#but no everywhere in the goddamn world is just under eternal fire watch AND storm warning. FOREVER. I FUCKING GUESS.

[essektheylyss]

It is really astounding how many times a person can see the word "unprecedented" and somehow still not lose their goddamn mind.

[heli0s-writes]

antisaint*

1.1k words. Erm, dirty talk, bottom!Steve-- also getting finger facefucked, and come-eating? Please stop reading if you are not 18+

The title is from this song by Chevelle 🧡

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Steve’s shield symbolizes the kind of idolatry you want to destroy some nights.

Hijack the ivory points of your lover’s brilliant star and stab him to death with it.

Well, sort of. Maybe just within an inch of his life—a quick reminder that there’s more to him than being humanity’s moral paradigm and savior. That the immeasurable world he’s sworn to can exist in smaller spaces because sometimes he forgets.

It’s fine. 

He’s stubborn and righteous but you’re the perfect foil. Proven time and time again to be the only vice in Captain America’s virtuous armor, you’re so deep in his head he never quite sees you coming.

-

Home late from another impromptu mission, he stills at your presence in the hallway. There’s grime smudged across his cheek and his hair’s awry from his helmet.

“Take it off,” you say coolly, “Everything.”

And his spitfire mouth could argue until hell freezes over—but never with you.

Steve’s bare ass hits the bed not ten seconds later. The candlelit bedroom’s glow paints your skin like a sunset—a goddess of the most devastating kind and he turns mute at how you quickly you unravel him.

He’s transfixed by the way you move—your expression dark and smooth like an inbound storm.

You crawl into his lap. You don’t let him touch you.

“You’re not Captain America here,” you say, voice vibrating down his spine. “Not anyone’s defender here.”

“Is that right?” he stutters, feeling the blood rush straight down, dick flexing against your inner thigh. “What am I, then?”

Still stubborn, he tries it with a smirk.

You lick the slope of his neck and Steve whimpers. Nope.

“You’re nothing,” you shrug, “Other than mine.”

His breath catches in his chest, fire igniting in his belly. Your words, the spark. Your certainty, the gasoline. He’s utterly fucked.

Humanity’s moral paradigm—the pinnacle of strength, but you whittle him down to a trembling boy.

Relenting, Steve nods quietly and you reward him with a kiss. Deep and deliberate while one hand comes up to grab his jaw. Your plush lips contrast your firm hold, and he’s moaning louder than he realizes. That sharp tongue he loves so dearly slips over his, kitten licks balanced by hard sucking. His entire body could melt into the sweet cavern of your mouth.

You lift your hips, letting him spring free before angling just right. You rub against him slow, watching the way his lips part and his eyes glaze over. A few more times—with his cockhead barely catching inside your heat before he pops out—and Steve’s on the verge of losing his goddamn mind.

The pulse in his neck is jumping like a stray flare and his chest is heaving— he’s two hundred pounds of enhanced muscle atrophied under your touch.

The only thing working on him is his dick—and it’s working, alright.

Maybe it’s his job—commanding others. Maybe that’s why he loves it so much.

Maybe it’s just you. His wildest wet dream come to life—filthier than sin with a face like heaven. Loving him so damn hard it makes him stupid.

“Eyes up,” and he tries, but his lids are fluttering. “Say you’re mine, Steve. Mean it.”

“Baby,” he’s not quite sure if he’s even speaking English—or out loud—but he’d do fucking anything to get back inside you. “I’m yours, promise. Swear it —all yours.”

Your finger pushes inside his mouth, hooking over his pretty bottom lip, pressing against the soft inner flesh of his cheek. Steve holds your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away, drool sliding down his chin as you seize him roughly.

With a devilish smile, you finally sink down, bit by bit—so tight and perfect—rolling your hips. Once. Twice. Three times. Again. Again. Again.

“Yeah?” You croon, “Like that? You like being mine?”

He’s delirious, trying to balance sucking on your fingers and bucking up into your cunt, entire being on the edge of collapsing like a dying star and going supernova. Uncontrolled heat eating him up the harder you ride him, the nastier you talk. He’s whining and whimpering. Stuttering and begging for his life.

You make him powerless. Nothing more than a speck of dust drifting through the infinite vacuum of space. And, god, isn’t that something incredible.

“You’re gonna come, aren’t you, baby?” You wonder sweetly, hardly a hair out of place, completely immaculate and ethereal even as you drive him to the point of oblivion. “You’re all swollen up, Steve. Does it feel good?”

“Ah—ah— ”

“What’s that?” Your finger digs further, adding more until only your thumb and pinky curl around his jaw.

Steve gags, choking lightly and it shouldn’t make him so fucking—hot that you’re fucking his mouth, but he doesn’t care. He’s so close, just a hair-thin line away. His heartbeat is in his throat. His ears. You’ve never looked so fucking beautiful—so otherworldly. He’s a mess—he’s falling apart—you’re everything, everywhere. He could die being ruined by you and goddamn, it’d be fantastic.

Steve Rogers—Captain fucking America—babbling like an infant, obedient and useless in your arms. Fantastic.

You take your hand out of his mouth and lick your own fingers clean, bearing down on him, wet and sticky between your thighs and over both of his. The sound your ass makes hitting his legs scribes itself into every atom in his body.

“Good boy,” you whisper, “Good boys get to come, don’t they?”

“Yes—yes— I’m good, baby. I’m real good.” And this must be how the world was created: stars start colliding right in front of his eyes, wheeling off into pure white explosions. His hands are reverential—calloused palms reading your skin like sacred braille. Every word speaks of devotion.

“Okay, Steve,” you sing, “Let me feel you—give me all of it.”

With a few more frantic thrusts, offbeat rhythms of his hips and breath and Steve shatters entirely, hitting deep, spilling inside of you. He buries his face into your chest, mouth open and gasping against your skin.

His entire body shakes and quivers, and when the earth shackles itself together again, you’re all he sees.

“Fuck,” he pants, burning pink like a newborn, blinking the spots from his vision, “God.” And everything feels brand new—like he’s sloughed it all off—the shield, the uniform, the mantle.

Nothing but you and him, and the universe behind your eyes. Two bodies somehow infinite.

You remind him with your mouth to the shell of his ear, kissing his neck, his jaw, his chin. You remind him with your hand cupping his cheek, your smile like the promise of eternity.

Steve lays you down, your name a prayer overflowing from his lips. He spreads you out like an angel and tastes himself reborn between your thighs.

[mackenziethehuntress]

The Fight’s Just Begun - Bucky x Reader

A/N: I uploaded this once already and quickly deleted it on accident because I’m a mess of a human being. Basically, I’ve been out of the writing game for awhile, so do try to judge a little less harshly, plz

This was supposed to be a part of a writing contest but the host has since left Tumblr. 

Summary: What if Bucky didn’t get dusted in Wakanda? Word Count: 1,000 Warnings: Angsty as SHIIT

Wakanda. The once exuberant kingdom responsible for Bucky’s rehabilitation has been reduced to ashes and blood. Another battlefield.

Death and carnage is doomed to follow him everywhere, he thinks as he loads another magazine into his M249 Paratrooper. The pungent smell of gunpowder tickles his nostrils and suddenly he’s back in Nazi, Germany. The Reich hadn’t lasted a thousand years, but the fight surely seemed to. What Hydra had done to him is the reason he’s on the battlefield now. He’d have it no other way, though.

A bright flash of golden energy pulls him from his thousand yard stare and his mind drifts to her - the cataclysmic force of the battlefield. He’d been enamored with her since she’d broken Hydra’s spell back in DC.

“That’s not a good disguise.” She’d said to him, her voice smooth and nonchalant. He’d recognized her immediately, felt the familiar sensation of her - the low vibration and hum of her otherworldly power.

He had turned around and stared as if he were a panicked deer caught in the headlights of an encroaching vehicle. An eternity passed before he found the courage to speak. “Are...are you going to tell him?” His voice wavered, fearing the loyalty to her captain.

She snorted and his jaw ticked.

“No, but he’s looking for you. You do know that, don’t you?” She smiled. He’d remember that smile for the rest of his life, he thought, even if they try to make him forget.

“I’m not the man he remembers.” He looked away from her burning gaze, he regrets it now. It’d felt intrusive then, but he’d realized, in time, she’d only wanted to help him.

“How could you be?” She asked. “How could you possibly be the man Steve remembers when you don’t remember?” A few clicks of her heels off the marble floors of the Smithsonian and she’d closed the distance between them. They echo in his imagination. She’d gently cupped his chin, refusing to retreat when he’d flinched and looked deeply into the cerulean depths of his eyes. “Let me help you, James.”

“It’s Bucky.” He corrected, feeling the sincerity in her vibrations.

She’d lived up to her promise. For two years she’d moved him from safe house to safe house, never staying in the same place for long. In those painfully short years, he’d fallen in love with her and her with him. He knew the fight would eventually come and it did, but she never left his side. Not even now, not on this battlefield.

Another eruption of gold magic and his eyes find their way over her glowing figure. She’s wrapped around the form of the Outrider princess, Proxima Midnight, using her power to bring the enemies blood to a boil.

He decides he can’t look for long, the time isn’t right. He’ll admire her later, when the fight is over. If the fight ever ends, he worries momentarily. Bucky uses his fear as a sword of determination and fights off Thanos’ horde with a newfound vigor.

He’s coated in alien blood and entrails when he looses sight of her. The battle had gotten dicey and she’d been needed elsewhere - to protect Vision. Panic takes over his senses and he becomes reckless, each shot he takes is less calculated than the last. Bullets that should’ve felled his enemy caused nothing but flesh wounds and scratches on armor.

It’s then he decides she’s his weakness. It’d never been a problem in the past, then again, they’ve never fought off the goddamn apocalypse before.

He puts a few bullets into the unlucky soul that wandered into his line of fire, watching as the life slips from its monstrous body. The small victory of a dead enemy is perverted by thoughts of her. Thoughts of her lifeless body laying in the mud and the blood before him.

It’s Steve who pulls him from his haze this time, attempting to invigorate his friend - his Bucky. His tactics fall short, however, because he isn’t Steve’s Bucky any longer - he’s hers and she’s nowhere to be found. Bucky realizes he’s can still feel her magics - the golden, guiding light of her power. He follows it like a beacon, leaving Steve in the dust.

Her vibrations lead him across the battlefield - through pockets of Wakandan warriors, under Thor’s lightning storm, and around the crater he assumed Banner made out of some sorry son of a bitch.

Bucky fights his way across the war torn soil to her - his love lost in the madness. It’s when he reaches her glowing form that the battlefield falls unnaturally quiet.

“Oh, Buck...” She speaks mournfully when she sees him.

Her voice, no matter how sullen it sounds, is like gospel to him. He wraps his arms around her, blissfully unaware of the tragedy surrounding them.

“Baby” she starts again, “baby...we lost”.

Her body begins to tremble and the spell is broken. Bucky opens his eyes and pulls back from the embrace, taking in their surroundings. The air is thick with smoke and...wait, is that ash? He wonders.

Bucky’s worst fear is confirmed as he gazes into her eyes and sees tears begin to spill over onto her cheeks. She looks scared and confused, and before he knows it, she begins to fade away into dust.

The curve of her hip disappears from underneath his hands, the smell of her presence no longer permeates through the air, and suddenly she’s gone…

For the first time since he’s met her, Bucky’s world falls silent. There’s no more golden light, no more soothing ebb and flow of energy; the vibrations of her life force gone. It’s still - maddeningly quiet, he thinks.

Bucky spots Steve across the battlefield, running to him. To comfort him, he assumes. There’s no comfort to be given, no comfort to be had. There’s only one thought running through his head and that’s to find his way back to her – the only way he knows how.

“The fight’s just started” he whispers.