#I am proud of that planchette I wasn’t sure I could make it work to make there actually be a hole in the middle of the planchette

[tj-crochets]

A ouija board and planchette made from @firesidetextiles fabric! The board itself has quilt batting to provide a little structure and the backing fabric is dark gray. The planchette’s backing is gold minky and it’s filled with polyfil stuffing

[mrwinterr]

Die Happy

Pairing: Ghost!Bucky Barnes AU x Female Reader; tiny hint of Sam Wilson x Female Reader

Summary: You summon a really friendly ghost.

Warnings: Smut 18+ (consensual vibes all around, masturbation, vaginal fingering, oral [female receiving]) and language. Dabbling into the occult (use of a Ouija board).

Disclaimer: I’m a spooky bitch, I like how Ouija boards look like, but I would NEVER mess with them.

Title Inspiration: “Die Happy” by Dreamers  

A/N: I was on Reddit and I stumbled across an erotic audio that inspired this, so I definitely owe it to them. I’ve just been dying to write a ghost AU. I decided to hold back on the smut on this for now and maybe save it for later. This can be turned into a series, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Idk. You tell me! Enjoy!

It’s here.

It’s finally here. The package that would help you find the answers you were so desperately looking for was finally here.

Package in hands, there’s a skip to your steps as you happily make your way back into the living room of your somewhat new home. You had moved in almost six months ago, but it still felt so surreal. You, a homeowner. All those years of saving up and house hunting - you finally did one of the most adult things you could do in your life.

The small house had been in the neighborhood for decades and owned by plenty before you, in fact, too plenty, but for a home in Brooklyn, New York it was surprisingly affordable. You’re still patting yourself on the back for how you managed to score this place at such a bargain price.

It was the ideal place, really; surrounded by friendly neighbors and with a great home association. It was at a reasonable distance from your workplace and the city. Furthermore, cosmetically, it was your dream home. You never took a second to ask why someone would quickly put this home back on the market...until recently.

The realtor had assured you that everything in the house was functioning properly before you signed away. There was little to no refurbishing on your end, which was part of the dealbreaker, but now you can’t help to wonder if the realtor was duping you. A young, pretty woman and a first-time homeowner? That was easy bait for them, right? There had to be a catch or information that they were withholding and well, you weren’t about to wait any longer to find out.

Lately, strange things had been happening and while at first you brushed them off as mere coincidences, they were becoming almost too outstanding to ignore.

First, it was the air conditioning unit acting all wonky. You kept the house at a reasonable and comfortable temperature, but you found yourself often sporting hoodies even during the warmer seasons. The technicians couldn’t find a single problem with it and besides whenever you scheduled a visit for inspection, it was magically working just fine. Never mind the breeze that blew past you here and there…

Next, much like the AC unit, the electricity started to have a mind of its own. Before you could flip the light switch or press the button on your remote, it was always one step ahead of you. It was almost like you were living in a smart house, but instead of acting on voice command, it read your mind.

Not to mention, things disappeared and reappeared every now and then. Small things like the morning paper would vanish from the coffee table and if you couldn’t locate where you last left your keys, you never searched too far.

Then the eeriest one of them all was the unexplained smell. There was a distinct yet alluring scent that would waft by when you felt that breeze pass over. You had deduced that it wasn’t any like of your fragrance collection nor was it from the only friend that visited you. It was a pleasant odor and almost calming to you.  

You didn’t want to believe it, but these weren’t just common occurrences - these were tall tale signs of a haunting. The spirit wasn’t vengeful, that much you gathered since it didn’t make attempts to harm you in any way. Sure you could just either ignore these oddities or relist the home, the latter which wasn’t in your favor because it wasn’t that simple. Instead, curiosity won the best of you and you opted to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

“Whoa!” You hear your close friend Sam Wilson exclaim and watch as he scoots to the other end of the couch as far away as he could when you pull the Ouija board out from the box. “Shit, girl. I knew you liked Halloween, but I didn’t think you were that spooky!” He said, his eyes bugging out in disbelief that you’d ordered such a thing.

You roll your eyes at him and place the board on the coffee table. He immediately gets up from his spot and sets what he deems is a safe distance from it as if the object was cursed. You’re not deterred by the Ouija board at all. It had quite the opposite effect because you were all too fascinated with the supernatural.

“You really shouldn’t mess with that kind of stuff,” Sam warns as you handle the remaining piece, the planchette.

“I don’t know why you’re so scared,” you respond, blowing him off and kicking away the now empty box.

“And you’re not?!” He says incredulously, “trying to speak to the dead is not right!” Well, it certainly wasn’t normal, but so weren’t the things that were happening in your home lately.

“I need to find answers, Sam!” You bite back, the volume of your voice matching his. You didn’t miss the hint his exclamations gave off and it bothered you. “What do you expect me to do? Continue living like this? I’m not in control of my own home.”

Oh, he knew. He was your closest friend and you trusted him enough to share your theories about your home and the experiences in it.

“You really think this place is haunted.” It comes off as more of a statement because he can see you’ve clearly made up your mind on how you’re going to prove the theory.

“Why do you think I can’t have Sarge or any pets over?” You absolutely adored Sam’s dog Sarge, but he made it apparent that he didn’t like something about or in your house.

Before Sam could try and spit out an explanation you’ve already heard, you stopped him, “I’m not going crazy! And I certainly am not going to spend another fee on having a technician tell me there’s nothing wrong with the units again.”

“Look. Why don’t you just come spend the night at my place and we can think of another way to approach this?” He offered and you knew that offer all too well. It had always been on the table. When you decided to move to Brooklyn and were looking for your own place, Sam had offered you a room, but you were hellbent on making it on your own. You were proud and independent...and weren’t sure about taking the next step with him.

Sam was everything your past lovers weren’t and you while you both weren’t official, a couple of dates happened here and there, something was holding you back. You cherished his friendship so much and a part of you feared finding out what it could be that you weren’t willing to jeopardize what you two already had if anything more came out of it and then failed miserably. He made it clear how he felt about you, but you brushed it off casually each time. Sam knew you simply weren’t ready.

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” You reply, breaking away from seeing the look of concern on his face and back to the planchette your hands were fidgeting with. You knew he was a skeptic on these kinds of things and only worried for your safety.

The nights he had spent here nothing strange ever happened. It’s like these occurrences were only happening about you. Sam wasn’t sure if he believed in ghosts or not, and he deeply cared for you, but he wasn’t about to stick around and find out. He knew that you could be stubborn, but there was only so much he could do to change your mind from where he stood and he just hoped he hadn’t lost you yet.

The small crack of thunder in the sky indicated a storm was coming and you took that as a sign to convince Sam to leave for the day. You didn’t want to fight with him about this. The few times you did talk about a possible haunting were just humorous conversations to Sam, but you were always being serious. It was evident that you two were not on the same page.

“You should probably start heading home before the rain comes,” you advise, standing up to walk over to the front door, hoping it’d sway him, but he knew what you were doing. Sam wasn’t mad. He was always very patient with you.

He only nods in false agreement before following your lead. “I’m coming back first thing in the morning to check if you’re still alive though,” he jokes, before pulling you in for a hug and giving you a kiss to the side of your head. His words elicit a light chuckle from you, but is mostly muffled against his biceps, then you’re playfully shoving him out the door.

As soon as his car disappears from the end of the street, you jolt and head snaps quickly at a sudden crash from the kitchen. You make your way in that direction to find the mug gifted to you on your last birthday from Sam shattered in pieces all over the kitchen floor.

The last roar of thunder must’ve been a strong one or the elevation of the shelf had been slightly off or maybe the house didn’t like Sam…

You shook your head at that last silly thought from your mind and sighed preparing to clean up the mess. Once that was done, the gloomy weather quickly casted a blanket over the sky and with a remix of fast raindrops against the windows and pavement and the lag in thunder, you didn’t waste time on the mission.

What better time than now? It set the mood. Were you scared? You weren’t sure. You were already convinced you were living with a spirit. You didn’t ponder long enough to think about the aftermath. Was this all just a bunch of hocus pocus or pseudoscience? Would you get possessed by a demon or would he be like Casper?

The use of a Ouija board, especially by someone inexperienced as yourself, was highly not recommended and very much frowned upon during your upbringing. If only your parents could see you now...

The spirit in your home couldn’t be that bad though, right? If they wanted to possess you, they would’ve done so by now; unless they were just waiting for an invitation. Well, there was only one way to find out.

You dimmed the lights and lit a few candles around you. Was this insulting? You did some fair share of research, but most of what you knew about Ouija boards were credited to horror movies.

You take a deep breath and begin to summon your supposed roommate.

Bucky felt bad as he watched you clean up the mess he made in your kitchen. He knew you liked that mug, but he didn’t and he certainly didn’t like how Sam made you feel. Sam made you feel all sorts of things and Bucky knew that, which explained why Sam never experienced anything unusual in the house because Bucky didn’t like seeing you with him.  

He was aware of how silly it was. A ghost jealous of two living humans. He had his turn, but it was tragically cut short. He was so young. He left everything behind to fight a World War. There was a high chance he wouldn’t come back and he was sadly part of that statistic.

But why did his afterlife have to consist of seeing the most angelic living human being just waiting to fall in love with the perfect living man? He didn’t get a chance to live out that part of his life, so was he bitter? Yes. And especially outraged at any distress that was brought upon the current tenant of his old home.

Bucky wasn’t sure why he was able to roam around his old stomping ground over the last couple of decades. He tried his best to communicate with the previous owners but he always ended up scaring them off. When you moved in, if he wasn’t already dead, and you could’ve seen him, he just knew he would’ve been as pale as a well...ghost. He made sure to not send you running for the hills.

He tried to help you with everyday things, trying his best to be subtle. He didn’t even spy on you during private moments like in the shower or on those lonely, needy nights. He proved himself to be a ghostly gentleman.

He even tried to not eavesdrop on your conversations and almost always disappeared when guests were present, but he heard you raise your voice earlier at Sam. He wasn’t sure what you two were arguing about and sure it was petty on his part, but before he could summon enough energy to knock over the mug, Sam was already gone.

Bucky followed you back into the living room and watched as you lit the candles scattered around. He lightly smiled believing you were attempting to relax. If only seeing you in peace was enough to put him to rest - permanently - but when he sees you take a seat back on your couch his expression fell and he swore his heart would stop again if it could.

“Oh no,” he says as he watches you stare at the Ouija board on the table before you. Bucky starts pacing in front of you, his hands over his head. Anyone that set foot and stayed long enough knew this place was haunted, and he knew you weren’t stupid and besides he wasn’t as subtle as he’d like to have been lately.

“Is anyone here?” He hears you ask the first question. He looks over your direction and sees your eyes are closed with both hands on the planchette.

“Oh my God,” he barely whispers and realizes, “she’s really trying to talk to me.” He couldn’t believe you’d be so brave to risk such a thing and importantly willingly reaching out to him.

“Yes! I am! I’m here!” She can’t hear you, idiot. “Fuck, of course she can’t hear me.” Bucky argues with himself on what to do before he remembers how Ouija boards work.

He almost can’t believe it when he does it, but he’s able to delicately move your hands and slide the planchette over to the word ‘YES’.

Your eyes pop open and you gasp when you see that you got an answer. You're frozen and look up in front of you half expecting the spirit to show itself to you, but you don’t see anything.

At least that’s what you think. Unbeknownst to you, you’re staring right at Bucky or rather through him. His expression mirrors yours - complete and utter shock. He was never able to easily move or touch anything solid in years. The incident with the mug earlier, that kind of stuff usually required a lot of concentration and energy on his part. He’s also scared that he’s frightened you with that move, but at the same time excited that he’s successfully communicating with you.

You’re unsure if you should continue. You were half expecting this to be a bust, but it moved. It actually moved! While you were excited that this worked, the tiny voice in the back of your head had you considering that maybe you shouldn’t go any further, but who ever really listened to them? You blink a few times and refocus your attention on the task.

“What are you?” You ask.

“What am I?” Bucky repeats the question, “I’m dead.” Wait. He starts to spell the letters ‘D-E-A-D’ with your hands on the planchette. He compares the sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, amused at that response, of course he was dead, as to what angels must’ve felt like when they earned their wings. If anyone believed in that sort of stuff...either way he felt very blessed.

“You liked that one, didn’t you?” Bucky said more to himself with a big smile on his face. He loved this! It was like he was having a conversation with you. It was something he only ever dreamed of for the last six or so months.

A particular flash of lightning followed by a thunderous sound startles you and you breakaway from the Ouija board. You weren’t going to lie. You were still absolutely spooked out and decided that maybe that was enough contact with the dead for the day.

When your heartbeat finally returned to its normal pace, you got up and turned on the lights, made sure you blew all the candles out and turned in for the night. Before you left, Bucky watched you look around the room and bid goodnight to seemingly nothing, but he knew it was meant for someone - it was meant for him.

The days that followed, you were growing curiouser and curiouser that in your spare time, you started digging into how much can come out of the Ouija board, but first you needed to figure out who you were dealing with.

With as much access as you were granted, you found out about a man, who was around the same age as you, that had died during World War II and the hauntings that would start to occur after the first tenant took residence upon this home.

The house belonged to a man named James Buchanan Barnes, but signed it under the name Bucky. How cute. You thought to yourself over the nickname, then you saw an accompanying photo of who you assumed was living with you. It was in black and white and the quality wasn’t that up to par, but from what you could make out you could determine enough. Cute name for a cute guy.

You read the experiences of others that lived here before you and they all seemed harmless. They were just spooked and you didn’t blame them. They had every right to be scared, but you didn’t scare that easily.

You’re so engrossed with your findings, you barely paid any attention to Sam, even when he’d come in to check on you. He had the spare key in case of emergencies, and you ignoring most of his unreturned phone calls and missed texts, uncharacteristically you, to him was deemed as an emergency.

Sam was only less than thrilled to see your enthusiasm on all this. Normal people didn’t go around poking at the dead. He pointed out you were lucky you didn’t get possessed, not paying any mind or adhering to you claiming he was probably a friendly ghost.

“This isn’t an episode of Casper!” Sam says fed up again. His face falters as he watches your shoulders visibly slump. He hated killing the vibe, especially when you were excited, but you were excited about something all too unreal and that shouldn’t be messed with at all in the first place.

“What if I can help him?” You try reasoning with him, “What if I can help him pass on? Then I can live in peace...and so would he.”

“You’re already lucky that you’re unharmed,” Sam reminds you, “I’m just worried about you.”

“I know you are, but I’ll be fine,” you assure him, hoping you could keep that promise. After all, you couldn’t even confirm you were really communicating with Bucky.

You were relieved that the conversation with Sam didn’t take a turn for the worse like it easily could have. You understood where he was coming from and you were lucky to have someone like him care so much about your wellbeing. The realization never fails to punch you in the gut for not allowing yourself to give in.

So why were you more scared to commit than of willingly reaching out to a ghost?

Take two.

You sat perched up and ready to communicate once more. Bucky, on the other hand, is more than ready and the cool familiar breeze that passes you by lets you know that he’s here.

“Who are you?” There weren’t exactly formalities with contacting the dead and your heartbeat starts to pick up as you’re slowly spelling out ‘B-U-C-K-Y’.

“Bucky,” you whisper. Boy, did Bucky like the sound of his name coming from your lips.

“How did you...die?” you had to swallow in between the last word in that question, hoping it wouldn’t trigger a negative response. Even in the afterlife, death couldn’t be an easy topic.

The letters ‘W-A-R’ and the number ‘2’ gives you your answer. It was him! Internally, you’re overjoyed that you’ve figured out your ghostly John Doe, but you try to remain at ease.

“Did you knock down my mug?”

Bucky rolls his eyes at that, but swiftly moves your hands over to ‘YES’.

“Okay. I mean that wasn’t very nice,” you couldn’t just bite your tongue as the sass flowed right out of you.

‘S-O-R-R-Y’.

The apology takes you by surprise, and suddenly you weren’t mad about the mug anymore.

“It’s alright. It was just a mug,” you try to assure him. You’d just have to explain to Sam another time that the ghost broke it. No biggie. Yeah, right. What with the tiny arguments, he’d most likely believe you destroyed it out of anger and frustration at him.

Your arms were getting tired from the position they were in. Several minutes had passed since you last said anything to Bucky and you weren’t sure of what to ask next.

Where does this end? Do you ask him to leave? This is his home. No, it’s not anymore. It’s your home now. But he doesn’t belong here anymore. How do you help him pass on? Did you have that ability? Do you hire a medium? Enlist the help of a priest? Call a ghostbuster? Your mind grew tired all too quickly, you slumped back in your seat, breaking away from the Ouija board.

Bucky watched as you rubbed the muscles of your sore arms. He felt helpless. He wishes he could ease or take away your pain. Instead, all he could do was watch and make sure you were okay until you were ready to start talking again.

With your hands back on the items, you ask, “are you still here?” Bucky responds with ‘YES’. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, mentally preparing yourself, before proceeding with the next question.

“Can you show yourself to me?” There the ultimate question and Bucky can’t help but ask why? Why were you interested in seeing him? He was a lost cause.

“No?” you ask more to yourself, still staring at the word through the eye of the planchette, and frown at his response.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to show himself to you, but he didn’t know how. For decades he was nothing but a gust of air. No matter how hard he tried to show himself to previous owners, he was never successful.

You pull your hands back away and place them in your lap, unsure of where to go from here. Well, you couldn’t force a ghost to do something they didn’t want to do, but you hoped that maybe perhaps seeing him would make it less taxing while communicating.

There’s a sudden iciness that covers the side of your cheek, sending a chill down your spine, causing you to flinch and your hand rising quickly to warm the spot.

Bucky almost disappears at the sudden reaction. He can’t believe it. You felt that. You could feel him. It was different than pushing your hands in different directions because this time, neither of you needed the help of the Ouija board.

You’re not sure where he is as your eyes scan the room, you wanted to feel that again. Sure, the cold was a bit alarming, and as sharp as his icy touch was, so was the surge that flowed through you. It was unexplainable, but soothing.

It sucked for Bucky because he couldn’t keep your eyes trained on just him.

“Are you sure you can’t show yourself?” You ask again, this time convinced you didn’t need the Ouija board anymore.

However, Bucky needed the board to reply. You sigh in defeat as you watch the planchette slide across to the word ‘YES’. You couldn’t allow yourself to get mad. You just couldn’t understand how it was possible for him to do all these other things, but not be able to show himself. Whatever it was, you’d just have to accept that you’d never understand ghost logic.

The sound of the planchette scraping against the board, offers you the word, ‘F-E-E-L’.

Feel? You definitely felt a presence, but now it was confirmed. It was him. He was trying to communicate through touch.

“Yes, I felt you,” you let Bucky know quite eagerly. The planchette remains unmoved after that and instead of what would appear to be awkward silence, the seconds that were passing by could be more appropriately compared to that of a ticking time bomb.

“Touch me,” you request.

Bucky’s stunned. If he were alive and well right now, he’d no doubt be on his knees for you with a command like that. He floats over to you and is only more than eager to touch you again, but he’s not sure of where. Feeling a soft anticipation of a ghostly tingle, he hesitantly places both hands on the underside of your jaw, in a cradle-like fashion, hoping it'll stop your wandering eyes.  

You stand still, frozen in place, now seeing the breath of air that escapes your mouth in a cloud of smoke. He’s definitely here and in front of you.

“More,” you say barely above a whisper.

Fuck. Bucky inwardly swears at himself as you unintentionally egg him on. Testing his limits, what more could he already lose? He was already dead.

He goes all in. He leans in and presses his cold, dead lips to yours in the most gentle and light kiss ever. When he pulls away, he sees that your eyes have closed and he can’t help immediately start to wonder if you actually felt that or not. He sure as hell felt it. He can’t be certain as he tries to gauge at the expression on your face. Shit, why did he do that?

“Do it again,” and this time with a more affirmative tone, Bucky doesn’t question anything anymore and obeys. His lips dig deeper against yours, you let out a small moan and purse your lips to respond. You don’t think about how silly it must look to be making out with practically nothing, not knowing what to do with your hands because there was nothing to hold onto, but despite that it all felt too real. He was real.  

Bucky’s mind is reeling at the sound of pleasure that spews from your mouth, he can’t comprehend how this is even possible. He’d been dying to know what kissing you felt like - what you felt like at all.

When your lips start to get numb and turn blue, you reluctantly pull away. You open your eyes to a dark room and wish you could at least hear him, the sounds of ecstasy played a pivotal role in intimacy.  

Your body temperature returns to normal, blood rushing, mind a haze. You stand up and head towards your bedroom without another word. Would he take the cue to follow you? You can’t be sure. You can’t see or hear him, but your actions say otherwise and make you both feel as if he wasn’t dead at all. It was now a game of cat and mouse.

Bucky or not, you were unabashedly turned on. In moments like these, it was hard to be in control of your own body and the only thing you could do was give in to the desires. In this instance, your body couldn’t make up its mind because as if you weren’t just freezing your ass off while kissing Bucky, you were suddenly hot all over.

Flustered, you pulled down your shorts, tossed them carelessly across the room, perhaps a little too harshly. If he wasn’t going to help you out, then you would do the job yourself. A mad smile on your face, surprised you weren’t the least bit embarrassed if he was going to watch you or not. It only added to the thrill and the excitement.

Trying to regulate your breathing, you lie down on the center of your bed and run your hands over your face down to where you needed them the most. Your fingers experimentally graze along the wet spot of your panties, groaning in acknowledgment of the sudden arousal. There’s no sense in conjuring up a justifiable explanation as to how something so seemingly innocent as the kiss you shared with Bucky got you so crazed. Not wasting any time, you lift your hips up and bend your legs to slip the flimsy garment off.

No longer a thin barrier between, your entire body shivers slightly, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, when your fingers make first contact with your clit and you begin to rub slow slow circles over it. Your stomach sinks in with each relieving exhale, your breathing growing heavy. Your fingers run off course and dip into your folds, past the floodgates, your fingers resurface coated in your own wetness and you use it to an advantage in invigorating your clit.

Eyes closed, you start to think about Bucky. You want to feel guilty or believe this was all wrong. Instead of getting off to someone like Sam or someone real for that matter, you lied there baring yourself to a ghost. You try to picture that baby face of his, and all that you could based on the lone image you found of him on the Internet.

The curve of his full lips that you were fortunate enough to feel on yours moments ago. You already knew they were soft, but what about his other features? Did his eyes sparkle or were they like black holes? What color were they? They had to be of a set that could hypnotize someone. Maybe it was okay that you couldn’t see him because if you had you just knew that you’d be at his mercy.

And that was just on the surface of it all. How was he like in other areas? How would his tongue feel against yours, on your skin, in you...The simulation causes your thighs to clamp up, knees involuntarily knocking into each other; your other hand clutching onto the bed sheets. He made it that easy, but you needed one more good push to dive in the deep end.

A thin layer of sweat coats your skin from the increase in body heat, then an abrupt familiar cold sensation runs through you, his alluring scent filling your nostrils, your legs forcefully separate; all tells you that Bucky was here. You pick up your head, always a small hint of disappointment flashes through your features at the fact you still and won’t be likely to ever see him.

It shoots a wild pang through Bucky’s chest because he doesn’t miss it; never knowing he could read someone so openly. He missed out on a good chunk of his life. He missed out on someone like you. Life was so cruel.

Your thoughts aren’t as far away from his as you start to wonder, why was it all so easy - seamlessly flawless - with him? Running with only first-party information and two silent conversations, you were already willing to go headfirst for halos for Bucky. Was it pathetic? You didn’t care anymore, whatever would ultimately bring you to him, you just knew in the end you’d die happy.

Your head falls back in defeat and you try to keep your emotions at bay, until you feel the hem of your shirt being lifted, exposing your midriff. Your lips cave in and you wince at each uncalculated cold peck Bucky’s lips leave on you. Whereas you felt a minor sting at how cold his touches were, for the first time, Bucky felt like he was on fire at how hot to the touch you were in this moment. This moment with him.

His lips create a path down to your core, and the contrast in temperature feels good. Not knowing what to do with your hands again, your arms lie sprawled on the bed on either side of your body, then you mentally curse at another sad truth that you had no one to hold on to.

A cool breeze brushes past your folds and your heartbeat spikes up again. Bucky never imagined he’d ever be able to make someone feel this way. It was pointless for him, but he dreamt about it countless times. And then he wickedly thinks how he was dumb to not spy on you during those nightly sessions. He was missing out. You were absolutely divine in his eyes.

“Bucky,” his name slips past your lips when his make contact with your swollen clit. It started off so innocently, but when he pulled his lips back and ran his tongue over the wet spot you left on them, giving him a taste of what you had to offer, he wanted more.

The cold, with each bit of contact from Bucky, was no longer a thing as your body quickly acclimated to it. Bucky uses his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and allows himself to get a better taste. Your head lulls back, sinking in deeper into your pillows.

There’s only so much you could do to communicate with Bucky, you want to feel his hands all over, but instead you pick up on the slack as you grab and squeeze handfuls of your breasts, massaging them and adding onto the sensation. Your groping proves to be successful when you draw out more noises.

Bucky’s eyes never tear away from watching your reaction, the way your body moves from pleasure - pleasure he’s bestowing on you. His mouth doesn't require guidance as his tongue pulls all the right moves, weaving its way through and between your folds. He drags out a long moan from you when he dips his tongue in and then captures your folds between his lips, tugging as he sucked on them.

“I-I need,” you try to voice out your desires, but you’re reveling in so much, especially in being able to feel Bucky’s fingers digging into the sides of your hips; you bite down on one of your fingers, trying not to let out a crazed scream.

Bucky doesn’t want you to hold back though, so he introduces his fingers into the mix as they take turns in you. You wished you could hear him and all the sounds of his onslaught. To hear those pretty boy moans, the filthy pops and slurping noises. Was he a dirty talker? God. Imagine the things he would say.

He gets the message loud and clear. You want to come, and so he quickens his actions until your body goes into overdrive. When you reach your peak, your eyes snap open, pupils blown, and your back arches up in perfect bridge-like fashion. It almost looks like you’re being possessed before you come back down releasing choppy gasps of breaths.

Exhausted, you struggle to stay conscious wanting to communicate with Bucky one last time, but it felt like the orgasm almost sucked the life out of you. The puffs of cool air against your pussy are an indication that Bucky is still present and he wasn’t going to go anywhere just yet. He hasn’t moved from his position and is short of breath, in awe of seeing you coming undone for him and more so the fact that this happened. This wasn’t just another one of his dreams.

For as long as he’d been an apparition, he’d hoped to be able to finally pass on and if this was his actual last day on Earth, then he’d gladly accept it because one night with you was enough. 

Bucky would die happy.

A/N: Yeah, the ending wasn’t strong, but I wanted to leave it open for interpretation. Let me know what you think! A simple like and reblog is enough to help a sis out! Thank you for reading! 

[lichlover]

a continuation of this delightful concept, featuring double entendres galore, a dark and stormy night, and yet another goddamn ouija board.

“Okay, Krav!” says Taako. “Here’s the dealio!”

The avant-garde clock hanging from their wall displays 12:32—that’s his best guess, anyway, as it consists entirely of two nearly translucent spindles and twelve brightly colored circles. One of the spindles stands nearly upright, and the other is inching tentatively past blue, so 12:32 it is. Its quiet ticking is the only sound that occupies the space, apart from Taako’s own voice. Lup and Barry are still out, wherever they are, which means that for now Taako has their apartment to himself. If they burst in while he’s attempting to summon the manifestation of Death himself, well, it won’t be the strangest thing they’ve walked in on him doing.

Admittedly, their cramped family room isn’t nearly as atmospheric, unless fairy lights and the kitchen’s dim glow count as mood lighting. The storm rages persistently outside, soaking their shallow balcony and lashing against the sliding doors, and he supposes that’ll have to do for now. He’s propped a broom between the door and the wall, bracing it closed, just to be safe. That’s about as much preparation as he’d done before he had set his sopping wet bag on the sofa, unzipped it with a flourish, and retrieved his prize.

Obtaining this particular ouija board had taken some actual effort on his part. He’d ventured into the thrift shop’s back room with a very reluctant cashier, shoving aside dust-covered boxes and bins full of sequined bodysuits, holding up his Stone of Farspeech to shed light over towering shelves. The one they’d found hadn’t even come in a box. It was draped in spiderwebs and sitting next to a DVD copy of an interpretive jazz workout, which he’d pushed aside with one acrylic to get to the board and its planchette. The cashier had recoiled, surveying it with a wrinkled nose and slightly watery eyes. “Are you—” He’d sneezed and nearly sent his glasses flying. “Are you sure? I mean, if you’re all hung up on this spirit-summoning thing, I’m sure we’ve got some haunted dolls or somethin’ around here that would do the trick—”

“Hey,” Taako had interrupted, brandishing the planchette at him. “Who’s the paying customer here? Yes. Correct. I know what I’m about, son. Ring me up.”

The ouija board now sits indolently on the coffee table behind him, looking for all the world like someone’s pathetic idea of a Scrabble game. For all the fanfare surrounding its existence, it isn’t terribly relevant right now. Taako jabs a thumb in its general direction as he taps his foot impatiently, staring down the far wall.

“Been a hot minute, hasn’t it?” he says, smirking at the cracked plaster. “I don’t usually call so soon after a first date, but wouldja just look at that—” This time, he swivels around for dramatic effect and gestures widely to the board. If possible, it’s even more depressing than the last one, with a lengthy crack across one side and dismal, fading letters. “As luck would have it, I found another one ’a these just lyin’ around, gathering dust. Sure looks like it’s lived, a, uh… a full life, but I’d bet it’s got a couple more summons in it.”

Taako turns his gaze back on the wall and reaches out, crooking a finger invitingly. “So, what d’you say, reaper man?” He grins, wide and full of anticipation. “Come ’n get it.”

He waits, propping himself on a heel, for a good several seconds. The rain beats against the windows, and a rush of wind thoroughly rattles the trees below their apartment, but it’s muffled from where he stands at the center of the family room. Otherwise, everything is quiet. If he strains his ears, he can just barely hear the clock ticking.

12:34 by now, surely.

A low, barely-perceptible breeze passes through the room and ruffles the hem of Taako’s skirt. Like a gaping wound in reality itself, the air splits in two, parted by a blade that trails black, gauzy smoke. The space crackles with arcane energy and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. However much of a sucker Death really is, he thinks, there’s some seriously powerful magic at work here.

That is kind of his jam, though.

It takes a moment for the main event to make his appearance, but when he does, Taako isn’t disappointed. If anything, a vaguely irritated Kravitz is even more gorgeous. His gaze snaps to Taako almost straightaway, which to be fair is what most people tend to do in his vicinity, and a tiny frown creases his brow. His smooth, perfect brow. Taako notes with amusement that Kravitz’s cravat is just slightly off-center, and as soon as his lips twitch in a tiny smirk, Kravitz catches his heel on the rift and nearly stumbles. He rights himself as Taako snickers behind one splayed hand.

“Well,” he says. “Didn’t mean to trip you up, handsome, but I gotta say I’m glad I did.”

To his credit, Kravitz covers his surprise with a smooth and extremely impressive eye roll. If that isn’t an attractive quality in a guy, Taako doesn’t know what is. “How long has it been, exactly? An hour? Two?”

“Already counting the hours we’re apart?” Taako clicks his tongue, only half-trying to stifle a grin at his own quip. “I mean, that’s a little whack, my dude, but—but if that’s how you roll.”

“You know that isn’t what I—you know what? Nevermind.” From where it sits in his hand, Kravitz’s scythe dissolves, and the rift phases out of existence behind him. Someone on the outside could have mistaken them for two normal people standing in a living room, having a normal conversation. To be fair, that’s what Taako intends to do, although he isn’t feeling particularly attached to the normal bit. He notes the gold embellishments on Kravitz’s vest as the reaper continues, still looking altogether extremely vexed. “Look, I’ve already made one too many house calls tonight. If you don’t mind, I’ll need that ouija board so I can be on my way.”

As he says so, Kravitz steps forward as if to make for the coffee table, but Taako slides easily between them. “Oh, not so fast, fella,” he says. “You and I have got some business to conduct.”

He’s rather proud of how easily his interference forces an Emissary of Actual, Literal Death to stop in his tracks. Kravitz sighs. “Business regarding what, exactly?”

“No need to be so formal,” Taako drawls, and lowers himself to perch on the table’s edge. He crosses ankle over ankle and looks up at Kravitz through dark, heavy lashes. “It was kinda… uh, kinda rude of you, wasn’t it? Just dropping in, scarin’ the shit outta everybody, and swingin’ right back out with no explanation?”

Kravitz arches an eyebrow. The undersides are highlighted faintly with gold, which would have made Taako weak in the knees had he been standing. “You don’t seem terribly intimidated.”

“I,” says Taako, “am an excellent thespian. Now, c’mon.” He shifts and tips his head toward the ottoman adjacent, and Kravitz follows his gaze uneasily. “Y—You said it yourself, right? Tough workday? I’ve got some questions, you got all the answers. Sit down, take a load off, and I promise I’ll go easy.”

He can’t resist a smirk, then, because it’s far too easy to get double entendre with this guy. That’s got to be a good sign of some sort.

Still, rather impressively, Kravitz lets that one roll right off him. He shuffles awkwardly to the ottoman and sits, fluffing his mantle out behind him, and Taako watches the feathers ripple and shudder in response. Now that they have less than a foot of space between them—gods bless this apartment’s tiny floor plan—he can make out their iridescent shine, among other things. Kravitz’s subtly pointed ears, for instance, and the golden cuffs that cling to their tapered edges. Or the way his coat sits a little too snugly around his shoulders, as if it isn’t quite well-tailored enough to contain perfection. Or how briefly but noticeably his eyes flick to the curve of Taako’s lip, then dart away without any indication that he’d been looking to begin with.

Sometimes, Taako decides, actions really do speak louder than words.

“Alright,” Kravitz says, and Taako forces his attention back in line. “You said you had… uh, questions?”

“Well, yeah, no fucking kidding. You’re Death. I—I mean, I think we all confronted our mortality tonight, literally. You can’t expect me to, uh, to just take that in stride.”

But Kravitz is already shaking his head. “Emissary,” he says. “That’s different. There’s no such thing as Death as an entity. It’s more like… like a law of the universe that we, uh, enforce.”

“Law enforcement, huh?” Taako purrs. “Never woulda pegged you for the officer type, but I could see it.” He imagines Kravitz in the polished uniform of the Neverwinter militia, brass buttons and jaunty cap and all, and has to bite down on his lip. “Yeah, I could deffo see it.”

He’s getting off track, but hell if Kravitz doesn’t make it easy. “Anyway. Emissary. Seems a tad too important for making house calls, hm? Don’t—don’t tell me we were something special.”

Kravitz’s mouth twitches. “The only thing you’re special for is using a ouija board. Do you know how outdated those things are? I think they were popular when I was alive.”

Well. That’s new information. “Okay,” says Taako, and lets his gaze dip to Kravitz’s chest, trying to ignore the flattering fit of his vest as he scrutinizes it for a rise and fall. Sure enough, he can’t make anything out. “So that makes you—”

“Immortal,” says Kravitz, at the same time Taako says, “Dead.”

He tips his head. “Well, yeah. That too.”

It says a lot about Taako that he immediately wishes he had paid more attention to Lup and Barry’s Thursday morning is-it-really-necrophilia-if debate. He can’t even recall the consensus, which had been reached with a few contentious glances from nearby professors. Once again, it’s up to him. “Okay, then,” is all he says. “That explains it.”

Kravitz blinks. “Explains what?”

Maybe it’s a little brazen—okay, scratch that, it’s incredibly brazen, but it’s also after midnight and Lup’s residual impulsiveness is starting to rub off on him. Taako shifts forward, and it’s not like there was much space between them to begin with, but now their knees nudge together when he leans in. He swears he hears Kravitz’s breath catch in his throat (which makes this even better, because the dead don’t need air, do they?) as he reaches up and thumbs over Kravitz’s cheek, and sure enough, a chill rockets up his arm and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“This,” he murmurs, and they’re close enough now that Taako can make out thin, feathery eyelashes and the hint of a shimmer across Kravitz’s upper lip. “You… you’re Arctic, my man.”

“Really?” says Kravitz, faintly. “I—I hadn’t noticed.”

Taako can make out his own heartbeat in his ears, thrumming with want and begging him just to edge a little closer, to kiss the life back into this beautiful man. He swallows, reins it in, and sits back with a brisk pat to Kravitz’s thigh. “Well! Mys—uh, mystery solved, I guess. Def—” He’s never hated his stutter more than he does right now. “Definitely dead as a doornail in there. But that means—I mean, if you die, you don’t just… automatically become an emissary, huh? What is there, some kinda lottery? An internship program? Application process?”

Kravitz stiffens. Taako can tell when he’s touched a nerve, and not the good kind, either. “Ah… no. I was a special case. Still am, I guess.”  

“Seems kinda fucked up that someone would just decide that for you.”

He shrugs a little helplessly. “It might be, but I’m grateful. I get to spend eternity doing work that matters. Barring having to go after the occasional idiots who decide to mess around with a ouija board.”

His tone is so pointed that Taako can’t help but snicker, although he chokes back his amusement before it morphs into full-on laughter. “Yeah, okay, you got me there. That one’s on Taako, ’kay? Totally wasn’t tryin’ to break up your… whatever it is you even do in the astral plane. They got wine and cheese over there? You strike me as a wine and cheese sesh kinda guy.”

A wry smile breaks across Kravitz’s face. “I prefer brandy, actually.”

“Brandy! You’re chock-full of surprises, huh? See, I’m a cocktail man myself, but I’m also—I’m open to experimentation, if you catch my drift.” He grins, and the way Kravitz’s eye twitches suggests that he does, indeed, catch Taako’s drift.

“Anyway,” he says, looking very much like he’s trying to keep another smile at bay, “we’ve gotten off track. I have some questions for you, too.”

“Who, moi?”

“Yes, toi,” says Kravitz drily. “I don’t care what you told me, ghost summoning isn’t just a fun Saturday night time-waster. There’s got to be a bigger reason you went to the trouble of digging up a ouija board from gods know where.”

Taako bats his eyelashes. “Can’t a guy summon Death without having any ulterior motives whatsoever?”

With what is apparently a fair bit of effort, Kravitz fixes him with a deadpan—ha—stare. “Honest answer? No. Never. And I already told you, I’m not Death.”

“Yeah, but it rolls so well off the tongue.” He leans back on the heels of his hands, returning the stare in full. “So you seriously wouldn’t believe me if I told you that it was all for shits ’n giggles? Like, it’s gotta be for some nefarious—I mean, c’mon. My dude. Do I look like a necromancer to you?”

Kravitz opens his mouth, evidently with the intent to respond, and stops short as his eyes snag on the folds of Taako’s off-the-shoulder blouse. Entirely impractical for the weather, of course, but all of a sudden Taako is extremely glad he’d worn it. He pulls his shoulder inward and lets one sleeve slip just so, and it must have the desired effect, because Kravitz suddenly purses his lips like they’ve gotten very, very dry. “Well?”

“You—no,” he says, and gives himself a tiny shake. The feathers covering his mantle perk up and cockle as he does so, and weird factor aside, it’s actually one of the most endearing things Taako has ever seen. “No, I’ll admit you don’t. But appearances can be deceiving.”

Taako thinks of his sister’s absolute maniac of a boyfriend, and says, “Okay, yeah, that’s fair.”

That earns him a suspicious glare from Kravitz, and he sighs. “Y’know, I’d give you my word, but we both—we know that means jack shit. So I guess you just gotta be willing to trust ch’boy on this one.”

The speed with which Kravitz’s expression drops is almost hilarious. “I really do, don’t I?”

“If it makes you feel any better, handsome, I give you full disclosure to keep an eye on me.”

Kravitz starts to reply, trips over the beginning of whatever he’s trying to say, and releases a long sigh instead. “You think you’re very charismatic, don’t you?”

“Just above average,” says Taako. “Wink.”

He chuckles in the way people chuckle at gods-awful jokes, which is to say, more than a little guiltily. Manifestations of Death have no business being this inadvertently charming. “I believe it’s your turn for a question.”

Taako scoffs. “When did we start taking turns? Last I checked, th—that isn’t the way an interrogation works.”

Kravitz regards him with lingering amusement in his eyes. There’s a warm but unmistakably sharp glint to them, and he’s reminded of Lup, ready and raring to burn spell slots just to prove somebody wrong. “If anyone should be doing the interrogating here, it’s me. You’re the one with the contraband.”

The universe can’t possibly pin this one on him. Everything about their situation—the setup, the exchange, Kravitz—it’s too good to be true. It’s precisely why Taako can’t bite back a smirk as he says, “Oh, so you prefer to take control, huh?”

“No,” says Kravitz, a little too quickly. To his credit, he doesn’t give much reaction other than that, although Taako notes that his dark complexion makes it near-impossible to discern a blush. Lucky bastard.

“Thought not,” he says. “I’m never wrong about that stuff. Okay, so… you—uh, you mentioned someone decided to make you an emissary. Who was the someone?”

Kravitz’s mantle fluffs around his neck. “Her Majesty the Raven Queen,” he recites. “She who presides over the passage of life and death and all governed by it. She’s my… well, employer, I guess, if you’re putting it in modern terms. And a goddess, of course, but you—I’m sure you already knew that.”

“She give you that?” Taako levels a finger at the mantle.

He glances back at it as if he’s just noticed it on his shoulders. “Oh. Yes, she did. It’s meant to be protective, but it’s also a… a mood detector, of sorts? Evidently it can react to what I’m thinking, but obviously I wouldn’t know… ah, sorry if it’s been distracting you.”

Taako wants to say You’re plenty distracting on your own, but he’s not that far gone. Not yet, anyway. Instead he says, “It’s cute, bird boy. Chill. Your turn.”

He sits back, because he doesn’t want to let on exactly how compromised he’s been by Kravitz and his ridiculous feathered cape. There are a thousand more jokes to be made in that vein—something about quoth the raven, among other possibilities—but all he’d been able to manage is It’s cute, bird boy, and the strangest thing is that he means it. This isn’t an off-the-cuff affection like the ones he’s so quick to dole out. No, Taako thinks, with a growing horror in the pit of his stomach, Kravitz is cute. He’s also snarky and dorky and very, very attracted to Taako, if he hasn’t been hallucinating all the cursory glances and small intakes of breath.

And the worst part is that if the flush of heat across Taako’s neck is any indication, he’s very, very attracted to Kravitz, too.

He can just imagine the look on Lup’s face when he tells her. So, he’ll say. Last night the boner squad and I summoned Death, and then I summoned him again to try and seduce him just for the hell of it, and, well, fuck, he’s actually amazing and now I wanna do it for real. How was your night? Knowing her, she’ll probably top his story with some outrageous tale of attempted resurrection and a car chase or two (with a ridiculously sappy rant about how much she loves her boyfriend thrown in for good measure), but not before she loses her entire shit at his expense. Taako’s blush flares hotter at the very thought.

Go big or go home, as the saying goes. He’s already home, which means there’s only one thing left to do.

“Okay,” says Kravitz, startling Taako out of his reverie. “Are you going to give me that ouija board?”

By the grace of whatever god is feeling particularly benevolent towards him tonight, Taako is able to make a seamless recovery. He pushes himself to his feet and puts a hand on his hip, looking imperiously down at Kravitz on the ottoman. “Depends,” he lilts. “You willing to work for it?”

To his surprise, Kravitz follows suit, standing up and immediately regaining the height advantage. Taako is halfway tempted to climb up onto the coffee table again, but there’s barely enough room for him to turn around—in fact, the cramped space between the table’s edge and the ottoman has them sandwiched right up against each other. Sure enough, a chill radiates through the fabric of Kravitz’s shirt. The resulting shudder that grips Taako’s body isn’t entirely unpleasant.

As a matter of fact, he realizes, it’s not unpleasant at all.

He really wishes he’d paid more attention to the necrophilia debate.

“Make me work for it,” Kravitz hums, and his voice and their godsforsaken closeness sets Taako shivering all over again. “And how would you do that, exactly?”

Taako forces himself to muster every iota of his usual bravado. It’s not much at the moment, but right now he needs every bit he can get. “I dunno if—if you’ve noticed, my man,” he says, and pointedly ignores the break in his voice, “but I’m a pretty smart cookie.”

“Mm. I, uh… I don’t doubt it.” He’s looking about as distracted as Taako feels, all attempts at intimidation forgotten, as some innate gravity coaxes them closer. Taako’s hands meet with Kravitz’s chest, sliding over the fine material and numbing quickly against the cold. He can’t possibly care less.

They’re inches away, and Taako just knows that any minute now, Lup and Barry are going to come stumbling out of the entryway and tell him to keep a lookout for the police. Or it’ll be Magnus and Merle, a little sloshed or a little high or both, begging him to reconsider his incredibly stupid plan. It really is stupid, Taako thinks. The plan, that is. But the plan also has him pressed up against an unfairly gorgeous man who seems just a tad punch-drunk on the moment, and he would be lying to himself if he said he doesn’t feel the same.

Taako is waiting for fate to kick down the door and flip him off when their lips meet. He’s not sure who initiates it and he honestly doesn’t care. All he has the capacity to care about is how incredible the icy thrill of Kravitz’s lips feel against his own, and the way they rock forward into each other in perfect synchronicity. He bares his teeth and tugs lightly because he’s earned it, and everything in him soars and burns with the gasp he gets from Kravitz in return. The moment is dizzying and so absolutely beyond anything he could have asked from a Saturday night—or a Sunday morning, he realizes, because midnight is a distant memory.

Everything seems a little distant, actually, when they part. Kravitz is staring at him, half-lidded and disbelieving, and Taako is sure he’s staring right back. He’s too lightheaded to do anything else.

Eventually he says, “Well, that’s, uh… that’s how we do.”

“I—you’re unbelievable,” says Kravitz, and he clearly doesn’t mean it to come out as breathy and dumbstruck as it does.

“Damn right,” Taako shoots back, and sidles out from between an Emissary of Death and the coffee table. “But I dunno if that was worth one whole ouija board.”

Kravitz’s eyes flare, bright and unnatural under the dim lighting. “You can’t be—oh, for Her sake.”

He cuts himself off and holds out a hand, and from his peripheral Taako catches the ouija board and its planchette disappearing in a plume of black smoke. They appear seconds later in Kravitz’s hand, and he folds them up and tucks them away with a huff.

Taako’s mouth falls open. “You could just—are you telling me—you could just teleport that shit the whole time and you didn’t—you didn’t just do it?”

“I don’t like to just magic my problems away,” says Kravitz, sounding wholeheartedly offended. “I wasn’t about to just—stop smirking, Taako, please.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Taako says, even though he’s never been less sorry in his life. He watches as Kravitz materializes his scythe, mantle tousled hotly around his neck, and only speaks up again as it starts to cut through the air. “H—Hey, hey, one more question?”

“Mm?”

“Just wondering,” Taako chirps, and winds his braid around a finger. “If I were, to, y’know, want to get ahold of some more astral plane contraband—”

“Do you want my frequency?” Kravitz interrupts.

Is he really that transparent? Taako gives a noncommittal shrug, like they haven’t just done something completely worthy of trading frequencies. “Sure, sure. If you’re down.”

Kravitz gives him an awkward smile and ambles over to attune his Stone to Taako’s. Their hands brush, because of course they do, and electricity shoots up Taako’s arm, making his skin tingle. He sucks in a breath and does his best to stay unperturbed. This is not the time to lose his cool. Not now.

No, he’ll save that for his sister’s return, when he tells Lup about how he not only flirted with Death and lived to tell the tale, but got away with Death’s digits and a Sunday morning to remember.