chinggay85-blog

[chinggay85-blog]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[chinggay85-blog]

one hundred sleepless nights

i. "the chain" || masterlist

winter soldier!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, brainwashed bucky, confinement, dacryphilia, angsty. please tread carefully.

Summary: Your only purpose is to serve as a reward for the Winter Soldier. Each time he completes a successful mission, Hydra delivers him to you, and he uses you however he pleases. But when the other super soldiers wreak havoc and the base falls apart, you expect the cold and heartless Winter Soldier to finally dispose of you. Instead, you’re left reeling. Because you never anticipated what he would do next.

Word Count: 3.3k

You had been confined in a Hydra base for what felt like a hundred nights. But in truth, you lost count after day sixty-three.

Every night since your capture, they locked you in a freezing cell—nothing but a toilet in one corner, a thin mattress and a chain in the other. They fed you, they cleaned you, they kept you alive—though only in the way captors keep their prisoners alive.

You still remembered the first night they brought you in. Hours of crying and screaming had left your throat raw before you finally slumped in exhausted defeat. You thought those moments would be your last—until the heavy metal door creaked open.

A tall figure stepped inside, the glint of a metal arm catching in the dim light. You shot to your feet, begging and pleading for your life. The guard spoke to him in Russian, words you didn’t understand. But the soldier’s eyes never left yours. When the guard left, shutting the door with a cold metallic clang, the air in the cell grew heavier and scarier. 

“Please,” you pleaded to the soldier as he approached you slowly, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. 

Maybe he couldn’t understand you. 

“Please don’t do this. Just let me go. I won’t tell a soul—”

But before you could finish your words, he was already pouncing on you. He ripped through your clothes like it was paper. You tried to cover your body with your arms but he’d only grab them roughly and pried them away. He grabbed the chains and used them against you. He ignored your cries when he threw you on the mattress, forcing your legs apart and sinking deeper and deeper inside your unwilling cunt.

And from that day onward, The Winter Soldier came to you every night after every mission—ready to claim his reward.

Sometimes his presence was terrifying, but sometimes… they were confusing. 

There were nights where he said nothing at all. Nights where he would simply remove his clothes, sit beside you, and hold you in silence until he fell asleep. But by morning, he would always be gone.

It wasn’t until three months into your captivity that you realized he spoke and understood English. One night, after you had begged for him to be gentle, you heard his voice for the first time—low, quiet, and unexpectedly human.

“Please,” you whimpered. “I can’t, soldier. I-it’s too big!”

Some nights you would beg for mercy, some nights you would just be silent and take what you were given. But your body was so sore and aching from the brutal pounding the night before—you felt like you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Soldier, I can’t—” you cried out, clinging onto him tighter. “Please!”

You knew it was meaningless. You’ve cried, kicked, and begged before, and every single time he didn’t pull away. At this point, all the yelling and fighting was just a coping mechanism for you—a pity way to mask the reluctant moans that threatened to escape your lips every time he took you.

Then his voice came in. It was the first time he spoke, and at first, you thought you were imagining it. 

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a hand against your hair in a gesture at odds with the tight grip he had on your thighs. “Just a little longer, okay? I need this.”

You froze, staring up at him—unsure of what unsettled you more. The fact that he understood every word you’d ever said and ignored you… or that he’d chosen this very moment to answer.

“You… understand me?” 

He looked you in the eyes, and for a second, you think he might actually pull away. But instead, his grip on your thigh tightened and his other hand twisted deeper into your hair. His body enveloped yours entirely as he leaned over, his breath hot against your neck as he pressed sloppy and wet kisses. Suckling. Biting. Surely leaving marks and claiming you as his. 

“Wait!” you shoved weakly at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to put space between you. But instead, he grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his shoulder, giving him the angle to plunge into you even deeper. “Ah!” 

He let out a low groan at the tight and warm feel of you—your pussy squelching helplessly around him as you’re forced to take every thick inch of him. 

“Hold still,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Can’t—can’t fuck you properly if you don’t hold still.” 

His breathing is heavy and labored against your neck, his heavy balls were slapping against your bare ass, his hold on your leg was tight—all of it combined were overwhelming your senses. Your bodies were hot and sweaty, yet your blood ran cold in fear.

“Please,” you squirmed beneath him, desperation in your voice. “You’re hurting me—”

His hand came up from your thigh to your neck, fingers pushing up against the smooth column roughly as he held you down against the mattress. With one hand still in your hair, the other around your neck, and his entire body swallowing yours—it was a losing battle you were never destined to win. 

The least you could hope for was for him to listen to you. 

“Soldier! I can’t—slow down… it hurts—” 

“Shut up,” he growled. “You’ve taken my cock plenty of times before. You can do it again.” 

One thing about the Winter Soldier was that he didn’t like being ordered around while he was claiming his prize. In this cell, in this very moment, he was the one in charge. There were no orders for him to follow for once—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to listen to you. Not especially since you belonged to him. 

You whimpered and cried beneath him, tears rolling down your cheeks and onto the mattress as he rutted into you like a beast in heat. 

“P-please,” you begged, your voice wheezing out pathetically.

“Keep begging,” he grunted. His cock throbbed and twitched in pleasure after every whimper and whine. “Fuck. I love it when you beg… makes my dick s’fucking hard.” 

He angled his hips slightly, hitting that sweet and sensitive spot deep inside you with his weeping tip. Your walls instinctively clenched down on him as you pressed your lips together and squeezed your eyes shut—trying to drown the moans that threatened to slip out. 

“Fuck!” he barked out. “Your pussy is taking me in so sweetly, baby. I can’t get enough.” 

You couldn’t help the broken whimper and pathetic sobs that came out after being pet-called. Before this, he never spoke. He only grunted, moaned, and snarled. You never expected to hear the word ‘baby’ ever escape his lips.

His hand came down from the locks of your hair to your face, rubbing the tears and smearing them all over your cheek. “That’s it,” he growled, thrusting into you even harder. “Cry for me, baby. Cry for your soldier.” 

He leaned down, pressing kisses all over your face. You tried to pry yourself away from him, but his hand cupped your cheeks—squishing them roughly and forcing you to look at him. 

“Stop looking away. Look at me, baby. I want to see your pretty eyes wet with tears,” he grunted, his patience wearing thin as you continued to defy him. “Dammit. I said stop—fuck.” 

“Let me go! Please—!” 

His grip on your cheeks tightened. “Look at me, goddammit!” he screamed in your face. 

You flinched hard, shrinking deeper into the mattress with fear. You rarely hear him talk, much less raise his voice. His hips stilled inside you, and his grip on your cheeks softened just barely. He let out a sigh—and you couldn’t tell if it was a sigh of sympathy or annoyance.

“I could easily snap this pretty neck of yours,” he warned dangerously, “but I won’t—because I need your body nice and warm for me. So if you want to make this easier for yourself, you’re going to do as I say. Got it?” 

His other hand lingered around your neck, pressing his fingertips deeper into your skin—a warning. You whimpered, and his cock twitched inside you.

“Tell me you’re sorry.” 

You swallowed hard and looked up at him in fear. “I’m sorry.” 

He hummed in approval, but you could tell that he wasn’t satisfied. 

“Tell me you’re sorry for being such a disobedient slut,” he growled, his face getting closer and his grip on your throat getting tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, your small hand encircling his wrist, trying to pry it away. “I’m sorry for being such a disobedient slut—I’m so sorry!” 

A deep, threatening chuckle escaped his lips as he slowly ground his hips against yours, his cock twitching at the friction from your silky and tight walls.

“That’s right, baby. You should be sorry. You should be sorry for having such a tight fucking body. You should be sorry for being so damn irresistible,” he moved his hips faster, fucking you with newfound vigor. 

“Every time I’m sent on those damn missions, the only thing I can think about is getting back to your cell…” he grunted as your walls tightened down on him, “and fucking you senseless, over and over again until your body’s had enough.” 

He let out a hiss as your sobbing cunt pulsed and ripped around him—tightening against his thick shaft as he rutted into you. He brought his hand down between your sweat-slicked bodies, his rough fingertips finding your clit and rubbing it in quick circles. 

“I—I can’t… soldier–!” you whined as you held onto his shoulders for support, feeling yourself come undone around his cock. 

“Oh fuck, there you go…” he moaned, grinning as you sobbed harder and struggled beneath him. “Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch of me. Fuck… gonna cum—your soldier’s gonna cum!” 

A hard sob choked out of you the minute he slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust. His hips jerked and spasmed as he filled you up completely—hot, thick, ropes of his seed trickled down your puffy, swollen lips and seeped onto the mattress. His heavy body slumped against yours with a tired sigh, his face burying into the crook of your neck. 

By now, he would zip himself up and leave without a second glance. But this time, he remained still on top of you, his cold metal fingers brushing along your jaw in a way that you think is supposed to be comforting, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. 

“Good girl,” he breathed into your neck.

He wasn’t one to give you aftercare when he finishes. The most he’ll do is hold you close against him and fall asleep, but most times he’d leave. You’re not sure if you like this or not. You sniffled as you tried to calm your breathing, and he tilted his head to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. 

“That’s it, let it all out, baby,” he cooed. “Such a perfect little prize for me.”

Since then, he’d been more vocal with you during his reward times—and you’d been trying, cautiously, to reach him with words. Every night when he came, you’d attempt some small exchange.

The metal door creaked open, then slammed shut. Heavy footsteps crossed the concrete toward your mattress. You looked up. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“Soldier…” you swallowed hard, your fists tightening around your nightgown. “H-how was your mission?”

He advanced on you as he always did, stopping right in front of you. You looked up at him—eyes soft and vulnerable while you waited for an answer. Instead, a low growl rumbled from his chest. His hands clamped around your face, pulling you in so abruptly your breath caught. His mouth crashed against yours in a rough, unyielding kiss. You muffled, trying to turn your head, but his arm slid around your waist, lifting you effortlessly before pinning you to the mattress.

He pulled away from you to lift the hem of your nightgown, baring your glistening wet folds to him. 

“Soldier… I’m just—trying to talk to you,” you said, voice trembling.

“No talking,” he groaned, pushing your legs apart and settling himself between them. He pulled back just slightly to unzip his pants. His cock sprang out—already hard, leaking, and heavy just for you. “Just need your body.” 

You tried to squeeze your legs together, but he grabbed your thighs roughly and forced them apart. 

“No, please—” 

“Just be good,” he hissed, stroking his shaft as he pressed his spongy tip against your tight little hole.

You gasped as he pushed past your entrance without warning. He shuddered as he felt your tight silky walls accommodating and stretching around him. “That’s it,” he encouraged, sinking deeper inside you. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

“No, stop,” you choked out a sob. “Soldier, please. I beg of you. Just listen to me—” 

“Shut the hell up,” he interrupted by shoving his metal fingers into your mouth, muffling your cries. “Don’t say a single word.” He warned. “Suck on them.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you began reluctantly sucking on his fingers—cold and metallic on your tongue. You don’t even want to know where they’ve been or what they’ve done. All you need to worry about now is what they’d do to you next if you don’t comply.

“Thats it,” he grunted as he brutally thrust into your dripping and clenching cunt. “That’s it. Suck on my fingers while I fill this greedy cunt with my seed.”

You choked and whimpered around his metal digits, and the sounds only inflamed his dark urges to claim you. He didn’t stop—couldn’t stop no matter how hard you begged or struggled. 

“So fucking good,” he moaned as he fucked you like a wild animal. “Shit, baby. Gonna cum… gonna… pump you full!”

He angled his hips and slammed his cock directly into your sweet spot. The sensitive bundle of nerves sent a jolt of electrifying pleasure all over your body. You arched your back and came undone reluctantly around his thick length, spilling all over him.

“Ah!” you choked around his fingers. “Mmmph!”

He let out a loud roar of pleasure as his cock pulsed and throbbed—he shuddered as scalding ropes of his thick cum painted your walls white deep inside your cunt. He removed his fingers from your mouth and slumped beside you, but didn’t pull out. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and pulled you close against him.

You two laid like that for a quiet moment. You were expecting him to leave, but he didn’t. 

“Soldier…?” you tried, but there was no response.

“How was your mission?” you tried again. 

Silence.

“Did… did you kill people? I smell blood on you—”

“What did I say about not talking?” he interrupted you coldly. But despite his words, it seemed like he made no effort to actually stick through with his threats. 

You shifted beside him, trying to get comfortable. “What do you do on your missions?”

He didn’t answer.

You frowned. “Do you have a name, soldier?” 

You felt his arms tighten around your waist, and he held his breath for a second. You blink up at him and he has a dark and dangerous look in his eyes—but there was something beneath them that seemed sad… and kind of lonely. He pressed his lips together as he wrenched his arms away from your body, pulling his softening cock out of your swollen pussy with a wet squelch. 

“Soldier?” you whispered, your brows furrowing in confusion as he rose abruptly, zipping himself back up and pulling on his boots.

He gave you no answer, no acknowledgement. You laid there—sore, shaken—watching him prepare to leave in cold and sharp movements. When you asked for his name again, he didn’t even give you a second glance. 

The door pulled open, and a moment later, the slam of the metal echoed through the cell, leaving you alone in silence once again. 

Two, maybe three days passed. For the first time since your capture, the Soldier hadn’t come. The metal door stayed shut—opening only for food. Your nightgown remained untouched, unwrinkled, whole—for the first time in ages.

For the first time since your capture, you were left alone with your thoughts—and that, somehow, felt worse. You found yourself waiting for him despite yourself, every shift in the shadows making your chest tighten.

While you were sleeping on the cold and stiff mattress, the ground shuddered beneath you. Dust fell from the ceiling, and you snapped awake in a coughing fit. Distant shouts rang from down the corridor, harsh Russian, followed by the rapid cracks of what seemed like gunfire. 

An alarm blared, red light flooding the concrete walls of your cell. You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding in fear. The sounds outside grew louder—metal crashing, men screaming.

You tucked yourself into the corner, terror swallowing you whole. What the hell was going on out there? Did something go wrong? From the noise—crashing, gunfire, endless screaming—it sounded like the entire base was falling apart.

The door slammed open. Blinding light spilled into the cell, and you squinted against it, certain it was a guard come to finish you off.

“Please,” you begged, voice trembling. “Don’t kill me—”

Heavy boots pounded closer. A hand clamped around your wrist and yanked you forward. Wide-eyed, you looked up into the face you knew too well—the same long dark hair. The same haunted blue eyes. The soldier who came to you every night.

“Stay close,” he ordered, his voice like steel. “Keep your head down. Be quiet. And keep up.”

“What are you doing?” you gasped, stumbling against him. “Please—don’t hurt me—”

His grip only tightened. With his metal arm, he hauled you close to his chest like a shield and dragged you into the blinding chaos of the corridor.

You kept your head low as he instructed, but your gaze darted to the floor. Boots pounding. Bodies clashing. Guns firing. Guards collapsing one after another. Screams echoed down the corridor, words in Russian you couldn’t understand—likely calling for him. He ignored them all, pulling you along without hesitation.

“I’m scared,” you whispered against him, hoping he could hear you. “Where are you taking me?”

“Stop. Talking.” 

He didn’t slow until you reached an empty room. He shoved you inside, slammed the door, and locked it. Crossing to the far wall, he forced open a narrow window.

“W-what are you doing?” you stammered, hovering timidly.

Your breath caught when you glanced outside. For the first time in months, you caught a glimpse of the world beyond these walls.

Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms. In an instant, you were lifted through the window. When your bare feet touched the ground, you shuddered at the feel of grass—real grass—beneath your toes.

“Go,” he said coldly, nodding past you. “Run. Run as far as you can. Don’t turn back.”

You just stood there. His words processing in your mind.

Go? Go where? 

Where would you even run to? 

You clutched your nightgown. Your legs felt useless, your bottom lip trembling. “Are you… are you coming with me?”

The door behind him rattled under heavy blows, Russian voices barking commands.

“I said go!” he snapped, drawing a pistol from his belt and thrusting it into your shaking hands.

You grabbed it with clammy and hesitant hands. 

“Go,” he repeated again. “Go, or stay here forever and die. Your choice.” 

You hesitated, the weapon shaking. You could point it at him, end it all, avenge everything he had done to you. He knew you could do  it—yet he didn’t move.

“What’s your name?” you asked him suddenly. 

For the first time, his expression faltered—just slightly—before his face twisted into a snarl. Without answering, he slammed the window shut, retreating into the chaos behind him.

You were left with only your reflection in the glass, drowned by the sound of shouting and gunfire. With the pistol clutched tight in your hands, you turned on your bare heel and ran—ran until your lungs burned, ran until your weak legs gave out. Ran until the base was outside of view.

And still, you didn’t know the soldier’s name.

[chinggay85-blog]

Under His Watch

Summary: You tried to stop following Bucky, torn between guilt and longing, but the pull of him never really left. When you finally tried to run, he found you before you could get away: calm, quiet, and claiming he loved you in the only way he knew how, by never letting you go. (Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.6k+

Disclaimer: Stalking. Dark!Bucky Barnes. Unhealthy obsession/love. Themes of possession and lack of consent. Psychological manipulation and control. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You tell yourself you’re done.

You don’t follow him. You don’t walk his routes. You don’t even look at the note he left again, though it stays right there on your windowsill, weighted beneath the untouched protein bar like a trap you’re pretending not to notice.

But that night, you can’t sleep.

Your apartment is too quiet. The shadows feel thicker. And worst of all, the air feels tense, like you’re being watched. Like you’ve traded your old obsession for something deeper. Reversed it. You're the one being studied now: through every wall, every creak of floorboards, and every flicker of your indecision.

By midnight, your body is buzzing. Not with fear exactly, not quite. It’s something worse, some cursed hybrid of dread and desire. Like your nerves know something your logic refuses to accept.

Still, you go through the motions: wash your face, brush your teeth, and check the locks. But your heart never slows. You lay in bed with your eyes open and the covers pulled up to your chin, listening for something you can’t name.

And just after 2 a.m., you hear it.

A shift. A breath. Not outside.

Inside.

You don’t scream, don’t even move at first. Your body locks up the way prey does when it knows it’s already been seen.

Then you hear his voice, low and amused, just above a whisper, cuts through the silence.

“Told you not to go quiet on me.”

You suck in a breath and sit up fast, covers clutched tight to your chest. He’s standing in your doorway, half-shadowed by the hallway behind him. No weapon. No anger. Just that expression: that soft, fond smile that makes it all worse.

“I locked the door,” You say, because it’s the only thing your brain can latch onto.

He shrugs. “I know.”

A beat of silence, then he takes a step in. You should tell him to leave. You should scream, run, something. But your body betrays you, you remain frozen there.

He crosses the room slowly, eyes never leaving yours, like he’s approaching something fragile or dangerous. You aren’t sure which one you are anymore.

When he reaches the bed, but doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, looking at you like he can read every chaotic thought storming behind your eyes.

“Didn’t like not seeing you today,” He says. His voice is low and gravelly now. Almost disappointed. “Thought maybe you got bored of me.”

You try to breathe steadily, failing.

“I didn’t,” You say quietly.

He smiles and sits on the edge of the bed like he’s done it a hundred times. The mattress dips under his weight as the space between you shrinks. You stare at him, searching his face for something cruel, something mocking. But it’s not there. He looks at you like he means it, like he missed you, like he’s been waiting.

And suddenly, your mouth is dry.

“Is this okay?” He asks, tilting his head. He doesn’t sound apologetic. More like he’s curious how far you’ll let him go.

You know you should say no, that you should scream. Instead, your voice comes out hoarse.

“…Yes.”

His eyes darken, but he doesn’t move closer yet.

“I could’ve shown up sooner,” He says. “Could’ve pulled you aside that first night. I could’ve stopped pretending I didn’t see you watching.”

You shiver.

“Why didn’t you?”

His smile turns sharp.

“Because it was cute,” He admits softly. “The way you followed me. The way you thought you were being careful. You put so much effort into hiding, but your eyes never lied.”

He finally leans in then, one hand bracing himself beside your hip.

“I like people who want me, those who don’t pretend otherwise.”

His hand moves, slow and warm, brushing hair from your cheek. You flinch, barely, but he notices.

“You scared of me?” He asks.

You open your mouth, but the truth claws out before the lie can settle.

“Yes.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“You don’t need to be.”

You don’t respond. You can’t because he’s not wrong. You don’t need to be. He hasn’t hurt you after all. But you should be, and that’s what terrifies you most.

He traces your jaw with one knuckle slow and gentle, like he’s memorizing it. And when he leans in again, lips ghosting your ear, his voice is barely a whisper.

“You followed me for months, doll. I think you knew it was always gonna end like this.”

You feel his breath, warm and close, and your chest aches with the weight of it.

He presses a kiss to your temple. Not rushed or greedy, just claiming.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He says.

And then he pulls back, stands, and walks out. No touch beyond that. No threat. No demand. He leaves your bedroom door open. And it’s worse than if he had stayed.

Because now you know, he will come back.

And next time, he won’t ask if it’s okay.

It’s been three days.

Three days since he slipped into your home like he belonged there. Since he sat on your bed, touched your face, and kissed your temple like he’d claimed you.

And yet… he hasn’t returned.

Not to your room or to your window.

You’re ashamed to admit you’ve been waiting for him. Listening and watching the dark corners of your apartment like something might emerge from them again. You hate it. You crave it. You don’t know who you are anymore without the tension of hunting him, or being hunted by him.

So you go back to normal or you try.

You go to work and pretend to be present. You answer emails all the while your skin burns with the thought of him, of his hands near your throat, of his voice slipping beneath your skin like static.

You’re in the breakroom, sipping burnt coffee and trying not to think of it all, when you hear your coworker say it:

“Hey, uh… there’s some guy out front asking for you?”

Your heart stops. You put your cup down with both hands, like it might shatter otherwise. You walk to the lobby with legs that don’t quite feel like yours and when you turn the corner, there he is.

Bucky.

In your world wearing a dark jacket with his hands in his pockets, like this is casual. Normal. Like this isn't the first time he's dragged himself into the daylight just to see you.

He sees you and smiles. Not big or bright, just a little curl at the corner of his mouth that says I knew you’d come.

“Hi, doll.”

Your stomach flips violently. Your coworkers glance at you, then at him. Then look away. Everyone seems to register the weight of his presence and instinctively get out of the way.

You glance around, lowering your voice.

“What are you doing here?”

He tilts his head, a slow smile curling on his lips. “Do I need a reason to visit you?”

You frown. You don’t know what to say as you glance down the hallway. Someone’s watching. Your boss might walk through any second.

But Bucky doesn’t seem concerned. He takes a step closer: slow, measured, and confident.

“I brought you something,” He says casually.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a paper bag grease-stained and still warm.

“You always skipped breakfast. I figured you’d forget to eat.”

Your throat tightens. He remembers that? Of course he does.

You take the bag with shaking hands, the scent of egg and cheese hitting your nose like a gut-punch. You want to cry, and you don’t know why.

“Why are you really here?” You whisper.

His gaze softens, not kind but deliberate.

“I missed you.”

That lands heavier than it should.

You back up a step instinctively, eyes flicking toward your coworkers. “You can’t just… show up here.”

“Sure I can,” He says, stepping forward again, voice low. “You followed me for months, sweetheart. Let me return the favor.”

You stare at him, your heart thudding so hard you can barely hear your thoughts. His voice makes your knees feel like paper and you hate that the way he looks at you, making you feel wanted. Chosen, even if it’s wrong.

“Are you mad?” He asks. “That I’m here?”

You open your mouth.

You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream, kiss him, run, and stay.

But instead, your voice comes out too soft.

“…I don’t know.”

He nods like he expected that. Like that answer was enough for now.

He leans in, whispers right against your ear, “That’s okay. You’ll figure it out.”

Then he pulls back and steps away, his eyes dragging over your face one last time before he turns and walks out the door.

He leaves you in the lobby with a warm breakfast sandwich and a thousand crawling thoughts.

You stand there long after he’s gone. And for the rest of the day, you don’t eat the sandwich.

But you don’t throw it away either.

At first, you tell yourself it was a one-time thing.

The surprise visit at work, the sandwich, and the smile that made your stomach turn traitor against your brain.

But Bucky doesn't stop at once. He starts showing up everywhere.

The next morning, you see him across the street from your apartment leaning against a lamppost, sipping coffee from a cup you know is from your favorite place. He doesn’t wave or call out, just watches you step outside, meet his eyes, and freeze.

And that’s when he smirks.

The day after that, he’s at the corner bookstore when you walk in, flipping through the same novel you looked at two weeks ago but didn’t buy. He doesn’t speak, just raises an eyebrow like you’re late.

Each time, he comes closer. Never with force. Never angry. Just there, present and unavoidable.

You stop questioning how he knows where you’ll be. You know the answer already. The same way you knew him, the same way you learned his schedule, his habits, and his small unguarded moments. You taught him how to do this. You left a blueprint of yourself in every step you took.

And now he’s using it. He starts calling you. He never asks where you are. He always knows.

Sometimes it’s just a message.

“Eat yet?” “Your window’s open.” “Looked pretty in that sweater today.”

Once, he leaves a voicemail. You don’t know why you listen to it. Maybe you’re scared it’s something important. Maybe you’re scared it’s him forgetting you.

But it’s not.

“You sounded tired this morning. I don’t like that.” Pause. A breath. “I can’t sleep when I don’t know you’re okay.”

You throw your phone across the room, but you don’t delete the message. You tell yourself you still have choices, that you still have space.

But then he starts appearing closer, too close.

You step outside one night to take out the trash, and he’s just… there in the alley. Leaning against the wall like it’s normal, like he belongs in your night routine. He doesn’t say anything. Just follows you back to your door, five steps behind.

You don’t invite him in and he doesn’t ask.

He just touches your lower back when you fumble for your keys, low and slow and comforting. Like a boyfriend. Like a protector. Like someone you asked for.

He leans in once you’re inside the door, voice low against your neck.

“I don’t like it when you don’t answer the phone.”

You shudder. You want to ask what happens when he really doesn’t like something, but you don’t.

Because deep down, some part of you already knows.

And the next day, he sends groceries to your apartment. Not just food, but your favorite snacks, the shampoo brand you always restock on Tuesdays, and a throw blanket you stared at in a shop window but never bought.

There’s no note, just quiet control and you realize what’s happening too late. He’s not watching anymore. He’s in.

He’s in your routine. In your phone, in your head, and in your space.

And worst of all…

You miss him when he doesn’t show up.

And that’s when the fear really settles in, not fear of him hurting you. But the fear that maybe, just maybe, this feels right even when it shouldn’t.

So, you start looking up buses, routes, and hotels outside city limits. Because this isn’t just obsession anymore.

It’s something worse. It’s become comfort.

You don’t tell anyone. There’s no one to tell. It’s late past midnight when you move.

You keep the lights off as you pack. Just enough clothes for a few days and enough money to get out of the city. You don’t bring your phone. Instead, leaving it on the kitchen counter, face-down, like it mattered. You know he can track it.

The bus station is a twenty-minute walk. You take the back streets, hood up and head down. You feel hunted even when there’s no one there. Every step feels too loud and every breath too sharp.

You know he’ll notice eventually, but you need to get ahead. You need distance. You're not running because you don’t want him. You’re running because you do, and that terrifies you more than anything else.

You buy your ticket in cash, a one-way trip. You don’t care where, it just needs to be away.

You sit near the back of the terminal, backpack clutched to your chest, trying not to shake. Every face that passes makes your spine stiffen.

When the bus pulls in, you stand with the rest of the passengers. You make it all the way to the line, hand in your pocket, ticket clenched between your fingers.

And that’s when you hear it.

His voice. Calm and steady right behind you.

“You really thought you could just leave, doll?”

Your whole body freezes as the ticket slips from your hand.

You don’t turn around, but you feel him step closer behind you, his body heat curling around you like smoke.

“No note this time? After everything I gave you?”

You turn slowly. He’s in a hoodie and dark jeans, eyes unreadable, and mouth set in something too flat to be a smile.

There isn’t any anger or yelling, just… disappointment, which is somehow worse.

You manage a whisper.

“I needed space.”

His jaw flexes once.

“I gave you space.”

He reaches down, picks up your ticket from the ground, then looks at it like it personally offended him.

You feel sick. Not because you regret trying to leave, but because you don’t regret letting him in.

And that’s what breaks you.

“You were everywhere,” You whisper. “I couldn’t breathe anymore.”

He tilts his head.

“I was taking care of you.”

“No,” You say, voice trembling. “You were owning me, controlling me.”

For the first time, something flashes in his eyes. Not rage or pain. Something colder.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He steps closer and you step back, but his hand finds your wrist before you can bolt, and his grip is firm. Not bruising or cruel.

Just final.

“Let go,” You whisper.

He pulls you gently away from the bus line, out of sight and into a quiet corner of the station. His touch never leaves you. It’s not just restraint, it’s possession.

And deep down… you don’t fight him.

“You don’t run from people who love you,” He says quietly.

“You don’t love me.”

He leans in, forehead almost touching yours.

“I do. In the only way I know how.” He looks at you. “I let you follow me. I learned every little thing about you and I didn’t run.”

Your knees nearly buckle. You hate him. You want him. You hate that you want him.

“Please,” You whisper, eyes burning, heart conflicted. “Please let me go.”

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he's wiping away something that isn’t there.

“I will,” He says softly.

And for a second, you believe him.

“Just not tonight.”

Taglist: @the-galaxy-fiend @ordelixx @atieredcart @opheliabbarnes @muchwita @sweetserendipity65

[chinggay85-blog]

if Drabble requests are still open how about the reader is insecure about her body, especially her p*ssy and bucky just goes to townnnnnn cause he’s mad she feels like that 🥵💕

drabble about bucky eating that kittykat

bucky x reader

warnings: smut (just oral y’all), i’ll tag this as dubcon, angst, this shit is str8 up trash, i dont like proofreading, i hate this lolol

word count: 800

an: hell fuck ion have any idea about what im fucking doing

masterlist

You gagged on his cock as you forced him deeper in your mouth, eager to give him his release and earning a sense of pride when you found him throwing his head back with his eyes closed as he emptied himself down your throat. He looked down at you before licking his bottom lip and grinning. “You’re such a fucking sight, doll.” He pulls you up before attacking your mouth with his, eager to taste himself in your mouth. He groans in between kisses before you finally pulled away from him and started to reach for your top when he grabbed your wrist.

“What’re you doing?” He pulls you closer to him before looking at you with a raised eyebrow. “Getting dressed?” You answer but it sounded more like a question. He chuckles humorlessly before pushing you gently down the mattress until you’re fully seated. “I don’t think so…” He grins before pushing your shoulders until you were completely laying on your back. He presses a kiss on your lips before moving to press a kiss on your neck. He continues kissing down your body until he was just below your belly button. Realizing what he’s about to do, you stopped him. “B-Bucky… Don’t—”

 “I’m just returning the favor, doll.” He leans down to kiss your abdomen but you stopped him again, fully sitting up and shifting away from him. “You don’t have to do that.” You looked at him and felt embarrassed as he looked at you with confusion mixed with hurt. “Really, Buck. You don’t have to. I’m fine.” You could tell that he knows that you’re bullshitting him. “I just want to make you feel good, baby. You’re always so generous with me but when I offer, you always seem so fucking terrified. A-am I— Are you afraid of me?” He choked on his words as he stepped away from the bed, moving cautiously as if he would scare you away.

 You immediately go over to him but he stepped away from you, keeping a healthy distance between the two of you. “Bucky… It’s not like that. I-I…” You gave up on the idea of walking over to him and sat back down on the bed before sighing and covering your face with your hands. “I can’t— I don’t like… I don’t think you’d like it…” You stumbled out and then gasped when you felt a harsh tug on your wrists before being faced with a frowning Bucky. “What the fuck do you mean?” He hissed through his clenched teeth.

 “I mean that I don’t fucking like me and I definitely don’t think you’ll like me. Especially down there!” You felt so humiliated but you had to let it all out. It was a breath of fresh air and if he leaves you, you wouldn’t even be surprised. It’s just like ripping the band-aid type of situation. “I really like you, Bucky…” You began, being calmer this time around. “I mean… I don’t want you to leave me just because—” You let out a huff when your back was suddenly pushed back down on the bed.

 You looked up to see Bucky scowling at you as he hovers over your body. “Oh, doll... I can’t believe you would fucking think like that!” He presses a hard kiss against your mouth before pulling away. “I fucking love you so fucking much!” He presses another kiss on you before leaning back again. “And to hear you talking shit about yourself just fucking infuriates me. You’re my fucking girl and you’re so fucking beautiful.” He presses another kiss on your lips before moving down. He skillfully takes your pants off, slapping your thighs when you tried to kick his hands away as he did so. “I’m going to show you just how gorgeous you fucking are.” He hovers over your core before pushing your thighs apart and leaning down to kiss your clit and licking it while he stares back at you.

 You looked at him, waiting for the moment that he’ll pull away and leave you but he stayed, face buried between your legs. He watched you as he continued licking your clit before enveloping it with his mouth and sucking as he continued lapping the bud with the strong muscle called his tongue. You saw his eyes lightening up in joy as you let out a moan before grinding yourself against his mouth. He doubled his efforts until you’re a shaking mess under his mouth and pulling away after helping you through your orgasm. 

You were trying to even your breathing when he swiped his fingers through your wet slit that made you jump before gently moving and pressing it against your lips. You obeyed and sucked on his fingers before he pulled it away and replaced it with his lips. He groans against your lips before pulling away and giving you a hard look. “You see how good you fucking taste? Everything about you is perfect and I won’t stop until you fucking see that.” He caresses your face before kissing your lips and falling down beside you to pull you against his body and into a warm and loving embrace.

[chinggay85-blog]

Hey mama! I love your writing so much!! Could you please maybe do a seb or buck with a mommy/lactation kink?? Thank you ily

Sure!! Here you go!

Run-through: You’re busy working; answering calls and emails till late at night, and your needy, super soldier boyfriend needs a lot of attention. 

Themes: sub!bucky, dom!reader, mommy kink, soft smut, fluff, praise kink

You heard him entering your study room, approaching the desk where you had been busy working all evening, right after dinner. 

You were rapidly typing away a rather important email when you felt him place his warm and cold hands gently down on your shoulders from behind. You briefly glanced back at him; sleepy and shirtless, before you turned your head back to your screen. 

“You’re still awake?” You asked, keeping your eyes on the screen where you quickly read what you’d been typing. 

“Come to bed.” He said softly, his deep, tired voice immediately making you feel tingly. His voice alone made you crave your bed, with a shirtless Bucky in it. 

“In a minute, Buck. I’m almost done with this.” You replied, focusing back on your work. 

But Bucky refused to budge. His metal hand slowly trailed up and down the side of your neck as he said in a whiny, needy voice, “Come on, please. Come to bed, baby, please.” He begged politely. 

You sighed, just slightly annoyed at the fact that you couldn’t give all the attention he wanted right away. You turned to look at him, “I have to make an important call in a few minutes. It’ll be quick. I’ll come to bed right after that, okay?” 

He looked down at you with pleading, gorgeous blue eyes. He almost groaned in need again, but he nodded slowly. “Right after the call, you promise?” 

You smiled up at him, nodding, “I promise, baby.” 

“Okay.” He whispered, leaning down to give you a kiss on the cheek before he reluctantly walked away and you admired his impeccable ass in those grey sweats as he walked out of your office. 

“Needy baby,” You murmured, with a loving smile on your face once he was gone. 

–

Like you promised, the moment you were done with the call you got up and walked away from your desk. Upon entering your bedroom you found Bucky sprawled on top of the blankets on your bed. You smiled at the sight of him. His famous metal arm, his strong, muscled arm folded under and supporting his head, his golden, muscled and defined chest. He looked like a Greek god just lying there in your bed, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, lounging with his eyes shut. 

You quietly walked over to him, knowing well that with his super soldier senses he probably heard you approaching before you even entered the room. Only when you stood in between his parted knees, leaned over and ran your fingertips gently down his delicious chest did he open his pretty blue eyes to look up at you. 

“Hi baby,” You whispered.

Bucky didn’t say anything, he just sat up and hugged your middle, pushing his face into your stomach as he whined like an actual baby. 

“What is it, babyboy?” You asked, running your fingers through his hair. “Look at me,” You spoke softly. And he did. His chin pressed against your body as he tilted his head up to look at you. Those baby blue eyes you loved so much stared into your eyes with nothing but need in them. “What happened? Is my big, strong, metal-armed baby tired? Hmm?” You caressed his cheek, his stubble rough against your touch. “Does he need mommy to take care of him?” 

He gave you a soft smile with puppy dog eyes. Then nodded, “Please.” He whispered. 

You melted. He was one of, if not the most strong man you’d ever known - both physically and mentally. But here, in the comfort of your home, in your bed he’d turn into such a needy baby you couldn’t help but love him, and give him all the attention he wanted. 

“Okay, baby.” You leaned down just a little to kiss his forehead. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you, okay? Mommy’s here to take care of you.” You whispered, kissing his brows and his closed eyelids. “I’m here for you, baby. Don’t you worry about a single thing. Now tell me, what do you want from mommy?” 

He stretched his neck a little, offering his face up even more for you to kiss him. You chuckled, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his pretty nose, then he whimpered and said, “Cuddles… please.” He almost moaned as you brushed your lips against his, he whispered against your mouth, “Need… need to feel your body heat. Please, mommy.” 

“My sweet, sweet babyboy,” You murmured, pulling away to look down at him. “Anything you want, baby.” You said. Before you could move again, Bucky effortlessly pulled you into bed with him; laying you down beneath him before he then went and dumped his whole body weight on top of you, his face pushed into your chest as his arms wrapped around you, keeping you close. 

He looked a lot like a kid, hugging his favourite teddy bear to sleep. Except, sleep was the last thing on your baby’s mind. Bucky started by snuggling you, pushing his face shamelessly into your breasts while you kept running your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. 

He was still for a moment, then he started fidgeting. Rearranging his arms around your body constantly, repositioning his head on your chest multiple times, just moving a lot. 

“Shh, baby. Calm down.” You whispered, kissing the top of his head as he nuzzled the crook of your neck. His warm breath tickled your skin. “Mommy’s got you. It’s okay, I’m here.” 

He nodded, “Hmm,” His reply was barely audible. You knew he was restless, had been since he got back from his recent mission. 

“What is it, baby? That mission with Sam took a toll on you, huh? It’s okay, you’re home now.” You reassured him, “We’re together again, why are you being so fussy? Tell me.” 

He groaned, moving around again. Then you heard his needy voice again, whispering against your skin, “The mission… It was too long.” He whined, “Missed you so much, mommy.” 

Your heart melted again. He was so precious, it hurt. “Oh, my baby,” You kissed his forehead. “Well, I’m here now. Tell mommy what you want. Back rubs?” 

He pouted adorably, his brows furrowing beneath your lips as he let out a rare, bratty and slightly assertive, “No.” 

“Okay. Do you wanna watch a movie?” You asked again, ready to do anything to make him feel better. 

Again, with the same tone as before, he said, “Nuh uh.” 

“Okayyyy,” You caressed his cheek as you thought of what else he could be wanting, “Ice cream?” 

“Nope.” 

You sighed, smiling at him. “What then? You have to tell me, baby. Come on, tell mommy what you want.” 

He just whined and pushed his face into your neck again, mumbling something you couldn’t quite catch. 

“Baby, look at me.” You spoke, waiting for him to pull away and look up at you with his pretty eyes. But he didn’t right away, he just groaned and pushed his face deeper into the crook of your neck, as if he could hide there forever. “Baby,” You sounded a little more firm, “Look at mommy.” 

This time he did. 

“Good boy,” You said, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Now use your words, and tell mommy what you need.” 

He whined again, like a little brat, but he ended up mumbling so quietly, “Want you… wanna make you come, please mommy it’s been so long.” His voice was deep and laced with lust. Normally you’d tease him, but this time, you couldn’t even deny that you were equally as hungry for him. 

“Anything for you, babyboy.” You said, trying to sit up but he pushed you back down with almost no effort. You had the habit of forgetting that your baby was so much stronger than most people. 

“No,” He protested, “Just… let me,” He whispered, “Please mommy.” He gently kissed your neck. 

“Okay baby,” You reached out and cupped his face. “You can have whatever you want from mommy.” 

He smiled softly, leaning down to kiss down your neck, getting bolder. He slipped his cold metal hand beneath your shirt, making you laugh as he lazily tickled your side. He kept kissing, nibbling on your skin. “I want you to come all over my tongue,” He said, lifting your shirt up all the way, tucking the fabric under your chin as he leaned down to wrap his warm mouth around one of your nipples, sucking on it. 

You sighed beneath him, arching your back in pleasure as he bit and licked, teasing you as he alternated between each breast; taking his sweet time. You knew he needed this. The intimacy, the closeness, the need to make you feel good. He’d been gone too long, and as always, he’d come back with the fear that you no longer needed him. But you did. You had realised a long time ago that no matter what, you’d always need your babyboy. But he was the needy one who needed constant reminders that you did; but you were happy to remind him all the time. 

“Oh… baby,” You sighed as he gently bit down on your nipple, “Your mouth feels so good, you’re so good to mommy.” You murmured. Your praise made him suck on your skin harder, made him involuntarily grind his hips against yours as he began kissing further down your body. 

Along your torso, down your stomach, your hips and down your inner thighs as you parted your legs for him to settle in between them. He was in a hurry to slide your underwear down your legs, in a hurry to taste you on his tongue. He’d been away for days this time, and he couldn’t wait any longer. 

He wasted no time nuzzling you in between your legs, licking down your folds and humming as he tasted you. Your fingers slid into his hair again, gripping and tugging gently at his roots while his tongue slipped past your folds and teased your entrance; occasionally flicking your throbbing clit mercilessly. He licked and sucked; ate you out relentlessly and you whined, throwing your head back and telling him how good his mouth felt. 

In between moans and ragged breaths he asked in a soft voice, “Am I doing a good job, mommy?” Then he resumed licking and tasting you like he had all the time in the world. 

You smiled, looking down at him. “Such a good job, baby. You make mommy feel so good.” You said as your hips instinctively bucked against his mouth. He smiled up at you, flicking his tongue even faster. “Fuck,” You groaned, “Your tongue feels so good, such a good boy for mommy.” 

He hummed, moving his mouth even faster against you, causing goosebumps and tingles to erupt all over your body. Bucky took his time, teasing you, biting down on your inner thigh before gently pushing his tongue inside of you. You whined and moaned under his touch. 

You looked down to find his blue eyes staring up at you from in between your legs. The intensity of his gaze made you smirk. “My strong baby, always so needy for mommy…” You whispered, gently massaging his scalp as he ate you out. “You’re all mine…” you whispered as he thrust tongue deeper into you. You moaned and whimpered, your body getting warmer and warmer with each touch of his tongue. 

“Come for me,” He said, then added a soft little, “Please mommy,” He murmured before sliding his tongue back into you. His big, strong arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you in place as he devoured you. 

You felt your walls tighten around nothing, and you knew you were close. And judging by how loud and frequent your moans were, he could tell as well. “Are you gonna make mommy come for you, babyboy? Hmm?” You asked, and he nodded quickly before biting down on your inner thigh as you moaned under him. “Go on then, make me come, baby.” 

You could only moan and whimper as he kept licking deeper into you; your back arching off the bed. 

“Baby… you feel so good.” 

You felt him quicken his pace at the sound of the praise, and you felt the pressure building up in between your hips until you couldn’t handle it anymore; and you came undone all over his lips, moaning and whispering about how good he felt. 

Bucky kissed his way up your body again; pushing his face into your neck, he relished your warmth. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his press soft kisses all over your neck as he murmured, “Tastes so good, mommy…” He said, “I want more… wanna make you feel good, feel you around me… please,” He begged, his metal hand reaching up to toy with your breast. 

You could feel his cock hardening in his sweatpants, pressing against your abdomen. You sighed, “How can I say no to my perfect baby, huh?” 

You felt him smile against your skin, so proud of himself being so good to you. 

“Go on baby, mommy wants your cock.” 

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice. He kissed your skin; from your mouth to your neck as he lowered his sweatpants and carefully slid into you. Your walls welcomed him perfectly and he moaned under his breath as he filled you up entirely, inch by inch. 

Your warmth wrapped around him, gripping him and reminding him that he was yours. He would always belong to you because no one else would ever make him feel this way. 

“So… so good, mommy,” He whined, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, reminding you that he needed you immeasurably. He laced your fingers together, pinning both your hands on either side of your head as he sped up gently into you. 

You moaned in pleasure, throwing your head back as he started rocking in and out of you. He leaned in and kissed your lips again, groaning and panting softly against your lips as he fucked you slowly. In and out of you, taking his sweet time. 

“Oh please…” He begged, for no reason. “You feel so good… so good to me,” He murmured. His movements were gentle, passionate and loving. His hips rolled against your body perfectly, and his body weight pressing down gently on you was comforting and intimate. His grip around your hand tightened each time you’d praise him under your breath. 

“Fuck…” You whined, “You’re so good to mommy, babyboy. You feel so, so good.” You whispered. “Right there, baby. Yes… just like that. You know how to make mommy feel good. Look at me,” When he pulled away just a little to look down at you, you whispered against his lips, “You’re all mine.” 

He gasped in pleasure as he stared down at you; his lips were full and swollen. You felt his cock hit all the right spots each time he moved against you, and his lips parted and he groaned the moment your walls started clenching around him. 

“Oh… please mommy, gonna come…” He whined. 

You felt the pressure and the familiar, sweet pain in between your legs as your walls clench violently around him. But you couldn’t just let him have it yet. You couldn’t help but tease your little baby, denying him his orgasm as you pushed him down to the side and quickly straddled him, sliding his cock back into you as you began rocking against him, going up and down his cock slowly. You moved faster; lifting and lowering yourself down on his cock, with him filling you up completely. He mumbled your name under his breath as you sped up even more; riding his cock and making him lose his mind.

“Please…” He was a whimpering mess beneath you as you rode him. “Please make me come, please…” 

His metal hand circled around your waist and he pulled your warm body closer to his. Bucky was in a daze, his body tingled and he felt warmer than usual. You leaned down, your lips brushed against his each time you moved up and down his cock. 

You bounced on his cock moaning and whining; feeling him stretch you out. Brows furrowing and panting while you rode his cock, throwing his head back and moaning. “Fuck…” He swore softly in that whiny voice of his, “Please…I’ve been such a good boy,” He panted. 

Bucky was unable to hold back from thrusting his hips up and fucking you from beneath. 

“Oh… that feels good, baby…” You moaned. Even as you felt your orgasm wash over you, he kept thrusting his hips up into you as your eyes rolled back as you came hard. “Come with me…” You moaned, wantonly, feeling your walls squeezing and clenching around him as you came undone. 

Bucky came right after you, his warm load spilling inside you as he wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead to yours. 

[chinggay85-blog]

Fuckyes. Can you do a dark!bucky where he takes you while you're walking home at night and he is so obsessed he has pictures of you hanging up around his house? He fucks you into oblivion and you finally give into him after the first round. Overstimulation, choking,so much more? Is that ok? Or too much?

a little liking

bucky barnes x reader

Warning/s: soft!dark!bucky, NONCON/DUBCON, smut, overstimulation, nOT pRooFrEad, abduction, obsession, stalking, daddy kink, p*rn without plot, just a little plot, PLEASE BE WARNED

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: this took so long! sorry, anon! hope this was okay!

masterlist

——————

“You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” Ethan asks, one eyebrow arched. 

You purse your lips as you fought the smile from showing, shaking your head. Ethan’s a really nice guy and good looking as well. You have to thank Sasha for setting you two up. Ethan’s great and all but you’re not sure if you’re ready to be in a relationship yet. Not after what happened to Jeff.

“Alright. Just be careful, okay?” Ethan caresses your face with his huge hands as he looks down at you with raised eyebrows. 

You grabbed his wrists with your hands as you nodded against his palms. He grins and leans down towards your face. 

Your heart started beating faster as his lips were just about to touch yours when a loud noise made the both of you jump, making you bump your head against his nose.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” You fumbled with his face, trying to wipe the blood from his nose off with the sleeves of your jumper. He gives a small laugh as he stops you from fumbling by grabbing your wrists softly and sliding his hands up your shoulders, stilling your movements. 

“I’m fine, Y/N. See? You don’t have to worry.” He wipes his nose with his shirt and gives you a reassuring look. 

“Sorry…” You mumble under your breath, bowing your head down. His fingers found their way towards your chin, gently tilting your head up. 

“It’s fine, Y/N. Really. Can I expect a second date?” He grins as he sees your face light up. 

“Alright. I’ll text you!” He waves goodbye.

—-

You groaned as a pair of large hands shook you awake. “Wake up, Y/N. We’re home.” A deep voice says from beside you. Just then, you realize that you’re in a car and the door beside you was open and a man was standing beside you, looking at you with glistening blue eyes. You watched him as his jaw clenches while he bites his bottom lip. Your heart was beating so fast and the adrenaline was pumping through your system as you thought of ducking under him and making a run for it but as if he can read your mind, he gives a dark chuckle before leaning towards you. “I don’t think so, princess.”

He slips a hard arm under your knees and another one, a softer arm, behind your back. He carries you out of the car and into an unfamiliar big house, completely ignoring you as you thrash around his arms. He only tightened his grip on you, making you whimper and go stiff against his hold. “You gotta stop moving, princess. You don’t want to hurt yourself now, do you?”

—-

“Welcome home, princess.” He sets you down and takes his leather jacket off, revealing his metal arm. He watches you as you look around the huge house. You would’ve been in awe if it wasn’t for the hanging picture frames, filled with photos of you. Some are paintings of you and some were photos of you that you didn’t even know were taken. You gulped as you turned to look at the man.

“Do you like it, princess?” He smiles at you, his face glowing with genuine happiness but that didn’t fool you. This guy’s dangerous. He’s a stalker and he just abducted you. 

“W-who are you?” You cursed at yourself for stuttering. You glared at him to show you that you weren’t scared of him even though you would piss your pants any second now.  

“Don’t give me that look.” He pouts and walks towards you, smirking when you backed away.

“Stay away from me! Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me!?” You tried to punch him when he came closer but he caught your hands with his metal one and backed you up until your back was pressed against a wall.

“I can’t stay away from you, princess. I just got you. Call me Bucky as you’ll be screaming that name over and over tonight.” He smirks as you struggle against his hold. He uses his normal hand to unzip your pants, sliding his hand down your panties and playing with your clit. 

“As for your third question… You’re about to find out, princess.” He forced his lips on you as his fingers played with your clit, making you involuntarily wet every second that passes by. You mumble pleases against his lips, begging him to stop and to just let you go. Promising him that you wouldn’t tell anyone but he wasn’t listening to any word you’re saying. He was more focused on getting you off and he was succeeding. 

Your breaths were shallow and he knows exactly that you’re about to cum so he encourages you by releasing your hands and using his metal hand to play with your breasts, massaging each breast alternately. 

Not being able to control yourself, you moaned against his lips. He smiles against your lips and pulls away.

“That’s it, princess. Let go. I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve it. Let go.” He picks his speed up and rubs your clit faster, making you whine as pleasure erupted, your pussy spurting wetness against his fingers. Your knees buckled as you came but Bucky held you against the wall, supporting your weight. He pulled his hand away from your pants and shoved his fingers into his mouth, groaning in delight as he tasted you on his fingers. “Fuck, princess. You taste so good.

He drags you away from the wall and shoves you towards a door, carrying you and dumping you on a soft bed. He’s on you in a second, prying your pants off your legs and spreading you wide open. He smirks and shoves his face down your cunt, lapping his tongue all over your clit. He moves his hands up your breasts, massaging them gently as his tongue moves towards your slit, slurping the remaining juices left.

“Fuck, princess.” The vibration from his voice made you moan and he smiles against your cunt, looking up at you and loving the way you’re whining under his hold. He pulls his flesh hand away from your breast and uses it to enter a finger into your slit, adding another finger when you arched your back in ecstasy. 

Bucky could feel your walls clenching around his fingers so he doubled his efforts and started to curl his fingers every time he would shove it inside you, brushing against your weak spot. Bucky smiled in victory as your hands flew towards his head, curling your fingers through his hair and bucking your hips up against his face, asking for more which he gladly gave to you. He used his tongue skillfully to flicker it against your clit as his fingers worked its magic inside you. Your legs tried to close when you’re about to cum but Bucky used is metal hands to keep it widely spread. You fisted his hair as you came, arching your back and pushing your head against the pillow as you screamed in pleasure.

“Bucky!” your legs shook beside his head as he drank the new batch of juices that spilled from your cunt. He pulled away from your cunt and crawled up your body, catching your lips in his and shoving his tongue inside of yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You taste so good, princess. I bet your walls would feel divine around my cock.” He moans as he grinds his member against your thigh. You shook in terror as you felt how hard and how big he is. There’s no way he could fit inside of you. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ve made you soaking wet so your pretty little cunt is ready for daddy’s big cock.” He kisses the side of your face, dragging his tongue down to the side of your neck and nipping on it until you’re moaning wantonly under him.

He takes a hold of one of your wrists and guides it down between the two of you, brushing your hands against his hard cock and wrapping your hands around it. “Feel how hard you made daddy’s cock, princess.” He moaned loudly as he guides your hand up and down his cock, sliding your finger around the slit and spreading his precum all over his girth. He positions his cock against your slit, sliding it up and down to cover his cock with your wetness. He presses a kiss on your lips before pushing his cock inside you with one strong thrust. You cried in pain as well as in pleasure. His cock was stretching you wide but the way he feels inside of you has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Aahh!” Your eyes started to water as he started thrusting in and out of you. “Shh. I know, princess. I know… I’ll make you feel good. You’ll see.” He growls as he picks his speed up, watching your body slide up and down the mattress as he penetrates his big cock in and out of you. Bucky watches your face contort into a frown as you moaned loudly, clenching around his cock.

“Fuuck” Your mouth opened in delight as you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. “That’s it, princess. Cum for me!” He snaps his hips harder, hitting your cervix perfectly and using his fingers to rub your clit at a maddening pace. 

“Oh my god!” You screamed as your walls clenched around him before cumming and groaning. “Shit, princess. You feel so good!” Bucky didn’t stop thrusting and he didn’t stop rubbing your clit which made your legs spasm out of control. “No more!” You tried to pry his hand away from your clit when you felt yourself edging closer to another orgasm. “Just one more, princess. I know you can give me one more.” He growls as he guides one of your legs on his shoulder and leaning down to kiss you. 

Your eyes widened when you felt his metal arm snake around your throat, choking you tightly. 

“Cum for me, princess. Cum and I’ll let you breathe.” The new position made his cock go deeper and you would scream if it wasn’t for him choking you. Your vision started to blur and you could feel the coil in your stomach as you’re about to cum. 

“That’s it, princess! Cum for me!” Bucky feels your walls flutter against his cock and he added effort into his thrusts.

Just as you were about to pass out from suffocation, you screamed in pleasure and he lets go of your neck, making you gasp for air as you cum around his cock. 

“Bucky!”

“Oh fuck, princess!” He shoves his cock deep inside you, growling as he spurts his seed inside of you. “Princess fucking squirted for me.” He moans against your neck as he stills inside of you, his cock softening against your walls.

He kisses you and wipes the sweat from your forehead. “See what I can make you do, princess? I’ll take care of you from now on. Not even Jeff or that Ethan guy can take you away from me. They can’t make you feel what I can make you feel, princess. You’re mine.”

He carries you off the bed and into the bathroom, placing you on the bathtub before getting in as well. He pulls your back against his chest and brushes your hair back.

“I’m the only one for you, princess.”

[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.