Titty-TT's World

He was sex and danger, a song-singing wraith that tempted and teased devotion but only if you submitted first. Preferably on your knees. The black vibranium arm glinted in the strobe like a heartbeat. The stage was set. The crowd chanted and waved for more, crying out, desperate for his life, his voice, his body, and James Buchanan Barnes ate it up.

The Winter Soldier was a star, and he didn’t give a fuck if people wanted him, hated him. No. He was a fucking god, and he took their prayers, their pleas, let them seep into his skin, crawl into his lungs, and he’d breathed out icy flames in the shape of verses.

His voice wasn’t the only thing that had the crowd creaming their pants. His hands trilled over the guitar like it was another limb. Fingers slid and stroked over the strings, caressing them like a clit or teasing a tip. Then he’d whip his hand over the taut wires like he was punishing them for reacting, daring them to break. And for good measure, he’d jut his sweaty groin into the back of the guitar, rolling his hips as he sang into the microphone as if he could fuck the riff into their minds.

Into you.

Up here, he could live forever. Everything he’d done in the last seventy years is wiped, like the blinding white of his brain cells convulsing as they flipped the switch to erase his memory. It doesn’t exist.

Didn’t matter up here. He had fuck you time to waste, and he hit every song like it could have been his last.

After the show, he’d walk off the stage and grab a towel from a groupie who wanted him. He lost that particular taste two weeks ago. The causal fucking, always the same, some person wanting to taste the Soldier’s torrid outro.

You’d changed him.

That much was evident to his bandmate’s with their comments. They’d offer sin, and he would look toward a heaven. One he hadn’t really considered since escaping Hydra. Of course, his Ma’s dreams for him were always bigger than his. Maybe in this, he was only fulfilling a hope delayed.

He shouldn’t want it, doesn’t deserve it that much, he’s sure of. But it had not stopped him from peppering your apartment with listening devices, cleverly concealed cameras. A few in your bathroom, kitchen, living room, and for good measure, four in your bedroom.

At home, the sound of your breathing soothed him at night when he sat perched in front of his computer. The gentle cadence of your soft breaths filters through his headphones. He decided it was like a song, the delicate intro of something that could last forever, like one of his tunes. He watched your day through the screen, listening in on your life while his pale, silvery blue eyes narrowed in on the curve of your ass.

God, you had been so beautiful that night, he thinks, while he clicks on footage from your bathroom. All wild abandon, the sultry movements of your body to his music in the crowd only fed the hunger in him.

He would treat you right. Hold you close, fuck you till you were full and then do it again so you’d forget your name. Forget everything but him. And if you didn’t want it?

That only made it more intoxicating. The idea pumped both ways from his chest, down to his cock and up to his brain, leaving him lightheaded at the thought of you being a fighter.

Bucky could only imagine how swollen and used you could be under his hands when he was finished with you. But he had passed the thought of jerking off for the hundredth time to the rythm of your breaths. No, it was time for action.

**

You slept. And dreamed of mellifluous things, because your body was a honey pot. Your mind had to be gentle, unlike his, Bucky thought as he watched you.

His sweetness. The dearest melody he knows.

Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell with the exertion of holding back. His mind raced with what to do with you first. The images pushed through his mind, and he started to sweat at just the thought of it.

“You have no idea…” Bucky spoke, his voice low and soft, frayed around the edges like his resolve.

“...how soft you look to me…” He said in an almost mournful whisper.

You didn’t even move, sleeping hard, you breathed softly through parted pouty lips, and Bucky could only think about what they felt like on his body. He hadn’t felt this level of calm since before the war. It prickled his skin. Felt foreign at first, but he allowed it to settle in his heart right next to you.

He rasped out your name, and you twitched in your bed. Any normal person wouldn’t be here. He isn’t. He hasn’t been that in a very long time, and there’s something about you that offers some semblance of that. Someone to help mask the memories of pummeling heads until they were a bloody pulp.

Bucky undressed right next to your bed, never taking his eyes off your figure under the blanket. You didn’t move until he slid in next to the warmth of your body. He pressed the line of his bare body against your back. His metal arm rested on your waist and pulled you closer. He waited.

You awoke, then realized and thrashed, twisted, tried to scream until he wrapped both his arms around yours. His thighs bracketed yours while he folded his legs, wounding around yours until you gave up. Panting and gulping down air, you started to tremble.

“Shush..” He breathed hot in your ear, he said your name like it was precious. “It’s me Bucky.”

“Get the fuck off -” And then you felt the cooler metal pressing into your bicep and choked out a tearful sob. It was true.

“No, no. Don’t do that.” He cooed, low, like he was soothing a wild thing he knew you to be. His girl. “I’m here now. I’ve watched your life, sweetness, you’re alone, like me. We need each other, babydoll.”

When he was satisfied you wouldn’t move, his metal arm shifted, pulling away, his fingers caressed your face. Your skin is hot and damp from tears, his vibranium fingers cool and smooth.

He twisted your head to look at him in the dark of your room. Around cracks from the curtains, the slivers of light from the streetlamps cut over his features, making lines sharp, dangerous as you look at where his eyes should be.

“We won’t ever be alone again.” He promised.

____________

-The Bean Chronicles: Chris Evans / Henry Cavill / Reader

-Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7. Part 8 Part 9

Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13. Part 14. Part 15 Part 16 Part 17

Part 18. Part 19

-The Townie: Chris Evans / Henry Cavill / Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

-The Kiss: Henry Cavill / Chris Evans

Part 1

Jake "Hangman" Seresin:

-Dibs - Coming Soon

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw:

-Hawaiian Print Hero - Coming Soon

Henry Cavill:

-Should've Known Better

-Your Remedy

Pablo Schreiber:

-Mixing Business with Pleasure

Part One

-Pablo En Francais

-Desert Heat

Intro Part 1

Keanu Reeves:

-New Neighbor

Nick Pulos:

-In the Nick of Time

Eric Fisher:

Your flashlight wavered in your grip, barely piercing the gloom. Your fingers were cold, your spine colder.

Then a voice. Smooth. Deep. Familiar.

“Well, well…”

You froze. The beam of your light caught him lounging in the high-backed chair at the far end of the ruined parlor. Shadows curled around him like pets.

Dean Winchester. Or what was left of him.

The fire in the hearth had long since died, but he burned anyway—his eyes glowing faint, coal-like, black-ringed and bottomless. His lips twisted in something that could've been a smile, if it hadn’t felt like a threat.

Another step and you saw the details. The bloodstains in the carpet. The symbols scorched into the walls. The remains of someone’s ribcage dangling from a chandelier.

He leaned forward slowly, the creak of old leather loud in the stillness.

“The last person who came in here never made it out,” he said, voice dragging through the dark like a hook. “What makes you different?”

Your flashlight dipped. Your hand found the knife hidden in your coat—its hilt carved from bleached bone, polished smooth by ritual and time.

You met his gaze, forcing the tremor from your voice.

“You knew me. Before.”

For a heartbeat, the house stopped breathing. The shadows froze mid-writhe. Dean’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered—like memory waking up in a coffin.

“You don’t remember?” you asked, quieter now. “The grave beneath the chapel. My name was carved beside yours.”

He stood slowly. Every inch of him felt dangerous—too solid, too quiet. He moved like a man who had nothing left to fear and too many things he wanted to break. But he didn’t attack. He watched. Waiting.

“I buried your heart there,” you said. “You told me to.”

Dean’s lips parted slightly. He stared at you like he was trying to hear an echo of something he once was. The air around him buzzed, faint and infernal.

“And if you ever came back,” you whispered, stepping closer, “you said I’d be the last person who walked into this house. Because I wouldn’t leave without you.”

He stopped inches from you now. You could feel the heat rolling off him—hellfire barely leashed, fury barely masked.

He reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear. His touch was cold at first, then warm like embers. A clawed fingertip traced your jaw. Not enough to cut, but enough to promise he could.

“You always were too stubborn to die,” he murmured. “Even when you should have.”

Your pulse thundered, but you didn’t flinch. You let him look at you—really look. And when his hand dropped, your voice was steady.

“So what now?” he asked. “You gonna stab me with that little relic? Pretend you can fix me?”

You held the dagger out, blade down.

“I came to join you.”

Silence fell again, thick and endless. The house seemed to lean in around you, listening, waiting.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. Not suspicious—curious. And then, the faintest hitch of breath. A sound that almost resembled relief. His smile was different this time. Still dangerous. Still sharp. But... wanting.

He stepped closer, chest nearly brushing yours.

“You always did have a twisted heart,” he said. “Guess it finally caught up.”

Then the door slammed behind you. Locked itself.