myfictionaldreams

[myfictionaldreams]

Guillermo del Toro's FRANKENSTEIN

[myfictionaldreams]

I've an idea for some Throne of Glass characters that I neeeeed to write, but I'm unsure whether to create a series of shorter fics or a single long fic. Help a girl out!

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Desk Duty // Jim Hopper x F!Reader

Summary: You're the sunshine of the Hawkins Police Station—always smiling and brightening everyone's day. Especially his. Chief Jim Hopper is gruff, intimidating, and far too old for you... But you've had a quiet crush on your boss since day one. The age gap, the power imbalance, and the rules make it impossible. Or at least, it should be—until one stormy night pushes everything past the point of no return.

A/N: I have been desperate to write for Hopper and I'm so glad I did... this man has me in a chokehold.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, age gap (reader: 20s, hopper: 40s), boss/secretary, forbidden romance, innocence kink, sunshine vs grumpy, protective Hopper, minor injuries, size kink/difference, squirting, praise kink, oral (f receiving), rough sex, overstimulation, Hopper is a tits guy

Words: 5.6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The Hawkins Police Station wasn’t exactly known for its excitement. On most days, it was quiet enough to hear the tick of the wall clock and the squeak of Officer Callahan’s chair every time he leaned too far back.

But for you, the silence wasn’t a bad thing. It gave you room to breathe, to sort through case files and tidy up the endless stream of paperwork with your usual meticulous care.

You’d been working at the station for just over six months, and in that time, you’d managed to become something of a fixture behind the front desk. Bright eyes, organised, and hopelessly king. Too kind, according to Chief Jim Hopper.

You bought fresh coffee every morning, laid out pastries on the breakroom table before anyone arrived, and swapped out the vase of flowers on your desk weekly just to keep the place from feeling too grey. You remembered birthdays, wrote thank-you notes in tidy handwriting, and always had a soft smile for even the most irritable walk-ins.

You were the kind of sunshine that warmed everyone around you. And everyone in the office noticed.

“You’re too good for this dump,” Powell had said once, shaking his head as he grabbed a glazed donut from the box you brought in. “You should be working at some fancy law firm or greeting people at a spa.”

But you didn’t want that. You loved your job. Love the small-town rhythm, the creaky floorboards, the scent of strong coffee and old paper. And more than anything, you were drawn to the man at the heart of it all: Chief Jim Hopper.

It didn’t make sense, not really. He was gruff, older, chronically dishevelled, and wore a permanent scowl as if it were stitched into his skin. But somehow, he made your stomach flutter. He made your cheeks burn when he barked out your name or muttered under his breath in that deep, rough voice.

You had a crush. A big one. An all-consuming, ill-advised crush on the Chief of Police– your boss.

“You’re gonna burn out if you keep smiling at everyone like that,” he’d grumble, every other morning when he passed by your desk, coffee in one hand, permanent scowl on his face.

And every time, you’d just grin up at him and say, “Good morning, Chief.”

It had become your thing. You teasing him, him pretending not to enjoy it. But you caught the way his mouth twitched sometimes, like he was holding back a smile. Hopper was all sharp edges and shadows, tall and broad and imposing with that worn-out Sheriff’s uniform clinging to his hulking frame, but there was something else under the surface. A heaviness. A quiet sadness he never talked about.

You noticed it even when others didn’t. The way his shoulders dropped the moment he thought no one was looking. The way he lingered in his office long after everyone else had gone home.

And that was why you stayed.

You didn’t tell him that, of course. You just pretended to have too much filing to do. Pretended to be absorbed in some boring county report or half-finished inventory list. But every night, you waited until his heavy footsteps echoed down the hall and out the front door before packing up your things.

It was just after nine when the phones finally stopped ringing. Powell and Callahan had already left, tossing casual goodnights over their shoulders/ The radio in the corner played soft static, and the overhead lights buzzed with that low, flickering hum. You rubbed your eyes, blinking at the glow of the desk lamp as you finished logging the last of the incident reports.

The door to Hopper’s office was still closed.

You bit your lip, glancing toward it. You could go home. No one would blame you, and you were officially meant to finish your shift an hour ago. But something about leaving while he was still here, alone, likely hunched over a bottle and an old case file, just didn’t sit right.

You stood up, walking softly to his door. You knocked gently.

“What?”

The bark made you smile. “Just me, Chief.”

A pause, then the sound of a chair creaking and heavy boots approaching. He opened the door with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowing beneath that wild mop of hair. “You’re still here?”

You shrugged, offering a sheepish smile as you looked up at him through your lowered lashes. “Had some filing to finish.”

His gaze dropped to your empty hands, then flicked back up. “You’re lying.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You always finish by eight.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You hadn’t realised he… noticed. That he paid enough attention to know your habits. Your cheeks warmed under his intense gaze as you absent-mindedly began to wring your fingers together.

He sighed, leaning against the doorframe, one hand raking through his hair and pushing it back. “Why do you stay late?”

You hesitated. “Because you do.”

That shut him up. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing like he wasn't sure what to do with that. You stood your ground, fiddling with your fingers.

“I just… I don’t like thinking of you here alone, that’s all.”

He looked like he wanted to scold you. Maybe tell you it was none of your business. But instead, he signed again and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

You blinked, not expecting that response. “Really?”

“Might as well. I'm just going through old case files. Not confidential.”

You stepped inside his office for the first time, taking in the cluttered desk, the peeling maps on the wall, the ashtray filled with crumpled cigarett butts. It smells like smoke, coffee, and something uniquely his– woodsy and warm, like cedar and old leather.

He dropped heavily into his chair with a grunt and gestured for you to sit in the battered chair across from him.

You sat down, smoothing a hand over your skirt nervously. “You live like a raccoon in here.”

He gave you a flat look. “You don't have to stay.”

“I want to.”

That got a reaction. His brows lifted, just slightly.

“You’re too nice,” he grumbled, grabbing a file. “It’ll get you hurt someday.”

You smiled softly. “Not with you around, Sheriff.”

He froze, just for a second. Then cleared his throat and focused hard on the paper in front of him. You didn't say anything else. The quiet stretched between you, not uncomfortable but thick with something else. An awareness that neither of you acknowledged.

You watched the way his sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong forearms. The way his fingers dwarfed the pen in his hand. The tiny twitch of his moustache when he was deep in thought.

“You shouldn't want me like that,” he said without looking up.

You jumped. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does.”

Your heart skipped. You swallowed, shuffling in the leather chair. “Maybe I do.”

That made him look up. His eyes were tired but sharp, focused entirely on you.

“You shouldn’t”, he said again, but his voice was softer this time, almost like he didn’t believe his own words.

You felt heat rise in your neck. “I should probably head home.”

He stood before you, towering as always. “I’ll walk you out.”

Outside, the air was cold. You shivered, arms wrapped tight around yourself. Without a word, he pulled off his flannel overshirt and draped it over your shoulders. His hands lingered, brushing your arms.

You looked up at him. “Thank you,” he held your gaze for a long moment. His expression was unreadable.

“Get home safe, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your chest ache. “You too, Chief.”

He waited until you got in your car and didn’t move until your headlights disappeared down the road. And still, long after you were gone, he stood outside in the cold, staring into the night, jaw clenched tight like he was holding something back. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The morning air in Hawkins had a crisp bite to it, and you hugged your coat tighter around your frame as you stepped into the police station. You were early again. Hopper would grumble about it if he noticed, but you didn’t care. It gave you time to set out the fresh box of doughnuts, refill the coffee pot, and tuck a sprig of sunflowers into the chipped vase on your desk.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Powell greeted, breezing past you with a grin.

You smiled back. “Morning. I brought your favourite today. Raspberry jelly.”

“You’re gonna spoil us rotten,” Callahan muttered as he grabbed a glazed one. “Still don't know how someone like you ended up stuck in this place.”

You laughed lightly, used to the comment. “Guess I have a thing for grumpy men with badges.”

The moment the words left your mouth, your eyes darted to Hopper’s office. The door was closed, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard. You busied yourself with rearranging the folders on your desk, cheeks warm. Just thinking about him made your stomach flip.

As if summoned, the door creaked open. Hopper emerged, looking as tired and dishevelled as ever, hair sticking up on one side, uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He grunted something that resembled a greeting and made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Fresh,” you called softly.

He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “Course it is.”

You offered him a sweet smile. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Just filled his mug and disappeared back into his office.

Mid-morning brought chaos. A loud ruckus at the front doors had you jerking your head up. Powell and Callahan rushed forward as two deputies dragged in a handcuffed man, thrashing and shouting.

“Get your hands off me! You think you can lock me up for nothing? Bunch of small-town bastards!”

You stood quickly, hands braced on your desk. The man was wiry and angry, eyes wild and red-rimmed, likely drunk or high, maybe both. Hopper stormed out of his office.

“What the hell is this?” he barked.

“Caught him breaking into Henderson’s garage,” one of the deputies said. “Resisted the whole way.”

The man snarled, thrashing again. “I didn’t do shit!”

It happened fast. The man jerked forward, headbutting the nearest officer. In the chaos, his elbow flew out and struck you. A blinding crack to the side of your face sent you stumbling backwards, crashing into the corner of your desk.

Everything tilted. Your vision swam.

“HEY!”

Hopper’s roar echoed like a gunshot. Chairs scraped. Officers shouted. Powell reached you first, hand on your shoulder, but Hopper was already moving like a freight train. He lunged.

In one fluid, furious motion, he slammed the man against the wall with a snarl. “You just hit her,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Big mistake.”

The station froze. No one dared move. No one dared breathe. The man whimpered under Hopper’s grip. The Chief didn’t let go until the deputies peeled him off. 

Still trembling, you had slumped back into your chair, dazed, with your face in your hands. Blood trickled from the corner of your lip. Everyone rushed around you–Callahan barking for an ice pack, Powell fumbling for tissues–but it was Hopper who reached you first. 

He dropped to a croch, his large frame making him eye-level with you. His hands, however, were near your face, clenched tight with restraint.

“Let me see,” he gently coaxed. You shook your head, blinking fast.

“I’m fine. Just startled. It was an accident.”

“He hit you.” his voice was firm.

You offered a weak smile. “You should see the other guy.”

He didn’t smile. He reached out, fingers ghosting along your jaw. The gentle contact made you flinch. Hopper flinched, too. Something burned behind his eyes. Anger. Guilt. Something more. And then he stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away, one hand fisting his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “I need a minute.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode out of the front doors. The others watched him go silent. Callahan eventually broke the tension. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll drive you home.”

You stood numbly, shaking your head as much as possible without it throbbing. “No, it’s ok. I just need a moment outside, I’ll be fine.” With a hand pressed to your aching jaw, you slipped outside.

The air was cold, biting. It made your cheeks sting and your eyes water, but you needed the solitude. You stumbled along the path at the edge of the station, disappearing into the trees. There, out of view, you leaned back against the rough bark and let yourself crumble.

Silent tears slipped down your cheeks. Your chest heaved with the emotion you hadn’t let them see inside.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. “You shouldn’t be out in the woods by yourself.”

You startled, turning to see Hopper, towering, jaw still tight. His eyes locked on yours, then immediately dropped to your swollen lip.

You quickly wiped at your face. “But I’m not by myself, and anyway, I just needed a moment.”

He said nothing at first. Just looked at you, really looked. Then he stepped close. Close enough that his chest almost brushed yours. His hand reached out, slow this time, warm and steady as it found your jaw again. He tilted your face toward the light. His thumb brushed your lip, and you winced.

“Damn it,” he grunted.

You saw it then, the way his whole body tensed, as if he wanted to hit something. Or scream. But instead, he exhaled, slow and deep, hand still cradling your cheek.

“I should’ve been faster. Should’ve stepped in before it happened.”

“You did what you could,” you whispered. “You always do.”

His brows furrowed. “Doesn’t make it easier,”

There was silence then. The wind rustled the leaves overhead. You leaned further back against the tree, grounding yourself, but Hopper followed your movement, his hand still on your face, his other moving to your waist.

You gasped softly at the contact. His palm was heavy and warm on your hip, thumb grazing slowly over the fabric of your jumper. Your hand came up instinctively, fingers wrapping around his wrist where he cupped your cheek. The tension between you was suffocation.

“You scared me,” he said, voice low. “Thought he–shit, I don’t know what I thought. Just don’t ever do that again.”

“It wasn’t like I meant to,” you breathed. He let out a humourless laugh, his forehead almost brushing yours. His hand on your waist tightened slightly.

“You’re too good for this place,” his eyes dragged over your features. “Too soft. Too…good.”

“I belong where you are,” you said without any rational thought.

He froze. You felt his breath catch, his gaze dropping to your lips. His thumb moved again along your jaw, slow and aching.

“Don’t say things like that,” he rasped. “Not when you don’t know what they mean.”

“I do.” You tightened your grip on his wrist. “I know exactly what they mean.”

Something dark flickered in his eyes. His head dipped, lips just inches from yours. So close you could feel the heat of him, your breath hitched, needing this.

Then, the station door creaked open. Footsteps. Voices calling.

He pulled back sharply, like the moment had never happened. The space between you is filled with cold air.

“Callahan’s gonna drive you home,” he finally said, stepping away. “You rest. Take tomorrow off.”

You nodded, your heart still hammering. He turned, walking away with fists clenched and shoulders rigid. But just before disappearing around the corner, he stopped. And looked back. His eyes held yours. Then he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were back at work the next morning, despite Hopper’s orders. Your lip was healing, and the faint discolouration from the bruise along your cheekbone had already begun to fade beneath a dusting of concealer.

You’d smiled when you passed his office, pretending not to see the way his brown furrowed or the way his eyes dropped immediately to your jaw.

“You’re gonna give him an ulcer,” Powell said around a mouthful of muffin.

You blink at him in confusion. “Who?”

Powell gave you a look. “Don’t play innocent. We all saw the way Hopper nearly murdered that guy yesterday. And now here you are with homemade blueberry scones and those little peppermint cream things he likes.”

Callahan leaned over the breakroom table. “He’s like twice your age, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

Powell smirked. “You keep bringing in his favourite candy and talking to him like he doesn’t make your cheeks glow like a goddamn christmas tree, you’re gonna get the whole department caught in a sexual harassment seminar.”

You flushed, turning away to rearrange the snack tray. “It’s nothing. He's my boss. We just talk sometimes.”

Callahan gave a low whistle. “Talk. Right. That's what you call it when you two vanish behind the trees for twenty minutes yesterday?”

Your hands stilled on the napkins. “I was upset,” you say offhandedly.

“He was upset,” Powell echoed, but gently now. “Just be careful, alright? We like having you around. You’re good for him. Maybe too good.”

You didn’t reply. I just offered a small, polite smile and returned to my desk. Hopper didn’t emerge from his office until nearly noon, eyes flicking to the new flower arrangement on your desk and the scones on the tray. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You stayed late, again. Of course you did. And this time, it came back to bite you.

By the time you finally gathered your things and stepped outside, the lot was empty, and dusk had settled. You turned the key in the ignition of your car. 

Nothing.

You tried again—nothing but a weak sputter. The battery was dead.

You sighed, resting your forehead on the steering wheel. You didn’t want to call anyone. You didn’t want to explain why you were still there after hours. So you grabbed your coat and bag and started walking.

It wasn’t far. Just a mile and a half. Maybe two. But the wind had picked up, and you hadn’t dressed for the cold. You’d worn a sundress, one of your favourites, a soft yellow one with buttons down the front and a hem that swished around your knees. Pretty and light. Completely impractical now that the sun had dipped.

Your arms were already covered in goosebumps when you heard the familiar rumble of an engine behind you.

A beat-up Bronco pulled alongside. Hopper.

His window rolled down. “What the hell are you doing?”

You glanced at him, sheepishly raising a shoulder. “Walking home.”

“In that dress? In the dark?”

“My car wouldn’t start. It’s fine. I’m almost halfway.”

He swore under his breath and slammed the car into park. “Get in,” you hesitated. “Don’t argue, " he said, already pushing open the passenger door.

You climbed in, shivering. The heat blasted your face immediately, and the door thunked shut behind you. He didn’t speak at first. Just pulled back onto the road, jaw tight, eyes forward. You rubbed your hands together, trying to warm them.

Without a word, Hopper shrugged off his flannel shirt and handed it to you. “Put this on before you freeze to death.”

You slipped it on, grateful. It was huge, swallowing you whole. Warm and worn and smelling like him. The sleeves fell past your fingers. You hugged it close.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He grunted. You glanced down at your thighs, the dress having ridden up when you slid into the seat. It now rested dangerously high, just above the mid-thigh, where your bare skin brushed against the cold leather. 

You saw his gaze shift. He didn’t speak, but his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. His eyes flicked from the road to your legs and back again. His jaw flexed. You pressed your legs together, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

“Sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Hi voice came out gravelly, “You don't make me uncomfortable, sweetheart.” You looked at him. He didn’t look back. “You make me…” he trailed off. Shook his head. “It’s not important.”

You turned more toward him, your knees angled in his direction. The trust was old and narrow. The space between you felt like nothing.

“Tell me,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to you for just a second. Then they dropped to your bare legs, your hands folded in his flannel. “You’re too young,” he said finally. “Too sweet. Too good. I'm not the man you should be riding home with.”

“Then why do you always make sure I get there safe?

That did it. His jaw clenched. He pulled off to the side of the road and threw the truck in park. You both sat there for a long moment, listening to the engine tick.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” he admitted. “Because you make me feel things I shouldn’t feel.”

Your heart thudded. “I’m not that innocent,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours. “Yes. You are.”

The air in the cab turned thick. Hot. You watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he reached across the seat and tucked the flannel tighter around your body. His hand lingered on your arm. Just for a second. Just long enough to burn.

And then he pulled away. “Let’s get you home,” he finally said, breaking the silence. But the look he gave you before turning back to the road wasn’t one of indifference. It was a promise.

The next morning, you arrived at the station with Hoppe’s flannel still folded neatly over your arm. You’d washed it the second you got home, even spritzed it lightly with cedar spray to mask your laundry detergent, but part of you wanted to keep it, selfishly, like it belonged to you now.

As they entered, Powell gave you a knowing glance. “You always wear that dress on the days he’s in early,” he teased. “What happened, couldn’t find one shorter?”

“It’s not short,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

“Sure it’s not,” Callahan added with a wink. “Still cold out, sunshine. Maybe he oughta just buy you a jacket. Better yet, move you in.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did that traitorous flutter all over again. Hopper hadn’t come in yet, but you could already feel the weight of him in the air, he way he occupied space even when he wasn’t present. It was maddening.

You set his flannel on the edge of his desk and smoothed it flat. A note accompanied it in your tidy handwriting: “Thanks for the rescue. And the warmth.”

He didn’t mention it when he arrived, just nodded once and carried it into his office without a word. But he lingered at your desk just a second longer than necessary. You swore you felt his fingers graze yours when he took the reports from your hand.

The day passed in a haze of tension and glances. Every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence like a shadow, tall and impossible to ignore. When you brought him his afternoon coffee, your fingers brushed again. You both paused, but neither said a word.

Late that evening, the station emptied slowly. Powell waved goodnight. Callahan teased you on his way out, but you were already lost in your paperwork. You hadn’t even realised Hopper was still inside until you heard his door creak open again.

He stood there, arms crossed, eyes soft.

“You working late again?”

“Guess so,” you smiled. “Didn't want to leave before you.”

He exhaled slowly, stepping closer. The room felt warmer when he was near. “You should stop doing that,” he said slowly.

“What?”

“Waiting on me.”

You tilted your head, eyes searching his. “Why?”

“Because I might start expecting it.”

Silence stretched between you. His eyes dropped to your lips. Then lower. The hem of your dress, yet again, had ridden up whilst you sat.

His jaw flexed. “You're freezing again.”

Before you could reply, he was shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. His fingers lingered there, heavy and warm, pressing into your arms. Your breath hitched.

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Why do you keep doing that?” you asked.

He blinked. “What?”

“Taking care of me.”

His voice was low. “Because no one else does.”

You stood slowly, his jacket falling around you like armour. “That's not true. Everyone here looks out for me.”

“Not the way I do,” he said, closer now. “Not like this.”

You were trembling, but not from the cold. From the heat in his eyes. From everything unsaid.

“Jim,” you whispered.

His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek, the faintest stroke. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. He stepped closer. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he said again, voice cracking.

Your lips parted.

The office door slammed open. Callahan’s voice called out, too loud and jarring. You jumped back. Hopper swore under his breath, stepping away like he’d been caught red-handed.

Callahan poked his head in. “Oh. You’re both still here. Forgot my damn wallet.”

You busied yourself with your files, pretending your skin wasn’t burning. Hopper cleared his throat, face like stone. “See you tomorrow,” Callahan added, then slipped out.

Neither of you moved. After a long beat, Hopper finally exhaled.

“You should go home,” he said. “Before we do something we can’t take back.”

You didn’t argue. But as you left, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders, you knew it was already too late. The line had been crossed. It was only a matter of time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain came fast and had, sliding down in waves as you turned your car onto your street. Windshield wipers struggled against the downpour, and every crack of thunder made you flinch. By the time you pulled into your driveway and stepped out, the wind had already blown your umbrella inside out.

You were soaked within seconds.

Your dress clung to your skin, a sheet of heavy fabric. Your shoes squelched. Cold raindrops trickled down your spine as you fumbled with your keys and rushed inside.

The house was quiet, still. But the silence didn’t last long. With a loud crack, everything went black—power out.

You stood there in the dark, shivering, water dripping from your hair. The air in your home had already turned frigid without the heater.

You stripped out of your wet shoes and peeled off your soaked dress, shivering harder in your thin slip. Every room felt colder than the last. You pulled one of Hopper’s flannels from the laundry basket; you hadn’t returned it this time. You just couldn’t bring yourself to. It felt like safety. Like him.

After lighting all the candles that you owned, you were still rubbing your arms trying to warm up, when the knock came.

You froze.

Another knock. Harder this time. More urgent.

You padded barefoot to the door and opened it to find Hopper on your porch, drenched to the bone. 

“Jesus,” he grunted, looking you over. “You okay? I tried calling. Lines are down.”

You stared at him. “Y-You’ve driven through this?”

“You didn’t answer. I wanted to check on you.”

Your heart fluttered. He stepped inside, kicking the door closed behind him.

“It’s freezing in here, power out?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself. His eyes trailed down your body, bare legs, soaked through slip, his flannel barely buttoned.

His throat worked visibly. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t have time to change,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, large hands cupping your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed over the fabric of the flannel, the only barrier between your skin and his palms.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold,” you said, though your voice trembled for other reasons, too.”

His eyes dropped to your lips. Then lower. The shape of your nipples was visible through the thin, soaked fabric. His hands flexed.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he suddenly doubted himself. “You’re half my age. Im your damn boss.”

Your heart clenched.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That’s all.”

You stepped forward, your voice soft and innocent. “But you always take care of me.”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, eyes still averted. “And I shouldn’t. It's not right. You deserve someone your age. Someone who doesn't want to drag you into something you’ll regret.”

You were close enough to touch him now. Slowly, gently, you reach out and place your hand on his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt, the solid heat of it underneath.

“I don’t regret this,” you whispered. “Not any of it.”

He looked down at you then, and you bit your lip, eyes wide and full of want. That was all it took.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you against him, kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

His lips were rough and desperate against yours, the kiss tasting of tain and restraint finally shattered. His hands slid under the flannel, dragging it down your arms as his mouth devoured yours, his facial hair rough against your soft cheeks. 

“You’re so delicate,” he groaned against your skin. “So fucking sweet.” Next, he removed your shift until you’re completely bare before him.

You whimpered, clinging to his soaked shirt, his body massive and warm against yours. He swept you up without warning, carrying you through the dark hallways toward your bedroom.

He laid you back on your bed gently, like he couldn’t bear to be rough with you just yet.

He kissed you as if he were starving.

You were trembling beneath him, breathless, caught between anticipation and need as his massive frame hovered above you. His hands, big and rough, traced the length of your thighs, parting them gently.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he praised, voice thick with emotion. “Too good for me.”

Your fingers clutched his biceps. “I want you, Jim. I want this.”

He groaned like the words pained him, like he was trying to keep himself in check. “I should stop. Shouldn’t be touching you like this.”

You reached up, brushing your lips against his jaw, your voice sweet, almost pleading. “Then don’t stop.”

That broke him. He claimed your mouth again, tongue sliding against yours in a deep, consuming kiss. One hand trailed down your stomach and between your thighs, fingers teasing. 

“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I gotta stretch you first.”

You gasped as one thick finger slid into you slowly, the stretch already burning slightly. He moved carefully, watching your face, kissing your cheeks, your temple, your jaw until a second finger was able to slip beside the first.

“That okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimpered, clutching at him as your hips rolled in time with his movements. “Feels so good.”

“Good girl,” he praised, curling his fingers until your back arched. “You take me so well.”

Your moans turned breathless, needy. When he added a third finger, your thighs trembled around his hand.

“God, you’re so tight,” he growled, biting your lower lip, voice rough with restraint. “You sure you can take me, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, I want to. I want all of you.”

Jim didn’t need telling twice as he carefully eased his fingers out of you so that he could remove his clothes. You watched his every movement, pussy clenching with need at seeing his body slowly being revealed to you.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Chief,” you say coyly, fingers gripping into the sheets below.

With his clothes finally removed, he carefully lowered his body over yours, cradling your head as he kissed you soundly, his hips slotting against yours until you felt the heavy pulse of his cock against your thigh.

He lined himself up, kissing you once, hard and full of need, then pushed inside with a slow, careful thrust that stole your breath. 

Your nails scraped down his back as your legs circled his hip, crying out in desperation. “So big,” you gasped. “Oh my god.”

He grunted, trembling with the effort not to slam into you. “You’re gripping me so fucking right, sweetheart. Jesus.”

He rocked his hips slowly at first, letting you adjust. Every inch of him stretched you open, filled you so deeply it stole your breath with each thrust.

“You okay?” he asked against your ear.

“Y-Yeah. Please don’t stop.”

Once he knew you could take it, the pace changed. He thrust deep and hard, mouth on your neck, your chest, lavishing your breasts with licks, sucking on your nipple until your back arched.

“These tits,” he panted, sucking a nipple between his lips. “So perfect. I could stay here forever.”

You mewled beneath him, body jolting with every thrust. You were soaking, trembling, your noises high-pitched and utterly pathetic.

“I’ve wanted this,” he groaned, biting gently at your collarbone. “So fucking long.”

You came hard, a whimpering, gasping mess under him, and he never let up. He fucked you through t, murmuring praise as you sobbed against his shoulder.

“One more,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart.”

He flipped you over, pulling you into his lap, his cock still deep inside. His big hands gripping your hips and guiding your movements, helping you rock against him.

You were trembling, head thrown back, gasping his name.

“Too much,” you whimpered.

“You can do it,” he rasped, kissing your throat. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You broke with a scream, squirting over his thighs, your body convulsing with overstimulation.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growled, eyes dark with awe. “You’re perfect.”

He pulled out at the last second,s troking himself fast an came with a loud groan across your chest, hot ropes streaking your tits as you panted beneath him.

You lay again him, trembling and dazed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling quickly.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, you were finally his.

[myfictionaldreams]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY THE WINTER SOLDIER THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER Episode 1 New World Order

[myfictionaldreams]

just a side note between me and you, I've recently been going through my old writing (very slowly) to spell check and my god. the embarrassment i have that people haven't complained about 1. the spelling errors and 2. the size of my paragraphs... they're like mini essays per sentence it's actually so unreadable.

so this is me saying thank you for supporting my old fics even though they are unreadable to me lmao... if you notice any changes to my old stuff its because I'm heavily editing them

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Property of the Asset // Winter Soldier x F!Reader

Summary: They trained you to be his match. But you became his obsession. And he became your only truth.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dark, reader is an assassin, angst, slight dub-con, murder, torture, violence, memory-wiping, primal/feral sex, rough sex, breeding kink, pain kink, slight somnophilia, knife play, possessive, marking, hair pulling, exhibitionism, restraints, trauma bonding.

Words: 5.3k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The handlers never gave you a name. Not a real one, anyway. HYDRA called you Spectre-03. A designation. An echo. Like a ghost, able to disappear. You stopped missing your old name the moment they took it.

You were made for this, just as he was—the Winter Soldier.

The compound is buried beneath concrete, steel and ice. Somewhere in Siberia, or maybe not. You stopped keeping track of places after the third brainwash.

There’s no day or night here, just endless fluorescence. Surveillance eyes in the corners. Footsteps behind soundproofed walls. Metal doors that lock and seal without a sound.

Your cell is across from his. You both have beds, but rarely use them. You both wear uniforms, black and tactical, sterile, with endless pockets—no personal effects. No comfort. Just silence.

But you know he watches you. Sometimes, through the narrow glass of his door, you feel his gaze like a phantom weight across your throat. You don’t look back. Not often. But you always feel him.

They make you spar every three days. Or every time you’re punished. Sometimes both. The white room has no mirrors, only cameras.

You’re matched in every way: speed, strength, training. He’s taller, but you’re faster on your feet. His strikes are heavier, but yours are sharper.

Your fights are violent, exquisite. The kind of precision that makes the scientists mutter behind the glass. They tell you to win. But they never expect you to.

You’re not supposed to be as good as him. Not against the Assett. But you are, you always have been.

It wasn’t just the fighting. The fucking. The primal need to use each other for pleasure, satisfaction and another way to best the other.

The first time he’d issued you your lip was split from his fist. He’d knocked you down, bloodied your mouth, then dropped to his knees between your legs. He kissed the wound before fucking you through the pain.

You came like your body had no choice. He didn’t speak. Not until you were gasping beneath him, hands scrabbling for purchase against the cold white mat.

Then he whispered it. “Little Ghost.” A nickname, only for his lips.

Now, it’s become routine. They pair you deliberately now. They’ve seen the efficiency. When the Soldier fucks you, heperforms better the next day. Sharper, more focused and faster. The same applies to you.

So they schedule it. Allow it. Observe it. They leave the doors unlocked.

You never initiate. Never have to. He comes when he needs it.

Like tonight. You’re half asleep, body aching from a sparring match that left your ribs bruised. You’re on your stomach, face buried in the thin pillow. The cot beneath you is cold, the air colder. You feel the moment he enters. No footsteps, no sound.

Only heat. Then a hand in your hair. A sharp yank. Your head snaps back and your body tenses, but not in fear.

You gasp as your throat is bared to the air. Then a bite at your shoulder, deep and punishing. “Mine.”

He doesn’t wait. He never does. You feel his cock, hard andhot, as he pushed your sleepwear aside and drives into you with no warning. The pillow muffles your scream. Your body, already raw and used to him, accepts the intrusion with a broken whimper. There’s no care, just claiming. No prep. No softness.

He fucks you hard, brutal, the slap of his hips against your ass loud in the silence. One hand grips your hair, the other your hip, flesh and metal, binding you open.

He snarls above you, every thrust pounding into the bruises already on your thighs. Your knees burn against the mattress. You don’t move away. You never move away.

It’s always like this. Pain first, then the heat, the need, the mid-numbing want that eats you from the inside out.

You drool into the pillow as he presses harder, deeper. 

“Little ghost,” he hisses. “Fucking take it.”

Your body obeys. It always does, accustomed to his harsh touch. You flinch when he bites again, this time on the neck, shoulder, and spine. He leaves teeth indents where no one can see them. Places only he can touch.

Your orgasm hits you without warning, hard and electric. It rips through your spine like lightning, your vision flashes white, and your entire body tenses as the pulses of pleasure consume you.

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you tremble, begging into the sheets. He pulls out, flips you over, yanks your legs apart, and drives back in.

You scream. Loud and broken, echoing off the metal walls. Your eyes roll back as your body lights up again. Tears slip down your temples.

You want more. You always want more. He groans as he fucks into your absued body, eyes locked on yours now, wild, glassy and burning. The soldier isn’t allowed to feel. It's not allowed to want.

But he does with you. He slams in one last time and stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving. You feel him spill. Heat floods you—his metal arm trembles.

And for a second, just a second, he closes his eyes: peace–or something like it.

Then he pulls out. Slowly. You twitch from the sensitivity, your thighs shaking, your skin burning with bruises.

He kneels beside you, pressing your knees apart. Inspects the mess between your legs. Runs his fingers through the slick, spreading it and checking for blood.

He finds a cut, a scrape from training. He leans down and kisses it. Your breath catches sharply.

He tugs your sleep shirt down over your body and covers your legs with the blanket. Brushing sweat and matted hair from your face. You don't speak. Neither does he.

But when he reaches for your hand and clasps it in his, you don't pull away. And when he whispers, “little ghost,” against your temple before leaving silently into the hallway, you wonder how much of him is left. You wonder how much of you is still yours.

—--------------

The lights never turn off in the compound. White fluorescent lights are behind your eyelids even when you sleep. The walls are covered in sterilisation chemicals. The guards are ghosts, the scientists quieter still. You hear them sometimes, whispering as you’re led down the corridor barefoot and bruised.

“Put the Spectre in again. She responds faster to the Soldier.”

“It’s not attachment. It's conditioning. Proximity reward loop.”

“They rut like animals, but the kill rate goes up. That’s what matters.”

You’re not led to the training ring this time. This door is made of metal, thick, and sealed from the outside. Inside, the room is whitewashed and windowless, with no mirrors or mats.

Just a cot. Two cuffs, mounted on the wall. And him.

The Winter Soldier stands at the far side of the room, shirt discarded, chest rising slowly with each breath. His left hand flexes, the metal one. His face is blank, expressionless.

But his eyes find you the second you step inside. And they burn—the door seals behind you with a hiss.

They’ve done this before, licking you together like animals in heat. Sometimes after long missions. Sometimes after punishment. They think it’s effective. They’re not wrong.

The moment the air goes still, you know he’ll take you. You know you’ll let him. It's not just instinct anymore. Not just blood and body. It's him.

You cross the room without speaking. His eyes track every step. When you reach him, you don’t touch. You just tilt your head slightly, offering your throat. A gesture of submission. One you never give to anyone else.

A snarl curls his lip. He slams you into the wall hard enough to rattle your bones. Your breath punches from your chest, but you don’t resist. You never resist him.

His mouth crashes against yours, bruising and brutal. No grace, no softness. He licks into you like he's trying to consume you from the inside out, teeth scraping your lips until you taste copper.

You man, arching again him. Your bodies collide, uniforms still on, gear buckles grinding together. His metal hand grips your throat, not choking, just holding. Claiming.

Your hips grind against his. He growls. “You need it.”

You nod, panting.

“Say it.”

Your voice is broken, “I need you.”

He spins you, slamming you against the wall. One hand tears at your pants, the other rips the fabric of your top. It doesn’t matter. They always give you new ones.

He doesn't prep you. He fucks you hard, bare and against the cold steel, each thrust punishing a sound from yoru mouth that echoes in the sterile room. His hips slap you with punishing force.

You’re sore. Already stretched from last time. But your body welcomes him. It always does. The pain is part of it—the ache. Your hand braced against the wall as he drives into you, growling filth into your ear in Russian and English and something in between.

“Fucking made for this–made for me. You’re mine—my little ghost. Mine to break. Mine to fix.”

He comes first, hot and deep, buried to the hilt, but he doesn’t stop. His cock stays hard. Still inside you as he pulls you back, grabs you to the cot, and shoves you down. Your knees hit the edge. He flips you onto your back.

You see it in his eyes. This time, he wants to watch.

He strips you fast, tearing open the rest of your uniform until you’re bare beneath him. He kneels, wide and hulking, between your thighs. Sweat gleams on his chest. His cock glistens with a mix of you both.

Then he spits on it. Strokes himself once. And slides back in. his rhythm is punishing.

Each thrust knocks you higher on the cot, your back scraping against the thin sheet, knees pushed to your chest. You sob into the stale air, nails clawing at his arms, flesh and metal, hot and cold. He's everywhere.

He’s inside you. And he's not stopping. He's already come one. You felt it. The heat spilling inside, the tremble in his breath, the shudder of his hips. But it only made him worse.

Now he's chasing yours but not giving it. He pulls out just as your body behind to foil just before it crests. You cry out, broken and desperate.

He grins. A real one. Cruel and controlled.

You slap at his chest, panting. “Please– Fuck– don’t stop–”

He grunts, “Not yet.” he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. The sweat on his skin drips onto your mouth. His eyes are locked on your face, watching every twitch, every whimper.

His thumb drags through yoru slick, presses down on your clit in cruel, slow circles. You choke on a moan, thighs trembling.

He watches that too. “Hydra’s watching,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek.

You flinch. Of course they are. Cameras blink silently in the corners. Mics pick up every sound, every filthy word, every cry, every slap of skin on skin. Your body’s not your own in this place.

But when he's inside you, it feels like his. That somehow, it means something. He pulls back, just enough to line himself up again, then slams into you so hard your breath vanishes. You cry out, your voice cracking.

“Please, fille me up, just fucking fill me again–”

His hand slams beside your head. His voice drops. Low, primal and dangerous.

“You want it?”

You nod frantically, “Yes–yes–please–”

“You want me to fill you up like they told me to? Stuff you full and make you–” he snarls against your throat, “fuckign taking it all?”

Your whole body convulses under him. “Yes,” you gasp. “Want it– need it– need your cock– nee dyour cum–”

He groans like it hurts, like your words punch something human in his chest. And then he gives it to you. His thrusts are erratic now. Deep. Merciless. The metal fingers of his left hand slide down to grip your throat, squeeing just enough to make you dizzy. Your legs lock around his hips. You milk him.

He watches your eyes go wide as you start to orgasm.

“Now,” he demands roughly. “Now, little ghost, cum for me– fuck–”

You break. Your orgasm tears through you like fire, molten and endless. Your nails draw blood down his back. You scream, clenching around him, and he loses it.

He follows you over the edge with a goram, loud, real, human. His cock jerks inside you, pumping more heat into yoru cunt, so much it leaks down your thighs. His body collapses against yours.

And still, the cameras blink. Still, HYDRA watches.

You don't know how long he stays inside you. Minutes, hours, maybe just seconds that feel stretched. His breath is still ragged. Yours doesn't return to normal at all. Your skin buzzes with the violence of it, your thighs sticky, your body bruised and open.

He finally pulls out. You whimper at the loss. At the emptiness. But then he kneels again, knees spreading your legs wider, palms pressing your thighs open. His head dips low. He doesn't ask permission. 

But his tongue presses into yoru slit slowly. Not for pleasure. To taste, clean and claim. He groans low in his chest as he laps up the mess of both your bodies, tongue dragging through your folds until you twitch and tremble and gasp.

You push a shaky hand into his hair. “Mine,” you say barely above a whisper.

He freezes. His eyes rise to meet yours. You expect rage or for him to try to take control, or another round of rough, punishing use.

But he just stares. Like he heard something different in our voice. Like the word mine rewrote something inside him. He exhales, low and tight. His jaw clenches. And then he rests his head between your thighs, cheek pressed to your inner leg. Like he's listening to your heartbeat, it calms him just for that moment.

You stroke his hair again in a gentle, tender touch. Then he speaks, barely audible. “Don't let them take you from me.”

You don't reply because you know they’ll try.

OBSERVATION DECK 04 – HYDRA COMPOUND

The glass is one-way. The air is cold and clinical. Dr. Koenig finishes scribbling in his file and sets the tablet down.

“Well?” another agent mutters. “You saw what I saw.”

Koenig nods once. “The efficiency remains. Physical performance unchanged.”

“And the other issue?”

Koenig’s jaw tightens. “They’re bonding.”

A pause. “That wasn’t part of the program.”

“No,” Koenug says flatly. “It wasn’t.” He taps the comms button. “Schedule a rest. Just the Asset for now. Strip the sentimentality before it spreads.”

A moment’s pause. “And if it has spread?”

Koenig lifts his eyes, watches the way the Soldier nuzzles into her thigh like it’s the only safe place in the world. “Then we pursue the Spectre too.”

—------------

You aren’t supposed to flinch. Not when the knife grazes your cheek, not when the dislocation in your shoulder hasn’t reset, not when a mission fails and the punishment follows. You’re not supposed to feel.

But lately, you do.

It’s barely there, at first. A split-second pause before you stab your target. The way your breath hitches when you see his blood. The ache that lingers too long after he leaves your body.

You think it's an infection, contamination. Corruption of the programming. You feel it more when you sleep in the dead quiet of the corridor outside your cells, where only breath and memory live.

And him. The way he watches you when he thinks no one sees. The way your skin burns hours after his fingers have left it.

—-----------------

Missions grow bloodier. Not because you’re sloppy, never that. But because you hesitated. Just the once. Your last target was a civilian contact, and for one heartbeat, his face flickered into someone else’s.

It was gone in a blink. But HYDRA noticed. You know they did.

The pain chip lodged behind your ribs screamed white through your spine the moment the exfil team arrived. You bit through your tongue rather than scream.

The Winter Soldier broke a handler’s jaw in response. They dragged him away. You didn’t see him for three days. And when they brought him back, he wasn’t looking at you.

They put you back into training cycles. Side by side. Then, across from one another. Then against.

The sparring room is frigid. Your bare feet sting against the floor. Your body still aches from punishment, but you stand straight.

He stands opposite you, half-shadow, half-statue. The metal arm gleams dully under the overhead lights. He doesn't blink.

“Begin.” 

You lunge first. He meets you head-on. You clash like war drums. A blur of limbs, blades and violence. His fists land hard, but so do yours.

But something’s wrong. He’s not finishing it. Not like before. Every strike he lands is slightly off, controlled. Calculated not to break, only bruise. His hands pull. His eyes flicker to your shoulder, still tender and sore.

He's holding back. So are you. Your knives locked between you, gritted teeth inches apart. His breath is hot on your face.

“I saw you bleed,” he growls.

You twist the blade. “You always do”

“I smelled it.”

Your pulse flutters. “And?”

He slams you to the mat, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. But his hands cage your head, protect it. His eyes burn. “I thought you were gone.”

An hour later, you’re fucking in the weapons locker.

Quick and brutal. Half-dressed. His cock slams into you with savage need, your bodies hidden between racks of combat gear. He bites down on your neck so hard your legs give out, and he carries your weight liek its nothing, fucking you into his metal hand.

You cum on his cock in near silence, his lips swallowing your gass.

He doesn’t say a word. But he stays this time, rubbing your thighs and tucking your T-shirt back into place and caressing the nape of your neck.

It makes your throat tighten. It makes your chest ache. And it makes HYDRA furious.

—-----------------

OBSERVATION DECK 02 - INTERNAL RECORDING REVIEW

“They hesitated. Again.”

“We’ve scrubbed them twice this month. What's the degradation rate?”

“Unclear. This isn’t chemical.”

“Then what is it?”

“Instinct. Pair bonding. Reinforcement loops gone feral.”

“We need them reset.”

“We can’t. Not until the next phase concludes.”

“And if they start choosing each other over the mission?”

“Then we terminate both.”

—-------------

You’re in the cell when he comes. Not like before, no heat or stalking. He slips through the door and kneels by your cot like he’s seeking something.

His blue eyes search your face, then your body. His metal hand rises and pauses over your temple. “A man. Earlier tonight, he called me a name. It’s a name I’ve seen before, in my file. For me.” You hold your breath. “Bucky.”

The word tastes strange in his mouth, unnatural, like poison he’s been trained not to take. But it rings inside you. Familiar in a way.

Your hand rises and touches his jaw, and you nod. He flicnhes.

You whisper it. “Bucky.”

He looks at you like you've handed him fire, and for a moment, for one still breath between the walls, you see a glimpse of him. Not the Soldier, not the asset, but just a man.

—-------------

It's raining when the mission begins. Hard, slicing rain, cold enough to bite under the collar of your uniform, wet enough to make blood smear across pavement like paint.

You and the Asset land silently and unseen on the ground, dropped from the stealth helicopter five blocks from the extraction site. Target: a weapons dealer tied to former SHIELD assets. Secondary targets: irrelevant. The orders were simple. In. Kill. Out.

No deviations. But you knew the moment your boots hit the ground that tonight wouldn’t go clean.

Because he's been watching you. Too much. Even in the dark, especially in the dark.

The target’s compound is a crumbling fortress of concrete and chain-link fences. Guards patrol in loose formations. Cameras and alarms. You both move through it like smoke.

There’s a knife in your hand before you even see your first mark. You slit a throat in one smooth pull, and he does the same behind you. Two bodies fall. Two shadows remain.

No hesitation or time for thought. But tonight, there’s something off.

You feel it between your ribs, that burning that remains there.

His eyes keep drifting back to you. You don't speak, can't talk, but your bodies hum at the same frequency. It's always been like this, but now there's heat seeping beneath it.

You feel it in the way his arm brushes yours when he passes you a detonator. The way his breath lingers by your ear when he whispers the sweep pattern—the way your heart pounds when you smell blood on him.

The mission was doomed the moment he looked at you and didn't look away.

You're almost at the objective when it happens. He’s behind you, covering your back, when you feel his hand grab your hip. Not urgent, not mission-based.

Hungry.

You spin, knife in hand, but his is already at your throat, flat, not cutting, just a warning.

And then his mouth is on yours. Hard, brutal, nothing romantic about it. Your blade clatters to the ground. You shove him back into the wall of the hallway, breathing hard.

“This is–” you pant, “--not the time–”

His metal hand fists in your collar, pulls you closer. His mouth presses to your ear urgently. “You're soaked.”

You freeze. He drags his glove fingers over your covered core, pressing them into the wet heat between your thighs, through the suit, through everything. “You’re soaked, little ghost.”

And you snap. You shove him back, hard, hand flying to your side to draw your backup blade. He grins, fucking frins and pulls his own.

The two of you collide in a dance of violence and lust, blades clashing in the darkened hall. You slash at each other like it's foreplay. Your knife slides across his arm, and he doesn't even flinch. His blade catches your hip and tears fabric, grazing skin.

Then he's on you. Pinning you to the wall, blade pressed between your ribs, metal arm wrenching your thighs open. You kiss like you want ot kill each other. You want him inside you. You need it.

He doesn't even pull the suit off. He just unzips enough to free himself, shoves your gear down to your knees, and drives into you in one brutal thrust.

You cry out, high and broken, biting your fist to stay silent as his cock stretches you wide. The hallway is empty, but not secure. You both know this. You both don't care.

His hips slam into you again and again, grinding you into the concrete wall. The knife is still in your hand, and you press it to his chest.

He snarls. “Do it.”

You press harder, but not enough to pierce. He growls and fucks you deeper, harder, hands clawing at yourgear,  your ass, your breasts, everywhere.

His mouth finds your ear. “You want my cum again?” he rapss. “Want me to fill you out here where they can see?”

You nod, panting, moaning through gritted teeth. “Fuck me full,” you grunt. “Breed me like you need to.”

And he does. He pins your writs, fucks you like the mission never mattered, like the only target thats ever existed is the wet heat of your body, the way it clenches andbegs and rembles around him.

You cum first and unexpectedly, squeeing him tight, whimpering his name.

He follows with a low groan, hips stuttering as he fills you deep, cock pulsing, teeth digging into your throat. And when it's done, when the blood and com drip down your thighs, you both hear the click of a surveillance drone overhead.

Too late.

The target still dies. You slit his throat five minutes later, face impassive, body still aching from the way the Soldier just claimed yo uagainst the wall.

You extract without speaking. But the silence in the jet isn't like before. Because, you know, they watched like they always do. And this time, they won't let it go.

—------------------

HYDRA NORTH COMMAND – DECONTAINMENT WING

The chamber smells of ozone and bleach—cold water jets down your body from overhead pipes. You’re naked, shivering and numb.

Hands cuffed behind your back. Across the room, he kneels. Unmoving. Unseeing.

The metal chair clamps around his limbs. The rest technician raises the neural needle.

“We warned you,” she says flatly, to no one in particular.

“You both degraded.”

She looks at him first. “No more distractions.” The needle plunges into the base of his skull. He screams, and you do too. Even though you swore you never would.

You lose him. Not to death, that would be easier. You lose him to silence. They caused the static. After the needle sinks into the base of his kill, you're dragged away in restraints and left naked in a cryo cell for thirty-six hours: no light or sound.

Just the echo of his scream. It plays on a loop in your head, like you're stuck in your own personal hell.

They don't reset you. Not yet, but they watch your every move. You feel the eyes, always watching and waiting to see what you do without him.

You don't cry, not where they can see. But when the door opened and they dragged you out again, hair wet, lip split and wrist raw, you looked for him. Your eyes search everywhere. And when you find him in the training ring two days later, standing in full tactical black, knife in hand, silent and cold, your breath stutters.

“Assett,” one of the techs' commands. “Eliminate the Spectre. Sim round only.”

He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. But he looks at you. Not at your face, or your throat that he liked ot mark. He looked at your hands, where your fingers tremble.

The blade in his hand doesn’t waver. Not at first, but you see it, the tension in his arm. The stiffness in his stance. His breathing is too controlled, too shallow. Not like him.

Not like the man who fucked youa gainst a concrete wall, who cleaned you with his tongue and whispered mine.

This version is off, wiped. But something in his eyes hasn't been entirely erased. He takes a step toward you. Then another.

You raise your fists automatically, out of instinct, not aggression. You don't hurt him. Not unless he makes you, but your heart is screaming behind your ribs.

“Bucky,” you whisper, too soft for the techs to hear. 

His entire body jolts like you shot him. He blinks. The knife lowers, but only slightly, and it's enough.

The tech behind the glass slams the intercom. “Asset– engage! Do not hesitate!”

You take a step forward, slowly. Hands still raised, palms out.

“It’s me,” you say, louder now. “You know me. You always have.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick to your lips, but he still doesn't move. So you decide to move towards him instead.

You whisper again, trying to trigger his memories. “It’s me, you're little ghost.”

His breath stutters. Then his hand twitches, and the blade drops a few inches, and his metal hand reaches out, like he's not sure why.

Like he's trying to break through his memories, your fingers brush. And in that half second, before the guards floor the room, before the tranquillisers hit, you see him. Bucky.

—-----------

They put you in a different kind of cell this time. No cot or blankets. Just four white walls, a drain in the floor and a single overhead light that never dims.

You sit with your back to the corner, bruised knees drawn to your chest, wrists still cuffed behind your back. The silence is heavier than pain. It eats your breath. Your thoughts.

And still, you whisper his name. Bucky. It's nothing louder than breath, but every time it leaves your lips, something in you aches. Wants to claw through the walls and find him.

They know that. That's why they left you alone. Not to forget.

The speaker on the wall cracks after eight hours. A voice, one you don't recognise, clinical and dispassionate.

“Your presence is disruptive to the Asset’s stability. We assumed sexual bonding would enhance performance. We were incorrect. He is not recovering post-reset. Every time he sees you, something breaks.”

You stare at the wall.

“You are not a person, you are not his partner, you are an echo of malfunction. He was never yours to begin with.”

You want to scream, but you keep your composure. And you just whisper it again. Bucky.

Later, maybe hours or maybe days, they drag you back into the dark: a corridor, a low hallway, boots echoing behind you.

And at the end of the corridor, you see him. Cuffed, muffled, and with a metal arm trembling.

They're preparing him for cryo.

Your knees buckle. He looks up as you’re dragged past. Your eyes lock. And in that moment, his body lurches forward, violently, crashing into two guards, shoving them back, roaring into the metal restraint on his mouth.

You don't speak, just look, and for that second, he stops fighting them. Just long enough to watch you disappear behind the closing door.

—---------

The world outside burns quietly. HYDRA is collapsing, not all at once, but in cracks, like ice splitting beneath the weight of something ancient. Something true.

It started with a leak, the files, and then the names. One by one, ghosts came clawing up from beneath the floorboards, screaming for vengeance.

Now? The compound trembles under the weight of consequence. Not that you feelt it. You float, half-conscious. Sedated. Limbs strapped down to a gurney, heartbeat slow.

You're underground, two levels below the holding cells, where there's no sound or contact—just white noise and restraints.

“Too unstable to reassing,” you heard them say. “Too bonded to the Asset. Put her down, but keep her breathing.”

Not dead, not alive. A test subject. A failure. But even now, even here, you feel him. You always do, like he’d become a part of you.

—------------

At first, it’s nothing more than a flicker of red light against the white ceiling. Then– gunfire. Screaming.

The groan of steel bending and the snap of one. Doors crash open above you: radios fizzle, and boots run in every direction.

You blink hard through the haze. Your chest burns. Something isn't right.

But then, finally – “little ghost.”

The door blows open in a cloud of smoke and fractured metal. He stands in the doorway, barely human. Blood down his jaw, hair matted, tactical gear torn to shreds. Eyes wide and wild but burning with something read.

You can’t speak, you just look.

And he moves, crossing the room in four steps, cutting through the restraints like paper. His metal hand cradles your neck, trembling. His other hand lifts your chin, checking your pulse.

“Bucky,” you croak. He stops. For one breathless movement, he freezes.

Then he loses his eyes, as if hearing breaks something inside him.

“I didn’t forget,” you say pleadingly. His fingers tighten, his forehead drops to yours.

“They tried to take you from me.”

“They almost did.”

“Never again, little ghost. I’ve told you, you’re mine. Always.”

He lifts you into his arms as you look into his eyes. They're different, still the same clear shade of blue, but the lifelessness of the Soldier no longer resides there. Something in between human and Assett. Something different.

He carries you through the burning compound, past bodies and smoke and fire. Sirens wail, gunshots echo. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look back.

Your arms wrap weakly around his neck, and you don't ask where you're going. You only know it's away, and you're safe because you are with him, the only life you've ever known.

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ The Forbidden Room // Poly!Marauders x F!Reader

Summary: A forbidden part of Hogwarts calls to the Marauders. What starts as curiosity quickly turns into something deeper, darker. The room gives them what you desire… but it takes just as much in return. A dark, magical descent into pleasure, pain, and love that refuses to break—even when everything else begins to.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, dark(!), dubious consent, magical coercion, forced orgasms, dom/sub, restrained, dvp, big dick! Remus, rough nipple play, belly bulge, rough sex, gaping, subspace, praise kink, oral (f+m receiving), injuries from rough sex, passing out from sex, aftercare

Words: 6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The start of the term feast had always been a loud and brilliant affair, but this year, the air was tense. Tension radiated from the professors. Something about the way Dumbledore had stood a little too straight. How his eyes hadn’t twinkled quite the same. Hogwarts was older than any of them could truly grasp, but tonight, even the stones felt older still, as if the building was holding its breath.

Candles floated overhead, their flames flickering from invisible drafts. The chatter of students buzzed around the Great Hall, but at the Gryffindor table, four students huddled in close, caught in their own gravity.

You were pressed between Remus and Sirius, one of your lers draped over the other as you absently picked at your treacle tart, while James leaned in across the table, whispering in a voice that was far too conspiratorial for a school setting.

“He’s going to say it,” James said in a hushed tone, eyebrows furrowed. His jet black hair curling slightly from the effects of the misty rain that you’d all just walked through. “I bet he says it this year.”

Sirius rolled his eyes dramatically. He was lounging back with his boots propped on the bench, looking like royalty slumming it in school robes. “Prongs, love, if you say that again, I swear I’m hexing your eyebrows off your pretty little face.”

Remus huffed beside you, ever the calm anchor to their chaotic buoyancy. He wasn’t touching his food either, but that was because he was watching the staff table with an unnerving stillness, his fingers tapping silently on the table beside your hand.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, “Remus.”

He turned, his eyes softening. “Sorry, my love. Just…  watching.”

James wiggled his fingers dramatically. “The wolf senses are tingling.”

“He’s always like this before a full moon,” Sirius added, fond despite the teasing.

“It’s not for another week,” Remus muttered absentmindedly, but his hand finally found yours beneath the table, lacing your fingers together as his thumb stroked over a scar on the back of his hand.

Then Dumbledore stood.

The hall fell instantly silent. Cutlery paused mid-air, conversations cut off mid-sentence. Dumblefore scanned the room with that eerie kind of stillness, his beard resting neatly against his robes.

“Welcome back, students,” he began, voice echoing without magic. “Before we celebrate the return to our halls, a reminder: as ever, sme areas of the castle remain offline. But this year, I must be absolutely clear: the corridor at the far end of the East Wing, beyond the silver Stair, is not strictly forbidden.”

He paused. The room remained silent. Even the boys seemed to be holding their breath. “An uncontrollable magical accident occurred over the holidays. Do not attempt to enter. We cannot guarantee your safety. And I heed this warning to everyone.”

He emphasised his last word, tilting his head to stare over the rim of his spectacles, looking pointedly at the Marauders.

Your heart dropped. Remus stiffened beside you. James sat upright for the first time all night. Sirius, he smiled. “Well,” Sirius whispered as everyone continued with their conversations and eating. “That sounds like an invitation to me.”

By the time the four of you stood before the Silver Staircase three nights later, the hallway was thick with dust and the scent of forgotten stone. The Marauder’s Map, clutched in James’ hand, glowed faintly with enchanted ink, its intricate lines twitching like veins.

You were wrapped in your cloak, arms crossed against the chill. “You know this is stupid, right?”

“Oh, darling,” Sirius said, grinning, “You know we never let a little stupidity stop us.”

“She’s right,” Remus said quietly, though he stood a step behind you, hand on your lower back. “We shouldn’t stay long.”

“But it’s the last bit,” James said, the boyish excitement in his eyes making him appear hyper. “The map’s complete except for this wing.”

You looked up at him, at the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, the smudge of ink near his thumb, and felt your resolve waver.

Remus leans in close, his breath warm on your ear. “We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

And so you walked.

The corridor was narrower than expected, the ceiling lower, the stone darker. Tapestries hung rotted and ripped, as if time had moved faster here. The silence was different. It had a weight to it, thick like velvet.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius whistled lowly. “I think I like it.”

“That says more about you than the hallway,” you tutted.

James let out a short laugh and then paused. “Wait. Look.”

At the far end of the corridor stood a door. It hadn’t been there a second ago. It wasn’t on the map. No knobs. No markings. Just deep, polished wood and the thrum of magic in the air. Remus stepped in front of you. James moved closer, fingers twitching.

“It feels wrong,” Remus voiced wearily.

“It feels like fun,” Sirius replied, never backing down from caution.

Your palm pressed to the wood before you even realised you’d done it. Being drawn to the door. The door clicked.

It opened.

The room was warm. That was the first thing you noticed. Not just heated, warm in the way skin feels after a fever breaks. The air shimmered faintly, like mist catching candlelight. The chamber was draped in deep crimson and gold, fabric floating lazily from the high, invisible ceiling. A fire crackled somewhere beyond sight. There was no dust. No cobwebs. The room breathed.

“It looks like the Gryffindor Common Room if it got sagged by a bordello,” Sirius said reverently.

A single four-poster bed stood in the centre—giant, scarlet and velvet. The mattress indented as if someone had just risen from it.

“It reacted to her,” James said suddenly, his voice a little too quiet.

You turned. “What?”

“The door. The room. None of it happened until you touched it.”

Remus steps toward the bed. “This is powerful magic.”

“It wanted her,” Sirius mused, no longer joking.”

You felt it then, a hum under your skin, as if the room were listening. Waiting. Your mouth was dry. Then the door slammed shut behind the four of you.

The moment the door slammed shut, silence swallowed the air around you. Spinning instinctively, fingers fumbled with your wand, but there was no handle on the door anymore—just flat, polished wood behind you, warm to the touch and pulsing faintly with magic. No seams. No lock. It had simply vanished into the wall.

A flicker of unease clawed its way up your spine.

“Well,” Sirius broke the silence, his tone light but his eyes flicking with alertness, “That’s ominous.”

James stepped forward and tried pushing the wood with both palms. Nothing. Not even a creak. He pulled the map from his pocket, only to find it blank. The ink bled away the moment he opened it.

“Blood hell,” he breathed.

Remus’s eyes were scanning every corner of the room. Always methodical. Always looking for the source. He took a step closer to the four-poster bed and crouched, running his fingers over the floorboards beneath.

“There’s something here,” he said under his breath. “Something old. This isn’t just a concealed chamber. It’s woven magic. Sentient.”

You stayed near the doorway, pulse loud in your ears. “Why would Dumbledore leave this?” you asked, voice softer than you intended.

Remus stood again, brushing his palms together absently. “He didn’t leave it. He did warn us not to come here.”

“We just didn’t listen,” James added, glancing over his shoulder at you. His eyes softened when he saw your expression. “Hey. It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“And if we don’t,” Sirius said, slinging his arm over your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple, “ we live here now. It could be worse. Good lighting. Silky bedding. Plenty of wine-coloured drapes to make me feel dramatic.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

But the magic in the air didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like it was listening. Reacting. The bed was no longer. Instead, the sheets had arranged themselves neatly, smooth and inviting. Four long silk ties now hung from the bedposts, dangling just enough to catch the flickering golden light.

Your stomach twisted. Remus noticed. He stepped toward you and rested a hand gently on your waist. “Do you feel it too?”

You nodded. “Like it knows I’m here.”

Sirius leaned against the bedpost and tilted his head toward you. “Does it feel bad?”

You hesitated. The boys watched you quietly. They always did this– held space for you to speak, even when the room didn’t. You searched for the right word.

“It doesn’t feel bad. Just…intimate. Like someone’s already touched me and I didn’t realise until just now.”

A beat of silence. Then Remus whispered, almost impressed. “It’s reading your magic. Your intent and your need.”

James looked between the three of you. “And if that’s true, what is it finding?”

The question hung there. You didn’t answer. But the room did.

The fire flared, not violently, but in acknowledgement. The bed shifted. The mattress dipped ever so slightly, as if it were inviting weight to settle upon it. One of the silk restraints lifted somewhat off the post, curling gently, lazily, like a finger beckoning.

Remus’ eyes darkened. Sirius stood straighter. James exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.

“It wants to give you something,” Remus wondered. “Or take something from you.”

You swallowed thickly. “But what if it’s both?”

James stepped forward first, not toward the door, not toward the exit that no longer existed, but toward the bed. He brushed his fingertips across the silk, watching it dance around his knuckles.

“I think it’s safe,” he said, glancing back at you. “I think it only does what we ask. What you want.”

Sirius was already toeing off his boots, as if he’d decided the room wasn’t a threat but a gift. “If this is a trap, it’s a blood luxurious one.”

You caught Remus’ eyes. He hadn’t moved; he never rushed. He watched you with careful understanding, his voice quiet and subdued. “We don’t have to. You say the word, and we sit on the floor and wait this out together.”

But you didn’t want to sit on the floor. You wanted to feel them.

The air trembled as your decision took form in your chest. You took one step forward. Then another. Until your knees brushed the edge of the mattress.

“You want us?” James asked again, voice low.

You nodded. “Always.”

Remus moved behind you, hands warm on your waist. Sirius took your hand, kissing the knuckles. James leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder. And the silk restraints, almost gleeful, curled tighter around the bedposts.

The room pulsed like a heartbeat, and the magic began to hum.

As James brushed his lips along your shoulder and Remus’s hands gripped your waist from behind you, you felt the first flickers of it: the room responding to you. Not to your words, or your touch, but something deeper. Something primal.

Your desire.

The air shimmered again. The velvet curtains above pulsed like lungs, inhaling slowly. Candlelight flickered lower, deeper. A chaise longue you hadn’t noticed before melted into the floor. Everything extraneous faded away, until it was just you, your boys, the bed and the tension widening between all of it.

The silk ties coiled tighter around the bedposts, no longer lazy in their movements. They stretched invitingly, waiting to wrap around your wrists. The bed seemed larger now, too, stretching beneath you, padded, soft, perfectly shaped to your body.

You let out a shaky breath. “It’s reading me.”

Remus’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Then tell it what you want.”

And you did without a word. You lie back.

The bed caught you like a lover’s hands, the sheets cool against your spine and then warming instantly. Silk restrains slid gently around your wrists, not tight, not binding, just enough to remind you that you were giving up control. But only to them.

James straddled your legs, dark eyes blown wide with adoration and lust, hands skipping up your thighs to push your skirt higher. “She wants to be touched first,” he murmured. “To be wished.”

The roomflared.

Sirius was already at your side, kissing your neck, sucking marks beneath your ear, one hand splayed against your ribs as he whispered, “so pretty like this. All laid out, waiting for us.”

Your shirt unbuttoned itself.

A gasp escapes your lips as the room joins them in the teasing, fabric slipping open with no hands at all, revealing your bra and barestomach. You saw James’ jaw clench. Remus exhausted through his nose. Sirius groaned.

Then their hands were on you.

James kissed down your stomach with urgency. Sirius took yourbra covered breastsin his mouth and hands, his tongue hot and wet, groaning as he sucked your nipple through the material. Remus, still clothed, stood watching for a long moment, eyes glowing gold, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t speak. He simply watched them devour you. You could feel the heat of his hunger from across the bed.

James slipped down between your thighs, pressing kisses over your knickers, teasing you with maddening gentleness. “This is what you want, love? You want my mouth here first?”

Theroompulsed again, and the remainder of your clothes disappeared.

James let out a strangled laugh. “Right. Got our answer.”

And then he was burying his face between your spread thighs, groaning against you, licking long, slow stripes with practised precision. You cried out, back arching, wrists pulling instinctively at the restaurant's. Sirius hummed approvingly around your breast.

“Oh, she’s wound tight already,” James mumbled between licks. “You’re gonna come so fast for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You barely managed to nod, too distracted by Jjames lips sucking harshly on your throbbing clit. The room grew hotter. The air sang with magic, like it was anticipating your orgasm too, and when it hit, you shattered.

The walls shuddered with a golden ripple. The lights brightened, then dimmed again. The bed groaned low beneath you.

James kissed your thighs as you twitched. “One down.”

Sirius kissed up your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses to your lips as his fingers pinched your hardened nipple. “Think you’re ready for me now, darling?”

You were dazed, breathless, already nodding.

He slide between your legs, chanting soft words against your skin as he gripped his cock, pushing the tip into your eargly awaiting hole, stretching you just enough, curlinghis hips perfectly, pulling pans from your mouth. He didn’t thrust hard. Not yet. The room wouldn't let him. It wanted to savour.

Sirius bent low, forehead against yours, chest pressed to your breasts, whispering, “You feel so good. Every time. So warm. So tight. Like you’re made for us.”

You were already sensitive from your first orgasm, your inner walls tightening with every thrust as Sirius moved without urgency, in and out with slow, methodical movements. His pelvis pushing down against your clit as he moved.

He held eye contact, intense and nodding as your whimpers become more desparate, your cunt clinging to him like a lifeline as everything tightened and tightened until you were peaking into euphoria.

Sirius came with you, a groan and a kiss, his tongue carressing yours as he spilt deep inside of you, whispering your name like a secret.

And then Remus finally moved. 

You felt it before you saw him. The weight in the room shifted.

James kissed your knee. Sirius pulled back slowly, reluctantly, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face.

You turned your head. Remus was naked but your eyes zoned in on his huge cock.

Even after everything, even after knowing him, being with him, you were still at the sight of him. His cock was long, thick, heavy and already leaking. You could barely wrap your fingers around him when you tried.

Sirius and James were already well endowed, filling you to your limit and leaving your pussy pulsing from use. But Remus? You’d be limping after a quick fuck.

He crawled onto the bed, eyes never leaving yours.

“She needs to be ready,” he said, voice hoarse as his eyes continued to search over your body.

James and Sirius helped, moving into action at Remus’s voice.

James kissed you again, fingers dipping between your thighs to spread their release further, prepping you. Sirius rubbed your hips, “breathe, baby. You can take him. You always do.”

Remus lined himself up. His hand shook. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“I want to hurt a little,” you whispered.

The room moaned with you.

When he slid in, slowly, carefully, stretching you wider than you could ever prepare for, you gasped. The sting made your toes curl. Even after James and Sirius, even after the teasing, Remus still made your walls ache to accommodate him.

“Fuck,” he grolwed. “You’re so tight. So good. So fucking perfect.”

He moved with care, but with growing force. Each thrust left you whining. Each drag of his cock made your body feel more open, more raw, more claimed.

The room sang with every sound you made. It matched you.

He was so big. You were already so sensitive, it felt like an endless orgasm was contorting through your cunt as he moved with more vigor than Sirius. By the time he came, his deep inside you, you were whimpering beneath him, stretched wide and panting.

He pulled out slowly, and the movement he did, you felt it, the emptiness. And wet.

Sirius let out a soft sound of awe as Remus gently opened your thighs again. “Fuck. She’s gaping, Moons. You wrecked her.”

Remus brushed a kiss to your knee. “She’s perfect.”

The room dimmed slightly, holding you in that warm, dreamy space after. Magic still pulsed softly in the walls.

And deep in your belly, where Remus had been, you could feel the aftershock of him, the ache, the emptiness, the echo of fullness so deep it had nearly touched your core.

The room knew what you wanted. And it had only just begun.

The room has changed now.

The afterglow from Remus had barely faded. You were still sprawled on the velvet sheets, your limbs heavy, your cunt sore and slick. Yet the air shifted again, like the bed exhales beneath you —a slow, thick breath of darker magic curling around your thighs.

James noticed first. He had been tracing shapes into the bare skin of your leg, soft and seamless, when his fingers slowed.

“It changed,” he whispered.

Sirius, lounging nearby, cock still halfhard, blinked up toward the ceiling. The gold light had dimmed to a deep garnet. Shadows spilt in from places they hadn’t before. The concerns bled into black.

Remus sat at the edge of the bed, and when he looked at you, his expression had changed. Hungrier, darker, as if some leash inside him had slackened.

“She wants more,” he said. But it wasn’t a question.

The bed creaked once more. The sheets beneath your body grew warmer again, slicker, almost damp like arousal made fabric.

You wanted to close your legs. You couldn’t.

The silk ties reformed around your thighs. Not your wrists and not gently either. They slide across your inner thighs and pull. The room opened your legs for them. For you.

James swallowed audibly. “It’s rereading her. Fuck.”

“No,” Remus said lowly, standing now, looking over the bed. “It’s obeying her.”

You whimpered. You weren’t afraid. Not really. You were high on them, on magic, on the flood of something warm and subspace-sweet dripping into your chest like melted sugar.

Remus knelt between your legs. You could already feel the wetness there, your body leaking from earlier—the soreness and the stretch. You were so open, so exposed to them.

He didn’t touch you yet. Not with his hands.

He blew a breath against your slit, and your whole body jerked. “Still so sensitive,” he spoke deeply. “And you want more.”

A mewl slipped past your lips. The shadows on the wall shifted in response.

Sirius stood next. His smirk was gone. His face was stern. But his cock was hard again. And James? He looked dazed. Flushed. Gone somewhere deeper, his pupils blown.

“Tell us to stop,” James said firmly. “Please. If it’s too much, remember your safe words. Red to stop. Yellow to pause. Green to continue.”

You nod in understanding, breathing their names like a blessed dream. They took that as permission.

Sirius straddled your chest, his cock heavy and flushed and pressing against your lips. James took his place beside you, hands tangling into your hair, turning your head as Sirius pushed in.

“Open up, darling,” Sirius cooed, his voice dark silk. “There we go. Merlin, you look perfect with my cock down your throat.”

You gagged, just once, and the bed moaned. The walls pulsed.

Remus was watching it from between your legs. Watching your throat stretch around sirius whilst your cunt twitched open for him. You were soaked—a mess. And still, you wanted more.

“You want to be used,” he said gently. Not cruel. Just stating a fact.

And then he slid in.

You screamed around Sirius’ cock, a wet choked nosie, as Remus’ massive length stretched your sensitive alls again. It hurt and burned. You were still so raw from earlier. But your body welcomed him like it always did – clenching, fluttering, dripping.

He didn’t wait.

He fucked into you with a pace that left you sobbing. Deep, deliberate thrusts that made you feel it in your gut. Your stomach bulged slightly with each push. James saw it first.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, hand splaying across your lower belly, jsut above your pubic bone. “Look. She’s taking all of him. You can see it.”

Remus growled. Ferally growled. He gripped your thighs, pulling them higher, tighter. The silk at your thighs pulled too, straining to let him in even deeper.

“Can feel her clenching,” he bit out. “She loves this.”

Sirius came down your throat with a low groan. Pulled out slowly, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Subspace had dragged you under.

You weren’t speaking anymore; you were just whimpering. Moaning and letting it all happen. James replaced sirius at your mouth, but not with his cock–with his fingers. Two of them, down your throat.

“Breath for me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Take it. That’s it. So fucking good for us.”

Your throat spasmed around his fingers. Your cunt spasmed around remus.

He fucked you harder and faster. Like he needed to break you open.

The room shifted, breathing with you. And then, a mirror appeared on the ceiling.

You could see it. Your body, tied down and used. Remus’ cock spltting you open, visibly bulging your belly. James shoved his fingers between your lips; your eyes rolled back.

And shadows.

Other versions of you. Reflected on the walls.

Naked. Begging. Crying. Taking cock after cock. Smiling through tears.

One shadow whispered, Please don’t stop.

Another: break me.

You came. Harder than before. Your entire body locked, then convulsed. Your legs shook violently. Your vision went white.

Remus didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it. Forced orgasm after forced orgasm, even as you sobbed and begged and arched into James’ chest.

You didn’t remember your safe word. Couldn’t even think what it was. Couldn’t speak it. The room knew. It dulled your fear, thickened your haze, and made your body crave.

James kissed your temple. “Just one more, darling. Let Sirius have a turn. You can do it. One more.”

You moaned in agreement, tears streaking down your cheeks. Remus pulled out, and Sirius slid into your already-gaping cunt.

“Fuck, you’re ruined,” Sirius groaned. “So swollen and so messy. Still begging for more.” He fucked you rough and fast. His hands found your nipples and pinched, tugged, and rolled them until you sobbed.

James joined him. He leaned in and bit your breast, tongue flicking over the peaked flesh. One of them sucked. One bit. Again and again until your nipples were raw, and puffy just like your pussy.

Remus hovered near your head, hand stroking over your scalp. “That’s it, love. You’re so good. So fucking good for us.”

You whmpered. Your body jerked. Sirius’s pace faltered. He was close.

“One more,” James said again, eyes locked on Remus. “Let’s give her everything.”

Remus moved behind you.

“No,” you gasped. But it wasn’t a safe word. It didn’t stop. The room knew the difference. James lifted your thighs.

Remus pressed against your perineum, his tip pushing against Sirius’ cock.

And then, you took both of them.

Sirius and Remus, both in your swollen cunt, stretching you impossibly wide.

You screamed. It was too much. It hurt. It split you. But it burned with something deeper, a need you didn’t understand. They moved in tandem. Both of them, in and out, thrusting, grunting and praising.

James kissed you, held your face, and let you sob into his mouth.

You didn’t know where you ended and they began/ and then you came.

Again. Again. You lost track until you passed out. Until your body gave in, and the room purred, sated again.

The room was quiet now. Too quiet.

You lay in the bed, limp and slick with sweat, throat sore, limbs trembling from the aftershocks of something you couldn’t even name. The air was still thick, but the magichaf slowed, coiled inward, resting, like a beast that had finally fed.

Your body felt hollow. Overused. Your cunt throbbed from being stretched too wide, too deep. Every breath scraped against your ribs. But it wasn’t just your body that ached.

Your mind was fogged, bruised at the edges. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. But beneath it, something else. More.

The room still whispered.

Sirius sat on the floor with his back to the wall, arms around your knees, head bowed low. He hadn’t spoken since he’d pulled away, breathless, his release cooling on your chest.

James was pacing. Not like Sirius had. James was unsteady, frantic, running a hand through his hair again and again, muttering under his breath.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t have–we shouldn’t–”

Remus hadn’t moved. He sat at the edge of the bed, hunched over, holding his hands. His body was still naked. His cock half-hard. His thighs are slick with you. He hadn’t even cleaned himself.

You managed a breath. “Remus,” you rasped. It didn't sound like your voice. He flinched. Your voice was the thing that broke the silence.

Sirius looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. James stopped pacing and looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time. Remus turned slowly.

“I hurt you,” he said, voice cracking. “I–Merlin, I knew it, I felt I–but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to.”

You blinked at him. He looked devastated. Haunted.

“No,” you whispered. “I wanted it.”

“You didn’t want that,” Sirius said, finally finding his voice. “Not all of it. Not like that. That wasn’t us.”

James’s hands were shaking. He held up the Marauder’s Map. It was still blank.

“I think it’s affecting us. The room. It’s inside us. It’s changing what we think we want.”

You tried to sit up, but your body screamed in protest. Your belly was tender. Your thighs felt like jelly. You collapsed back with a small gasp. Remus was beside you in a moment. His hands were gentle now, trembling as they hovered over your skin without touching.

“I should have waited, I should have seen it.”

You looked up at him. His green eyes were full of guilt, full og longing. Full of love. “I wanted it,” you repeated softly. “But something’s wrong. I don't know where the wanting ends and the magic begins.”

James knelt beside the bed, his hand came to rest on your ankle. “We need to get out,” he said. “This place, it's not just responding to desire. It’s creating it.”

You glanced toward the mirror. Still there. Still full of your reflections. But they looked different now. No longer cruel. Now they were watching. Some pressed their hands to the glass. Some mouthed words you couldn’t hear. Yu looked away.

Sirius pushed himself off the floor, his limbs stiff and uncoordinated. He crossed to the bed and lay down beside you, carefully, pulling your hand into his. He kissed your knuckles.

“This isn’t us,” he admitted. “We’re us. We tease, we protect, we love, we never hurt.”

You looked between the three of them—your boys. Remus, still shaking. James, frantic. Sirius, silent and circled your hand like a man who’d almost lost it all.

You closed your eyes. “We have to fight it,” you said.

The room listened. Feeling the ripple through the mattress. The whispering stopped. But the shadows didn’t leave. And in the corners of the room, the magic held its breath again. Waiting.

The air shifted again. Not with heat or hunger, but with tension. A stillness that felt final. Like the room knew, you’d made a decision.

James was the first to move. He reached for the Marauder's Map again, though the parchment was useless at present. He held it close.

“I think it’s listening,” he said. “Like it always was. But now we’re speaking back.”

Sirius stood behind him, arms wrapped around himself. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by something quiet, worn.

Remus, now dressed, was not his usual calm, but was trying to cover his shame. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours. But his hand never left your leg, resting there like an anchor.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to sit up again, slowly.

It took effort. Your body still throbbed, but not in pleasure. “We have to try, together.”

James nodded.

“I think it’s a door. Or a prison. But it’s built on what we want, right? So maybe–maybe we have to want out more than we want to stay.”

Sirius gave a dry laugh. “Easier said than done. It gave us everything. Dark, twisted, perfect little fantasies. And we liked them.”

“I hated it,” Remus said, his voice hoarse. “Even when I liked it.”

The room heard that. The candles dimmed further. You stood. Slowly, with Sirius’s help. Your knees wobbled, but you managed to stay upright.

Then you said it: “I don't want to stay.”

Remus rose beside you.” I didn't want to lose myself.”

James clutched the map. “I want to leave.”

Sirius looked around one more time. The bed, the mirror, the reflections, the shadows of yourselves. He leaned down and kissed your temple. “I want you safe.”

The room groaned. The walls shuddered. The bed unravelled, literally, seams tearing into threads, velvet turning to smoke. The mirror cracked once, twice, then shattered, sending glimmering shards into the darkness.

The door appeared. Plain wood. Just like before. Remus reached for it. It didn’t open.

The magic fought back. The air turned hot again, pressing in. The walls began to pulse, like a heartbeat speeding up. Like rage. The shadows screamed in silence.

The reflections didn’t disappear. They began pounding on the glass walls, dozens of versions of you, of the boys, crying, moaning, clawing to stay.

But you stepped forward. You took their hands—James to your left, Remus to your right, Sirius at your back.

“We don't want you,” you whispered to the room. “We want us.”

Remus took a deep breath and reached again. The door opened.

A single breath of cold air rushed in, real, sharp and clean. Like the castle again. Like freedom. No one spoke. You all ran.

You stumbled down the corridor, James holding you upright, Sirius behind you, wand out, even though he couldn’t explain why Remus ahead, opening every hallway, guiding you back toward the Silver Stair. 

And then, you crossed the threshold, back into Hogwarts proper. It was like waking from a fever dream, clothes reappearing on all of your bodies, like you’d not been naked for the many hours stuck in that room. 

The corridor was dusty, cold and empty. The door was gone. No mirror, no magic. You all stood there maintaining. Then James dropped the map. Sirius sat down hard on the floor. Remus fell to his knees.

And you… You began to cry. Not sobs. Just hot, quiet tears. Because you were safe, but part of you still felt that hum. That echo. Like the room hadn’t let go entirely. And maybe it never would.

The hospital wing was quiet. Not silent, the soft clink of potion bottles, the rustle of parchment as Madam Pompfrey shuffled papers, but calm enough that the breath of your boys filled the space like music.

You lie beneath crisp white sheets, your body still tender, wrapped in soft linens and healing salves. Bruises bloomed beneath your skin, covering your thighs. Your hips ached. Your cunt swollen, sore and overused, still pulsed with the ghost of everything the room had taken from you.

You could barely walk when they’d carried you in.

James had cradled you, whispering soft things against your temple. Sirius had paced behind, snapping at Madam Pomfrey with uncharacteristic tension, until she made him sit. Remus hadn’t spoken, not at first. He’d just held your hand, silent and trembling.

Lies had been told to Madam Pomfrey, about falling down some stairs and needing help because there was no way on Earth any of you would admit to her that you’d all been fucking for hours and now you were ruined.

Now, hours later, you were clean, rested, but still hurting. And your boyfriends hadn’t left your side once.

James sat beside your bed, one hand tucked under your blanket to hold your fingers. He was stroking small shapes against your palm, rhythmic and grounding.

“You scared the hell out of us.”

“I scared myself,” you whispered back.

Sirius was lying at the foot of your bed, his head resting lightly near your knees, one arm curled possessively across your legs. He hadn’t let go of you either.

“You’re not allowed to die in haunted sex rooms anymore,” he muttered. “It’s a new rule.”

You gave a weak laugh. Even that hurt. But it was good. It was light. Remus sat nearest your head, a little hunched, as if he were afraid to touch too much, to cause more pain. His hand ran lightly through your hair, over and over.

“I should have stopped it,” he said defeatedly.

“You did,” you replied. “You all did. We came back.”

Remus finally looked down. There were shadows beneath his eyes, guilt still clinging like a fog. But you reached up. Slower now, sore and trembling, and cupped his jaw.

“I wanted you to touch me, Remus. And I still want you.”

His expression cracked, the relief bleeding through. James leaned down and kissed your cheek. “You’re going to be sore for days.”

“She can’t walk,” Sirius added. “Not even a bit. I had to help hold her while she pissed.”

“Sirius,” you groaned, face heating.

He grinned. “Just saying. You’re fucked. Like, literally. Ruined. And it’s kind of hot, ignoring all the nearly dying part.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “She needs rest.”

“I need you,” you whispered.”

That quieted all of them. You shifted slowly, painfully, and James helped you lean forward enough to rest your head on Remus’s shoulder. His arms came around you like they always did, strong and secure.

Sirius pressed a kiss to your knee, fingers trailing gentle patterns over the bruises. James curled against your other side, his lips brushing your collarbone.

They held you. You all stayed there for what felt like hours—whispering, laughing gently, apologising and kissing each other’s hands, shoulders, and cheeks.

James stroked over your ribs, “We’re still us”

Remus pressed a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

Sirius rested his forehead against your leg. “And when you’re better, when you’re ready, we’ll take care of you properly, safely.”

You smiled, eyes falling shut.

“I know. I love you.”

Outside the window, the sun began to rise. And inside the hospital wing, wrapped in love and softness, you healed.

[myfictionaldreams]

Oh I forgot to mention I think the best one that you wrote was called the Winter soldier comes out to play and oh my goodness. I literally found myself clenching my thighs while reading this and I'll tell you I have not felt some of these things in years I'm not a young kid but these stories had me feeling stuff I haven't felt in ages ....so I congratulate you on doing that

ohh i totally get it, I recently re-read that fic and was like wow did I write that?? thank you again for the love on the winter solider fics! I shall try to write some more soon!<3

[myfictionaldreams]

I just wanted to let you know that Bucky and your winter soldier fics are absolutely incredible they are so hot and so smutty that I swear sometimes I had to open the windows or turn the air conditioner on my heart was pounding so hard when I was reading them I was literally sweating. And many of them were written years ago but they are still as good today as they were when you first wrote them believe me....Especially you have one I think it's called somnophilia with the Winter soldier oh my God incredible writing!! As a matter of fact all your winter soldier stories are just unbelievably good....You are incredibly incredibly talented that's all I can say!!

omg my love you're so fucking kind thank you so much!! I'm so glad you have enjoyed my winter soldier fics! I need to write more tbh, I've been so stuck in the loop of mafiastucky fics, I need to get back to some good ol' fashion winter solider! He's definitely one of my fav to write just because of the Bucky/Winter Solider switch in personalities!

Also it's wild when you say they've been written years ago, I forget how long I've been doing this for!

Anyway, thank you so much for supporting and reading and loving!! xx

[myfictionaldreams]

YESSS

I SHALL POST WITHIN THE HOUR!

[myfictionaldreams]

y'all get ready for some unhinged poly!marauders...

[myfictionaldreams]

would you ever consider/have you cowritten anything? Maybe a double pov x reader fic with a friend that you work well with. I think cowriting is so fun and I would be super interested in seeing you try it !

Hey, no, I've never done anything like that before, not sure how it would work out as I usually just sit in one session and type out my fics; otherwise, I lose momentum for my writing! My best friend does help me with ideas because sometimes I get a little lost with what to write/requests, which is an amazing help, but yeah, never co-written anything with anyone before, not entirely sure it would be for me, but if others enjoy it, I'm glad to hear it! :)

[myfictionaldreams]

I was reading you Mafia!Stucky work and I was wondering is all of this work like in the same universe or are some in the same universe like Last Hope?

Hey, yes, most of them are in the same universe. There's not really a timeline, except that 'Last Hope' is obviously the beginning, leading into 'You're mine' and 'Steve's birthday wish'.

The only one I would say is AU would be 'our little bean', just as it was mostly a what-if/one-shot fic rather than this is going to be the dynamic for mafia stucky in the future!

[myfictionaldreams]

Just going through your whole page…

And I wondered if you have a specific Post/Story that is your favorite?

And if you do have one, would you like to share what’s makes it so special to you?✨💖

No pressure in answering! 💖

Hey, my love, sorry for the delay in responding to this!

Hmm, that's a hard one because there are fics that have my entire soul on A03 that I think about on a daily basis, which I can do a post about?

On Tumblr, again, there's endless, and I usually tag my best reads with 'my fav'!

NGL, anything by @icallhimjoey Joe Quinn fics are top tier. Anything written by @charnelhouse for ghost fics (they make me completely feral). Then there are endless authors for Marvel, genuinely love so many, first that come to mind are @luxeavenger, @navybrat817, @angrythingstarlight

Sorry, I couldn't just pick one, I'm so indecisive and there are so many amazing fics out there <3

[myfictionaldreams]

hiiiii, this is my first time ever doing a request and you’re my favourite fanfic writer ever so I thought I’d give it a go…

Would you ever write for Bucky x reader x Wanda? It’s been my dream to read something with this dynamic forever and I feel like if anyone could do it it’s you💚

I’m a sucker for hurt/comfort so was thinking maybe something along the lines of them helping the reader through a sub drop after a particularly intense sesh…

Obviously no pressure and I just want to say again how much I love your work!!!

⁀➷ Soft Place to Land // Wanda/Bucky x F!Reader

Summary: When your emotions spiral, Bucky and Wanda remind you what it means to be truly seen and cared for.

Requested by: This was fun to write, and I haven't written Bucky/Wanda before! Thank you for the request xx

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, fluff, subdrop (!), anxiety, comfort, threesome (f/f/m), multiple orgasm, restrained, squirting, creampie, aftercare

Words: 2.7k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

There were days when you could happily skip along without a care in the world. But then there were also those days when your brain wouldn’t slow down, and your skin felt too tight. Everything buzzed just beneath the surface, every sound too sharp, every silence too loud and suffocating. You’d barely spoken all day, just continued with the mundane tasks in a haze of anxiety and self-pressure you couldn’t explain.

By the time you stepped into the apartment, you felt like you might snap in half if anyone looked at you too closely as you sloppily removed your shoes into a messy pile by the door.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Wanda greeted softly from the kitchen, holding a mug in her hands. She tilted her head, the auburn shift in her hair tumbling over her shoulder as she studied you. “Rough day?”

You nod, too tired to do much more. You didn’t trust your voice not to crack. Before you can process anything else, arms wrap around your waist from behind. Warm, solid arms, one flesh and one cool metal.

“Hey, baby,” Bucky murmurs, pressing his lips gently to the crown of your head. His smell instantly consumed you, all leather and cologne. “You didn’t text.”

“Didn’t want to bother you,” you say in a breathy, quiet voice, resting back against his chest, already seeking the comfort you had been anxious to pursue.

He snorted, his arms tightening. “You never bother me. That brain of yours playing tricks again, Doll?”

You nod, swallowing the thick lump that had formed in your throat. It felt silly. Nothing specific had happened, but everything felt wrong. You didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like a mess.

Wanda crossed the room quietly, setting the mug down before cupping your face in both hands as you fight the tears threatening to spill. “Do you want words or quiet?”

Sniffing, you grip onto her wrists, needing further touch to ground you. “Quiet, please.” You say it in a barely audible whisper.

“Come here,” She tugs gently on your hand and guides you to the couch, Bucky following, sitting beside you while Wanda curls into your other side, a thick cream blanket thrown over your lap. 

The three of you fit together like a puzzle piece. Bucky with his cooler hand resting on your thigh beneath the blanket, his thumb rubbing slow comforting circles whilst Wanda lay her head against your shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing shapes along your arm.

For a while, no one spoke. It gave you the much-needed break just to breathe. The warmth and comfort were enough to have the overwhelming need to cry, to ease until you’re able to take a deep breath without the lump in your throat. 

“You don’t have to do everything alone, y’know,” Bucky said eventually, turning into your body further to kiss your cheek. “You’ve got two train professionals in comfort right here.”

That coaxed a tiny laugh out of you, which earned a smile from both of your lovers.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved either, if you need a break from the world, just call. What’s the point in having two hero partners if we can’t get you out of work when you ask?” Wanda adds, her voice a soft hum against your neck.

Your body melts into them further, your chest easing a little more.

“Let us take care of you tonight,” Bucky insisted, squeezing your thigh. “No pressure. Just us. You don’t have to think at all.”

Wanda’s fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your warm skin. “We’ll take it slow. Let your mind go quiet.”

That promise sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t know how they did it, how they always seemed to know what you needed. But in their arms, the edges dulled. You didn’t need to explain or present; they always knew everything about you.

By the time they got you to the bedroom, the tension in your body had gone soft. You weren’t trembling anymore – but you weren’t steady either. You were clay in their hands, breath hitching as Bucky tugged your shirt over your head and Wanda unfastened your bra with deft fingers.

They were being purposefully careful, almost like you were something precious.

“Lie back, baby,” Bucky encourages whilst brushing a kiss over your jaw. “We’ve got you.”

You obeyed without a word, lying back on the soft duvet as Wanda climbed up beside you. She leaned down to kiss you, slow and deep, with her soft lips brushing against yours. Her hand slipping into your hair, anchoring you, her nails gently scratching against your scalp. Her lips tasted like honey and coffee, and something darker, something dangerous in the best way.

When she pulled back, Bucky was already kneeling between your legs, his metal hand stroking slowly along your sensitive inner thigh until your legs opened in response.

“Colour?” he asked, voice low but serious as he began to lower onto his knees.

Meeting his intense blue eyes, you say, “Green.”

“Good girl.”

Your breath audibly hitched at his words.

Wanda smirked slightly and looked down at you from where she rested on her fist. “Let go, beautiful,” she insisted whilst trailing her fingertips down your torso. “You’ve been holding yourself too tight all day. We’re going to pull it out of you.”

Bucky eased your underwear down slowly. “Spread for us, Doll. Let us see how pretty you are.”

You did. Then your ack arched as you gasped as Bucky’s mouth descends to your pussy without warning. Hot, steady and overwhelming. Hungry. Wanda kissed your exposed neck as you writhed, whispering praises into your skin.

“So sweet for us. So wet already. She missed this, didn’t she, Bucky?”

“God, yes,” Bucky growled against your clit. “Look at her already shaking.”

You couldn’t stop moaning and whimpering their names. Your fingers reached for something - anything - until Wanda caught them gently and laced them with hers. 

“You don’t have to hold on or ask permission. Fall, we’ll catch you, Sweetheart.”

Your orgasm hit too fast, too hard, your hips bucking desperately as Bucky sucked your clit throughout. But he didn’t stop, in fact, he added two warm fingers, curling them in time with the pulsing of your cunt.

“Bucky, wait– I can’t–”

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice assertive and dominant. “You're going to come again for me, for Wanda, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer as your eyes shut as the overwhelming sensation eased and was replaced by that beautiful pleasure building and building in your abdomen.

Wanda sweetly kisses your temple. “Don’t be afraid of what you feel. Give in to it, let it all go.”

As Bucky continued to move his fingers in out expertly and as his mouth works your clit, your thighs quaked. You sobbed into Wanda’s shoulder, overwhelmed already. She held you, continuing to talk you through it. “That’s it. I know it’s a lot, it might even hurt a little, but focus on that good feeling.”

The second orgasm slammed into you, and you cried out. Messy, sloppy noises came from between your legs as you squirted over Bucky’s face, unable to control your body. But they didn’t stop.

With one last lick up the length of your cunt, Bucky pulled away only long enough to slide up beside you and kiss you hard, tasting yourself on his wet lips. “One more,” he grunted. “You’ve got one more in you, I know you do.”

“I–I can’t–”

“You can,” Wanda interrupts your pathetic moans, her voice soft and hypnotic. With a simple wave of her fingers, red shadows formed knots around your wrists, easing them above your head as she used her powers to hold you to the bed. “Let us take control. You’ve done enough.”

You whimpers, tears blurring your vision, but you didn’t say no. Didn’t want to say no because you wanted them to look after you.

Bucky rolled you onto your side, thigh resting high on his waist and eases his throbbing cock inside you slowly, groaning at the tight head. You arched, overwhelmed by the feeling of being so full when you were already so raw.

Wanda spooned you from behind, one hand sliding between your legs to rub lazy circles over your clit as Bucky thrust into you, slow and deep.

It was too much and yet it was perfect, being completely consumed and surrounded by the two people you loved most.

“Remember what we said? Just let go for us, baby,” Bucky grunted between thrusts. “Cum around me. Cum one more time for your girl and me.”

You sobbed as the third orgasm tore through you, your body locking up before melting into theirs completely. Wanda kissed your tears away while Bucky groaned and joined you in the euphoria.

Your body collapsed into theirs, trembling, sweat-soaked, wrists still bound but muscles limp.

“Fuck,” you croaked, “I think I’m broken.”

Wanda eased back on her powers as Bucky massaged your arms, returning them to your side as they continued to hold you close.

“You didn’t break, you were beautiful for us,” Wanda whispered against your neck.

And for a moment, the world went quiet. Silent. All heavy breathing and thumping heart rates.

Then a different silence overcame you. The eerie kind. The kind that settled like a dog in your chest and wrapped itself around your ribs. You lay between them, your body boneless, skin flushed and damp with sweat, muscles soft from release, but something was off.

You felt far away. Your heartbeat was too fast, loud in your ears, thudding like it didn’t know the scene was over.

You tried to speak. Wanted to say you were not okay, that you needed water, or that you just wanted to be held tighter to stop the panic. But as your lips parted, nothing came out.

Your fingers twitched but didn’t lift.

A cold tremble started in your legs and worked its way up slowly, shaking your shoulders, your jaw. You blinked, eyes unfocused, a sudden weight pressing down on your chest like something wrong had happened. There was no explaining it, just a heavy, aching emptiness where your warmth used to be.

And then: panic.

Not loud, dramatic panic. Just that quiet internal unravelling, like something inside you was slipping, spiralling, and there was nothing to grip onto.

Tears welled in your eyes without warning. It wasn’t even that you were sad, but there was something broken. Your breath hitched. Then again and again.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until Bucky sat up and brushed his fingers beneath your eye.

“Doll?”

His voice was so soft and comforting, but it cracked open the dam inside of you. You squeezed your eyes shut, chest rising and falling too fast now.

Bucky turned toward Wanda, tension immediately rising in his body. “Wands–She’s dropping.”

Wanda was already moving, her body curved around you, her hand pressing lightly to your chest, just over your heart. “Shh, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” she uttered, brushing damp hair away from your forehead. Her magic danced at her fingertips instinctively, cooling her body down and helping her breathing start to slow. “You’re okay. Just come back to us.”

You were still trembling.

“I, I don’t know what’s wrong,” you finally sob, your voice hoarse and shaky. “I-I feel sad and empty. And I can’t stop shaking.”

“You’re not broken, baby,” Bucky insisted firmly. “You’re just crashing. That was a lot. You gave us everything, and sometimes your body needs time to come back.”

He grabbed the soft robe from the edge of the bed and wrapped it around your shoulders, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing. His warm chest against your back grounded you.

Wanda tucked herself in at your side again, laying a cool palm against your cheek.

“You did so well for us,” she said sweetly, kissing your shoulder. “This sadness, this hollow feeling, it's just your nervous system resetting. It’s not your fault. You're not alone in it.”

The reassurance cracked your composure wide open. Your tears came harder now, and you clung to Bucky’s arm around your waist like a lifeline.

“I can’t make it stop,” you choked out.

“You don’t have to stop it.” Wanda rubbed firmly across your back. “Let it move through you, let us hold it with you.”

Bucky kissed your temple. “You’re not too much, okay? I’ve been there. I know what this feels like. We’ve both got you.”

The tremors didn’t stop straight away. Even tucked between the two of them, even swaddled in the soft robe and their love, you still felt that eerie ache inside.

But not once did they let go.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I feel this way,” you whispered, completely and utterly exhausted.

Wanda firmly held your chin, tilting your face until she was looking you dead in the eyes.

“Don’t ever apologise for how you feel. You opened yourself completely to us. You are so safe right now.”

Bucky pressed a long, warm kiss to the top of your head. “This part’s just as important as the rest. Let us take care of our girl.”

He wrapped his vibranium arm around your back and stood effortlessly, cradling you against his chest. “You’re not going far,” Wanda said, trailing behind as Bucky stood with you in his arms, into the cosy little sunroom off the bedroom. 

The space was dim with soft, golden light and a worn couch that practically begged to be collapsed into. Bucky settled down with you on his lap again, propping your legs across his thighs.

Wanda returned moments later with that same big fuzzy blanket from earlier and a steaming mug in each hand. She passed you one with a gentle smile on her beautiful face.

“Chamomile with honey. You love this one when your chest feels tight.”

You took it with trembling fingers. Ucky helped guide it to your lips. The warmth hit your tongue, and something in your chest uncoiled. Wanda oversaw you. “Do you want me to check your heart rate?” she asks softly.

You nod.

Her fingers brushed your wrist, magic tingling gently and red, and she closed her eyes for a beat. “Still high,” she announced, not worried, just aware. “But it’s coming down. You’re doing beautifully.”

“I don’t feel like I am,” you say quietly into your drink.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Hey.” He took the mug from your hand and set it down. “Look at me.” You did, with some reluctance. “You are so fucking brace, Doll. You gave yourself to us completely, and now your body catches up. That doesn’t make you weak, that makes you real, this real.”

Wanda leans in, her nose brushing yours. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You just have to be here, with us.”

Leaning back against her chest, Wanda wraps her arms around your middle and hums quietly, soft little notes of Sokovian lullabies into your ear.

Bucky reached down and pulled your legs into his lap again, rubbing long, slow circles into your thighs. Then your calves and ankles, repeatedly.

“Tell us what you need,” he says. “Or just nod, we’ll do the rest.”

You blinked slowly. “I… I don’t want to think. Just stay, please.”

“Then we’re not going anywhere,” Wanda confirmed.

She reached down beside her and pulled out one of the pre-packed snack hits she always made sure to keep around for you.

“You’re low,” she said gently, popping a piece of fruit into your mouth and smiling as you chewed. “This’ll help your brain catch up.”

You let her feed you. Let Bucky wrap the blanket tighter around all three of you. Let them hold you, rock you gently, like they had all the time in the world.

Minutes passed, and eventually it became easier to breathe, your chest stopped aching, and your hands stopped trembling. You sagged fully into Wanda’s arms, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin, the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

“I think I’m back,” you whispered at last.

Wanda kissed your temple. “You never left, sweetheart.”

Bucky smiled against your hair. “But we’ll always come to find you if you do.”

[myfictionaldreams]

Omg I can’t believe you’re back!!!! I missed you so much❤️❤️❤️

I have an idea for a fic. I’ve been going through it in the past few days with an ear infection from a sinus infection. I was thinking of a mafia stucky story where reader got sick and developed an ear infection, and when reader is on meds they get off balance due to the fluid imbalance in their ears, and the way they ground themself is through tlc from the boys (there can be some smut or cockwarming 🤭🤭)

⁀➷ Anchor Me // Mafia!Stucky x F!Reader

Summary: When an unexpected wave of illness leaves you shaky and off balance, comfort comes in the form of tender care, warm hands, and the two men who would do anything to keep you safe.

Requested by: Thank you lovely anon for the request! Love a sick!fic. Also I hope you're doing better my love <3 Thanks for sticking around whilst I was off for so long lmao

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, fluff, sick!fic, ear infection/sinus infection, hurt/comfort, cockwarming, creampie, begging, light dom/sub, aftercare

Words: 2.9k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The office was quiet and calm. Maybe a little too quiet for a Wednesday afternoon. Outside, the late-afternoon sun made its last attempt at warmth as it beamed across the plush rugs underfoot.

You’d barely noticed the beauty of it, though. Your head was pounding too hard, caught in a dull, buzzing pressure that throbbed behind your eyes and deep in your ears.

You sniffled softly and blinked hard against the light, wishing that you’d been able to find your sunglasses sooner. Your ears were stuffed full of static, like a radio just slightly off its frequency and every step you took echoed wrong into your skull. But you were just fine.

Dodger, your loyal Rottweiler, passed beside you with slow, patient steps, his head brushing your thigh now and then as if checking in, or attempting to keep you upright. You reached down and let your fingers drag over the soft ridge between his silky ears.

“I’m okay, Dodger,” you reassure, “it’s just the meds. It’s nothing.”

Dodger responded with a huff, almost like he was in disbelief.

The hallways ahead blurred for a second, the lines of the walls and ceiling smearing together. You blinked hard again, hoping it was just something in your eye. No, you weren’t going to fall apart over a stupid infection. Not when Steve and Bucky were buried in a volatile meeting downstairs. Not when you’d promised Sam your bodyguard that you’d get something to eat. You just had to make it to the kitchen, get some soup and sit down.

Simple. Right?

But your legs were jelly. The right one, especially, had gone weird and floaty, like it didn’t belong to you. The further you went, the more the floor seemed to rise and tilt up under your feet at strange angles. Your vision blurred yet again, worse this time, and your gingers reached blindly for the wall–

Too late.

The dizziness surged quickly and suddenly, as if an earthquake were shaking the ground beneath your feet. Your stomach lurched. The hallway rolled. Nd then the weight of your body tilted beyond your control. You gasped out loud, knees buckling.

“Sam–!” you called, voice already fading in strength as your shoulder smacked against the wall, causing the picture frames to shake and crumbling to the floor in a pathetic heap, landing painfully on your hip with a wince.

Everything was wrong. The pressure in your ears was unbearable now, muffling your senses and throwing off your balance so badly you shouldn’t be able to tell up from down. A whimper slipped past your lips as you pressed your hand to the side of your head, trying to force the spinning to stop.

 Dodger barked frantically and immediately nosed under your arm, licking your cheek like he could wake you up.

“S-Sam,” you whimper again, trying to push yourself up, but your body is not cooperating. Slumping again, helpless and humiliated, tears stinging your eyes even though you didn’t mean to cry. You hated this. Hated feeling this weak.

But also knowing that Steve and Bucky weren't even on the same floor as you, meaning you wouldn’t be immediately wrapped in their arms.

But then, thudding footsteps. Fast and heavy.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, Boss lady, can you hear me? Are you ok?”

Sam’s voice, deep and commanding, was missing any sort of usual comedy. Instantly, you were grounded. Your eyes opened wearily, blinking up as he crouched beside you, his hand cupping your cheek as Doddger let out another worried little chuff.

“Jesus, sweetheart. Okay, talk to me, what’s wrong? Did you hit your head? This is the last time I ever let you get a coffee by yourself, I swear to god.”

“I just got super dizzy,” you choked, cheeks burning with shame as you tried to sit up further and fail miserably. “I thought I was fine, I swear I–.”

“You’re not fine,” Sam said firmly, gently brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. “You’re burning up. Damn it, you shouldn’t said something when we came here, I knew there was something wrong. You haven't been yourself all day; I should have just taken you home. Right, we’re going to take it steady, ok? Come on, I’ve got you.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” you admit, eyes fluttering shut as you lean heavily into Sam’s hold as he tries to stand your swaying, aching body upright.

Sam huffs, his arms tightening reassuringly. “You think we’d all call this a bother? Sweetheart, you’re always a priority.”

You barely registered the vibration of his phone as he typed out a message with one hand whilst cradling your shoulders with the other. You didn’t hear what he said next, but you felt the tension.

Steve’s voice came first, firm, questioning, but more concerned than angry, “Sam?”

“She’s okay,” Sam answered quickly, but his tone held a gentle seriousness. “Just dizzy, it came on fast.”

Then they were in front of you, hands replacing Sam and trapping you in a firm, steadying warmth. “What’s going on, baby girl? I thought you said you were feeling better?” Steve asked while cupping your jaw.

You cracked one eye open. His face was a mix of warmth and worry. Soft, blind hair falling over his forehead, navy tie loosened from the day’s meetings. 

“Feels like my head's trying to explode,” you admitted, leaning into his touch as Bucky’s cool metal fingers rested against your forehead, a welcome chill. 

“Oh, honey,” Bucky chided with a kiss to the back of your head. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

You tried to shrug, but even that made you dizzy, and you leaned completely against them. “Didn’t think it was this bad.”

Steve rubs a hand down your side, voice full of that calm, sturdy affection that always made you feel small and safe. “Next time, just call. We don’t care if it’s a sniffle or a stubbed toe.”

“Don’t say that,” you mumble with a slow smile, eyes closing. “You’ll regret it. I’ll call you over a papercut.”

“You already have, remember?” Bucky reminds you, “and we showed up, didn’t we?”

You nodded, letting your head fall against his shoulder, utterly worn out.

Sam stood to the side, stroking Dodger’s back. “She needs to lie down properly. She’s roasting. Either of you want to be the hero and carry her out of here before she melts onto the floor?”

Bucky scoops you up before Steve can even speak. “Already got her.”

You snuggled into his chest, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck, cheek tucked just under his jaw. Steve reaches out to brush your hair away from your face, thumb gliding down your cheekbone.

“Let’s get you home. PJs, couch, warm blanket, Dodger on your feet and us on either side. Deal?”

“Only if I get cuddles”, you say sleepily, trying to ignore the continued waves of nausea. 

“Non-negotiable,” Bucky responded.

Knowing you were going home to your safe space, with the men you loved, before long, you’re asleep in Bucky’s strong arms.

Your home was tentatively quiet when you woke up again, tucked under layers of buttery soft blankets. It smelled like home, with a mix of leather and cedar. Steve’s cologne. Lucky’s shampoo. The faint whiff of the chamomile tea someone had left on the nightstand.

You stirred a little, groggy but no longer dizzy. Your body still felt heavy, head clouded, but the pressure in your ear had dulled. The meds were kicking in.

You barely had to move before Bucky appeared, like he’d been watching for the slightest sign of life.

“There she is,” he says with a hushed voice. His metal hand smoothing over your cheek. “How are you feeling, doll?”

“Mm, better. A little out of it. Did I sleep long?”

“A few hours. You needed it.” His thumb brushes under your eye. “Steve’s making soup, you know his mom’s recipe?”

“Mmm, I can’t wait.”

A moment later, the door creaked open, and Steve padded in, barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled up, a steaming mug of broth in one hand and meds in the other. “There’s my girl,” he grins as you reach across the bed for him. “Think you can sit up and take these for me?”

Nodding slowly and with Bucky’s help, you ease upright, his body bracketing your side like a warm shadow. Steve set the tray down, handed you the glass of water first, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Ear still hurting?” he asked gently, crouching beside the bed so he could be level with you.

You nod again. “Still feels weird. Like there’s water in it.”

“That’s the fluid's buildup, Doll,” Bucky explains, his voice close to your temple. “The antibiotics will clear it up. Until then, you’ve got us.”

Steve fed you a spoonful of the warm broth, careful not to spill a drop. You leaned into Bucky’s touch, his hand stroking your thigh under the blankets, grounding you.

“Can I just stay here forever?” you say after your fifth spoonful, drowsy and warm and utterly loved.

“Forever and then some,” Steve promised.

Bbucky leans in, his lips brushing your jaw. “Want us to rub your back? Run you a bath?”

You blink up at them, your two giant boyfriends, both hovering like you might break if they breathed too hard, and your heart swells with love.  But under it, something else was growing.  A low, needy ache deep in your belly.  The kind of want that came not from heat or lust, but from craving. From knowing who you belonged to and when they cared for you like him, you just wanted to be as close as possible.

You shifted, turning in Bucky’s arms, your fingers toying with the collar of Steve’s shirt where he leaned against the bed.

“Can I…”, your voice was small and unsure. “Can I just be… full?”

Their eyes darkened in tandem, but not with hunger, with understanding.

“Yeah, Sweetheart,” Bucky encouraged. “You want to cockwarm?”

You nod, already pressing your cheek to his chest. “I’m not up for more, but I just want to feel you both.”

Steve leans in, kissing your forehead. “You don’t have to ask twice, but if it gets too much, please let us know.”

Between the two of them, they undressed you with careful fingers, gentle touches, little verbal praises, hands skimming warm skin and sore limbs. They shed their clothes only halfway, enough for what you needed, enough to wrap you up in head and safety and them.

You ended up straddling Steve, soft thighs splayed over his lap, your chest against his as Bucky kneeled behind you. They were slow, careful. Steve guided himself into you with a low groan, holding still as you sank onto him, every inch sending sparks through your fuzzy brain.

The stretch was just what you needed, the burn in your pussy replacing any thoughts you had on feeling unwell. Bucky kissed your shoulder, his cock nestled between your rse cheeks, his arms wrapped around both of you as you rocked gently into Steve’s body, more from instinat than intent before settling down, resting your face against the firm chest of Steve.

“Just like that,” Steve encouraged, cradling your head. “You’re so good, baby girl. So soft for us. We’re going to look after you.”

You whine softly, shifting your hips slightly until you are filled just right, locked around him, your body melting into theirs. They didn’t move much after that, just held you closely. Steve’s hands rubbed slow circles into your spine. Bbucky pressed kisses along your neck and shoulders, whispering things you didn’t even fully register.

Eventually, your hands wandered. One snuck down Bucky’s arm, fingers catching his wrists, tugging gently. You kissed his scarred knuckles, then sucked two of them into your mouth, moaning softly t the taste of his skin.

Bucky hissed, pressing tighter behind you, his chest radiating warmth into your back. “Fuck, Doll….”

You popped your mouth off his fingers, long enough to whisper, “wanna feel you both finish inside me.”

That shattered the fragile calm both men were desperately trying to hold onto.

Steve’s groan rumbled deep through your body as he tilted his head back against the headboard, his control fracturing. Bucky’s hand tightened around your waist, voice rough against your sensitive neck.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You nodded. “Need it. Want you both.”

Steve was first to move, hips bucking just once, slow but deep, dragging a broken sound from your lips as you cling to him more fiercely. Your pussy clenches firmly around his cock, needy and greedy for more. 

Bucky reached between your legs, cool fingers finding your throbbing clit with practiced ease. “Then let’s make you cum first, Doll. Let you feel every drop after.”

You were so close already, teetering on the tip of insanity. One breath, you were mentally begging for their bodies, the next, you could hardly breathe in time with the way Bucky’s fingers circled.

Steve was panting beneath you, his cock twitching inside in time with each of your internal pulses. His thick fingers held onto your face, brushing your cheek with his thumb, eyes locked on yours like you were the one thing that mattered.

“You’re doing so good, baby girl. So fucking beautifful. You feel so perfect,” Steve encouraged gently, but held that authority that naturally came over him when they were together.

Bucky’s lips were on your shoulder again, his teeth teasing with sharp nips against the soft skin there. “Cum for us, Sweetheart. Wanna feel you soak his cock, you can do it.”

You were already there before his perfect praises. Body tightening until pulses of pleasure gripped your cunt to Steve with fierce overwhelming stimulation.

You whined as the orgasm took you, slow at first, a full-body bloom that made you shiver in their arms. Steve moaned loud and low as you squeezed around him, your slick soaking his cock as you came with his name in your mouth.

“There you go,” he whispers, voice shaking as he gently squeezes the front of your neck, keeping eye contact. “That’s it, baby. That’s our good girl, you feel so fucking good.”

Bucky didn’t stop touching you until you were wrung out and twitching, tears caught in your lashes from how good it felt. You slumped forward, lips against Steve’s throat, your thighs shaking around his hips.

And then, just as you were starting to catch your breath again, your hips began to rock against him with a soft whimper. “Please, I want to feel both of you finish inside me.”

Steve’s hands flexed from where they now rested on your hips, holding you down as he gave a deep thrust. “I’m gonna fill you up, baby girl. You’re gonna take every drop, yeah?”

You nod lazily against the facial hair covering his throat, mewling as Bucky gave his own thrust from where his cock continued to rest between your arse cheeks. Not even inside you yet, but already so close to how sweet you looked coming undone.

“You want it, Doll?” Bucky growled in your ear. “Want us both to make a mess of you?”

“Please, Sir. Please, I need it more than anything,” you beg pathetically, reaching behind your head to stroke his cheek.

That was all it took.  Steve’s hips jerked, and with a low, guttural moan, he came deep inside you – hot and heavy, his forehead pressed to yours. You felt it flood you, the heat of it, and it made your already spent body ache for more.

Bucky was right behind him, one hand fisted in your hair, the other clamped on your hip as he rutted hard against your ass, his cock slick between your thighs. With a curse and broken gasp of your name, he pushed his cock into your pussy as Steve’s spent cock slipped out.

Mixing together, Bucky’s cum joined Steve’s painting your insides in a delicious, possessive claim. Everything was hot and trembling limbs.

And then complete and utter silence.

The three of you remained in the recovering bliss for moments, or hours, you couldn’t tell as you were slumped entirely against Steve.

A soft kiss to your temple, with strong fingers kneading into your scalp, Steve was the first to speak, “You okay? Do you need anything, Baby girl?”

“Just…stay.”

Bucky chuckles against your back, kissing your shoulder. 2You’re not going anywhere without us.”

Without moving you too far, they eased you off of Steve’s lap slowly, carefully. A soft hiss left your lips as Bucky’s cock slipped out, and Steve immiedaltey reached for a towel that was conveniently placed next to the bed, having thought ahead.

Bucky cleaned you up with steady hands, tenderly between your thighs, murmuring soft praises and kisses to your body as he went.

“That’s our girl, took us both like a dream,” he said, voice thick with affection.

You could barely keep your eyes open, but you smiled sleepily, completely boneless in their arms. Steve momentarily disappeared but returned with a nightshirt and a fresh bottle of water, prompting you to sip before you even had to ask.

And then, without needing to speak, they each took their place. Steve was behind you, arm wrapped tight around your waist, whilst Bucky moved in front, hand stroking your cheek as you drifted.

You nuzzled again his palm, blinking sleepily. “Still feel floaty.”

“That’s ok, Doll. We’ll keep you grounded,” Bucky promised, barely above a whisper as you finally slipped into a peaceful sleep.

[myfictionaldreams]

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