minors dni with this blog. you're responsible for what you do.
She/her, in my 30s, fanfiction writer, reader.
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New updates soon.
Note: it's been a while. I've gone down in spiral, losing control, gaining it back.
I stepped away from writing, left a lot of my works in the drafts, some finished, some not. I don't know if they will see the light of day (most probably won't), some I know I will rewrite, reshape.
I am once again finding my footing in writing, slowly stepping back in it. I just hope you stick through this with me.
I am also trying to find new formatting for my posts, so bear with me as I experiment.
40s Sergeant Barnes with a nurse and a Sergeant kink (and breeding and house wife kink, virginity loss). This was supposed to be a pure smutty drabble but then I got in my feelings and added some fluff and angst but I promise Bucky is still a dirty, nasty little fuck in this. Just with a sweeter ending. The one he deserves.
Listen just imagine what a cute, sexy menace Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes would be just waking up from an injury when his eyes flutter open to the pretty nurse he’s been eyeing from the day he started. You’re not a shy, dainty little thing, nope. Not at all.
You bark out orders like a drill Sergeant and one glare from you is all it takes to get everyone in line and on task without a second thought. Even his superiors are scared of you, biting their tongue when you stitch them up and send them on their way before running off to your next patient.
Bucky was in love.
“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes” he rasps, throwing you a charming smirk while you roll your eyes in response, shaking your head. "How'd I get so lucky, got a my little angel tendin' to me"
“I see your injury hasn’t stopped hurt that mouth of yours Sergeant" You quirk an eyebrow while he playfully huffs as you change the dressing covering a gash on his abdomen. You swab the area clean and he doesn't flinch even though you know it must burn like hell, his muscles tensed while he continues to watch you with heart eyes. "Now you know I'm not your little angel, I got 20 other men to fix up, you better be out of this bed as soon as you're all healed up"
“C’mon sugar, you're breakin' my heart" Bucky gives you a little pout with those perfect lips and you catch the twinkle in his eye as he looks over your form with complete admiration. He loved your sassy, take no shit attitude and it's taking everything in him to calm himself down so he doesn't get a hard on right there in front of you.
"You'd tell that to a cat with three legs if it was in a nurses outfit" You try your best to not give into his flirty comments and puppy eyes, knowing damn well he's a heart breaker but he makes it so difficult when he continues to woo you with his boyish charm.
He can't help but chase after you; catching the way your eyes always dart around with anxiety when his group returns from an operation, relief flooding them when you finally spot him. He loves your indifferent attitude, patting him down to make sure he's uninjured but your furrowed brows and the tiny pout on your lips give away that you're worried.
How can he just let you go. Every time you check over him, he needs you closer.
So much closer.
-
"Ms. y/l/n, Sergeant Barnes is requesting you in his tent, he says it's urgent"
You shake your head looking over at the time, quietly making your way over to the tent he's stationed at, thankful that a number of troops were sleeping so you wouldn't be seen as you quickly slip inside.
“And what hurts now” you sass with your hands on your hips seeing the soldier in perfect health, doing your best to assess him without letting him know.
"Always checkin' over me" Bucky chuckles, seeing what you're doing; his words making your cheeks heat up, "Knew you cared about me sugar"
"Well what am I doin' here" You give him an unconvincing huff, struggling to keep your voice steady, refusing to meet his eyes, keeping your gaze on his silver dog tags instead. It doesn't help that he's handsome as hell with a light dusting of scruff covering his cheeks. Bucky's never seen you flustered before and it evokes something in him, all the blood in his body rushing south seeing your fingers twitch.
All he wanted to do was kiss you but now-
“Help your Sergeant out doll” He whispers, taking another step forward till his chest brushes against yours, his hand coming to tilt your chin up, "Will you?"
You gasp feeling his hardness press against your thigh, your heart fluttering wildly as his thumb traces your lips, any semblance of control you had slipping away feeling the warmth of his skin.
“Y-yes Sergeant Barnes”
His lips press against yours, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the way his body was screaming for him to pick you up and toss you onto his cot.
"Sweet like sugar" He lets his hands fall to your waist, pulling you flush against his body while your arms drape on top of his shoulders. You stand on your toes chasing more of his lips and he chuckles at the needy whine you let out when he pulls away for air.
Now let's say your first night together was actually quite tame. He kisses you again and you swoon when he repeatedly checks in with you before going any further. His hand slips under your skirt, letting his fingers toy with places no on else has touched. With each night, he needs you more and more until he can't hold off any longer and neither can you.
-
You sneak into his tent and this time he doesn't hesitate to undress you completely, not when he needs you bare with nothing separating you both. You feel your heart race as he lies on top of you, draping a thin sheet over himself when you shiver at the chill night air. You feel his body heat instantly warm you up, his heavy cock resting between your soaked folds.
"Are you sure, sugar?" He asks, his hand cupping your cheek and stroking your skin.
"Please Sergeant" You whisper and the way you say his title makes his cock twitch. There's something so different about you when you're in his bed, a sweet little bunny giving herself to him completely. It drives him feral with a need to make you feel good, make you cry for his cock and his cock only, to keep you nice and full of him.
You don't look twice at anyone else and here you are completely naked in his tent with your tight little virgin cunt, your legs spread open so he can put his dick in you; there was no way he was ever going to let you go.
"You tell me if it's too much, alright?" His lips tickle your neck as kisses your skin while rubbing his heavy cock through your folds, coating it in your slick, "Breathe for me"
He slips his tags into your mouth as he starts to press in, the initial sting making you bite down hard onto the metal feeling a mix of pleasure and pain. You whine at the way he stretches you open, your thighs squeezing around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Shhh, that's it love, doin' so good for me so good for your Sergeant, look how you're takin' all of me baby" He looks down to where you're both connected as he continues to slowly push himself in till hes fully sheathed inside you. He gives you time to adjust, slipping his tags out of your lips and letting his tongue lace with yours instead, his balls already throbbing with how tightly you were squeezing his cock.
"Please-Sergeant" your heels press into his ass desperate for him to move, gasping when he starts to slowly roll his hips, barely pulling out.
"I got you love-don't worry" Bucky moves as slowly as he could not wanting to hurt you, taking just as much care of you as you had with him countless of times.
But he can only keep up at that pace for so long. Your muffled whines and moans don't help the way his mind is already spiraling. His pretty little nurse all spread out just for him, taking his raw, bare cock in her soaking pussy, squeezing him so tight, he was only a few strokes from cumming.
If it were up to him he would've proposed on the spot, thinking about making love to you on your wedding night, seeing you all shy and sweet wrapped up in soft white lace. If you were his wife, he'd take you apart every which way, not giving a fuck about traditions, taking you right on the dining room table.
You'd be the prettiest little thing for him to come home to, such a good wife all dirty just for her husband. Only he'd know the way your mouth would slobber all over his cock like your life depended on it. The way you'd moan at the taste of his cum. Bucky's eyes rolled back at the thought of you with nothing but some heels and a string of pearls he'd put around your neck while he stuffed you with cum and emptied his balls in you.
"S-Sergeant-I-oh god" You whimpered feeling his cock grow harder, your pussy pulling him right back in, feeling the coil low in your belly pull tighter and tighter as he hit that spot.
Meanwhile Bucky's jaw clenched as he felt his balls pull tight to his body, the tip leaking steadily in your pussy. His mind spiraled into places he didn't think would exist before he met you, rogue thoughts he only entertained when he had his dick in his hand. The harder he fucked you the more he thought about how gorgeous you'd look with a swollen belly.
Fuck, imagine if he got you pregnant right then and there. That nurses uniform would no longer fit you. Everyone would know he knocked you up, your perfectly round tummy carrying Sergeant James Barnes' baby, breasts heavy with milk, God, he wasn't going to last-
“Gonna let your Sergeant pump you full of cum?” He pants, letting his hands grip onto your hips like his life depends on it, the wiry hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit.
“Yes!!” You sob, biting down onto his shoulder to keep your cries down while he continues to fuck you into oblivion. You don't understand how such filth can spew from that pink, pouty little mouth of his. "Please-please-need-youI-I'm gonna-"
"M'yours sweet girl, m'all yours, go on, cum for me love, cum on my cock, it's all yours" He gazed into your eyes, cooing at your parted lips and sweat slicked skin. It didn't take long for you to shatter around him his lips smashing against yours to swallow your moans.
"Want your cum Sergeant" You beg , desperate to have him claim you from the inside.
"Oh fuck baby, y-you can't say that, m-gonna, oh fuckkk" Your words throw Bucky right off the edge as he lets out a deep groan stilling his hips and shooting endless ropes of his spend into you. You both lay in comfortable silence, your fingers playing with his hair; his usual kempt brown locks now disheveled .
“Y’know m’gonna marry you” his scruffy cheek nuzzles into your neck as he continues to stay deep inside you as his cock softens, “after all this is over. Gonna put a ring on that finger”
His words send a different wave of emotions over you, feeling more safe than ever, clinging onto him as tightly as possible. You let a whimper slip out and he pulls away from your neck with an expression of concern.
“What is it love” Bucky coos, wiping away the tears that slip you, stroking your cheek while you bite back a sniffle.
“Do you mean it? After this is all over?” You weren't sure what Bucky would want-there was still a war going on. Anything could happen. Perhaps this was just to keep his bed warm. Something to keep him calm, you were just someone to-
"Of course sugar" Bucky presses a firm kiss to your forehead, silencing the thoughts that tried to run wild. "You're mine"
-
And of course he gets his happy ending. Because when it's all over, he gets the ring for the girl he loves. He's on one knee, proposing to you with the sweetest words. He treats you like a princess on your wedding night, making love all night long until the sun is up.
There isn't a surface in the house he's left untouched. Nothing makes him more feral than moaning for his pretty wife, constantly taking her hand and wrapping it around his cock, watching that diamond glint with each stroke.
It doesn't take long for you to feel a little squeamish, knowing all the tell tale signs.
The day you tell him he's going to be a dad is one of the happiest days of his life. There isn't a single night that goes by where he isn't nuzzling his face into your tummy, talking to your little one.
The night is thick with tension, but not the kind that comes from a turf war. This isn’t a street-side confrontation or a business meeting—this is an unexpected encounter in a setting far more private and personal.
Bucky Barnes stands at the bar, nursing a drink, his sharp eyes scanning the dimly lit rooftop. The air is cool, a breeze carrying the scent of the city below, but it's the atmosphere of the place that truly sets the tone—luxurious, sleek, with an undercurrent of danger for those in the know. This isn't a place for amateurs, but for those who live and breathe the underworld.
He didn’t expect to see her here tonight.
The sound of stilettos clicking against the polished floor catches his attention, and for a moment, the world around him seems to still. She steps into his line of sight, the leader of the Widow Syndicate herself—elegant, calculated, and devastatingly beautiful. She's dressed in a black leather dress, the kind that whispers power and authority, with eyes that seem to pierce right through him.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t show any outward recognition at first, but the way he looks at her says it all. There’s no friendly greeting between them—just an almost predatory pause in the air.
“I didn’t expect to find you here, Barnes,” she says.
Bucky's lips curve into a smirk. He’s never been one for formalities, especially not with someone like her. “Didn’t think I’d find you here either, Widow. Thought you were too busy to indulge in… distractions.”
She steps closer, not backing down. “I make time for what’s important,” she replies, the weight of her words hanging between them. "Like finding out what happens when two empires collide."
There’s a brief silence, then Bucky takes a deliberate sip of his drink, never taking his eyes off her. The flickering city lights reflect in his steel-blue gaze, showing a glimpse of the quiet intensity that always lies beneath the surface. “You're playing a dangerous game. You know that, right?”
Her lips curl into a smile, something playful yet dangerous. “I prefer my games to be dangerous, Barnes.”
The air between them crackles, electric. Neither is willing to step back; both know the stakes, yet they're both intrigued. The rivalry that has defined their interactions so far seems momentarily irrelevant here, under the muted glow of the bar's lights.
She steps even closer, breath brushing against his ear. "Maybe you don't mind a little danger after all." Her fingers lightly graze his arm, the touch sending a rush of warmth through him that he doesn’t expect. "Tell me, Bucky... how do you handle it when the danger isn’t external? When it’s staring you right in the face?"
His gaze sharpens, but the muscles in his jaw tighten. Bucky is used to the danger of the streets, to dealing with treachery and betrayal, but this—this feels different. Something about her is getting under his skin.
He leans in slightly, his voice a low growl. “I handle it the way I handle everything else. On my own terms.”
Before she can respond, the tension between them suddenly shifts. Without warning, her fingers slide from his arm to his chest, tracing the edge of his shirt collar. The simple action is loaded with implications. The slightest touch, yet it speaks volumes. It’s a challenge, a dare, and a promise all wrapped into one.
Bucky doesn’t flinch. Instead, his lips curl into a dark smile, as if daring her to continue. “Careful, bella. You might end up getting more than you bargained for.”
She holds his gaze, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary before she pulls away, but not before their proximity stirs something both raw and undeniable between them.
“I don’t bargain, Barnes,” she whispers, "I take what I want."
And with that, she walks away, leaving him staring after her, the intensity of the moment lingering in the air. The game has shifted, and neither of them can deny the attraction that’s now in play. They're both used to controlling situations, but this time, something more personal is at stake.
As the night draws to a close, both Bucky and The Widow leave the rooftop separately.
Admitting to Ghost that a guys never made you come before
(I am alive. Cannot believe it’s been months since I wrote anything. But I fear I maybe be a bit rusting. But I tried 🤷♀️)
cw: pussy eating, fingering
"Don't worry, mamas. I’ll take care of ya.” Simon grumbles, before grasping your legs and spreading them wide.
Pussy glistening and on full display in the low light of the room, exposed to the hungry eyes of Simon as he marvels over the sight of you spread out for him.
“God, look at you.” Simon tuts, as he descends onto his knees in front of you. His big hands engulf the backs of your thighs, as he pushes them back, folding you in half. Ducking his head down, and out of sight, it’s the feeling of his tongue sliding over your clit that has your mouth falling open and your skin breaking out in goosebumps.
“Did that feel good, baby?” He purrs, coming back up to make eye contact with you. And it's the frantic nodding of your head in agreement that has him chuckling.
“Just needed someone who knows how to please, don’t you?” He questions “You just needed a proper man didn’t you, baby.” He smirks.
“God yes.” You groan in response, as you throw your head back. Happy with your response, Simon disappears back out of view, down between your legs.
His tongue dipping into your entrance is what has your body shuddering and a gasp leaving your mouth. His tongue glides through your slick, coating his tongue, before coming up to play with your clit.
Swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves, Simon takes his time playing with your clit, before coming back down to lap at your entrance. Flattening his tongue against you, he licks a stripe up your pussy, all the way to your clit, coating yourself in your own juices.
“Fuck, you taste good.” Simon groans against you, as he goes back to burying his tongue inside you.
“I-I, fuck.” You stutter, trying to stay relaxed, and not let your mind wonder in the hopes that this will finally be the time. But you can feel your body tensing before you can even stop it, and the feeling of frustration that overcomes you, has all hope leaving your body.
“You gotta relax for me, darlin’.” Simon says, peeking up over the tops of your legs to look at you, whilst tapping at your thigh with his hand.
“I’m sorry.” You sigh, feeling defeated once again at attempting to come, “I just can’t do it.” You admit. For once you actually thought this would be the time that it happened but, i guess this is what happens when you get your hopes up.
“Hey, look at me.” Simon says, “Don’t worry about being able to do it. Let me do it for you.” He says, giving you a reassuring smile.
Securing your legs in place with one hand, instead of the two, Simon circles your entrance with his middle and ring finger before sliding them inside of you. The stretch of his fingers feels good, and it has your focus being brought back into the room instead of wandering.
Curling them inside of you, he hits that spot inside of you that you've only ever been able to hit when using a toy. Pulling them back, Simon pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling them so he can hit that sweet spot every time.
“Oh, shit.” You moan, this might actually be it.
“Atta girl, there we go.” Simon coos, before bringing his mouth to your clit. Sucking it into his mouth whilst pumping his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace.
You feel your stomach start to tighten and your eyes start to roll, as you feel that familiar sensation of your orgasm building. The only difference this time is that it’s coming from the hands of a man and not a silicone toy.
His tongue flicks at your clit every time he releases it from his mouth with a pop. The bundle of nerves sensitive with desperation. Desperation for that release that you crave.
And with one last push, you’re coming. Your body shakes with relief, as you gasp in surprise at the fact that this man actually did it.
“Fuck.” You whisper, as you catch your breath.
“I don’t leave women unsatisfied” He says, whilst wiping away the slick from his chin with his jacket sleeve.
“Now let's see if we can get you comin’ on this cock, aye?”
being the new, shy tech for the 141 introduced by laswell, and the boys are already trying to tease you. (18+)
you’re playing a game of truth or dare, taking shots and laughing and trying to relax even though the pub is so loud. it’s a saturday, there’s a footie game on, and you’re just trying to get to know them better.
well, johnny and gaz dare you to ask ghost out. the big brute that’s standing like an awkward statue ordering more drinks at the bar. and there you go, swaying on fawn legs, poking ghost gently in his meaty arm. the boys watch as ghost has to bend down to hear you over the noise, and you stand on your toes, putting your hands on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear.
you disappear with that big giant man’s arm around your waist, and when you come back to the table about twenty minutes later, you’re giggly and a little sweaty and stumbling just a little more. johnny leans over the table, confused.
“what happened? what did he say?”
“huh?” you raise a brow.
“what did he say? when ye asked him out?”
“oh…” you go warm all over, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks. “is that…is that what you meant? i couldn’t hear you!”
“what?”
the booth rattles when ghost sits his weight down right beside you, big fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck and curling you up so he can press his forehead to yours. the eye contact is intense, and you break out into another fit of giggles as you stare right back at him.
big, scary bear. adorable giant.
you turn back to johnny, shrugging your shoulders.
“i thought…i thought you said to ask him to eat me out.”
summary: The Liberty Knights—Brooklyn Western Academy's all-star football team—are on a winning streak. Not that you care. Except that you're forced to be at every. single. game. It doesn't help that your lab partner—Bucky Barnes—is the number one linebacker in the state. And that you have to play the school song after every touchdown he makes. And maybe you can't help but stare at his ass when he's bent over…
a/n: this is part of the bwa series!! much love to you all and thanks for listening to me saying "i'm cooked" over and over and also with your help with bringing this fic to life!! also wanna shout out my bestie, @salty-tang, who has heard me go on and on about this fic and helped flesh out my ramblings. love you bestie!! <33
"Alright, here are your lab partners for the next two weeks."
Your professor unpauses the projector screen, revealing two columns of names. You search for yours, flicking through the blur of pixels until you land on yours.
Yours on the left. On the right: James Barnes
Four weeks. You'd managed to avoid working with Bucky Barnes—'the best linebacker' on the football team —for four weeks. Twenty days of complete bliss. 480 hours of not hearing his whining and complaining about how your friend allegedly cheated on Steve Rogers. It was a whole big deal where Bucky took Steve's side and you took your friend's side. Naturally. They kissed and made up, but you and Bucky; well, you couldn't get past the misunderstanding. So here you are, at each other's throats while Steve and his girlfriend are living happily ever after.
Steve isn't in this class, but John and Sam are. They make a ruckus over the fact that you and Bucky are lab partners, because why not? John's always kissing Steve's ass, trying to secure his spot as the back-up quarterback, and Sam constantly teases Bucky over every single aspect of his life.
"Gentlemen, enough," the professor says, raising his voice to cut through the chaos. "This is a biology lab, not the locker room. I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."
The commotion dies down, but you can still hear John and Sam's hushed voices.
This is exactly why you don't talk to anyone outside of the music department. It's a landmine of passive agressive comments disguised as small talk.
You avoid the jocks at all costs. They're a loud, obnoxious presence wherever they flock to. Their entire personality is Liberty Knights this, Liberty Knights that, never knowing when to shut up about Brooklyn Western Academy's football team. It truly feels like they peaked in high school and make it everyone else's problem.
But having to work one-on-one with Bucky? Impossible. The worst. He hates your guts and never takes anything seriously—a horrible combination, really.
You're trying to take notes on the professor's lecture, but your thoughts are on an endless loop, drowning out his procedures. You start to doodle in your notebook, hoping to take your mind off of Bucky, but you can't help but feel like someone is watching you.
You sneak a peek over at the jocks and Bucky is staring at you. Fuck, why is he staring at you? He never looks at you. Actively avoids it, actually. Does he really hate that he has to work with you that much? Is he trying to find a way to switch partners because he can't stand the thought of being next to you?
This is going to be a long two weeks.
"Okay, Barnes, here are the ground rules," you start when you both meet at the lab table. He cocks an eyebrow. "Rule #1: I'm not doing all of the work in this lab. You have to contribute your share." He opens his mouth but you barrel over him. "Rule #2: I'm going to get an A on this, so you better lock the fuck in. Rule #3: We need to set a strict schedule of when we work on this lab. I don't care if it's during your…" you gesture toward the table Bucky and his friends were sitting at. "whatever you guys do. We need to stay consistent."
"Consistent… Well, what days work best for you, princess?"
You blink at him twice, your brows furrowing in disbelief. "Did you just call me princess?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know. Did I?"
A flush spreads across your cheeks, hot and intruding. You know what, we're not gonna deal with that right now.
"Most mornings between 9am and 11am," you say after taking a breath. "Don't even think about nights. I have rehearsal."
He groans, rolling his eyes, the icy blue eclipsed by flesh. "Rehearsal. Right. Well, I can't do mornings."
You cross your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him. "What, cause you're too hungover? Or do you have 'practice' at that time."
"No, I have class in the morning." He pauses. "Then practice."
"Well, when are you not busy?"
He thinks for a moment. "The weekends?"
"The weekends."
"Yep. That's when I'm free."
"Can you give me a time frame or…?"
"How about you give me a time frame and I'll work around it." His tone is condescending. And you don't like that.
"Fine. 10am to 5pm. Either day. Can you work around that?" you ask, the words dripping with sarcasm.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." Gonna punch him in his perfect teeth. "Saturdays at 2pm."
"Perfect." You start to gather your things. "Guess I'll see you—"
"We should exchange phone numbers or something." He clears his throat. "For the lab. For easy communication."
"I check my email daily. Email is fine." He should also be checking his email.
He's silent for a moment. You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. "My notifications don't always show up right away on my phone. Wouldn't want to leave you hanging if something comes up."
"Okay… Do you use Instagram?" you ask him this knowing damn well he does, his profile always popping up in your recommended accounts. "We could use that."
He shrugs, pulling out his phone. "That works. What's your username?"
You give it and he friends you. The request notification pops up and you accept it. His profile is public, of course.
Another notification appears.
[jbbarnes] sup
"There," he says, pocketing his phone into his varsity jacket. "Now you can message me whenever." Hopefully it isn't always this dry.
"Mhm, yup." You stuff your belongings into your bag. "Whenever…"
Ever since you friended Bucky on Instagram, the app taunted you. It's not your preferred social media choice—you mainly downloaded it to keep in touch with friends and family—but you use it enough to warrant the amount of storage it takes up on your phone. A post will appear once every three months or so, something to show your mom that you're not dead, but that's about the extent of your profile.
There's nothing exciting about the pictures—you don't bother with the filters, the captions are basic—so why are you now worrying about each post at 1am? Why are you wishing that you'd taken the extra five minutes to choose a filter or two?
You tap the direct messages icon. The top message stares at you.
[jbbarnes] sup — 14h
It's unopened. Which is fine. It's not like there's anything else to it, right? You watched him type it. It took a second, maybe less. Case closed.
Yet your finger hovers over his username. What if he put something else? What if he included some important information that you've missed for fourteen hours?
You should check it. Just one tap… It's harmless; he sent you it for a reason. Just. Open. It.
With a shaking finger, you tap the screen.
sup
One bubble. One word. Nothing more, nothing less.
You throw your head back and groan, the cement wall doing nothing to help the headache that's been simmering for an hour. Why is one message bothering you so much? Let alone one from Bucky Barnes?
It's fine. Just swipe out of the conversation and move on. Time to put Instagram away.
You tap on his username instead. What are you doing?? Put. the phone. down. Nothing productive will come out of this, and you know that.
You stare at his profile.
James "Bucky" Barnes
no pen or paper but i still draw attention
BWA class of '27
sc: jbbarnes
Oh, this is the worst. This man seriously wants to be a physical therapist? You roll your eyes. There's no way. No way he'll make it past undergrad. Not with the way he's constantly partying and at practice and lifting weights and—
A picture catches your eye. It's the third post down where he's laid down on the bench press seat, mid-rep, and holy shit he's ripped. You tap on the post and bring your phone closer, counting each ab muscle adorning his torso. One, two, three… How the fuck does he have an eight pack?
Then your eyes travel down farther, down to his gym shorts, where he's…
All of the moisture in your mouth dries up as you stare at the outline of his dick and travels straight down to your core. No, this isn't… You don't like him…
You shift in bed, the creak of the cheap mattress frame assaulting the stillness of your room. You don't like him. Any other person would have the same reaction. Especially since he's very… large…
Enough of that. It's really getting late and you have class tomorrow.
You click on his most recent post. A team photo with 'the boys.' Steve is in the middle, his signature golden boy smile beaming and Bucky next to him with a smirk, holding up bunny ears behind Steve's head. Sam is arm in arm with Joaquin; John is behind them, trying desperately to push his way in. By some miracle, Pietro is stood still, pointing finger guns at the camera. And to round it all out, Thor, the Norwegian exchange student, is holding up Bob with one arm, his bicep fully flexed and on display. You're unsure as to why Bob is there—isn't he the water boy?
And the caption: someone call the weatherman cuz we making it rain
God, where does he find these?
You click into the comments.
captain_rogers: best team in all of brooklyn
jbbarnes: best team in all of new york
captain_walker2: i think u forgot to tag me barnes
wingmanwilson: my boys 😤
jbbarnes: the boys of bwa
captain_walker2: barnes, can i get a tag?
cucumber_bob453: omg im part of the boys now??
jbbarnes: you've always been part of the boys bob
captain_walker2: tag?
A chuckle escapes your lips. It's entertaining how much John is trying to fit in with them all. It shouldn't be that hard, but there's just… something about him that doesn't mesh with the others.
You scroll down to the next post. Bucky's smiling at the camera—eyes crinkling and a small dimple formed on his right cheek—with his arm around Sharon Carter.
A strange feeling tugs at your heart. Seeing him there with Sharon. You shake your head, erasing the thoughts faster than they arrived.
You scroll through his posts faster now, catching glimpses of more muscles and smiles and football games. He's not… unattractive. The dimple is cute. He's got nice facial structure. Middle of the run nose. And his eyes… Piercing blue. Almost green in some lighting. He's the opposite of unattractive. Not like you'd actually admit any of this to anyone.
You turn off your phone with a groan. You're not attracted to Bucky Barnes. He's annoying. He's a jock, of all things.
But your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears. And there's another body part that's pounding—
Enough! The phone is off. The thoughts need to be turned off. Go. to. sleep!
You sigh and pull the covers up around your shoulders, ignoring—but failing—to think of the boy with piercing blue eyes and shaggy brunet hair.
Bucky's not sure when you started hating him.
No, that's a lie. He knows when you started. He's just unsure as to why you still do.
After Steve and his girlfriend made up, Bucky thought that the two of you would go back to mutually watching each other from the football field. He'd watch you in the stands, laughing at something the person next to you said, and couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.
You were infectious. Not in a diseased way, but in the way you laughed. The way you smiled at everyone while walking across campus. Except for when he passed by and you'd avert your eyes quickly, finding a leaf or pebble to stare at on the sidewalk.
But the times your eyes would find his? When you'd brush the hair out of your face after playing the school song and see him on the field? It felt like magic. Like he could survive off of your gaze and nothing else. He would drop everything to go up there and say something that made you smile. He would take any punishment from his coach to drop the ball and pull you over the railing and kiss you.
The only issue: you still hate him.
It's the Saturday after you two were paired up as lab partners.
He opens the door to the seemingly empty biology, immediately hit with the sharp smell of alcohol and sterilizing agents.
You're already at the counter, stacking the petri dishes and gathering the swabs for the lab. He looks at his phone, checking the time. He wanted to get here a couple of minutes early to ensure everything was in place, but you beat him.
"When did you get here?" he asks, watching your diligence over the lab materials.
You jump and whip your head toward him, sending the petri dishes clattering along the counter. "Christ, Barnes, where did you come from?" you shriek, gripping your chest.
He glances at the entrance to the lab. "Last I checked, the only way to get in was through that door."
Your eyes roll. "No shit, Sherlock. You just, fuck, you scared me. Do you have silencing shoes or something?"
A chuckle. "Nah, I'm just agile. It comes with the training."
"Agile. Noted."
He nods and a smile creeps up on him again. Get it together, Barnes, or else she's going to think you're a creeper or something.
He clears his throat and moves closer to the counter, grabbing the dishes and stacking them the way you initially organized them. "So what's on the agenda for today?"
You watch his hands, almost transfixed with the movements, then realized he asked you a question. You blink up at him. "Wh-What? Sorry, what did you say?"
"What's on the agenda for today?"
"Oh, well, we have to check the dishes from Thursday, record those findings, then start the next batch."
"Got it. I can start on the batch from Thursday if you want to start the next batch?"
You nod. "Just don't mess it up."
"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, bringing his hand up to his forehead in mock salute.
You roll your eyes again and turn away from him quickly, burying your head in your spiral notebook. He swears he sees the flushing of your cheeks but doesn't want to get any closer. It seems like you're opening up to him and he doesn't want to ruin that. So he'll tread carefully. He can be patient.
The two of you work in silence. Bucky brings his own lab notebook to check on Thursday's batch, while you diligently swab the new bacteria. The silence is comfortable; not tense, not demanding, just there. A soothing rhythm of pencils scratching against paper, the clink of plastic, and each other's breath.
"So, uhm," Bucky starts, finishing up his writings. "Are you excited for next week's game?"
You look up at him and nod, humming in response. "Of course. You?"
He smirks. "Of course. It's my favorite day of the week."
The corner of your mouth tugs upward. "Makes sense."
"Well, that's my entire personality, right? Might as well stay consistent."
He walks closer to you, tossing his notebook down on the counter. "As they say, consistency is key, Barnes."
He pauses for a moment. "Tell me, what's the instrument you play? The brassy one?"
You raise an eyebrow at him. "'The brassy one?' Thanks for the specificity. So helpful."
"Okay, you can't blame me. I don't know the instruments. Just trumpet, brass, flute…"
You laugh. A genuine laugh that makes him want to grab you by the waist and dip you into an earth-shattering kiss right in the middle of this biology lab.
"Ah, yes, the three instrument families: trumpet, brass, and flute."
He smiles, unable to hold back the joy that's been aching in his heart for weeks. Months, even. "Please just tell me. Put me out of my misery already."
You wipe a tear from your eye, small laughs escaping here and there. "Mellophone. I play the mellophone for pep band, but french horn for concert band."
"Mellophone," he says, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. "Hmm. And french horn? A woman of many talents, I see."
That almost-blush from before returns, dusting the tips of your ears pink. "It-It's basically the same. Nothing too fancy about it." Your eyes flick away from him now and you busy your hands with the collected samples.
No, don't look away he wants to say. He wants to see the way your eyes light up when you talk about playing your instrument. He wants to make you laugh again, hypnotizing him with the way it pitches up first and then comes back down. He's an addict and he needs more.
"Earth to Barnes," he hears, a hand waving in front of his face. "Hey, are you in there? Did you get lost?"
His vision focuses back on you, your figure sharpening in front of him, now standing. "Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Did you say something?"
"Yeah. I said do you think we're done here? I've got all the samples we need and I assumed you finished up over there." You raise your eyebrow again, a small smirk playing on your lips. "Did I bore you with my music talk?"
"No, no, not at all," he says, shaking his head vigorously. The exact opposite, actually. "I was just.. Also thinking about the fact that we're done here." But he really, truly doesn't want to be done here. Would you say no if he asked you to go to the cafe on campus? Probably. The last thing he wants is for all the progress he's made to be for nothing. One step forward, two steps back?
"Great. Yup. All done here…" you say, dragging out your words a little too long. "I'll, uhm, I'll see you on Monday? For class?"
Your tone sounds reluctant, like you maybe don't want to go either?
He should just do it. Just ask. He opens his mouth, about to say it. Saying it… Asking you to go to the campus cafe…
"Yeah, for sure. See you on Monday."
Idiot, idiot, idiot. Barnes, you fucking idiot!
All the muscles in your face relax into… disappointment? Goddamnit, Barnes. Save it. Save this. Don't make her frown.
You just nod solemnly and shuffle out of the lab.
And he just watches you leave like a fucking idiot.
Whoever invented brass instruments clearly forgot to take into account that it might be played outside. And the fact that prime marching band season is, in fact, during September, one of the hottest months of the year.
Whoever that person is, you'd like to have a nice, long conversation with them, because your mellophone keeps slipping out of your hands and almost hitting the turf beneath your feet.
Because of the heat, marching band practice has to take place at 8am on a Sunday. You'd much rather be anywhere else than the football practice field at 8am on a Sunday, but such is the life of a music major.
"Okay, everyone, gush and go!" your director calls from the bleachers on the megaphone.
In an instant, 150 band members are running to their water bottles on the sidelines of the field and chugging as fast as they can. You almost crash into five separate people on the way to your bottle, but you get there eventually and spray the stream into your mouth.
"Did you save any for me?" Natasha asks as she walks up to you, her tone light and teasing. Even with the 80 degree weather, she somehow hasn't broken a sweat.
You take a breath after drinking and say, "I sure hope you brought your own. If not, rookie mistake."
She smirks. "Oh, I did. I just like to keep you on your toes."
"Ha ha," you deadpan, wiping the corners of your mouth. "But seriously, don't scare me like that."
"Like I said, I gotta keep you on your toes. Expect the unexpected and all that jazz."
You take another long swig before your director calls out again. "Times up! Back to set one!"
Natasha salutes to you and you salute back before running to your respective sections; one flute, one mellophone.
The drum major commands the band to attention and blows their whistle, signaling the tempo of the first song. Your instrument is up—lips to mouthpiece—and you take a breath on the fourth whistle.
The band moves for the first eight bars, completing the drill without a hitch. Then the next eight bars are played with no movement—a rest during the hardest part of the song.
You're about to transition into the next set— your eyes straight ahead and body aware of the people around you—until a blur of movement pulls you from your focus.
The first rule of marching band: don't let distractions mess up the set. (At least, according to your band director. Is it true? Who knows.) Focus is key or else the entire set goes to shit.
Any other time, you'd ignore the blur. Students go on runs through this part of campus all the time. However, this blur looks familiar. The body type, the backwards baseball cap, the kinesiology tape wrapped around the left shoulder. You've seen this body in plenty of Instagram pictures.
Focus. You have to focus. One diagonal step at a time.
Your heart rate picks up as he gets closer and you notice that he's shirtless. Eight pack out and visible for everyone to see. Glistening pecs and pumping biceps. This is different than seeing a still picture. This is real. He's right there.
Before your feet can catch up with your brain, you miss a step. You trip over your own feet, one ankle crossing over the other, which sends you hurtling toward the mello player next to you.
The second rule of marching band? Protect the instruments at all cost. Especially since you're liable for any damage done to the instrument while in your possession.
Don't let it smash into the ground, please, please, please.
You lift the mello up as high as you can while crashing toward the turf, hoping and praying that anything but your instrument is damaged. You'll take a broken bone, a scraped knee, even a brusied ego, but your lack of funds cannot take mellophone damage.
The fall rattles your bones, sending shockwaves from your hip and throughout your body. Somewhere on the way down, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn't want to bear witness to any damage to the precious piece of metal in your grasp.
This is not happening. Nope, not at all. There are not people crashing around you. There are no grunts and gasps traveling throughout the mellophone section and into the trumpet section. How could there be, when your eyes are shut?
You're going to just stay here. This patch of the turf? Your new home. What a comfortable spot. It's lovely, isn't it?
Your band director is calling your name. Or maybe this is a hallucination. Maybe you fell asleep and you're taking a nice nap in the sun, the rays beating down and warming your skin.
You've almost convinced yourself until the weight of your mellophone is no longer being held up by your hand. You pry open an eye, preparing for the worst possible outcome—your band director towering over you—but instead, you're met with the unexpected.
Bucky Barnes is stood in front of you, setting down your instrument gently on the turf. You open your other eye, taking in the full image. His chisled body is absolutely drenched in sweat, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. You can see your frazzled reflection in his sunglasses and cringe. Your hair is plastered to your face and somehow also sticking up on the other side of your head. Your face can best be described as a tomato.
But, by some miracle, Bucky extends his hand out to you. You can't quite see his eyes through the sunglasses, but if you had to guess, he might look concerned.
You stare at his hand. Do you take the help and be mortified forever? Or do you suck it up and stand on your own?
Bucky doesn't give you the chance to decide, and instead takes the hand that you still haven't put down. His skin is warm and calloused—lighting up the nerve endings of your palm—yet he touches you like you're glass. Like one wrong move could cause irreparable damage.
He's helping you up now, his other hand a warm presence on your hip as you stumble. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you," he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. Your heart skips a beat, unsure how to process the gentleness of his tone.
"Th-Thanks," you stutter, your voice almost as unstable as your legs. "I'm good now. You can let me go."
He chuckles a bit and shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You're shaking. Let's get you to the bleachers."
You look down at your hands and, sure enough, your fingers are moving uncontrollably.
"It's fine, I can make it—"
Bucky cuts you off by moving, the hand at your hip gripping ever so slightly. "Just let me do this, sweetheart. Let me help you."
Oh, God. Sweetheart. Sweetheart? This sweetheart is different than the one from the lab earlier. His voice is soothing, sweet, tender, where the first one was nothing but sharp around the edges. Mocking.
You might just melt by the time you get to the bleachers.
"My instrument—"
"Ava will get it. I've got you."
You sigh, finally giving into his touch, leaning into it just a bit more.
You let him walk you across the field and set you down gently on the bleachers, his warm touch replaced with the aggressive bite of the metal.
His reaches toward you for a moment before recoiling back. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, concern laced through each consonant and vowel.
You nod and swallow quickly, finding your voice as his naked torso comes back into view. "Thanks, Barnes."
It's his turn to nod—a quick bob of his head—before he runs off, returning to his previous route.
Before you can say anything, you're swarmed with a hoard of people. Your director, the drum major, section leaders, the whole nine yards. They're asking you questions, but you don't hear them. All you see is Bucky's retreating form, jogging away from the field with long strides.
"School song everyone! School song!"
At the drum majors command, all band members clambor from their seats, fumbling with instruments and flip folders until the school song is found.
The Liberty Knights scored the winning touchdown for Brooklyn Western Academy. The crowd went wild, cheers erupting throughout, the parents of the players hugging and pumping cardboard cutouts of their faces.
To continue the celebration, the pep band plays the school song at top volume. It might not sound like a symphony, but tone quality is not the main focus here. This is about pep and energy, and with a large band, that is more than delivered at the end of the game.
The school song is played with an intensity unmatched to previous games. Excitement is at an all-time high! The boys of BWA will be advancing to the playoffs! Who wouldn't be excited?
"Are you pumped for the next game?" Kate asks you as you both pack up your instruments.
You shrug, shutting your case closed and snapping the latches shut. "It's kinda like every other game, right? We play, we play some more, we watch a game we pretend to know, we play, then the team wins. Then onto the next one." You grab the handle of the case and pick it up. "Don't get me wrong; I love playing pep band. It's a great time. But football? Not as much of a great time."
Kate shoves you playfully and looks at the field. "You're not having a good time staring at Barnes's ass?"
Your face flushes hot. "I don't— I'm not—" She's laughing as you sputter. "Okay, fuck you, Bishop. Not funny."
"It's kinda funny—"
"Not. Funny."
She holds her hands up in surrender, her case swinging back and forth from one. "Okay, okay, fine. Not funny. Apologies." Another giggle escapes. "But maybe you should make your staring less apparent if you don't want people to notice."
You glare at her. "That's it. Friendship over. You can play the 2nd horn parts by yourself now." You walk away from her, starting your descent down the bleacher steps.
"Wait, wait, I'm sorry!" she calls after you, scurrying to follow. "I take it back. I have noticed zero staring. No staring ever. On my life."
You look over your shoulder and grin. "Apology accepted. Friendship back on. 2nd horn partner reinstated."
"Phew! Don't scare me like that. I don't think I'd ever recover."
You let out a short laugh, reaching the bottom of the steps. Natasha is waiting there for you, her purple and gold uniform gleaming under the lights.
"Nat! We missed you!" Kate calls, giving her a hug. "I still would love to know how you never break a sweat in that uniform."
Natasha smiles. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. I'm sworn to secrecy."
You roll your eyes. "Okay, Miss Mysterious. We get it. You've been blessed with perfect genes. No need to rub it in our faces."
"But where's the fun in that?" She holds her hand out, gesturing to your case. "Here, let me help you."
Your eyebrows furrow. This is out of the ordinary for Natasha. "What? Why?"
"Barnes is waiting for you behind the bleachers. He said something about a lab project?"
Your heart does a flip. It's been almost a week since the marching band practice fiasco. You've interacted with Bucky during biology, but nothing more than working on your samples in a class full of students. Therefore, you haven't had a moment alone since causing a crash in the middle of the practice field.
"Lab project… Right. Okay." You hand her your case. "Take care of her, okay? I'll hunt you down if you don't"
"Oh, I know you will." She lets out a small laugh. "Okay, go. You know how impatient he is."
Did you though? She said that like you've been friends for ages.
"Alright, alright. Going."
You round the corner before you hear, "Text me later!"
This is sounding more and more like a setup.
Underneath the bleachers, Bucky is leaning up against one of the supporting beams, arms crossed and one foot pressed against the beam. His protective gear is off, leaving him in his jersey and those ridiculously tight pants.
When he spots you, he pushes himself up and walks over to you. "Hey," he says, almost breathlessly.
You quirk up a brow. "Hey," you say, your doubt creeping into your tone. "Nat said something about our lab project?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that…"
"Barnes, this is not the time to tell me that you have some event or practice or whatever that has suddenly come up and you can't finish the lab so I have to do it myself."
His hairline shoots up. "No! No, it's not that. Fuck, it's not that…"
You cross your arms over your chest, frustration oozing out of your skin. "Okay, then what the fuck is it?"
"I… Well, I've been thinking—"
"A feat for you, truly—"
"About— hey, wait, what's that supposed to mean?"
You shake your head. "Just spit it out already."
"Fine, whatever." His hand goes back to his neck, then says your name. "I was thinking… Would you maybe want to, I don't know… Go on a date or something?"
Did you hear that correctly? "A… date?" He nods. "You're asking me out…" He nods again.
After a few long moments, a laugh bursts out of you. "Oh— You're kidding right? This is a joke." You wipe the corners of your eyes. "Barnes, you're funny. You're hilarious. Who put you up to this? Was it Sam? Steve wouldn't be the type to do this… Oh, I know. It's John. Am I right? John bet you to ask me out. Is this what will finally get him into the cool kid club?"
Then, you look at him. He's not… Oh, shit he's not laughing. Your stomach drops. He almost looks hurt. Like you just kicked his puppy and laughed until your stomach ached.
His eyes travel to the ground, searching for something to latch onto. "You know what, just— Fuck, just forget I asked, okay?" He turns and starts to walk away, but you can hear him muttering to himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"
Shit, you gotta fix this and fast. "Hey, hey, I didn't mean to— Barnes, wait!" you call out to him, running after him. You grab his hand and give him a tug so he faces you. "Are you being serious? Is this serious?"
He catches your eyes for a moment then looks down.
"Bucky, I— I thought you hated me."
This brings his gaze back up to yours. "You thought I hated— I thought you hated me!"
"Because I thought you hated me."
He blinks once. Then twice. "I don't. I mean, I did just try to ask you out…"
You're at a loss for words, staring into his eyes and searching for an answer. "But Steve and… You hated me for taking her side." You shrug. "I hated you for taking Steve's, but that's besides the point. You really don't hate me?"
He scoffs, dragging his hand over his face. "Fuck, I'm an idiot. I should've just said something. Stupid, stupid—"
His rambling is cut off with the softness of your lips on his.
You pull away for a moment and murmur against his lips. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."
His lips crash against yours—hard and relentless—his tongue running along the seam, begging for entrance. You part them, welcoming the intrusion with open arms.
The kiss is electric. His lips are as soft as you imagined them, softer than any other man you've dated. He's intoxicating and you can't get enough.
In a flash, he's pushing you up against the beam he occupied earlier, pressing up into your body like he needed it to live.
"Bucky, fuck—" you manage to gasp out between kissing, moaning as he moves to your neck. Your hands grip his arms, nails digging into the rigid muscle. "Bucky, what if someone sees—"
"Then let them," he mutters into your skin, the vibrations sending heat down to your core. "I've waited too long for this, sweetheart."
A gasp escapes your parted lips as his hand slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your pants. "What are you—fuck," you hiss as his fingers run over your clothed folds, then pressing gently onto your clit. "Bucky, this is a bad idea."
He sucks at the pulse point on your neck, pulling another moan from your mouth. "But you want this, right?" He looks up at you, eyes glazed over with lust. "Tell me to stop. Say the word and I will."
You don't. You don't want him to stop. That's the last thing you want him to do. But he chose a really poor place for it to happen.
You return his look, panting down at him with swollen lips, and don't say a word.
He grins and presses against your clit again, harder this time. You moan and buck your hips forward, searching for more pressure. "Gonna make you feel good, okay? Gonna take care of you."
He pushes your panties to the side and slips two fingers into your folds, collecting some of your slick and spreading it upward. "Fuck, you're already wet for me?" You nod, delirious from his touch. "Of course you are, baby. You've wanted this all along. Wanted me."
"God, Bucky, yes," you groan, growing impatient. "Please, I want you."
"Alright, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you…" He plunges a finger into your cunt, grinning at the way you clench around him. "Oh, s'that what you want? You want that, baby?" You nod vigorously. He pushes in another finger, making you hiss at the stretch. "You're takin' it so well, doin' such a good job for me…"
"More, Bucky, please…" you beg, rolling your hips until his thumb hits your clit. "Th-There, please. Want that too…"
"Don't you worry, I'll make you feel good. You want it like this?" His fingers start pumping inside of you while his thumb rubs circles over your clit.
The moan that comes out of you is loud. Loud enough that Bucky covers your mouth with his other hand. "Shh, baby, gotta stay quiet. Don't want anyone hearin' us."
He pumps faster, each drag of his fingers pulling a needier moan from your covered mouth. You clench around him, feeling your release getting closer and closer.
"Bucky," you moan against his hand, but it comes out muffled.
"That's it, baby. You gonna come for me?"
"Mhm…"
He increases his speed, soft squelching coming from your cunt. You're gripping onto him like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, you might lose yourself all together.
You squeeze his arm twice. "Buck."
He looks up, concentration etched on his face, and sees your face contorted in pleasure. "You ready to come for me, baby? Gonna come around my fingers?"
He lifts his hand up enough for you to speak. "Yes, Bucky, fuck, I'm— Shit, fuck, I'm gonna—" The band in your belly is threatening to snap. "Jus' like that— Fuck, yes! I'm gonna—!"
White, hot pleasure floods through your veins as Bucky fingers you through your release. Your thighs are trembling, your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers.
Bucky says your name, whispering it against your skin. "Yes, sweetheart. You look so pretty when you come…"
After you're done and spent, you rest your head against the metal beam, panting heavily as Bucky removes his fingers. You whimper at the loss, a soft moan escaping your lips.
He wipes your slick on his pants and uses his other hand to move the hair covering your face, kissing your forehead once it's out of the way. "You did such a good job for me… Fuck, please let me do that again."
You let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe on a bed next time?"
He grins. "A bed would be great."
A moment passes filled with breath. Your heavy, gulping ones and his soft, warm ones against your skin.
"Alright, Barnes," you say once your lungs are working normally. "Pull down those skin-tight pants."
"Wh-What?" he sputters, eyes going wide. "What do you mean?"
You gather up your hair behind your head and wrap a hair tie around it. "You want me to return the favor, right?"
He stays frozen for a second longer, then his thumbs start pushing his pants down.
Not two seconds later, Steve rounds the corner of the bleachers. "Buck, where the fuck are you?"
You and Bucky's eyes meet, both pairs widening. He yanks his pants back up and tries to pull his jersey down to cover his growing boner.
When Steve finally spots the two of you, his eyes narrow at Bucky. "Buck. What in the hell are you doing back here?"
"Well, we were.. we were talking about our lab project! Right?" He turns to you and says your name. "Biology lab project."
"Mhm, yup," you say, trying to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest. "Biology lab."
Steve looks between the two of you, taking in the flush across your cheeks and Bucky's failed attempt at hiding his boner. "I—I'm just not going to ask. But Buck, we need you for the team picture."
You press your lips together, the laugh threatening to escape.
"The picture, right… How could I forget?" Bucky sends you daggers with his eyes. "Let's get to it then, Rogers."
It takes every cell of your being to withhold your laughter until the two of them round the corner. Then, and only then, do you release it.
After HYDRA fell, whispers of the Winter Soldier spread like wildfire. Some said he had disappeared, others claimed he was a ghost, nothing more than a relic of war.
But you knew better.
You had seen the hesitation in his eyes. Knew that if there was even a shred of the man inside him left, he would be running. Not for freedom but for survival.
You tracked him for months, following rumors, old KGB reports, and shaky eyewitness accounts.
And then, one night, you found him.
It was in Romania. A dimly lit alley. Rain pattered against the cobblestone streets, the city quiet in the dead of night. He was standing there, half-hidden by the shadows, his hair damp from the drizzle.
You should have approached carefully. Should have planned you words.
Instead, you whispered, "Bucky?"
And just like that, the ghost stopped running.
You never expected him to stay.
The night you found him in Romania, he had looked at you like you were a threat, a loose end that needed to be dealt with. You couldn’t blame him. He had been hunted for too long, always watching over his shoulder, always waiting for the next fight.
But you hadn’t come to fight him.
You had come to bring him home.
Not to SHIELD. Not to the Avengers. Not to anyone who wanted to fix him.
Just home.
You hadn’t been sure what home meant for someone like Bucky Barnes. Maybe he didn’t know either. But he let you follow him after that night, never telling you to leave, never turning you away.
It wasn’t easy.
Some days, he barely spoke. Other days, he was too far away to hear you at all. You would find him staring at his hands, at the blood he still saw there. Yoy never asked what he was remembering.
But you stayed.
And slowly, so slowly, the ice began to thaw.
The first time he let you close, it was over breakfast.
You had been holed up in a safe house outside of the city, a run-down apartment with a faulty heater and a door that barely locked. You had made coffee, cheap and bitter, but warm.
You set a cup in front of him without thinking.
He stared at it for a long time before finally, finally reaching for it.
He didn’t thank you. Didn’t say a word.
But the next morning, there were two cups on the table.
The first time he let you touch him, it was an accident.
You had been walking through a crowded market, moving between faces that didn’t know your names. A car backfired in the distance- loud, sharp, too much like a gunshot.
He went rigid, breath hitching.
Without thinking, yoy reached for his arm.
You half-expected him to recoil, to disappear into the shadows like a ghost.
But he didn’t.
His muscles were tense beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away. He let yoy anchor him, just for a moment, just long enough to remind himself where he was.
When he finally exhaled, you let go.
Neither of yoy spoke about it.
But the next time you walked through the market, he stayed close enough for you to reach him again.
The first time he let himself laugh, it caught you off guard.
It had been months since you found him, and you had settled into something resembling routine. It wasn’t normal, wasn’t stable, but it was yours.
You had been flipping through channels on your old, crackling TV when you stumbled onto some ridiculous late-night comedy. A dumb joke, something about talking animals, you barely even registered it.
But then, you heard it.
A quiet chuckle.
You turned, heart hammering, and there he was, Bucky Barnes, the man with the weight of a century on his shoulders, smiling.
Send me a trope, pairing (Simon x Reader, or Bucky x Reader) and a song.
I'll come up with a story based on those three things. (You can mention if you want it fluff or angst or anything else.)
I do have my own ideas I'm about to upload. These few months have been too crazy, and I didn't have any energy at all. I am slowly making my way back to tumblr, at least trying to.
Summary: You finally give in to your annoyingly hot and impossibly persistent roommate’s offer for a personal training session.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: mentions of physical exhaustion; slightly suggestive themes; sexual tension; slight mention of panic attacks; mutual pining; dramatic reader
Author’s Note: Ahh omg this brought me so much joy!! I’m such a sucker for Bucky and Reader being roommates, it’s crazy. This request was amazing, my darling, thank you so much for sending it in!! Hope you’ll enjoy ♡
2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist
Your keys jingle as you step into the apartment with a bag of overpriced groceries and a head full of static.
You’ve been having a gut feeling the whole way home and it won’t leave you alone.
And to top it off, you’re wearing leggings - traitorous, already one foot in the grave - and an old sweatshirt that’s a little oversized.
Bucky’s eyes sparkle when he sees you and you want to turn around and slam the door in his face.
“Oh ho ho,” he exclaims, rising from the floor where he’s been doing pushups for no reason. “Is that workout gear I see?”
You open your mouth to lie, or deflect, or curse him out.
“Don’t start,” you say, tossing your keys in the bowl by the door. “They were the only clean pants I had.”
“Pants are pants,” he shrugs, a grin forming his mouth. “You’re halfway there.”
He’s got his arms crossed and his stupid trainer tank is doing terrible things to your concentration. There’s a drop of sweat on his collarbone that you hate yourself for noticing.
Your heart jumps. Stumbles. Recovers with a limp.
“I’m nowhere,” you mutter, already walking past him to the kitchen.
“Nowhere’s closer to somewhere,” he calls after you, that grin still in his voice.
“Leave me alone, Barnes.”
His laugh echoes.
Bucky has been asking you to let him train you for months.
Months of come on, it’ll be fun and just one session, doll and you don’t even have to leave the apartment, doll, I’ll bring the gym to you. He says it as if he’s Santa Claus.
Setting the bag with groceries on the kitchen counter, you begin to put the items out and away.
You’ve got exactly four seconds of peace.
Four. That’s all it takes for the sound of his footsteps to find you again.
The floor creaks. The refrigerator hums. Your spine straightens on instinct.
And there he is, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, now fucking shirtless with a pair of resistance bands as if they’re holy relics and not the medieval torture devices they obviously are.
“You’re out of excuses, doll,” he claims. Smirking.
You don’t look at him, but you close the door of the kitchen cabinet stronger than needed.
His smirk is something you can feel all over your body. It’s the kind of smug that sips your oxygen when you’re trying to breathe.
“I wasn’t aware leave me alone was a limited-time offer,” you mumble as you pick up the freshly bought cereals and use them as a momentary fortress between you and his delusional fitness evangelism until you reach the cabinet they belong in.
“I’ve asked nicely,” he says, walking around the counter like a jungle cat with a mission. “I’ve begged-”
“You threatened to unplug the Wi-Fi.”
He grins without shame. “Persuasion comes in many forms.”
You glance up and the mistake is immediate, visceral. Because Bucky Barnes is beautiful in that very specific way that ruins good sense. All tight muscle and menace and Monday-morning stubble, wearing track pants and having left his tank somewhere in the apartment unhelpfully. Gosh, you’d like to do things to his abs.
After every grocery is packed away, you make your way back to the living room and plop down on the couch.
Bucky follows. Of course, he does.
“Come on, doll. Just a small session.”
“I’m not doing a training session with you in the middle of the living room,” you counter, trying to disappear into the cushions. “This is a sacred space.”
“You eat cereal here,” he deadpans, standing over you. “Sometimes off the floor.”
“That was one time, and it was your idea.”
“You cried during some dog commercial last Thursday,” Bucky goes on. “Don’t talk to me about sacred.”
You raise an amused brow. “Yeah, and you looked genuinely worried, might I add. Even went to hold m-”
“Thing is,” Bucky interrupts quickly. “This is the perfect place for a little training session.”
You let your head drop back against the couch and groan, long and loud and theatrical enough to satisfy some deep internal need for performance. He waits. You squint one eye open.
“You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“Nope.” His grin brightens. “Because I care. I’m nurturing. Like a plant. Or a small invasive fungus.”
You sigh so hard it could be legally classified as wind.
But you fold like a lawn chair.
“Alright,” you grumble, dragging yourself upright the same way as a reanimated corpse. “One session. But if I die, or you make me do anything that makes me hate you more than I already do, I’m keying your motorcycle.”
His face lights up like a Christmas tree. You might as well just hand him a medal for Most Stubborn Personal Trainer Alive.
“You’re gonna love it,” he beams, and you’re afraid his smile might send you to heaven.
“No, I’m going to tolerate it. Briefly.”
He’s already dragging the coffee table to the side as if it’s weightless - which, to him, it probably is. And suddenly, the floor beneath your feet turns into a battlefield of yoga mats and kettlebells and Bucky’s overachieving expectations.
He rearranges the couch, puts the TV on mute, and you eye the plants watching silently from the windowsill, already seeming to judge you.
Bucky sets up a speaker, picks the most aggressively upbeat playlist known to man, and claps his hands once as though he’s about to conduct a Broadway show.
You glare. He grins.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he begins lightly, elated. “Let’s start with some dynamic stretches.”
“I already regret this,” you groan, dropping to the mat with dramatic flair.
He chuckles warmly. “That’s how you know it’s working,” he says, stretching in a way that should be banned in a shared living space.
He begins slow. Gentle.
First, it’s breathing.
“Focus on your core,” he says calmly. “Engage.”
“And how the fuck do I do that?” you mutter annoyed.
Bucky snorts, but he’s patient. “You’re doing better than you think.”
You hate how your stomach flips at the praise.
Next, it’s glute bridges. Then something called bird-dog which he demonstrates with the kind of precision that makes you irrationally angry.
And then comes planks. And it feels like your entire skeletal system is trying to defect from your body.
Your arms are trembling and your abs are plotting a rebellion, and you’re pretty sure your spine has given up on modern living.
And you whimper. A real, honest-to-god whimper. High-pitched. Involuntary.
Bucky pauses. Only for a second.
You don’t see his face at first - your focus being narrowed to the floor, the mat - but you feel the way his breath catches. His silence seems to grow something.
And when he does speak - when he finally moves and crouches beside you, voice like a hand sliding down your spine - it’s not the same.
“You got twenty seconds left,” he says, too quiet, too calm. “Don’t wimp out on me now.”
There’s something in the way he says it. Something you’re not meant to hear. As if maybe he’s heard that sound in his head before. In a different kind of room. In a different kind of situation.
You risk a glance up.
His jaw is tight. His gaze flickers too quickly from your face to the floor and back again, trying not to look at you too hard. His towel is in his hand and he uses it to - so, so gently - swipe the sweat from your brow.
It’s a small gesture but it lingers.
You swallow hard.
“I hate you,” you whisper through clenched teeth and dying muscle.
His mouth twitches. He seems to recover from wherever the hell his thoughts went to, but his low voice is not entirely steady when he answers.
“You’re doing amazing,” he murmurs.
Too gentle. Too earnest. Too close.
His hand brushes your shoulder. Lingers again. You’re no expert in tactical touch but he might overdo it a little.
And god help you, you feel your body respond in ways that have nothing to do with fitness.
You drop to your stomach the moment the timer beeps - collapse like a marionette whose strings have been cut - and try to ignore the way your pulse is doing jazz hands underneath your skin.
Above you, Bucky exhales through his nose as if holding something in.
Then he’s continuing.
And you feel awful.
Your arms feel like wet noodles. Your thighs scream. You make dramatic noises every time he tells you to squat and whine a little too convincingly just to see if he’ll let up. He doesn’t.
“You’re doing great,” he says for the sixth time in ten minutes, voice syrupy as if trying to keep a toddler from crying.
“You’re a sadist,” you shoot back, halfway through a set of lunges, your hands flopping like fish as you try to balance.
“And you’re a liar, ‘cause I can see your form’s getting better.”
He might even be right. Your muscles are starting to shake less. Your core is actually engaging, whatever that means. You’re not entirely sure if your soul has left your body or if you’re just weirdly beginning to enjoy this.
It’s when you manage a particular decent set of push-ups that you hear it in his voice. He’s impressed.
“There she is,” he murmurs, not even looking at his timer. “Knew you had it in you.” He says it almost absentminded.
You freeze on the floor for a beat too long.
“What?”
He’s kneeling beside you now, a few droplets of sweat running down his chest, his hand brushing lightly against your shoulder to adjust it. “I said, you’re killin’ it.”
You roll your eyes to recover from the sudden tightness in your chest.
“Is this your whole game?” you ask, panting slightly. “Trap unsuspecting women in their own homes, trick them into exercise, then compliment them until they’re too tired to fight back?”
Bucky smirks. “Only the special ones.”
You blink.
He stands, offers you a hand. You take it before you can think better of it, and he pulls you up. His grip is warm and rough and entirely too solid.
Training goes on and you actually find yourself growing interested.
You stop huffing. Start asking questions. Your eyebrows furrow in concentration, not complaint. Your hands stop flopping through movements and start learning. Training.
Bucky watches. He smirks but doesn’t say anything.
He’s just kneeling beside you - half-naked and smug and proud and infuriatingly patient - with a voice so low you feel it more than you hear it.
“Alright,” he starts after a set of squats. “Take a breath, sweetheart.”
And you let yourself sink down. Only because he says it in that voice that drops like honey. Only because he’s looking at you as if this one set of squats is a moment in history.
You’re sitting on the mat, arms draped over your knees, catching your breath and trying not to look. But he’s right there. Right there. Smelling like soap and heat and something faintly woodsy. And he’s still shirtless. Skin golden in the late afternoon light. Muscles mapped out like topography.
You should look away. You don’t.
“You’re starin’,” he states without looking at you.
“I’m dying,” you correct, dragging your gaze to the ceiling. “I’m having a cardiac event.”
He laughs, and you can’t stop yourself from watching his throat when he does, how the sound starts somewhere deep and moves like gravity. “That’s just blood flow. Healthy stuff,” he eases amused, but fondly.
You flop onto your back with a breathless groan.
The exercise is not even the problem of this session. The exercise is not why you declined his offer to do some training with him for so long.
It’s him. Having him watch you this intently, letting his hands linger a little too long when he adjusts your position. The shift in his voice when he compliments you. The way his eyes dip to your lips when you aren’t looking. Except you are. You’re always looking.
You’ve lived with him long enough to know the difference between his real smile and the one he uses on the world. You’ve seen him groggy and gorgeous at 6 am, making pancakes in pajama pants, humming lowly. You know the creak of his boots when he’s home late and trying not to wake you. You know the way his laugh changes when he’s really happy - like, all the way happy. Rare. Sharp. Wild.
And now you know how he looks like when he wants to touch you and doesn’t.
He crouches beside you again and offers his hand.
You pretend not to see it.
“You said one session,” you sigh, still lying down, closing your eyes. “You said I wouldn’t die.”
“Technically,” he starts, amused, “you’re still alive. And you’re doing better than you think.”
His offered hand reaches out to brush a slightly damp strand of hair from your temple. He tucks it behind your ear. And then he lowers his voice, quiet now, serious in a way that makes your stomach flutter. “You really are doing great, doll. You’re not weak. Knew you weren’t.”
That makes something flinch in your chest.
Because he’s seen you on the bathroom floor after a panic attack. Held you through a job you hated and a breakup you didn’t see coming. He knows how messy you get when you care too much, and how you laugh too loud when you’re scared.
And still, he says you’re not weak.
You open your eyes. He’s already watching you. His expression unreadable.
Your heart is pumping so hard and you don’t think the exercise is the cause of it.
There’s too much heat you’re under right now, so you sit up, but a little too fast. The room tilts.
Bucky reaches out immediately - hands on your back, around your waist, steadying you.
And then you’re too close.
You feel the heat of his bare chest against your shoulder. You smell cedar and sweat and something that must be Bucky because it makes your heart do an Olympic floor routine in your ribcage.
You could lean in. Right now. You could just slide forward, let your mouth meet the hollow of his throat. You wonder what he’d do.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
And for a second - just one stupid, stretch-of-silence second - it feels as though the entire world is balancing on the line between maybe and almost.
Then Bucky clears his throat. Pulls back. “Alright, lazybones. Back to work.”
He offers you a hand again.
This time, you take it.
Not because you’re too tired to stand. But because you don’t want him to stop offering.
Pairing: Hockey Player! Simon Riley x Figure Skater! Reader
Summary: Simon had never been one for grand displays of affection, but when you take a nasty fall during your competition, he finds himself breaking his own rules.
Word count: 770
Warnings: none really, just a short fluffy blurb.
Simon had never been to one of your competitions before. Not because he didn’t want to—hell, he’d watch you tie your skates for hours if he could—but because your relationship had been under wraps. His career in the NHL, your growing success in figure skating… it had been easier to keep things quiet. But now, after months of secrecy, the world knew.
Simon sat in the stands, cap pulled low, arms crossed over his broad chest as he tried to ignore the cameras sneaking glances his way. His teammates had given him hell about coming—some teasing, some genuinely surprised he’d sit through something that wasn’t about smashing into people at high speeds.
Simon wasn’t nervous. Not in the way most people got. He’d taken hits from guys twice his size, had teeth knocked loose, and played through injuries that would put others out for weeks.
But this? Sitting in the stands of a figure skating competition? This had his shoulders tight. The rink wasn’t set up the way he was used to—no hard-checking, no boards rattling, no brutal speed or body slams. Just an expanse of smooth ice, twinkling under the bright lights, waiting for you.
The moment your name was announced, the restless energy inside him sharpened.
You skated onto the ice with effortless grace, your expression poised, focused, like you weren’t thinking about the thousands of eyes on you. Simon knew better. He knew how much pressure you put on yourself, how much work went into making something this difficult look effortless.
You caught his gaze as you moved to your starting position, and the briefest hint of a smile tugged at your lips.
Simon exhaled.
And then the music started.
You moved like water, fluid and controlled, your blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. He’d seen you practice a hundred times, had even let you teach him some of the simpler moves when you insisted he had the balance for it. (He didn’t, but he liked the excuse to let you get your hands on him.)
The crowd was quiet except for the soft crescendos of the music, and Simon found himself caught in the rhythm of your movements, the way your arms extended, the way you spun with impossible precision.
It happened fast.
One second, you were setting up for a jump. The next, your blade caught wrong, and instead of landing gracefully, you went down hard.
Simon was on his feet before he even registered moving. The sharp crack of your body hitting the ice sent a sickening jolt through him. The crowd collectively gasped, but Simon barely heard them over the blood rushing in his ears.
You didn’t get up right away.
His gut twisted.
Come on, love. Get up.
The medical team was already moving and Simon shoved past anyone in his way, his long strides eating the distance. By the time he reached the ice’s edge, you were pushing yourself up, wincing, cradling your wrist.
Relief crashed through him, so strong it almost made him dizzy.
“You alright?” His voice was gruff, louder than he meant. You blinked up at him, dazed but breathing.
“Simon?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. ‘M right here.”
The officials hesitated, unsure whether to let him any closer, but he didn’t give them a choice. His feet hit the ice without a second thought, and suddenly, the only thing that mattered was you.
You tried to shake it off, but he could see the way you were favoring your arm, how your expression was tighter than it should be.
“Can you stand?”
“I—I think so.”
“Let me help.”
And just like that, Simon Riley—cold, ruthless on the ice, known for brutal hits and not giving a damn about anyone in his way—was kneeling beside you, his hands gentle as they helped you up.
The crowd murmured, cameras flashing, but Simon didn’t give a shit.
All that mattered was that you were standing.
Your good hand tightened in his hoodie, and even through the fabric, he could feel your fingers trembling. “I—I didn’t finish.”
“Don’t care,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You did good, love.”
You swallowed, and for the first time since your fall, your lips twitched upward. “You’re making a scene.”
Simon scoffed. “Let ‘em stare.”
He slipped an arm around you, steadying you as you stepped off the ice together.
“Scared the bloody hell outta me.”
“You? Scared?”
“Terrified.” His hands slid over your waist, steady, grounding. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Maybe you hadn’t finished your routine. Maybe you didn’t win tonight.
The first time you’d brought up trying the position with him, he agreed to try simply to see if you’d both enjoy it or not. Though at first he was somewhat hesitant as this man really enjoys being able to see your face whenever you’re intimate together.
However.
Doing it…was different.
At first, he’s put you into doggy simply to make it easier to get into position without any awkwardness, and the moment his hand pressed on your lower back to flatten you out…
The man almost tweaked out right then and there.
“Oh…oh fuck…”
There was something about the sight of you completely and utterly at his mercy that had his cock twitching within you, his fingers would intertwine with yours…pinning them to the sheets before he’d give an experimental roll of his hips to see how you felt.
And in that moment, he’d find out that this position was perfect to hit your g-spot…and then? He simply couldn’t stop.
Each thrust was so perfectly angled that he’d have to almost restrain you through the pleasure earned by every snap of his hips.
“Nuh-uh…c’mon baby…you wanted to try this…don’t try and run now love…take it for me…please..”
He’d deliberately lean down, just to let you feel the heavy pants of his breath at your ear, the way sweat rolls down his chest with every merciless thrust.
The pleasure is almost too much and yet not enough at the same time. He’d relish in the way you’d claw at the sheets beneath your grip, the way his name would fall from your lips in such a broken tone.
“Shit…look at you…fuck…my pretty missus…yeah…”
The moment he feels your ass pushing up as if you were trying to get him even deeper, he couldn’t remotely stop himself. Bottoming out and grinding his hips to let you feel the way he kissed your cervix. Whispering praises into your ear, mingled in with the rough groans that tumble out of him.
He could feel when you were close, his hands digging into your lower back to keep you still as he fucked you into your release, and in this position…it didn’t take him long to follow. Pressing his entire weight into you as he floods your cunt. Panting right beside your ear as his sweaty body borderline laid across you.
summary: bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you. [written from the pov of Sam.]
warnings: fluff and more fluff. reader is described to have positive, sunny personality. NOT PROOFREAD.
"hey man, your hair is a little messy," Sam wasn't going to mess with Bucky's hair, he merely meant to correct it, but the way Bucky immediately halted his actions and gripped his wrists, Sam understood that Bucky Barnes was incredibly, incredibly protective of his hair.
that was when he realised never to touch it. or even think about touching it.
over the years, Sam has seen countless people try and tidy his unruly locks of hair, but Bucky has had the same reaction to all.
a swift grip on the wrist, a soft glare, and a small mutter of "don't touch my hair" was clockwork at this point.
so when you came along - you with your bright smiles and your cheerful nature - Sam often wondered why you put up with his grump of a friend.
don't get him wrong, he was incredibly happy to see him with you, blossoming out of his shell and all.
but it still puzzled him.
on a particularly slow morning, Sam had dropped in for a visit at the Barnes and (y/l/n) household. Alpine had greeted him like she always does - attention seeking attitude melting away into indifference once she got enough head scratches.
Bucky was still waking up from his sleep, moving around the kitchen with you in perfect sync, both of you preparing breakfast while Sam lounged on the island chair next to the kitchen.
he was busy on the phone, but when he looked up next, his jaw dropped and the phone fell from his grip to clatter on the counter.
there was Bucky Barnes, leaning next to you near the stove, as you brushed your hand in his hair and twisted it all around your fingers, letting him rest his head on your shoulders.
who the fuck is that, Sam wondered.
that can't be Bucky.
when Bucky, ever the skillful assassin, felt Sam's eyes on them, he turned to him with a questioning face.
"since when do you let people touch your hair?" San asked without missing a beat.
"I don't." he replied simply.
"but (y/n) was just now-"
"(y/n) is not people. she's different. special."
that shut Sam up. it was disgusting, really, how sweet Bucky was around you.
you cooed at him softly. "aww, thank you baby," and kissed him on his cheek.
"I need more coffee to deal with this disgusting cotton candy shit so early in the morning," Sam muttered under his breath.
thank you for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated :)
I know the ending was quite abrupt but tbf I didn't have a very well planned out idea 😭 lmk what you think!
Summary: Navigating everyday life with Simon Riley. Sitcom-style fanfiction.
Word count: 558
Tags: @candlelight-reading
Previous episode // Next episode
You were already curled beneath the covers, facing away from the door, but Simon could tell by the tension in your shoulders that you weren’t asleep.
“I’ve got him under control,” he murmured.
You didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, in a small voice, you said, “I don’t think he likes me.”
Simon let out a quiet chuckle. “He doesn’t know you yet.”
“I don’t think he wants to.”
Simon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll fix it.”
You rolled onto your back, looking up at him. “How?”
Truth was, Simon wasn’t entirely sure. Riley wasn’t a pet, he was a trained asset, a soldier. And somewhere along the way, he’d decided that you weren’t part of the pack.
That had to change.
“I’ll make him see that you’re above him,” Simon said simply. “Even if I have to force the bastard to understand.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“Trust me, love. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s handling a stubborn bastard.”
The morning came, and Simon was up before you, slipping out of bed quietly.
Riley was waiting when he opened the laundry room door, alert as ever, tail giving a single slow wag in greeting.
Simon crouched down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “We need to have a chat, mate.”
Riley blinked at him.
“You don’t get to pull that shit with her,” Simon said in a voice, you'd call his 'Lieutenant voice', rarely heard at home, never used toward you. “She’s not a threat. She’s not weak. You don’t have to like her, but you damn well better respect her.”
You woke up groggy and reluctant, but commotion at the backyard forced you to step out of the bedroom.
There you found Simon working with Riley. Commands. Obedience drills. Establishing control.
You hesitated at the door, eyes flicking between Simon and Riley, wary but trying not to show it. Simon noticed. And so did Riley.
"Come here," Simon called.
You took a slow step forward. Riley tensed. Simon caught it immediately.
"Leave it," he ordered. Riley's ears flicked, but he stayed put.
Another step.
Simon kept his focus locked on the dog, reading every subtle shift in his posture. The tension in his shoulders. The way his tail was just a little too still.
"You trust me?" Simon asked suddenly.
The question threw you off guard. You looked at him, brows knitting together.
"Of course," you murmured.
"Then come here."
You stepped forward right up to Simon’s side. Riley remained still, waiting.
"You're gonna show him who's the boss here. You know how to order me around, the same with him, love."
You shot him a look “I do not order you around.”
“Sure you don’t.” Simon handed you a treat from his pocket "Tell him to sit.”
You swallowed, then tried to mimic Simon’s firm tone. “Riley, sit.”
And it was far from Simon's 'Lieutenant voice'.
“Say it like you mean it.”
You inhaled deeply, looking down at Riley "Sit." You repeated. Rather than sounding more stern, your voice came out softer and a pitch higher than before.
Simon huffed a quiet chuckle beside you. "That’s not gonna cut it, love."
“I’m trying.”
"He listens to certainty. Confidence. You don't ask him. You tell him."
"I know.. I'm-" you inhaled deeply "Sorry Si, this isn't working."
