Just a Bathroom Wall (in a Spirit Halloween)

You reach up, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “Leave them,” you breathe, because the sound is filthy in its own way, the soft metallic music of him claiming you.

But Bucky’s eyes, stormy blue, pupils blown wide with lust darken further. He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “They’re distracting you from what I want you feeling.”

In one smooth motion, he catches the tags between his teeth. The chain pulls taut against the back of his neck, the metal plates disappearing into his mouth. His jaw flexes, lips parting just enough for you to see the silver edge glinting against his tongue. The sight alone rips a fresh wave of heat through you, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, reduced to biting down on his own history just so he can fuck you without anything getting in the way.

He groans around the tags, the sound muffled and raw. Then he drives into you harder.

No more clinking. Just the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the obscene sounds of your body taking him. His metal fingers dig into your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth like he wants to feel how wrecked you are.

“Look at me,” he demands around the metal. His voice is distorted, rougher, sex-drenched. Sweat beads at his temple, dark hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you with punishing precision, long strokes that bottom out and grind against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Every time he bottoms out, his abs flex against your clit, and the tags shift between his teeth with the motion, a constant, visible reminder of how much control he’s exerting just for you.

You moan his name and he bites down harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your cunt around his cock. The chain trembles against his throat with each thrust. You can see the way his tongue moves against the tags inside his mouth, the way his lips are shiny with spit, and it’s so fucking filthy you clench around him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, the words barely intelligible but vibrating straight down to your core. “Milk me, doll. Let me feel how much you love this.”

Your hands scramble up his back, nails digging into scarred skin and metal plating alike. He’s relentless, hips snapping faster now, the wet sounds louder, your slick coating his balls as they slap against you. The dog tags stay right where he put them, trapped between those perfect teeth, catching the light every time he pulls back to look at where you’re stretched around him.

You’re close. So fucking close. And Bucky knows it, he always does. He drops his forehead to yours, tags still clenched tight, breath coming in hot pants around the metal. His voice is a broken rasp:

“Come on my cock while I’ve got these between my teeth, baby. Want to feel you fall apart knowing I’d do anything- anything- to keep fucking you right.”

The orgasm slams into you like lightning under your skin, sudden, devastating, unstoppable. Your back arches sharply off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing in relentless waves. Pleasure rips through every nerve ending, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. He keeps fucking you through it with those deep, grinding thrusts, hips rolling relentlessly as he chases his own release, dragging out your climax until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.

Only then does he let the tags fall from his mouth, spit-slick and gleaming, dropping heavy and cool against your heaving chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, metal arm braced beside your head so he doesn’t crush you.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, final clink of the dog tags settling between your sweat-slick bodies.

Bucky kisses the side of your throat, soft and reverent now, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot where his teeth had been clenched moments before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “I’m putting them between your teeth. See how quiet you can stay while I ruin you.”

You laugh breathlessly, already aching for it.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

"Why would I scare 'em off?"

You finally look at him, as if the answer's obvious, "They don't like loud noise, Gator."

"Oh. My mistake."

You hum, plopping down your butt and bringing your knees to your chest. You smush your cheek against the bone of your knee, and Gator has the urge to reach out and smooth out your hair. He sighs.

"You see bunnies here before, then?" he asks. You shake your head.

"No. Just felt like they would like it over here y'know? It's nice and wide open... they probably like the corn back there, too. Yummy dinner."

Gator pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales shallowly. "Um... yeah. Listen, sunshine, it's gonna get dark soon, why don't you lemme give you a ride back into town?"

"I'll be fine," you wave him off, kicking your shoes off to reveal your ankle length socks. "I walked out here, 'm fine to walk home."

"You walked— Jesus, we're like a half an hour from Lehigh—"

"Shhhhh," you interrupt, pressing a finger to his lips. Gator's eyes widen. "The bunnies!"

"Right," he mutters, though the word is slightly muffled by your digit. He leans back on his hands and lets out another sigh, wishing the taste of your skin would linger on his lips a little bit longer. "Guess I'll stay out here with you and, uh... wait for 'em, then."

"Oh, you like bunnies, too, Gator?" you ask happily, a grin spreading across your face.

Bucky never liked talking about the early transformations. He would only tell you little pieces sometimes, after a transformation under a full moon, while your fingers moved slowly through his hair. He would tell you about the cages, the muzzles. He once told you that moonlight made it worse, but pain could force it, too. Fear and rage could force it. Want could, too, though that was the one that terrified him most, because he wanted you.

You had known that from the beginning, from the very first time he buried his face against your neck and froze, breathing you in like you could smell the sweet blood under your skin. You had known it when his hands trembled on your hips, his eyes flashing gold in the dark and he looked away because hunger burned through.

But you had never been afraid of it the way he wanted you to be.

You were afraid sometimes, obviously, you were not stupid. You had seen claw marks in steel doors. Sometimes, you had woken to him pacing the apartment like his bones didn’t bend right, hands shaking at his sides, mouth locked tight because speaking would show you the teeth. 

But fear had never been a rejection, not when it came from you. Especially when the very few times the wolf had shown himself, he still looked at you with Bucky’s eyes and held himself back from tearing you apart because the wolf was still Bucky, and Bucky still loved you.

Tonight, he was already too close to the edge.

Bucky was holding you down without meaning to. Your chest was pressed flat into the bed, breasts curving the sheets below you, cheek buried in the pillow, knees spread beneath him. He was behind you, inside you, moving with that wild instinct he always thought he could control, one hand gripping the mattress beside your head. The other held your hip, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how strong he was when he was still trying.

Then, his breathing changed, wet against the back of your neck, dragging out of him like the monster had started breathing through his lungs. His rhythm faltered, his body locked behind you. For one sick, suspended second, he was frozen while buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” he growled out, the word was barely human.

You felt his hand leave your hip and slam into the mattress beside your ribs. The whole bed jumped. The bones in his arm whined softly, clawing into the sheets like he was trying to anchor himself there instead of in you.

Bucky knew the shift was coming before you did.

His hand tightened beside your head.

“Don’t move,” he said, breathing coming out as a thin inhale, then dropped halfway deeper, wetter, too large for a human chest.

“No,” he whispered as a tremor travelled through him and the bed creaked. “Not now.”

His fingers flexed against the mattress, and you heard the soft pop of joints shifting before his half-transformed nails dragged across the fabric.

Scrrrrch.

The sheet split beside your face.

“Bucky,” you breathed.

“Don’t,” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t say my name like that. I’m trying not to—”

His sentence snapped off into a growl, then he grew.

You could have looked back, but you didn’t.

All you could do was feel it happen.

Heat flooded through him first, pouring into you from every place his skin touched yours. His thighs thickened against the backs of yours. His hips became heavier, wider, forcing your body lower into the mattress. The hand beside your head spasmed, nails sharpening into claws that pressed careful half-moons into the sheet.

And inside you, he changed too.

You let out an impossible mewl.

It was slow enough, and you felt him like a pulse. It was a deep swelling as the transformation dragged through every inch of him, making him thicker where he was still buried in you, stretching you around the wolf. Your body clenched down instinctively, confused and overwhelmed, and Bucky made a gutted sound above you.

The wooden frame gave a crack under a weight it had never been built to hold. You could feel fur brushing over your lower back, then along your thighs. His chest lowered over you, broader now, pinning you beneath him until you could barely move. You felt his mouth against your shoulder, half-formed canine teeth grazing your skin without biting down as drool slipped hot onto the back of your neck.

You gasped into the pillow.

Bucky went still again, and you could feel him fighting it. 

Then his nose dragged against your skin, smelling your arousal.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasped. “You’re dripping,” he said, almost horrified that him being half a monster turned you on this much. “Sweetheart, you’re—”

His hips jerked before he could stop them.

You sobbed into the pillow.

He felt how wet you were, he felt how badly you wanted the thing he had spent years trying to hide from you. 

You made a sound you didn’t recognize, half fear, half pleasure, helpless and broken against the pillow. Bucky answered with a growl so deep it shook through your spine. The bedframe slammed once against the wall because the change itself had thrown his weight forward.

He tried to pull back.

You grabbed blindly at the ruined sheets.

“Fuck,” you begged. “Please don’t stop.”

He could only growl, more monster than human now. 

“I don’t care if you change,” you gasped, pushing your hips back into him. “I don’t care, Bucky. Please.”

The sound that came out of him was almost a snarl.

He was still careful where it mattered, claws buried themselves into the mattress and never you. 

Still, the rhythm that followed was not human anymore. 

He moved, and the room seemed to tilt.

The first thrust dragged him almost out before forcing him back in deeper, changed and so much bigger than before that your hands clawed uselessly at the ruined sheets. Your breasts pressed harder into the mattress, thighs shaking beneath him. Fur scraped your skin with every roll of his hips, rough against the backs of your legs, more silken over your spine when his chest bowed over you.

You could feel the werewolf behind you now.

It was no longer a man half-changing. Bucky’s whole monstrous body bracketed yours, breath pouring over you in wet, animal bursts. He drove into you like he was trying to bury the last of his humanity there and trust you to give it back later.

The bed was dying under him, headboard slamming into the wall hard enough to knock dust loose. Metal brackets squealed, sheets tore in long strips beneath his claws as the mattress dipped and buckled under the punishing motion of his hips.

Bucky’s mouth dragged over your shoulder. His tongue swept over the place his teeth had scraped. “God,” he growled, some human mind in him resurfacing to enjoy you. “God, you feel—”

The words dissolved into nothing as you whimpered. 

He only fucked you harder, burying his monstrous face against the side of your throat, pained by how much he wanted you.

“Mine,” he growled, then immediately shuddered like the word had escaped him. “Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t—”

“Yours,” you choked out.

The bed cracked again as Bucky snarled into your shoulder.

He was a werewolf, and he was fucking you like one.

And he was still yours.

Eventually, as you reached your high, your body clenched around him, shaking under his weight, and Bucky’s growl turned savage. His hips drove deep and stayed there as he finished in you, his entire changed body above you. The bed gave a final, miserable crack beneath both of you, one side dropping just enough to make you gasp as he caught your body, huge arm hauling you safely against him even before the frame finished collapsing.

For several seconds, there was only breathing.

Then the transformation began to pull back.

You felt the slow recession of him inside you, fur thinning beneath your fingers where your hand had found his forearm, claws withdrawing from the mattress. His chest shrank against your back until he became familiar again, still broad and strong, but human enough to recognize.

Bucky didn’t move at first.

He stayed behind you, breathing hard, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades like he was afraid to lift his head and see what he had done.

You were still catching your breath when he finally spoke. “Fuck.”

You smiled weakly into the pillow.

Bucky exhaled, his voice still half a growl. “I’m gonna get us a stronger bed frame.”

-