyes, he smiles, a genuine one that sends the few single Omegas around him into a near faint.

Cameras flash as the two embrace, Steve’s wife moving out of the picture quickly, only to have Steve guide her right back to his side. It’s a momentous occasion, having her here tonight and Bucky knows that Steve will not let her out of his sight.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she says quietly, her head still down as he embraces her, more cameras flashing.

“You look beautiful,” he says against her ear. “Pregnancy looks good on you.”

He pretends not to hear her soft whimper, Steve guiding her across the floor as Bucky follows suit.

Still, you’re in his peripheral vision, your hopeful smile so sweet that it feels all too easy. Steve’s wife put up a fight.

You seem all but ready to fall into his lap.

🍷

“Thank you all for the kind and warm welcome,” Steve begins, standing at the podium. “This foundation has come from noble beginnings and it is my humble honor to serve on the board of directors to make sure that this amazing charity continues to open its door to the unhoused and those in need of care. It is my duty, my one guiding principle in life, to stick up for those who can’t. I hope that I have done so thus far.”

Thunderous applause fills the room, Carmen clapping loudly at your table as she nods in agreement. Leaning over, she whispers to you, making sure only you can hear.

“It’s Dior, right?”

“What?” you whisper back.

“Her dress, silly! It’s Dior, I think. Must have cost a fortune. Also… does she look pregnant to you?”

“Carmen,” you admonish, watching Bucky take the podium.

“I also want to thank this honorable charity for having me as a board member. It is important to me, as well as Steve, that Omegas feel like they have a place in this world. One that is safe, comfortable and without harm. I believe that the outpatient centers, the new housing that is continuously being built, provides another step closer to closing the gap between the unhoused and food insecurities that plague your designation. It starts with all of us.”

Steve gives Bucky a wink as they hold up their hands for silence.

“That is why we have decided that we are going to gift this prestigious organization with a one million dollar donation to speed up your efforts.”

Connie’s eyes go wide at the news, Carmen’s mouth dropping open in surprise as applause once again fills the air, people standing up as the continue to clap.

“Thank you all,” Bucky says with a grin. “We can’t wait to get started.”

🍷

Constance nearly fumbles over herself to grab you, hauling you over to the corner where Steve, his wife and Bucky are standing.

“Captain Rogers,” she starts, giving you a little nudge to step forward. “I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting our newest docent. She runs quite the tight ship here when it comes to our work.”

Introducing you with all the titles you’ve held, past and present, your face heats up at the praise, Captain Rogers’ expression one of warmth, his smile one of appreciation.

“This is Mrs. Rogers,” Constance continues. “Her first night out, isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Steve answers for her quickly, his hand on her belly. “Though we won’t be staying long. In her delicate condition, I want to make sure she gets plenty of rest.”

“Of course,” Constance agrees.

Mrs. Rogers offers you a smile, almost as if she wants to shake your hand but Steve’s grip seems tight. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment before Steve presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

Love, you think, is a powerful thing.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Sergeant Barnes, it’s also been a pleasure. I should go find -”

“Do you dance?” Steve asks you, the conversations around you seemingly going quiet.

“I do.”

“Perfect. I believe Bucky needs someone who can teach him how to do dance.”

“Not this again,” Bucky mutters with a laugh. “I assure you, I know how to dance. I promise.”

“Dance,” Steve says with a nod. “Have a good night.”

It isn’t until you are heading toward the dance floor with Bucky that you realize that it was an Alpha command.

Steve helps his wife down the stairs as you watch for a moment. She looks reluctant to go, Steve whispering something in her ear before she lowers her head.

“You don’t have to dance, you know,” Bucky says behind you. “It’s just Steve… being Steve.”

“Oh, no, I want to.”

Perhaps you said it a little too fast by the way Bucky stares at you for a moment. It’s intense, almost as if he’s looking at you under a microscope. He softens then, extending his hand to you.

“Well then, let’s dance.”

Settling into the music, his hand splays over your back, warm and strong. You know you shouldn’t be as giddy as you are with his scent, strong and heady that makes your head spin.

“Follow my lead.”

With a nod, he leads, even as you ignore the tiny thought that maybe this was another Alpha command.

But it couldn’t be.

After all, he’s a hero.

[chinggay85-blog]

Breakable

You know how there is a piece in Fragile where Bucky meets an Omega who works at the foundation for Omegas?

This one is for you, @flordeamatista. Tumblr doesn't like my music links but this was written to 'Don't You Know' by Jaymes Young.

Dark Alpha! Bucky Barnes x Omega! Female Reader

Word Count: 2,150

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Alpha/Omega dynamics, coercion, a little bit of world building, mentions of pregnancy.

Summary | They always say never meet your heroes. Bucky makes you feel differently.

Tonight is a special occasion.

Peeking your head through a sliver of space between the doors, the once drab space in the Stark Observatory has now been transformed into something special. Red, white and blue, patriotic but not over the top, fits the theme for the night.

After all, it isn’t every day Captain Steve Rogers celebrates a birthday.

Even more momentous is the rumor that his wife will be attending. Not so much a rumor, as you look at the caterers running around, muttering about a special entrée that you realize they are talking about her in particular. Carmen nudges you in the back, your hiss of surprise making her laugh. Always one for pranks, Carmen doesn’t take her job seriously as much as you do, even now as you’re aware she should be at the front of the entrance, greeting people as they come inside.

“So the rumors are true? She’s actually going to be here?” Carmen inquires, closing the doors while you shrug. “Oh, come on. You’ve been trying to get the lowdown for a while.”

“Not a while,” you remind her, smoothing out your dress. “It’s a big deal. I’ve read about her. Left her job as a surveillance analyst when she met Steve. Just, up and left her job and she was the first Omega to take on a job in the Avengers compound. She gave it up for love, Carmen. No one ever sees her. All Steve does is talk about how much he loves her and how proud of her he is.”

“The model Omega,” Carmen says with a nod. “I wonder what she’ll be wearing.”

“I forgot,” you mutter, rolling your eyes at Carmen’s words. “Probably something expensive.”

“I’d expect nothing less. He’s giving a speech tonight, right?”

“Mhm,” Carmen replies. “Him and Sergeant Barnes will be giving a speech to commemorate the anniversary of our housing initiative.”

Eyes going wide in surprise, you’re speechless, trying to remember if you saw Barnes’ name on the guest list. He’d never confirmed his attendance, let alone shown up at any of the events since you last saw him.

For a moment, you wonder on the off chance that you meet again, if he’ll remember who you are.

🍷

Lush music plays, the lively band playing music from an era bygone. It harkens back to a time that he remembers clearly, looking around at the various designations.

All of them under one roof, pheromones lingering and the sour scent of suppressants that makes his nose wrinkle in disgust. Even here, a place that is dedicated to safety, there’s still distrust. Not that he can blame them, of course.

They’re easy prey.

“Ah, Sergeant Barnes,” an Omega calls out with a wave.

It’s Doctor Constance Gracey, head of the rehabilitation center for wayward Omegas. She’s quick to reach his side, the elder Omega grasping his hand with both of hers, giving him a gentle smile.

“I am so pleased that you’ve decided to come. I know you choose to lay low these days but I appreciate everything you’ve done for our center. I heard you received a tour of our new rehabilitation wing?”

“That I did, Connie,” Bucky agrees. “You have a very informative tour guide.”

“Oh good, that makes me happy to hear. It’s been a rough few months with the new laws and taking in so many that need care. I’m grateful she was able to discuss our initiatives with you. Did you have any questions?”

“Not yet. It is amazing what you’ve been able to do in such a short time.”

“We have generous donors,” Constance hints, letting him go as she sees another guest. “Enjoy the party tonight. I can’t wait for your speech.”

He flashes a smile at the thought of the speech, one thought up while they were building the framework for another housing development.

The uniform puts them at ease, just like Steve said it would. Omegas and Betas fawn over him while he scans the crowd. Steve isn’t here yet, not with the wrangling with his wife he’d had to do early in the day.

When his time comes, he’ll have an Omega who knows her place without being told.

Still, the upbeat music keeps him in a good mood while he mingles, catching a particular scent every now and then that makes his head turn. It disappears almost as soon as he seeks it out, only to continue on his way.

🍷

“Just go say hi,” Carmen quips, pushing you back outside. “You’re supposed to be out there getting more face time, remember? You’re the poster child for our cause.”

The slight frown that takes hold on your face makes Carmen hook her arm over your shoulders, pulling her toward you.

“You know what I mean. You have a damn good story to tell about why this place means so much to you. That’s more money for the foundation, ya know? Use that charm… and go say hi to Sergeant Barnes.”

One thing is for sure.

The man knows how to command a room. Everyone he meets, he shakes their hand or embraces him, his smile infectious that even you can feel your mood brightening. Still not convinced that he remembers you, you’re silently counting all the guests that are continuing to come in, greeting those you know and introducing yourself to those that you don’t.

When you hear your name being called, you turn, nearly tripping over yourself at the sight of Sergeant Barnes, extending his hand to you.

“I’m not sure if you remember me,” he begins with a smile. “But you were my tour guide a few months ago.”

“You remember me?” you question, blinking owlishly before you remember to take his hand and shake it. He draws you toward him, your footsteps gliding over the marble.

“I do,” he answers, the timbre of his voice making you shiver. You can feel his thumb swiping over your wrist, his scent intoxicating.

“It’s nice to meet you… again, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky,” he corrects you, letting go of your hand. “I’ll see you a little later?”

You nod, Bucky laughing at your silence.

“I mean, yes,” you answer quickly, Bucky giving you a head nod before he leaves.

“Did he… did he scent you?” Carmen asks from behind, making you jump.

“Carmen!” you nearly shout, realizing where you are. “Stop that.”

“Did he?”

Carmen looks serious, watching Bucky head toward another guest. “Or was I seeing things?”

“No one scents people in public,” you quip, hiding your hands behind your back. “It isn’t… respectable.”

“Seems like he did to me. I like Alphas,” Carmen says, her voice lowering to a whisper. “But… just be careful, okay? Maybe he didn’t mean to but if you’re close to a heat…”

“I’ll be fine. It was just a mistake.”

Carmen raises a brow at your quick excuse.

“So which one was it?”

🍷

That scent of yours.

He relishes it, even after you’re gone again, his nods to a long-winded patron of the foundation who speaks of the days of yore, sharing his own experiences as a once young Alpha who had defended helpless Omegas.

“Much like yourself and Captain Rogers,” he says fondly. “I like to think of myself as a hero to those in need as well. Very grateful that you’ve continued to support such a noble cause.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Bucky answers, giving him a hearty slap on the back. “Where would we be without them?”

He can hear it before he sees it, the small whispers and gasps of people turning around.

Steve stands at the entrance, his arm linked with his wife’s while he surveys the scene in front of him. Catching Bucky’s eyes, he smiles, a genuine one that sends the few single Omegas around him into a near faint.

Cameras flash as the two embrace, Steve’s wife moving out of the picture quickly, only to have Steve guide her right back to his side. It’s a momentous occasion, having her here tonight and Bucky knows that Steve will not let her out of his sight.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she says quietly, her head still down as he embraces her, more cameras flashing.

“You look beautiful,” he says against her ear. “Pregnancy looks good on you.”

He pretends not to hear her soft whimper, Steve guiding her across the floor as Bucky follows suit.

Still, you’re in his peripheral vision, your hopeful smile so sweet that it feels all too easy. Steve’s wife put up a fight.

You seem all but ready to fall into his lap.

🍷

“Thank you all for the kind and warm welcome,” Steve begins, standing at the podium. “This foundation has come from noble beginnings and it is my humble honor to serve on the board of directors to make sure that this amazing charity continues to open its door to the unhoused and those in need of care. It is my duty, my one guiding principle in life, to stick up for those who can’t. I hope that I have done so thus far.”

Thunderous applause fills the room, Carmen clapping loudly at your table as she nods in agreement. Leaning over, she whispers to you, making sure only you can hear.

“It’s Dior, right?”

“What?” you whisper back.

“Her dress, silly! It’s Dior, I think. Must have cost a fortune. Also… does she look pregnant to you?”

“Carmen,” you admonish, watching Bucky take the podium.

“I also want to thank this honorable charity for having me as a board member. It is important to me, as well as Steve, that Omegas feel like they have a place in this world. One that is safe, comfortable and without harm. I believe that the outpatient centers, the new housing that is continuously being built, provides another step closer to closing the gap between the unhoused and food insecurities that plague your designation. It starts with all of us.”

Steve gives Bucky a wink as they hold up their hands for silence.

“That is why we have decided that we are going to gift this prestigious organization with a one million dollar donation to speed up your efforts.”

Connie’s eyes go wide at the news, Carmen’s mouth dropping open in surprise as applause once again fills the air, people standing up as the continue to clap.

“Thank you all,” Bucky says with a grin. “We can’t wait to get started.”

🍷

Constance nearly fumbles over herself to grab you, hauling you over to the corner where Steve, his wife and Bucky are standing.

“Captain Rogers,” she starts, giving you a little nudge to step forward. “I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting our newest docent. She runs quite the tight ship here when it comes to our work.”

Introducing you with all the titles you’ve held, past and present, your face heats up at the praise, Captain Rogers’ expression one of warmth, his smile one of appreciation.

“This is Mrs. Rogers,” Constance continues. “Her first night out, isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Steve answers for her quickly, his hand on her belly. “Though we won’t be staying long. In her delicate condition, I want to make sure she gets plenty of rest.”

“Of course,” Constance agrees.

Mrs. Rogers offers you a smile, almost as if she wants to shake your hand but Steve’s grip seems tight. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment before Steve presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

Love, you think, is a powerful thing.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Sergeant Barnes, it’s also been a pleasure. I should go find -”

“Do you dance?” Steve asks you, the conversations around you seemingly going quiet.

“I do.”

“Perfect. I believe Bucky needs someone who can teach him how to do dance.”

“Not this again,” Bucky mutters with a laugh. “I assure you, I know how to dance. I promise.”

“Dance,” Steve says with a nod. “Have a good night.”

It isn’t until you are heading toward the dance floor with Bucky that you realize that it was an Alpha command.

Steve helps his wife down the stairs as you watch for a moment. She looks reluctant to go, Steve whispering something in her ear before she lowers her head.

“You don’t have to dance, you know,” Bucky says behind you. “It’s just Steve… being Steve.”

“Oh, no, I want to.”

Perhaps you said it a little too fast by the way Bucky stares at you for a moment. It’s intense, almost as if he’s looking at you under a microscope. He softens then, extending his hand to you.

“Well then, let’s dance.”

Settling into the music, his hand splays over your back, warm and strong. You know you shouldn’t be as giddy as you are with his scent, strong and heady that makes your head spin.

“Follow my lead.”

With a nod, he leads, even as you ignore the tiny thought that maybe this was another Alpha command.

But it couldn’t be.

After all, he’s a hero.

[chinggay85-blog]

As It Was

For the always amazing, forever talented  @angrythingstarlight who I adore dearly. I tried my hand at Mafia Bucky. Title is from one of my favorite Hozier songs.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Non-con to dub-con, fingering, choking, sex, breeding kink.

gif by @whitewolfbucky​

Summary | As a nurse, you take good care of Bucky and his men. So good that he decides to keep you for himself.

Bucky had many rules. Most of them you were exempt from, even as you kept your distance from him as much as you could.

But it was never as easy as you wanted it to be. Whenever you started your shift, you were pulled off of your rotation to tend to him and his men if there was an issue. You didn’t ask about the injuries, careful to keep your eyes only on their wounds and bruises, broken bones and lacerations. They were never allowed to speak to you but you caught their smiles and nods of approval and adoration.

His one rule for you was that you always needed to show up. He didn’t want anyone else’s hands on him or his men. Not the doctors, unless Strange was on duty but they both had egos and eventually it would fall to you.

But you had enough. You loved being a nurse. You miss having a bedside manor with people who don’t terrify you. Even when you try to run, you never get far. Bucky’s men always block your paths, the administrators too timid to speak up at how you’re at their beck and call, bending the rules for him because of who he is.

At least he calls you - personally - when he’s on his way. You still aren’t sure how he got your number and you know better than to ask him. Flowers get delivered to your apartment every time you help, your bills paid before you have a chance to even open them.

“You’re my girl,” Bucky told you once as you carefully wrapped one of his men’s arms, spoken like a fact more than a compliment. “You take such good care of us. Why don’t you quit and just work for me full time?”

The day you denied him, he simply shook his head, leaning back in the chair while you finished your work, a smile spreading across his handsome features. As if you entertained him.

“You only get one chance to say no to me, sweetheart. That was it.”

But today as you sit in your car, you shake at the thought of going inside. You can see his car, the driver waiting across the lot. You don’t think when you throw your car into reverse, backing out before placing it back into drive and heading down the street and onto the highway.

When the gas light pops up on your dash, you sigh, finding the nearest gas station. You aren’t sure where you want to go but the distance between you and Bucky still doesn’t seem like enough.

Keep reading

[chinggay85-blog]

Made Up fic title- Legally yours

I went a little overboard but thank you Dibs!

Dark! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Words: 2,942

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, DNI if you are a minor. Non-con, dub-con, breeding kink.

It isn’t until you drive past your mailbox that you realize it’s been two weeks since you checked your mail. This always happens. Work gets busy, your hours stretching from eight hours to twelve as you offer to cover for sick leave and vacation. Online bill pay has been a godsend and with it, you’ve all but forgotten about still checking the mail until you remember as it appears in your rearview.

But this morning, you’re determined to check it, bundling up for the freezing cold as you make your way there, key in hand. Your mother has mentioned over and over that she’s sent you some recipes, tucked away in an envelope because she refuses to learn how to save attachments or cut copy paste. She’ll go kicking and screaming into the world of technology that you have wholeheartedly accepted.

A box sits on the top of junk mail – coupons, random services and credit card offers that have piled up before you grab it all and hold it all before you shut the door and lock it. The way back home is sifting through the pieces you need to shred and others that you can toss. The box you assume is from your mother, with only your name and address and no return address.

By the time you get inside, you toss what you can and kick off your shoes, shrugging out of your coat as you open the box slowly.

There’s a letter and a black velvet box that makes you suspicious as you open it. Inside is a beautifully cut diamond ring that glitters under the light. You know this can’t be for you but you don’t deny the feeling to slide it on your finger, smiling to yourself as it is a perfect fit. It’s heavy on your hand and you realize that it’s most likely real and that this has been delivered to the wrong address, let alone the danger of having such an expensive ring just haphazardly being mailed, even if it has your address on it.

Pure curiosity compels you to open the letter, lifting it from the box as you scan the page.

It’s addressed to you, which immediately catches your attention as you continue to read.

We have attempted to contact you but our calls have not been returned.

If we do not hear from you within one week, we will consider the marriage contract legal and binding. Mr. Barnes will arrange permanent housing for you once you receive this package.

The letter was dated two weeks ago.

It floats onto the table as you blink. There had been an issue with your mail but that had been months ago. You’ve been given a wedding certificate that you had sent back, unsure of why your name was on it, let alone how it would have even been legal to do so. There were battles with the social security office, your lawyer seemingly amused that someone would pluck your name out of nowhere and pretend to marry you.

Until it became harder for them to track down who was responsible. James Buchanan Barnes did not exist by any searches that you could find. It had been funny at first until you were sent magazines you’d subscribed to years before, labeling you as Mrs. Barnes.

The only way you could feel comfortable was when your lawyer filed for an annulment and then, everything went back to the way it was. No more weird labels, no more awkward mail. You’d even gone down to your local county’s office to make sure you were still filed as single.

But this forced you into a wave of anxiety as you picked up your phone to call your lawyer.

“Rita,” you greet as she answers the phone. “It’s happening again. I just got sent a letter and a ring and I thought this was over with.”

“Hang on, hang on. What’s going on? Who sent you a letter?”

“Some office from a B. Barnes. Saying that I didn’t respond to their calls and I don’t remember getting anything but there’s this ring and it says that I had to respond a week ago or else it’s considered legal and binding.”

You know your words are coming out fast, jumbled and toppling over each other as Rita inhales a breath.

“We filed an annulment, remember? You never had any contact, no consummation of whatever this is. Let me investigate. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Okay,” you agree, nodding rapidly as you place the ring back in the box. “Just… please call me back.”

“I will,” Rita urges. “Give me a little bit but I promise I’ll call you back.”

You pace around the house, silently berating yourself for not checking your mail earlier. You look at your missed calls, thumbing through them rapidly as you recognize the same number in a row that you blocked.

Through a quick search, you realize it’s an actual law office. When your phone rings, you answer Rita’s call, waiting for her to give you any news.

“That was fast,” you chirp, clutching the phone to your ear tighter.

“It was,” Rita says with a sigh. “We’ve run into some trouble.”

Your heart sinks as you sit on the couch, waiting for her to finish.

“I got in contact with the county’s office. Do you remember signing anything?”

“Signing what? I got my registration figured out, I signed for that. I needed a copy of my birth certificate for my passport.”

“Did you actually read everything you were signing?”

You know that you did – at least, you hoped. It had been months ago, barely a blip on your radar.

“I’m sure I did… why?”

“One of the documents you signed was a marriage certificate. I just got it sent over. It’s the same date as when you got your birth certificate.”

“It’s not legal, right? I-I didn’t mean to sign it.”

“Well,” Rita breathes, her voice sympathetic. “Mr. Barnes’ lawyers believe that it wasn’t under duress. They are claiming they contacted you, sent you a letter.”

“Yeah, with a ring!” you exclaim, your heart slamming into your chest. “This is ridiculous.”

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Just breathe. I’m filing another annulment, now that we have proof.”

“Who is this guy? I’ve never met him before. It’s some random stranger, isn’t it?”

“Military man. WIA, Purple Heart recipient. He’s been laying low but he exists. It’s a real person.”

“Does he know? The letter says he’s going to find me permanent housing. Rita, I don’t… what do I do?”

“Don’t answer the door, I’m going to the courts in about five minutes. We’ll file a restraining order. In the meantime, I’d stay at home for a bit. Just until we can get this sorted.”

At your low sob, Rita tries to soothe you.

“You’re fine, it’s okay. This is an extraordinary mess up and we’ll fight it all the way. Don’t worry. Just try to take your mind off of it, okay? Just watch some mindless TV while I work this out.”

“Okay,” you whisper, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “Okay. Just call me if you hear anything.”

+++

The call comes later that later afternoon, practically jumping at the ringtone before you swipe to answer.

“Good news?”

“I’m filing an injunction to get all the data I need. Right now, your status is married. But we can undo it. We’re going to.”

“Okay,” you reply, the last of your hope deflating as you hear Rita shuffle papers in the background.

“Just lay low like I asked, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow with an update.”

When you hang up, you want to cry, your emotions all over the place. You know she’ll fight for you, she always has and she’s never lost.

But it is unnerving, knowing that a simple mistake is now being forced upon you. You have a life, one that you’ve curated since you were out on your own at twenty-one, rising through the ranks of your job and not having to answer to anyone.

You’ve been free for years, coming and going and doing whatever you please. Now you were stuck, married to a man you’d never met and who you didn’t know existed.

By the time you made it into your room, you wipe away tears, turning on the shower to calm your nerves. The water slowly heats up the en suite as you discard your clothes, slipping on a shower cap as your tears mingle with the hot water that beats on your skin.

Your lavender scented bodywash hits your nose as you scrub your body, eyes closed as you continue to wish that this nightmare would end. You aren’t sure why you feel such dread from the letter but it hasn’t gone away, even with Rita’s confident promise that she will get to the bottom of it.

Once the shower is turned off and you dry yourself down with a towel, you force yourself to remember your usual skincare routine, slathering your favorite lotion on as you talk yourself down from the proverbial ledge that you’re clinging to.

Everything will be alright once you finally eat something, turn on the mindless shows that Rita has instructed you to watch and relax.

You wish it was that simple.

You slip on your t-shirt and shorts, hanging up your towel and tossing the shower cap into the drawer before you open the door and come face to face with a pair of slate blue eyes.

A hand clamps over your mouth before you can scream, your body twisting until your back is against the broad chest.

“Shh,” the man’s voice whispers against the shell of your ear. “If you scream, I’ll have to give you something to scream about. You’re my sweet little bride. Can’t rough you up so early in our marriage.”

Your arms are trapped at your sides, the metal arm around your waist like a vice as you try to breathe against the weight of the hand around your mouth, little puffs of air echoing in the space as he pulls you back from the en suite and toward the bedroom.

“She’s not going to win, that lawyer of yours. I’ve been very specific in what I wanted in a wife. We’ve met before, remember? The VA’s office where you volunteer? That little charity event. You in that little black dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

When the tears trickle down your face, his mouth brushes against your cheek, the moisture sticking to his dry lips as he hums in appreciation.

“You’re always so busy. Too busy to notice people. Too busy to check what you’re signing. Too busy to check your fucking mail. You don’t think I noticed? You blocked my legal team’s calls because you thought it was spam. It took you almost two and a half weeks to check your mail. It’s all binding, beautiful and do you know why?” he continues, grinding his erection between your ass in your thin shorts. “Because once we consummate our marriage, you’re mine.”

Shaking your head, you sob against his mouth as he laughs, kissing your cheek with a wet sound that makes you shudder.

“I saw you opened the box. Did you like your ring?”

You don’t answer as he spins you around, pushing you down onto the bed as you struggle to get up before his large body cages yours, forcing your hands up above your head with one hand as your shorts are pulled down your legs.

“No! Please, no!” you sob, before your mouth is covered once more as he leans down to kiss your forehead.

“Why are you afraid?” he asks darkly, his eyes boring into yours as he gives you a smirk. “You’re going to have the best of everything. Anything you want, it will be yours. But you have to make me happy. You want to make your husband happy, don’t you?”

You feel the pinch at your clit before you can register what is happening, his mouth still gripping your jaw as you flail, trying to fight him off.

“It’s no use, sweetness. Gonna get you nice and wet and then you’re gonna take all of me. You’ll like it, I promise. Gonna have you crying and begging me for more before you know it.”

When you try to pull your legs up in a feeble attempt to kick him off, he leans in between your thighs, the black pants rubbing against your sensitive skin as his thumb brushes over your clit in lazy motions.

“So much fight in you. Legally, you’re mine. To do whatever I see fit. Which means you’ll be taking my cock for the foreseeable future.”

Your core tenses at the contact and you know you’re getting wet with how easily his fingers catch the lubrication of your slick, adding to the heightened sense of pleasure that you feel as you try to fight it.

“That didn’t take long at all, did it? That’s what you need. A nice, firm hand to guide you. Open up, sweetheart.”

His body is heavy on top of you as you squeak against his mouth, the rustle of his pants making you squirm as the pressure continues you build. It feels good – so good that you squeeze your eyes shut at the guilt before you feel the weight of his fingers, inching up inside your swollen walls as you fight back a moan.

“See? Look how you’re reacting to me. You need this. That’s what you’re made for, my sweet girl. Gonna have you on my cock for days, fucked out and pleading for more. That’s your job now, got it?”

He tightens his hold on your jaw and you nod, tears still streaming down your face. Your thighs are trembling at the increasing movements of his thumb against your bundle of nerves as his fingers scissor back and forth inside you, making you mewl against his hand.

“Good girl. You gonna let me in? Open your eyes,” he commands.

When you do, he smiles, your heart racing as his fingers slide back and forth inside you.

“Yes or no?”

He stops his movement as you see his cock, precum beaded around the tip as your hips strain as his thumb brushes against your clit once more.

“Y-yes,” you cry, his fingers pulling out of you before they are shoved into your mouth.

“Clean them off,” he instructs, your tongue swiping away at your juices as he narrows his eyes at you.

“So submissive. Is that fear or because you can’t lie to yourself? Guess we’ll find out.”

When he enters you, it’s hard and fast, the air leaving your lungs as you struggle to adjust to the stretch of him as your slick walls cradle him. He groans above you, his hand on your throat before he kisses you hard, your lips bruised from the intensity.

“Even better than I dreamed. You’re mine now, wife. Say it.”

The admission doesn’t leave your lips as he pulls out, the drag of the head of his cock at your entrance that makes you whine, stretching you wider before he thrusts back inside.

It’s lewd and loud, the sound of skin slapping against skin as rough swears are rained down as praise as you do exactly what he promised, taking all of him inside you as you fight back the urge to beg for more.

When his hand grips your throat again, his thumb runs over your lower lip, a pleased expression over his dark features.

“Already fucked out and we’re just getting started. Gonna breed you right of the gate, sweetheart.”

At the mention, you fight against him, his hands anchored to your hips as he fucks you deeper into the mattress.

“It’ll take, won’t it? Not on birth control, right? Nice and round with my baby in a few months. Gonna keep you nice and full every chance I get.”

The tendrils of pleasure that continue to wrap around your core tighten as the pad of his thumb swipes over your clit once more, your back arching as he leans down to draw the skin at the side of your neck into his mouth.

“You know you’re close,” he urges, a shiver going through you as you sob. “Already crying for me. You want to cum?”

When you try to turn your face away, he pulls you back to him, the force of his rhythm driving you to the brink.

“Beg me,” he orders, his mouth brushing against yours. “I want to hear you.”

The ache between your thighs intensifies with his order as your lips form into your plea, chasing your orgasm that is so close that you can feel it in your spine.

“P-please let me cum,” you whimper, the air sucking from your lungs as you cry. “Please, please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, the tempo of his movements rougher than before as he rolls the bundle of nerves between his fingers as you cum, your slick and swollen walls clamping down on him as you feel him follow suit, the warmth spreading inside you as you realize what he’s done.

When you try to move, he keeps you still, the bliss from your pleasure fading as dread sets in.

“Gotta make sure it takes, doll. Remember, you’re mine now. Our marriage is binding which means I do what I want. We’re just getting started. I’ll tell Rita in the morning that we’re dropping your little case.”

[chinggay85-blog]

Something Pure and True

A little something for my @river-soul​ who gave me this prompt.

This is 18+ ONLY. This is dark, probably one of the more darker things I’ve written in a long while. There is stalking, non-con, dub-con and violence all around. If this is not your thing, please do not engage with it and keep on scrollin’. If I had feelings, they would not be hurt if you kept it moving.

Dark! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary | The homeless man that your doorman has chased away multiple times becomes your focus in giving him charity. You’ve become his focus too.

Even with the extra deadbolt on your door, you know that eventually you will need to move. Your sweet landlord has boasted that she has not upped the rent for over twenty years – a bargain when you first moved in – but now, the tenants that surround you aren’t the usual neighbors you are used to. Where there used to be smiles are now grunts or glares when you are walking to your door when you greet them.

Despite this, you still feel a sense of safety as you pass Calvin, the security guard who always stands watch at the door.

“Be careful this morning, Miss,” he warns as he zips up his jacket. “Found some vagrant roaming around, picking through the garbage cans.”

At that, you lift your head, searching around the open space for any sign of the man.

You know who he’s talking about. You’ve seen him before, the man with the long brown hair and soulful blue eyes that never says a word to you as you pass by. You still hold your breath, as rude as it seems, hoping that he doesn’t follow once you walk by. He never does but you still feel his eyes on you until you turn the corner.

Keep reading

[chinggay85-blog]

ever since

This is my last entry for my 5K follower challenge!

This piece is something that is means a lot and one that was requested so I hope that I did it justice and with the respect it deserves for @omega-shadow​. I’m only slightly nauseous from nervousness but here we go!

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Fluff, oral sex (f receiving), smut. Alpha and Omega dynamics.

Alpha! Bucky Barnes x Deaf! Omega Female Reader

Summary | Bucky Barnes finds his center in a late night subway ride.

How It Started..

On nights like these, you usually pick the most packed section of the train, free to blend in and read a book until you have to get off. But tonight, you want to be alone, free to stretch out your legs and stare at the mundane advertisements when the word on the page begin to bleed together. It’s dangerous for an Omega, especially one like you who embraces your suppressants with vigor but sometimes forget to take them on a schedule. Your pepper spray hangs off your keys as you eye it when the doors open, wondering when the last time was you ever used it.

The answer would be never. You wonder if it’s because of the stoic expression you fix on your face when you get into these spaces or if you’ve been that lucky. It’s probably the former, not the latter. Not that it matters, giving a quick wave to the security guard who raises an eyebrow at you taking the empty section. You breathe a sigh of relief when you settle into your seat, inhaling the mix of bleach and leftover cologne from the janitors.

When you rifle through your bag, you can smell it – the scent of leather, fresh cut grass and mahogany. Your eyes narrow at the sight of the man slipping into the train, his head bowed while he furiously types away on his cell phone.

An Alpha.

You can tell by his size and the way he lifts his head at your scent, your eyes locking for a moment before he nods in your direction, taking a seat across from you.

It’s an awkward moment, trying to read your book when you can feel his curios stare on you ever so often before you finally place your book in your lap. As far as Alphas go, this one is handsome, your eyes settling on his metal arm that he flexes on his knee. In these situations, you trust your gut – it’s an instinct you’ve learned to hone and it’s never let you down. Your hindbrain is telling you that you’re safe, something you aren’t sure why your guard is suddenly down but you give him a small smile when he opens his mouth to greet you.

Nice to meet you.

He sits back for a moment, blinking while you can see his mind churning while he thinks before tries again.

Bucky.

You sign your name and try to ignore the little bubble of excitement when he blinks again, a determined expression on his face. You don’t want to think it’s because he’s rusty but rather that he’s trying to keep up with you. That fact alone makes you smile, placing your book in your bag while he looks concerned for a moment.

You could leave him hanging and just… not continue to communicate. He looks down at his phone once more, scrolling through while the train comes to a stop. You gather up your bag, looking at his face when he realizes that this is your stop.

Keep reading

[chinggay85-blog]

Second Place - Part II

This is the second part a two-shot for the very lovely, always amazing @sapphirescrolls​ that I wrote as a gift to her on AO3 because in this house, we STAN.

Maybe I’ll write an epilogue to it? Or maybe it should stand alone? We’ll see.

Notes: Dark! Steve Rogers x Black Female Reader. 18+ for drugging, non-con, small amount of breeding kink, pregnancy.

gif by @theroncharlize​ / divider by @writeyourmindaway​ [tags are going to be the death of me! i keep trying to fix them but tumblr hates it.]

His fingers found the key, opening the door, his arms around your waist as he took a look around. It was a small space but well organized. Much like it was when you once shared a room with him. You were a creature of habit.

“We’re going to be happy here.”

Keep reading

[chinggay85-blog]

breaking the ice “You don’t have to treat me gently, Bucky” when bucky doesn’t know what sex is like in the 2000s, you volunteer to try his fantasies. warning: 18+ content

Bucky’s shoulders are tense.

Not the ready-for-a-fight kind. Not even the post-mission-comedown kind. It’s something else. He’s been quiet since they got back, barely picking at his food. Just drinking his beer, eyes flicking to you every so often.

“You ever think you’re broken in ways that people don’t even have names for?” Bucky asks, voice low, not looking at you.

Y/N blinks slowly, registering the shift in the air. That wasn’t small talk. That was him — the real him — poking through the layers he usually hides behind sarcasm, behind folded arms and gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” you say. “All the time.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn't. “It’s not the violence. That I can handle. That makes sense to me. But... the other stuff?” His jaw tightens. “The intimacy stuff? I don’t know how to do it anymore. I feel like I’m standing outside something I used to understand.” His voice is low. Rough.

Then you ask, evenly: “Do you want to do something about it?”

His gaze snaps to yours — startled. “What?”

“Just… make it about you. What you want.”

He stares at your like you just said something dangerous. “I don’t even know what I want.”

“You could find out,” you simply say. “With me.”

There’s a pause. Tension, thick and electric.

He studies your face — you mouth, you eyes, like he's scanning for a trap. But all he finds is calm.

“You don’t have to treat me gently, Bucky,” you add, softer.

His fingers twitch against his thigh. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

He doesn’t kiss you at first. He just looks at you — eyes dark, jaw clenched, like he’s fighting something in himself.

Then, without a word, he grabs your face with one hand and crashes your mouths together. It’s not gentle. It’s messy, unpracticed, needy.

His hands grip your jaw, then your throat — not tight, but enough that you feel the intent. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, and that’s when he growls — low and deep in his chest.

“On the couch,” he mutters. “Turn around.”

You obeys without hesitation, crawling forward until you’re on your knees, braced against the backrest. He’s behind you in seconds, breath hot at your neck, hands moving over your body like he can’t decide where to start — your hips, your thighs, your pussy.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice tight. “Now. Or I’m not going to.”

“I won’t.”

Your shirt is yanked over your head. Bra undone. He leans forward, teeth grazing your shoulder as he unbuttons your jeans, dragging them down slowly — not to tease you, but because he’s still trying to hold on to the edge of his control.

“You want me to use you?” he mutters against your skin. “To figure out what I like?”

“Yes,” you mumble. “Do whatever you want.”

He exhales like a man starved — one hand fisting in your hair, the other slipping between your thighs. His fingers explore first — rough, deliberate — making you gasp and arch against him. When he finds the right spot, he circles—once, twice—then presses harder.

Y/N bites down on a whimper, pushing back into him, and Bucky groans at the feel of you, at the way you move for him without hesitation. He leans in close, lips at your ear now, voice ragged.

“Like that?”

You nod. “Fuck,” you mumble, barely breathing. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he mutters.

He keeps going, fingers working you over with a rough rhythm that borders on desperate. His other hand stays tangled in your hair, keeping you exactly where he wants—on your knees, bent forward, completely exposed. The tension rolling off him is thick, dangerous, like he’s right on the edge of losing the careful grip he’s been holding for far too long.

A harsh exhale leaves him, followed by the sharp sound of his belt coming undone.

You hear the zipper. Feel the shift behind you as he pushes down his jeans. His hand disappears from between your legs for just a second—long enough to line himself up—then he’s gripping your hip and pushing in, slow but unforgiving.

Y/N gasps, both hands clawing at the backrest for leverage.

He pauses only when he’s buried to the hilt, jaw clenched like he’s in pain.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You feel—God. I could lose my mind in you.”

“Do it,” you say, breathless. “It’s just me.”

That’s all he needs.

He pulls back and thrusts again, harder, more certain. There’s no rhythm at first—just raw, unchecked need, his body slamming into yours with bruising force. The couch shifts under the both of your, soft grunts and gasps filling the space.

He’s not talking anymore. He’s focused—consumed. Every time you moan, he answers with another thrust, another growl, another pull of your hips against him like he can’t get deep enough.

When he pulls your leg wider, changing the angle, you sees stars. His dick, long and thick, hitting that one spot in your walls. Your head falls forward, and his lips starts bleeding from the strength he is using to bite his own lip. He’s unraveling, and you’re letting him.

The sound of skin slapping skin is loud in the quiet room. Your knuckles turn white where you grips the cushions.

One of his hands slips under you again—between your thighs—and he finds that spot like he’s searching for it with purpose now. His fingers rub in tight, relentless circles while he keeps moving inside you, and the combination is almost too much.

“Bucky—” you gasp, voice cracking.

“Close?” His voice is sharp, demanding.

You nod wildly. “Yes, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He keeps his pace brutal and focused, metal fingers now wrapped around your throat from behind, keeping you steady while his other hand pushes you over the edge.

You shatter with a cry—hips jerking, muscles clenching around him so hard it nearly undoes him right there. You barely have time to come down before he groans sharply, slamming into you one final time and staying there, buried deep as he follows you into the abyss.

The both of you stay like that for a long moment—sweaty, shaking, breath caught in the thick air.

Eventually, he pulls back, hands trembling as he helps you turn and collapse onto the cushions, yourchest rising and falling fast.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you like he can’t believe what just happened. Like he doesn’t know what the hell to do with the quiet afterward.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, voice small now.

You smile — wrecked, satisfied, warm. “Only in the best way.”