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Chapter Text

In the Seabrook High Locker Room

The air in the Seabrook High locker room was thick—a mingling of disinfectant and the faint, sweet scent of victory. Zed leaned against the cool, pink-and-green striped bench, radiating a clean contentment that only a hard shower could provide after a major win. The Seabrook Shrimps had dominated the field tonight, and Zed, quarterback and proud zombie, finally felt the heavy weight of his helmet lift, replaced by the crisp, starched collar of his clean letterman jacket.

He was dressed, hair slightly damp but settling into its usual grass-green spikes, his Z-Band snug on his wrist, ensuring compliance and peace. He just needed Bucky.

"What is taking him so long?" Zed muttered, tapping his sneaker against the polished floor. Bucky, captain of the cheer squad and chief obstacle to any form of positive zombie-human reform at Seabrook, was notoriously high maintenance.

The heavy, metallic door of the shower area finally squeaked open, and Bucky emerged, followed closely by Jacey. They were both clad only in fluffy white towels. Bucky's was tied precariously low on his toned hips, while Jacey's looked almost like a robe, clutched tightly around his slim body.

"Honestly, Jacey," Bucky was talking—or rather, yelling—in a piercing voice, "it's not rocket science! We've practiced this a thousand times. Counterclockwise motion, focus on the calf muscle, and I specifically requested Swedish massage-level pressure. Not too firm, darling, but certainly not the bunny touches or whatever the hell that was." Bucky gestured dramatically with a silver exfoliation mitt. His dark, perfect curls remained fixed in place; the hairspray was truly doing the heavy lifting. How was it already sprayed after he got out of the shower?

Jacey's face was a mask of panic and misery. "I'm sorry, Bucky! I thought I nailed the pressure this time. I even counted the rotations!"

"If you thought you were counting them, you're delusional. Then again, you can barely keep up during routines, so maybe you're like…number dyslexic," Bucky snapped, pausing mid-sentence when he realized someone else was in the room. He spotted Zed, fully dressed, staring at the strange spectacle.

Bucky snapped his fingers, sharp and sudden. Jacey flinched, dropped his exfoliation mitt, and snatched it back up with a speed that defied physics. "Make sure you review the 'proper moisturizing protocol' chart Stacey laminated for you."

Jacey bolted, a blur of brown skin and towel, vanishing through the opposite door of the locker room without a backward glance. He didn't even put on any clothes, he just ran out in a towel.

Bucky turned his full, demanding attention to Zed. "Well? What do you want? Are you here to congratulate me on my perfect skin?"

"Uh,..." Zed blinked, still processing the sight of two teenage boys showering together while one was dictating the precise pressure required for leg exfoliation. "no. I was waiting for you, but now I'm also wondering… what was that? Are you guys in, like, a buddy system for bathing?"

Bucky scoffed, tossing his head so slightly that the immovable hairspray didn't even register the movement. "Please. It's called efficiency. Jacey is tasked with getting all the hard-to-reach places. I work too hard being fabulous, fierce, and a force of nature to worry about whether my deltoids are scrubbed. It's very draining, you know, maintaining this level of perfection." He paused, adjusting the knot of his towel. "Plus, he has surprisingly good grip strength."

Zed just nodded slowly, mentally adding a new layer of complexity to the Bucky mythology.

"Anyway," Bucky continued, spreading his arms wide, "I wanted to say thank you."

Zed was genuinely taken aback. Bucky thanking him? That was a universe-altering event. "For what, exactly?"

"For winning, of course, you dummy!" Bucky strode closer, his perfect torso gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "I needed the audience in a state of sheer, unadulterated euphoria. If your little football team had lost, the mood would have been ruined! How could they possibly appreciate the art of my new routine if they were brooding over the stupid sports stuff?" Bucky stood up tall, preparing to mime the cheer move right there in the locker room. "I needed them in good spirits so they could properly appreciate my roundoff, quadruple back handspring, back layout with two revolutions, into a back layout stepout with a high kick finish." He kicked his leg up, demonstrating a dazzling degree of flexibility that made the towel shift dangerously on his waist.

Zed whistled, impressed despite himself. "Okay. Wow. That sounds… dangerous, but also impressive. Well, I'm glad we could help you perform."

This was Zed's opening. He took a deep breath. "Speaking of helping, Bucky, there's something I need your help with."

Bucky recoiled dramatically, clutching his towel tighter as if Zed had just offered him a rotten fish. "Ew. No. Absolutely not. My hands are scheduled this week for mani-pedis and a special light therapy treatment. Do you know how important that is?"

Zed rushed to clarify, knowing he had to move fast before Bucky dismissed him entirely. "No, not physical labor. Political! I know you're running for Class President, but I was really hoping you'd consider dropping out. I have so many concrete plans for positive change for the school—reforms, integration programs, better funding for the arts, maybe even a new zombie vocational training center."

Bucky's smile withered into a look of pure disgust. "Positive change? Zed, darling, your plans would run this school into the ground. Literally. You'd probably turn it into some kind of moss-covered graveyard or whatever it is you dead things like."

Zed felt the familiar sting of prejudice, but he ignored it. This was too important. He was willing to swallow his pride for the greater good of zombie acceptance. "Look, I know we see things differently, but Seabrook needs forward momentum. Is there anything—anything—that I could do to get you to change your mind? To get you out of the race?" Zed asked, his dark green eyes earnest.

Bucky paused. He tilted his head, his meticulously groomed eyebrow raising inquisitively. His lips curled into a slow, calculating smirk that Zed instinctively recognized as pure trouble. "Well, now that you mention it…" Bucky took a slow, deliberate step toward the bench where Zed sat. The air around him seemed to crackle with self-importance. "There has always been one thing I've wondered about zombies, actually."

Zed braced himself. He assumed this would involve some bizarre question about brains…humans always wanted to know about brains.

Bucky leaned close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that felt entirely too intimate in the echoing locker room. "I've always wondered… if the carpet matches the drapes."

Zed looked blankly at the cheerleader. "Matches the drapes? Uh, I don't know, Bucky. It's pretty hard to get anything that really matches on my side of town. Everything is sort of faded and mismatched, you know? We don't exactly have the budget for—"

Bucky threw his hands up in exasperated disbelief. "Oh, for the love of perfect hairstyling! You are impossible! I mean, are your pubes green, Zed? Or is your… is your thing green?"

Zed froze. He felt a sudden, hot tide of shock, disgust, and profound weirdness wash over his ashen skin. This was not the conversation he had planned on having.

He looked up at Bucky, who was still smiling, but the expression in his brown eyes was predatory, surveying Zed with the same cold, analytical curiosity one might reserve for a particularly interesting, yet repulsive, cockroach.

"Wow. That is… a really weird question," Zed managed, his voice a little hoarse. "But, fine. Yes, my pubes are green. My hair is green, so that makes sense. But my, um, my… thing is the same color as the rest of my skin."

Zed tried to seize the momentum back. "So? Now that your burning curiosity is satisfied, will you drop out of the race?"

Bucky laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. "No, Zed! I just said I wondered that. I never promised anything. Honestly, you zombies are so braindead…unsurprising, though."

He took another step, now standing directly over Zed. Bucky's torso was inches from Zed's face, and his voice dropped again, velvety and demanding.

"But… I might think about dropping out if you…" Bucky performed a casual, practiced flick of his hips, and the towel dropped to the floor with a soft thump, "suck this." What was revealed was large, demanding, and fully hard, jutting out proudly from his stomach.

Zed's brain screamed no. He was disgusted, weirded out, and entirely uninterested. He was a good person, a reformer, a compassionate member of the community! He did not get involved in locker room transactions with self-absorbed cheer captains! But then he thought about the zombie vocational training center. He thought about the reforms, the integration, the positive changes he could bring about if he wasn't constantly fighting Bucky's human supremacy agenda. He imagined the presidential sash draped over his own letterman jacket.

"Okay," Zed heard himself croak. Zed reached out, wrapped his pale, clammy fingers around the impressive size of Bucky's erection, and took the cheerleader's dick into his mouth. Bucky let out a pleased, low sound, the sound of a spoiled child finally getting exactly what he wanted. The transaction had begun, and Bucky immediately became demanding and incredibly handsy.

Zed was focused on the task, concentrating just enough to keep the bile from rising in his throat. He tried to mimic what he thought he should be doing, relying more on muscle memory from vague internet knowledge than any actual desire.

Bucky still wasn't satisfied.

"No, no, no," Bucky commanded, his hands moving fast. He violently pulled off Zed's letterman jacket and then ripped at the plain gray shirt beneath, exposing Zed's lean, mildly muscled torso. "Use your tongue, idiot! You're just bobbing—you're not a flotation device!"

Bucky's hands were everywhere: grabbing Zed's abs, raking through his grass-green hair, and then gripping his face tightly, forcing Zed to look up mid-action.

"Look at me," Bucky snarled softly, his eyes hooded with pleasure and contempt. "This is for the good of your pathetic zombie kind, remember? Now earn it!" He pushed Zed's head down roughly. "Deeper!"

The entire time, Bucky kept up a running commentary that was a bizarre mix of sexual instruction and intense, unsolicited grooming advice.

"Now that's better. Rub the head against the roof of your mouth, Zed…gently. God, your hair is so lifeless. A honey serum in the morning would help—not that any miracle could help with the rest of you, but the hair is salvageable." Bucky gripped Zed's jaw and squeezed, his fingers digging into the thin, ashen skin. "Use your hands, feel how powerful this is! Lick the top, lazy! You look like a corpse, seriously. Do you have a concealer brand? Probs not, since you probably can't even find a shade in…that color."

Zed just focused on the goal: President, reforms, change. He ignored the insults, swallowed the disgust, and worked Bucky's large, throbbing cock as best he could.

Bucky's grip on Zed's hair tightened, pulling back and then forcing Zed's head forward one last, deep drive. "Oh, God, yes! I'm… I'm cumming!" Bucky cried out, his voice sharp and high-pitched. The release was explosive, relentless, and seemingly endless. Bucky's dick shot a torrent of cum into Zed's mouth. Zed's head was held firmly in place by Bucky's hand, effectively drowning him in the thick, viscous fluid.

Will he ever stop? Zed wondered, feeling his cheeks puff out and his throat strain. Finally, Bucky shuddered, his muscles locking tight, and the flow ceased. He pulled his cum-slicked cock out of Zed's mouth with a wet, sucking sound. Zed immediately swallowed, trying to clear his throat and regain the ability to speak, but before he could formulate a question, he caught the look Bucky gave him—a deep, hungry, satisfied gaze unlike anything he had seen before.

"Wow," Zed managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You… you cum a lot. How do you do that?"

Bucky was already searching for his locker. "Zinc, mostly. And edging. Lots of edging. And, frankly, Jacey is useless at it. He just cannot get the hang of the 'Goldilocks method'—you know, not too much, not too little, just right."

Zed was entirely uninterested in the logistics of Bucky's masturbatory practices. He pushed himself up, still shirtless, his eyes fixed on Bucky. "So, what's your answer? Now that I did that, are you dropping out?" Zed was optimistic, foolishly thinking the transaction was over.

Bucky sauntered over to his neon-pink locker, ignoring Zed entirely. "That? Oh, that was just the warmup, darling." Bucky knelt down, pulling a tube of industrial-sized lube out of his locker. It was a bright, shimmering gold color. He tossed it to Zed, who caught it automatically. "Lube up that little thing of yours, Zed," Bucky commanded, straightening up, his large cock still glistening. "And come over here."

Zed felt his jaw clench, but defeat was not an option. He unscrewed the cap, squeezing a generous amount of the thick, slightly iridescent gel onto his hand. It felt warm and surprisingly tingly on his skin. He quickly lubed his cock, forcing his own reluctant member to stiffen up.

When he approached Bucky, the cheerleader moved with startling speed. First, he pulled an egg-shaped silver plug out of (what Zed assumed was in) his ass, letting it drop to the floor. Then, Bucky vaulted toward Zed, jumping cleanly into his arms. Zed stumbled back against the pristine pink locker, having to shift his hold quickly to support Bucky's weight. Bucky's legs wrapped tightly around Zed's waist, locking the zombie in place, pinning him to the metal.

Bucky leaned back against the locker, enjoying the leverage.

"Stop being a weak ass, Zed. And fuck me already." Zed didn't need to be told twice. He drove forward, sinking his cock deep into the lubricated warmth of Bucky's tight hole. Bucky gasped, throwing his head back against the locker door.

Zed began to move, pushing slowly at first, then gaining speed. "Oh, God," Bucky moaned, eyes fluttering shut. He was still the self-absorbed cheerleader, even mid-coitus. "Does this make me a necrophiliac? My life coach said I need to expand my horizons, but I'm pretty sure this isn't what she meant."

"I'm technically undead," Zed grunted, pushing harder. "So it probably doesn't count."

"Oh, you really need to work on your dirty talk, Zed. That was appalling. Say something sexy! Say you're going to take me to your graveyard and fuck me into the dirt!"

Zed did not say that, focusing instead on the rhythm and force. He was driven by the necessity of the act. He pushed and pulled, faster and faster, while Bucky commanded him.

"Harder! Fuck me harder, dead boy! Oh, God, there!" Bucky's voice was strained, high-pitched with escalating pleasure. "Honestly, why are you so pale? Do you get, like, no sun?"

Zed drove deep, hitting a spot that made Bucky whine and whimper like a trapped animal.

"Why does my dick feel all weird and tingly?" Zed asked, confused by the intense, almost vibrating sensation the lube was providing.

"It's just intense lube, stop being a baby," Bucky dismissed. Then, immediately, "It's not hard enough! Carry me to the bench. Now!"

Zed obeyed, grunting with effort as he carried Bucky, still deep inside him, the cheerleader's legs locked tight around his frame. Zed dropped Bucky onto the bench and moved on top, shifting to missionary position. The wood was cold beneath Bucky, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Still not enough!" Bucky cried, pulling Zed's shoulders, demanding more. Then, Bucky did something that made Zed's mind short-circuit entirely. Due to his extreme flexibility honed by years of cheerleading, Bucky leaned forward, arching his back and torso impossibly. His tight, muscular core allowed him to bend far enough that he could smoothly curve his neck and head down, grabbing his own rigid cock that was jutting up between his legs.

He put his own dick in his mouth and started sucking himself off, all while Zed remained fully impaled inside him. Zed stopped moving entirely.

"Wow," he whispered, awestruck.

Bucky pulled back just long enough to lick the head of his own cock, keeping teasing eye contact with Zed over his own bent knees. He laughed around his still-wet erection. "You like that, zombie?" Bucky asked, his voice husky and delighted.

"I… I really do," Zed answered enthusiastically. Driven by the shocking display, Zed began to fuck Bucky harder, grinding his hips furiously, his sole purpose now to make Bucky suck his own dick faster.

The pleasure was intensifying rapidly, but Bucky suddenly reached down. His hand darted out and smacked the industrial Z-Band on Zed's wrist, hitting the override panel with deliberate, precise force.

The world went silent for Zed. The safety protocols vanished. Bright red, spider-webbing veins instantly covered his ashen skin, the whites of his dark green eyes turning bloodshot and sunken. His consciousness narrowed to a single, deep, consuming instinct: primal.

Zed wasn't just fucking Bucky now; he was violating him. He became vicious, supernaturally strong, impulsive. He grabbed Bucky's hips and slammed him down repeatedly onto the wooden bench, moving with a rough, primal efficiency that was meant only to destroy and satisfy base urges.

Bucky became a moaning mess, his high-pitched cries turning into choked, strangled sounds of pure, overriding pleasure. The rough treatment was exactly what he wanted. He kept sucking his own dick faster and faster, his breath catching with every brutal thrust. With a final, shattering surge, Bucky climaxed in his own mouth, his body vibrating with the intensity of the orgasm.

Zed didn't wait. He pulled out, his own cock near bursting. Still in his zombie state, he grabbed a handful of Bucky's perfectly sprayed hair—tight enough to yank and hurt—and began to jack off furiously. With a low, guttural roar that managed to sound like the word brains, Zed finished, cumming all over the ecstatic cheerleader's face.

Bucky's eyes snapped open, dripping with cum, his face flushed and his breath still ragged. "Yes! That is what I'm fucking talking about!"

Zed's hands tightened in Bucky's hair, his face hovering menacingly close. His bloodshot eyes were fixated entirely on Bucky's head. "Brains," Zed groaned, the sound raw and terrifying.

Bucky's eyes widened, the euphoria instantly replaced by calculated terror. He quickly slammed his hand against Zed's wrist again, hard against the Z-Band. "Calm the hell down, big guy!"

The Z-Band reset. The red veins immediately sank back into Zed's body; the color drained from his eyes, leaving them dull and dark green once more.

The transition was jarring. Zed's supernatural strength evaporated, and he collapsed heavily onto the floor beside the bench, gasping for breath, the aftershocks of the zombie state leaving him weak and shaking. It took Zed a long time to recover, his mind slowly crawling back to coherence. By the time he was able to sit up, Bucky had already toweled himself down, meticulously removing every trace of sweat and cum with a fresh, fluffy towel. He was fastidiously dressing in a fresh, pristine outfit—a pink polo and blindingly white jeans.

Zed finally managed to push himself to his feet, pulling his shirt back on, wobbling slightly. The lube was still slightly tingly, but the sheer, mind-altering intensity of the last ten minutes felt like a strange, horrifying dream.

"So," Zed said, voice weak. "Now that we did all that… did you think about dropping out?" Bucky paused right before leaving, reaching for a can of hairspray to ensure his perfect curls were still absolutely immobile.

He gave Zed a condescending, patronizing look, pretending to think deeply for a momentous second. "Hmm, let me consider what I just experienced with a dead boy in a high school locker room," Bucky drawled. "And the answer is… nah." He adjusted his collar. "Zed, you're going down. And not just on my dick this time."

Bucky patted Zed lightly on the head, treating the zombie like an overly friendly dog. He smirked, his teeth bright and perfect.

"That was fun, though," Bucky chirped, heading for the door. "For a dead guy."

Chapter Text

In Seabrook High

The vibrant pink and lime green hallways of Seabrook High were a blur, a frantic kaleidoscope of orderly chaos that Wyatt was struggling to navigate. His deep tan skin, usually a healthy glow, was flushed with exertion, his shaggy brown hair, with its signature white streak, bouncing wildly as he tried to keep pace with the ridiculously athletic cheerleader ahead. Bucky, all sculpted calves and perfectly coiffed dark brown curls, moved with an almost ethereal grace, each step a testament to the gallons of hairspray that kept him impervious to the laws of physics. Wyatt, a muscular werewolf with scars crisscrossing his powerful frame, felt like a lumbering beast by comparison.

"Seriously, dog, give it a rest!" Bucky called over his shoulder, his voice carrying with an effortless projection that came from years of leading chants. He didn't even glance back, just kept that infuriatingly cheerful stride. "You're messing with my reputation, following me around like a lost puppy. So not interested in letting you get close enough that I start smelling like wet fur."

Wyatt bristled. The "dog" comments were getting old, but he couldn't afford to get into a full-blown bickering match. He needed information, and Bucky, annoyingly, always knew everything about this pristine, overly-sanitized human school. Lunging forward, Wyatt grabbed Bucky's arm, his sharp nails, filed to points, brushing against the cheerleader's toned bicep.

Bucky stopped, dramatically, as if Wyatt had just ripped him from the jaws of a monster. He turned, brown eyes narrowed, a look of theatrical disgust gracing his otherwise perfect face. "Hands off, mutt. Do you know how much effort goes into keeping this skin flawless? And I can practically feel the animal dander radiating off you."

"Just a quick question," Wyatt mumbled, ignoring the jabs. He tightened his grip slightly, trying to convey urgency.

Bucky's gaze drifted past Wyatt, scanning the crowded hall. His eyes landed on a studious-looking zombie, engrossed in a textbook, a pen clutched in their hand. With a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, Bucky snatched the pen, sending the zombie into a startled yelp. He then lofted the pen with a practiced spin, sending it sailing across the hall, watching it expectantly as it clattered against a locker.

Wyatt just stared at him, bewildered. "What was that for?"

Bucky sighed, a sound laden with world-weary disappointment. "Honestly, I thought you'd go fetch it. You know, instinct and all that jazz. Typical dog behavior." He gave Wyatt a once-over, dismissing him with an eye-roll. "Guess you're not even good at being an animal."

Wyatt felt a surge of genuine annoyance. This human was insufferable. His knuckles, already calloused from untold scraps and hunts, whitened as he clenched his fist. "Look, can we just cut to the chase? Is there any place around here to hide... anything valuable?" He emphasized "valuable," hoping Bucky would get the hint about the moonstone.

Bucky's pout faded, replaced by a slow, suggestive chuckle. His eyes, usually gleaming with self-admiration, now held a glint of something predatory. "Oh, 'valuable,' you say?" His voice dropped, a silky purr that was entirely out of place in the bustling hallway. "Honey, I know just the place."

Before Wyatt could react, Bucky grabbed his hand, his grip surprisingly strong, and started pulling him through the throngs of students. Bucky's pace was still brisk, but now there was an undeniable excitement in his stride, a manic energy that pulsed through his cheerleader uniform. Wyatt, caught off guard, stumbled to keep up, his mind whirling. He knows a place? Is he talking about the moonstone? Does he know where the werewolves' moonstone is hidden? The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. This could be it. This could be what his pack had been searching for. Bucky led him past the science labs, down a less-trafficked corridor, and abruptly stopped in front of a nondescript, industrial-looking door. He didn't even knock, just shoved it open with a flourish, pushing Wyatt through the threshold before joining him inside and quickly closing the door behind them.

Darkness enveloped them. Wyatt's keen werewolf night vision, usually superior under moonlight, struggled to make sense of the impenetrable black. He could vaguely discern the outlines of shelves, stacked high with what looked like cleaning supplies and forgotten equipment. The air smelled of disinfectant and dust, a far cry from the fresh, open air his wolf instincts craved.

"A little mood lighting, wouldn't you say?" Bucky's voice, usually so loud and self-assured, was softer, closer. A click echoed in the small space, and a single, bare bulb flickered to life, bathing the room in a dim, yellowish glow. It wasn't enough to see clearly, but it was enough to make out the cluttered, forgotten corners of what was clearly a janitor's closet. Wyatt's gaze darted around, searching every shelf, every shadowy recess. No glint of silver, no luminous rock. Nothing even remotely resembling the legend of the moonstone.

He turned to Bucky, a frown creasing his brow. "What… what's going on? Where is it?"

Bucky laughed then, a low, theatrical sound that made the hairs on Wyatt's neck stand up. "Oh, bless your little canine heart. No need to rush. I don't usually do this with dogs, FYI."

Wyatt felt a cold dread creep into his stomach. "Do what? What are you talking about?"

Bucky took a step closer, his cheerleader uniform looking impossibly white in the dim light, almost glowing. He ran a hand through his perfectly sculpted hair, then struck a pose that was probably meant to be alluring. "You know, Wyatt. Going somewhere private. A secluded spot. Away from prying eyes." He winked, a slow, deliberate blink. "Honestly, I'd typically need proof that you've had all your shots. Heaven forbid I catch something from a… well, you know." He gestured vaguely at Wyatt's general wolfishness. "But, since you called me 'something valuable,' I suppose I can make an exception, just this once."

Wyatt's eyes widened. He thought I meant him? He thinks he's a valuable thing I wanted to hide? The absurdity of it was almost comical, but the underlying implication was anything but.

Bucky, completely oblivious to Wyatt's mounting horror, continued, "After all, I haven't been properly laid since Lacey gave me the world's toothiest morning head. And trust me, that was an experience. She just bit down." He shuddered dramatically, though a small smile played on his lips. "Almost lost a bit of a legacy there, if you catch my drift."

"Laid?!" Wyatt blurted out, the word escaping his lips in a choked whisper of pure, unadulterated worry. He took a hasty step back, bumping into a stack of mop buckets. His mind reeled. This was not about the moonstone. This was not about his pack. This was… Bucky.

But before Wyatt could react, before he could even form a coherent protest, Bucky was on his knees. The movement was fluid, practiced, like a cheerleading stunt. With surprising speed, Bucky's nimble fingers went straight for the buttons of Wyatt's pants, undoing them with an expert flick. Wyatt froze, his wolf instincts screaming in his head, a mix of alarm and a primal, unfamiliar curiosity. He knew Bucky was a human-supremacist. He knew Bucky hated his kind. Yet here he was, on his knees, with a look in his eyes that was… undeniably hungry. Bucky made short work of Wyatt's fly, pulling the wolf's thick, already-hard dick out with a clean slide.

"Alright, pup," Bucky purred, his voice now a low growl that made Wyatt's stomach clench. "Just so you know, I'm only sucking you off because my lube's all the way downstairs in my locker, and there's no way I'm doing this dry. My ass is an irreplaceable national treasure, and it needs lubrication."

Wyatt could barely breathe. Bucky's lips, full and perfectly sculpted, closed around the tip of his cock. A shiver ran through Wyatt's entire body as Bucky started to lick, stroke, and suckle the sensitive head. Bucky's tongue was surprisingly skillful, tracing every ridge, teasing every nerve. Wyatt stiffened, a low groan escaping his throat, half surprise, half pure, unadulterated pleasure. As Bucky continued, his technique flawless, Wyatt felt himself getting harder, his blood rushing, his cock swelling to an impressive size. Bucky, without missing a beat, started sucking him fully, pulling him deeper into his mouth. The cheerleader's throat seemed impossibly wide, easily deepthroating the wolf's entire length, taking him down, down, down until Wyatt's balls brushed against Bucky's chin.

Wyatt's hands, driven by instinct, instinctively found their way to Bucky's hair, his fingers tangling in the impossibly stiff, hairspray-laden curls. But before he could pull, Bucky's head pulled back, his eyes, dark and intense even in the dim light, meeting Wyatt's.

"Uh-uh, wolfie. No touching the hair," Bucky commanded, his voice muffled around Wyatt's cock, which was still half-lodged in his mouth. "Grab my shoulders. I spent hours on this. It's a work of art."

Something snapped in Wyatt. The sudden command, the casual dismissal, the sheer audacity of Bucky telling him what he could and couldn't touch while he was still sucking his dick—it was too much. A growl rumbled deep in Wyatt's chest. He didn't just grab Bucky's shoulders; he squeezed, hard, his sharp nails digging into the cheerleader's toned flesh, claws extending just enough to pierce the fabric of Bucky's uniform. A gasp escaped Bucky's throat, but it wasn't a cry of pain. Instead, a slow, wicked smile spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of surprise and genuine delight.

"Oh, now that's what I like," he purred, his tongue flicking out to tease the head of Wyatt's cock once more. "So savage. Such an animal. You dogs are good for something, I guess." Bucky pulled off Wyatt's dick with a wet, audible pop, only to immediately lean down, his head dipping lower. Then, to Wyatt's complete astonishment, Bucky started sucking his balls, his tongue circling them greedily, swirling around the sensitive skin, darting between them. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, sending waves of pleasure through Wyatt that were entirely new. Every muscle in his body tensed, a silent howl building in his chest.

Finally, Bucky pulled off, his lips glistening. He stood up, slowly, languidly, pushing a perfectly styled lock of hair back from his forehead, his chest heaving slightly. He stood there for a moment, just looking at Wyatt, his eyes raking over the wolf's flushed face and painfully aroused cock. Wyatt, still reeling from the onslaught of sensation, could only stare, a raw, worshipping look in his brown eyes. Bucky reveled in it, a small smirk playing on his lips as he lowered the pants of his uniform. He turned, bracing himself against a dusty shelf filled with bottles of bleach and floor wax, his back arched slightly, his hips pushed out in an irresistible invitation.

Wyatt took the hint. Impulse control, as usual, was not his strong suit. The raw, primal urge to claim, to mate, to take what was offered, surged through him. His pants were already unzipped. He moved forward, pushing Bucky's legs apart, and without thought for gentleness or preamble, rammed himself into Bucky's ass.

Bucky cried out, a sharp, surprised sound, but it was quickly swallowed by a moan of intense pleasure. Wyatt didn't have much experience with this, but he had instincts, and those instincts told him to go hard, to go deep. He fucked Bucky with a reckless abandon, a wild, untamed energy that rattled the very shelves around them. He grabbed Bucky's hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, leaving angry red marks on Bucky's tan skin.

"Oh, fuck," Bucky groaned, arching his back, digging his fingers into a stack of paper towels on the shelf. "Yes! Harder, puppy! Just like that!" He gave a breathless laugh, his voice laced with delight. "I should've known a wolf like you only knew how to fuck me... ruff ruff ruff."

Wyatt ignored the playful insult, or rather, it just fueled his intensity. He was lost in the moment, in the feel of Bucky's tight ass clenching around him, the raw friction, the sheer primal satisfaction of it all. Then, without warning, a new impulse struck him. He pulled Bucky back, bringing the cheerleader's back flush against his chest, wrapping his powerful arms around him. He buried his face in Bucky's neck, kissing down the column of his throat, his breath hot against Bucky's skin. His claws, still extended just slightly, gently circled Bucky's nipples, teasing and scraping.

"That really hurts my feelings," Wyatt whispered, his voice a low growl against Bucky's ear. He kissed the sensitive skin just below Bucky's ear, then leaned in to kiss Bucky's cheek. "Please be nice, baby. Please."

Bucky stiffened for a moment, the word "baby" making him squirm, a flicker of genuine revulsion crossing his face. Baby? Is he serious right now? I am nobody's baby. Especially not a werewolf's.

But the overwhelming pleasure in his ass, the consistent, rhythmic thrusts that hit his prostate with pinpoint accuracy, and the tantalizing sensation of Wyatt's claws teasing his nipples quickly overcame his brief outrage. He leaned his head back, letting Wyatt's tongue flick and tease his neck, his mind melting into a haze of pure sensation.

Bucky lost himself completely, his flexible cheerleading body bending in ways that defied human anatomy. He leaned down, arching his back even further, and took advantage of his own impressive flexibility to start sucking his own dick. His mouth closed around himself, a low moan escaping his throat as he used his hand and mouth. He started to stroke and suck, adding another layer of intense pleasure to the already overwhelming sensations.

Wyatt, a primal roar building in his chest, readjusted his grip, turning them slightly so they could both gaze into a discarded, cracked mirror leaning against the far wall. The dim light of the janitor's closet cast their entwined bodies in a distorted, almost grotesque, but undeniably vision of pleasure.

"God, Bucky," Wyatt rasped, his voice raw with lust. "You are so fucking hot sucking your own dick."

Bucky whimpered, a low, guttural sound, his mouth full around himself. His eyes rolled back in his head, completely consumed by pleasure. Wyatt leaned in, kissing the side of Bucky's neck, his fangs just barely grazing the skin. "You're perfect," he whispered softly, words torn from his throat.

That made Bucky whine, a broken sound of pure bliss. "N-ngh..."

"You're the perfect mate, Bucky," Wyatt breathed, pressing deeper, finding Bucky's prostate again, sending a jolt through the cheerleader.

A choked noise of surprise escaped Bucky, but he was already cumming in his own mouth, a hot gush of cum filling his throat, so the protest was barely audible, drowned out by the waves of pleasure. Wyatt, watching in the mirror, felt his own climax building. He saw the cum spill from Bucky's mouth, a thick white trail that ran up his upside-down face, smearing his perfectly tanned skin, even getting a little into his nose and up his cheek. "God, that's so hot," Wyatt whispered, his eyes wide with a feral intensity. With a loud, guttural howl that reverberated through the small closet, Wyatt came inside Bucky, filling him with a hot, pulsing torrent of semen. The howl quickly faded into a soft whimper, like a contented puppy, as he held Bucky tight, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his climax.

Bucky, still sucking himself, felt the rush of Wyatt's cum inside him, hot and overwhelming. He pulled off his own dick, gulping down his own fluids, his eyes still half-lidded with pleasure. Wyatt, still twitching from his release, pulled him up, turning him around to kiss him, his lips tasting of Bucky's own cum. The wolf, despite having just finished, kept filling him, his dick still swollen and pulsing.

"Is your dick getting bigger?" Bucky mumbled, his voice hoarse, a strange mix of astonishment and annoyance.

When Wyatt was finally done, his body still twitching as he held Bucky close, the cheerleader squirmed slightly. "Okay," Bucky gasped, trying to catch his breath. "That was… fun. But I have other things to do. A cheer practice, a nail appointment… my perfect reputation to maintain, you know." He tried to push Wyatt away, to get the other boy off him and out of his hole.

But Wyatt just whined, tightening his grip. "No, Bucky. You can't go."

Bucky scoffed, trying to pry Wyatt's hands off his hips. "Too bad, so sad, wolfie. This isn't a permanent deal." He pushed harder, trying to dislodge the heavy weight of Wyatt's hips. But it was no use. He couldn't seem to pull away. A flicker of genuine alarm crossed his face. "What the hell is going on? Wyatt, start helping, pull out!"

Wyatt, still breathing heavily, buried his face in Bucky's neck again, looking utterly sheepish. "I… I can't," he mumbled.

Bucky's eyes narrowed, his voice rising in panic. "Why the hell not?!"

"I'm knotted," Wyatt explained, his voice strangely calm. He started gently kissing Bucky's neck, his hands rubbing soothingly up and down the cheerleader's hips. "I won't be able to pull out for at least a day." He squeezed Bucky's hips possessively. "It's to keep my cum inside you. We're mates now."

Bucky stared at him, his mouth agape, comprehension slowly dawning in his pleasure-addled brain. The words hit him like a physical blow. Mates. Trapped. With a wolf.

"Ew! No! No, no, no!" Bucky cried out, his voice filled with a genuine, soul-deep horror, battling against the lingering pleasure. "That's so gross! I cannot be trapped with a dog!" He tried to squirm, to pull away, but Wyatt's body, solid and unyielding, held him fast.

Wyatt leaned back slightly, a small, hopeful smile on his face, his eyes gazing down at Bucky's nipples, still sensitive from his earlier ministrations. "Should I start playing with your nipples again, then?"

Bucky let out a frustrated, exasperated whine, a sound of pure resignation. "That," he grumbled, still trapped, still knotted, "should be obvious."

Chapter Text

In Bucky's House

The steam, thick and fragrant with whatever expensive bath bomb Bucky had chosen that morning, wrapped around him like a cashmere blanket. His modern, pristine bathroom, all sleek grey tiles and polished chrome, hummed with the gentle thrum of the soaking tub's jets, turned up to max, massaging away the faint soreness in his cheerleading-toned muscles. Bucky leaned his head back, eyes closed, a faint, complacent smirk playing on his lips. This was the life. This was what a human supremacist like him deserved: utter perfection.

Then, a sound. Not the soothing gurgle of the jets, but a sharp, crackling static, like a radio struggling to find a signal. Bucky's eyes snapped open. The static intensified, swelling into a buzzing crescendo that vibrated through the water. Before he could even sit up straight, the air directly above his marble vanity shimmered, rippled, and then exploded in a flash of electric blue light, forming a dizzying pattern of interconnected hexagons.

Out of the shimmering chaos, a figure materialized. No, popped into existence. A teenage boy, with skin as pale as fresh snow, teal eyes that seemed to glow, and a gravity-defying mop of electric blue hair, fluffy like cotton candy. Silver scales shimmered delicately around his left eye, catching the bathroom light. He wore strange, futuristic clothes that seemed to cling perfectly to his lean, toned body. As the blue hexagons faded from around him, the boy offered Bucky a wide, enthusiastic wave, a motion so earnest it was almost alarming.

"Greetings," the newcomer began, his voice surprisingly smooth, though with an almost imperceptible, analytical cadence. "I am designated as A-Lan—"

But before he could finish, Bucky let out a scream so loud and piercing it rattled the high-end glass shower door. It wasn't a scream of pain, but of pure, unadulterated outrage and terror. He flailed backwards in the tub, splashing bathwater over the immaculate tiles.

The alien boy blinked, his teal eyes wide and unblinking. He lowered his waving hand slowly. "I observe a high-frequency vocalization, indicative of distress," he said, his head tilting to one side. "May I inquire as to the reason for your discomfort, designated Bucky?"

Bucky scrambled to sit up, wrapping his arms around his knees, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable. "Reason for my discomfort?" he shrieked, water dripping from his perfectly coiffed, hairspray-packed dark brown hair. "A freaky alien just teleported into my bathroom! My private bathroom! You're here to beam me up, aren't you? To get me probed and dissected and fed to your alien queen!"

The alien's expression remained one of unwavering, almost scientific, confusion. "Beam you up? To Mothership for invasive medical procedures involving a 'probe'?" He paused, processing. "That data does not align with my mission parameters. My current objective does not involve forced abduction or anatomical examination."

"Oh, like I'm going to believe an alien!" Bucky snapped, shivering more from indignation than cold. He glared at A-Lan, then remembered his trusty ally. "Hey, A-Shrimpa!"

From a sleek, pink, pill-shaped device nestled on the edge of the vanity, a soothing, synthesized female voice responded, "How may A-Shrimpa assist you, Bucky?"

"Call 9-1… what's the other number? A-Shrimpa, call the police! He's trying to steal me!" Bucky yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the alien.

The alien, whose curious gaze had immediately fixed on the pink device, took a step closer, leaving a faint, hexagonal afterimage in his wake. "Based on my downloaded planetary research, I believe the other number is 1," he supplied helpfully, completely ignoring Bucky's accusation. He extended his left wrist, and a panel on his futuristic wristband slid open, emitting a soft blue light. He scanned A-Shrimpa with the beam, his teal eyes gleaming with fascination. "Remarkable. A localized, sentient information hub. Its processing capabilities, though miniaturized, are analogous to a compact Mothership. Can I… acquire this unit for further study?"

"Now I'm getting robbed, too!" Bucky practically wailed, splashing water again as he threw his hands up in despair. "Not only am I being abducted, I'm being robbed by a space weirdo! This is just great!"

A-Lan retracted his scanner, his gaze returning to Bucky with renewed confusion. "Rob? Who is this 'Rob' you refer to? Is he another human male present in this domicile? My sensors detect only two biological entities."

Bucky stared, speechless for a moment. This alien was either an unparalleled actor or genuinely the most clueless thing he'd ever met. "Forget Rob! Why are you even here? What do you want?" he demanded, finally managing to pull himself to the edge of the tub.

A-Lan straightened, his lean body suddenly seeming taller. "My purpose is research-driven, as previously stated. My preliminary planetary data download, which includes all publicly accessible closed-circuit television footage on this planet, indicates a fascinating anomaly. Despite your overtly human-supremacist declarations, designated Bucky, you appear to exhibit a high degree of attraction to individuals classified as 'supernatural beings.'"

Bucky's jaw dropped. "Highly? What? No!" He immediately got defensive. "I do not!"

A-Lan's head tilted again, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips. "Actually, based on the comprehensive data analysis, 'highly' is an understatement. The term 'excessively' or even 'compulsively' might be more statistically accurate."

A blush, hot and uncomfortable, crept up Bucky's tan neck. "That's… that's ridiculous!" he stammered, scrambling for a towel. He wrapped it hastily around his waist, feeling exposed and judged. Especially by an alien.

A-Lan, however, seemed to miss Bucky's mortification entirely. "Given this observed behavioral pattern, and my primary directive to understand all facets of human interaction, I must pose a query," he stated, stepping closer, his teal eyes fixed on Bucky with unsettling intensity. "Would you, designated Bucky, be interested in engaging in the human act of 'hooking up' with me?"

Bucky froze, towel half-secured. "Hooking up?"

"Indeed. My cultural databases indicate that this act, which involves… physical intimacy, sometimes leading to the creation of offspring, appears to be a source of significant entertainment and emotional bonding for your species," A-Lan explained, his voice still that even, analytical tone. "On my homeworld, procreation is typically managed through meticulously controlled test tubes and efficient incubation chambers. The concept of spontaneous, recreationally-motivated copulation seems… considerably more engaging. I have been looking forward to observing and participating in this process."

Bucky stared at him, then a snort escaped him, followed by a loud, incredulous laugh that echoed in the tiled bathroom. He didn't quite follow all of A-Lan's clinical explanation, but the gist was clear enough. "Oh, boy," Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "It's only natural, I guess. You're on Earth for five seconds, and you're already trying to get into my pants."

A-Lan blinked again, his gaze dropping to Bucky's towel-clad lower half. "I am confused by this statement. You do not appear to be wearing 'pants.' Or, indeed, much of anything else. Only a fibrous garment covering your lower abdomen."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Oh, you have so much to learn, Alex." He said it with the fond, superior air of someone teaching a particularly dim pet.

"My designation is A-Lan," the alien corrected, his voice flat.

But Bucky was already in motion. Water still streamed down his toned body as he tossed the towel aside, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. He strode towards A-Lan, his cheerleading strength evident as he reached out, effortlessly scooping the lean alien up and depositing him with a soft thud onto the polished marble countertop next to the sink.

"Let's get you out of those weird clothes, first," Bucky murmured, his attention now entirely focused on the task. He leaned in, his fingers brushing against A-Lan's peculiar fabric, searching for a zipper, a button, any recognizable fastener.

A-Lan watched Bucky's probing fingers with mild curiosity. "That will not be necessary," he stated. He then pressed a discrete button on his wristband. With another soft flash of blue hexagons, his futuristic clothing dematerialized, disappearing as if it had never been there. He stood nude before Bucky, his pale, lean body perfectly sculpted, with the same electric blue hair, now visible in its full glory, extending from his head down to his perfectly coiffed pubic region.

Bucky let out a low whistle, eyes widening appreciatively.

"Do you mind if I utilize my neurochip to take notes regarding your species' mating rituals in real-time?" A-Lan asked, completely deadpan.

Bucky frowned. "My house doesn't have chips. Or any carbs for that matter. I'm on a very strict diet."

A-Lan paused, a flicker of something Bucky couldn't quite interpret crossing his teal eyes. "Is my neurochip considered restricted contraband on this planet? I assure you, it is an integrated part of my neural network and cannot be removed."

"Just… shut up," Bucky commanded, unable to suppress a grin. His gaze lingered on the alien's pubic hair. "Oh, I love that your pubes match that freakish hair on your head. That's… really something."

Without waiting for a response, Bucky knelt, taking A-Lan's semi-erect dick into his mouth. He began to suck prodigiously, his tongue circling the sensitive head, then drawing the alien's cock deep into his throat. He worked with practiced skill, using his lips and tongue as a master craftsman would his tools, aiming to impress. His eyes flickered up, meeting A-Lan's in a bold, challenging stare even as his mouth worked furiously.

A-Lan gasped, a sound like a small, highly efficient servo shifting. "Observation: This sensation is extremely arousing," he commented, his voice a little strained, but still analytical. "The velocity and pressure of your oral manipulation are highly effective."

Bucky groaned inwardly. He's dissecting my technique! But he leaned into the praise, milking the alien's cock with renewed vigor. He felt the alien's hips shift forward slightly, a silent testament to his skill.

"Yes, that feels… exceedingly good," A-Lan articulated, and Bucky felt a thrill of victory. He wanted to hear more of that. But then A-Lan ruined it. "Your tongue appears to be executing approximately 1.7 revolutions per second around the corona of my genitalia, while simultaneously applying a consistent suction pressure of 34 millibars. Fascinating."

Bucky almost choked. He pulled back, shaking his head. "Ugh, stop with the commentary! Just… enjoy it!" He couldn't believe this alien was so good at ruining the mood.

"My apologies," A-Lan said, though his expression remained unchanged. He seemed to take Bucky's words literally rather than as an emotional outburst. But before Bucky could protest further, A-Lan seamlessly repositioned them. With a fluid, alien grace, he slid off the counter, pushing Bucky gently backwards until Bucky was sitting on the cool tile floor, propped slightly against the vanity. A-Lan then straddled Bucky's face, his lean hips settling directly over Bucky's mouth. He guided his now fully-erect cock back into Bucky's eager lips. Simultaneously, A-Lan's hand shot out, wrapping around Bucky's own growing dick. He began to suck Bucky's cheerleader cock with an intensity and precision that made Bucky's breath catch.

Bucky's eyes squeezed shut, a low groan escaping him. This is good. Too good. He'd expected to be the one showing off, the one eliciting gasps and praise. But A-Lan didn't seem to have a gag reflex. His throat was a bottomless pit, and his tongue and lips moved with an alien dexterity Bucky had never imagined. A-Lan's mouth was a vacuum, his tongue swirling and pressing in ways that made Bucky's entire body tingle.

He found himself moaning, loud and unapologetic. Then, a new wave of something akin to panic washed over him. He was moaning far more than A-Lan, who was still silently, relentlessly working Bucky's cock. To make matters worse, Bucky felt a familiar warmth begin to seep from the tip of his penis. A-Lan, sensing it, tightened his lips, sucking out the precum with a satisfied hum.

Oh, hell no, Bucky thought, a competitive fire igniting in his gut. I am not going to be shown up by an alien in my own bathroom. Especially not by one who can't stop doing a biology report while he's getting head.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Bucky pushed A-Lan slightly to the side. He scrambled up, ignoring the way his half-erect cock sprang free from A-Lan's mouth. He quickly straddled A-Lan, positioning himself over the alien's waiting dick. He looked down at A-Lan, a smug, defiant smirk on his face.

"This is how it's done," Bucky practically growled, his voice thick with arousal and defiance.

A-Lan, still flat on his back where Bucky had pushed him, watched Bucky with his unblinking teal eyes. "Query: Is this the part that humans refer to as 'the fucking'?"

Bucky laughed, a throaty, self-satisfied sound. "Oh, boy, you have no idea what you've gotten in for with me."

A-Lan, however, seemed to misunderstand this as an instruction rather than a brag. "Affirmative. I will take the responsibility to 'get in for with you' then." With that, A-Lan's hips bucked upwards, and his large dick pushed firmly and smoothly into Bucky's ass. A sharp gasp escaped Bucky's lips, quickly followed by a soft whimper. A-Lan had hit Bucky's prostate with astonishing accuracy, instantly. The pleasure was overwhelming, a deep, aching throb that spread through his core. Bucky moaned, trying to form a witty, dirty line—something about how much A-Lan must have wanted to "probe" him. But the words got caught in his throat, lost to the relentless, exquisite sensation. He could only manage a garbled sound, half-pleasure, half-stifled competition.

"This is quite fun," A-Lan observed, his hips beginning to move with a steady, powerful rhythm. "Request for data: Should I commence vocalizations of praise to induce orgasm? My research indicates this expedites the process by a factor of three to five metrics."

Bucky groaned, burying his face in A-Lan's shoulder. "No! It's fine! That's… not needed!" He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his ass muscles, trying his absolute best not to cum embarrassingly fast. But A-Lan seemed to possess an innate, frustrating talent for hitting his spot, perfectly, with just the right amount of pressure and depth.

"Observation: You exhibit a preference for a non-verbal stimulus response system," A-Lan noted, still thrusting with unwavering precision. "Understood." He paused his thrusts, just for a moment, then asked, "Request for demonstration: The autofellatiating act you are known to engage in. Would you be willing to provide a live example?"

Bucky lifted his head, eyes wide. "Auto-what now? What does that even mean?"

A-Lan tilted his head. "The act of orally stimulating your own genitalia. As documented by numerous public and private surveillance feeds."

Bucky felt a smirk spread across his face, despite the intense pleasure he was experiencing. Aha! Every boy's weakness! This was his time to shine, to show off his unique talent. Being a cheerleader had its perks.

As A-Lan continued to fuck him with relentless efficiency, Bucky pushed himself up, performing a slow, controlled split. One knee, still shaking slightly from the pleasure, looped gracefully around A-Lan's shoulder, giving him leverage. Bucky leaned down, holding eye contact with the alien above him, his eyes daring A-Lan to look away, to not be impressed. With deliberate slowness, he guided his own still-hard dick towards his mouth. His lips teased the head, his tongue flickered, then, with a practiced motion, he deep-throated himself.

The instant his own cock slid down his throat, Bucky instantly regretted it. Not because it was painful, but because the combination of A-Lan relentlessly fucking his ass while he deep-throated himself was too much. The pleasure was utterly overwhelming, a double-barreled assault on his senses. A full-bodied shudder racked him. His eyes rolled back, and a choked, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came, heavily and messily, into his own mouth, his body still arching and thrusting against A-Lan's cock even as his own orgasm consumed him.

A-Lan watched with keen, appreciative teal eyes, his rhythm not faltering for a single beat. "How fascinating," he commented, his voice devoid of judgment, only pure scientific interest. "The simultaneous activation of multiple pleasure centers appears to correlate with an exacerbated orgasmic response."

Bucky felt weak, spent, and utterly drained, his body trembling from the intensity. He barely registered A-Lan shifting them again. With effortless strength, A-Lan pulled Bucky up, bringing him to his feet. Bucky's legs felt like jelly, his muscles screaming in protest, but he idly allowed A-Lan to guide his limbs. A-Lan lifted Bucky's hands, wrapping them around his own lean hips. Then, A-Lan sat himself down on the bathroom counter, pulling Bucky's limp form closer, settling himself down against the cheerleader's lap. He started to fuck him anew, Bucky's spent dick now sliding into the alien's tight ass. Bucky could only manage weak, halfhearted thrusts, his mind still reeling from his own explosive orgasm. But A-Lan, ever the precise operator, adjusted his hips, rolling against Bucky's flaccid dick, using it like a toy to hit his own prostate.

"This feels… profoundly amazing," A-Lan stated, his voice now laced with a new, almost musical quality. "I can understand now why you, designated Bucky, exhibit such a pronounced affinity for the cultural ritual of 'The Bottoming.' The internal pressure, the tight constriction, the milking sensation… these are optimal pleasure points."

Bucky, still leaning heavily against A-Lan, his head bowed, felt a sudden, stark realization hit him. He's right. He never topped because this—this tight, warm heat, this feeling of being squeezed and milked—made him cum so fast, so hard, every single time. It was embarrassing, sure, but it was also… addictive.

As the thought formed, Bucky felt another jolt, another wave of sensation, and with a guttural gasp, he spurted a fresh load of cum inside A-Lan's ass. Almost simultaneously, A-Lan's free hand shot down, grabbing his own dick. He began to suck his own cock, his mouth taking more than Bucky ever possibly could. A-Lan's head tilted back, his teal eyes fluttering closed, as he sucked his own dick down to the very base, burying his nose against his balls.

"That's not fair!" Bucky whined, his voice high and breathy, watching the alien expertly devour himself.

But A-Lan was too busy. A shudder wracked his lean body as he arched his back, cumming in his own mouth, drinking his own load with a profound, almost reverent expression.

Bucky was out of breath, leaning heavily against the counter as he slowly, painstakingly, recovered from the sheer effort and the alien who had just utterly drained him. He felt hollowed out, pleasantly sore, and strangely… satisfied.

A-Lan, after a moment, pulled his head back from his own cock, his lips glistening. He looked at Bucky, his teal eyes sparkling. "Conclusion: I can now physiologically comprehend why you are described as a 'human cockwhore.' The act of being penetrated, as experienced by the designated 'bottom,' is indeed quite pleasurable."

Bucky pushed himself away from A-Lan, grabbing a fresh towel and wrapping it around his waist. "You are," he wheezed, "weird as fuck, A-Lan."

A-Lan's head tilted, his expression returning to its customary curiosity. "Hypothesis: Given my recent positive experiential data, may I query: Can I be a 'cockwhore' now, as well?"

Chapter Text

In Bucky's Neighborhood

Bucky, in a blur of green and pink, executed a flawless series of moves across his perfectly manicured lawn. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, flopped wildly as he transitioned from a one-armed swing-through cartwheel into an aerial cartwheel, all without a single bobble. He landed lightly, his athletic form flowing seamlessly into a handstand, legs wide in a perfect split as he looked up at the morning sky.

He held the pose, breath even, gazing at the world upside down. Most people would be thrilled—ecstatic even—after pulling off such complex tumbling so easily. That's why most people could never be Bucky Buchanan. A small, almost imperceptible frown creased his brow. It was good, yeah. Graceful, sure. Maybe even excellent. But excellent wasn't perfect, and Bucky demanded perfection from himself above all else. He considered what wild, inventive move could follow that, turning excellent to legendary. He tried a stag.

Then, as his light brown eyes scanned the world from his inverted vantage point, that he saw them. Across the street, in the house that had been an elegant taupe just weeks ago, stood the problem. It was now painted a uniform, jarring, inky black. The sight sent a fresh wave of irritation through Bucky's system. It simply threw off the vibe. The entire aesthetic of the neighborhood, a carefully curated symphony of muted pastels and earth tones, was ruined by that gothic eyesore. And outside the monstrosity stood two of the guilty culprits, already arguing.

Victor, the Nightwalker, leaned casually against the freshly painted black fence, his lean frame draped in black and red clothing, nails painted to match. His tan skin seemed to absorb the minimal morning sun, making his vibrant red-tipped black hair almost glow. He had a smirk tugging at his lips, even in argument. Facing him, Ray, the Daywalker, stood ramrod straight, his pale, ruddy complexion a stark contrast to Victor's tan. Ray was all in white and gold, his curly brown hair framing a face that was crinkling in annoyance, a small gap visible between his teeth as he spoke.

While he tried a scorpion instead, legs pulling down from the air in a way that made it seem like his back didn't have any bones to worry about, Bucky could hear their raised voices all the way from his own lawn. It really worked his nerves. He hated them. Not just for the house—though that was a significant factor. He hated them because they were supernaturals. As if they were actually super. He believed, with every fiber of his self-centered being, that humans should be the only species in his perfect town, especially his perfectly ordered neighborhood. These "vampires" were an unwelcome, unsightly, and now, noisy intrusion.

With a fluid, almost impossible motion, Bucky helicoptered his legs around to the ground in a deep backbend, then straightened, rising to his full, athletic height. He smoothed down his green sleeveless top and matching shorts, adjusted his pink sweatbands. Then he marched across the street, his internal monologue cataloging every reason these nightwalkers (and daywalkers, whatever their ridiculous sub-species were) were an affront to his sensibilities.

"You two need to quiet down," Bucky stated, his voice clear and cutting, devoid of any pleasantries. He stopped just short of their lawn, hands on his hips. "Before I file an HOA report."

Victor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. Ray just glared harder at Victor.

Bucky continued, his tone unwavering, "the Homeowners Association Covenant, Section 3, Subsection B, clearly states: 'Upsetting and disorderly conduct is strictly prohibited, with misconduct resulting in discipline including, but not limited to, warning, fine, or expulsion from the neighborhood.'" He recited it word-for-word, a testament to his meticulous nature and obsessive knowledge of rules. He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his light brown eyes. "On second thought," he continued, a slight smirk now playing on his lips, "argue away. Lemme just get my camera to record the rule-breaking."

Victor's smirk widened, looking genuinely amused by Bucky's theatrics. "First, that's a stupid rule," he drawled, his voice carrying an unburdened, carefree quality. "Second, don't you know rules are made to be broken?"

"There he goes," Ray snapped, turning his glare from Victor to Bucky for a moment before snapping it back. "That's a real Nightwalker thing to say, isn't it, Bucky?" He appealed to Bucky, seeking an ally. "I was just telling Victor how stupid that house looks. His family needs to paint it. Something normal. Something that fits in."

Victor rolled his eyes, a glint of mischief in their depths. "I was minding my business. Ray was starting trouble for no reason, as usual."

Bucky's annoyance intensified. He hated being dragged into drama that wasn't fun. But his curiosity, a secret, almost shameful part of him, nudged him forward. "And I thought vampires weren't supposed to be outside in sunlight," he commented, a hint of disdain in his voice. He folded his arms, clearly expecting them to shrivel, or sparkle, or, better yet, burst into flames.

Victor and Ray exchanged a look, a flicker of exasperation passing between them before they both turned back to Bucky.

"That's a myth," Victor explained, his voice losing some of its flippancy. "No idea where that came from. Probably a joke from you Daywalkers, to keep us inside."

Ray scoffed. "Please. It's probably someone who met a Nightwalker, had a bad experience, and then generalized to all 'vamps.'" Ray made air quotes around the word 'vamps,' clearly implying Victor and his ilk were different somehow. The two vampires started bickering again, their voices rising, each trying to one-up the other's species.

"See? That's what I mean!" Ray jabbed a finger at Victor. "Nightwalkers are always causing problems. Always in the dark, always up to no good. Always breaking things, like rules," he gestured wildly at the black house, "or good taste."

"And Daywalkers are always so uptight!" Victor retorted, pushing off the fence. "So worried about what everyone else does. So… bright." He looked at Ray's white and gold outfit with a mock shudder. "I think looking into the sun kinda messed up your eyesight if you think my house is worse than that look."

"At least we don't look like we're dressed for a funeral!"

"Oh, and your house is just so subtle, is it?" Bucky interjected, his voice cutting through their squabble like a freshly sharpened blade. He was tired of their drama. He needed to make this about him. An idea, both manipulative and deeply satisfying, began to form in Bucky's mind. A spark of his secret, sexually curious fascination with supernaturals ignited. "You know what?" he said loudly, cutting them off. "You two should find a non-vampire to judge who's better."

Victor and Ray immediately stopped arguing, their heads tilting in unison. Their competitive instincts, now fully engaged, seized upon the idea. "That sounds like a good competition," Victor said, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Ray, not to be outdone, quickly asserted, "Yeah, sounds perfect. And I'm definitely better."

"Awesome," Bucky declared, his eyes gleaming with self-satisfaction. He grabbed both boys' wrists, his grip surprisingly strong, and started pulling them toward his own perfectly normal-colored house. "I'll volunteer time out of my busy schedule to judge you… more than I do usually."

The vampires, caught off guard by his sudden force, stumbled along, following Bucky into his meticulously decorated home. The interior was a testament to Bucky's vanity. Every wall boasted framed photos of Bucky – Bucky in various cheerleading uniforms, Bucky with his trophies, Bucky just looking impeccably flawless. Cheerleading awards gleamed from shelves, and the air was subtly scented with something clean and expensive. In the living room, Bucky settled into a plush armchair, crossing his legs with an air of absolute authority. "Alright, boys," he said, gesturing to the empty space in front of him. "Do something cool."

Victor and Ray exchanged another bewildered glance. "What do you mean by 'cool'?" Ray asked, his brow furrowed.

"You know…" Bucky rolled his eyes. "Lift something heavy. Or use your super speed to make me a smoothie in five seconds. Impress me."

Victor laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound. "Superstrength? Superspeed?" He looked at Ray. "He thinks we're, like, comic book vampires."

Ray snorted. "He probably thinks we sleep in coffins, too." To Bucky, he said, "There's no superstrength. That's not what we do."

Victor chimed in, "And no superspeed either. That's just… running fast."

Bucky's face fell. His carefully constructed fantasies of what a vampire could do, based on every movie and book he'd ever seen, crumbled. "What's even the point then?" he asked, genuinely disappointed. "You're just… guys who don't die and can go out in the sun?" He remembered their earlier insistence on the sun being a myth.

Victor, seeing an opportunity to show off his actual abilities, stepped forward. His expression shifted, a playful seriousness in his eyes. He raised a hand, and a dark cloud, almost like condensed shadow, began to swirl around Bucky's armchair. The air in the room grew strangely heavy, and then, with a soft whoosh, the armchair, with Bucky still in it, began to float gently into the air.

Bucky gasped, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and grudging fascination. Victor grinned, flexing his fingers, and the chair did a slow, elegant spin in mid-air. Then, with a sudden lurch, it dropped abruptly back to the ground. A soft thud echoed in the quiet room.

"Whoa!" Bucky exclaimed, his heart hammering.

Victor immediately looked concerned, stepping forward. "Oh, sorry about that! Didn't mean to drop you so fast. My bad, man."

Ray, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. "See, Bucky? Just like a Nightwalker to go around hurting someone." He knelt beside Bucky's chair, feigning concern. "Are you alright, Bucky? Did he hurt you? You look a little pale."

Bucky scoffed, brushing Ray's hand away. "I'm fine. Just… unexpected."

Ray straightened up, a triumphant look in his eyes. "Now, I can show you something cool. Something that won't suddenly drop you on your ass." He extended his hand, and a small, intensely bright orb began to form in his palm. It looked like a miniature sun, pulsing with light and heat. The air around it shimmered. He amplified the heat and shine, making the living room glow with a golden, ethereal light.

Bucky's eyes widened again, this time with genuine, unadulterated awe. He looked impressed, less by the power, and more by the aesthetic. Ray, seeing Bucky's reaction, beamed. "So, did I win?" he asked, a smug grin forming.

But Bucky wasn't answering. He was pulling out his phone, already flipping to the camera app. "Oh my god," he breathed, tilting his head. "This is the best lighting I've ever had!" He snapped a quick selfie, then another. "I look even more flawless than usual!" He turned his gaze to Victor. "Victor! Make wind! My hair needs to flutter in these pics!"

Victor, momentarily forgotten in the glow of Ray's portable sun, found himself caught up in Bucky's vanity. He chuckled, shrugging, and created a gentle, dark breeze that rustled Bucky's dark brown hair, making it dance perfectly around his face as he took another series of immaculate selfies.

Ray's jaw dropped. The miniature sun in his hand flickered slightly, his anger disrupting his concentration. "Hey! Who won?" he snapped, the competitive fire boiling over.

Bucky finally lowered his phone, looking disinterested. "Honestly? Your freaky tricks are basically just a fan and a ringlight." He waved a dismissive hand. "That's not impressive." He paused, then a glint entered his light brown eyes. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, tinged with a self-serving amusement. "But… if one of you was great at sucking dick," he purred, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper, "then maybe I'd make a decision."

Ray's face flushed a deeper ruddy red, his expression a mixture of shock and outrage. "What?!"

But Victor, less risk-averse and always up for a challenge, was already dropping to his knees. His black and red hair fell across his face as he looked up at Bucky, a cocky grin in place. "I'm down."

Ray, not one to be outdone, even in such an unexpected turn of events, let out an annoyed grunt. "Oh, no, you don't!" He shoved Victor aside, a flash of surprising speed for someone without superspeed. Victor barely had time to register what was happening before Ray was there, kneeling in front of Bucky. Bucky, used to people rushing at the chance to suck him off, simply leaned forward. With a smooth movement, he unzipped his athletic pants, pulling out his semi-hard cock. Ray didn't hesitate; his lips immediately enclosed the tip, his tongue flicking out tentatively.

Bucky watched him for a moment, then grabbed Victor's head, pulling him forward. "Your turn," he commanded. He alternated between the two boys, grabbing their heads, guiding their mouths, ensuring both got their fair share. He pulled whichever vampire wasn't currently servicing him down to his balls, letting them lick and tease. Then, with a shift, he brought them both to lick his cock at the same time, their heads bumping gently.

"Okay, now kiss each other," Bucky instructed, pushing their faces together. "And then lick the head of my dick together."

The two vampires froze, their expressions mirroring each other's disgust for a moment. "That's so not happening," Ray muttered, pulling back slightly.

"Yeah, hard pass," Victor echoed.

Bucky let out an exasperated sigh, yet another disappointment. He wouldn't be denied. He leaned down, using his incredible flexibility, and brought his own head down. With a surprising grace, he started sucking the head of his own dick, his light brown eyes fixed on the two vampires. "Just do it," he mumbled around himself. Ray, caught in the insanely hot spectacle, hesitantly continued licking along the shaft of Bucky's dick, while Victor, equally intrigued and competitive, licked the base and balls. The three of them formed a strange totem pole, Bucky's self-love a silent challenge to their competitive spirits.

After a few intensely pleasurable moments, Bucky pulled his mouth off himself, leaving his cock glistening wet. "Alright," he panted, a flush rising on his fair skin. "Who's fucking me first?"

Ray, without a moment's hesitation, practically shouted, "Me!" He practically sprang into action. With a powerful, unexpected surge of strength, he flipped Bucky upside-down in the armchair. Bucky's hips pressed against the back of the chair, perfectly angled, his athletic legs shooting up towards the ceiling. Ray then balanced himself expertly on the back of the armchair, positioning himself above Bucky's upturned ass. He began to thrust, settling his dick expertly into Bucky's hole.

Bucky let out a long, drawn-out moan, loving the unusual and exhilarating position. His legs trembled slightly as Ray began to fuck him with a surprising force. He reached out, grabbing Victor's dick, practically pulling the Nightwalker over by it. Bucky brought Victor's cock to his mouth, sucking him as Ray continued to fuck him, the back of the armchair creaking faintly under the strain. Ray, not content with just the physical act, used his powers, making his dick heat up inside Bucky's ass. The warmth spread through Bucky's core, a delicious, internal fire. Bucky loved getting filled, completely consumed by the two vampires.

He pulled off Victor's cock, a new idea sparking in his mind. Prejudice mingled with profound, hidden curiosity. "Bite me," Bucky gasped, his voice thick with desire and a strange imperative. "Bite my neck! Do it—drink me!" He presented his neck, head tilted, eyes half-closed in anticipation.

Ray, suspended above him, paused mid-thrust, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Why the hell would I do that?" he asked, pulling back slightly. "That's… weird."

Bucky looked annoyed. "You don't have to play pretend," he insisted, a hint of his ingrained knowledge of vampires surfacing. "Everyone knows what you bloodsuckers do."

Ray looked utterly disgusted. "No one on Earth does that, Bucky! That's gross! It'd just taste like metal. That's beyond gross!" He shuddered, pulling completely out of Bucky, his erection deflating slightly at the thought.

Bucky's face hardened. "Fine then. Victor," he said, pushing himself off the armchair with a swift, fluid motion, flipping onto his feet. "It's time for you to step up."

Victor, who had been patiently waiting, a playful glint in his eye, smiled. "I may not be able to do the blood thing," he said, "but I have something cool." He raised his hands, and a cloud of dark air, more dense and substantial than the previous one, formed beneath his feet. He stepped onto it, floating effortlessly a few feet off the ground.

Bucky's eyes widened, a new kind of fascination taking over. He grinned, a genuine smile. He quickly straddled Victor, wrapping his legs around the Nightwalker's waist, his ass settling onto Victor's now-hard cock. Bucky started to ride Victor, pushing up and down, as Victor used his power to lift them higher, their heads almost brushing the ceiling of Bucky's living room.

Ray, left on the ground, watched them ascend, his previous disgust quickly replaced by a fresh wave of competitive jealousy. He settled back into the armchair, fuming for a moment before the sight of Bucky grinding on Victor, high above him, got the better of him. He started jacking off, his eyes fixed on the aerial fuck, murmuring under his breath.

"So," Bucky panted, riding Victor with wild abandon, his body swaying with the motion, "what do you even drink if you don't drink blood?"

Victor grunted, his breath coming in short, pleased bursts as he held Bucky's legs for support, lifting them higher. "Bloodfruit," he managed to say between thrusts. "It's like… a really sweet, dark fruit. Grows in the shade."

Bucky whined, rolling his eyes as he rode the other boy. "That's so boring."

"It feels good ripping into it with my fangs, actually," Victor countered, a low growl in his voice. "It splashes all over my—"

Bucky paused, his grinding slowing slightly. "Fangs?" he asked, his curiosity piqued again. "You have fangs?"

Victor grinned, a wicked, flirtatious flash of his teeth. He elongated his canines slightly, just enough for Bucky to see the sharp, pointed tips.

Bucky's eyes widened immediately, a strange, primal thrill shooting through him. He called Victor an idiot, a delighted expletive. "You shouldn't have let me get this close to cumming before you said that!" He leaned down, his head coming to rest in Victor's neck, his ass grinding harder down on the vampire's cock. "Bite me already," he demanded, his voice a low, urgent whisper.

Victor hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his brown eyes. He didn't want to upset Bucky like Ray had. But the human's insistent grinding, the scent of his skin, the sheer power of Bucky's demand was intoxicating. He leaned in, his elongated canines sinking into Bucky's neck, biting hard enough to draw a thin trickle of blood.

Bucky cried out, a loud, guttural sound that was pure pleasure. He tensed, his body seizing, and he came, a wave of sensation so intense it made him shout, "Monster!" even as he grunted out in ecstatic pleasure, firing his cum between their bodies.

Victor ignored the insult, his own climax hitting hard, and he came deep inside Bucky, a rush of warmth filling the human. But as soon as he pulled his fangs from Bucky's neck, the metallic tang of the blood hit him, and he spat it out immediately, a disgusted grimace on his face.

The spat blood landed on Ray's face, startling the Daywalker. Ray, who had already came from the spectacle, let out a disgusted yell, wiping at his cheek. "Ew! Gross, Victor! You really are a monster!"

Slowly, Victor brought them down from the air, Bucky still trembling from his intense orgasm. They landed softly on the plush carpet. Bucky, breathless and flushed, grinned.

Victor and Ray, both spent, but still competitive, looked at Bucky. Their eyes were questioning. "So," Victor said, still panting. "Who won?"

Bucky, ever the narcissist, leaned back, a smugly satisfied expression on his face. "You obviously both won," he declared, doing a smooth lip to lift off of Victor's dick and onto his feet, "if you got to hook up with me."

Chapter Text

The Seabrook Community Pool 

The pool glittered under the high summer sun, a pristine oasis framed by vivid pink and jade green lounge chairs. The air hung thick and humid, smelling faintly of chlorine and expensive sun oil.

Bucky Buchanan, a vision of human perfection—short, wavy brown hair styled perfectly even when damp, skin the color of warm caramel, and a torso carved into solid definition—lay prone on a plush chair. He was the picture of relaxed entitlement, wearing nothing but his perfectly tailored, low-slung navy swim trunks. His world revolved around optics, and right now, his optic was achieving the ideal, golden-brown tan.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His custom-set quartz timer chirped precisely. Bucky lifted his head and slapped the button. Time to flip. He sat up, stretching his arms toward the sky, admiring the tight, flat plane of his abs before he even bothered to stand. The tan was flawless. Another successful session. As he reached for his discarded bottle of expensive electrolyte water, his gaze drifted across the pool deck. That was when he saw him. Bonzo.

The zombie boy was emerging from the deep end, rising like a colossal, wet sculpture of pale gray marble. The water streamed off his massive, muscular frame, clinging to the tufts of dark green hair that sprouted on his chest, around his pectorals, and especially thick around his prominent, flat nipples. Bonzo moved with the characteristic slowness of the undead, a shuffling, awkward gait that was both irritatingly clumsy and oddly captivating. It seemed, to Bucky’s narcissistic mind, like Bonzo was moving in ultra-slow motion just for him.

Bonzo was built like a statue carved by a vengeful god—impossibly tall, well over six feet six inches, every muscle defined and massive beneath his corpselike, grayish-white skin. His deep green eyes, wide and kind, scanned the deck harmlessly. The green of his long, shaggy hair matched the startling jungle color of his body hair. He was wearing heavy, deep purple swim trunks that somehow managed to look both functional and utterly soaked. Bucky’s brain, usually so focused on human perfection, snagged. He felt that familiar, unwelcome prickle of fascination—the same feeling that made him constantly seek out the 'freaks' he publicly claimed to despise. An idea, petty and demanding, bloomed in his mind.

“Hey! Garbanzo!” Bucky called out, waving a perfect hand expansively. He didn’t bother to remember the correct name; he rarely did. Bonzo, good-natured and always attempting to be polite, stopped his shuffling immediately. He tilted his massive head, confusion clouding his green eyes, and began to lumber slowly toward the lounge area. When Bonzo finally reached the chair, Bucky smiled a blindingly white, utterly insincere smile. “Took you long enough, Boba,” Bucky sighed dramatically, gesturing toward the nearby row of private cabanas. They were cool, shady spaces framed by billowing curtains, away from the prying eyes of the pool crowd. “Look, my little lackeys—the -aceys—they’re nowhere to be found. And frankly, this teak chair has left me feeling absolutely drained. I need to get back inside my cabana, immediately.”

Bonzo just stared, his brow knitting slightly. He let out a low, rumbling sound in his native tongue. “Zzzlukh-narp?” he questioned, sounding confused. Why didn’t Bucky just… walk?

Bucky hopped gracefully onto the seat of the lounge chair, now standing about a foot above the enormous zombie.

“Oh, thank you, Buds! You’re a lifesaver,” Bucky chirped, completely ignoring the question and preempting any protest. He made sure to emphasize the theatrical gratitude. “It’s absolutely scorching out here. I mean, look at this cement.” He pointed at the pale gray deck. “If I were to put my beautiful, callous-free feet on that right now, they would burn off. Just melt right down to the bone.” Without warning, Bucky launched himself forward, leaping from the chair and throwing his arms around Bonzo’s neck.

Bonzo, startled but possessing terrifying strength, caught Bucky easily. The cheerleader settled perfectly into Bonzo’s arms, clutched close in a princess carry. The contact was immediate and shocking. Bonzo's skin was cool, even after being in the blazing sun, and slick with pool water that felt strangely oily on Bucky’s tanned skin.

Bucky pointed dramatically toward the cabanas. “That direction, Hobo. And fast, before I get sunstroke.” As Bonzo awkwardly shuffled toward the nearest cabana, his huge, wet muscles flexing with the minimal effort of carrying Bucky, Bucky allowed his gaze to drift. He was staring, mostly, at the expanse of Bonzo’s chest. The water ran in rivulets down the gray-white skin, tracing the hard lines of his pectorals. Bucky couldn't help but notice the dark green tufts of hair surrounding Bonzo’s flat, dusky nipples. The sight was primitive and utterly fascinating.

Bucky licked his lips slowly, ignoring the fact that his feet were two perfect inches above the pavement. 

“Honestly, I am burning up. Thank you for saving my delicate skin, Alonzo.” Bonzo, driven by his inherent politeness, increased his slow, lumbering pace.

They reached the private cabana. Bonzo gently lowered Bucky, but before Bucky’s feet could touch the ground, Bonzo had already stepped inside, pulling them both into the cool, blessed shade. The massive zombie used his free hand to close the thick, billowing curtains, immediately muffling the sounds of the crowded pool outside—the shouts, the splashing, the distant pop music. Bucky, still suspended in Bonzo’s arms, shivered slightly, though not from cold.

“Much better. But, wait, I need your help with something else,” Bucky murmured, his tone shifting from demanding to dangerously soft. With the ease and precision of a former star flyer, Bucky subtly shifted his weight. His legs, toned and flexible, unclasped from their position and immediately wrapped tightly around Bonzo’s thick waist. He adjusted his arms, sliding them up to circle Bonzo’s neck, pulling their faces close. Feeling the zombie’s large, careful hands resting tentatively on his back, Bucky used both of his sharp elbows to leverage Bonzo’s hands down, forcing them to rest lower and then spread across the firm, rounded globes of his ass.

Bucky let out a low, satisfied laugh that was more of a purr. “I need to find out what you’re packing, Mr. Dead Guy.”

Bonzo froze. His green eyes widened in utter surprise. He wasn't accustomed to this kind of aggressive forwardness, certainly not from the popular, anti-monster cheerleader. He let out a sharp, confused burst of zombie language. “Zzz-thrunk?”

Bucky didn't wait for a translation. He surged forward and claimed Bonzo’s mouth. The kiss was hot and wet—a mix of saltwater, chlorine, and raw desire. Bonzo, though initially stunned, was a quick study. He responded with unexpected fervor. His tongue, surprisingly dexterous, met Bucky’s, exploring and deepening the kiss. The make-out session stretched out, quickly growing intense. Bonzo's hands, still firmly placed where Bucky had guided them, started to move. He squeezed the perfect curves of Bucky's ass, kneading and grasping the firm muscle. He traced the lines of Bucky’s hips before trailing up to run thick fingers along the tight, flat plane of his abdomen. Bucky was lean and rock-hard; Bonzo was impossibly massive and solid.

Bucky, gripping both sides of Bonzo’s handsome, corpselike face, pulled him in closer still. In a burst of enthusiasm, he bit down lightly on Bonzo’s lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of zombie blood. “God, you’re hot, Bobo,” Bucky gasped against the zombie’s mouth. He continued his assault, kissing a hot, messy trail down Bonzo’s cheek and chin. He reached the large ear, licking the cartilage before moving down to nip and kiss along the solid column of Bonzo's neck. The zombie’s skin, where Bucky tasted it, was cool and salty.

The sounds of the pool were entirely muted now, replaced only by the ragged sounds of their breathing. Suddenly, Bucky slid down out of Bonzo’s arms, his legs unwrapping entirely. He dropped to his knees on the thick, pink daybed cushions that lined the cabana floor, positioning himself directly in front of Bonzo’s groin.

Bucky looked up, his brown eyes wide and alluring. His voice dropped to a provocative whisper. “Tell me, Bobo. Are you hard for me?”

Bonzo blinked once, confused by the rapid-fire English coupled with the incorrect name. He tried to respond, emitting a low, drawn-out groan that sounded like a question. “Ah-zzzaaww?”

Since Bucky couldn’t understand the zombie’s nuanced questioning, he instantly assumed the affirmative. He leaned in closer. That's when he saw it. Pressure built inside Bonzo's too-tight purple trunks. A prominent, thick ridge strained against the fabric, and a spot near the fly was already dark with wetness. A drop of transparent, thick precum was slowly slipping through the seams. Bucky lowered his head and kissed the stain, tasting the slick wetness through the fabric. He gasped, pulling back slightly. Even through the soaked trunks, he felt the impossible thickness of the head of the zombie’s cock.

He didn't hesitate. With a feral grin, Bucky practically wrapped his hands around the soaked purple fabric and wrestled it down. The zombie’s zipper made a faint, wet shhhh-ing sound as Bucky peeled the trunks down over Bonzo’s enormous, muscular thighs. Bucky’s jaw fell open. The sight was, simply put, colossal. Bonzo’s cock was absolutely massive, a striking display of non-human anatomy. It was grayish-white, echoing the corpse-like color of his skin, and thick—thicker than Bucky’s wrist, and longer than Bucky was prepared for. It had a network of prominent, pulsing veins that seemed slightly tinged with green, as if zombie blood itself was that sickly, vibrant jungle color. The head was bulbous and wide, and when the gray shaft twitched, the thin layer of precum gathered at the tip was distinctly green-tinted.

Bucky was in awe, his usual arrogance momentarily replaced by complete, hypnotized fascination. He was a creature of pride, but also of intense, forbidden curiosity. He reached out a hesitant, tanned finger and traced the side of the shaft, feeling the ridged veins beneath his touch. He went in for the task of sucking the zombie off. Bucky was flexible and well-practiced. Starting at the very base, he used every trick he had ever learned, every angle and suction technique, to try and take the entire length. It was impossible. He could not fit even half of the sheer, terrifying thickness in his mouth.

Frustrated, Bucky pulled off, spitting a glob of saliva onto the massive shaft, letting it roll down the gray skin. He then used both hands, wrapping his fingers around the monstrous circumference, stroking the length that his mouth couldn't accommodate. Bonzo was struggling to contain himself. He threw his large head back, his green hair plastered to his neck. His breaths came out in heavy, rattling noises—a mixture of pleasure, shock, and primal zombie noise.

“Zzaaaaaaark!” Bonzo moaned, a sound of deep, vibrating shock.

“Grr-Zzuhn-gutt!” he groaned, his voice rough and guttural. “Z’clutch! Z’clutch!” he cursed, a word Bucky didn’t know but certainly sounded like an exclamation of intense focus.

Bucky continued to suck, his face smeared with slobber and Bonzo’s precum. He bobbed his head rhythmically, slurping and working the head of the zombie's cock into a wet, slick mess. After a few minutes of diligent work, Bucky pulled off, his jaw aching from the sheer scale of the action. The gray-white, green-veined cock was dripping, wet and slick, and Bucky accidentally smacked himself under the chin with it as he moved back.

He looked up at Bonzo, his eyes narrowed into a seductive glare. “You like that, Hobo?”

Bonzo, sweat already beginning to bead on his forehead despite his cool temperature, managed a ragged, affirmative sound that was distinctly recognizable even to Bucky's ear. “Y-yes,” Bonzo rasped, the single English word emerging with effort.

Bucky smiled, emboldened by the success. And the fact that his head was so good he got a freak to try to assimilate. He kissed along the slick side of the zombie’s shaft once more, before deciding to try the impossible. He opened his mouth wide and attempted to deepthroat the entire length. It was a miserable failure. The circumference was simply too wide for his throat to accommodate. He gagged violently, a deep, rattling choke, immediately pulling off the cock to cough and catch his breath, clutching his throat.

Bonzo, his eyes instantly shifting from lust to concern, reached out, his huge, careful hand touching Bucky’s damp, flushed cheek. “Zzup-buky?” Bonzo asked, his voice low with worry. The sound translated roughly to: Are you alright?

Bucky didn't understand the zombie language, nor did he want to admit weakness. He shrugged off Bonzo’s touch casually. “I’m fine. Just fine,” he snapped, though his eyes were still watering from the effort. He got to his feet, pulling down his own navy swim trunks. He tossed them carelessly aside, revealing his toned ass and the small, metallic glint of a plug he had discreetly worn all morning. He casually reached back and slipped the plug out, tossing the tool onto the pile of clothing. His hole, already perfectly prepared and slick with preparation, winked at Bonzo. Time to turn things from embarrassing to life-alteringly sexy.

Bucky laid back on the soft daybed, arching his back and lifting his legs. Due to his extreme cheerleader flexibility, he brought his knees back, wrapping his ankles around the crown of his own head. Exposed, vulnerable, and completely open, Bucky was now able to easily reach down and start licking and sucking at the tip of his own erection. Bucky’s own cock was human-sized, pale tan, and perfectly groomed. He licked at his own drops of precum, a thin, glittering string connecting his tongue to his tip as he pulled away. All the while, Bucky looked directly at Bonzo, maintaining intense eye contact as he sucked himself. The performance was brazen, intended to push the zombie far past the limits of his polite patience.

While he sucked, Bucky’s hands trailed down, squeezing his own ass. He pushed a finger toward his pre-lubricated hole, slipping it in easily, feeling the stretch. Bucky’s eyes, still locked on Bonzo, crinkled in a smug smile around his own dick. “What’s taking you so long to get inside, Budzo?” he asked, his voice thick and muffled by his own cock.

Bonzo was rooted to the spot, utterly hypnotized by the spectacle. When he finally registered Bucky’s demand, he moved, though it was still the slow, careful, shambling gait of a zombie. He pushed himself onto the daybed, putting a massive knee down on the plush cushion, and lined his massive, dripping gray-white cock up with Bucky’s waiting, prepared hole. Bucky braced himself. He had been fucked by large men before, but he knew instinctively that this was different. This was zombie massive. Bonzo pushed in slowly, carefully.

Bucky yowled. It was a guttural mix of pain and pure, vindicated shock. The unimaginably thick head stretched his hole to a tearing point. It felt impossibly tight, a painful, stinging expansion that momentarily blocked out all other thought.

Bonzo instantly worried, his face contorted in concern. “Zzub-okay?” he asked, leaning close.

Bucky, teeth grit against the initial excruciating pain, immediately wrapped his flexible knees around Bonzo’s thick, muscular thighs, effectively trapping the zombie. “Keep going, Freak! Put it all in!” Bucky demanded, his voice strained. Bonzo needed no further encouragement. He loved the feeling of that incredible tightness, the hot friction of Bucky’s body around him. He drove forward, pushing deep. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut until the initial pain subsided, leaving a dull, stretched ache that was rapidly morphing into intense, overwhelming pleasure. He wasn't some virgin who couldn't handle a little stretching.

Bonzo tried to speak again, worried about Bucky’s initial cry of pain, and this time, the urgency allowed him to string together more English words than usual. “Bucky… are you okay? Zz-hurt?”

“I’m fine! I. Am. Fine!” Bucky insisted, fighting to keep his superficial, prideful facade intact. He focused on the raw, vibrating pressure filling him completely. He kept pulling the zombie farther into him, encouraging Bonzo to push to the absolute hilt. When Bonzo was finally fully sheathed, his massive cock buried impossibly deep inside Bucky’s tight colon, Bucky forced his eyes open and glanced down.

He noticed a prominent, hard lump rising in the lower quadrant of his otherwise flat belly. Startled, Bucky reached his hand down and pressed against the taut skin. It was Bonzo’s cock, pressed so deep into his ass that the dense, bulbous head could be seen pushing visibly against the wall of his stomach. Bucky collapsed back onto the daybed, letting out a long, magnificent moan that echoed slightly in the closed cabana. “Oh my God. You are so hot. Your freak cock is so deep.”

Bonzo, hearing the pleasure in Bucky’s voice, started to move. The sheer scale of him meant that every grinding thrust stretched Bucky past what he thought was possible, hitting him with a power that shook his entire body. Bucky was still in pain, but that pain was vindicated by the knowledge that he could handle this cock, no matter how ridiculously huge and unnatural it was. He was entirely distracted, however, by the prominent lump that formed in his stomach every time Bonzo fully plunged inside. Bucky watched the movement, fascinated, as he moved his own hips alongside Bonzo’s, sinking into a mutual, rhythmic fuck. Bonzo grew more aggressive. His good nature was being overridden by the pounding surge of lust, and his enhanced zombie strength, usually carefully controlled, became harder to hide. Each thrust was harder, deeper, faster.

Bucky screamed out loud, the sound muffled by the cabana walls. “Yes! Harder, Bonzo! Fuck me harder!” Bucky whined, the demand sharp and desperate. He kept commanding the zombie to plunge into him harder and harder, his pride demanding that Bonzo deliver the full force of his massive body.

Bonzo struggled to contain the power, his low, guttural grunts filling the air. “Zz-ahng!” The rhythm built, frantic and messy. Both boys were slick with sweat—Bucky’s tan skin glistening with human perspiration, Bonzo’s gray-white skin showing thick, cold beads of zombie sweat. Finally, with a thick, powerful surge, Bonzo let out a ragged, shattering yell. “ZZA-KLUTCH-NARK!” he shouted, and he came, unloading a vast, hot rush of thick, gray-green zombie cum deep inside Bucky.

Bucky, feeling the overwhelming pressure and the shock of the invasive heat, followed instantly. He arched his back violently, his own cock hardening and shooting his untouched, human cum onto his stomach and chest with rapid, pulsing spasms. They ground against each other, drawing out every last drag and drop of their orgasms. Bucky felt utterly violated and completely, utterly filled. He took a second, breathlessly, to appreciate just how full he was with the zombie cum. It was thick, heavy, and hot, a scandalizing, exciting feeling that promised a massive mess when he finally moved.

Bonzo leaned down, his massive, heavy chest pressing against Bucky’s. He spoke, his voice hoarse and deep with post-orgasm satisfaction, murmuring something tender and sentimental in his native tongue. “Zz’vlykh-bucky. Zz’vlykh-awoon, Bucky.” (I love this, Bucky.)

Bucky shifted slightly, catching his breath. He was too satisfied and too self-absorbed to notice the tone beneath the noise. “A towel? Yeah, you can get a towel to clean up with. Thanks for asking, Boba.”