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sarahowritesostucky · 8 months ago

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📖"The Carter Academy for Omega Excellence" Pt 10

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: age gap, boarding school au, a/b/o, dub-con/non-con, spanking, feminization, dumbification, sexism, misogyny, prostate milking, discipline, D/s elements, hurt/comfort, mentions of past self-harm, predatory behavior, teacher/student, bathroom use control, humiliation, omorashi

Summary: Bucky Barnes is young, confused, and conflicted—a real "rebel without a cause" type. His parents ship him off to Steve's reform school to help him get straightened out into a "proper young omega."

Wait! I haven't read an earlier part of this fic! Story Masterlist

Part 10 Expedient Action

Steve watches as the kid’s lower lip trembles, his stubborn little cleft chin moving along with it, and he hums sadly. “Do you remember the last time you were happy, Bucky?”

The boy shrugs, won’t meet his eyes. “Dunno,” he eventually says.

Steve nods, having expected as much. Slowly, he curls his fingers over the top of the towel at Bucky’s waist. Bucky’s stomach sucks in with tension when he realizes that Steve intends to pull the towel off him, but he makes no move to try and stop it. Steve lets it fall to the floor, then looks at Bucky’s lap, eyes briefly considering the state of the omega’s rigid little prick, before sliding to the side to look at his leg. Sadness fills him again at seeing them, even though he’d known they were there.

Right along the top of Bucky’s left thigh are a series of pale lines. Scars, lined up in a tidy little row that begins at his hipbone and ends several inches before the knee. Most are white, but some are pink, still in various stages of healing from the recent past. Months old, but not years. Steve grabs Bucky’s hands when he tries to cover himself. “It’s okay, Buck. You’re not in trouble.”

Bucky whines and tugs his hands away. “Leave me alone,” he groans, sounding miserable. Steve has no doubt that he is, though that doesn’t mean that he’s not aroused, as well. Steve could smell his slick as soon as he’d gotten out of the shower, and it’s only intensified since then. Understandable, after what they’d witnessed from the doorway of Parker’s room. (Steve really needs to give Natasha a good bonus this semester. That woman knows how to get a task done.)

With the towel discarded, Bucky’s scent is rich and unimpeded, that pleasant mix of loamy earth and spiced verbena combining to arouse Steve’s senses. Virtually all omegas smell nice at bare minimum. Even ones pregnant by other alphas still smell good, if not particularly arousing. But again, he’s reminded that the notes of Bucky’s scent stand out to him more than what he’s accustomed to, pulling at all the baser instincts that live in the back of his brain.

He tries his best not to let his enjoyment of it show, but there’s only so much a man can do. He’s wearing his own special brand of compression underwear at the moment. Made for alphas, thank god, or else there’d be a very different situation at the front of his slacks right now. The bloody things are tight as fuck, but they do a good job at concealing all but the most aggressive of boners. And for an alpha who spends his days surrounded by hundreds of teenaged omegas reaching the peak of their sexual maturity, they are a godsend.

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s leg, right over the scars. Oh Sweetheart, he thinks mournfully. Who did this to you? He lets his thumb trace one silvery-thin line, probably one of the oldest, and hushes Bucky’s whimper when it comes. “When did you start doing this, Honey?” he asks, being careful to keep his voice as gentle and as coaxing as he can. “Shh. It’s okay.” Poor thing’s just embarrassed as all get-out, and Steve isn’t trying to scold him. “When, Bucky?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs and won’t meet Steve’s eyes. “Couple’a years ago, I guess. I don’t do it anymore. Not … not much.”

“That makes sense,” Steve observes. He’s baiting Bucky, and it works.

The kid peeks up at him. “It does?”

“Sure. Your heats mature at about fifteen, sixteen. That’s when it gets harder. Without a safe and consistent partner with you each cycle, you’re not going to be very fulfilled.” He watches as Bucky frowns down at his lap and thinks about that. “Has that been your experience?” he prods gently. “Feeling unfulfilled?”

“I … no.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Want to try saying that like you mean it?”

Bucky grimaces. “I mean, I didn’t use to think so. It just was what it was, y’know? Most kids don’t have a heat partner, so I figured I was just bein’ oversensitive. I at least had Brock. … Once in a while, anyways.”

“Hm.”

“I thought that was good,” he says, looking to Steve for confirmation in a way that is pitifully naïve. “Nobody else pairs. Unless they’re dating. And even then, people have lives. They can’t just stop everything for a week every single month. That’d be ridiculous.”

“Right,” Steve says, hating this. He wants to growl and bundle Bucky up and make him see how neglected he’s been, how he deserves so much more. “You felt like you had to make due on your own.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I could get a hookup, at least for the second day of my heat. Those are usually the worst.” Bucky looks away, evasive. “And … I tried some things.”

“Suppressants?”

“Yeah. But before I figured out how to get a doctor to prescribe ‘em, I used to steal Ransom’s credit card to buy some of those supplements you see in the infomercials. You know: with the testimonials and everything? People saying how good they work?”

“How well they work,” Steve corrects under his breath. “Those are expensive.”

“Hundred and fifty bucks plus shipping, every month,” Bucky confirms. “Well, at least until Ransom noticed it on his credit card statement.” He colors a little and admits, “I also tried those things they sell over the counter at the pharmacy. Those, erm, those things that you can take. That you stick up your—”

“I’m familiar,” Steve drawls. “So, you put multiple things in your body without knowing what was in them.”

“Well I figured they couldn’t sell ‘em on tv if it wasn’t safe,” Bucky defends. “And besides, everybody does it.”

“Not exactly winning me over, here, kid.”

“Look, you don’t understand!” he snaps. “You’re alpha. You don’t get it. Heats are stupid, they're not fun. They just get in everybody’s way, and these products help. They help quality of life. They help make it less of a problem.”

Steve holds back the actual growl that wants to come at hearing such a tragic pile of tripe. “Did you ever stop to wonder why it’s always your natural biology that gets labeled as the ‘problem’, hm? Always something to be fixed, rather than something you’re entitled to? Something you deserve to have accommodated?”

Bucky blinks a few times in a row, mouth working. “Well … no. That’s just how it is.”

“Oh is it?”

“It is if you want to make it anywhere in life. Get into a good school, get a good job, work your way up at some company.” He blithely rattles off the examples, speaking like this is all pre-determined truth, and Steve is the only idiot who hasn’t been clued in. “People won’t hire you if you need all that time off of work and stuff. You’ve got to make yourself as good as a beta employee, at least. Otherwise nobody’ll hire you.”

Steve nods solemnly. “Yeah, well that’s where I take issue. I think omega rights—true omega rights—demand that society value omegas for what they naturally are. And that means allowing them the space and time they need for their cycles, not treating it as something inconvenient, not expecting people to use a bunch of drugs to try and force themselves into some, some …” He makes a frustrated gesture. “Some employable box.”

“Well yeah, I guess. But—”

“Omegas deserve to have their contributions as mothers and homemakers valued, too,” Steve asserts, then narrows his eyes at Bucky when the kid rolls his eyes. “You scoff, but the omegas who consistently rank highest in self-reported life satisfaction are those who choose to take on domestic roles. The only thing career omegas consistently rank highest on is level of antidepressant usage. It’s a trend we’ve seen increasing ever since the seventies.”

“Right,” Bucky snaps. “Back in the good old days when we didn’t have any rights.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says sternly. “Omegas had all the same rights as other designations, it was culture that was different. There was a place carved out in society for them. Omegas’ natural affinities were valued. Those who did work were able to find jobs that fit their lifestyles and needs. Now, employers expect you to change yourself for the job, just like you said.” He shakes his head sadly. “One could make the argument that that’s equality, but it sure as hell ain’t fair. Betas and alphas have society shaped to fit their needs, and omegas simply have to try and force themselves into difficult spaces just to get by. I don’t think it’s right that the way we do things is geared towards what alphas and betas naturally need, and nothing that’s naturally omega is accommodated for anymore. Do you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but his posture slumps with uncertainty the more he considers what's being said.

Steve softens his tone to something more gentle. “That’s why I think the erasure of gender roles is unhealthy, Buck. Not because I’m a sexist who hates omegas and doesn’t want them to be able to do anything, but because I think you guys deserve so much better. So much more.” He watches Bucky’s face, the growing doubt in his features, and figures it’s time to stop with the proselytizing. He's given the kid something to think on. That's good enough for now. It is bedtime, after all. “Just think on it a bit,” he advises kindly. “You’ve had a lot of experiences, but there’s still a lot for you to learn. Try and do it with an open mind, okay? You might come to see one or two things a little differently.”

Bucky grumbles unhappily, but Steve can tell when his point is getting through. Most students start to come around to considering the school's curricular viewpoint by the one week mark. After a week of constant offers to have his needs fulfilled—and constant refusal of those offers—it’s pretty obvious that Bucky is nearing the turning point. Steve decides to end this little talk on a positive note. He gives him one final pat on his legs. “Okay, Hon. Time for bed.” He stands up and observes the way that Bucky seems to physically stall, unable to quickly process Steve’s sudden departure.

“You’re leaving?” he blurts.

Steve offers him a gentle smile. “Would you like for me to scent anything? Maybe a blanket or a pillow?” Right now there’s only a sheet and a single, thin blanket on the bed. He thumbs backward at the room’s cabinet of nesting supplies. “The nurse said you’re mid-cycle. The urge to nest must be waxing rather than waning at this point, yeah?”

Bucky seems surprised by the offer, but after a moment he nods shyly. “Maybe an extra blanket wouldn’t be so bad.”

Steve turns and goes to grab a blanket out of the cabinet and scent it, taking Bucky’s compliance as a significant win. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and is doubly pleased when Bucky makes no snippy remark at the gendered praise. He doesn’t face Bucky as he scents the top edge of the blanket with his wrist and then his neck. He doesn’t want to push his luck and make the boy so embarrassed that he’ll revert back to his pattern of disrespectful misbehavior. It’s always a balancing act, with new students, but once you get the right combination of domination, kindness, and familiarity? That's when things begin to smooth out.

Bucky takes the blanket with a bashful, “Thank you,” when Steve hands it over, and Steve gives him a quiet rumble of praise for being polite.

“You’re welcome, Honey.” Bucky moves like he’ll get under the blankets, but Steve stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Hang on a sec. You forgetting something?” Bucky blinks vacantly up at him, and Steve can’t help but chuckle. “We don’t sleep naked, do we?”

Bucky looks back down at himself, like he’d forgotten he was naked in the first place. “Oh.”

Steve fetches him a pair of underwear from the room’s dresser. The students’ nighttime briefs aren’t dissimilar to what they wear under their uniforms during the day, but they consist of one piece rather than two, and the padding’s a bit more … thorough, meant to help deter wandering hands at night. Steve finds himself unable to look away as Bucky puts them on, sliding them up his legs with shaky fingers and whimpering near subvocally when his leaking prick gets covered up by the padding. His hands fist the bedsheets at either side of his hips, and for a second his face gets red and his eyes go unfocused.

Oh Jesus. Steve grinds his teeth at the display, unhappy to feel his own cock pulsing insistently against the seam of his slacks. Bucky’s tortured, straining efforts to not touch himself are near-pornographic to watch, making that warm, sexual urge swirl up harder in Steve’s belly than before. He shifts in place and flexes his hands as he tries to think of something to counter the pulsing in his dick—picturing his grandparents fucking is his usual failsafe, in times like this. He doesn’t want his scent to grow so strong that it affects Bucky right now. Not when they’re ending the night on such a positive note.

The thought of Nana and Pawpaw doing the nasty does the trick, and Steve retreats to the doorway. He hums in approval as he watches Bucky climb into bed and get settled. He nests only the barest bit, almost tentatively, tucking the scented end of the blanket up alongside his pillow and draping the rest of it over his body. He curls up on his side and nuzzles his cheek against the pillow. Steve waits with his hand poised to flip the light switch. “You have everything you need?” he checks, giving Bucky one final chance to be honest about his needs.

But he simply tucks his face into the scented blanket and closes his eyes. “Uh huh.” His still-damp hair is stark against the white pillowcase, and Steve’s heart gives a fond twinge at the sight.

It does dry curly.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He flicks the lights off, knowing that by tomorrow morning, he’ll have a punishable offense to address with the boy. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“… Night, Steve.”

Despite the excellent performance of composure that he’s managed to maintain with Bucky for the past few hours, all that time with the omega really has taken its toll. Steve is relieved to get back and shut himself away in the confines of his office. It feels like a sanctuary right now. It’s a deep mental and physical relaxation that hits him as soon as he sinks into his desk chair and inhales the professionally filtered, pheromone-free air of the room.

“Ahh," he sighs, rubbing at his temples. "God save the queen. Fuck."

Compared to other alphas, he’s got excellent control of his reactions and is able to mask a great deal (an invaluable skill when one works with hordes of hormonally-peaking teenagers), but the end of the school day always provides a bit of relief—today more than most.

He opens his laptop and leaves it to boot up while he goes over over to pour himself a drink. He pulls out one of the cork-coated lowballs that he keeps in the freezer (because he prefers his drinks on the rocks, but whether he likes it or not Peggy’s had an influence on him these past twenty years, and he knows it’s blasphemy to add ice to a 30 year old Scotch). He eyeballs a finger of the liquor—okay, maybe closer to two fingers—and brings it back to his desk to sniff it and swirl it around.

It’s a vintage that one of Peggy’s relatives gifted them years ago, worth quite a bit of money apparently, and it’s been Steve’s one petty protest amongst the many bigger ones of his soon-to-be ex-wife. He’s only begun making use of it since their divorce proceedings intensified over the summer, with Peggy’s obstinance against fair division of assets reaching damningly selfish levels. Steve never thought of her as someone who’d go for the nerves in a divorce just for the hell of it, and it’s upsetting to see that nastier side exposed. It feels like all his good memories are slowly being tainted by it, made ugly and ruined, like paint thrown over a fine portrait of the woman he’d once admired. Steve’s not a heavy drinker, but he’s nearly made his way through the entire bottle these past few weeks.

At his desk, he peruses current events on his newsfeed and a few academic articles of interest, being sure to sip steadily despite his leanings as a teetotaler. He wants to feel a bit of a buzz by the time he dares to brave his inbox. The little icon tells him that he’s got dozens of unread emails waiting in there. Not unusual for a weekday, but there’s one from Peggy that he purposefully puts off for last. And surprisingly, there’s one email each from the personal accounts of both Tony Stark and Harlan Thrombey.

He clicks on Stark’s first, expecting the email to contain more demands for the accommodations he wants for the upcoming parents’ weekend. Sure enough, Stark doesn’t disappoint, asking Steve to please arrange for a 2-minute slot for one Ms. Pepper Potts to speak during that coming Sunday’s evening ball. It’s during said ball when the school has its traditional slew of scheduled, “spontaneous” rounds of toasts over betrothal announcements. Steve’s happy to agree to a slot for Ms. Potts, just grateful that it won’t be Stark himself making the speech. Thank god for small favors.

Stark also has a footnote jotted in, as though it’s a nothing, requesting a black Rolls Royce Phantom to pick them up afterwards to take them to their hotel in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. In the distinct manner that Steve’s learned only multi-millionaires ever really have, Tony blithely throws out his specifications for the car’s interior temperature (73 degrees Fahrenheit, precisely), a fully-stocked bar, and a selection of snacks and juice boxes that sounds suspiciously catered to a certain omega's tastes.

Smirking and shaking his head, Steve spends a moment researching the costs of this additional, last-minute amenity. He tacks an extra two grand onto the price and shoots the email back with an inflated invoice that brings him no guilt. Academia is little better than a break-even industry, after all. And besides, Stark can afford it.

Normally, Steve would save any email of Peggy’s for last, but given his growing obsession with interest in Bucky’s case, he decides to save Thrombey’s email for last.

Peggy’s email is also very typical of what Steve’s come to expect from her: curt, concise, and infuriatingly presumptive.

📨Peggy: Asset Divisions Update

Steven, it reads, My solicitor will be in touch after this next weekend with an updated proposal for division of assets. I did not find your last offer acceptable. Mr. Jorgensen is out of the country on account of an emergency this week, which is the reason for the delay. I do apologize and hope you will understand. In the meantime, I look forward to enjoying a pleasant and uncompromised parents’ weekend with our two schools. I’ll be in touch soon, in regards to those preparations. Cordially, Peggy.

Steve sneers at the ‘cordially’. “More like cold as ice,” he grumbles, grabbing the glass of scotch to toss back the last few sips. Parents’ weekend is going to be hell, having to be in such constant proximity with her.

Thrombey’s email is long and flowery, in the distinct manner that only novelists ever really have. He rambles on, bemoaning the state of his grandson for several long paragraphs before getting to the point. Finally, he lays out the issue, and it is a doozy:

📨Thrombey: Expedient Action Required

—has come to my attention that the boy has been engaging in a form of online prostitution. Something called only fans.”

Steve’s jaw drops as he feels the blood drain from his face. Oh no. Bucky wouldn’t … would he? Shit. He totally would. Steve’s eyes flick back to the email.

—can imagine my horror to find that for a monthly fee, subscribers have access to his nude photos. I hadn’t the stomach to look myself, but Ransom assures me it’s all him on the webpage. There are even videos, and Ransom says that James’ face is visible in some of the footage. His face! This is outrageous!

“You’re telling me,” Steve mutters.

Thankfully, the Academy’s structure seems to have put an end to his production. There’s been no new footage uploaded since the week before his enrollment. My lawyers are working on having the account erased, and I can only pray that nothing comes to light publicly before then. Now more than ever, an intervention is required for my grandson. His eligibility for a good marriage will be out the window if word of this pornography spreads, his prospects ruined. I want you to put your full efforts into seeing him matched up with a suitable Alpha as soon as possible. I don’t care who it is, what nationality they are, if it’s a triad, if there’s no notable family name—nothing. All that matters is that you find him a decent mate with no record of mistreatment. Do be thorough in your searching, but do not drag your feet! I’m sure I needn’t explain how damaging this will be to my family, if word gets out. I am counting on you to take expedient action, H. Thrombey

At the bottom of the email is a link. It’s to an OnlyFans page. Steve’s heart rate picks up and he hesitates for a long moment, knowing that he shouldn’t look. Harlan’s lawyers are handling it.

But his morbid curiosity wins out, and he clicks on the link. It leads directly to Bucky’s personal page, and Steve experiences a very unpleasant combination of sensations: his dick filling with blood at the same time that his stomach turns from seeing the images that are on the page’s banners. It’s Bucky’s body, that’s for sure, with his face cleverly turned away or artfully clipped from the shots. Below the title page and summary are links to “Exclusive new hot videos!” with 3 second thumbnails of Bucky’s ass moving, his back arching, his hand moving over his—

Steve looks away from the computer screen, furious and aroused and mortified. “Goddammit, Bucky,” he hisses, angry that the kid has done something so inherently damaging—not just to his reputation like Harlan is thinking, but to himself, to his soul. Steve’s stomach churns something awful at knowing that this stuff is available for any creep with a credit card to purchase … and at his own reaction to even the barest glimpses of it. He peeks up again, this time reading the titles of the videos:

“Hot O-on-O action!”

“Omega dominates Alpha Slut”

“Horny Teen Twink in Heat”

His jaw ticks angrily. What fucking awful, typical titles. He looks down at his cock, which is visibly pressing against the seam of his slacks. “Fuck,” he groans. He can’t jerk off to porn of Bucky. He can’t. It’d be beyond unethical. Even if the kid was his mate, Steve would still feel the moral obligation to—

Oh. Well there’s an idea.

His brain stalls on the thought of him as Bucky’s mate, his Alpha, in charge of him and giving him what he needs … and taking what he wants. Mortifyingly, a growl builds up in his chest as he glances once more at the thumbnails of Bucky doing lurid things. The kid’s got such tight, smooth skin; such a perfect, pretty shape. Steve’s mind slips into editorial mode, imagining what it would be like if Bucky was his, the omega’s ass moving under his hips, his back arching in his bed, his quivering hands smacked away from his cocklet while Steve rails him from behi—

Jesus fucking Christ. Stop!

His hand is halfway to his pocket when he realizes that he’s reaching for his wallet, contemplating buying a subscription just so that he can see. Disgust floods his chest, extinguishing the growl, and he snaps out of it. He pushes away from the desk and stomps over to grab the bottle of Scotch and bring it back, dumping himself back in his desk chair and heedlessly pouring another fill.

And so what? he thinks. Who cares if he finishes the whole fucking bottle? He might as fucking well. His wife, the woman who agreed to be his life partner, who placated him with endless promises of “one day” and then went ice cold and bitter and reneged on everything she’d ever claimed to want with him, is putting him through the wringer just for shits and giggles. And now come to find out, his newest pupil, a boy for whom he’s got way too much personal interest, is selling himself on the internet—For $9.99 a month?!!! The videos seem to cost extra on a pay-per-view basis, but even still, what the ever-loving fuck?!

Steve’s whole body stiffens as something else occurs to him: Harlan’s email said that Bucky’s face is visible in the videos. Bucky’s stepfather reported that to Harlan. Which means he's seen the videos. Which means …

Steve’s jaw ticks as he glances back to the computer screen, to Bucky’s homepage and the free lurid teaser photos that don’t show his face. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses, angry. That Drysdale guy had been a prick during the tour of the campus, and now Steve knows what a fucking pervert he is, too. Because the only way he could know that Bucky’s face is shown is if he bought the subscription and paid extra for the videos.

Steve closes out the browser window, not wanting to see any more of it. The warring disgust and temptation to be one of those creeps who pays money to view omegas degrade themselves is just too much. He yanks his wallet out of his back pocket and chucks it angrily at the couch, missing by a country mile. He takes a gulp of the Scotch, exhaling harshly at the burn as it goes down. “Fuck.”

Pornography for omegas carries a heavy social stigma—far beyond what any beta or alpha porn star would ever face, and deeper in the nature of its contempt and consequence. Omegas who do porn make big bucks, because they’re making an even bigger trade-off. Engaging in any sort of sex work virtually erases an omega's chance of mating. It hadn’t merely been upper crust snobbery in Harlan’s email, but common sense as well. People from all walks of life treat omega sex workers as an untouchable caste, damaged goods, not worthy of real relationships.

It’s one of the few holdovers from the old days, even though porn isn’t what it once was. It’s easier to make than ever. Amateur is in. Omegas who would’ve once been exploited by large production companies now work from home, in control of their own content creation. More and more of them are choosing get rich quick schemes over mating, turning to platforms like OnlyFans and giving away their most sacred gifts to any scum bucket with a credit card. Ruining their lives.

Steve loosens his tie and takes another gulp of liquor before setting the glass down heavily. His hands go resolutely back to his laptop with what he knows he has to do. It sickens him that he even has to do it in the first place. He considers himself a man of morals, a man who lives by his word. But in this one thing, he’s let himself become a hypocrite. He navigates to his internet bookmarks and opens the subfolder marked “Meditations.” It’s his porn stash. Favorite videos he’s saved for lonely nights. Nothing too wild, but virtually all of it involves omegas. Watching A/o porn has been his guilty pleasure for … a while.

He used to avoid it on principle, but these past few years have been different, his desires harder to ignore, the urge to bond, mate, and breed pooling in the back of his brain and the pit of his belly, winding him tight with a tension that he doesn’t like. At first, he’d just chalked it up to being a horny bastard, but that wasn’t it. The unrelenting tension came with a hollow, forlorn ache that refused to go away. Even after a good jerk off session imagining himself in one of those videos, it never went away for long. It’d taken Steve a long time to figure out what that ache really was. For the first time in his life, he felt unfulfilled.

He only hesitates a second before right clicking on the folder and pressing delete, a grim sense of rightness settling over him at the action. He should’ve done it long ago. He shouldn’t have compromised his values in the first place. Of course he’d made all sorts of excuses for it: the porn was amateur, it was self-made, the omegas were getting off and enjoying themselves, he wasn’t paying for it, maybe the Alphas in the videos were actually their mates.

And then of course, the lamest excuse of all: that he deserved to watch it, because his erstwhile wife was ruining everything.

He closes out the browser window and frowns at his reflection on the screen. “Lame,” he mutters. He opens Harlan’s email back up and begins drafting a response, assuring the man that he has nothing to worry about, that Steve will find Bucky a suitable match in no time.

He uses one of the school’s proprietary databases that tracks eligible bachelors, typing in search parameters for sex and nationality (any), net worth (≥ €2,000,000) and age (25-45). Alphas live longer than other designations, so he isn’t worried about being too picky on the age range. Just so long as it isn’t some young sap who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing. Bucky needs a firm hand and lots of attention. He needs an Alpha who can handle him with gentle dominance, who’ll know when to be indulgent and when to put their foot down.

Steve can’t say why he picks €2m to be the cutoff point for a prospective Alpha’s net worth. Maybe he likes the idea of Bucky being given an easy, comfortable life. And if he sets the search results to list from lowest to highest net worth, well … maybe it’s because he doesn’t like the idea of Bucky being smothered by ludicrous levels of wealth (like Parker’s undoubtedly about to be).

The list of possibilities starts with a landowner in rural Scotland, and ends with an Israeli shipping magnate based out of Cairo. Steve scrolls through the profiles, dismissing anyone he deems unworthy of being Bucky’s mate. Too ugly, too ugly, too fat, too old, too many divorces, too ugly, too ugly. Nobody seems good enough. Steve finds flaws in every profile he sees. And underneath it all, the thought remains: he could be Bucky’s mate.

He shakes his head like he can rattle the idea loose, thinking: don’t be stupid, Rogers. He’s the headmaster here. Taking a student as a mate would be a violation of his professional duties. Not illegal, hell, not even technically against the rules, but certainly embarrassing, perhaps bordering on … unseemly. Parents entrust him with their omega sons to train them up and secure good matches for them, not to mate them himself.

… But Harlan’s email had specifically said that nothing else mattered. Not race, nor gender, nor pedigree. ‘All that matters is that you find him a decent mate with no record of mistreatment’.

All Steve can think about is how that could be him. He could be Bucky’s Alpha. He could take care of him, provide for him, have a family with him. Pieces of an imaginary life layer up in his mind like paper mâché, one on top of the other, slowly congealing into a picture that makes the yearning in his gut that much worse. He imagines Bucky as his omega, living in the Pendergast Street cottage together, a scar on Bucky’s neck; holing up in the house’s nesting closet with him each month, fucking him through his heats, getting him pregnant, watching him give birth and nurse their baby inside a bundle of blankets that have Steve’s scent on them.

He’s always wanted kids. Peggy had, too, or so she said. They’d talked about it infrequently, but they had talked about it. How one day they’d mate an omega and live a blissful family life, have a traditional triad marriage. But that was the problem: they’d only ever talked about it. And on the rare occasion when they had, Steve was always the one to bring the topic up. He hadn’t realized that, hadn’t realized how often Peggy’s only input wound up being an obfuscating ‘one day’.

The day when she finally nutted up and said that she’d changed her mind, that she didn’t want an omega mate in their marriage, didn’t want babies, was the day Steve finally uttered the word that’d been sitting on the back of his tongue for months: “Divorce.”

He still wants to have that intimacy with an omega: bonding them, sharing their heats, getting them pregnant and watching them grow, seeing his child in their arms. He thinks of Bucky in that role, imagines how the boy would take to it, what their first time would be like, if he’d instinctually know to go ass up in the bed or if he’d need to fight it a little, have his alpha toss him around and hold him down before he could accept a knot. If he’d get quiet right before coming, or shriek and thrash and dissolve into agonized tears.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, letting his hand slide over the top of his thigh and into the crease of his groin. He palms himself there, gripping his dick and giving a few short tugs from over the material of his slacks. He looks down and stares at the hard line his boner makes, imagining Bucky being here and seeing it, putting his hand there, how much smaller it’d be than Steve’s, how much less experienced. God, Steve wants to guide him through that, teach him how to touch a man, watch the nervousness and arousal play out on his face as he learns how to please an alpha for the first time.

“Fuck, Honey,” he breathes, thinking about the little noises Bucky would make, the little protests and growls, and the slick that would drip down his thighs and betray him. Steve wonders how the kid touches himself, thinks back to that first day in his office, when he’d asked him how he liked to make himself come. Bucky hadn’t gotten around to answering before he’d lost control of his body, wetting up his underwear in submissive release and going a fascinated shade of red once Steve cooed at him over it.

He’s never had a student release like that before. Not that easily. And he’s just so fucking pretty, even his anger is pretty. Steve grits his teeth at how he can feel his self restraint slipping. He thinks of Harlen’s email: find him a mate, anyone will do. Well if anyone will do, then why the fuck shouldn’t he put himself in the running?

Bucky is low hanging fruit, so fucking ripe for the picking, and Steve just knows he could get him to bend so beautifully with only a little bit of tender care. He could have him happy and content in no time, releasing at the barest show of dominance, just like before. He can still hear that warbling, humiliated whimper that came right after Bucky wet for him, the way his big, confused eyes had looked to Steve for help …

“Goddammit.” He hastily undoes his belt and fly. He shoves his pants and underwear down to free his dick, wrapping a hand around himself and squeezing tightly at the base. His knot is already dark and aching, halfway to being erect after less than a minute of touching himself. He wrings his fist up under the head, forcing the skin over the tip and jacking off with it, guts coiling tighter at the tiny, wet sounds it makes. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He takes his hand off, not wanting to come too fast. He slumps back in the desk chair for a moment, panting, and remembers two things at almost the exact same second: He needs to check the surveillance in Bucky’s room, and he’s got a pocket masturbator in his desk drawer. Well, fuck.

He all but lunges for the drawer, yanking it open and cursing when he sees it. He grabs the toy and holds it to the tip of his cock, moving his hips to push the head through in tiny, teasing little pulses. Oh god, it feels amazing. He pulls it off and reaches for his laptop, opening the school’s surveillance mainframe and navigating to the dormitory views. He clicks on the camera for Bucky’s bedroom and toggles the night vision to on. At first it doesn’t look like much is happening, but then he catches the slight movement of Bucky’s body beneath the blanket … and he moans all over again.

“You little fuck,” he breathes, grabbing the masturbator to slide it all the way over his dick. “Ughn.”

Bucky’s touching himself from underneath the blankets. He’s lying in the same position that Steve left him in, only now his eyes are clenched shut tight and he’s panting open-mouthed into the pillow, his one shoulder angled in such a way as to suggest that he’s got his hand reached behind him. His arm moves in tiny, barely-there pulses. Steve realizes that, unless Bucky’s got the longest fingers known to mankind, he’s using a toy on himself back there.

“Nnh.” He squeezes the silicon sleeve over his cock, dragging it up and down in time with the motions of Bucky’s shoulder, imagining that it’s Bucky he’s feeling around his cock, imagining that Bucky’s feeling him. “Naughty boy,” he grunts through a grin. He knew Bucky would be jerking off once left alone, but this is even better. Steve regrets not watching the feed from the moment he left, as he’d love to know just what the toy looks like, and where Bucky was hiding it. Somewhere in his luggage, obviously. New students are always searched when they arrive, but clearly the boy managed to get something past bag check. Steve almost feels admiration for the sneaky little shit.

He pushes the unmute button and listens to the audio. At first it’s just the quiet rustling of fabric on fabric, the stirring of Bucky’s body against the sheets as he pleasures himself, but then a tiny, breathy moan breaks through, and then another. Steve’s hips flex into his stroking hand. “Oh, Honey.”

Bucky’s face is pinched and he’s biting his lip—probably trying to keep quiet. The notion makes Steve smirk. Omegas are very vocal in their sexual pleasure, prone to keening and squealing and making all sorts of warbling, debased noises when they’re feeling good. It must be the most exquisite torture for Bucky to try and stay silent like this as he fucks himself on whatever toy he’s managed to sneak in. Steve watches it with a tightening belly and aching balls, twisting the rubber sleeve over himself again and again, bumping down hard against his knot on every stroke. “Fffuck.”

In the frame, Bucky’s voice catches on a single, high pitched noise as he comes, his body going rigid under the sheets and his hips pulsing harder than before. He whimpers and turns his face further into the pillow to muffle it, but Steve is already right there too, jerking himself hard and fast with the sleeve until he shouts and starts to shoot. His knot blows inside of the rubber, which isn’t as good as the real thing, but still feels fucking amazing. He keeps his dick fully buried and squeezes the toy hard over his knot, milking himself until his hand cramps and he lets go. The toy pops off his cock and falls to the floor, and Steve goes boneless in his chair as he shivers through the long wave of his orgasm.

When it’s finally over and he looks back at the computer screen, it’s to see Bucky carefully rearranging himself under the blankets. Whatever it was that he’d used to fuck himself, he seems to be keeping it hidden between the mattress and the room’s wall. Steve plays idly with his knot while he waits for it to go down, deciding that the kid gloves need to come off now. It’s time Bucky learned just what it means to be taken in hand by an Alpha. And with the development of the online porn and Harlan’s request, there’s no longer need or time to play things slow and easy.

Tomorrow, Steve’ll finally do what he should’ve done from the get-go, what he’s been wanting to do ever since Bucky trounced into his office with a bad attitude and false bravado. From here on out, he’s going to take proper care of that boy. Starting tomorrow, he’s going to handle Bucky’s education himself. And if things progress from there? Well, Harlan said anyone will do.

Story Masterlist

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justdealingwithsomeissues · 2 years ago

Text

The shit absolutely hits the fan here...

#Marvel #Marvel UK #Mys Tech Wars #Peter Hunter ~ Albion #Logan ~ Wolverine #Brian Braddock ~ Captain Britain #Steve Rogers ~ Captain America #Bruce Banner ~ Professor #Shevaun Haldane ~ Dark Angel #Minion ~ Death’s Head

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 months ago

Text

「 take her under your wing AU 」

warnings: innocent!reader x various, stepbro!steve rogers, bucky barnes, professor!peter parker, professor!reed richards, ari levinson, marc spector, ransom drysdale, curtis everett, lloyd hansen, andy barber, thor odinson, scott lang, miguel o'hara, frank castle, billy russo, dark content, essentially everyone is soft!dark, college au, polyamory, idk what to tell you this is just porn

polls for this au

asks about the au

101, an intro to the au | pinterest board

masterlist | join my taglist

FICS:

the many firsts

something in return

locked out

i dare you

what i say goes

too big

REQUESTS:

gaming + intox kink (headcanons)

billy & frank catch you discovering billy’s toy collection (headcanons)

desperate to help (headcanons)

curtis helps you fall asleep (headcanons)

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thegoodwitchsworld · 2 months ago

Text

SPECIAL CLASSES

Part 1

Pairing -Dark!Professor Steve Rogers x reader, Peter parker x reader

Warnings- heavy age gap, early 20s and early 40s, dub!con, non!con, dark themes.

"So that's it for today class, I hope you guys remember there's another test next Tuesday."

The class groans collectively as your professor Steve announces yet another test. In the last one week itself, you have done so much classwork that it was nearly impossible to keep up with all of it.

And yet, you managed to do it.

You, the best student Steve has, always sitting on the first bench, never missing a single word he says, never being out of line-YOU managed all the extra coursework that Steve gave.

So it really comes as a surprise when he asks you to stay back after class.

"Coming, Y/N?" Natalie asks, picking up her laptop bag as she heads towards the door.

"She'll be joining you later, Ms Thompson. I'm afraid she and I have to talk", Steve says suddenly. Your hand stops midway in packing your own bag, and you turn around to face him, a confused expression on your face.

"Did I...do something wrong sir...?" You ask, your eyebrows scrunched up.

"Don't worry, Ms Y/L/N, it's nothing much. Just some extra stuff to discuss," Steve answers, his arms crossed over his chest as he stands against his desk with his legs crossed. His face has a serious expression.

You nod and wait as the last guy leaves the class, and you're left alone with your teacher. You wait quietly for him to speak first, and when he only stares at you, unblinking, you start to become nervous.

"So," he finally smiles. "Miss Y/l/n, do you have a boyfriend?"

He turns around, his back to you as he leans slightly on his desk.

You're confused as hell. What kind of question is this?

"Answer me, Y/n," Steve repeats. You don't see his face but his voice has hardened a little.

"I-y-yes Professor, I have one...," you manage to whisper.

"So I thought. "

He suddenly turns to you again and bends down in front of you, his palms gripping the sides of your table, his face inches away from yours as he stares at you, his jaw hard. You flinch from his sudden movement but recompose yourself.

"And where exactly, does this boyfriend of yours fit in your life, sweetheart?" He asks, venom dripping from his voice, so much that even you, who's completely clueless usually, can gauge it.

"Wh-what do you mean, professor?" You ask, trying very hard to not get intimidated by his sharp blue eyes, or the way they keep flicking down to your lips.

Steve straightens up slowly, never taking his eyes off you, before he drags a chair and sits down in front of you. He's so close. He shouldn't be so close, right? Or are you just overthinking?

His arms rest on your table.

"I MEAN," He drags the word, "that your boyfriend is not going to help your grades, sweetheart."

"My grades...?" You are genuinely confused now. "My grades seem to be fine, sir... I got As in all 4 tests this week..."

He smirks. "And do you think you deserved them?"

"I-"

But you don't really know what to say, so you stop. Steve looks again at your slightly parted lips.

He softly cups your cheek in his palm before swiping his thumb on your lip.

"Let him go, y/n." He speaks softly.

"Or your grades will not be enough for you to even stay in this college anymore."

Tears well up in your eyes immediately. Your education has always meant everything to you. Everything was always secondary to your grades. Yoh have worked so hard, and for it all to be taken away in a second? Like THis?

"That's not fair, s-sir", you start crying earnestly. "I worked really hard, I promise you Peter is not gonna hurt My grades I swear! Please don't fail me please I- just..."

You cover your face with your hands as you continue to cry and sniffle.

For a moment it's all so silent that you forget Steve is even there at all. So you naturally jump when he speaks again.

"You can save your grades, if you do what I tell you to do." He says.

You look up at him, your eyes wide and your nose red. Your mascara is running slightly.

"What do I have to do?" You ask, your head tilting slightly with the question.

Steve looks at you. He gets up from his chair and walks to the front of the classroom.

"Come here to me, sweetheart," he says.

You slowly get up and walk to him. Suddenly, he grabs your arm and moves you so that you're standing against his desk and he is facing you. His towering height makes you even more nervous, your heart painfully thumping in your chest. The next moment, his hand is at your waist, and he pulls you roughly against his chest. Your eyes widen, your hands coming up to rest on his hard chest to balance yourself. His mouth curves up in a dark, sinister smile.

"Now I'm sure we'll come to an agreement, won't we, sweetheart?"

#chris evans x reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #sub!reader #dark steve rogers #dark!fic #dark!steve rogers #dark!marvel #steve rodgers x reader #steve rodgers imagine #steve x reader #steve fanfic #steve rogers #innocent reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n

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the-queen-of-hell-666 · 7 months ago

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2024 Kinktober Masterlist

I'm so sorry for not posting like at all this year but it's been a very long year. College classes started up again this fall and I'm swamped with work. This is my list for Kinktober this year. I will do my best to keep up but anywho, I hope you enjoy!

Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Key: Fluff; 🌙 // Angst; 👿 // Smut; 🔥 // Dark; 🕸️

Day 1: Deepthroating/Facesitting (Daryl Dixon (Prison Era) x Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 2: Semi-Public Sex (Ransom Drysdale x Nurse!Fem!Reader)🔥

Day 3: Knotting (Alpha!Jim Hopper x Assistant!Omega!Fem!Reader)🌙🔥

Day 4: Phone Sex (John Winchester x Hunter!Fem!Reader)🌙🔥

Day 5: Squirting (Obsessive!Perv!Billy Hargrove x Bimbo!Fem!Reader) 🔥

Day 6: Cuckolding (Shy!Jake Jensen x FemmeFatal!Fem!Reader x Franklin Clay) 🌙🔥

Day 7: Biting/Marking (Possessive!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 8: Morning Sex (CACW!Steve Rogers x Avenger!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 9: Praise Kink (Insecure!Geralt of Rivia x Healer!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 10: Mommy Kink (Needy!Johnny Storm (CE) x Mommy!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥👿

Day 11: Caught (Daryl Dixon (Prison Era) x Fem!Reader) 🔥

Day 12: Sex Toys (Lawyer!Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 13: Virginity Kink (Professor!Logan Howlett x Virgin!Mutant!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 14: Shotgunning (Needy!Ransom Drysdale x Nurse!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 15: Tentacles (Part-Kraken!Steve Rogers x Princess!Fem!Reader) 🕸️🔥

Day 16: Spanking (Johnny Storm (CE) x Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 17: Breeding (Wolf-Hybrid!Geralt of Rivia x Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 18: Tittyfucking (Wade Wilson x Plus-Sized!X-Men!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 19: Hate Sex (Erik Lehnsherr x X-Men!Fem!Reader) 👿🌙🔥

Day 20: Edging (Young!Logan Howlett (X-Men1) x Professor!Mutant!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 21: Dub-con/Non-con (Dark!Lloyd Hansen x Innocent!Fem!Reader) 🕸️👿🔥

Day 22: Stripping (CEO!Nick Fowler x Stripper!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 23: Anal Sex (Dark!Steve Kemp x Innocent!Fem!Reader) 🕸️👿🔥

Day 24: Pegging (Brat!Wade Wilson x Mean!Dom!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 25: Lactation (Dad!Steve Rogers x Mom!Pregnant!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 26: Age Difference (Older!Daryl Dixon (Alexandria Era) x 20s!Sunshine!Fem!Reader) 🌙🔥

Day 27: Gagging (Mob!Bucky Barnes x Bimbo!Fem!Reader)

Day 28: DP in One Hole (CEO!Married!Stucky x Assistant!Fem!Reader)

Day 29: Gloryhole (Jim Hopper x Fem!Reader)

Day 30: Panty Raid/Panty Kink (Shy!Perv!Jake Jensen x Slight!Perv!Fem!Reader)

Day 31: Videoing (Camboy!Eddie Munson x Girlfriend!Fem!Reader)

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amethystarachnid · 2 days ago

Note

Since you told me to write this in the ask box, i think this is it. Bucky x fem reader harry potter AU? Also i didn’t know you were still updating your writing is so incredible. Thanks!

TOURNAMENT

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff, a little angst

ᯓ★ Word count: 9k

ᯓ★ Summary: Bucky Barnes never thought getting picked by the Goblet of Fire would win him more than eternal glory — like, say, a Hufflepuff girl who smells exactly like his favorite love potion.

ᯓ★ TW(s): Bucky loses his arm in the last task of the tournament so injury, limb loss, recovery/rehabilitation, self-worth struggles, light angst, tournament-related danger, mild blood mentions

ᯓ★ guys oh my god, thank you so much for 700 followers!! I love you all so much <33 I want to do something to celebrate, like my usual requests games and stuff like that, but I really dont have any idea, was thinking something like blind trope choosing (want me to elaborate this more?) but Idk if you would like it, so my lovelies if you have any idea don't be shy and suggest it in the comments or in the ask box!! love you xoxo

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The Great Hall hums with excitement. Golden plates shine under floating candles, and the enchanted ceiling above reflects the stormy sky outside. You sit with your fellow Hufflepuffs, hands wrapped around a warm mug of pumpkin juice, trying not to glance over at the Gryffindor table again.

But you do. Of course you do.

There he is.

Bucky Barnes, messy dark hair falling into his eyes, robes slightly crooked like he threw them on while running late. He always looks like he just stepped out of trouble, and you’ve heard enough stories to know that’s probably true. He’s laughing at something Steve Rogers said, pushing him lightly with his shoulder. The rest of their little crew—Sam, Nat, and Clint—are there too, all decked in Gryffindor red and gold, shining brighter than the candles above them.

You’ve never really talked to him, not properly. Maybe exchanged a few words during Herbology when Professor Sprout paired your groups together for a cross-house project. But he’s always looked at you like he wants to say more. And maybe you do too.

There’s a buzz running through the entire school tonight. Even the professors are struggling to keep their usual stern expressions. The Goblet of Fire ceremony is about to start. You’ve seen the older students whispering and speculating for days now—who will be chosen, who might enter, who’s foolish enough to think they’ll survive.

Your best friend nudges you from the side. “You think they’ll pick someone from Hufflepuff?” she whispers, eyes gleaming.

You smile, sipping your juice. “We can hope. But you know how it goes.”

She groans, half-laughing. “Don’t say that. We’re not that underrated.”

But your gaze drifts again, instinctively, back to Bucky. And for a fleeting second, he’s already looking your way. You blink. He doesn’t look away.

The Hall goes quiet as Dumbledore steps forward, arms raised in a welcoming gesture. His long silver beard nearly brushes the hem of his robes, and his eyes twinkle as they sweep across the rows of students.

“Welcome, one and all,” he begins, voice warm. “Tonight marks the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament, a tradition that has united magical schools across Europe for centuries.”

You try to focus. Really, you do. But the way Bucky’s jaw tightens when he listens, the way his hand drums lightly against the table—he’s nervous. Or excited. Or both.

The Goblet of Fire sits atop its pedestal now, flickering blue flames dancing from the rim. It looks alive, like it’s waiting, hungering. Students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons watch it with quiet awe. Their uniforms are immaculate, their posture proud. You’ve caught glimpses of them around the castle the past few days—foreign magic practically clinging to them like perfume.

“There will be three champions,” Dumbledore continues. “Each chosen by the Goblet to represent their school in a series of dangerous—yet noble—tasks. A test of courage, intellect, and heart.”

You whisper to your friend, “You think anyone from our year entered?”

She shrugs. “Probably someone from Gryffindor. They’re all obsessed with glory.”

Across the room, Bucky leans forward, lips pressed into a thin line.

He did it. You don’t even need to ask. You can feel it.

One by one, names are called. First, a boy from Durmstrang, tall and broad-shouldered, with a scowl that seems carved into his face. He walks up to the front as his school claps, restrained but proud. He barely nods at the applause.

Then a girl from Beauxbatons, with silver-blonde hair tied in a ribbon, strides forward as though gliding. The entire hall watches her with admiration.

Now it’s time for Hogwarts.

You can hear your heart pounding in your ears.

The flames turn red. Sparks shoot out.

A tiny slip of parchment bursts upward, floating gently into Dumbledore’s hand. He reads it. And then:

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

Silence.

It feels like the whole world holds its breath.

And then the Gryffindor table explodes in noise—cheers, hollers, people pounding the table. Sam whoops the loudest. Steve claps him on the back. Bucky doesn’t move.

You can see it. He’s frozen. His face is a mix of shock and disbelief, like he hadn’t thought the Goblet would actually choose him.

He stands slowly.

Your chest feels tight.

He looks around the hall. His eyes pass over the crowd—past professors, students, even his friends. And then, for the briefest second, they land on you.

It’s not your imagination. He really sees you.

And then he walks.

The applause follows him as he moves toward the front, each step measured, like he’s trying to convince himself this is real.

You realize you haven’t taken a breath.

He disappears behind the door that leads to the champions’ chamber.

Your friend grabs your arm. “Can you believe it?”

You can’t speak.

Because somewhere deep in your chest, something shifts. Not just fear, or nerves, or surprise. Something else.

---

The excitement from the Goblet’s selection doesn’t die down for days.

It weaves itself into every conversation, every whispered exchange in the corridors, every scribbled note passed behind textbooks. Bucky’s name is on everyone’s lips, and you start hearing it so often it begins to sound strange. Detached. Like it doesn’t belong to a real person. But he is—he’s as real as the glance he gave you before walking into the champions’ room.

It’s weird, seeing someone you’ve known from a distance suddenly become a school icon. Not that Bucky wasn’t already well-liked, but this is different. Professors stop him in the hallway. Younger students trail behind him like shadows. Some girls—Ravenclaws mostly—have started smiling extra brightly when he passes.

And then, one evening during dinner, Dumbledore stands again.

You’re mid-bite into a slice of roast pumpkin when the room quiets around him. You set your fork down.

“A moment of your attention, if I may,” he says, smiling with that twinkle in his eye that means something good is coming. “As you know, the Yule Ball is a tradition long associated with the Triwizard Tournament. A chance for celebration, unity, and, dare I say, a bit of mischief.”

Laughter ripples through the hall.

“The ball will take place on the night of the twenty-fifth of December. It is, of course, a formal event. Dress robes will be required, and dancing is encouraged… though not, I assure you, mandatory.”

He pauses as more laughter echoes through the room.

“And as tradition states, each of the champions will open the ball with a dance—accompanied by a partner of their choosing.”

There it is.

The sentence that changes everything.

Immediately, all eyes flick toward the champions. The Durmstrang boy looks unfazed. The Beauxbatons girl tilts her chin higher, already receiving several interested glances. And then there’s Bucky—staring down at his plate like he’s suddenly trying to disappear into it.

You don’t look at him.

You absolutely don’t.

Okay, you do.

Just a little.

Your friend leans in so fast you nearly knock heads. “He’s going to ask someone. Of course he is.”

You swallow hard. “Yeah, probably.”

“Who do you think he’ll pick? Maybe that sixth-year Ravenclaw, the one who keeps complimenting his hair?”

“She compliments everyone’s hair.”

“She’s nice!”

“She’s strategic.”

Your friend eyes you for a second, her gaze narrowing. “Wait a second. Do you want him to ask you?”

“What? No.” You grab your goblet and drink way too fast. “I don’t—why would I even—no.”

“You didn’t say it very convincingly.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just curious.”

She smirks. “So’s the rest of the school.”

And she’s right. Because the next few days feel like a contest of who can get Bucky’s attention the longest. Girls linger by the Gryffindor table. Even some boys have been working up the courage. It’s not just about who he’ll ask. It’s about being asked.

You try not to think about it.

Which works, right up until Thursday afternoon, when Potions becomes far more eventful than usual.

Professor Slughorn walks in with his usual flair, rubbing his hands together like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to share.

“Today, my dear students, we will be brewing something a little… fragrant.”

You’re already half-bored, jotting the date in your notebook, when he continues.

“Amortentia.”

That gets your attention.

There’s a collective hush.

The love potion.

“The most powerful potion of its kind,” Slughorn says, clearly delighted by the reaction. “It smells different to each of us—according to what attracts us most. A dangerous little brew, to be handled with care.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks.

“And,” he says, smiling broadly now, “you’ll be working in pairs.”

Here we go.

You sit up straighter, already bracing to be paired with someone tolerable. Slughorn starts assigning names, moving across the room quickly, and you listen with half an ear.

“Miss Coles with Mr. Avery… Miss Greene with Mr. York… ah, Miss Y/L/N with—”

Please not someone awful.

“Mr. Barnes.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“James Barnes,” Slughorn repeats, peering at his parchment. “He’ll need a capable partner, I think. And you’ve always done fine work, Miss Y/L/N.”

You look across the room—and sure enough, Bucky is already standing, slinging his bag over one shoulder as he starts heading your way.

Great. Just great.

You try not to look like you’re panicking.

He drops into the seat beside you, setting his ingredients down with a quiet sigh. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

He glances over at you, eyes calm and a little curious. “Guess we’re partners.”

“Guess so.”

A moment of awkward silence stretches between you.

“Are you good at Potions?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “Are you not?”

He gives you a sheepish grin. “I’m better at stuff that explodes.”

“That’s encouraging.”

He laughs softly, and it’s surprisingly warm. “Don’t worry. I’ll follow your lead. You won’t even know I’m here.”

You raise a brow. “That’s unlikely.”

But it’s not tense. Not weird. Surprisingly, not even awkward. The space between you starts to feel easy, like the sharp edge of formality has melted just a little.

You start gathering the ingredients. “Okay, Amortentia,” you murmur. “Pearl dust, rose thorns, mint leaf, crushed moonstone—”

“You memorize these?”

You shrug. “I like structure.”

He nods. “That makes sense.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Does that mean I seem like someone who likes structure?”

He grins. “You seem like someone who knows what they’re doing.”

That catches you off guard.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “What about you? What do you smell in the potion?”

He blinks. “It’s not done yet.”

“Yeah, but just wondering. What do you think you’ll smell?”

He leans back, looking thoughtful. “Maybe leather. And pine. I dunno. Something old, like the Gryffindor common room.”

You nod. “Sounds cozy.”

“What about you?”

You pretend to focus on stirring. “Not sure.”

“Come on. You’ve thought about it.”

“Fine. Freshly baked bread. Books. That smell after it rains.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s… nice.”

You glance up. He’s watching you again.

It’s not a flirty look. Not like the ones people keep throwing at him lately. It’s something softer.

“Did you really put your name in the Goblet?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He snorts. “Is that what everyone’s saying?”

��Just wondering.”

He exhales, fingers tapping the side of the cauldron. “Yeah. I put my name in.”

You’re surprised. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Felt like I had something to prove, I guess.”

“To who?”

He looks at you. “Myself, mostly.”

That answer lands somewhere deep in your chest.

“You know you don’t have to prove anything,” you say before thinking.

He watches you for a second longer. “Not to everyone.”

The potion bubbles gently. A pale mist curls upward, and a sweet, sharp scent hits your nose.

Bread. Books. Rain.

And something else.

You freeze.

“What is it?” he asks, leaning in.

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He breathes in, frowning a little. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“I smell… spearmint. And cinnamon. And…” He hesitates. “Something I can’t place.”

“Maybe it’s a bad sign,” you tease. “Unplaceable mystery.”

“Could be worse,” he says. “Could smell like burnt toast.”

You laugh, more loudly than you mean to, and a few students glance your way. You don’t care.

“You’re not as bad at Potions as you think,” you say, nudging him gently. “This is decent.”

He grins. “It’s because I have an excellent partner.”

“Flattery won’t improve your grade.”

“Worth a shot.”

The rest of the class goes faster than usual. You forget to be tense. You forget that he’s Bucky Barnes, Hogwarts champion and everyone’s favorite Gryffindor. Right now, he’s just a boy with inky smudges on his sleeve and a crooked smile, leaning too close over a cauldron that smells like secrets.

When class ends, you start packing your things, trying not to rush.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, before you can stand.

You look at him. “Yeah?”

“I, uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “If I haven’t asked anyone to the ball yet, does that make me slow or considerate?”

You blink. “Um… considerate?”

He smiles, half-shy. “Good. Just checking.”

And then he grabs his bag and walks out of the room, leaving you blinking after him with your heart thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

You sit there for a moment longer, dazed, while the last of the potion simmers quietly behind you.

---

You don’t think about the Amortentia potion after class.

Except… you do. Constantly.

It’s not like you meant to analyze it. It’s just that the scent lingers in your memory, as real as if it followed you out of the dungeon and into your dreams. You remember the smell of fresh bread, yes, and rain. But it was the last note that unsettled you—the one you couldn’t place. Warm and a little woodsy. A little like—

You pause mid-step in the library two days later.

No. No, it can’t be.

You shake your head and keep walking, heart tapping nervously against your ribs.

It’s a coincidence. You’re overthinking it.

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor common room, Bucky leans back in a worn red armchair and stares at the fire.

He’s been doing that a lot lately.

Sam tosses a throw pillow at his face. “If you sigh one more time, I’m pushing you out a window.”

Bucky shoves the pillow aside. “I’m not sighing.”

“Bro, you’ve sighed like—ten times in the last five minutes. What’s going on?”

Steve looks up from his Charms essay. “Still haven’t asked anyone to the ball?”

Bucky groans and drops his head back dramatically. “It’s not that simple.”

Nat, curled up on the rug nearby, doesn’t even look up from her book. “You’re a champion. You could ask literally anyone and they’d say yes.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem.”

They all pause.

Clint, from where he’s upside down on the couch, says, “Wait… do you like someone?”

There’s a silence too sharp to ignore.

Then Bucky mumbles, “Maybe.”

Sam leans forward with a gleam in his eye. “Who?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. His mind is full of Amortentia again—mint, cinnamon, that something he couldn’t quite name until two nights ago.

He was walking through the Hufflepuff hallway after hours—definitely not allowed—when he smelled it again. That exact scent. Light, warm, comforting.

You’d passed by him without noticing, tugging your scarf tighter against your neck. And the moment you did, the air shifted.

You smelled like Amortentia.

And that’s when he knew.

Things between you and Bucky don’t change overnight. You still see him in class. Still sit near each other during Potions. You’ve had a few casual conversations in the corridor—one about broomstick charms, another about how bad the new History of Magic sub was at staying awake during his own lectures.

Normal. Easy.

But the awareness is there now. Every time he laughs. Every time he nudges your elbow with his when he makes a joke. Every time his eyes find yours across the Great Hall.

You can’t help but wonder if he knows. If he figured it out too.

Because you figured it out. Eventually.

After one accidental brush of your shoulder against his during a group meeting for Herbology, the scent hit you so clearly it made your head spin.

Leather. Cinnamon. Something calm and steady that you hadn’t recognized in the potion—but now you do.

Bucky.

You’re still processing that when the rumors start to fly.

One by one, the champions start pairing up.

Yelena, the Beauxbatons girl, accepts a date from a quiet Ravenclaw girl. Everyone cheers. The Durmstrang boy—Nikolai, you think—nods solemnly when a Slytherin sixth year asks him. There’s even a rumor he bowed before saying yes.

But Bucky?

Still unclaimed.

Which only makes the speculation worse.

You can’t walk ten feet down a hallway without overhearing something.

“Did you see the way Marla flirted with him?”

“I heard he turned down three people yesterday.”

“He’s just being picky. He wants the perfect partner.”

“Or he’s already asked someone in secret.”

You want to scream.

And part of you thinks: maybe he already knows you’d say no.

That afternoon, Professor McGonagall interrupts Transfiguration with her usual stern efficiency.

“Champions,” she says crisply, “will begin dance rehearsals starting tomorrow evening. As such, partners must be confirmed today. Non-negotiable.”

Bucky groans under his breath, loud enough that a few students near him chuckle.

You try not to look over at him.

You fail.

He’s staring blankly at his parchment like it personally offended him.

After class, you stay behind to ask McGonagall a question about the homework. When you finally walk out into the corridor, it’s mostly empty.

Except for him.

Leaning against the wall. Waiting.

You stop short. “Oh. Hi.”

He stands a little straighter. “Hey.”

You’re about to walk past when he clears his throat.

“I was… wondering. If you’re not already going with someone. And if you wanted to. Maybe—would you be my partner for the Yule Ball?”

It comes out in a rush, all one breath.

You stare at him.

He stares back, bracing for a crash.

And you smile.

“Yeah,” you say, soft and certain. “I’d love to.”

Relief floods his face. He actually lets out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, thank god. I was starting to think I’d have to ask one of the portraits.”

“They probably wouldn’t have had feet.”

“I know. Disaster.”

You laugh, and something clicks into place between you.

That was the last wall.

Dance rehearsals start the next evening.

Professor McGonagall doesn’t take it easy on anyone.

“I expect grace,” she says, “and not just from the Beauxbatons. This is a formal event, not a barnyard gathering.”

You’re in the Great Hall, all the tables pushed to the sides, the champions and their partners lined up in pairs.

You and Bucky take your spot, your fingers sliding into his easily.

He blinks. “Wow. You’re warm.”

You smirk. “And you’re late.”

“You’ve been waiting to say that, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.”

He squeezes your hand, gentle. “Alright. Don’t laugh if I step on your toes.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Okay, maybe.”

But he doesn’t.

He moves with surprising fluidity, each step catching rhythm easily. You match him without thinking. One, two, turn, step, slide. Again. Again.

Professor McGonagall claps once. “That’s it. Keep going.”

Bucky leans in slightly. “So… you’re good at this.”

You shrug. “I like it.”

“Learned it here?”

“Some.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening. Then you lower your voice. “I’m a half-blood.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“My mum’s a witch. Dad’s a Muggle. When I’m not at Hogwarts, I take dance classes in the mortal world. It’s our thing.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, then smiles. “That’s… honestly kind of adorable.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Adorable?”

“In a cool way.”

You spin without breaking stride. “Right.”

He laughs. “I’m serious. I think it’s cool. I never got to do anything like that growing up.”

You glance at him. “Didn’t your family…?”

He shakes his head. “No family. Grew up in the system until I got my letter. Hogwarts was the first real place I belonged.”

Something in your chest aches a little. “I’m glad you found it.”

He looks at you, something soft in his eyes. “Me too.”

You finish the dance and fall still, hands still clasped.

You’re close. Closer than you meant to be. You could count his eyelashes if you wanted.

But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

“Again,” McGonagall calls, and the spell breaks.

You start moving again, but everything feels different now. Lighter. Easier.

There’s a heat in your cheeks you know has nothing to do with the room.

The rehearsals continue every evening.

You fall into a rhythm.

Dance, laugh, tease, spin.

Every night, Bucky walks you partway back to the Hufflepuff dorms, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted toward yours.

You talk about everything. Music. Spells. The time he accidentally set a broom on fire in third year. The way you once got stuck in a trick stair for an hour and had to bribe Peeves with candy to get out.

And through it all, there’s a thread between you—light but strong.

You don’t tug on it.

Not yet.

But it’s there.

Waiting.

---

The morning of the first task breaks colder than expected.

Gray clouds roll low across the sky, and frost clings to the grass even though the sun is struggling to rise. You wake earlier than you mean to. Your stomach is a knot, twisted and tight, even though you’re not the one about to fight Merlin-knows-what in front of the entire school.

Still, you feel it. The tension, the nerves, the anxious flutter that hasn’t left you since Dumbledore reminded everyone two nights ago that the first task was “not intended to be lethal… but do take care, champions.”

You glance at your window.

You wonder if he’s awake.

You don’t see him at breakfast, and the knot in your stomach only tightens. Even your usual plate of toast and jam sits mostly untouched as the Great Hall buzzes with energy. Everyone's talking about the task—what it could be, how dangerous it might get, who they think will win. The Durmstrang champion is already a favorite, all fire and muscle and practiced scowls.

No one really knows what Bucky’s capable of.

Except maybe you.

“He’s probably nervous,” your friend says between bites. “You’d think they’d at least tell them what they’re facing. It’s practically cruelty.”

You nod absently, eyes scanning the Gryffindor table.

No sign of him.

He’s probably being briefed right now. Or maybe he’s pacing somewhere, doing that thing where he runs a hand through his hair like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

You’ve seen him do that.

You’ve memorized it without meaning to.

You leave early, barely touching your food. Your boots crunch over frost as you join the rest of the school making their way down to the viewing stands. A massive enclosure has been built overnight on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, tall and lined with magically reinforced barriers. There are flags fluttering in the cold breeze—red and gold, blue and silver, black and yellow, green and silver—all arranged in rows across the stands.

You sit near the middle with your year, but your eyes don’t leave the entrance arch where the champions are supposed to emerge.

Every few seconds, you rub your hands together. Not because of the cold. Because your palms won’t stop sweating.

Dumbledore’s voice rises through a spell-enhanced charm, echoing across the enclosure.

“Welcome, everyone, to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament! Our champions have been told only one thing in advance: they must retrieve a golden egg placed at the center of the arena. How they do so is up to them.”

You lean forward.

The wind shifts.

A low, terrible growl rumbles from somewhere behind the stands.

You barely register it, already too focused on the shape stepping out into the arena.

Bucky.

He looks taller than usual in his champion robes—deep red, with gold stitching along the collar. His hair is half-tied back, his wand held loosely in his right hand. He walks with that slow, careful confidence he always has, like he’s calculating everything around him in quiet increments.

You grip the edge of the railing in front of you.

And then the dragon arrives.

You don’t breathe.

It’s a Hungarian Horntail, smaller than some, but still towering. Black scales, horns like jagged spears, wings that unfold like the gates of hell.

Bucky stops.

He looks up.

Then he moves.

There’s no hesitation in the way he sprints for the boulder beside him, throwing up a shield charm just as fire blazes across the space where he stood. The crowd gasps. You choke on yours.

But he’s okay. You can see him, crouched low behind the stone, wand raised.

He’s fast. Not flashy, but precise. Every spell is clean. A gust of wind knocks the dragon’s fire off-course. A blinding flash dazzles it temporarily. He throws up a decoy with some clever illusion charm, forcing the Horntail to turn while he bolts in the opposite direction.

Your hands ache from how tightly you’re clenching them.

He gets closer. Dodges another jet of flame. Leaps across a break in the rocks.

You almost scream when the dragon’s tail swings and clips his side, but he rolls with the impact and comes up running.

And then—somehow—he’s got the egg.

A loud, ringing chime signals the task’s completion.

You barely notice the way the crowd erupts. You don’t care about the thunderous applause or the cheering students.

All you see is Bucky, breathing hard, arm bleeding lightly, but grinning as he clutches the egg to his chest.

He did it.

You stay in your seat long after the other students begin filing out, chattering excitedly. You tell your friends to go ahead without you, pretending you’re just catching your breath.

But really, you’re stalling.

You want to see him. You need to. But your legs won’t move.

Because what would you even say?

That you were scared for him? That your heart’s been doing somersaults since the moment he stepped into the arena?

It’s stupid. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re barely his friend. You’re just a girl who smells like bread and rain and stood too close to him in Potions once.

But when you see him later—alone, slipping through a side corridor near the medical wing—you don’t think.

You just run.

He turns at the sound of your steps, and before you can second-guess yourself, your arms are around his middle, tight, grounding, a little desperate.

He stiffens in surprise—but only for a second.

Then he melts.

His arms wrap around you, firm and warm and slightly trembling. “Hey,” he says, voice low and tired. “I’m okay.”

You press your forehead against his chest, eyes shut. “You could’ve died.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Would’ve made the rest of the tournament easier, huh?”

You swat at his shoulder, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Don’t joke.”

He winces. “Sorry.”

Your hands move on instinct—reaching for his arms, checking for bruises, brushing the hem of his sleeve up where the tail hit him. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

His voice softens. “You were worried?”

You look at him, really look at him, and nod. “Of course I was.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes flicking between yours.

Then he smiles—small, shy, and entirely too soft for someone who just faced a dragon.

“No one’s ever hugged me like that before,” he says.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Like you were gonna knock me over if I didn’t hold on.”

You feel your cheeks heat. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His hand grazes your wrist. “I liked it.”

Silence stretches between you again.

You realize you haven’t stepped back.

He hasn’t either.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you whisper.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ve got good reasons to come back.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like what?”

He hesitates.

Then smiles again, even softer. “Like you.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

Your fingers are still brushing over the scrape on his arm. He doesn’t stop you. You’re close enough now to smell the lingering smoke in his robes, but beneath it—there’s that other scent.

Warmth. Mint. Bucky.

You want to kiss him.

You don’t.

But you do stay there for a long time, tracing the lines of someone who made it back in one piece, holding him just a little longer than necessary.

Just in case the next time… he doesn’t.

---

You’ve been ready for ten minutes, but you still can’t bring yourself to leave the dormitory.

The mirror in front of you is fogged a little from all the enchanted hair charms buzzing through the room. Around you, other girls adjust their gowns, re-clip earrings, reapply gloss with nervous hands. Everyone is excited.

You are too.

But also—your stomach is full of butterflies.

Not nerves. Not really.

More like… anticipation.

You smooth your hands down the front of your dress. The fabric is soft and warm against your palms—light golden, like candlelight, with threads of silver that shimmer faintly when you move. Not showy. Not loud.

Just enough to feel beautiful.

You take one last breath and step away from the mirror.

The Great Hall has never looked like this before.

Every wall glows with floating icicles, glittering in soft blue light. The ceiling is enchanted to reflect a snowfall that never touches the ground. Round tables replace the usual house benches, and in the center of the floor, an open space waits beneath a chandelier that pulses like a heartbeat.

You step into the entryway and scan the crowd. Most students are already inside. The champions are gathering at the front for the opening ceremony. You can see Yelena laughing at something Nikolai said. Both of them look entirely comfortable, even in their formal robes.

And then there’s Bucky.

You spot him near the front, standing just outside the ballroom with his back to the wall, one hand loosely tugging at the collar of his jacket.

He looks up.

Sees you.

And freezes.

It’s not dramatic—not a gasp or a wide-eyed cartoon stare—but it’s real. His posture changes. His shoulders drop slightly, his fingers stop moving, and his mouth parts like he might say something.

Then he doesn’t.

He just stares.

You walk over.

“Hey,” you say.

He blinks. “Hi.”

His voice is rough.

You smile nervously. “You clean up well.”

His eyes move over your dress again before they meet yours. “You look…”

He stops, swallows, and tries again.

“You look perfect.”

Your heart flutters. “Thanks.”

He fumbles with the sleeve of his robe. “I didn’t know if you’d go for gold or like, the classic soft pink or something. But this—this is exactly you.”

You blink. “You were trying to guess what I’d wear?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”

You laugh under your breath. “And did you guess right?”

“No,” he says honestly. “But I wish I had.”

McGonagall calls for the champions and their partners. The opening dance is moments away.

Bucky offers you his hand.

You take it.

The floor is colder than expected under your shoes, but his palm is warm in yours, steady as you move into position. The music begins, soft and lilting.

You step together.

You’ve danced with him before, but this feels different.

There’s an audience now. Magic in the air. You can feel the pressure in the silence around you, broken only by music and the rhythmic sound of your shoes on stone.

But Bucky doesn’t seem to care about any of that.

He’s focused on you.

Every step is smooth, every turn easy, as if you’ve been dancing together forever.

He leans close.

“You nervous?” he murmurs.

“A little,” you admit.

He smiles. “You don’t look it.”

The corners of your mouth lift.

You glance around the room and catch more than a few eyes watching you both. You’re not used to that kind of attention. Not like he is.

But you don’t feel uncomfortable.

Not with him.

You glide through the final turn and end the dance in perfect sync, breathless from movement and something else entirely.

When the applause begins, you drop your hands and step back.

But Bucky doesn’t move far.

His fingers graze yours once before falling away.

“You’re good at this,” he says softly.

“So are you.”

“Must be the partner.”

You smile, cheeks warm.

The rest of the night unfolds in slow, shimmering moments.

Dinner is served in waves of golden plates and charmed goblets. You sit beside him, and every so often, your knees bump under the table. Neither of you moves away. Conversation drifts around you, but it feels like a bubble, just the two of you inside it.

He leans in to make a joke about Steve’s terrible attempt at dancing with Nat. You tease him for nearly tripping during the opening spin. He laughs.

You forget about the frost outside.

Eventually, the music swells again, and students flood the dance floor. Bucky glances at you with an unspoken question.

You nod.

He offers you his hand again.

You spend hours moving across the floor. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Sometimes you both mess up and laugh and stumble and don’t care who’s watching.

It’s the easiest thing in the world.

At some point, the crowd thins.

People begin slipping out toward the gardens, toward quiet corridors, toward little pockets of privacy.

You don’t even think about it before you follow the shift.

You and Bucky step out into the courtyard, where snow crunches gently underfoot and the moonlight paints everything silver.

The air is cold, but your body feels too warm to notice.

Bucky’s coat is loose around his shoulders now, hands stuffed in his pockets. You walk beside him in silence for a minute.

“I thought I’d be more nervous tonight,” he says eventually.

You glance at him. “You weren’t?”

He shakes his head. “Not after I saw you.”

You pretend to focus on the garden lights flickering between snow-covered hedges.

He stops walking.

You turn.

There’s that look again—the one he gave you before the task. The one that says he’s trying not to overstep but also can’t look away from you.

Your breath clouds between you.

“I’m glad I asked you,” he says.

“I’m glad you did too.”

You both hesitate.

It’s so quiet out here. Even the music sounds distant now, a faint echo behind the frost.

You take a half-step closer, like your feet decided before your head caught up.

Bucky mirrors it.

You speak before you lose the nerve. “That night after the first task…”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You exhale. “I meant what I said. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I can promise I’ll try to come back to you.”

The words settle in your chest.

He swallows. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t wanna mess it up.”

“You’re not,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to your lips.

Yours do the same.

Neither of you leans in.

You just drift.

And then—

It happens.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of you. Maybe neither. It’s not planned, it’s not dramatic, and it’s not even a proper kiss at first.

Just a brush.

A quiet collision of mouths.

A surprised inhale.

Then another press—this one fuller, warmer, more real.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You kiss him like you’re not entirely sure this is happening, but you don’t want it to stop.

When you part, barely, your foreheads rest together.

Bucky breathes out a soft laugh.

You smile against his cheek. “That was…”

“Accidental,” he finishes.

“Yeah,” you say.

Neither of you moves away.

Neither of you wants to.

“Do you think we’ll ‘accidentally’ do it again?” he asks.

You grin. “Definitely.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s not an accident at all.

---

The weeks following the Yule Ball are a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered conversations.

You and Bucky never officially define whatever it is that's blossomed between you, but neither of you seems to mind. There's an unspoken understanding: with the tournament's dangers looming, labeling your relationship feels both unnecessary and daunting. Instead, you focus on the present, cherishing each interaction as if it might be your last.

Between classes, Bucky finds ways to be near you. Despite being in different houses, he manages to intercept you in the corridors, always with that signature smirk playing on his lips.

One afternoon, as you're heading to the library, he appears beside you, matching your stride. "Fancy meeting you here," he teases.

You roll your eyes but can't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "It's almost like you're stalking me, Barnes."

He feigns innocence. "Me? Never. Just happened to be going this way."

You both know it's a lie, but neither of you cares.

As the days pass, these encounters become more frequent. He'll brush his fingers against yours when no one's looking, or tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear during study sessions. Each touch sends shivers down your spine, leaving you yearning for more.

One evening, he surprises you with an impromptu "date." After dinner, he pulls you aside, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Come with me," he whispers, leading you through the castle's winding corridors.

You follow without question, curiosity piqued. Eventually, you arrive at the Astronomy Tower. The view is breathtaking: the vast expanse of the night sky dotted with stars, the Forbidden Forest stretching out below.

Bucky spreads out a blanket he'd apparently stashed there earlier and gestures for you to sit. Producing a small basket, he reveals an assortment of pastries and a flask of hot cocoa.

"Thought we could use a break from all the madness," he says softly.

Your heart swells. "This is perfect. Thank you."

You spend hours talking about everything and nothing, wrapped in each other's warmth against the chilly night air. It's moments like these that make you forget the looming dangers of the tournament.

But reality has a way of intruding.

The Second Task approaches faster than either of you would like. The night before, you find yourselves in the library, poring over books in search of any clue about what Bucky might face.

"I'm worried," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

He reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. "I'll be okay. I have to be."

You nod, but the knot in your stomach remains.

The morning of the task dawns cold and gray. The Black Lake is shrouded in mist, its surface eerily still. Students gather along the shore, anticipation and anxiety palpable in the air.

You stand with your friends, eyes never leaving Bucky as he prepares to dive into the unknown depths. He catches your gaze and offers a reassuring smile, but you see the tension in his posture.

A whistle blows, signaling the start. The champions plunge into the lake, disappearing beneath its dark surface.

Time seems to stretch endlessly. You watch the clock, each tick amplifying your anxiety. Minutes pass. Then half an hour. Then forty-five minutes.

The first champion emerges, gasping for air and clutching their "treasure." Then the second. But there's no sign of Bucky.

Your nails dig into your palms, heart pounding painfully against your ribs.

Finally, just as the hour mark approaches, there's a disturbance in the water. Bucky breaks the surface, dragging himself onto the shore. He's visibly shaken, clothes torn, a gash bleeding freely on his forehead.

Relief floods you, but it's short-lived as you take in his condition.

He stumbles slightly, and without thinking, you rush to his side, heedless of the spectators.

"Bucky!" Your voice trembles with emotion.

He looks up, surprise flickering in his eyes before being replaced by exhaustion. "Hey," he murmurs, attempting a weak smile.

You don't hesitate, wrapping your arms around him, holding him as if to anchor him to reality.

"You're okay," you whisper, more to convince yourself than anything.

He leans into you, drawing strength from your presence. "Barely."

Pulling back slightly, you cup his face, thumb brushing over the cut on his forehead. "What happened?"

His eyes darken with the memory. "Grindylows. Swarmed me as I was trying to get back. Thought I was done for."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "But you fought them off."

He nods. "Had to. Couldn't break my promise to you."

Emotion chokes you, and you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Don't scare me like that again."

He chuckles softly, wincing at the movement. "I'll try."

The medics arrive, ushering him away for treatment. You reluctantly let him go, but not before squeezing his hand one last time.

As he walks away, he glances back over his shoulder. "Meet me later?"

You nod, a small smile breaking through the tears. "Always."

The tournament continues to test both of you, but in these moments, you find solace in each other, holding on to the hope that when it's all over, you'll finally have the chance to define what you mean to one another.

---

That night, after the second task, you don’t sleep.

You sit in the Hufflepuff common room, curled up in the corner of one of the armchairs closest to the fire, your legs tucked beneath you, your thoughts nowhere near still. The embers crackle softly, shadows dancing along the walls, but the only image that stays in your mind is Bucky—shivering, bloodied, soaked, and still managing to smile at you.

You keep replaying the way he looked when he stumbled out of the lake. How pale he was. How he leaned on you a little too heavily when you rushed to him. How his voice shook, even though he tried to make it sound light. He was scared. You saw it in his eyes.

And so were you.

It's well past curfew when the knock comes on the window. Soft, almost hesitant.

You blink, sit up, and glance around the dim room. Everyone else is asleep or in their dorms. You rise quietly and open the window just a crack.

Bucky stands outside, still damp, hair mussed and a hoodie slung over his shoulders. There’s a healing charm wrapped around his wrist, barely visible under the sleeve. His eyes are tired.

You open the window wider and let him climb through.

“Hi,” he says, voice low.

You don’t answer at first. You just look at him. Then you walk straight into his chest and wrap your arms around him tightly.

He holds you back with equal strength, pressing his face into your hair, breathing you in like he hasn’t had a moment to feel safe since before the task.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

“You almost weren’t.”

“I know.”

You hold on for a while longer.

Eventually, he shifts, and you both sink onto the big sofa by the fire. He stretches out, and you curl against his side, your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around you. Your fingers play absently with the edge of his hoodie.

You lie like that for a long time.

Not talking. Just breathing.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper at some point.

He turns his head, his lips brushing the top of your hair. “I told you I’d come back.”

You nod against his chest, eyes burning. “Don’t ever make me watch something like that again.”

He doesn’t promise this time.

He just holds you closer.

Days pass, and for a little while, things are soft again. Bucky rests, heals, smiles when you sneak him snacks from the kitchens and draw little stars on the corners of his parchment during study sessions. He steals kisses behind the library shelves and holds your hand under tables when no one’s looking.

Neither of you talk about what you are. It doesn’t feel necessary. The connection is there. Unspoken but steady.

Still, there’s a weight in the air. The Third Task looms.

It’s different this time. You can feel it in the tension around the castle, the worried glances exchanged in the hallways. The hedge maze constructed on the Quidditch pitch casts long shadows that stretch toward the castle like dark fingers.

Bucky doesn’t tell you much about what he’s expecting—he can’t. But the look in his eyes when he talks about it says enough.

You walk him down to the edge of the maze on the day of the task. The stands are packed, voices buzzing in the wind, banners waving, but none of it touches you.

He stops before stepping past the line and turns to face you.

His hand finds yours.

“I have to win this,” he says, and there’s something quiet and desperate in the way he says it.

You squeeze his fingers. “I know.”

“But I also have to survive it. For you.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, words caught behind the emotion.

He hesitates, then leans in. His lips press gently to your forehead.

“When this is over,” he murmurs, “we’ll talk about everything. No more waiting.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

Then he turns and walks into the maze.

Time slows again. The maze is a living thing, shifting, closing behind each champion as they move deeper inside. From the stands, you can see flickers of light, hear the occasional bang of spells or a scream muffled by distance. Your heart hammers with every sound.

And then silence.

Long, suffocating silence.

You don’t know how long it lasts—maybe an hour, maybe more—but then a horn sounds.

You rush to the front of the stands as people stand, gasping, craning to see.

A figure stumbles out of the edge of the maze, dragging something behind him.

It’s Bucky.

But something’s wrong.

He collapses to his knees just past the finish line, panting, blood pouring from his shoulder. The prize is clutched in his free hand—a glowing relic, pulsing with faint magic—but his left arm is gone.

You don’t realize you’re screaming his name until people start moving.

Madam Pomfrey is already running, others shouting orders, and you fight your way through the crowd, uncaring who’s in the way. You reach him just as he’s lowered to a stretcher.

His face is pale. There’s blood everywhere. His eyes meet yours.

“Y/N,” he rasps, voice raw.

“I’m here,” you say, grabbing his hand, your own shaking. “I’m here.”

He smiles faintly. “Told you I’d win.”

And then his eyes flutter shut.

The next few hours are a blur.

They take him to the hospital wing, lock it down for privacy and security. You don’t leave the corridor outside. Not when Steve tries to make you eat, not when Nat quietly offers you a blanket, not even when professors walk by whispering updates.

You just sit there, your knees to your chest, waiting for any news at all.

Finally, hours later, someone opens the door.

“He’s awake.”

You rush inside.

Bucky lies on the bed, propped up slightly. He looks tired. There’s a scar along his jaw now. His left side is bandaged, the arm gone from the shoulder down.

But he’s alive.

You sit beside him without a word and take his hand.

He doesn’t speak for a while.

When he does, his voice is hollow. “They couldn’t save it.”

“I know.”

“They say they can make me a replacement. Metal. Like the ones used for enchanted prosthetics.”

You nod.

He doesn’t look at you. “What if I hate it?”

“Then I’ll help you until you don’t.”

His eyes finally meet yours. There’s so much pain there it’s hard to look at.

“I don’t want you to see me differently.”

You don’t flinch.

“I don’t,” you say. “Not even a little.”

His throat bobs.

You lean in and press your forehead to his.

“I love you,” you whisper.

It slips out before you can stop it, but you don’t take it back.

He breathes in sharply, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then he says, voice cracking, “I love you too.”

And you don’t let go of him for the rest of the night.

---

The metal arm doesn’t come immediately.

It takes weeks.

Weeks of healing, of fittings, of enchantments. Weeks of pain, both physical and emotional. You’re there for all of it.

At first, Bucky barely talks. He’s withdrawn, silent through most of the hospital stay. Even when the others come to visit—Steve, Sam, Nat—he gives them a tired smile and little else. When they finally release him and he returns to the Gryffindor tower, he doesn’t go to the common room. He hides in his dorm. From them. From you.

But not for long.

Because you refuse to let him push you away.

You knock on the door to his dorm one evening, long after curfew. When he doesn’t answer, you let yourself in anyway. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his left shoulder bandaged, shirt discarded, back hunched over as he stares at the floor. The firelight makes his skin look pale, shadows flickering over the edges of the deep scar where his arm used to be.

You close the door softly behind you and walk to him.

He doesn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t care.”

A silence stretches between you.

He finally speaks. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’ve already seen you like this.”

He still doesn’t look up. “It’s different now. The tournament’s over. You don’t have to… stick around.”

You cross the room and kneel in front of him.

He doesn’t move.

You gently reach up and cup his cheek. “You think I only stayed because of the tournament?”

He swallows, throat tight.

You shift closer. “You told me you loved me.”

“I do.”

“Then stop trying to push me away.”

It breaks something in him. His shoulders shake, and his hand grips your arm like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“I hate it,” he admits, voice raw. “I hate what I look like. I hate what it feels like to wake up and not feel anything on that side. I hate that I can't even brush my teeth with my dominant hand. I hate that I won, and this is what I get.”

You pull him into your arms, holding him as tightly as he’ll let you. “You’re allowed to hate it. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

He breathes into your shoulder, body trembling.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

You squeeze him tighter. “Me too.”

That night, he doesn’t let go of you once.

The first time he sees the metal arm, he flinches.

It’s late afternoon, a week after he’s fitted with it in the infirmary. You’re with him, of course, sitting by his side while Madam Pomfrey checks the magical circuitry, the tiny runes etched into the metal.

It’s beautiful, in a way—sleek and matte black with silver accents, enchanted to respond like a real limb. But it’s heavy. Cold. Unfamiliar.

When they attach it, the magic latches onto the nerves that remain in his shoulder. There’s a pulse of heat, a flash of golden light. The fingers twitch slightly.

Bucky stares at it.

And says nothing.

You can tell he wants to say something. Maybe scream. Maybe cry. But he doesn’t. He just watches as the fingers curl into a fist and then release.

That night, he doesn’t speak much.

But he lets you hold his hand—the real one—while his other rests stiffly by his side.

He doesn’t wear it in public at first.

He hides it under jackets, under glamours, under long sleeves even when the weather is warm. Some people whisper about it, but no one says anything to his face. No one dares.

Except you.

One afternoon, you find him by the Black Lake, jacket pulled tightly around his shoulders.

You sit beside him on the grass.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You take a breath. “I see someone who fought through something terrible. Who came out the other side. Who survived, Bucky. You lived.”

He looks at you finally.

“People talk,” he says. “They stare. They think I’m some kind of freak.”

“Then they’re idiots.”

A pause.

You shift closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I love you. Not in spite of this. Not because of it. I just love you. All of you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But he leans into you, just a little.

And you know that’s enough for now.

By the end of the month, people know.

They know you’re his girlfriend.

It wasn’t exactly announced—neither of you are the type. But he starts walking you to class. He holds your hand openly. He lets you kiss his cheek in the corridor after Transfiguration and doesn’t flinch when others see.

And then one day, Bucky appears in the Great Hall for breakfast, sleeves rolled up, the metal arm on full display. The rune lines shimmer faintly in the candlelight, and his expression is calm, defiant even, as he sits down beside you.

You don’t say anything.

But your hand finds his under the table.

That’s the moment it becomes real to everyone else.

And they talk. Of course they do.

You catch the looks. You hear the whispers. The way girls glance at you with mixed envy and awe, as though they can’t believe you—a quiet Hufflepuff who prefers books to drama—are the one holding hands with Bucky Barnes, Triwizard Champion, scarred and stunning and suddenly so real.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s yours. And he’s letting the world see it.

The night of the feast is warm and loud.

Banners hang from the ceiling. The long tables are overflowing with food and drink. Professors are smiling, chatting, raising goblets. Music plays in the background. The sky above the enchanted ceiling is a brilliant, star-speckled navy.

It’s all for him.

A celebration of his victory. Of the pain he endured and the title he earned.

Bucky looks handsome, even if he refuses to wear anything fancier than his best school robes. The arm is still uncovered. He’s not hiding anymore.

When he walks into the Hall, everyone stands.

He blushes.

You squeeze his hand.

People cheer. Some chant his name. He ducks his head in embarrassment and mutters under his breath, “This is stupid.”

You laugh. “Take the praise, Barnes. You’ve earned it.”

They give him a seat at the head table, but he doesn’t sit there long. After the formal part of the feast ends, after McGonagall says something eloquent and moving about resilience and bravery, he sneaks back to you.

He sits beside you at the Hufflepuff table, ignoring the wide eyes and stares from the other students.

“I missed you,” he says quietly, like he hasn’t just been the center of attention for an entire school.

“You saw me an hour ago.”

“Still missed you.”

You lean against him.

He turns his head and kisses your temple.

You don’t miss the way girls watch you. Or the way some of them mutter behind their hands. But you also don’t care.

Because Bucky Barnes, with all his pain and strength and sarcasm and sweetness, is yours.

And you’re his.

The feast ends late, and students slowly trickle back to their dorms. But you and Bucky stay behind, lingering in the corridor outside the Great Hall. The music has faded. The torches are dim.

He leans against the wall, you in front of him, his arms (both of them) wrapped around your waist.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For not letting me disappear.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “Never.”

He kisses you, soft and slow, and when he pulls back, there’s a light in his eyes you haven’t seen since before the tournament began.

Hope.

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stevierogersbabygirl · 1 year ago

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What No One Sees

(Dark?)Professor!Steve Rogers x reader

Run-through: Steve was that one popular professor that everyone liked, and you were closest to him. You'd never predict that he'd be the father of your future child.

Themes: smut, unplanned pregnancy, angst, absent father

Dr. Rogers was why every girl wanted to go to attend college. He was around 40 years old, handsome, tall, jacked, with pretty eyes, and he seemed very likable too. Not a single person on campus disliked that man.

Every student knew him as that one hot and perfect stranger unless they were in his class, which was like winning a lottery. Girls secretly fangirled him, and he'd even get the female professors to be all shy next to him.

That's what they all saw him as, you knew him as Steve.

When you moved here for college, you coincidentally booked the same apartment on the same floor as him, making you see him a lot. He'd sometimes even offer to walk you to college, and lent you things whenever you needed. He'd even sometimes tell you to visit his apartment to study, and you'd always visit him happily. You weren't sure why he wanted to be closest to you, but you sure were happy with it, especially when you noticed other girls getting jealous.

All those events have made you closer to him, earning you the privilege to call him Steve.

You loved being "Dr. Rogers' favorite student", as your girlfriends labeled you. They noticed how close you were with him and teased you about it, but you just knew they were jealous of all of it.

You've had a small internal crush on that man for how attractive he was, but you knew you couldn't do anything about it because of how wrong it was.

Life was going great overall, as you worked hard and gained good grades in college, and Steve's presence made it even better,

until one day everything changed.

It was Saturday night, and you didn't have anything on your to-do list, meaning you were lazily slouched on your couch in cozy pajamas, binging the latest Netflix series, until you heard a knock on the door.

You sighed, lazily got off the couch and walked towards the door, and opened it, your eyes widened in happiness and when you saw Steve standing there.

"What's up?" You'd ask him, looking into his deep blue eyes.

He looked slightly nervous and didn't reply, instead, he surprised you with flowers which he hid behind his back. He'd take a breath and said shyly, "Bought you flowers."

You looked at it in surprise, and that little happiness was slapped by your common sense. Professors can't engage in a romantic relationship with their students.

"Steve, I'm sorry, we can't-" You said until Steve cut you off closing the door, moving forwards, making you subconsciously walk backwards. He moved towards the wall, making you trapped between him and the wall. Your faces were so close to each other that you could feel each others breaths. Two words, sexual tension.

"One night, Y/N. We can keep it a secret." He said, his ocean blue eyes looking deep into your eyes.

"I'm sorry, I can't." You said, backing further into the wall nervously, expecting an angry response.

He sighed, backing his face away as you felt the tension loosen. "I've been interested in you since the first time I met you, you're just so beautiful, Y/N."

He paused to look into your confused eyes.

"I know you want me too, doll, and I know this gets past so many boundaries, but what if it's all a secret? One time chance, Y/N." He said, making you pause to think.

You sighed. "But if someone finds out I don't know what I'd do." You'd say with fear in your eyes staring deep into Steve's eyes.

Steve smirked, leaned in on your ear and spoke, "And that makes it even hotter, doesn't it? The thrill of being caught."

You blushed at the thought and smirked a bit, and in a few seconds, you'd cup Steve's face with both of your hands and had a deep kiss with him. He'd lift you by your ass as you both kissed. He moved both of you onto the bed and broke the kiss as he gently placed you on the bed. You'd both quickly undress, and by the time you saw his size, you knew you wouldn't be regretting all of this.

You were lying back-first onto the bed legs on Steve's shoulders, and Steve was on the floor, crouched down onto your pelvis, and stuck his tongue out to lick your clit, all while staring at you deep into your eyes.

He'd lick up and down your slit, until he eventually went in, using his skillful tongue to pleasure you. You grasped on the bedsheets and did so even tighter when he'd hit the right spots.

You eventually came, and he smirked as he got up, crawled onto the bed, and kissed you deeply. He'd use his hand to position his cock onto your entrance, and in no time he'd be stretching you out deeply. None of your previous partners have quite had a size like him.

He started with slow thrusts, his head on the side of your face, occasionally kissing you. When he knew you could handle it, he went faster and rougher, occasionally choking you.

The sounds of moans in the room were horribly sinful. You eventually came violently around him, and he came next, coating your womb with his seed.

Your mind went into a blur and you could only remember being in a deep sleep afterwards.

The next morning, you woke up naked beneath the thick blanket and Steve was not beside you. You could not believe you just fucked your professor last night and had to live with that guilty feeling.

Every time you and Steve saw each other, you both knew you had to keep a distance from each other, so you did not really interact for a while. People noticed this, raising some questions from your girlfriends, but you'd always give random excuses that you didn't really think of. You wondered if it was obvious that you and him did it.

A few weeks later, you were terribly ill. You skipped a few days due to these symptoms, which consisted of puking and missing a period. Oh my god, the realization came.

You took a pregnancy test, and it came positive, so that secret went from being small to a ginormous one. You did not want to abort and tried to accept the fact that you were going to be a mother soon.

You told your closest girlfriends and they promised to keep it zipped, always trying to assist you while you skipped many days of college. Somehow, rumors went out and eventually, the whole campus knew you were pregnant. People would either text you supportive messages, or ones calling you a "slut" or "whore." The only thing they didn't know is who the father was.

Then, you heard news that Steve resigned and moved away.

Just what the fuck is happening?

You wondered how life would be, your studies in risk as you'll raise your new child with their biological father far away.

Pt. 2 is out!!

#steve rogers #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans x reader #captain america #captain america x reader #captain america smut #steve rogers au #captain america au #marvel smut

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huffelpuff210 · 1 year ago

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My new list for the dark

Biker Bucky Barnes x abused reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Dark alpha Steve Rogers x dark alpha Bucky Barnes x dark alpha Tony stark x omega reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Dark professor Steve Rogers x innocent reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Soft dark Stucky x reader

Part 1

Part2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Dark professor Tony Stark x shy reader

Part 1

Dark shifter Bucky Barnes x shifter reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Dark mafia Bucky Barnes x reader

Part 1

Part 2

Mob boss Steve Rogers x innocent reader

Part 1

Part 2

#dark avengers #mcu smut #dark alpha bucky barnes #dark alpha steve rogers x omega reader #dark marvel #omega reader #avengers fic #alpha omega #marvel #bucky barnes fic #dark alpha steve rogers #dark bucky x reader #dark tony stark #dark professor tony stark #dark professor steve rogers #dark b

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witchywithwhiskey · 8 months ago

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slasher summer masterlist

summerween is over, and so is my slasher summer writing challenge. as promised, here's the masterlist of all entries in the challenge (if yours is missing, please DM me!)

thank you to everyone who participated, as well as all readers who liked, reblogged and commented on the fics!! i loved getting to read everyone's stories and see what y'all did with the prompts. you're all so creative and lovely—thank you again!!!

for readers, please heed the warnings on each individual post below, your media consumption is your responsibility. and please make sure to show your support of the writers by reblogging their work!!!

When He First Got Me by @buckets-and-trees

pairing: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader summary: Prequel in the Exiled Nomad Series. July 3, 2017. Steve sees you at a city festival for the Fourth of July, but he's not content with only seeing…

Dirty Little Secret by @buckys-wintersoldier

pairing: Professor!Ari Levinson x Student!Female!Reader summary: You share a dirty little secret with your professor.

In the Woods by @thezombieprostitute

pairing: James Mace x Female!Reader x Chris Beck summary: Using the prompts: Summer Camp; Sex in the Woods; You know how girls love to scream

Not A Common Storm by @nekoannie-chan

pairing: Steve Rogers x Agent of HYDRA!Reader summary: You and Steve are trapped in a storm, what would happen?

Once Upon A Friendship by @steviebbboi

pairing: Childhood Bestie!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader summary: Growing up together, you and Steve were inseparable. Where did it all go wrong?

Rosa by @perdidosbucky-yyo

pairing: Best Friend!Steve Rogers x Plus Size! Female!Reader summary: Trapped in a prison of your husband and your mother’s expectations, your only comfort is the ghost in your garden, haunted by the memory of your best friend. You thought you would never see him again but when he unexpectedly returns home from the war after 12 years, you’re not prepared for what’s to come.

A Night of Frights & Delights by @elixirfromthestars

pairing: Athlete!Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader summary: It’s Friday the 13th and the college kids in town decided to host a weekend camping trip on the outskirts of town. Your best friend convinced you to go much to your reluctance. What could go wrong when the one guy you can’t stand is also there?

Sweet and Slashy Summer Saturdays by @buckets-and-trees

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Curvy!Female Reader summary: A first date with your neighbor Bucky Barnes.

Fool Me Once… by @dc418writes

pairing: Ari Levinson x BlackReader, Pete Brenner x BlackReader summary: Who knew grudges could be so deadly?

Slasher by @witchywithwhiskey

pairing: DARK Horror Movie Villain!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader summary: Somehow, you end up in your favorite old horror movie, and you decide to take the opportunity to fulfill one of your fantasies—you're gonna fuck the villain, Bucky Barnes.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months ago

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Late Bloomer 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Peter Parker, Steve Rogers (Professor AU)

Summary: you start your second year of university but as the workload grows more intense, you start to feel your age. (mid-30s reader)

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all.

Your confidence starts to recover as you show up to your Art Studio class. It’s in the same room as last year and the familiarity makes you feel a little less lost. As it so happens, the professor is also the same as your first.

Professor Rogers welcomes his class in as he did the year before. He explains that the brushes, paints, and materials in the ‘community garden’. The collection if for those in need and the need is never questioned. Students are encouraged to come take what they need and leave what they don’t. With the cost of materials, it’s a kind concept. You took advantage of it more often than you liked.

You gently unzip your leather artist’s bag while he begins the lesson. As he reads over the expectations in the syllabus, your eyes meet. He smiles and continues. You still, reluctant to distract him.

“Last year, you would have gone over 2D concepts and techniques. This year, we will delve into 3D. Every two weeks, you will submit a project. Lessons are Tuesdays in the current slot, but the studio will be open daily for three hours after seven. Whether you work here or in your own space, I expect all work to be on time. Extensions will not be given outside extenuating circumstance.”

His voice is rigid but you know well he isn’t as strict as he pretends to be. It’s the first day, he has to make a show. Still, you never submitted anything past the due date. Not in this class.

“I am aware of your other classes and I have not set unrealistic goals alongside those. However, for those who have joined as elective students, you might want to make note of the withdrawal deadline,” he girds. “Now that we’re past the fear mongering, we will start the session. We’re starting standard. Clay. First assignment, molding and shaping, then we will delve into pottery. Basic, you’ll get deeper into techniques if you are enrolled in the subject course itself.”

His tendency to overexplain can overwhelm but you are reassured by your first year. Rogers wasn’t the worst but he had standards. Besides, this is what you’re here for. This isn’t an elective, this is your major. You like this stuff and that makes it a little easier.

You delve into the first week. After going through some foundational work, Rogers lets the room fall silent. Most students will have a degree of experience from high school or freshman classes. You aren’t entirely lost yourself.

Professor Rogers makes a round of the room, stopping to chat with each student. You sense him coming close and knead your clay without much purpose. He stops across from you, just on the other side of the table.

“You’re back?” He says.

“Wouldn’t you know, I need more than one course for this dang degree,” you kid.

“Really? Jeez.” He scoffs as he presses his fingertips to the table, “so, how was your summer? Did you go to the beach?”

Your eyes flick up to his. You remember last year he wasn’t so... casual? You don’t know how to explain it. His hair is a little less neat and he doesn’t sport his usual button-up. You always made note of his expensive shirts and that he didn’t seem to care about the paint stains. This year, he’s in an open canvas jacket and a plain tee.

“Yeah, but it was overcast. Didn’t feel like mixing that much grey,” you answer. “What about you? Good summer?”

He shrugs and smiles. Something about it is stiff, “it was a summer. Taught a few interim classes. Nothing special.”

“Oh, well, summer is overrated.”

“Is it? Don’t tell me you’re into all that pumpkin spice?” He sniffs.

“I’m more into winter. I love snow and hot chocolate. Simple tastes.”

“Very minimalistic,” he praises. “Well,” he taps the table and drags his hands off, “welcome back.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

You refocus on the clay as you consider the various objects up for grabs. You could recreate the broken porcelain figure. It reminds you of ancient Greek ruins. Or you could go simple and claim that large silver spoon. Your indecision has always been your greatest obstacle.

“Alright, so, from here on, you have the rest of the time to work. You’re welcome to pack up and do it in your own time but I highly recommend staying,” Rogers announces to the room. “I am here for your benefit.”

The class murmurs back at him. Most keep on what they’re doing while a few fidget and wait only ten minutes before they leave. You would have done the same ten years ago but this isn’t just a checkbox on a list. This is you trying to reshape your whole life. You’re done with waitressing. You’re here to learn, to make this into something real.

Besides, your roommate is a fan of metal music and it doesn’t do well for your creativity. You don’t hate the music but it’s just not the vibe. You press your fingers into the clay and stare off across the room. Your eyes haze as you fall into thought.

Cerise texted before you got there that she wanted to meet up after and Primrose gave a staunch thumbs up. You missed them too. You can’t wait to catch up. You can only say so much over texts.

You smile as you think of them. Your little ragtag trio. Cerise, the youngest, who always manages to get lost wherever she goes and Primrose who only ever knows exactly where she needs to be and what needs to be done. You’re the oldest, the maternal light that keeps the younger from wandering too far and the other from overthinking her coffee order.

Your vision clears as you sense movement. You blink as you find yourself staring at Professor Rogers. Oops. You give a sheepish smile and put your head down. As much care as you put into others, you often forget yourself. While everyone assumes you have it all figured out, and you would think that you would at your age, you are just another student muddling through to graduation day.

#steve rogers #peter parker #dark steve rogers #dark peter parker #dark!steve rogers #dark!peter parker #steve rogers x reader #peter parker x reader #spider-man #captain america #series #drabble #late bloomer #au #professor au #mcu #marvel #avengers

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sarahowritesostucky · 1 year ago

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📖"The Carter Academy for Omega Excellence" Pt 6

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Steve is called to help out with Bucky, who is throwing a bit of a tantrum over the embarrassing bathroom protocol.

(Wait! I haven't read a previous chapter! Masterlist)

Part 6 - An Egregiously-Long Bathroom Break

Bucky tenses when Headmaster Rogers’ imposing form rounds the corner into the bathroom. The alpha looks vaguely amused as he walks over to the stall where Sharon’s been holding Bucky hostage. “ ‘Morning, Ms. Carter,” he says. “I’ll handle this from here.”

“Great.” Sharon sounds bored of the whole affair, and she isn’t looking at Bucky to catch the dirty look he sends her. She’s got her phone out. She’s scrolling. Bucky scowls. “I’ll wait in the hall?” Sharon asks.

“No.” Steve’s eyes stay glued to Bucky. “Why don’t you return to Mr. Barnes’ French class. That way you can help him catch up on whatever part of the lesson he’ll have missed from taking such an egregiously long bathroom break.”

“Sure thing.” She glances briefly to Bucky on her way out, making a dubious ‘good luck with that’ face.

Bucky huffs. Sharon leaving is somehow both a relief and a disappointment, because he’s glad to be rid of her, but now he’s left to square off with his new Headmaster. Alone. He tries to act unaffected, but that’s not exactly easy to do when he’s already cornered with a full bladder. Steve is standing several paces away from the stall, and Bucky eyes up the distance between the two of them, and then the distance between himself and the restroom entrance. He considers making a break for it, thinks: fuck it, why not? And gives it his best shot.

He’s fast, but he’s not that fast. Steve, the long-legged bastard, just glides to the side with his arms outstretched, blocking the already slim window Bucky had to get by him. He tuts mockingly. “Ah ah, don’t go running off, now. I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”

“I can hold it,” Bucky grits, feigning left and then jerking right, but Steve anticipates it and moves with him.

“Stop,” Steve says, a hint of sterness to his voice this time. “Bucky, this is already embarrassing for you. How much worse do you want to make it?” He tilts his head warningly. “It’s entirely up to you.”

Bucky grinds his teeth and takes a step back, and Steve steps in; once, twice, backing him right back into the same stall he just bolted out from. Steve gives him a look, and Bucky tries not to act cowed. He’s not stupid: he can tell he’s about to be in trouble,he just doesn’t know to what extent, yet. He stands tall and juts his chin out, making sure that nothing in his posture speaks to submission. “Hi Steve,” he says, impudent, enjoying the flash of annoyance he sees in the alpha’s eyes.

“Sweetheart,” Steve purrs. “You can feel free to call me Mr. Rogers, Headmaster, Alpha; even Steve, if I give you permission. But the next time I hear you addressing me like I’m your buddy, you’re taking a trip over my knee.”

Bucky’s pulse quickens at the threat, though he fights not to let it show. He continues to look down his nose as Steve (quite the feat, given that the man’s taller than him). “Sure, whatever,” he says. “Look, let’s get something straight: I’ll wear your stupid uniforms and follow all your antiquated rules, but I am not gonna sit here and take a piss while some chick watches. That’s fucked up.”

Steve raises an eyebrow and takes another step closer. Bucky takes an automatic step back, his calves bumping into the toilet bowl as Steve corners him. The alpha crosses his arms over his chest, his huge body filling up the doorway of the stall. “Well it sounds like we’re at an impasse, then,” he says.

Bucky gulps, regretting not having tried harder in his escape attempt. Now he’s trapped, and he starts to lose his composure as Steve stares him down and the urge to bear his neck (and pee) grows more intense. “Why does she have to watch?!” he finally breaks. “Huh? What’s the fucking point?!”

“Because, Mr. Barnes, it’s protocol.”

Bucky growls. “That’s dumb. You guys really get your rocks off like this?”

“It has nothing to do with us and everything to do with you,” Steve corrects him, his calm tone only serving to infuriate Bucky further.

“Sounds like a piss kink to me,” he sneers. “Sorry, Headmaster, but I’m not into watersports. Though if it’s important to you, golden showers can be negotiated for a fee. Me showering you, of course.” Steve looks thoroughly unimpressed, and Bucky purses his lips at having failed to get a reaction out of him. “I’m not sitting down so you can watch me pee.”

Steve sighs, the deep inhale lifting his shoulders and actually making them touch the stall dividers at either side. “It’s not about peeing, Sweetheart. Okay? It’s about surrender. You don’t need to fight me over this. This is how it is for all the students, it’s why there aren’t doors on the stalls. It’s meant to be a very basic exercise in submission.”

Bucky sneers. “Pissing in front of Sharon is an exercise in submission?”

“Yes. Using the bathroom in front of your Alpha after getting their permission to relieve yourself is submission. Not being allowed to hide any part of your body or its functions is submission. It’s about giving up that autonomy.” He meets Bucky’s gaze head on, brow quirked. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you how intimately bladder control is tied into dominance and submission—for omegas and alphas.”

“First of all, I’m not a girl,” Bucky growls. “And I’m not gonna squat over this toilet like one so that you can feel all superior or whatever.” He crosses his own arms, mirroring Steve’s dominant posture. “You must have a tragically small dick or something, huh? Is that why you’re so obsessed with this stuff? Just trying to prove what an Alpha you are?”

To Bucky’s dismay, Steve laughs. It’s just a short bark of a laugh, and he contains himself fairly quickly, but the smile that flashes over his face is genuine, and still striking enough to make Bucky’s stomach swoop. “Sure, Sweetie,” he says, voice dripping with condescension. “If that’s what makes you feel better to imagine.” He takes a step forward, and with the toilet already directly behind Bucky’s legs, there’s nowhere left for him to go as Steve moves in and grabs him.

“Hey!”

“Hush up.” Steve unceremoniously hikes the dress up and shoves Bucky’s underwear down, and before Bucky can try to grab at his clothes to put them back in place, Steve is pushing on his shoulders to force him down, bare-assed and startled. “Sit.”

Bucky lands with a clack of the toilet seat and a surprised yelp. He watches with wide eyes as Steve crouches in front of him. “What are you doing?” he squeaks.

“Helping you.” Steve holds him down when he tries to get up from the toilet.

“Hey!”

“Shh. Don’t fight me, Bucky. You’re just going to exhaust yourself.”

Bucky thrashes, realizes the strength of Steve’s grip, then thrashes again. “Stoppit!”

“Calm down.”

“I’ll go, okay?” He huffs, trying to bargain even as he keeps pulling. “I said I’ll go! Just—ugh!—just let me up!” But Steve’s hands grip him solidly, and it’s distressing how strong he is, how useless Bucky’s struggles clearly are, even with the alpha kneeling down at his level with little to no leverage. Steve’s not even out of breath. “Let. me. up,” Bucky grits. “I’ll pee, if you just let me stand.” He jerks his shoulders again, trying to get free.

“Ah ah ah, Little one,” Steve tuts. “That’s not what’s happening. Good omegas urinate sitting down, okay?”

“No!” The more upset Bucky gets, the more obnoxious Steve’s unwavering composure becomes. “Let me go.”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ in an eerily similar way to Bucky’s dick of a stepfather, still calmly controlling him and catching his hands each time he tries to hit. “Use your words, baby.”

“I tried that, you prick. You’re not fucking listening.” He brings his fist up, but Steve catches it and pulls his hand back down like it’s nothing.

“Neither are you, Little one.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“This is very simple. You’re making it way harder than it has to be.” Steve gives his shoulders a stern squeeze. “You’re not getting out of this, Bucky. We’re going to stay right here until you use the toilet the way I’m telling you to.”

Bucky’s entire face is boiling hot, he’s so mad and embarrassed. “Lemme go!” he rages. “I don’t have to go anymore!”

“Oh, I think you do, Sweetheart.” The deep rumble of Steve’s voice sends Bucky’s belly fluttering (and that does not help with the urge to pee). He leans in closer, keeping an iron grip on Bucky’s shoulder and grabbing at his naked hip with his other hand. It slides under the bunched-up fabric of the dress, fingers digging into the soft give of Bucky’s waist as he comforts, “Shh sh sh, it’s okay. Calm down, Baby. This is happening, you need to accept that.”

Bucky’s growls devolve into pleading cries at the feeling of being held down, at being on the receiving end of all Steve’s forceful and steady refusal. “Nnn!” His thrashing gets him nowhere, except out of breath and hot-faced. Overwhelmed tears build up behind his eyes as he starts to realize that he can’t get away, and that Steve’s not going to stop until he’s dominated him into pissing himself. Just the thought of that sends Bucky’s belly fluttering. “Unh, noo,” he moans, jerking miserably. “No, no, lemme go. You can’t make me, you can’t …”

“Shhh. Yes I can, Honey. That’s the whole point. You have to learn to trust your Alpha.”

“You’re not, nngh, you’re not my Alpha,” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut as his bladder spasms hard. He hears Steve tut pityingly at him.

“Just relax. It’s gonna feel much better once you let go, okay? Come on now, Buck. Let me take care of you. You can do it.”

“Noo,” he whines, breathing harshly through his nose and looking down between his legs in a panic. His knees clench together as he tries so hard to hold it in, because with only a few words from Steve this has somehow become about so much more than taking a piss, and he can’t let go, he can’t …

But he has to go worse than ever, and Steve isn’t stopping!

He keeps rumbling low in his chest, telling Bucky to give in, to let go, to be good, and that: “you’re making this so much harder than it has to be, Sweetheart.”

It was already headed for disaster, but Bucky knows he’s done for, once the alpha slides his hand over his belly and starts applying steady pressure. “Oh!” He gasps as he feels his body give out for a split second, a tiny spurt of urine escaping despite all his efforts. He clenches down hard, straining, trying not to, but Steve tuts and rubs his belly harder, not letting him escape it.

“Come on, Gorgeous,” he encourages, humming in satisfaction when the endearment clearly makes Bucky piss a little again. “That’s it. Good. Good.” He chuckles softly, rubbing circles below Bucky’s belly button that make him want to explode. “You like being told you’re pretty, Buck?”

“Nnngh …”

“Shh. Come on now. You’re so close, aren'tcha? You just gotta let go, pretty baby. It’s so easy.”

“Nonono.” Bucky sobs and shakes his head, eyes clamping shut and knees squeezing tightly together. It hurts, it hurts! And Steve’s hands and his voice … they feel so … they make him wanna …

“You can do it, Bucky. I promise it’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” Steve presses his whole palm in hard against Bucky’s stomach, and Bucky yelps as his bladder spasms and finally gives way.

“Ah!” He loses control—completely. And once it starts there’s nothing he can do, his body locking down on it, desperate for the release. It’s the literal floodgates opening, and he can’t stop it, can’t even try to stop. All he can do is moan as it bowls over him. “Ohh!”

Steve’s hand slips down from his belly to press his cock down, holding it in place for him as Bucky pisses himself uncontrollably, gasping and mewling. “Shhh,” Steve soothes. “Good. Good girl.”

Steve’s words don’t hit quite as hard when Bucky’s this lost to the physical sensations of pissing himself. At first it’s almost painful in its intensity, the piss coming out hard and fast and his bladder cramping anyway because it’s still not fast enough. It takes a few seconds before that feeling wanes and the pleasure of it really hits him. Bucky sobs and goes limp from the sheer relief of not having to hold it anymore, of finally being able to stop fighting.

The stream coming out of him slows gradually, down to a trickle, and then to nothing, his body emptied of everything it has to give. Steve lets go of his cock and Bucky whimpers, instantly wanting that warm touch back between his legs, instantly wanting to hide. He falls forward and tries to hide his face against Steve’s shoulder as the alpha chuckles and comforts him. “You see? That’s all you had to do. Felt good, didn’t it?”

Bucky groans and shakes his head weakly. “No.”

Steve just chuckles and rubs his back. “You’re fine. Here, sit back. Let’s get you sorted.”

Bucky watches, wrung-out and flustered as Steve takes hold of his limp penis again, shakes it for him, then starts gently maneuvering his underwear back up his legs. “I can do it,” Bucky grunts, but he’s weak from what just happened and Steve is easily able to bat his hands away and do it for him.

“Hush,” he chides. “Let me take care of it. I know that was hard for you.”

Bucky sits there and watches the alpha fix his clothes, lets him dab a piece of toilet paper over his tear-stained cheeks, then stands up when he’s directed.

Steve smoothes his uniform back out. “All right. Feel better?” he asks kindly, not waiting for Bucky to give a real answer before he’s steering him out to the sinks to wash his hands.

Bucky uses soap under Steve’s direction, though he doesn’t really see why it’s necessary; he’s not the one who touched his dick. “... That was really dumb,” he mumbles to Steve, as the alpha guides him down the hallway towards his classroom.

“No, it wasn’t.” Steve gives him a fond scruff that feels better than it has any right to, given what just transpired between them. “You’re learning,” he says. “That takes time.”

“Learning what?”

Steve smiles gently at him and pats his shoulder. “How to trust someone else to take care of you.”

This story is an ongoing commission for an amazing supporter who wishes to remain anonymous. If you have a story that you'd like to see custom written, send me a message on Tumblr or reach out on my Kofi.

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biteofcherry · 3 months ago

Note

Happy Wetnessday 💦

I hope you're doing well.

This Wetnessday you're a professor in professor Rogers universe. Since he is already taken (sorry) you fall into a romance with another professor.

Who is he? What does he teach? How did you meet? How is your dynamic? Does he make you forget about Professor Rogers?

xoxo Wetnessday anon 💦

Hi Wetnessday Anon! 🩷

Now that was cruel. Not because you took away Steve, I would be only pouty about that. But you said I'm in professor Rogers' universe AND THEN took him away! That's like hanging a delicious, stuffed chocolate bar in front of me and then taking it away 😤

But fiiine, fiiiine, I will find myself another hot professor to erase the pout from my face.

I could go for the welcoming, flirty and approachable professor Ari. He's so hot and such a sunshine, it's so easy to be around him and with him 🥹🫠 I really should go for him.

But there's something wrong with me today, because I crave mean professor Andy 😳🫣 I blame it on all the evil pixies drowning me in awful Andy content last year. Professor Andy isn't a crazy psycho, but he is very mean and degrading in the hottest way.

He is admired and described as a hardass, but a fair one. He can be a bit moody, but students forgive him the more demanding lectures, because he also carries passionate and fun ones.

Andy is a law professor and as such you shouldn't have a lot of common with him when you start working at the university, since you teach a different faculty. You'd probably only meet in passing and spend some time at the official parties.

However, he's the one the dean introduces you to first, simply because you bumped into him on your tour after signing the contract.

Andy wasn't in a welcoming mood at all, but he still offered a smile and a warm if short greeting. Though his face shifted into cloudy annoyance when the dean got a phone call and without previous agreement he sort of dumped you onto Andy to show you around.

And he's not happy about it.

No, he's not in rush, but he's not much interested in playing a babysitter for the Ice Queen. And he says as much, readjusting his cufflinks.

Your spine hardens into steel at the mention of the nickname you've been given by colleagues in the past.

Because you don't enjoy getting wasted after the conferences, because you refused quite a few flings, because you focus on keeping to yourself and allegedly reported a romance at your past job (you didn't, but that fucker Ransom still thinks it's because of you that he had to break it off with the student; he's the one who gave you the nickname and a snide remark that you were jealous of him not wanting to touch your frigid ass).

"I may be the Ice Queen, but you're an asshole." You tilt your chin and give him a freezing look.

"Someone should play with your asshole to loosen you up."

There should be retort at the tip of your tongue. You're already forming it. But for a second your brain stumbles in attaching the right wires into right spots, instead igniting with the image of Andy's velvety voice cooing at you as his fingers scissor that tight hole.

"Ah!" A dark spark ignites in his blue eyes at your pause.

"Is that it, Ice Queen?" He takes a step into your personal space and you make the mistake of taking a step back. Which he follows, backing you against the wall as he taunts:

"Do you need to be used thoroughly like a needy slut, so that your brilliant, calculating brain switches off and you melt into a puddle?"

"Stop it." You huff, trying to glare at him. But you can't hide the shortening of your breath as Andy presses even closer.

"No, I don't think I will." He chuckles and it's a scarily seductive sound that heats your blood. "And I think you will love it when I keep pushing... and ruining... and filling your holes."

#wetnessdayanon #reply #andy barber x you #professor!andy barber #mean andy barber #andy barber imagine

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 month ago

Text

something in return

a/n: tbh i didn't intend for all of the moments in this instalment to fit into the same pattern, but hey, i won't complain when my geniusness unintentionally slips out... sometimes my big beautiful brain just can't help it lol

summary: “if you want them back so badly, then I think you’d have to work for it,” Steve cockily crossed his brawny arms.

warnings: frat!bucky barnes x innocent!reader x stepbro!steve rogers, professor!peter parker, professor!reed richards, smut, dark content, college au, polyamory, kissing, virgin!reader, corruption kink, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, size kink, pain kink, spit kink, masturbation, fingering, anal, squirting, impact play, dry humping, thighjob, pussyjob, cumplay

word count: 5606

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

masterlist | join my taglist

You didn’t recognise the room that you woke up in. All you could hope for was that you were still in the frat house after the previous night’s rager.

Though when you blinked around the unfamiliar space from your horizontal position, your eyes soon landed on the inked arm draped over your waist. Heartbeat promptly picking up, you slowly glanced back over your shoulder to discover Bucky sprawled out behind you and still fast asleep.

Carefully, you tried to twist out from under his burly arm and slip out of bed, but though your movement was cautious, it still managed to stir him.

“Morning,” he hummed groggily, his sleepy voice deeper than you’d ever heard before.

Sucking in a breath as you sat balanced on the edge of the mattress, you refused to whirl around to meet his eye, “uhm, hi… how–, uh,” you coughed, “why am I in your bed?”

“How the hell should I know,” he uttered through a yawn, “you were already here when I eventually went to bed.”

“Oh…” you breathed, and as you then shifted slightly, you noticed the lack of fabric beneath your skirt as nothing seemed to cling around your core, “uh–, did anything–,” you finally glanced back at him in alarm, “nothing happened, right?”

And as he stared back at you, his head cocked against the plush pillow, a smirk slowly began to bloom on his lips, “are you asking if we fucked last night?” he teased, “I am hurt that your brain would even dare to block such a magical night of lovemaking out of your memory.”

“What?” your eyes grew.

“Kidding! Nothing happened, I promise,” both of his palms promptly floated up, “or, nothing happened between us,” he pointed out with a tilt of his head as he lowered his hands once more, “from what I heard you and Steve had quite the night…”

“I-I–,” you averted your gaze, swiftly scrambling to get up, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he uttered smugly, “but just so you know, there isn’t much he and I don’t share, secrets or otherwise…”

Glancing around the room for your phone, you soon spotted it on the windowsill, “…I gotta go, I’ve got freshman orientation to get to,” you grabbed the device. Crisp morning air caressed your bare core with every shy step and prompted you to briefly sputter, “you wouldn’t happen to know where my–, never mind…” utterly mortified, you swiftly dropped the subject once more.

“Oh, you’ve still got some time,” Bucky glanced to the ticking clock on his bedside table, “why don’t you hang around here a bit longer?”

“I really should be going–”

But your words then ceased as the door abruptly swung open and in waltzed none other than your stepbrother.

“Hey, dude, do you know where–, oh,” as Steve’s eyes landed upon you, his feet swiftly came to a stop, “well,” and a grin lit up his features, “good morning.”

“Steve, will you please help me out here?” Bucky looked to his friend, “your stepsister is being a boring little brat.”

“I’m sorry, but I do really need to go.”

“What, to freshman orientation? You’ve still got plenty of time before it begins,” Steve used the mass of his body to slyly block your passage as he kicked the door shut behind him.

“That’s what I said!” Bucky pointed out with a short chuckle.

“Well, I wanna get there extra early,” you tilted your head.

“For what?” your stepbrother furrowed his brow, “so that you can get a seat in the very front row?”

“Steve, just stop, just let me do it my way, okay?” you groaned, “I don’t wanna be anymore stressed this morning than I already am, so yeah, I’m going there early and you’re not gonna stop me.”

Staring back at you, a slow exhale seeped from his lungs before he eventually muttered, “…alright.”

“Great!” you then pushed past him, but just as your fingers grasped the door handle, your frame froze up, “…hey,” your words then came out as barely a whisper, “you wouldn’t happen to know where my–”

“Where your panties are?” he swiftly cut in, “yeah, I do.”

Twisting around, you met his smug features with a gentle furrow to your brow, “okay, where are they?”

“Hmm…” a smirk began to tug at his lips before he uttered, “I–, uh… I don’t think you deserve to know that.”

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, “Steve, just give them back, what use could you even have with them?”

“Oh, I could think of a few,” Bucky murmured from the bed, his arms comfortably curled back behind his head.

“If you want them back so badly, then I think you’d have to work for it,” Steve cockily crossed his brawny arms.

Melting with a sigh, you gave in, “alright, fine, what do you want?” fully expecting him to suggest that you should clean his room or something along those lines.

But instead, you heard him utter, “I wanna stretch that little virgin pussy out,” his tone casually smooth as his gaze drifted down your frame, “see how many fingers she can take.”

Glancing nervously to Bucky behind him, you coughed, “you wanna–, w-what?”

“Come on,” he took a step closer to you, “just let me pick the lessons back up from last night,” before he briefly cast his vision over his broad shoulder to the man still in bed, “you wanna join in? Help show her the ropes?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Bucky sat up more.

“You can’t be serious,” your chest heaved with every laboured breath, “are you still drunk?”

“No,” he simply shook his head as his feet continued to shuffle closer to where you stood.

“But Steve–”

“Shh, it’s okay,” his hands then grabbed each side of your face before he bent down and kissed you in an attempt to snuff out your worries.

And when he slowly retracted, the simple peck had managed to make your knees go wobbly as you now hazily blinked back at him, “…you sure?”

“Yeah,” he smiled as his thumb caressed your cheekbone.

Crawling out of bed, Bucky then asked one finally time, “so, you want your panties back or not?”

And as your eyes drifted to him as he slowly stalked closer to the both of you, a faint nod found your head, “…alright,” before a shiver ran down your spin at the deal you’d just made, “but just–, fuck…”

“We’ll be gentle,” Steve uttered before Bucky’s head tilted at his vow.

“Will we?” he knowingly scoffed at his friend.

“Well, we’ll try, let’s just promise that,” Steve chuckled as he corrected himself.

Slowly cascading down your inner thighs was not only the wet and sticky remnant of last night, but also the embarrassing reaction that fused with the terrifying nerves that now buzzed in your belly.

“H-how–,” you fumbled, faintly gesturing before trailing off, “uh…”

Still keeping his eye locked upon you, Steve murmured, “sit down on the bed,” as his head nodded back in that direction.

And slowly, you did so, all the while with your wild eyes trained on the pair of them.

“Lean back,” Bucky urged as he stepped closer, and you tilted further back against the pillows piled up against the wall that the bed stood against.

Firmly, you tried to keep your legs clambered shut as you watched them both kneel down on the floor at your feet, though as they pried your thighs apart, a shaky gasp rippled through your body.

“Fuck, look at that little pussy…” Bucky groaned as he reached out to be the first to graze his touch against your folds, still all messy as it glistened back at him, “how is she even better than you described?

“No fucking clue,” Steve chuckled as his own fingers slithered up to tickle at your clit.

They went on teasing your puffy pearl for much longer than you’d thought, as they kept going and didn’t change their maddening pattern till you were close to cumming. And as your cunt clenched around nothing, winking up at them, it was finally filled up by one of Steve’s thick fingers as he gradually pressed it inside, though barely past the first knuckle.

“O-oh my god,” you gasped shakily at the unfamiliar sensation and cast your glance down at the digit your pussy slowly swallowed.

“Shit…” your stepbrother’s mouth hung agape as he felt your tight hole struggle to stretch around him, “I really thought getting you close would have relaxed you more than this, but damn, baby…” he then retracked his finger only to nudge his friend beside him, “feel her, dude.”

“Wow,” Bucky chuckled darkly as he pressed in much deeper than Steve had, “we really gotta loosen you up before you have any chance of taking something real up here.”

You tried to keep your eyes open, tried to keep your gaze locked upon their overwhelming actions, though as the digit inside of you then carefully slide against your velvety walls and another’s touch reunited with your clit, you had no choice but to tumble over the edge, eyes screwing shut as your pussy clambered down around Bucky’s finger.

“Oh fuck, I can’t wait to feel that around my cock,” Bucky’s voice barely managed to seep through your haze as he stilled his shallow motions.

“Patience,” Steve’s words too sounded far away, like you were underwater as you came down from the high, barely registering as they both rapidly stripped you of your clothing, “if you try now, then you’ll just break her in two.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Bucky shot back as they both smiled.

A part of you thought that they were done, that they’d had their fill, but little did you know it was only the very beginning.

The finger still within you once again began to move, ripping a whimper out of your lungs as it slowly dragged back out, “wait, it’s too much–”

“What, are you sensitive?” Bucky’s steely gaze found yours as his touch made you squirm, “does it maybe hurt a little bit?”

“Hey,” Steve then tapped his friend’s wrist as he stared up at you, “hold her still,” before Bucky’s touch faded and traded in with Steve’s, gently circling your entrance as the other man bent up your legs, caught both of your wrists in one broad palm, before he locked the same inked arm over your folded frame and squished you further down into the mattress.

It took some effort, but eventually Steve managed to sink not only one, but two of his thick fingers into your dripping core, making you wiggle beneath Bucky’s hold as you felt your poor pussy be stretched.

“Oh, there you go,” your stepbrother chuckled as your tiny hole clung around his digits, forcing his pace to slow as you hugged onto him too tightly for him to fuck you at the pace he desired.

“H-how much is that?” you whimpered as your legs now obscured your view.

“Just two fingers,” Bucky pressed a peck to your inner thigh before elbowing his friend gently, “dude, you can go deeper than that.”

And as Steve sank his digits so deep that his palm rutted against you with each rock, you gasped, “seriously? It feels like it’s your whole fucking hand.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Steve grinned as he kept up his ruthless pattern, “might be a bit unrealistic for today, but we could certainly work you up to that.”

“No, I didn’t–, oh fuck–,” you tried to counter, though swiftly began to tremble once again, all of your vigour flying out of the window at the anticipation of yet another orgasm.

With Bucky’s free hand, it floated up to trace your stretched entrance clinging around his friend’s digits, only for Steve to then slip one of his fingers out to make room for one of Bucky’s to press in and plug you up beside the one remaining.

And as you tried to stifle your moans, Steve’s palm swatted down over your ass, “don’t you dare hold back those filthy noises.”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s finger rocked in tandem inside of you as you felt yourself tumble over the edge, “be a good girl and wake up the entire house,” his filthy commands urged you in your foggy state to let go even further and comply to their wish, “be loud enough for everyone to discover just exactly what a little slut Steve’s innocent little stepsister is.”

And as the intense wave of ecstasy washed over you, the pace of their fingers didn’t slow in the slightest, but grew rougher as their caresses began to overstimulate you. Squirming and whimpering beneath his touch, Steve continued in a gravelly tone, “yeah, they’re probably jerking it with their ears pressed up against the walls,” he tried to force a third digit inside, though both his and his friend’s attempts failed, try as they might, “wishing it was their fingers getting soaked by your sweet pussy.”

“What do you think,” Bucky’s pinkie then traced the cream that had leaked down from your stuffed pussy, south over your little rosebud, till it dripped onto the mattress below. Tracing your other little hole, glistening from the way they had you leaking, he simply couldn’t help himself and slipped just the very tip inside, “maybe that could happen one day…”

“If she’s good, sure,” Steve quit trying to work another finger inside, “can you do that, baby?” he asked as the rocking motion the two separate fingers in your cunt kept up and conjured a sloppy melody to slosh throughout the room, “can you be good for me, and then maybe one day I’ll open up the invitation to more than just my best friend?”

“Pass you around like a fucking joint, keeping us all warm and happy…” Bucky smirked as he gazed down at how they each greedily played with both of your holes, “yeah, look at her, she’d fucking love that…”

If it wasn’t for the loud curses both men then let out as they once more shoved you over the edge, you wouldn’t have noticed how your pussy began to cry around their digits, gushing fiercely as they then withdrew their touch, only to land a vicious row of smacks against your puffy petals, causing your overly sensitive pussy to squirt even further.

They kept on occasionally tapping their broad palms over your swollen cunt as you forgot what your own name was, their lips twisting up into a grin each time your frame jumped at the light impacts.

It took a long while for you to realise what the low grunts and the slick sounds were, though even when you finally heard them, you still didn’t have any clue just how long the two men had been stroking themselves, kneeled before your tempting haven. Perhaps it was a new development or maybe they had stopped resisting the second they began to play with you, reliving themselves to the front row seat they gave themselves.

And as they slowly rose up to stand before you, like towering boulders at the foot of the bed you layed melted against, all of the air escaped your lungs as your hazy gaze landed upon the cocks in their hands.

First, your eyes landed upon Steve, his throbbing girth enveloped in the missing panties he’d promised to return to you, as he squeezed them tighter around his dick with every stroke. But then when your stare drifted to Bucky, a smirk swiftly bloomed on his face at the way your jaw hit the floor. To say that he was large was the understatement of the century as the frat boy himself knew that if he wanted to have an easy career, then he could just become a pornstar and skyrocket to a legendary status overnight, simply because of his monstrously blessed equipment.

“So,” Bucky grunted as Steve beside him adjusted his grip and began to slip your messy panties back on and up your quivering legs, “who are you gonna pick to pop your cherry?” he briefly reached down to aid his friend before the cotton snapped back into place over your sensitive cunt.

“That’s not even a question,” Steve scoffed as he only let the underwear stay in its place for a second before his grip caught the waistband and yanked it down to flash your pussy once more, “it will be me.”

And as they both soon unravelled before you, each of them purposefully aimed at the exposed inner side of your underwear, their cum painting the soft cotton white, before Steve let go and it snapped back into place against your skin.

“There,” Steve smiled as he caught his breath, “now you can go to freshman orientation.”

As you scurried down the gothic halls of the university’s science building, your eyes drifted from door to door as you passed dozens of lecture halls, labs and offices. You weren’t even really sure if you were in the right building for what you were on the hunt for.

“You lost?” a voice then suddenly found you as you peeked your head into an empty classroom.

Spinning around, you saw an older man, surely a faculty member, paused in his leisurely stride and glancing up from the papers in his hand to gaze at you.

“I–, uhm, maybe,” you admitted, suddenly overcome with the fear that you had accidentally wandered into a restricted area, “you wouldn’t happen to know where Professor Parker’s office is–, unless of course, that’s you.”

Shaking his head, he said, “no, I’m Dr. Richards.”

“As in Dr. Reed Richards?” your eyes began to grow in admiration as you blinked back at the doctor, “the neurosurgeon who worked on that famous Alzheimer’s clinical trial a few years back?”

“Guilty as charged,” he smiled, shifting the papers in his hand to slot them under his arm.

“Oh wow,” you giggled, “I mean, I knew that you started teaching a course here, that’s actually part of the reason why I chose this school, but I just didn’t expect to–, I’m sorry, I’m just a big fan. I mean, you’re a rockstar,” you timidly gestured to him, “I hope to get into your class next semester, I’ve heard it fills up quite quickly.”

“Well,” he tilted his head, “maybe you could swing by my office one day and perhaps we could figure out a way for one of the spots to be reserved for you.”

“Seriously?” his obvious flirting flew straight over your head as you didn’t yet know of his rakish reputation, “that would be amazing.”

“Yeah, no problem,” the professor then turned to walk away, “and it’s the last office at the end of the hall, by the way.”

“What?”

“You were looking for Parker?” he reminded your starstruck mind, “end of the hall.”

“Oh, right,” you breathed and glanced in the direction his finger briefly pointed, “thank you.”

“No problem,” he smiled before disappearing around a corner.

As you neared the door, it stood slightly ajar, lending you to hear a deep voice quietly talking on the other side. Softly, you landed a few knocks before you carefully pushed it open.

Standing behind the desk in the middle of the room and illuminated by the tall window behind him, stood the bespectacled professor you searched for, with a phone pressed up against his ear as he murmured into it.

“Mhm, but it would just be Friday night,” he twisted around as he heard the threshold creak beneath your shoe. Briefly raising up a hand, he momentarily tilted the phone away from his lips to utter, “one moment, you can just have a seat,” he gestured to the chair on your side of the table before he then returned to the call, “are you sure? Okay, well, I’ll figure something else out… no, it’s alright, I get it,” he exhaled, “yeah, talk soon, bye,” before he hung up and sank down into his seat with a sigh, “sorry about that. Babysitter just cancelled on me.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” you waved a hand, “I’m sorry for just barging in, Professor Parker–, I mean doctor–, I mean–, uh…”

“Professor is fine,” he offered you a gentle smile to sooth your nerves, “what can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s about your class…” you slowly began, “I know that I’m technically too late to sign up, but I just wanted to see if there was any possible way there might be one last slot left that I could fill.”

“Oh,” he breathed in response.

“Really, I’d do anything,” you stated before then detouring to a different tactic, “you said something about needing a babysitter? Maybe I could help,” you offered your services, “I used to do it for many years, all the way through my teens till I started here, so maybe I could lend a hand.”

“I, uh…” his eyes narrowed as he thought it over.

“Please?” your lips couldn’t help but press together in a pout, “I’ve dreamt about taking your class on medical history for years and years. You’d be like a genie granting me a wish.”

And as he blinked back at you, the luck that evidently was on your side shocked you to your very core as he unexpectedly uttered, “…alright.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he slowly nodded, “but if there aren’t any seats left–”

“Then I’ll happily sit on the floor or stand in the very back,” you beamed, “thank you so much, sir.”

“Of course,” he exhaled before opening up a drawer in his desk and plucking out a piece of paper, “this is the list of the required books,” he pushed it across the table before your eyes began to scan the titles, “I’m not sure if there are any copies left at the library, but maybe you can talk to some students, who has previously taken the course, if they bought a copy that you could borrow.”

“I’ll make sure I have them, even if I’d have to steal them,” you jested.

“Well, I don’t think I should sit here and encourage you to commit a felony, but I guess if you do get arrested, I can be your one phone-call,” he chuckled and went along with your joke, “so, about the other thing.”

“Yes,” you exhaled, both of your palms floating down to rest atop your thighs, “the kid–, kids?”

“Just one, Benjamin, he’s six.”

“Oh, that’s a fun age,” you smiled, “so, was it Friday?”

“Yeah, I have to attend this thing that I can’t get out of and it’s my turn to have him this week, but my ex is also busy that day, so yeah,” he sighed, “how about you just come over here after your classes that day and then we’ll hash out the rest?”

“I will be there.”

“What are you doing here?” you grumbled as you opened the door to your dorm room.

“Well hello to you too, sunshine,” Bucky scoffed through a smile.

“What do you want?” you held your grip on the edge of the door.

“A thank you would suffice,” he tilted his head.

Squinting your eyes at the lack of context, you muttered, “what?”

“A little birdy told me you were looking for this?” he held up the book in his hand for you to spot, which just so happened to be the exact one you hadn’t been able to track down for Professor Parker’s class.

“Blood, Phlegm, Yellow and Black Bile: A Brief History of the Four Humors by Helen Grey?” you swiftly snatch it from his fingers with a gasp, “where did you find it? I thought there weren’t any copies left at the library!”

“There wasn’t,” he tilted his head, “I had a short stint back in my freshman year where I flirted with the fantasy of becoming a doctor, that was until I fell madly and deeply in love with journalism.”

Glancing down at the cover, you uttered, “can I borrow it?”

But instead, to your surprise, Bucky countered, “you can have it. It’s yours, I don’t have any use for it, except if I suddenly got a burning desire to press some flowers,” he jested about the thickness of the tome.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you blinked up at him with a smile before throwing your arms around his broad frame. Though as you hugged him, it didn’t take long before you pushed back to utter, “wait, this isn’t just some weird trick like last time, is it? Are you gonna make me do something dirty in return for the book?”

“I thought about it,” he admitted with a smirk, his gaze briefly dipping down your form, “but then I decided to just be nice.”

“What a foreign concept that must be for you…” you teased with the faint shake of your head, “glad you’re finally trying it out.”

“Oh yeah, I’m terrified I’ll break out into hives,” he chuckled, leaning against the doorframe, “don’t tell anyone else, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

And as you smiled back at him, you noticed how gratitude wasn’t the only sensation stirring in your soul, as a warm and fuzzy feeling began to flicker throughout your frame from the genuine gesture.

“So…” his eyes briefly trailed around the room behind you, “where’s your roommate at?”

“At Delta Phi, hanging out with her girlfriend,” you murmured, “why?”

And as his glance landed on you once again and the corners of his lips twitched, you heard him ask, “can I come in?”

Sucking in a breath, you felt lightheaded as you uttered, “sure,” before stepping aside for him to enter.

And that was how your stepbrother’s best friend ended up sitting on your tiny bed, his back pressed up against the wall, as he drew you further down in his lap and let his tongue dance against your own in a heated kiss.

“I’m sorry, what?” you foggily tilted back as his muffled words flew over your head.

“Move your hips,” he repeated, both of his palms denting your sides, “Steve said you have a habit of humping your cute little teddy bears and pillows and such,” his eyes briefly flickered to the plushies on the mattress beside him, “so just pretend that I am one, use me to make yourself feel good.”

Blinking back at him a moment, it took you a while before you actually managed to make your pelvis move as the flabbergasted trance was harder to snap out of than you’d expected. Though as your hips cautiously rolled against his lap, a shaky breath slipped from your lungs as the friction of his palpable hardness nudging against your core caused you to shiver. It surely didn’t help matters either that the only thing shielding you from the sensation was the panties beneath your dress, which was quickly becoming so embarrassingly soaked that your want slowly began to stain the tent in his trousers.

“That’s it,” he groaned as he leaned back to watch your timid efforts, “fuck…”

At first, he let you steer the ship, carefully rocking down against him for an ounce of relief, but then when you tilted forward to capture his ravenous lips once again, his wide hands on your hips flexed before they took over your movements, instead rendering you just a puppet in his grasp as he grinded you down much more roughly than you’d dared to do on your own.

“Shit, I don’t get you… how could this be enough for you?” he grunted as he grew impatient, “isn’t every molecule in your body screaming for you to get railed right now? Doesn’t this little pussy finally wanna get used?”

“Buck, I–,” you panted as he nibbled against your neck, “I don’t know…”

“Oh, you don’t know?” he couldn’t help but mock.

“This feels r-really good to me,” your eyes fluttered as he kept on rocking you in his lap.

“Well, it’s not good enough for me,” he growled before finally snapping and flipping you onto your back. Hovering above you as you collapsed on the small bed, he began to unbuckle his belt.

“I-I–, Bucky, I don’t think I’m ready for that–,” your eyes went wide as you watched him free his intimidatingly giant cock.

“You sure? Not even a little bit?” he slowly began to twist his fist up and down the fat length, “it could just be the tip.”

Blinking down at the bulbous head, glistening with precum, you hazily shook your head, “n-no, it’s too big…”

“Oh, I know it is,” he then reached out to shift your legs, slotting his dick in between your soft thighs before he paused to let a dollop of spit drop down from his lips and add some slickness before he slowly began to move, “is it because of Steve? Because I can keep a secret… I won’t tell if you don’t…”

Your eyes flickered down to his fat girth as he slid it between your thighs that he pressed together, “I thought you two told each other everything.”

“Well,” he smirked as he ripped his stare away to glance to your fuzzy expression, “I’m willing to make an exception…”

Reaching down, he greedily squeezed your tits through the thin fabric of your dress, even catching your pebbly nipples in a pinch that caused you to gasp, before he slid his touch back down to either side of your legs.

“What are you doing Friday night?”

“Huh?” you panted as you were unable to tear your eyes away from his cock, slick between your trembling thighs.

“Come over, the frat’s throwing another party,” he uttered from above you, “maybe we could sneak away when everyone else is hammered enough…”

“I can’t, I have to babysit.”

“Really?” he chuckled as his efforts migrated so far south that the heavy weight of him came to rest against your covered core, each greedy thrust now sliding against the soaked cotton and making you whimper, “I didn’t know you were into daddies…”

“What?” you fought to comprehend his words as his fat girth skimmed across your clit, throbbing beneath the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Never mind, sweetie,” he gave up with a slight laugh.

Though as he stared down at your quivering form beneath him, his grip on the outside of your thighs tightened before he suddenly began to part them like the pages of a book.

“Oh, would you look at this…” he groaned as he revealed your sodden panties beneath his big cock, “you’ve fucking ruined these, haven’t you?” a teasing finger crept down to snap the waistband back against your skin, “you wanna feel me, huh? You wanna feel me right here?” he peered down at you as he tapped the heavy weight of himself against your covered centre.

“I–…”

Hooking his thumb in the side of the gusset, he peeled your panties to the side, “do you?” shiny strings clung to the fabric as he kept it trapped in his grasp.

“Yes,” you then uttered, surprising yourself as the only thing you could feel in this moment was your thumping heartbeat between your thighs.

“Atta girl,” he grinned before lowering the length in his grip down against your glistening pussy.

Trailing the bulbous tip through your wetness, he repeatedly parted your petals with his thick girth, the jarring comparison of his size directly against you making you dizzy. Though when his sweeping motion suddenly strayed further than before and he briefly held the entire length of him against, not only your cunt, but also your belly, then you feared you might actually faint beneath him.

“See that?” he smirked as his heavy sack nuzzled against your quivering entrance while the tip of him reached all the way up to cover your bellybutton, “that’s how deep I’m gonna get when you finally let me inside…” groaning as he finally swept back down to flick his hardness through your sobbing petals, he cocked his head, “might break you, rearranging your guts like that, but fuck will it feel good…”

And as you felt the world around you threaten to melt away in that blissful eruption you were slowly becoming more acquainted with, Bucky abruptly tore the intoxicating contact of his cock away from you. Though before you could part your lips in a complaint, your body instead quaked as he then tapped the hefty weight of himself repeatedly down against your puffy pearl, keeping the bullying up till you were writhing in pleasure beneath him.

You thought you’d only blinked your eyes shut for a moment in the fog of it all, but when they fluttered back open, Bucky’s hot load decorated your messy pussy as he kneeled by you, panting as he offered his length one last squeeze.

But just as you thought he’d let your panties snap back into place as a closing curtain to the show, he instead reached down to bully your tender core even further, smearing his cum against your aching clit before he swept his coated fingers down to tickle your leaky entrance in an attempt at stuffing as much of his load into your little hole as possible, though his greedy efforts eventually derailed when his fingers were stuffed so deep inside of you that you could barely breath at all, your nails digging into his forearm as he made you squirt all over your bed and the adorable teddy bears that layed scattered.

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