your favorite chud writer

i. The Bar

The target, Veselý, was a mid-level courier with a nervous tic and a refusal to talk to SHIELD. The file demanded caution. Bucky took the corner booth, ordered something dark, and watched.

He expected a standard extraction: calibrated flattery, a calculated approach. He had seen it a thousand times. He could do it himself when the timeline was tight enough, though his version lacked your particular brand of light. His version was gravity — a heavy hand, a cold stare, the promise of violence lingering in the air until the target broke. It was effective, but it was ugly. It left wreckage.

You, however, approached like you had been walking into this bar every Friday for a decade.

Bucky watched, his glass forgotten on the scarred wood of the table. You didn't loom, nor demand. You simply moved into Veselý’s personal space with an ease that made Bucky’s chest ache with a strange, sudden envy.

You said something low, something that cracked the courier's posture in an instant, turning his nervous, twitchy anxiety into something malleable.

For forty minutes, you held him there. You didn't just extract data; you performed a kind of alchemy. You made a man with a forgettable face and a guilty conscience feel like he was the only person in the room who mattered.

Bucky stared, genuinely baffled. He knew how to break a man’s spirit — he had the bruises on his own knuckles to prove it. But he had no idea how to make a man want to give you the world.

You leaned in, the bar light catching the line of your jaw, and the way you held Veselý’s gaze was so focused, so terrifyingly present, that Bucky felt like he was watching a masterclass.

Cool. The word felt insufficient. You were effortless, fluid, and entirely, dangerously magnetic.

Veselý leaned in to confide. You tilted your head, listening with that same unhurried, devastating attention, nodding like his words were gospel. Bucky caught the exact moment you pocketed the napkin with the coordinates — a sleight of hand so clean he barely saw it — while Veselý flagged the bartender for another round, practically tripping over his own feet to please you.

Bucky didn't look away. He couldn't. He felt a weird, protective spike of something in his throat, watching the courier lean a little too close to you, wanting a little too much. It was impressive. It was masterful. And it was starting to make Bucky’s fingers itch, though he couldn't have told you why.

You returned twenty minutes later, glass in each hand, and set one in front of Bucky without waiting for an invitation.

"West side of the rail yard," you said. "Thursday, oh-three-hundred. His direct supervisor runs the handoff."

Bucky looked at the drink, then back at you. He was still processing the shift from the man you’d been talking to and the calm, efficient operative standing in front of him now.

"He bought you a drink."

"He bought us drinks. I mentioned I was meeting a friend." You picked up your glass. "He’s lonely. I let him talk."

Just data. No satisfaction, no performance. "Did you eat? The kitchen closes at ten."

He hadn't. He had been watching you work for ninety minutes and had entirely forgotten the kitchen existed. He considered the gap between your methods and his own — the punches and the silence versus the smile and the napkin. He looked at you over the rim of his glass, quiet, studying you.

"You're good at that."

"Practice." You smoothed the napkin against the table, already moving on to the mission. "Okay. Rail yard. Do we have the layout, or are we going in blind?"

He pulled the site file and slid it across. Your shoulder brushed his as you leaned in, and Bucky held his breath, watching you mark the route with a focus that made the rest of the bar vanish.

ii. The Extraction

He didn't know about the driving until it was too late.

The tail picks them up two blocks from the rail yard. The car is already running, and you are already in the driver's seat. There is no clean moment to negotiate; Bucky gets in, a tactical decision he will later describe to Steve in a way that avoids mentioning the panic.

"Left," Bucky says.

"I see it."

"There's a —"

"I see it."

He puts one hand on the dash, jaw set, watching the world blur. The tail drops two turns later. You execute a parking manoeuvre he refuses to describe in detail, mostly because the detail would do nothing to preserve his dignity. You pull into an alley, cut the engine, and sit back.

The silence is immediate and complete.

"Okay?" you ask.

"Fine."

"You have the face."

"I have a neutral face."

"You have a very specific face. You had it when you told me my form on the last target was reckless." You are already checking the mirrors, split attention, completely calm. "I grew up with no public transit. You learn to drive."

"That wasn't driving, that was a —" He stops. The tail is gone. The case is intact. You are looking in the wing mirror with the expression of someone who has already moved on. He doesn't have a counterargument that accounts for the outcome. "Steve takes a wrong turn in the quinjet once and everyone acts like it's a war crime. You do that —"

"Did we lose them?"

"Yes."

"Then," you say simply, and check the mirror again.

He wants to argue. But the case is secure, and he finds he has no argument to make. This happens more than he’d like. He’s starting to suspect it will keep happening, and — more worrying — he is starting to suspect he doesn't entirely mind.

iii. The Debrief

The hotel room has a desk that is too small and a lamp that hums at a frequency that grates against Bucky’s nerves. He takes the chair — always the hard surface, no explanation needed — and gets the site layout open while you disappear into the bathroom.

You return in sleeping clothes, which Bucky registers and files away with the efficiency of someone who has learned to triage information by relevance. You settle onto the bed with the evidence photographs and your notes.

The next hour is the two of you working through the rail yard timeline. The lamp continues its low, discordant whine. At one point, you lean across to check something on his page and leave your highlighter on his side of the papers. He uses it without thinking and sets it back on the nightstand.

"Does the supervisor connect to the secondary location," you ask, "or is that a separate cell?"

"Separate. Different chain."

"So Thursday disrupts logistics, not the full network." You make a note. "Still worth it for the supply delay. I'll write up the structural piece. You've got the layout?"

"Almost done."

You nod and return to your page.

He watches you for a moment — cross-legged on the bed, photographs sorted into piles, highlighter in hand, brow furrowed at the file like it owes you something. There is lotion on one forearm. Your hair suggests the day has been longer than either of you has acknowledged. You catch the details about the secondary cell, note it, and move on.

He returns to his notes. He tells himself he’ll finish the report first. He does, and then he sits there anyway.

iv. The Night

You're asleep in under ten minutes, which he finds impressive. The lamp remains on, but you don't seem to need the dark; you go out like a switch.

He tells himself he’ll turn in once he checks the layout one more time.

He checks it. Then he sits there anyway, because you are, by any honest accounting, the most interesting thing in the room. You win by default.

You are sprawled across the bed with the total commitment of someone who started in a reasonable position and then stopped negotiating with gravity. One arm hangs off the edge. Hair is everywhere. The duvet is migrating, and he can see that it will be on the floor before morning.

He thinks: how. Then he sits with it for a while.

He knows what Steve said. His first friend. Steve had said it to Sam in the kitchen, and Bucky had been in the hallway and kept walking, because that was easier than standing there with it.

He understands friend. He has had those. He knows the shape — Brooklyn, the forties, James's version of himself that moved through the world easily. That version would have been named this already. He would have called you his crony, his mate, said it with one arm around your shoulders without awareness that it was a thing worth examining. James moved fast.

Bucky just uses your name. It isn't a lesser thing — it just feels like the whole sentence. Your name sits differently in his head than others. Quieter, like it has been there longer than it has.

He doesn't know when he falls asleep. Usually, sleep is a negotiation, something he has to arrive at deliberately. But at some point, the lamp is off, and there is grey morning light through the wedged window, and he is upright in the chair.

The duvet is on the floor. Both pillows are on the floor.

You are somehow still on the bed, in defiance of several principles he considers fixed, in a configuration he cannot physically reconstruct the logic of. One leg hangs off the edge. Dead asleep. The room looks like it survived something.

He sits with this, too.

In the field, you are structured with clean entries and good instincts. You finished the debrief before you slept because the work wasn't done. Then you apparently spent the night conducting an unconscious reorganisation of every soft surface in a three-foot radius.

 There is no report for this. You will wake up, look at the floor, and feel nothing in particular about it, and somehow that’s… something. The contradiction. Structured and chaotic, depending on the hour.

He knows that structure. It isn't so different from his own.

He waits, which he’s very good at. This isn't surveillance; this is just him in a chair in the early light, the duvet on the floor, waiting for you to wake up so he can see what you say when you clock the state of the room. He has a feeling it will be something good.

You wake up in an hour, staring at the floor, then flopping your sleepy eyes at him.

You say, with complete equanimity: "Huh."

He almost smiles. It’s close — closer than it usually gets.

James would have laughed already. Full and easy, the way he used to before laughing got complicated.

Bucky thinks: Yeah. Me too, actually.

Steve gets the mission report by morning and reads the whole thing. He texts Sam: Told you.

Sam doesn't respond. He does, however, show Natasha, who reads it once and says nothing, which for her means quite a lot.

In the hotel, Bucky picks the duvet up off the floor and puts it back on the bed without making a thing of it, because you have already moved on to asking where the nearest coffee is. Some things are just true without needing to be said.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

You look at him for a long moment, then turn toward the centre of the floor. You start small with one sustained note, low and careful, testing the air like weight on a frozen lake. You let it open.

The link flares into life — a hum in the marrow, a sudden, blinding clarity in the air.

Tony looks up, his pen pausing in mid-air.

Sam walks in from the hallway. He makes it four steps before the link catches him. His eyes go soft and unfocused. He starts to drift towards you, leaning against the counter and looking at you like you’ve just whispered a secret.

"Hi," he says, his voice dropping an octave, honey-thick. "You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you: you’re the best part of this entire building."

You keep going, the song pulling at the threads of their defences. Bruce wanders in from the lab, looking dazed, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that borders on worship.

Then Natasha, who moves with iron intention at all times, walks toward you with her arms uncrossed and her posture completely open. She stops in your personal space, her hand brushing your arm.

"I could listen to you breathe, let alone sing," she murmurs, her gaze tracing your lips.

Clint drops from a vent, lands on the couch, and turns to face you with the serenity of a man who has made peace with his entire life. "Oh," he says, beaming. "You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to just… sit here and look at you."

Steve arrives last, stepping out of the elevator. He sees you and smiles — not the captain's mask, but the real, unguarded one — and he stops. He walks over, his hand finding the small of your back. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone as beautiful as you right now," he says, his voice a low, reverent rumble.

Thor follows, tiny coffee in hand, looking at you with the full, unbridled warmth. It seems he would very much like to compose a ballad in your honor.

Tony hasn't moved. He’s at his workbench, his focus shifting from amusement to something much darker and tighter.

"Okay," Tony says, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Great. Good session. Rogers, you came from somewhere, go back."

"I was just going to tell them," Steve says, completely ignoring Tony, "that they make the whole world feel like home."

"They’re making the world feel like a headache," Tony snaps. He physically pivots Steve toward the elevator. "Out, Cap. Go find a shield to polish."

Thor begins, "In Asgard, there are songs —"

"Incredible, fascinating — not today." Tony steps directly into his sightline, shielding you from Thor’s gaze. "Point Break, you have a realm, multiple realms. Go be in one of them."

He clears the room like a man possessed, ushering a lovesick Bruce, a smitten Sam, and an unconvinced Clint out of the room. Natasha is the last to leave; she pauses to look at Tony with a sharp, knowing gaze, then turns to you. Her hand lingers on yours for a second longer than necessary.

"Don't let him stifle the music," she whispers, her eyes locking onto yours, before she turns and walks out.

Tony stands in the silence. He rolls his shoulders, his face a mask of annoyance. He turns to you, looking like a man who has successfully managed a logistical catastrophe.

"See?" he says. "Fine. A little redirection, and everyone's back to normal."

He’s completely present: all alert, and oddly still himself.

You think about what you know about siren song and the rare people it doesn't touch. In all the history of what you are, there is only one thing that grants immunity. It isn't strength, and it isn't serum. It’s someone who is already completely, irreversibly occupied.

Someone whose interior weather is so thoroughly taken up by one person that the song finds no foothold. There is no door to open because every door is already locked from the inside.

"Vocals sounding good, though, right?" Tony says, picking up his pen. His hand is shaking, just a fraction. "I’ll have FRIDAY send a calendar invite. Weekly with a cleared floor."

"Tony," you say.

"I can make it official, set up the parameters —"

"You weren't affected," you say simply.

He stops, glancing up. "What?"

"The song, the link, and everyone else. You saw them."

"Yeah, they were... a bit pathetic."

"Natasha was flirting with me, Tony."

Tony’s jaw shifts. "Natasha flirts with everyone. It's a tactical maneuver."

"Steve was telling me I'm the best part of his world."

"Steve is a Boy Scout; he says that to flags."

"You weren't affected," you repeat, stepping closer to the workbench.

He stares at you, his breathing hitched. "I’m just... I have a higher —"

“Sir,” FRIDAY’s voice interjects, calm and crisp, “I have been monitoring your vitals. Your heart rate is currently spiking to levels identical to previous instances of extreme emotional distress. Specifically, the patterns observed when you are in the vicinity of—”

"I'm experiencing a technical anomaly in the acoustic dampers, FRIDAY, that’s all," Tony rattles off, his words tripping over each other in a frantic stumble. "It’s a hardware issue. Purely mechanical. My heart is fine, my blood pressure is optimal for a man of my genius, and I definitely don’t need an analysis of my biological responses to —"

“Sir, I believe you are in lo —”

"Shut up."

He’s flushed, his gaze darting everywhere but at your face, his fingers white-knuckled around his pen. You just smile, keeping your distance, watching the frantic gears of his mind finally start to grind toward the truth.

"Weekly sessions," you say softly. "I'll see you then, Tony."

He just nods, unable to form another syllable, already back to his screen but failing to read a single word of it.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

The low pulsing beat of the club music rushes through the rooms with an electrifying energy and you can’t help but subtly shift your hips to the rhythm as you glance at the digital clock which hangs over the nearby opened doorway.

One hour.

You have only been here for one hour and already your body feels fit to burst from the swell of wicked anticipation and arousal which Crane’s slow ministrations have allowed to slowly build within you. Seated between his legs on the same plush bench, the way in which Crane is curling his upper body around your own gives him easy access to everything he needs as one hand stays wrapped around your neck while the other splits its attention between groping at your chest and teasing the soaked fabric of your panties.

His cock grinds against your ass, the hard length hidden away beneath his dark slacks as he enjoys the pressure of your body against his own. You’d already blown him in one of the private rooms, taking great advantage of an angled padded bench to give you the perfect position to allow him to grip your head with his thin hands and drag your mouth across his cock – forcing you to accept every inch as he pushed your limits and delighted in the wet, choking sounds until he came down your throat.

Both masked to protect your identities within the dark walls of Pandoras Boxxx, your lack of clothing is completely at ends with Jonathan’s own state of dress. Left only in your mask and underwear, the cold air of the club is like a second lover as it caresses across your skin. Crane, for his part, remains mostly dressed in dark slacks and a dark shirt which is unbuttoned at the top and rolled up at the sleeves to expose his thin hair-coated arms.

“Is this everything you wanted, sweetheart?” Crane croons, his positioning making it easy for him to whisper the words directly into your ear as you both stare out at the opened door – just waiting for someone new to pass through. “Are you getting off on allowing complete strangers to watch the Master of Fear claim you?”

“Yes.” You gasp the word out around his fingers as they maintain a steady, teasing pressure on your neck. As you squirm, a new body fills the door and a fresh thrill of arousal courses through you as you watch the new visitor peer at you both with curiosity, his eyes hidden away behind a wide, navy mask.

“What do you think he sees, little mouse?” Muttering the words, Crane drags his teeth across the lobe of your ear as his other fingers tease at your exposed hip. “A simple pervert and his shameless whore? Do you think he would be so eager to watch if he knew he was gazing upon the terrible Scarecrow and his mistress?”

The voyeur remains for only a moment before his attention diverts to something unseen and off to his side. As he disappears back into the darkness of the club, Crane slips a subtle finger within the fabric of your panties as he indulges in a fresh tease. So turned on already, it only takes a few wicked rubs of his digit before your breath is coming in sharp pants as your thighs quake and your gut tightens with anticipation.

Only for it to disappear into nothing, nothing but the steel of his fingers remaining around your neck.

The constant edging is all part of his game and it’s a game which you love as much as you truly hate it – your cunt clenching around nothing as a desperate whine slips free of your lips.

“Sir, please.” You wheeze. “Please let me come. Just once, then we ca-”

“No.” His answer comes easily and with a familiar firmness. “You still have a full lesson to learn before you get your reward. Tonight, you are supposed to be learning about the physiological effects of strangulation. Do you feel my hand around your throat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if I tighten it like this.” His fingers constrict and the pressure immediately feels like it’s limiting your breath as you buck in place, allowing him to set the pace of his fluctuating grip. “Do you feel that? The immediate sensation?”

Too overwhelmed to speak, you simply nod instead as Crane drags his arm across your waist to keep you pinned harshly against him.

“Physical pain.” Crane explains, his tone clinical but unable to hide the sadistic arousal within as he torments you. “The compression of nerves and arteries begin to restrict blood flow to the brain. The agony of trying to physically swallow around digits which might as well be steel as they tighten the oesophagus.”

His lips curve down to press against your temple, his tongue flicking out to taste at the skin by your right eye as Crane continues; his cock rubbing against your ass with such firmness that you’re surprised he’s not finding it uncomfortable.

“Vision blurring. Eyes filling with tears as inconsequential shapes flash through the struggling sense as it tries to cope with the sudden onslaught of sensation.”

A new spectator joins, her hair pulled so high and so tightly into a ponytail that you feel a momentary pang of sympathy for the headache which you know she is going to endure after this. Unlike the last man, she does not lurk in the doorway and instead walks towards your position with a hesitant, curious stride – her heels clacking off the flooring in a shaky rhythm. Pausing before you, she holds her hand out in an obvious, unspoken question.

“You may touch her.” Jonathan agrees, his breath hot against your ear once more as he makes the decision for you and quickly pivots back to flexing his fingers around your throat.

The blonde woman nods once and immediately drops her hands to the thin lace bra which covers your tits, pinching your erect nipples between her manicured thumbs and fingers with a firm pressure that makes you moan as your cunt clenches around Jonathan’s teasing fingers. Now with two sets of hands tormenting you, the fuzz of your thoughts growing even more intense as your body accepts the voyeuristic touch.

Crane continues his speech, his attention never waning from his lesson even as the newcomer drags her sharp nails down your stomach and sighs at the keening noise which it pulls from you.

“Hearing grows strained. Perception dissolving to a roaring or ringing sound which making it feel like your heartbeat itself is echoing in the drums.”

Hearing Crane speak, the woman fixes him with a questioning look but says nothing as she flashes you a wide, knowing smile and gently cups your tits within her hands again before turning on her heel and walking to another room; leaving you alone with Crane once more.

“With the body deprived of what it needs for survival, next comes a loss of bodily function control. Bladder and bowel relaxing in their panic as the brain loses any sense of dignity.”

His free hand drops to press roughly at the thick plug which sits heavily within your ass. On the larger side of what you can take, the constant stretching pressure of it is ever-present and something which only flares in discomfort as you push your ass into Crane’s groin – encouraging him to give you more.

Tugging at the plug with two of his fingers, you gasp and whine at the discomfort as the tight ring of muscle is once again forced to begin stretching around the flared base. As he teases, Crane locks his fingers around your throat roughly and the sudden, total loss of oxygen causes you to buck in place as your eyes and mouth open with pure desperation.

Grunting at the effort of keeping you pinned, Crane’s voice is rougher as he growls his next point.

“Fear racing through every nerve, the amygdala aflame with arousal as terror tenses every muscle and potential thought. No sense of reality, just panic. Primal. Beautiful.”

As he speaks, he releases his grip of the plug and instead slips his fingers around to thrust them within your soaked panties. With a terrible pressure, he rubs hard circles into your clit and steels himself at how desperately your body tries to pull away from the sudden onslaught of pure, awful sensation.

Already edged to the brink of madness, your nerves are thrown into a full-bodied orgasm by the time his fingers have even made a second rotation and the roar of blood in your ears as you struggle to take in a breath only makes the sensation worse. Limbs stiff and body writhing as much as it can, you come around his fingers with a strangled, wheezing noise as Crane finally relents his grip of your throat.

You take in thick lungfuls of oxygen and the gasping desperation in your actions only seems to drive Crane to a greater frenzy as he slips his fingers deeper within your hole and grinds himself harder into your ass. His own orgasm hits with a suspiciously high moan, one which he buries into the crook of your neck as he drives his lips against the skin to muffle it.

The comedown from your shared release takes a solid minute, your twitching frame still feeling painfully overstimulated as Crane locks his arms around your waist – pulling you close and keeping his head against your neck as he steadily inhales and exhales himself back to control.

Again, your eyes glance up to the clock and through the haze of your submissive state you can barely make out the red digits which flash against the dark background. Following your gaze, Crane lifts his head enough to take in the time for himself.

“We still have another hour, little mouse.” Crane says, his voice hoarse and pleasantly sated. “Do you think you can manage another lesson?”