Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
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Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
Pairing: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
Word count: 6k
Warnings: friends to lovers, cheating tropes (like repeatedly, but bucky does not cheat on you), SMUT, car sex, pussy job, p in v (both protected and unprotected), oral (m&f), fingering, tears, angst, public sex, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn but also not?, loss of virginity, creampie, mutual pining, yearning, miscommunication.
Summary: Bucky and you take a step no one ever should in a friendship they wanna keep. It never ruined your friendship, just every other romantic relationship.
+fran: every time I get angsty and emo, I think of this fic, so I decided to stop being a pussy and write it.
All fics can be read on their own or as parts of a story!
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Should've Kissed You Anyway (You're 18, Bucky is 20)
Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though he's your brother's best friend and your crush for the past decade.
“Don’t make it awkward in second period, might piss your ex off, lately we’ve been good, staying friends is safe, doesn’t mean we… should?”
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Not That I Miss You (You're 20, Bucky is 22)
Your brain is too reliant on technology, so when your phone dies mid-halloween bar crawl, there's only one number you know by heart. Bucky's.
“It’s not like I’m still not over you, it’s so strange this, I never do.”
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ 'Tis The Damn Season (You're 23, Bucky is 25)
Bucky unexpectedly spends Thanksgiving break with your family. And he has a plus one.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ The 1 (You're 25, Bucky is 27)
At an engagement party, you're supposed to be joyful, celebrating a big milestone of two of your favorite people. Then why is it the butterflies in your stomach only bloom when you get dragged into a closet with Bucky?
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Stupid Song (You're 27, Bucky is 29)
New York City never looked so blue on a day so sunny. Bucky gets a voicemail on your wedding day and has to decide if confessing his feelings for you is worth ruining the friendship.
.°˖✧ pairing: james cook x fem!reader
.°˖✧ summary: Cook had spent two years wanting her and calling it love because love sounded better than obsession. She didn’t want him back. Not properly. Not enough. Not in the way he’d decided he deserved after every glance, every laugh, every moment she let him close without letting him in. Then the One Wish Willow ended up in his hands, promising one wish, one change, one chance to make the world fair in the only way Cook cared about. If she wouldn’t choose him, he’d choose for her.
Because the wish didn’t grant him love. It granted him obedience.
.°˖✧ wc: 33.3k
.°˖✧ a/n: the fic i’ve been calling incel x yandere has officially become my magnum opus. i saw obsession on the 26th and haven’t stopped thinking about it since, so naturally i had to write a crossover fic. i did take the liberty of changing where they work from a music store to a bowling alley/arcade because it felt more dynamic. apologies for the long paragraphs, normally i would have more separation but tumblr's stupid 1,000 paragraph block rule squashed it. i’ll be taking a short writing break after this to work on the joc library, help co-host a little writing event for jack’s birthday, gauge interest for a shawn zine, and finally get through my manuscript edits because i’m behind on everything lol. huge shoutout to beany @pastabillities and ria @remmickstalker for beta reading this behemoth, you’re the best!! and thank you to abhi for once again making me a killer banner. i love it so much. okay, enjoy the fic!!
.°˖✧ warnings: dead dove: do not eat, noncon/dubcon due to supernatural coercion, mind control/forced devotion, graphic violence, murder, blood and gore, major injury, stalking, obsessive/yandere behavior, incel mindset, gaslighting and manipulation, toxic possessive relationship, jealousy and possessiveness, emotional abuse, sexual coercion, piv, rough sex, choking, slapping, biting, unprotected sex, oral (giving/receiving), spit kink, cumplay/facial, Cook sucks
.°˖✧ AO3 / MASTERLIST
Cook had built a whole love story around a version of her that had never existed.
People wrote songs about wanting like it was all aching and sweetness, all late-night phone calls, stupid smiles and wanting to be better because someone lovely had looked at you twice. That was bullshit. Wanting her felt less like romance and more like a bad habit he couldn’t quit, something hot and mean lodged under his ribs, fed by every laugh she gave someone else and every smile she wasted like it didn’t cost him anything to watch.
Kingpin’s wore its neon like cheap jewelry: loud, shabby, and fooling absolutely no one. The sign did most of the lying from the car park—red glow, gold letters, the i swapped for a bowling pin wearing a crooked little crown, like the building fancied itself glamorous instead of scuzzy and embalmed in fryer grease. One of the bulbs over the front door flickered when it rained, and the apostrophe in Kingpin’s buzzed loud enough to hear from the smoking area if the wind blew right. Gareth kept saying he’d get it fixed. Gareth also kept saying Cook was on his last warning, so nobody took his promises seriously.
Inside, Kingpin’s was worse where the neon couldn’t blur it pretty. Louder too. Bowling balls cracked down lanes with a violence people cheered for. Arcade machines spat tinny little victory songs at kids with sticky fingers. Prize tickets curled out in cheap pink strips like paper tongues, and the claw machines glowed blue over stuffed animals nobody won unless their parents were willing to be financially ruined by a plush frog with one wonky eye. The carpet was purple and orange but ugly enough to count as workplace abuse, patterned in swirls that hid stains until the lights hit them wrong. The air smelled of chips, lager, warm plastic, shoe spray, and the sugary cleaning stuff Gareth bought in bulk because he thought tropical blast meant sanitary.
Cook loved it there in the way a person could love a place that deserved to be condemned. It was grimy, bright and tacky. It gave him somewhere to be loud, somewhere to lean, grin, flirt, steal chips off people’s plates, vanish for smoke breaks, and stroll back in twenty minutes later like he hadn’t just been dodging work. Kingpin’s suited him because nobody expected polish from a bloke working shoe rental at a bowling alley, and Cook had always been better when expectations were already in the gutter. He was meant to be spraying returned shoes when he caught himself watching her again. Not watching, he’d say, if anyone asked. Looking. Existing with eyes. Perfectly normal thing, having eyes. Couldn’t help where they went. Except he could. He knew he could because every few minutes he dragged them away, told himself not to be a fucking creep, and found her again anyway.
She was behind the prize counter, restocking sweets into the glass case, Kingpin’s polo tucked badly into her jeans, name badge askew because the pin had been broken for two weeks. Birthday glitter clung to the side of her face from some kid’s party crown, catching blue from the nearest claw machine whenever she turned. Her hair kept slipping forward when she bent, and she kept pushing it back with the same impatient motion—not thinking about it, not knowing Cook had noticed enough times that the noticing had started to irritate him.
He knew what drink she bought on break. Knew she hated the left register because the drawer jammed unless you hip-checked it. Knew she skipped the third song on his driving playlist every single time and pretended it was because it was shit, not because it reminded her of a bad night out. Knew she took the long way around the bar when drunk men crowded it. Knew she smiled at old women even when they complained about prices. Knew she checked her phone more when Ryan was on shift. That last one pissed him off. He told himself noticing wasn’t weird if you noticed because you cared. That was what romance was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Paying attention. Remembering things. Knowing the little details everyone else missed and pretending it was sweet instead of evidence you’d been looking too long.
Girls liked that in films, didn’t they? Some quiet, devoted prick knowing their coffee order and the book they mentioned once and the song they hummed under their breath. Some sad-eyed bastard remembering every tiny detail and getting rewarded for it in the end because apparently obsession was romantic as long as the bloke kept his mouth shut and looked tortured doing it. But when Cook knew things, suddenly it was creepy. Suddenly it was too much. Suddenly it was, Cook, why do you know my work schedule?
As if she didn’t keep giving him reasons. As if she didn’t smile at him over the prize counter, steal chips off his tray, laugh at his filthy jokes like she knew exactly where his mind would go and let it go there anyway. As if she didn’t lean past him behind the counter and press herself close enough for him to feel the heat of her through that stupid Kingpin’s polo, then act like he was the problem for noticing. As if she didn’t laugh.
That was what got him, really. The laughing. She laughed at him like it cost her nothing, like it didn’t crawl under his skin and sat there, hot and stupid, even humiliating. Like she could throw little crumbs of warmth around, let a bloke start starving for them, then blink all innocent when he came looking for the whole fucking meal.
“Are you planning to stare until the shoes clean themselves?” she asked without looking up.
Cook leaned his hip against the counter and gave the shoe spray a lazy shake. “I’m supervising.”
“You’re loitering.”
“Same thing with authority.”
“You don’t have authority.”
“I’ve got presence.”
“You’ve got a pile of wet shoes and Gareth doing his angry walk.”
Cook glanced over. Gareth was, in fact, coming out of the office with his head forward and his shoulders tense, which meant someone was about to get blamed for something that probably was Cook’s fault. Cook straightened without actually moving away from her counter. “You worried about me getting sacked?”
“I’m worried I’ll have to do your job when you do.”
“That’s love.”
“That’s self-preservation.”
“You’re flirting again.”
“I’m warning you before Gareth does.”
“Love it when you get bossy.”
She shut the sweet drawer with her hip and looked at him then, eyes narrowed, mouth trying not to smile. “You’re unbearable.”
“But you bear me.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
She shook her head and turned back to the prize case, but the corner of her mouth stayed lifted. There. See. What was he supposed to do with that?
Ryan came through the staff door carrying a crate of bottled drinks, already looking tired of Cook before Cook had even said anything. “Gareth’s asking why the shoes aren’t done. I told him I told you ten minutes ago.”
Cook didn’t look away from the prize counter. “Snitch.”
Ryan followed his line of sight and gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re not subtle.”
“Subtlety’s for virgins and tax fraud.”
Ryan set the crate down with a clatter. “You’re doing that tragic thing again.”
She glanced between them. “What tragic thing?”
“Nothing,” Cook said.
Ryan smirked. “The thing where he starts eye-fucking you and calls it supervising.”
Cook threw the shoe spray at him. Ryan dodged, laughing, and she made a disgusted little sound even though she was smiling.
“Both of you are disgusting.”
“Say that softer,” Cook said. “I’m close.”
“I’m begging you to develop shame.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked toward her, and something passed between them too quick for Cook to pin down. Not a look, maybe. Not even a proper smile. Just a little beat of familiarity, easy and private, the sort of thing that said there were conversations Cook hadn’t heard and jokes he hadn’t been there for. It got under his skin immediately, mean and sharp, like a splinter he’d rather dig deeper than admit was there. Ryan was too comfortable with her. Had been for a while. He leaned against counters beside her like he had a right to take up space there. Knew when she was in a bad mood before Cook did. Could say her name across the arcade and get her attention without putting on a whole fucking show for it. He didn’t even have the decency to be obvious about wanting her. He just existed around her like access was normal, like being allowed near her was something he’d never had to earn. Cook hated him for it.
Not that he was jealous. Jealousy was for lads who didn’t have options, and Cook had options. Tasha made that clear enough every time she brought him a drink he hadn’t asked for, every time she laughed too hard, every time she touched his arm and let her fingers linger like she wanted him to notice. Tasha had smoky eyeliner, chipped black nail polish, and a habit of biting her lip whenever Cook turned the charm on. Cook liked that. Liked knowing it. Liked keeping her attention close enough to warm his ego whenever the thing he actually wanted left him feeling like some sad prick with his face pressed to the glass. Tasha meant he wasn’t pathetic. Girls did want him.
Just not the one he had stupidly, violently, inconveniently decided mattered.
The night dragged on in shouts and spills. Gareth yelled at lane six for bringing outside vodka. JJ nearly got taken out by the basketball machine when it spat a ball early. A kid dropped an entire tray of nachos on the carpet and burst into tears as hot cheese soaked straight into the purple swirls. Cook spent twenty minutes flirting with a group of college girls at concessions because they were drunk enough to think he was funnier than he was, then looked over to see if she’d noticed. She had. She looked amused. Not jealous. Not bothered. Amused, like he was exactly the sort of idiot she expected him to be. That annoyed him enough to make him flirt harder.
By closing, Kingpin’s looked like the night had chewed it up and spat it out. The lanes were empty under the low lights, polished slick and useless, with only the odd mechanical clunk from the pinsetters breaking the quiet. The arcade still blinked to itself in the corner, cycling through demo screens for nobody. The prize counter shone with fingerprints and smears, and the air had soured into old beer, fryer grease, and the chemical sweetness of mop water. Cook was half-assing the returned shoes while she counted the till, Ryan wiped tables near the bar, and Tasha leaned beside Cook with her chin in her hand, watching him with a smile she clearly thought was subtle.
“You coming out after?” Ryan called.
She paused with her fingers still in the drawer and looked over. “Where?”
“Food. Drinks. Whatever’s still open.”
“After tonight? I should go home and stare at a wall.”
“Stare at chips instead,” Ryan said. “Less bleak.”
Cook tossed a pair of shoes into the wrong cubby. “I’m driving.”
“You’re always driving,” she said.
“Because I’m generous.”
“Because you hate taxis.”
“Two things can be true.”
Tasha nudged his arm. “You giving everyone lifts, or just special people?”
Cook let the pause sit there because he could, because Tasha would wait for him to fill it and they both knew it. “Depends who asks nicely.”
Tasha held his gaze for half a second too long, smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, and Cook looked away just in time to catch her across the lobby looking back down at the register. Cook didn’t know if that meant anything. He wanted it to mean something.
They ended up at a late-night burger place three streets over, the sort of place that stayed open less because people wanted to eat there and more because drunk people stopped being picky after midnight. The windows were fogged from the fryers, the plastic tables had a permanent tack to them, and the woman behind the counter took their order with the tired patience of someone who had already explained twice that extra sauce cost 20p. There were six of them crammed around two pushed-together tables: Cook, Ryan, Tasha, JJ, her, and Malik from the kitchen, who had mostly come along so he could call Gareth a tight bastard to people who already knew he was right.
Cook ended up opposite her because Ryan slid into the seat beside her before he could. That was Ryan’s first offence of the evening. The second was how easily they settled next to each other, like it took no thought at all. Ryan stole one of her chips without asking, and she smacked his hand away without even looking up from her drink. Not surprised. Not annoyed enough. Just used to it, like his fingers on her plate were another bit of background noise she’d stopped questioning. He reached for the sauce before she asked and pushed it toward her, already knowing, already smug about knowing, and something hot and mean pulled tight in Cook’s chest.
Then she complained about the music, and Ryan said, “You always complain about the music,” before Cook could even open his mouth. Always. Cook hated the word immediately. Hated how casual it sounded coming from Ryan. Hated the little doorway it opened into a history Cook hadn’t been invited into, all those shifts and smoke breaks and late-night conversations happening without him there to watch, without him there to stop anything from becoming too familiar.
Tasha was beside him, knee brushing his under the table. “You’re quiet.”
Cook took a chip from her tray. “I’m mysterious.”
“You’re sulking.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You absolutely sulk.”
“I brood. Sexier.”
She laughed, touching his sleeve. “Sure.”
He leaned closer because Tasha made it easy and because he could feel her watching from across the table, maybe. “You like it.”
Tasha’s mouth opened, then shut and Cook grinned. Across from him, she looked away first. His satisfaction lasted exactly three seconds before Ryan leaned in to say something near her ear and she laughed. Cook hated himself for how fast the feeling curdled.
Outside after, the air had gone damp and cool, the kind that made takeaway grease cling harder to everyone’s clothes. JJ and Malik were still arguing about whether the pirate shooter in the arcade was haunted, Malik insisting the left cannon fired by itself and JJ getting increasingly wound up by the lack of evidence. Tasha had her jacket zipped up to her chin and was still hovering near Cook, close enough that her sleeve brushed his when she shifted, but his attention had already gone past her. Across the car park, she stood near Ryan’s car with her arms folded against the cold, smiling down at the cracked pavement while Ryan said something Cook couldn’t hear. Cook lit a cigarette he’d stolen from Ryan’s pack.
Ryan wandered up beside him a moment later. “That’s mine.”
“Community property.”
“You’re a parasite.”
“A handsome parasite.”
Ryan glanced toward her, then back at Cook. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Cook blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “By smoking?”
“By doing whatever this is.”
“It’s called standing.”
“It’s called staring like a pathetic, lovesick prick.”
Cook’s jaw tightened. “Fuck off.”
Ryan’s tone shifted, softer but smug underneath. “Mate, just ask.”
“Ask what?”
“If she likes you.”
Cook laughed. “What are you, twelve?”
“I’m serious. Stop hovering around like a kicked dog.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’ve been mentally pissing on her leg all night.”
Cook looked at him. “You got a death wish?”
Ryan grinned. “Girls like confidence, yeah? Ask straight. Worst she can say is no.”
Worst she can say is no. People said that like no was harmless. Like no didn’t make a bloke feel skinned in public, stupid for wanting, stupid for thinking he’d seen anything there in the first place. Like she could just say it and go on with her night, still laughing, still eating chips, still looking at Ryan when he spoke, while Cook had to stand there with the word stuck in him and pretend it hadn’t made him want to crawl out of his own fucking body. Easy for Ryan to say. Ryan, who sat beside her like it was nothing. Ryan, who knew what sauce she wanted and stole food off her plate and got away with it. Ryan, who could tell Cook to be confident because he’d never had to make confidence look like anything. He just had it. Worse than that, people gave him reasons to. Cook looked toward her again before he could stop himself. She was laughing at something Malik had said now, the sound carrying across the car park like she had no idea she was being watched, no idea she was standing there ruining him by looking happy without him.
Ryan followed his gaze and gave a small, knowing hum. “Unless you already know she’ll say no.”
Cook’s head snapped back toward him.
Ryan lifted both hands, grin barely held in. “I’m just saying.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Then ask,” Ryan said, simple and cruel because he made it sound like there was nothing at stake. “Prove me wrong.”
Cook hated him for that. Hated him more because he was going to.
A skinny red-and-cream box sat on the backseat of Cook’s car, cheap-looking in the way old magic tricks and corner-shop toys were cheap. Curved lettering, smiling cartoon faces, little sprays of stars. AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS! printed along one side like it was supposed to be fun, like there wasn’t something rotten in how badly he wanted it to work. Near the end, tucked into a burst of red, were the words You only get ONE WISH.
ONE WISH WILLOW, it said across the front. He’d bought it three days earlier on his lunch break, after she’d mentioned old folklore while untangling tickets from a machine, talking half to him and half to the mess in her hands about wishing trees, charm bundles, little bits of luck people carried around when they wanted the universe to listen. Cook had called it witchy bollocks to her face. An hour later, he’d found himself in a oddity shop near Kingpin’s, a narrow little place wedged between a vape shop and a nail salon, all dusty shelves and incense smoke and tiny silver bells over the door that made him feel like a twat the second he walked in. The woman behind the counter had watched him pick it up, watched him turn the little box over in his hand like it might bite him.
“For someone you love?” she’d asked.
Cook had laughed too quickly. “Steady on.”
Then he’d paid cash, shoved it under his jacket, and told himself the whole way back that it was funny. A weird gift. A piss-take. Something he could toss at her and make a joke out of before she noticed he’d remembered something soft, something small, something she probably didn’t even remember saying. He was lying, obviously. He’d bought it because she’d wanted it for half a second, and Cook had carried that half second around, polishing it into evidence that he knew her, that he listened, that there were bits of her Ryan didn’t get to have. Now it sat behind him while he drove her home through wet streets, the box catching streetlights in the rearview whenever they passed under a lamp. She had his phone in her lap and was skipping through his playlist with increasing disgust.
“This is terrible,” she said.
“That’s a classic.”
“This sounds like how the carpet at work smells.”
“You’ve got no culture.”
“I work at Kingpin’s. Obviously.”
He laughed because she expected him to, because laughing was easier than admitting his fingers had gone tight around the wheel. The car smelled of smoke, damp upholstery, mint gum, and the cheap air freshener Ryan had hung from the mirror as a joke, still swinging there like another little reminder of him. Rain tapped against the windscreen and dragged the traffic lights into red and green streaks. She sat curled toward the heater, worn out from the shift and everything after, comfortable enough to insult his music, steal his spare hoodie from the backseat without asking, and pull it over her lap without thinking twice. The box was underneath it. Cook caught the flash of red-and-cream packaging when the hoodie shifted, bright against the dark mess of the backseat, and his throat tightened before he could make himself laugh that off too.
He could give it to her now. Reach back, grab the box, toss it into her lap with a grin. Say, saw this and thought of your weird tree thing. Make it sound crude and stupid yet casual enough to hide behind. The kind of gift a bloke bought as a joke, not because he’d carried one passing comment around until it started feeling like something private. She’d probably laugh. Maybe call him an idiot. Maybe turn the little box over in her hands and look at him like she couldn’t believe he’d remembered. The thought hit too soft, too fast, and he hated himself for wanting it. Then Ryan’s voice came crawling back in, smug and easy. Ask straight.
Cook kept his eyes forward. The engine idled low, the heater clicked softly, and the longer he sat there, the less it felt like something he could still choose not to say. Beside him, she shifted under his hoodie, tired and comfortable and completely unaware that he was ruining the night before he’d even spoken. He should have just given her the stupid box. Instead, he opened his mouth.
“You like me, don’t you?”
He knew he’d fucked it before she even turned her head. He heard it. Felt it. Too blunt. Too hungry. Too much like something that had been sitting behind his teeth for ages, waiting for the ugliest possible moment to come out.
She went still. “What?”
He could still save it. He could laugh. Could make it filthy, stupid, harmless. Could say as a driver, as a coworker, as a national treasure, obviously. Could swerve so hard she’d never know there had been anything real underneath it. But fear got there first. Fear, then pride.
“You heard.”
She frowned a little, not irritated yet. Just confused, which was somehow worse. “Are you joking?”
“No.”
“Like me how?”
Cook scoffed because if he didn’t, the silence was going to swallow him whole. “Like me how. Fucking hell, you need a diagram?”
Her face changed. Not much. Just enough. The warmth went careful around the edges, and the whole car seemed to shrink with it, everything was suddenly too close. Everything was suddenly watching. Cook felt the moment tipping away from him and kept talking anyway, because humiliation had momentum and his mouth had always been faster than his sense.
“You and me,” he said. “There’s something there, yeah?”
She looked at him properly then, and he hated that too. Hated the way she didn’t laugh. Hated the way she didn’t make it easy by being cruel. Hated the softness coming over her expression, like she was already trying to find the kindest way to cut him open.
“Cook,” she said.
“Don’t do that.”
“I like you.”
His pulse kicked once, stupidly.
“As a friend,” she added.
There it was. Not sharp. Not nasty. Worse because it was gentle. Because she meant well. Because she had no idea that kindness could gut a person cleaner than mockery ever could. Cook stared ahead, even though they were parked outside her building now and had been for half a minute. He hadn’t even noticed pulling up. His hands stayed on the wheel, locked there, because looking at her felt impossible and looking away felt like losing.
She shifted beside him. “You know that, right?”
He nodded once. The silence got bigger. Then pride, ugly and panicked, threw itself over the wound.
“Jesus,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded wrong even to him. “I didn’t mean like that.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He forced his mouth into a grin because that was the only thing it knew how to do when everything else was fucked. “I meant, do you like me as a person? Like, am I tolerable? Didn’t ask you to start naming our future fuckin’ kids or summat.”
Her embarrassment arrived fast. He saw it hit and felt a nasty little spark of relief, because now she looked stupid too. Now she had something to be ashamed of. Now he wasn’t the only one sitting there with his insides showing.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I thought—”
“What? That I was about to profess my undying love in a Vauxhall?” He huffed another laugh, sharper this time. “Give me some credit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For having an ego? You should be.”
She looked down. For one second, it helped. Then it didn’t. The relief curdled almost as soon as it came, leaving him with the same raw shame underneath and something meaner crawling up around it. Because she was sorry. Because she was embarrassed. Because she would get out of his car in a minute and go upstairs and feel bad for a bit, maybe, then sleep it off, wake up tomorrow, and still not want him.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” she said.
“You didn’t.”
“Okay.” Her fingers closed around the door handle. “Good.”
Good.
She got out and hurried through the rain to her door, his hoodie over her head, her shoulders tucked against the cold. She looked back once and gave an awkward little wave. Cook lifted two fingers from the wheel like none of this mattered. The door shut behind her. Cook sat there until the engine noise started to feel obscene. Then he killed it. The silence rushed in, rain ticking over the roof and glass. He leaned back in the seat and stared at her building, jaw tight, chest burning with something he refused to call hurt because hurt sounded too innocent.
Good. She’d sounded relieved. Not disappointed. Not tempted. Relieved. He thought of Ryan saying worst she can say is no. Thought of the way Ryan stood too close to her. Thought of Tasha’s knee against his under the fast food table. Thought of all the little smiles she’d given him that apparently meant nothing because girls got to decide afterward what counted and what didn’t. They could laugh. They could lean. They could take your hoodie and sit in your passenger seat and make you feel like maybe, maybe, maybe, then look at you like you’d grown a second head for believing the thing they’d been feeding.
He saw the gift in the rearview mirror. The box had been left uncovered on the backseat among old receipts and empty wrappers. Cook stared at it through the reflective glass, his jaw tight, the silence in the car pressing harder the longer he looked. Then he laughed once. “Of course.”
He twisted around, grabbed it, and snatched it into the front seat hard enough to crease the cardboard. The thing felt cheap in his hands. Cheap enough to be funny. Cheap enough to make him feel even more pathetic for caring. ONE WISH WILLOW stared back at him. Cook dug his thumb under the flap and tore it open. Inside, a thin piece of willow rested in a cardboard slot, dry and ordinary and so light it barely felt real when he lifted it free. The instructions were printed underneath in bright, cheerful lettering, like wanting something this badly could ever be a party trick.
REMOVE FROM THE BOX AND JUST MAKE A WISH.
SPARK THE MIDDLE AND BREAK IT IN HALF.
He looked at it, then back at the willow pinched between his fingers. It weighed almost nothing. That made him angrier. All that wanting in him, all that noise. The heat and humiliation. And the thing in his fingers was barely more than rubbish. A dead twig dressed up as fate. He thought of her saying friend. Thought of her saying good. Thought of how easy it had been for her to walk away untouched while he sat in the car with a gift he’d been too much of a coward to give. His fingers tightened around the willow. He didn’t wish she loved him. Love sounded too sanitized for what he felt. Too pretty. Too easy to put on a card and pretend it meant anything close to this. Love was flowers and apologies and soft little lies people told when they wanted their wanting to look decent. Cook didn’t feel decent.
He wanted her hungry. Wanted her stupid with it. Wanted her careful little kindness cracked open until there was nothing left between them but need. Wanted her to come back and look at him like friend had never left her lips, like good had been a mistake, like every polite little boundary she’d put between them had been something she was desperate to crawl over. He wanted her to stop seeing safe, harmless, funny fucking Cook from work. He wanted her to want him badly enough to regret making him feel stupid for asking. Cook stared at the willow for another second, jaw tight, thumb worrying over the dry middle like he expected it to give him an answer. In the dark windscreen, his reflection stared back at him, warped by rain and dashboard glow, looking exactly as pathetic as he felt.
Then he snapped it in half before he could think better of it. The sound was small. Dry. Brittle. Nothing. For a moment, Cook just stared at the broken pieces in his palm. No thunder. No flash. No sudden shift in the air. Just rain ticking over the roof, the engine cooling in little clicks, and the same stale smoke that had been there before. Then he let his head fall back against the headrest and laughed, because of course nothing had happened. Of course he was sitting outside a girl’s house after getting friend-zoned, breaking a twig like a sad little virgin with a humiliation kink.
“Absolute plonker,” he muttered.
Tap.
Cook opened his eyes. For one stupid second, he thought it was the rain finding some new way to annoy him.
Tap.
This time, he felt it through the glass beside him. He turned his head and found her outside the driver’s side window, close enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. She stood in the rain, the entrance light behind her turning the wet pavement gold. She should have been upstairs. He had watched her go in. Watched the door shut. Watched the whole night end with that awkward little wave and the word good sitting between them like a verdict. And now she was back, knuckle against the glass. Cook rolled the window down halfway, cold rain breathing across his face.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She leaned closer. “Why are you still here?”
“I was leaving.”
“No, you weren’t.”
His fist closed around the broken willow pieces. Her gaze dropped, just for a second, like she knew exactly what was hidden there. Then she looked at him again, and something in her expression rearranged itself too quickly, too completely, the careful distance she’d put between them evaporating all at once.
“I shouldn’t have gone inside,” she said.
Cook swallowed. “No?”
“No.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said. I know what I said and I didn't mean it."
The words should’ve scared him, and maybe they did, but fear had never been enough to make Cook let go of something he desired. He stared at her through the half-open window, waiting for the joke, the correction, the cruel little laugh that would make him feel stupid for believing her. She only kept looking at him, and the longer she stayed quiet, the easier it became to hear what he wanted instead. “You didn’t mean it,” he repeated.
She shook her head, her attention stuck on him in a way that made his skin prickle. “Come inside.”
Cook could have started the engine. He could have told her to go upstairs and sleep off whatever this was, could have thrown the broken pieces into the gutter and admitted that something had changed too fast to be real. He could have done one decent thing before the night got any worse. Instead, he got out. The night slapped cold against his face as he stepped from the car. She backed away just enough to let him stand, his hoodie pulled tight around her like she’d already forgotten it wasn’t hers. The pieces stayed clenched in his fist until he shoved them into his jacket pocket, because leaving them behind felt too much like admitting there was something to hide. Neither of them spoke as she led him inside. The stairwell light buzzed overhead, dragging their shadows up the wall as she climbed ahead of him, glancing back every few steps like her body needed proof he was still following. Cook stayed close enough to turn around if he wanted to. He didn’t.
By the time she unlocked her flat, the silence between them had started to feel like pressure. She pushed the door open and waited on the threshold. Cook crossed it, and the door clicked shut behind him. The lock slid home—her hand, not his, trembling around the deadbolt. He stood in her narrow hallway, caught among the small evidence of a life he’d only ever imagined from the outside: a cherry chapstick with the cap bitten rough, an old ASDA receipt tucked into the cracked paperback spine of a battered paranormal romance novel, a single earring dropped into a little ceramic dish shaped like a strawberry, a shopping list on the side table in her own hurried scrawl—milk, batteries, incense, bin bags—with half the words scratched through. None of it belonged to him, which made being there feel worse. She turned to face him before he could decide what to do with his hands, breathing too fast, looking at him with a certainty that felt planted there by something else. Every part of him knew this was wrong. He stayed anyway.
"You okay?" he asked, and his voice came out rougher than he meant. He knew she wasn't. He knew what he'd done. The willow bark was still under his fingernails, probably. Fuck. She didn't answer. Just stepped forward, into his space, and her mouth found his—clumsy, desperate, her teeth catching his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. Her hands fisted in his red bomber jacket, pulling him closer, and he let himself be pulled. Let himself forget the how. Let himself sink into the heat of her body pressing against his.
He broke the kiss first. Grabbed her wrists. Pinned them against the wall beside her head. Her breath stuttered, and he watched her chest rise and fall. "Slow down," he said, and the grin he found was more teeth than warmth. "You dragged me up here. Least you can do is let me look at you proper."
She swallowed, throat moving under his attention, pulse hammering at the base of it as her whole body strained toward him like he was gravity, like she’d die if he let go. But she stopped. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t make some mouthy little comment about him thinking he was in charge because Cook, honestly, fuck off. She just stopped because he told her to, standing there with her wrists caught in his hands and her attention fixed on him like the words had gone straight through her. A sick little thrill hooked under his ribs, and Cook thought of the wish before he could stop himself. He buried it almost as quickly as it surfaced, because putting a name to it would mean admitting this wasn’t just her finally wanting him; it was something else wearing her face like a mask. Cook told himself he wasn’t testing the wish, then gave her another order anyway, just to see if she’d obey.
"Take it off," he said, nodding at the hoodie. She pulled her wrists free—he let her—and tugged the fabric over her head, dropping it on the floor. She’d changed out of her work polo sometime after closing, before they went for food, and Cook remembered noticing it in the chip shop with the sort of attention he had no business giving it. The t-shirt underneath was an old band tee, washed thin, the collar stretching over her collarbone. He could see the outline of her nipples through it. Already hard.
"Been waiting two years," he said, low, almost to himself. His thumb found her bottom lip, pulled it down. "Two years of you being careful. Distant. Looking at me like I was something you stepped in."
She shook her head. "No, I—"
“Shut up.” He said it softly, and she obeyed so fast it made his cock jump in his jeans. Her mouth closed. Her eyes stayed on his. Before the wish, she would have torn him apart for speaking to her like that—called him a prick, rolled her eyes, made him laugh until the moment passed. Now she waited, quiet and ready, and the pleasure of that scared him less than it should have.
“You don’t get to talk right now,” he said, slower, because every word landed and he could see it landing. “You get to listen.” He traced the line of her jaw and felt her shiver. She was still watching him, waiting for the next thing, and the waiting did something awful to him. Made him want to keep going. Made him want to find out how far the wish reached. “You knocked on my window. You brought me upstairs. So you’re gonna stand there and take what I give you. Understand?”
She nodded, small and quick. Cook stared at her for half a second too long. There it was again. No argument. No bite. No careful little boundary set down between them like a warning cone. Just compliance, immediate and sweet, like the part of her that used to push back had been smothered under all that sudden wanting. It should have made him stop.
Cook took it as permission instead.
"Good girl." He leaned in and pressed his mouth to her throat, feeling her pulse jump against his lips. "Now get on your knees."
She dropped. Fast. Like her legs gave out. Her hands landed on his thighs, gripping the denim, and she looked up at him from the laminate floor—that same desperate, unfocused desire in her eyes. It was fucked. He knew it was fucked. But his cock was already rock hard, already straining against his jeans, and the way she was looking at him made it so easy to bury the thought because she was following every direction. Every single one. And the part of him that had spent two years being laughed off, brushed aside, kept harmless, made into a joke, wanted to call that proof. Wanted to call it fair. Wanted to call it finally.
"Unzip me," he said. Her fingers fumbled with the button, the zipper, and then she was pulling him out, her hand wrapping around him. The sound he made was almost embarrassingly raw. Her palm was warm. Dry. She stroked him once, tentative, and his hips bucked into her grip. "Now put that worthless mouth of yours to use for once."
She leaned forward. Her tongue touched the tip, a single experimental swipe, and then she took him in, her lips sliding down his shaft, her cheeks hollowing. He hit the back of her throat and she gagged, pulled back, tried again. He let her set the rhythm for a few seconds—watching her, the way her hair fell forward, the way her jaw strained—and then he fisted a hand in her hair and held her there. His voice was ragged as he told her, "m' gonna need you to breathe through your nose. Remember, you wanted this, so you're gonna take it."
She did. Her throat worked around him. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the hallway. The radiator ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping across the thin curtains. None of it mattered. There was only her mouth, hot and slick as he held her hair in a fist, guiding her pace as he watched her struggle. "Look at you. Pretty little mouth stuffed full and you're drooling like a fuckin' whore." She didn't pull away, she only took it deeper, moan muffled and the vibration made his hips reflexively stutter. He groaned, pulled her off and slapped his cock against her slick lips. "Now suck it clean. Lick every drop of your filthy spit off my cock." She obeyed, tongue tracing the shaft, her eyes never leaving his. "Yeahhhh, that's it, you're such a dirty little cocksucker."
He let her up when his legs started shaking, not wanting to blow his load too early, not until he was inside her. He yanked her to her feet and walked her backward down the hall, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her jaw. Her lips were swollen, wet with spit amd pre-come. He kissed her again—slower this time, meaner, biting her bottom lip and sucking until she whimpered.
Her bedroom was cramped and messy, dirty clothes sticking out of a hamper in the corner, an unplugged charger curled on the night stand, bed unmade and dragged half off the frame, one corner of the fitted sheet peeled loose, a bottle of nail polish left mostly uncapped beside a burned out glade candle. He laid her back down on the mattress, and she spread her legs without being told, her t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of bare stomach. He took his time. Pulled her trainers off. Tossed them aside. Ran his hands up her calves, her thighs, pushing her knees wider apart. Her jeans were tight, and he took his time with the button, his knuckles dragging against her stomach, watching her breathe.
"Look at you," he murmured. "Soaked through your knickers already." He traced the damp cotton with his thumb, pressed, felt her hips lift into the pressure. "That for me?"
"Yes." Her voice cracked. "Cook. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Cook, I can't—I need you inside me—please, please, please—"
He pulled her jeans down and off before her knickers followed, wet enough that they there was a visible damp patch through the fabric. He knelt between her legs and just looked at her for a moment—the slick shine of her cunt, the way her thighs trembled, the way her fingers twisted in the wrinkled sheets. Then he put his mouth on her. The taste hit him first—salt and skin, and then something deeper, muskier, entirely her. He dragged his tongue through her folds, slow, deliberate, and her whole body jolted like she'd been shocked. He held her hips down, flattened his tongue against her clit, and circled. Listened to her gasp. Felt her hand land in his hair, not pulling, just holding on.
He worked her like he had all the time in the world. Two years of want poured into every lick, every suck, every time he pushed a finger inside her and felt her clench around it. She was wet enough that he slid in easily—one finger, then two, curling up toward her stomach, finding the spot that made her cry out.
"That's it," he groaned, punctuating the air with lewd, wet squelches as he finger fucked her. "You're shakin' and I haven't even gotten my cock in you yet."
She was close—he could feel it in the way her walls fluttered around his fingers, in the way her breath came in short, broken gasps. His mouth reattached to her clit, sucked hard, and she shattered with a sound that was almost a sob, her back arching off the mattress, her cunt gripping his fingers as she rode it out. He didn't stop. He worked her through it, gentle now, until she pushed his head away, oversensitive and shaking. He sat back, licked his fingers clean, watched her chest heave. He pulled his jacket off. His shirt. Kicked his jeans down. His cock was aching, flushed and slick at the tip. He saw her eyes track it, saw her lips part before he crawled over her, positioning himself between her legs. "Gonna fuck you now princess but I need you tell me how badly you want it, tell me how badly you want my cock."
"I want it." Her voice was a whine, "I want your cock, Cook please—please, I need it so bad."
He pushed in slow, inch by inch, savoring the feeling of finally. Her cunt was hot, wet and so fucking tight that he had to stop halfway, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, a low groan torn out of him. She stretched around him, her fingers clawing at his back, her breath hot against his ear.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
She nodded, a choked sound in her throat.
"This is what you've been keeping from me." He pulled out, pushed back in, deeper. "Two years. Two years of watching you, wanting you, and now I'm finally inside you."
He found a rhythm. Long, slow strokes that made her gasp every time he bottomed out. He watched his cock slide into her, watched the way her hole stretched around him, slick with their shared juices and the sight made him impossibly harder. He told her to look at him, her eyes idly meeting his, dark and dazed. "When I come inside you, I want you watching."
He drove deeper. Harder. The bedframe knocked against the wall, a steady, frantic beat. She was meeting his thrusts now, her hips rising to meet him, her nails raking down his back. The pain was good. Grounding. He was losing his rhythm, the edge bearing down on him. "Yeah, you like that? You like being fucked like a shameless slag?"
"Yes." She keened, "yes, fuck, yes!"
He wrapped his hand around her throat. Not tight—just there, a promise. "Come on my cock. Now."
She did. Her eyes stayed on his as her orgasm hit, her cunt squeezing him, and the feeling of it pulled him over with her. He drove into her one last time, buried deep, and came with a guttural sound that was almost her name. He stayed there inside her, breathing hard, the taste of her on his tongue. His hand was still on her throat, and he felt her swallow.
He pulled out slowly, watching his come leak out of her, mixing with her own. He collapsed beside her, dragging her into his arms, pressing his face into her hair. She was still—too still, her body limp against his, her breathing slowing. He felt the silence settle. The wrongness creeping back in, cold along his spine. He looked at her face. Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. A single tear slid down her temple and into her hairline, catching the light from the streetlamp outside—or maybe it was just sweat. He didn't ask. He just pulled her closer, his arm locked around her waist, his face buried against her shoulder. What mattered, he decided, was that she was still there. The lie was still warm in his chest.
He held on, and he refused to let go.
Cook woke into a room that didn’t sound like his life. No arcade machines shrieking, no Gareth shouting across Kingpin’s, no Ryan calling him useless from somewhere he couldn’t see. Just grey morning pressed against the curtains, a phone buzzing on the nightstand, and the slow return of a body beside him before memory came with it: the mattress, the weight of her, the scratches down his back, his clothes puddled somewhere by the door. His stomach tightened before he opened his eyes.
She was awake, propped on one elbow with her chin resting in her palm, watching him from her side of the bed with the duvet pulled to her chest. Her attention stayed fixed on his face with the same strange focus she’d had at the car window. The room smelled of something vaguely cozy, of slept-in sheets, of sex—blunt and undeniable. Something pleased and possessive tightened in Cook’s chest. He should’ve made a joke, something filthy and easy, the kind he could use to make all of this normal, but for once nothing came fast enough.
“How long’ve you been doing that?” he asked.
She blinked slowly, like the question had reached her late. “I don’t know.”
“That s'not creepy at all.”
“I like watching you sleep.”
The words should’ve worried him, should've made him pull away. Instead, they got under his skin in the worst possible way. Cook laughed because it was easier than admitting he liked it—liked her watching him, liked being looked at with that much need, liked that wanting him had made her strange. “You’re mental.”
Her expression switched so abruptly his laugh died in his throat. The version of her that had been watching him sleep seemed to blink out, leaving her staring at him with naked panic, taking in the sheets, his bare chest, her own body under the duvet like the memory of last night had come rushing back to her all at once. Her breathing shallowed, quick and jagged. “Why are you still here?” she whispered, and then, before he could answer, “Cook, what happened?”
Cook’s throat went tight, because there she was: the girl from the car, the one who'd said friend, the one who’d left him in the dark with his stupid broken twig and his stupid broken pride. She looked from him to the door and back again, one hand clamped to the duvet, the other pressed against her lips like she was trying not to be sick. “I don’t feel right,” she said, voice fraying. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m being weird.”
The decent thing was humiliatingly simple: get dressed, leave, let her come back to herself without him in the room. Cook knew it in the way she kept looking toward the door, in the tremor running through her hands, in the terror she was trying and failing to swallow. Maybe she was on meds and had forgotten to take them. Maybe she’d taken something last night and it was still dragging her sideways. He grabbed for both explanations because they kept him away from the willow, and because neither of them changed the part his worst self cared about: she had come back, crawled into bed with him, and let him believe he’d finally won.
Then the panic twisted again. Her face crumpled, and she reached for him so suddenly it startled him, both hands locking around his wrist. “No, wait, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” Her voice climbed, messy and frantic, apologies spilling over each other too quickly to sound steady. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t know why I said that. Please don’t leave, Cook. Please.”
The question sat right in front of him, simple and unforgivable. What happened to you? What did I do? What are you when you look at me like that? Cook didn’t ask it. He touched her face instead, and the alarm in her expression folded inward almost instantly, all that frantic energy narrowing until there was only him. Her grip loosened on his wrist only to slide higher, fingers curling into his forearm, and Cook felt the answer settle heavy in his stomach. That was all it took. Not an explanation. Not an apology. Just him.
“There you are,” he said, softly enough to sound kind.
Her mouth trembled. “Cook.”
He kissed her before she could say anything else, gentle at first, then deeper when she gave in with a shaky little sigh. The confusion left her quick, replaced by something eager and grateful, her fingers tightening around his forearm like she was apologising with her whole body, rightfully so.
When he slipped out of her bedroom later, it was only to fetch his cigarettes and charger from the car. That was what he told himself, anyway. He needed five minutes where she wasn’t looking at him like that, where he could stand outside in yesterday’s clothes and pretend this was just a bad comedown, missed meds, some private little breakdown he didn’t need to understand because she’d still crawled into bed with him. His phone buzzed while he was rummaging through the clutter in his center console.
The messages stacked up fast: come back, then why did you leave?, then are you angry?, then i’m sorry, then please come back upstairs. Cook stood beside his car with the charger in one hand and a cigarette forgotten behind his ear, staring at the screen while something pleased and rotten opened in him.
needy little thing aren’t you
The reply came instantly.
only for you
Cook looked up at her window and let himself smile, because the unease was still there, but so was the want. Hers now. Loud. Clinging. Impossible to miss. Then he went back upstairs.
They arrived at Kingpin’s together later that day.
It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about it was subtle, and that was why Cook liked it. He walked through the front doors in yesterday’s work polo, unwashed and wrinkled from being yanked back on that morning, hair a mess, mouth bitten in one corner, with her beside him in the kind of silence that made talking feel more incriminating. The arcade lights were already on, blinking over empty machines before opening. Gareth was fighting with the coffee machine. JJ was stacking cups. Ryan looked up from the lane desk and went completely rigid. Tasha noticed a second later. Cook noticed her noticing.
He put his hand low on her back, not because he needed to guide her anywhere, but because Ryan was looking and Tasha was looking and Cook wanted the whole ugly, glowing place to know. Gareth stuck his head out of the office. “You’re late.”
Cook grinned. “Worth the wait.”
“You’re always fucking late.”
“Still got everyone looking, haven’t I?”
“You’ve got five minutes before I dock your pay.”
She laughed under her breath.
Ryan’s eyes moved from Cook to her. “You two come in together?”
Cook leaned against the desk. “Observant lad.”
Ryan didn’t smile. “What happened?”
Cook’s grin widened because this was the bit he’d pictured without letting himself admit it: Ryan looking at him, Tasha pretending not to, everyone suddenly understanding that Cook hadn’t read it wrong after all.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Ryan’s jaw ticked. “Cook.”
Ryan’s tone had a warning in it, the kind Cook might have heard if he wasn’t already drunk on being right. Let Ryan look bothered. Let him stand there trying to work out how the sad prick from last night had walked in this morning with her at his side. Later, when she went to help JJ with the stockroom, Ryan cornered him near the shoe counter.
“What the fuck happened?” Ryan asked.
Cook grabbed a pair of returned shoes and sprayed them until the chemical smell hit the back of his throat. “You told me to ask.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And she changed her mind.”
“What does that mean?”
Cook leaned closer, lowering his voice into something mean and filthy. “Means she came back to the car after all that friend bollocks, dragged me upstairs, and spent the night proving her mouth says one thing and the rest of her says summat else.”
Ryan stared at him, and Cook enjoyed it too much, the look on his face dragging something nastier out of him. “Funny, innit?” he said, tossing the shoes into the cubby. “Girls say one thing, then get all upset when you stop believing them.”
Then Ryan asked, “Was she on something?”
The question cut through the bragging.
Cook’s smile twitched. “What?”
“Last night,” Ryan continued. “Was she on something?”
“Why?”
“She was acting weird.”
Cook scoffed. “Jealousy’s ugly on you, mate.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah, tragic, that.”
Ryan looked toward the stockroom. “Molly, maybe. Pills. Whatever. She wasn’t herself.”
Cook hated how quickly the idea caught. Not because it made him feel guilty, but because it gave him a way out. Molly was better than magic. Molly was normal. Molly meant the willow was cheap bullshit from a dusty shop and not something that had split her open in the middle of the night. Molly meant she’d wanted him already and only needed a little chemical shove to stop acting so fucking pure about it. Molly meant Cook hadn’t done anything except stand there when the truth finally crawled out of her.
He laughed. “You saying she needed drugs to fancy me?”
Ryan’s expression didn’t move. “I’m saying maybe don’t be a smug prick until you know what happened.”
Cook hated Ryan for saying it, but the excuse was already there, useful and ready-made, some rotten part of him clung to it before he could look too closely. Later, behind Kingpin’s, she followed him into the smoking area and stayed close enough that he could feel her beside him without looking. Rain had left the concrete black and shiny; cardboard boxes slumped by the bins, soft with damp, while the fryer vent breathed hot grease into the cold. Cook lit his cigarette, took one drag, then held it out. She took it automatically, fingers brushing his.
“Were you on something last night?” he asked, casual as he could make it.
She paused with the filter near her mouth. “What?”
“Ryan reckons you were acting weird. Molly or some shit.”
Her expression went blank in a way that made the alley seem louder. For a second, she looked almost confused, like the word had opened a door she didn’t remember walking through. Cook saw her searching for an answer that wasn’t there. Then she looked at him and nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “Molly.”
Relief opened in his chest so fast it felt obscene. There it was: normal, dirty, easy. Not a wish. Not him. Just drugs, some bad choices and her finally admitting what she wanted.
“There we go,” he said.
She frowned slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She took a drag and exhaled slowly. “I didn’t think it’d hit like that.”
Cook stepped closer. “Hit how?”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and whatever doubt had been in her face went soft around the edges. “You know how.”
Cook smiled.
That was the version he chose.
After that, things were good. Good in the way a bad idea could be good if Cook kept calling it molly and let her look at him like it was love. Good in stolen minutes, bitten mouths, her fingers hooked through his belt loop near the staff corridor while he pretended he was only hanging there because he was lazy. Good in coffee waiting before his shifts and his jacket disappearing over her shoulders during smoke breaks. Good in Cook sitting on the shoe counter with his knees spread while she stood between them, close enough for him to murmur something filthy against her ear and watch whatever she’d been saying fall apart in her mouth.
She started arranging herself around him like it was natural. If he came in at four, she was there at half three with a cold drink already waiting with a smile aimed straight at him. If he closed, she lingered after clocking out and pretended she was helping. If Gareth sent him to unjam a machine, she found some excuse to cross the arcade, drifting through the blue glow and cheap ticket noise until she was beside him again. She fixed his collar before customers came in, plucked lint off his polo, stole chips from his tray during their lunch break, and let him drag her into corners for kisses that left them late, breathless, and grinning like they hadn’t done anything wrong. Cook got used to her hand at his waist, her mouth near his ear, the constant heat of her attention following him from counter to lane to arcade floor. He got used to people looking. To Ryan going quiet whenever she touched him. To Tasha glancing away a second too late. He got used to being wanted loudly, stupidly, without all the careful little limits she’d put around herself before.
For a little while, the wrongness dressed itself up so well he could almost call it happiness. It got into the small things first. Her lip balm in his pocket. Her lighter rolling around his cupholder. Her drink waiting beside his on the counter before he’d even thought to ask. She sat in his passenger seat with her knees tucked up, changed his music without asking, and kissed him over the gearshift when he told her she had shit taste. She took photos of him when he wasn’t looking, laughed when he told her to delete them, then kept them anyway because apparently she liked him best when he was scowling. He called her his girl once as a joke, some filthy little throwaway line near the prize counter, and watched her whole expression change. So he said it again. After that, he said it whenever he wanted to feel powerful.
The texts became part of the weather: where are you? then answer me, then are you with tasha?, then miss you, sorry, i just miss you. Cook liked the apologies best, which was a nasty thing to learn about himself.
At night, she still watched him sleep. He’d surface to grey light or the thin orange stripe of a streetlamp through the curtains and find her awake beside him, chin tucked against her arm, studying him with an almost worshipful stillness. The first cold prickle never lasted. It always got drowned out by the thicker, meaner satisfaction underneath: she was losing sleep over him. She was guarding him from the dark like leaving him alone for eight hours would be some kind of betrayal. Any decent bloke would have hated it. Cook started staying over more.
At first, the missing things were small enough to laugh at. His lighter vanished from beside the till and turned up in her jacket pocket. The pen he always chewed at work disappeared from the front desk. His spare name badge went from the staff room. A torn strip of red gift ribbon he’d tied around his neck during a kid's birthday party at work as a joke somehow ended up tucked beneath her pillow. Each thing had an excuse on its own. Together, they started looking deliberate. One night, searching her drawer for a charger, he found them arranged together: lighter, pen, badge, ribbon, a crumpled cigarette packet with the corner bitten where he’d opened it with his teeth, a receipt with his handwriting on the back, a loose button from the polo he’d split during a shift, and a folded rota with every one of his hours circled in black pen. His stomach turned.
She appeared in the doorway behind him. “Don’t be creeped out.”
Cook looked back at the drawer. “What is this?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing. That’s a fucking drawer full of me.”
Her voice went small, anxious. “I like having pieces of you when you’re not here.”
A normal person would’ve left. Cook shut the drawer instead. “That’s fucked.”
“I know.”
He looked at her properly then, standing there waiting for him to decide what she was, punishment and forgiveness both written all over her face. Cook stepped closer. “You’re a proper little psycho, aren’t you?” Her expression opened at that, not wounded, not ashamed—grateful, like he’d found the right name for her and she loved him for saying it. That should’ve sent him running; instead, it made him feel like a bastard and a prize at once.
Ryan tried talking to her a few days into whatever Cook had decided this was. Cook was crouched near the ball returns, pretending to inspect a jam that didn’t exist so he could keep slacking off, when he saw Ryan catch her by the staff door. Not touch her. Not block her exactly. Ryan was too careful for that. He just stepped in close enough to make the conversation private. Cook stopped pretending to work.
“You can’t just ignore me,” Ryan said.
She looked past him toward the lanes. “I’m working.”
“You haven’t answered a single text.”
“Don’t text me anymore.”
Ryan’s face changed. “Since when?”
She blinked. Cook saw the question hit something. Not memory exactly, not recognition, but a loose thread tugged too hard. Her mouth parted, and for a second she looked at Ryan like she could almost remember why his voice was supposed to matter. Then she saw Cook. Whatever had slipped in her expression vanished. Her attention locked back onto him, simple and immediate, like the rest of the room had ceased to exist. “Since him."
Cook should have wondered why Ryan sounded less confused than hurt. He should have wondered what sort of texts she’d stopped answering, and why the words don’t text me anymore had come out so cold and clipped, like something in her had already decided for her. Instead, all he heard was the finality. Ryan followed her gaze, and for one second his expression turned black with hatred. Cook, the bastard he was, smiled.
After that, the days started arranging themselves around him: work, smoke breaks, her flat, his car, her hands finding him before he had to ask. Cook let himself mistake it. That was the stretch where his version of things started feeling easier to live with. The willow had been nothing. Ryan had been right about the molly. She’d been too careful before, too sober, too caught up in whatever walls she’d built around herself, and the night in his car had only knocked them down. Cook hadn’t made her want him. He’d just been there when she finally stopped pretending she was too good for him. Maybe he’d been right all along.
He took her bowling after close one night when Gareth dipped out early and JJ pretended not to notice them turning lane seven back on. Neither of them changed out of their work attire. She bowled terribly, as always. Cook wasn't much better, cheating by stepping over the line and then arguing with the scoring screen as if the machine could be bullied into boosting his numbers. She giggled until she had to sit down on the ball return, and Cook kissed her there under the lane lights with the pins resetting uselessly in the distance. Then he took her for 2 a.m. kebabs and watched sauce drip onto her fingers. She licked it off without thinking. And Cook, because he was Cook and apparently incapable of letting anything stay innocent, leaned in and said, “Careful. Keep doing that and I’m gonna start thinking you want something in your mouth that isn’t garlic sauce.” She shoved his shoulder hard enough that he nearly dropped his food, laughing despite herself. She took another one of his hoodies that night and didn’t give it back. He pretended to complain. He liked seeing her in it too much to actually mean it.
She came to his flat and cleared three empty lager cans and a crumbled burger wrapper off his dusty dresser while calling him a slob. Cook caught her by the waist before she could make it to the bin, pulled her down onto the mattress, and she went willingly, eagerly, already kissing him like she’d only been waiting for him to give her the excuse. They fucked with the cans and the wrapper left sitting on the floor and the sheets half off the bed, quick and messy, and too pleased with themselves to care. After, she lay with her cheek near his shoulder and traced the tattoo on his arm until the gentleness of it started crawling under his skin, so Cook said something filthy just to ruin it. She didn’t get annoyed. She kissed him instead. He started to crave the way she changed when he claimed her out loud. Started doing it in front of people because it made her lean closer and made everyone else understand she wasn’t available to them anymore. Started testing small things because testing let him pretend it wasn’t control. Come here. Look at me. Say it again. Don’t answer him. Stay.
She listened. God help him, he loved that she listened.
The party happened on a Friday in a flat belonging to someone Tasha knew, or maybe someone Tasha had hooked up with, or maybe both. Cook didn’t ask. It was small, mixed, and noisy: Kingpin’s people, friends of friends, two blokes from a football team nobody cared about, a girl from the bar down the road, someone’s flatmate smoking out the kitchen window, cheap beer and liquor bottles sweating on every available surface. The living room was too warm and too crowded, music rattling from a speaker on the windowsill, bottles lined along the coffee table, crisps crushed into the rug.
Cook arrived with her tucked into his side and immediately felt better than everyone. That was the point of bringing her. Not the only point, maybe, but the one he liked most. He liked seeing people see. Liked the glances. Liked Tasha’s startled little look before she hid it behind her drink. Liked Ryan watching from across the room with his jaw set like he’d bitten into something bitter. She sat close to Cook on the sofa, thigh against his, fingers wound into the sleeve of his hoodie. Whenever he shifted, she shifted too. Whenever he laughed, her eyes cut to him first, sharp and swift, as if she had to know who’d earned it. A decent man might have been worried. Cook felt worshipped.
Truth or dare started because everyone was drunk and unoriginal. Cook picked dare because truth was for pussies and people with fewer stories. A bloke whose name Cook didn’t remember grinned and pointed. “Kiss the person to your left.”
The room reacted before Cook even looked. Laughter, whistles, someone saying, “Oh, shit.” Someone else going, “That’s Tasha, innit?” Cook turned. Tasha sat to his left, eyes widening before she giggled and lifted her beer like a shield. “No, don’t make it weird.”
Cook looked at her lips. He didn’t mean to for long. He meant to for exactly long enough. Then he looked back at the woman pressed against his side. Her expression had gone empty. The room was still laughing, but Cook felt the change move through her before anyone else noticed. Her fingers tightened around the beer bottle in her hand. At first it was nothing. A little pressure. A little stillness. Enough for him to see because he was watching for it, because some sick, glittering part of him wanted to know what she’d do if someone tried to take what she thought was hers. The bottle cracked. The sound cut through the room. Beer spilled over her fingers and down onto the rug. Brown glass fractured in her grip and scattered near her feet, and the laughter died badly, piece by piece, until only the music kept playing too loud from the windowsill.
Tasha jerked back with a sharp, “Jesus,” and Cook stood so fast his knee knocked the table. “Oi.” She didn’t look at him. She was already crossing the space, not shouting, not rushing, which somehow made it worse, the almost-empty bottle hanging loose at her side while everyone's wide, horrified eyes stayed glued to her. Tasha pressed back into the sofa, confusion giving way to alarm, “What the fuck?”
She stopped close enough that Tasha sank into the shabby cushions, and the jagged neck of the bottle rose between them, amber glass flashing under the light. “If your lips go anywhere near him,” she said, calm enough to make it sound decided, “I’ll smash your teeth down your throat and watch you choke on them, you stupid bitch.”
The room went quiet in a way parties weren’t supposed to. Tasha sat pinned against the sofa, beer forgotten in her lap; cups paused halfway to mouths, knees locked at odd angles on the carpet, and the bloke who’d given the dare looked sober now, his grin gone slack and useless. Sour lager soaked into the rug near her shoes while Ryan eased himself up from the armchair, careful as if any sudden noise might turn her on him. She leaned closer. “I mean it. I’ll carve your face open with this bottle until no one can tell where your slag mouth used to be.”
Cook caught her wrist. “Hey.” She jolted at the touch like she’d been woken mid-nightmare, her stare dropping to the glass in her grip, the beer running over her fingers, the shards scattered near her feet. Whatever blank certainty had carried her cracked all at once. “I don’t feel right,” she said, voice thin enough to nearly disappear under the music still playing from the windowsill. Cook heard her, but he also felt the whole room watching him now: Ryan by the armchair, Tasha with her palms half-raised, everyone waiting for him to handle it because it was his mess, wasn’t it? His scene. His problem. His intense new girlfriend.
He stepped in carefully and took the bottle neck from her before she cut herself worse. “Look at me.” She did. Her breathing hitched. Her attention kept snagging and loosening, and for a blink she was the girl from that first morning after again, the one who’d asked why he was still in her bed, scared and trapped somewhere under her own skin. Cook should’ve let that scare him sober; instead, he touched her jaw. “It was nothing.”
She shook her head once. “I don’t know why I—”
“You know what you want.”
The words came out quietly, and they worked. He felt the exact instant she latched onto them, fear rerouting itself into devotion as her eyes fixed on his. Her free hand grabbed the front of his shirt, and then she was kissing him in front of everyone, hard enough that the awkwardness spread through the room like smoke. Cook let her. Of course he did. Tasha looked away first. Ryan didn’t. Cook got her into the hallway after, away from the stale crush of the living room and the whispers already crawling through it. Someone had turned the music down; someone else was blotting lager out of the rug with kitchen roll. She stood near the bathroom door, staring at her empty hand. “Did I scare everyone?” Cook leaned against the wall opposite her. “It’s a party. People love drama.” Her voice sank. “I scared myself.”
That should’ve stopped him, but Cook only pushed off the wall and came closer. “You’re alright.” She looked at him. “Am I?” He gave her the answer like it was obvious. “You’re with me.” The desperate gratitude returned the moment he gave her somewhere to put herself, and Cook felt the power of it all the way down to his fingertips. He didn’t have to ask anymore, didn’t have to risk humiliation. He could say look at me, and she would. He could say come here, and she’d come. He’d wanted confirmation. Now he had it.
The next few days stretched quieter, which made the party easier to file away as a drunken, jealous accident if Cook didn’t think about it too hard. He never thought about it too hard. He took her to breakfast after an opening shift, both of them half-asleep in a sticky café booth while she ordered whatever he ordered and didn’t touch her food until he told her to eat, eyes flicking up to his face after every bite like she was waiting to be praised for doing it right. She fell asleep in his car on the way back to Kingpin’s, cheek against the window, and Cook drove around an extra fifteen minutes because he liked having her there. Soft, submissive, dependent on him to get her where she needed to go.
At work, she helped JJ fix the ticket machine and got grease on her sleeve. She spent ten minutes arguing with a little girl about whether the purple dinosaur prize was cooler than the green one, with such fierce seriousness that Cook laughed from the lane desk until Gareth told him to stop frightening the customers. She kissed him breathless behind the staff door after, tasting like cherry slush and cheese from the nachos she’d snuck. For a few hours at a time, she was almost normal. Almost. Then Tasha would come too close, and it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. After the party, Tasha became careful around him. Embarrassed, maybe. Scared of the bottle incident. She didn’t flirt the way she used to, didn’t hover with her drink tucked to her chest or lean too close just because she could. If anything, fear made her quieter with him, anxious at the edges, her concern slipping out in small, stupid ways she could pretend were nothing. She asked if he was okay. Brought him a drink at work and left it beside him without mentioning it. When Gareth shouted from lane five about a jammed return, she came to find Cook by the prize counter with the lane key already in her hand.
“Gareth wants you,” she said.
“Popular man, me.”
“Machine’s eating balls again.”
“Kinky.”
“Cook.”
He grinned, and it almost felt normal. Tasha held the key out. Cook reached for it at the same time she leaned past him to avoid a kid sprinting toward the claw machines, and her fingers knocked against his. Nothing much. A brush of skin. A tiny accidental touch that should’ve meant less than nothing, especially after everything. Except Cook didn’t pull away. He let their fingers stay tangled around the key for one second longer than they needed to, not enough for Tasha to call it flirting, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough. He felt her watching from the prize station before he looked. So he made himself look. He told himself he was just checking. Testing whether the molly excuse still held up after weeks of this. Whether things had settled. Whether the weirdness was fading. He knew that was bullshit. He wanted to see if she still went crazy for him.
The prize display cracked under her palm an hour later. It happened in the middle of a Saturday rush, with the arcade full of kids and the lanes roaring. She stood behind the counter, hand pressed flat against the glass case full of candy rings, plastic tiaras, rubber snakes, glow sticks, ticket bundles, and stuffed animals with dead little sewn-on smiles. The glass spiderwebbed beneath her. Blood slipped down her wrist. For half a second, the whole prize area froze. Then a child started crying. Cook was already in motion.
“What the fuck?” he snapped, grabbing a towel from behind the counter and wrapping it around her hand.
She didn’t look at the blood. She looked at Tasha then at Cook. “She touched you."
Behind him, Ryan said his name like a warning. “Cook.”
Cook ignored him. He got her into the back office with one hand around her uninjured wrist, kicked the door shut behind them, and grabbed the first-aid kit off the wall. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, that same broken note that always made his teeth itch. The office felt too small after the noise outside, too bright under the strip light, full of dust, stale coffee, and old paper. Gareth’s desk buried under paperwork he kept meaning to file and never did. A cracked mirror above the sink threw Cook’s reflection back at him: messy hair, mouth set too tight, eyes too sharp for someone pretending he had this under control.
“Sit,” he told her. She sat on the edge of Gareth’s desk with her cut hand held stiffly in her lap, blood smeared across her palm where the glass had bitten into it. Quiet now that there was no one left to threaten.
“Fucking hell,” Cook muttered, dropping the kit open beside her. His fingers felt clumsy as he dug out the antiseptic wipes. “What’d you do that for?”
She didn’t answer. Just watched him too closely, too calmly, like some part of her was still back there, still seeing Tasha too near him, still hearing the bottle crack in her hand. Cook tore open a wipe. “This is gonna sting.”
She didn’t flinch when he pressed it to the cut. Didn’t make a sound. Only breathed a little faster, her chest rising and falling beneath her work polo as he cleaned the blood from her palm. It wasn’t deep, but it bled enough to stain the paper towels red, enough to make the office smell faintly metallic under the old coffee and disinfectant.
“Should’ve seen your face,” he said, not looking up. “When she got near me. Looked like you wanted to kill her.”
Silence. Then, quietly, “I would have.”
His hands stopped. Cook looked up at her. She meant it. There was nothing dramatic in her voice, no shaking, no performance. Just certainty, flat and terrifying, like she was telling him the weather, his voice rough as sandpaper as he asked, “yeah? You’d kill for me?”
“I’d do anything.”
The words cut straight through him. Too much. Too easy. Too fucking far. But heat pooled low in his stomach anyway, and for one second Cook almost hated himself enough to stop. Almost. He wound the bandage around her palm, layer over gauzy layer, then pressed the adhesive down with his thumb. “There. All fixed.”
She didn’t pull her hand away. Her fingers curled around his. “Cook.”
His name sounded foreign in her mouth when she was like this. Starved. Soft. Already reaching. Then her expression shifted. Not much. Just enough for him to see it happen. “I didn’t mean to do that."
Cook went still. She stared down at her bandaged hand, breathing too carefully, like one wrong inhale might split the moment open. “I didn’t. I don’t know why I did that.”
There she was. Not the version who clung to his sleeve and watched his mouth like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Not the version who smiled when he called her his girl. This one looked at the blood drying near her wrist like it belonged to something she’d woken from too late. Cook could have told her then. He could have said, I did something. I made a wish. I think I did this to you. Instead, he touched her wrist, her gaze snapping to his. “You were jealous."
Her mouth parted. “I don’t want to be.”
Cook moved closer, still holding her wrist, thumb pressed lightly over her pulse. “Yeah, you do.”
She shook her head, but there was no force behind it.
“You just don’t like her looking at me.”
“No,” she whispered.
“You don’t like anyone looking at me.”
Her breath hitched.
“That’s alright,” he murmured, making it sound gentle, making it sound reasonable instead of irrational. “I like it.”
Something in her gave way beneath his hand. The dread in her face softened, blurred, turned inward until it had nowhere to go but him. Her injured hand curled against the bandage, and the other reached for his shirt, careful at first, then tighter, pulling him between her knees like she needed him close before she could breathe properly. “Cook.”
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me.”
He should have said no. Should have stepped back, opened the door, left her in the back office with the buzzing light and the stale coffee and the blood on the paper towels. Should have let her surface again before he dragged her under. Instead, he leaned in. His mouth crushing against hers, one hand fisting in the collar of her polo, the other bracing against the desk behind her. The kiss was all teeth and spit, It was pure hunger—sloppy, desperate, the kind of kiss that said he'd been holding back all day and the dam had just fucking broken. She made a noise against his mouth, something caught between a gasp and a moan. And he swallowed it. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasted the slush, the lip balm, the mint of her toothpaste from this morning. He didn't care what. He just wanted more of it. More of her. His name tag scraped against hers as he pressed closer, the metal edges catching, and he felt her hand—the bandaged one—come up to grip his shoulder. Her fingers dug in, hard, through the cheap fabric of his red polo. The pain was good. Grounding. Proof that this was real.
"Fuck," he breathed against her mouth, reeling back just enough to look at her. Her pupils were dialated, lips wet and swollen. She looked fucked out already, and he'd barely touched her. "You've no idea how bad i wanted to fuck you out there."
"Do it," she said, her voice rough and needy. "Don't stop."
He didn't need to be told twice. This time, he bit her lower lip, tugged it between his teeth, and she gasped—a sharp little sound that went straight to his cock. His hands found her hips, pulled her against him, let her feel exactly what she was doing to him. The hard length of him pressed against her through two layers of denim and boxers, and she rocked into it, a small involuntary movement that made his breath catch.
"Yeah," he muttered, his mouth trailing down her jaw, her throat, sucking at the skin just below her ear. "Yeah, that's it. Fucking move against me."
His hands slid up her sides, under the hem of her polo. The skin of her stomach was warm, soft, and he felt her shiver as his calloused fingers traced upward. He pushed the fabric up, exposing the curve of her ribs, the bottom of her bra—a simple black thing, nothing fancy, and that made it hotter. She wasn't trying. She was just here, wanting him.
"Off," he said, tugging at her polo. "Take it off."
She did, pulling it over her head in one motion, and the name tag clattered against the desk. Cook's eyes raked over her—black bra, collarbones, the slight sheen of sweat on her chest from the rush. He wanted to put his mouth on every inch of her. He reached behind her, undid the clasp with a practiced flick, and the bra fell away. Her tits were perfect as always, her nipples stiff. He didn't wait. He bent his head and took one in his mouth, laving his tongue over the peak, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.
"Oh, fuck," she breathed, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "Cook—"
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, biting down just enough to make her hips jerk. His hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her jeans, palming her through the denim. She was wet. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric, and it made his mouth water.
"Been thinking about this all shift?" he asked, his voice rough, his lips still brushing her nipple. "Thinking about me while you were counting tickets, fixing Gareth’s shitty prize display, pretending you weren’t watching me the entire time."
"Yes," she whined, the word coming out broken and desperate. "God, yes. Every time you walked past."
"Good girl." He said it like a reward, and she shuddered. "That's what I like to hear."
He popped the button on her jeans and pulled them down her legs, her knickers going with them, helping her out of them before tossing them aside. He pushed her back onto the desk, laid her out like a feast, and dropped to his knees between her thighs. The fluorescent light above buzzed harshly, casting everything in that sick green pallor, but he didn't care. He just wanted to see her. Taste her.
"Look at you," he said, his thumbs spreading her open. She was glistening, wet, her cunt swollen and ready for him. "Fucking gorgeous. All this for me?"
"All for you." Her voice was barely a whisper.
He leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her slit, from entrance to clit, and she bucked off the desk. Her taste hit his tongue—musky, sweet, overwhelming—and he groaned against her, his eyes closing. This was what he’d wanted before he’d ever had it, and having it hadn’t cured him of a single thing. If anything, it had made him worse. Two years of wanting her had turned into something uglier now, something fed instead of satisfied, because the fantasy wasn’t impossible anymore. He knew what she sounded like. Knew how she looked at him when the wish took hold. Knew he could have her in the back office, in his flat, wherever he decided, and the worst part was how quickly that had started to feel like something he was owed. He ate her like a man starved, his tongue circling her clit, his fingers sliding inside her, curling, searching for that spot that would make her scream. She was dripping, soaking his chin, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, her breath coming in sharp little cries. The sound of his mouth on her filled the small office—wet, obscene, rhythmic.
"You like that?" he asked, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening. "You like my tongue in your cunt?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Tell me." He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, then bit down, hard. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me." Her voice cracked. "Please, Cook. I need you inside me."
"That's my girl." He stood, his hands going to his belt, undoing it with quick, rough movements. His trousers dropped, his boxers with them, and his cock sprang free—hard, leaking, the tip already slick with pre-come. He stroked himself once, twice, watching her watch him. "You see what you do to me? See what you've always done?"
She reached for him, her bandaged hand wrapping around the base of his cock, guiding him to her entrance. He let her. He wanted her to be part of this, to want it as much as he did.
"You sure you want this at work?" he asked, even though he knew he wouldn't stop if she said no. Even though the thought of stopping was physically painful.
"I want it," she said. "I want you."
He pushed in. The first inch was heaven—tight, wet, hot. He had to pause, had to breathe, had to let her adjust. His forehead dropped to hers, their breaths mingling in the stale office air.
"Fuck," he whispered. "You always feel so fucking good."
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his hips beginning to move. Slow at first, a long thrust that buried him to the hilt, then a pull-back that left him aching, then another thrust, harder this time. The desk creaked beneath them, the old wood groaning with every movement.
"Yeah," he said, picking up speed. "Yeah, take it. Take all of it."
She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent moan. He watched her face—the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted, the way her breath hitched with every thrust—and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Look at me." He grabbed her chin, forced her eyes open. "I want you to watch me fuck you. I want you to see who's making you feel this good."
Her eyes met his, hazy yet focused, and he felt his balls tighten. He was close already, too close, but he wasn't done with her yet. He pulled out, ignoring her whimper of protest, and flipped her over. Her hands hit the desk, her ass in the air, and he lined himself up again, sliding into her from behind with one smooth thrust. The angle was deeper, tighter, and she cried out, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cluttered surface, knocking papers everywhere.
"That's it," he said, his hand smacking her ass with a sharp slap. The sound echoed in the small room. "That's my good little slag. Taking my cock like a fucking champ." He fucked her fast and mean, his hips slapping against her ass, his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. The fluorescent light flickered above them, the buzz a constant backdrop to the wet sounds of their fucking, her moans, his grunts, the creak of the desk.
"You like that?" he asked, his voice a snarl. "You like being fucked like this? Like the dirty little whore you are?"
"Yes—"
"Yeah, you do. You love it. You've wanted this since the moment you saw me, haven't you? All those months of pretending you weren't interested, that I was just a friend, and now look at you. Look at you, lettin' me fuck you stupid at work."
She didn't answer, just moaned, and he slapped her ass again, hard enough to leave a palm print. "I said, haven't you?"
"Yes!" she cried. "Yes, I've wanted this. I've wanted you."
"Good girl." He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles as he kept thrusting. "Now come for me. Come on my cock like the good little slag you are."
She did. She shattered around him, her cunt clenching, her whole body shaking, a broken cry tearing from her throat. The sensation pushed him over the edge. He buried himself deep, his hips stuttering, and came inside her with a groan that was almost a sob. Hot, thick, filling her, marking her from the inside. He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his breath ragged. The silence was heavy, broken only by the buzz of the light and the distant sounds of the arcade—the beep of a ticket machine, the laugh of a customer, the crack of bowling balls hitting multiple sets of pins. The real world, still spinning, completely unaware of what had just happened. He pulled out slowly, watching his come leak out of her, running down her thigh. Didn't matter how many times he's seen it happen now, something primal and possessive still coiled in his chest.
"We need to get you on birth control," he said, his tone casual, matter-of-fact. "Can't have you getting knocked up. Not yet. Not unless I decide I want that."
She didn't answer. She was still leaning over the desk, her breath shaky, her body trembling. He reached for the box of tissues on the shelf, pulled a handful out, and handed them to her.
"Clean up," he said, already pulling his trousers up, buckling his belt. "We've got another two hours of shift left."
She took the tissues, wiping herself slowly, and he watched her. The bandage on her hand was stained with a faint red, the wound probably bleeding again from how hard she'd gripped the desk. He should redo it. He should take care of her. He didn't. Rather, he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the buzzing light, and let the lie settle warm and comfortable in his chest. She belonged to him. That was all that mattered. She'd wanted him enough to break glass, enough to bleed, enough to end up here on this grimy desk, her legs shaking, his come still inside her. And if that wasn't real—if the wish had made it happen—he didn't want to know.
After that, Kingpin’s got quieter in the worst possible way. Tasha kept their conversation polite and professional. Ryan watched Cook with open dislike. Gareth complained about the cracked display and threatened to take damages out of everyone’s wages, which everyone ignored because Gareth threatened that weekly. JJ asked if she was okay, and she smiled too brightly and said yes. Later, Cook found her near the women’s bathroom, standing too close to Tasha. She wasn’t touching her. Wasn’t yelling. Just speaking softly beneath the arcade noise, her body angled in that calm, awful way Cook was starting to recognize. He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw Tasha’s face. When Tasha walked away, shoulders tight, Cook caught up with her. “What was that?”
Tasha looked at him. “Ask your girlfriend.”
“She’s not—”
He stopped.
Tasha’s mouth tightened. “Right.”
Cook found her in the staff corridor, wiping nonexistent dust from her bandage. “What’d you say to her?”
She looked up. “Nothing.”
“Didn't look like nothing.”
A tiny smile touched her mouth, and it should have pissed him off more than it did. “She thinks she’s special. She thinks because you look at her, it means something.”
Cook’s throat tightened. He should have told her it didn’t. Should have said Tasha was a coworker, that none of this was natural, that she couldn’t go around threatening people because he had an ego and a wandering mouth. Instead, he asked, “And does it?”
Her expression sharpened, and Cook felt it low in his chest: the warning, the want, the sickness of being answered exactly how he wanted.
The first time someone actually paid for what Cook wanted happened just after close. One of the girls from the party came into Kingpin’s with friends, the one who’d giggled too loudly when Cook got dared to kiss Tasha. Cook didn’t remember her name. He remembered her from later, after the bottle incident had been laughed off badly and the music had been turned up again, when his girl had dragged him down the hall to the bathroom and made him wait outside the door because apparently even pissing required a fucking chaperone. He’d leaned against the opposite wall, basking in the stupid satisfaction of being needed that badly, when the girl had wandered out from the living room with a beer in her hand and stopped at the mouth of the hall. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” she’d said. The bathroom door had stayed shut. The music had been too loud for anything to carry. His girl hadn’t heard a word, which meant Cook got to enjoy the attention without paying for it. And Cook remembered every bit of female attention if it could be used later to soothe himself or make himself worse.
Near closing, she came up to the front desk and made a joke about the broken bottle.
“Your girlfriend still mad at everyone?” she asked.
Cook glanced toward her restocking prizes. “Wouldn’t call her that.”
“Seemed like she would.” The girl tore a corner from an old receipt then, borrowed the pen chained to the counter, and wrote something down with her shoulder angled so her friends couldn’t see but they were giggling.
“Just in case she ever lets you off the lead,” she smirked , sliding it toward him.
Cook should have thrown it away. He didn’t. He glanced at the number, grinned despite himself, and tucked the scrap under the register because he couldn’t help it. Or because he didn’t want to. Twenty minutes later, when he took the rubbish out through the back, he heard the impact before he saw anything. Not a scream first. Not even a shout. Just the hard, wet sound of someone being driven into brick, followed by a choked cry that seemed to catch halfway up a throat and die there. Cook stopped with the bin bag hanging from one hand. The girl from the party was near the car park wall, bent sideways against the bricks while her friend stood several feet away with both hands clamped over her mouth. The girl’s phone lay near the bins, screen shattered across the wet pavement in sharp little flecks, still lighting up uselessly beneath the rain. Her bag had spilled open near the wheel of a parked car, lipstick and keys scattered through the puddles.
She had one hand twisted in the girl’s jacket and the other pressed against the back of her head. For one horrible second, Cook saw the motion before his brain managed to dress it up as anything else. She shoved the girl forward again. Her face hit the wall with a dull crack. The girl made a broken sound and slid down a few inches before she yanked her back up by the collar. Blood smeared the brick where her mouth had struck it. More ran from her cheek and over her lips, dripping onto the collar of her jacket in quick, dark spots. She tried to turn away, but Cook’s girl caught her by the hair and slammed her sideways into the wall hard enough that her knees gave out. Her friend was screaming, “stop! Get off her!”
She let go so suddenly the girl dropped. She hit the asphalt on one hip, palms skidding through dirty water and broken bits of her own phone. Her friend lunged forward, then froze when Cook’s girl turned her head, slow and empty, blood smeared across the knuckles of one hand. Cook’s first thought wasn't, Is she alive? His first thought was, Fuck. Then she looked at him. His jacket hung from her shoulders. Her hand flexed at her side, fingers uncurling one by one like she was only just remembering she had them. Her knuckles were split. A thin red line ran down from her wrist and disappeared under the sleeve, but her expression was calm enough to make the cold air cut sharper in his lungs.
Ryan came through the back door behind him. “What happened?”
The girl on the ground sobbed into the pavement. Cook didn’t answer. She stepped closer, eyes fixed on him and nothing else. “She gave you her number.”
Ryan swore under his breath. The friend was crying now, one hand shaking around her phone as she tried to dial with wet fingers. The girl from the party curled in on herself near the wall, one hand pressed hard to her bleeding mouth like she was trying to keep her face together. Rainwater carried thin red threads through the cracks in the pavement, around the smashed phone, around the dropped keys shining under the security light. Cook stared at all of it. The blood on the brick. The girl’s hair gummied to her cheek. The receipt corner still tucked under the register inside, stupid and flimsy and somehow louder than anything in his head. The stain on the sleeve of his jacket like something he’d signed for and forgotten he could be charged with. He thought of the willow snapping in his fingers. Her tap on the car window. Molly, stupid and convenient. The way she kept waking up confused. The beer bottle. The prize case. Tasha backing away near the bathroom.
He had wanted her to want him so badly it ruined her. Now there was blood outside Kingpin’s, and he still had to bite back the part of himself that wanted to call it devotion. He’d wished to be wanted; the wish granted him violence, and some sick part of him still mistook it for love.
By morning, Kingpin’s had turned the blood into gossip. No one had been charged. That was the first miracle, if Cook was still stupid enough to call anything about it miraculous. The girl from the party and her friend gave one version, shaking and crying under the ugly security light while rainwater thinned the red on the pavement. Cook gave another, mouth tasting of smoke and lies, saying he’d come out too late, saying she was already on the ground, saying maybe there’d been lads hanging about near the bins earlier. Didn’t know them. Didn’t get a proper look. The camera over the back door didn’t reach the car park wall. The one that should have covered the bins had been dead for months because Gareth refused to pay for anything that didn’t immediately stop customers complaining. There was no clean footage. No simple story. No neat little clip to play back and prove what had happened in the dark.
Just two scared girls saying one thing. Cook saying another. And Gareth getting red in the face because he liked any explanation that didn’t come with police sniffing around his business, compensation claims, or questions about why half the security system at Kingpin’s existed purely for decoration.
By open, the car park had already been sanded down into something easier to repeat. She’d mouthed off. She’d slipped. She’d been drunk. She’d got unlucky. Whatever blood was left on the pavement had been hosed away before the first birthday party arrived. The broken phone went into a black bin liner with the rest of the rubbish, and by ten the neon was buzzing again, the fryers were coughing grease into the air, and the arcade machines were shrieking over each other like nothing bad had ever happened in the back parking lot.
Only the staff knew how to move around the lie. Tasha now completely avoided whatever station she was on unless Gareth made it impossible: prize counter, front desk, shoe rental, arcade, the break room. Especially the break room. JJ kept looking at the back doors like he expected the night before to come stumbling in again, wet and bleeding under the security light. Ryan watched Cook with the kind of hatred people stopped bothering to hide once fear had worn the politeness off. Gareth paced by the lanes, scratching at his beard, muttering about CCTV, statements, and how if anyone brought police round Kingpin’s, he’d personally shove them headfirst into the ball return.
She behaved like none of it had happened. That was worse. She brought Cook a bacon roll wrapped in a napkin because he’d forgotten breakfast. Fixed his collar while he was talking to a customer. Stole a chip off his plate, then fed him one back with a smile so sweet it made his stomach turn over. When he yawned, she asked if he’d slept. When he said he was fine, she touched the inside of his wrist like she could take his pulse by instinct now, like his body had become a thing she was responsible for. Cook let her. He told himself it was easier that way. Told himself the girl outside had been walking and crying by the time someone called for help. Told himself there was a difference between hurt and dead, between jealousy and danger, between a one-off and a pattern. It was amazing how many lines a person could draw when he was desperate enough not to see the picture. Ryan cornered him by the staff lockers before lunch. “You need to stop acting like this is normal.”
Cook shoved his jacket into his locker. “Morning to you too, mate.”
Ryan’s jaw flexed. “That girl ended up in hospital.”
Cook slammed the locker shut hard enough to rattle the row. “And what, you reckon I did it?”
“I reckon you know more than you’re saying.”
Cook laughed, ugly and short, because the alternative was admitting Ryan had stepped too close to the truth. “You’ve been watching too much telly.”
Ryan looked past him, toward the lanes where she was leaning over a ticket machine with a screwdriver in one hand, hair falling forward as she worked. She glanced up at the exact second Cook looked at her, like his attention had tugged a string through the room. Her face lit up. Ryan saw it happen and tensed. “She wasn’t like this."
Cook’s smile faded.
Ryan looked back at him. “You know that, right?”
Cook shouldered past him. “Maybe you just didn’t know her that well.”
The words came out meaner than they needed to. That was how Cook knew they had struck a nerve. It got worse in ways that were small enough to excuse until there were too many of them. She knew his shifts before he told her. Waited outside his flat in the rain with her hood up and his hoodie under her coat, smiling like she hadn’t been standing there for forty minutes. Texted him so often his phone never settled. Texts like: where are you? are you busy? did i do something? cook? cook answer me. Then, when he finally did, the relief came back so fast it was embarrassing, all hearts and apologies and i just missed you, like he’d been gone for days instead of ignoring her through half a cigarette. She wore his clothes more than her own now. His jacket. His hoodies. A red Kingpin’s polo he’d meant to bin because the collar was stretched. After the drawer, she didn’t even bother pretending the little thefts were accidental anymore. When Cook noticed his lighter missing again, she pulled it from her pocket with a guilty smile and said she liked having it because it smelled like him.
“That is mental,” he told her.
“I know.”
“You know, and you still do it?”
Her smile twitched, nervous and wanting. “Do you want me to stop?”
He should have said yes. Instead, he took the lighter from her hand, flicked it open, watched the flame jump up between them. “Depends what I get for being nice about it.”
She kissed him before he had to ask. That was the problem. He stopped having to ask. At first, he made it a joke because jokes were easier to live with than commands. Say you’re mine. Don’t look at him. Tell Ryan to fuck off. Come here. Sit there. Kiss me like you mean it. He said them with a grin, with his hand around a cigarette, with his shoulder propped against a wall, like he was only winding her up, like Cook had ever known when to stop winding someone up. She obeyed too quickly. If Ryan came near the desk, she went silent and looked to Cook first. If a customer flirted with him, she slid beside him and poseessively tucked herself under his arm before he could decide whether he wanted the attention. If Cook clicked his fingers just to be a prick, she shot him a look that should have been annoyed and came anyway, cheeks hot, mouth pressed into a line as if some real, stubborn part of her knew she ought to tell him to fuck off and could not force her mouth to form the words.
The first time he told her to say it properly, they were in his flat with rain tapping hard against the window and takeaway boxes going cold on the floor. She’d let herself in with the spare key he’d stupidly given her and waited with the food while Cook went to the local off-licence for cigarettes, took the long way back because being missed had started to feel better than it should, and didn’t answer for twenty-six minutes. Twenty-six. She had counted them. Every single one. She said it like an accusation, then cried because she hated sounding like that, then apologized because apologizing had become another thing she gave him too easily. She’d tried texting first. Then calling. His phone had buzzed on the mattress beside the takeaway boxes, lighting up with her name over and over while Cook stayed gone, which somehow made it worse. He hadn’t missed her messages. He’d left himself unreachable.
“Something’s wrong with me,” she said, voice shaking in a way that took the heat out of the room. “I can feel myself doing it, and I still can’t stop.”
Cook sat on the edge of the mattress and watched her come apart in front of him, barefoot in one of his old Man United jerseys, his phone still clutched in her hand like evidence. The girl from before was there again, fighting through the devotion with panic in her mouth and shame all over her face. She looked at him like he had the answer. Like he was the only person who could put her back together.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.
Cook went cold. For once, he understood the line in front of him. Not guessed. Not felt it somewhere vague and inconvenient. Understood. She was asking because the curse had taught her to, because his want had taken something private inside her and rewired it toward him. He could have said, Go home. He could have said, Call someone. He could have told her to run from him and keep running until whatever rotten thing lived in the willow lost his scent. Instead, Cook held out his hand. “Come here.”
She came. Of course she came. Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of his hips as she climbed into his lap, the washed-out red jersey riding up high enough to show the crotch of the cheap boxers she’d grabbed from his drawer. He watched her the whole way—the way her eyes stayed fixed on him, the way her breath came shallow, the way her bandaged hand caught his shoulder and left a faint red mark against the cotton when she braced herself.
“How’s the hand?” he asked, voice neutral.
She looked down at it, flexed her fingers. “Still hurts.”
“Good.” He reached out and took her wrist, turning her palm up, studying the blood that had bloomed through the gauze. “You’re gonna have a scar.”
“I know.” She didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled around his, and the touch was hot, almost feverish. “Cook, I—”
“Shut up.”
He pulled her closer, mouth finding hers before she could finish whatever honest thing was trying to crawl out of her throat. She tasted like rain and the cheap cherry lip balm she nicked from Boots. Her hands came up to his face, her injured one fisting in his hair, and the pressure was just sharp enough to hurt. Good girl. He bit her bottom lip, hard enough to taste copper, and she gasped into his mouth. “You been thinking about this all night?” he asked, pulling back just enough to see her face. “Coming here, sitting in my room, pacing—been thinking about what I’d do to you?”
She nodded, a jerky motion, her pupils blown so wide her irises were just thin colored rings.
“Yeah,” he said, sliding his hand down her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse under his thumb. “That’s your problem, innit? You can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop wanting it. Even when you don’t know why.”
Her breath hitched. Her hand tightened in his hair. And for a second—just a second—something flickered across her face. Something confused. Scared. The real her, trying to break through once again. He kissed her again before she could get there. Hard. Deep. Tongue sliding against hers, tasting the rain and the salt and the wrongness. He pushed her back until she was flat on the mattress, following her down, his weight pressing her into the sheets. Her legs fell open without him asking. Like a reflex. Like she’d been trained.
“You remember what I told you after the clinic?” he asked, mouth against her jaw, teeth scraping her pulse point. “When you sat there all quiet in that waiting room wearing my jacket, acting like you weren’t squeezing my hand every time the nurse said implant?”
Her hips bucked up, searching for friction he didn’t give her.
“Y-yeah.” Her voice was wrecked, breathy, barely there.
Cook smiled against her skin. “What’d I say?”
Her fingers tightened in his shirt, shame and want moving through her at the same time. “You said…” She swallowed, eyes squeezing shut. “You said now you didn’t have to be careful with me.”
“That’s not all I said.”
She made a small, desperate sound when he pulled back just enough to make her look at him.
“You said you’d fuck me full,” she whispered. “Every time. Whether I wanted it or not.”
“That’s right.” He sat up, pulling her with him, and her jersey came off over her head in one rough motion. The boxers followed, tossed onto the pile of takeaway boxes. She was naked now, sitting on his mattress, the streetlight cutting a stripe across her ribs, her hair tangled, her lips swollen. “And you let me. Because you don’t say no to me.”
She didn’t argue. Her eyes dropped to his lap, to the visible line of his hard-on through his joggers, and her tongue wet her bottom lip. She was already reaching for him, fingers hooking into the waistband, pulling the fabric down over his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the tip weeping pre-come. She wrapped her hand around him—the bandaged one—and the sight of that white gauze against his skin made his stomach tighten. She’d bled for him. She’d break glass for him. She’d do anything.
“Good girl,” he breathed, and the words tasted like a confession. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, making her look up at him as she started to stroke. Slow at first. Experimental. Her thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick bead of pre-come down his shaft. Her grip was too dry. Not tight enough.
“Spit on it,” he said.
She did. Her mouth opened, a thick glob of saliva landing on the head, and her hand spread it down his shaft, slick now, the sound of it wet and obscene in the quiet room.
“Faster.”
Her hand moved faster, her grip tightening, the wet slap of her palm against his cock filling the space between rain-gusts. He let his head fall back, eyes half-closing, and watched her from under his lashes. She was staring at where her hand worked him, focused, hungry, her lips parted, her breath coming in soft, desperate sounds that didn’t quite form words.
“Look at you,” he said, voice low. “Look at you jerking me off like you’ve been doing it your whole life. Like you were made for it.” He reached down and caught her wrist, stopping her. “You like being my little hand-job machine?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Her eyes were wet, but he couldn’t tell if it was tears or rain.
“Yeah, you do.” He released her wrist and grabbed her chin, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Open.”
Her mouth fell open and he spat into it, watching her throat work as she swallowed. The wet shine on her lips, the way she looked at him like he was the only thing in the room—it made his cock throb, and the feeling was so clean and so wrong that he almost laughed.
“That’s it,” he said. “You’re my personal little—d’you know what I called you in my head? Before all this?”
She shook her head.
“My little cocksleeve. That’s what I thought every time you walked past the prize counter. Every time I watched you clock out. Every time you smiled at someone else.” His grip on her chin tightened until she winced. “You were always gonna end up here. Just took the long way.”
He pulled her up, positioning her straddling his lap, his cock pressed against her stomach, leaving a wet smear against her skin. Her knees bracketed his hips and she was already sinking, grinding down, trying to find the angle, and he caught her by the hips and held her still.
“Not yet,” he said. “You gotta earn it.”
He laid his palm flat against her cheek, not hard, just present. She leaned into it, and the way she pressed her face into his hand, like a cat asking to be pet, made something shift in his chest. He let it settle. Then he slapped her. Not hard enough to knock her over. Hard enough to make her gasp, her head snapping to the side, a lightly bruised bloom spreading across her cheek. Her eyes went wide, and for a second he thought he’d broken her—broken the spell, made the real her surface again. But she turned back to him, looked at him, and her pupils were still blown, her lips still parted, and she said, “Again.”
His blood sang. He slapped her again, the other cheek this time, and her body jolted, her nails digging into his shoulders. She didn’t pull back. She rolled her hips against his, the wet heat of her cunt dragging across the underside of his cock, and he groaned despite himself.
“You’re such a desperate little slag,” he said, fitting his hand around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Letting her feel the weight of it. “You know that? For so long you didn’t want me, and now look at you. Can’t get enough. Can’t stop shaking on my cock.”
“Please,” she breathed, and the word broke on its way out. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, slick with her wetness and spit. He held there. One inch. Just the tip. And watched her face as she tried to take more, her hips twitching, her breath coming in ragged, punched-out sounds. “Ride me. Show me how much you want it.”
She sank down. Her cunt gripping him, tight and wet, and burning hot. The sound she made when she was fully seated was a low, wrecked moan that vibrated through her chest into his. He grabbed her hips and let her set the pace, and she started moving—a grinding, circular motion that pushed him deeper, her body learning the rhythm, her hands braced on his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his head dropping back against the wall. “Fuck, that’s it. Just like that.”
She found a rhythm, her hips rolling, grinding, her thighs working to keep her up, her breath coming in time with the motion. She watched him—her eyes never leaving his face—and the intensity in her gaze, the way she was looking at him like he was oxygen, like she’d die if she stopped—it was everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d stolen.
“You feel that?” he asked, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, his nails digging into the soft flesh. “Feel how deep I am? How full you are?”
She nodded her head vigorously, her mouth hanging open.
“That’s where I belong. Inside you. Filling you up.” He reached up and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. “And you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna take every drop, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”
Her hips stuttered, her rhythm breaking as a shudder ran through her. “Cook—”
“Shut up and ride me.” He pulled her down onto him harder, meeting her grind with a thrust of his own, and the air punched out of her lungs. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to think. You just get to be my good little cocksleeve, taking what I give you. You understand?”
She nodded again, her teeth catching her bottom lip, her rhythm finding its way back. He loosened his grip on her hair and let his hands fall to her tits, rolling her nipples between his fingers, watching her arch into the touch.
“Such pretty tits,” he said, the words half-buried in a groan. “Wish I could see you like this every day. Wake up to you bouncing on my cock, go to sleep with my come still dripping out of you. Would you like that?”
“Yes.” The word was barely a whisper, cracked and desperate. Her hips were speeding up, her grip on his shoulders tightening, her breath coming in pathetic little gasps. She was close—he could feel it in the way her cunt pulsed around him, the way her rhythm went sloppy.
“You gonna come on my cock?” he asked, his voice dropping, rough and quiet. “Gonna soak me? Make a mess?”
She whimpered—an actual whimper—and he felt the first flutter of her orgasm ripple through her, her body tensing, her cunt clenching around him like a fist. “That’s it. That’s my good fucking girl. Come on me. Come on my cock, show me what you’ve got.”
She came with a broken cry, her head falling forward, her body shaking, her hips grinding through the aftershocks. He watched her—watched the way her mouth went slack, the way her thighs trembled, the way she kept moving even after she’d come, like she couldn’t stop, like she’d keep riding him until she passed out if he told her to. He grabbed her hips, stilling her, and she slumped against him, her forehead pressing into his shoulder, her breath hot and ragged against his skin. He held her there for a moment, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her. Then he pulled out, pushing her down onto her back as he rose to his knees so he could kneel over her, stroking himself, watching her lie there spent and open.
"I'm gonna come on your face. And you're gonna thank me. Every. Single. Drop." She nodded, lips parted, waiting. He shuffled closer, aimed, and the first rope hits her cheek, hot and thick. "Thank you." Second rope across her mouth. "Thank you." Third across her chin, dripping down her neck. "Thank you." He stroked the last few drops onto her tongue, and she closed her lips around the head, sucking him clean, then pulled off and said, "Thank you, Cook." He smeared come across her face with his palm, spread it into her skin like lotion. "Good girl. Now don't wipe it off. I want to see it dry on your face. I want you to feel it crack when you smile." She didn't move. Just laid there, his come drying on her skin, her eyes fixed on him like he hung the moon.
He kissed her, gently this time, and the tenderness tasted like poison. He didn’t care. He crawled out of bed then, his legs unsteady, and walked to the bathroom, catching his reflection in the mirror—hair a mess, lips red, eyes dark. He looked like someone who’d gotten everything he wanted. He grabbed a towel and walked back to find her still on the mattress, curled on her side, her hand resting between her thighs. She was staring at the wall, and he couldn’t see her face, but he could see the way her shoulders rose and fell, slow and steady. Not crying. Just…breathing. He tossed the towel at her feet. “Clean up,” he said, and this time the words were flat.
She sat up slowly, reaching for the towel, and he watched her wipe his come from her thighs but not her face just like he told her to, slow and mechanical, like she was doing it in her sleep. The bandage on her hand was stained a deeper red, the wound bleeding again. She didn’t seem to notice. Or care. He climbed back onto the mattress beside her, taking the towel from her hands and tossing it to the floor. He pulled her close, her back to his chest, his arm locking around her waist, and pressed his face into her hair. She smelled like rain, sweat, and him.
“Where’s your head at?” he asked, and the question came out before he could stop it.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Here.”
He tightened his grip. “Good.”
He didn’t ask again. He closed his eyes and let the lie seal over him, thick enough to keep the truth from getting air. She was his now. That was all that mattered. She fell asleep after with her cheek pressed to his chest, one hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go. Cook stayed awake longer than he wanted to admit, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet flat around them: the hum of the fridge, the drip of rain from the gutter outside, the slow drag of her breathing against his skin.
Then a phone buzzed where it had slipped beneath the bed. Not his. Hers. The cracked screen lit the floor in brief, cold flashes. Ryan’s name appeared across it. Cook didn’t move at first. He told himself not to. Told himself only jealous little freaks checked phones. And he was many things, obviously, but he was not that pathetic. Then it buzzed again, and the excuse arrived clean and useful: he needed to know if Ryan was a trigger. Needed to know what had set her off. Needed to know if Ryan was a threat. He reached down carefully and picked it up. The phone needed her thumbprint. For a moment, Cook stared at her sleeping hand where it rested against his shirt. Then he lifted it. Her thumb opened the screen. Of course it did. Everything opened for him now. The messages were older, buried under weeks of unanswered texts from Ryan that got angrier and more worried the longer she ignored him. Cook scrolled past are you okay? and did he do something? and you need to talk to me until he found the ones from before the car, before the willow, before she had looked at him like he was the centre of the room. missed you after you left. you still got my hoodie?. don’t tell cook, he’ll be weird about it. he’s already weird about everything. you coming round later? maybe. depends if you behave.
Cook’s hand tightened around the phone. There were no declarations. No grand romance. Nothing he could point at and call betrayal because there had been nothing to betray yet. That made it worse. Casual was worse. Easy was worse. The thought of her choosing Ryan without magic, without pressure, without a broken twig and a stupid fucking wish in a rain-smeared car, put something hot and black behind Cook’s ribs. He looked down at her asleep against him and for the first time, he hated the version of her the wish had buried. Not because she had been taken. Not because she had been changed. Because before she was changed, she had wanted someone else and laughed about him in the same breath.
By the next shift, Cook had started turning that into something he could use. She had lied. She had pretended. She had acted too good for him while going round to Ryan’s like that meant nothing. The more he thought it, the easier it became to breathe. If the old her had been cruel, then maybe the wish had not ruined anything worth saving. Maybe it had only stripped away all the bullshit and given him the version honest enough to stay. Tasha ruined that by seeing him too obviously. She found him near the back corridor while he was stealing five minutes he hadn't earned, one shoulder against the wall, cigarette unlit between his fingers because Gareth had started threatening to check the cameras. Her eyeliner looked smudged, and there were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there before the party.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Cook groaned. “Christ, everyone’s desperate for a chat lately.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Can tell. Whole vibe’s fucking tragic.”
Tasha stepped closer, keeping her voice low. “Something is wrong with her.”
Cook looked away. “She’s having a rough time.”
“She threatened to carve my face open.”
“People say things when they’re pissed.”
“She put that girl in hospital.”
“You don’t know that.”
Tasha stared at him. “You keep acting scared when people are watching, but I saw your face when she snapped at Ryan. You liked it.”
Cook’s mouth opened and nothing decent came out. No joke arrived fast enough. No insult covered the little flicker in his chest when she said it.
Tasha nodded once, like that told her everything. “Meet me after shift. My car. I’m not doing this in here.”
“Bit dramatic, that.”
“Cook.”
The way she said his name was not like the curse. Not worshipful. Not desperate. Just tired and worried but also real. It landed somewhere he hadn't meant to keep open.
He looked at her properly then. “Why do you care?”
Tasha’s face tightened. For a second, she looked furious with herself. “Because maybe I’m stupid enough to like you, okay?”
Cook felt the pleasure of it before he could stop himself. Normal. That was the thing. Tasha saying it with her jaw clenched and her eyes annoyed was normal. No wish. No shaking hands. No broken glass. Just a girl looking at him and choosing the embarrassment of admitting she cared. He should have hated himself for enjoying it. He didn’t. After close, he told her he was taking rubbish out and slipped through the back instead. Tasha’s car sat in the far corner of the lot where Kingpin’s neon painted the wet bonnet red and gold. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp, cold enough that the windows had started to mist at the edges. Cook could see Tasha’s silhouette behind the wheel before he reached the passenger side, both hands fixed at ten and two like she was scared she’d change her mind if she let go.
He slid into the car. “This better be good. I’ve got a very demanding friend waiting who’ll start chewing through plaster if I’m gone too long.”
Tasha didn’t laugh. She kept staring through the windscreen. The vanilla air freshener hanging from the mirror swung slightly when Cook shut the door, fake-sweet over rain-damp fabric and the faint stale smell of old chips and flavored vape smoke. Her knuckles were tight around the wheel.
“I talked to her before all this,” she said.
Cook’s grin thinned. “Okay? Congrats.”
“Properly. At work. At parties. When you weren’t around.”
“Mad concept, people talking when I’m not there.”
“She said you were fun,” Tasha went on, careful enough that it already felt like cruelty. “But too much.”
Cook looked out at the empty lot. “Yeah, well, I am a lot. That’s famously the charm.”
“She said you were a friend.”
The word hit harder than it should have. Friend was nothing. Friend was easy. Friend was the sort of thing he called everyone because names took effort and feelings were embarrassing. From her mouth, through Tasha, it felt like a door closing.
Cook scratched at the side of his jaw. “That all?”
Tasha swallowed. “She said you weren’t someone she’d ever go for.”
The car seemed to shrink around him. Somewhere across the lot, a loose sign creaked in the wind, and Kingpin’s apostrophe buzzed like a trapped insect. “She said you were more like an annoying brother than anything else.”
Cook froze. That was the version with no magic in it. No hidden desire. No fear of wanting him. No sweet little crush buried under sarcasm and bad timing. She had looked at him and seen noise. Trouble. A laugh. A friend. Something too familiar to want and too exhausting to touch. The wish hadn't revealed anything. It had replaced her entirely. Tasha turned toward him, eyes shining with fear and pity, which was a combination Cook wanted to smash out of the air. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? Because you fancy me now? Bit fucking convenient.”
Her face flinched. “Don’t be a prick.”
He laughed under his breath, but there was no life in it. “Bit late for that.”
“I mean it, Cook. Whatever’s happening, it isn’t love. She wasn’t secretly waiting for you. She wasn’t playing hard to get. She was herself, and now she isn’t.” The truth sat between them in the fogged-up car, plain and brutal. Cook could feel it pressing against his teeth. He could also feel the other thing, the nasty little satisfaction that Tasha had said she liked him, that another girl had looked at him without the curse and wanted him anyway. For half a second, even with the truth bleeding through him, he let himself enjoy that.
Then the driver’s side window exploded inward. Glass burst across Tasha’s lap and Cook’s knees in a freezing spray. Tasha screamed. Cook jerked back hard enough to hit the passenger door, one arm coming up over his face as cold air and broken safety glass filled the car. She was already there. No warning. No slow silhouette appearing through the misted glass. Just her hand through the broken frame, fingers clamping hard in Tasha’s hair, yanking her sideways with a force that smashed her shoulder into the door.
“Fuck!” Cook shouted, lunging across the gearstick.
Tasha clawed at the seatbelt, panicked, half-trapped, blood striping down from a cut near her temple where the glass had caught her. “Cook!”
The first impact drove her face into the steering wheel. The horn blared, one long, ugly scream across the empty lot. Cook grabbed at the sleeve of his own jacket hanging from her shoulders, but she was braced outside the broken window with both feet planted, expression emptied down to one terrible point of focus. Tasha’s head. The wheel beneath it. The friend who had told him the truth and admitted she wanted him in the same breath. Again. The horn punched the night open. Tasha’s cry broke into something wet and stunned. Her mouth hit the wheel wrong, teeth clicking hard enough for Cook to hear through the blare, and red smeared across the grey plastic where her cheek dragged sideways. She tried to twist away, but the seatbelt had locked tight across her chest, pinning her in place while panic made her hands useless.
“Stop!” Cook yelled, dragging at her. “Stop, fucking stop!”
She looked at him then, just for a second, and the calm in her face was worse than rage. “She wanted you.” Tasha made a small sound, a breath trying to become a word. The next blow cut it off. Her face struck the wheel again with a thick, awful crack that made Cook’s stomach drop. The horn stuttered under the impact, screaming, choking, screaming again. Blood spotted the windscreen from the inside in a fine red spray. Tasha’s hands flew up too late, fingers scraping over the dashboard, nails catching against the plastic before slipping. Cook shoved the passenger door open so hard it bounced off the car beside them. He stumbled out, glass crunching under his shoes, then rounded the front of the car and grabbed her around the waist from behind. She fought him like she didn’t know him. Her elbow cracked into his ribs. One heel scraped down his shin. Her hands stayed locked in Tasha’s hair, trying to pull her forward again even as Cook hauled her back from the window.
“She wanted you,” she said again, voice rising now, not calm anymore, breaking into something wild and wounded. “You lied to me! Why would you lie to me?!”
“I didn’t,” Cook gasped, dragging her away from the door. “I didn’t fucking do anything.”
The lie came out on instinct, which told him everything. Tasha sagged against the wheel. The horn kept blaring beneath her, muffled by the weight of her body, one long animal sound trapped under the bonnet. Her face had turned toward them at an angle that looked wrong in the red-and-gold wash of the sign. One eye was half-open. Her lips moved, but all that came out was a wet little breath that fogged the glass in front of her. Cook got one arm around her middle and wrenched her back. This time, her fingers came away full of Tasha’s hair. For one horrible heartbeat, she stared at it in her hand. Then Tasha twitched. Small. Barely anything. Her fingers curled against the seat, searching for the belt, the door, a way out, anything. The sight of it snapped the curse back into motion. She surged forward so violently Cook nearly lost his grip. Her hand shot through the broken window again, palm slamming against the back of Tasha’s head, and before Cook could pull her off, she shoved down hard.
Tasha’s face crushed into the centre of the wheel. The horn screamed clean this time. Cook heard cartilage give. Heard the blunt, final sound of bone meeting plastic with nowhere left to go. Blood ran down the steering column and dripped onto Tasha’s jeans in heavy spots. Her body jerked once, shoulders locking, then slackened all at once. The horn stopped. The silence after was so sudden Cook could hear the tick of cooling metal, the buzz of Kingpin’s neon, the thin patter of rain starting up again on the roof. Tasha’s hand slid from the wheel and fell limp beside the seat. She went loose in his grip. The change came fast enough to make him dizzy. One second she was all force, all violence, all jealous purpose. The next, she was staring through the shattered window at Tasha’s body with the devotion draining out of her face, leaving only terror.
“What did I do?” she whispered.
Then she looked past him. At Tasha. Whatever had been holding her together split all at once. Her breath hitched, stopped, then came back wrong, too fast and too loud. She staggered toward the car like she meant to help, then recoiled before she got there, staring at her own hands as if they’d been put on her body by someone else.
“No,” she said. “No, no, no. Cook, what did I do?”
Cook caught her by the arms before she could back into the broken glass. He could feel every tremor ripping through her now, violent enough to shake into his palms.
“Cook?” Her voice climbed, thin and panicked. “Why am I here? Why is there blood on me? Did I—” She choked on the rest, eyes snapping back to Tasha. “Is she dead?”
The chance came back to him with the cruelty of a joke. He could tell her. He could say, I did this. I made a wish. I broke you because I couldn’t stand wanting someone who didn’t want me back. He could give her the truth even if it came too late for Tasha, too late for the girl outside Kingpin’s, too late for whatever decent version of himself might have existed before the willow snapped in his fist. Instead, he looked past her to the car park, the cameras mounted near the back entrance, the broken window, Tasha not moving in the driver’s seat. Self-preservation arrived before grief, before guilt, before anything that should’ve made him human. Cook released one of her arms and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smear near his knuckles that wasn’t all his.
“Did anyone see you?” he asked.
She stared at him like he’d spoken another language.
“Listen to me.” His voice came out harsh, urgent. “Did anyone see you come out here?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head hard, tears spilling now, breath breaking into ugly little sobs. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t remember. Cook, please, I don’t remember doing that.”
“Fuck.”
He checked the lot, the back door, the red blink of the camera, trying to remember which angle Gareth had said was broken because he refused to pay for a new one. His thoughts moved horribly fast. Cameras. Police. Ryan. Gareth. The girl in hospital. Tasha in the car. His fingerprints on the passenger door. Her wearing his jacket. She was unraveling beside him, hands hovering in front of her face, fingers opening and closing like she didn’t understand what they were capable of. She wiped at the red on her skin and only smeared it worse, a broken sound tearing out of her throat when she saw it spread.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Cook looked back at her. That was when it changed. Her hysteria didn’t vanish so much as bend toward him, terror dragging itself into devotion because the curse knew where to put all that pain. Her eyes found his and stayed there. Her hands dropped from the red on her fingers to his shirt, gripping tight, pleading with him to make the world smaller.
“Tasha confused you,” she said, voice shaking. “I saw her. I saw how she looked at you. I fixed it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Cook should’ve pushed her away. He pulled her behind the bins instead, out of the camera’s cleanest line. He did call eventually. Not straight away. Not before he’d wiped what he could from the passenger handle with the inside of his sleeve. Not before he’d taken his jacket off her shoulders and shoved it behind the bins. Not before he’d told her to go to his flat by the back way and wait there, no texts, no calls, no stopping for anyone. When he finally stumbled into Kingpin’s shouting for Gareth to call an ambulance, his voice sounded convincing enough that everyone ran. By then, Cook had already learned something about himself he could never unlearn. His first instinct had been to live with it.
The One Wish Willow box was still under the passenger seat of his car because Cook had never been good at throwing away evidence of his own stupidity. He found it later with shaking hands, after the ambulance lights had gone, after Gareth’s voice had turned hoarse from shouting, after Ryan had looked at him across Kingpin’s like he finally understood Cook was worse than a coward. The box had slid half under the seat rail, red-and-cream cardboard damp along one corner from whatever had leaked down there, the cartoon faces still grinning up at him like they knew the punchline. Cook sat in the driver’s seat with the door open, one foot on the wet tarmac, the heater blowing stale air against his knees. His hands smelled faintly metallic no matter how many times he’d wiped them on his jeans. The car park was mostly empty now, Kingpin’s neon buzzing overhead, gold and red dragging itself across the puddles like the place was trying to make even murder look tacky. He turned the box over. The hotline number waited on the back in small printed text, tucked beneath the instructions and all the cheery little promises the packaging had no business making anymore.
NEED HELP? CALL TODAY! 1-323-747-7118.
Cook laughed once. It came out wrong. He dialed before he could think too hard about it. The line rang twice, clicked, and then a bright recorded voice filled the car. “Thank you for contacting One Wish Willow support. For wish dissatisfaction, press one. For unintended romantic escalation, press two. For injury, pursuit, fixation, or violent attachment, press three. If your wish has resulted in death, please remain on the line.”
Cook stared through the windscreen. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
A soft beep sounded. “Your call may be recorded for training and liability purposes. One Wish Willow is not responsible for unclear phrasing, malicious intent, emotional negligence, activation while intoxicated, activation during heartbreak, humiliation, rejection, social embarrassment, romantic jealousy, or poor judgment.”
Cook shut his eyes. “Yeah. Brilliant. Very helpful.”
The hold music started. Tinny. Cheerful. Some little nursery-rhyme version of a pop song he couldn’t place, plinking away while Tasha’s head hitting the wheel replayed behind his eyes. Cook gripped the phone so hard his knuckles hurt. The line clicked again. A man came on, voice flat enough to sound like he’d been saying the same thing all day and hated every person who made him say it twice. “One Wish Willow support. Name and nature of your wish-related concern?”
Cook stared at the grinning cartoon branch. “You lot are real?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Right. Okay. Yeah. Course you are.”
“Name?”
“Cook.”
“First name, surname, or nickname?”
“Just Cook.”
The man sighed softly. “Fine. Nature of concern?”
Cook rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Hypothetically, if someone wished for a girl to fancy him and now she’s gone a bit murdery—”
“We don’t process hypotheticals after activation.”
Cook looked up at the rain-specked windscreen. “Fine. Not hypothetically.”
“Thank you. Was the willow broken cleanly or splintered?”
“I don’t fucking know. It was dark, I was pissed off, and I was having a moment.”
Paper shifted on the other end of the line. “Was there blood at activation?”
“No.”
“Witnesses?”
“No.”
“Was the desired party named clearly in the wish?”
Cook’s throat tightened. The car seemed smaller suddenly, the box too bright in his lap.
“Clear enough.”
“Was the wording romantic, sexual, possessive, punitive, corrective, or retaliatory?”
Cook blinked. “What?”
“Closest category.”
“All of them,” he muttered.
Another pause.
“Not recommended,” the man said.
“Yeah, well, we’re a bit past recommended, aren’t we?”
“Describe the escalation.”
Cook leaned his head back against the seat. The fabric was cold against his skull. “She’s jealous.”
“Expected.”
“She’s clingy.”
“Expected.”
“She watches me sleep.”
“Within range.”
Cook’s laugh scraped out of him. “Within range. Brilliant.”
“Has the desired party displayed violence toward herself or others?”
Cook saw Tasha’s fingers slipping off the wheel. Saw the horn blaring under the weight of her body. Saw the girl in the car park folded against the bricks, mouth red, phone smashed near the bins. “Yeah."
“Severity?”
Cook swallowed. “Bad.”
“I need more specific than bad.”
“How violent is violent?”
“Recently?”
He let his eyes close.
“Hospital,” he said. “Then worse.”
The operator went quiet. For the first time, he sounded less bored. “Is the desired party currently with you?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“My flat.”
“Did you instruct her to go there?”
Cook’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
“Has she disobeyed direct instructions since activation?”
He thought about it. No texts. No calls. No stopping for anyone. His stomach turned. “No.”
“Then the bond is stable.”
“Stable?” Cook snapped. “She just—” He stopped himself, glancing toward Kingpin’s like the walls could still hear him. “She nearly killed someone.”
“Nearly?”
Cook said nothing.
The man exhaled. “Understood.”
“Can you fix it?”
“That depends on what you mean by fix.”
Cook leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the box creasing slightly under his grip. “Can you make her, like…less murdery but still into me?”
The silence on the line was worse than judgment. “Alterations after activation are not supported.”
Cook stared at the rubber floor mat. There was a tiny dark flake caught in the rubber grooves. Blood or mud. He couldn’t tell anymore.
“So what, that’s it?” he asked. “She’s just like this?”
“The wish persists until the object of devotion dies.”
Cook’s hand went cold around the phone. For one stupid, shameful moment, he thought of her. Her body under the same ugly security light. Her blood on the same wet tarmac. A clean ending that required him to lose the thing he had wanted badly enough to ruin. Then the operator clarified.
“To be clear, you are the object of devotion.”
Cook stopped breathing.
“The wish ends when you die.”
The heater hummed. Rain ticked lightly against the roof. Somewhere upstairs, in his flat, she was waiting because he had told her to. Because she did what he said now. Because he had made her into someone who would.
Cook laughed once, quiet and empty. “So I’ve got to die?”
“That is the termination condition.”
“Any alternatives?”
“None that work.”
Cook lowered the phone from his ear and looked at the box in his lap. The little doodled faces on the front stared up at him, a man and a woman drawn in soft, stupid lines like this was still some novelty you bought for a laugh. Bright colors. Cheap promises. The sort of thing that belonged in a gift shop beside scented candles and mugs that said things like follow your dreams. Not under his hands. Not after Tasha’s skull had met the steering wheel. Not after the truth had finally crawled out from under every excuse he’d built and sat there in front of him, simple as. He thought of the girl from before all this. Not the one in his bed. The real one. Laughing at the counter because Ryan had said something stupid. Rolling her eyes at Cook because he’d made something filthy out of nothing. Sitting in his car, rain on the windows, telling him in every way except the actual words that he wasn't what she wanted. He thought of Tasha’s voice in the car. She wasn’t secretly waiting for you. He knew then. Properly. With horrible clarity. He had stolen her. Not won. Not uncovered. Not seduced. Stolen.
The knowledge landed with no softness around it, no pretty little way to dress it up. The world gave him one simple equation: his death for her freedom. His life for her curse. One simple answer, sitting there in his hands, waiting for him to be the sort of person he had never once managed to be. Cook sat with that until his breathing steadied. Then he hung up.
For a while, Cook just sat there with the phone in his hand, listening to the dead line that wasn't a line anymore, only his own breathing and the heater coughing stale air into the car. The answer stayed where the man had left it. The wish ends when you die. Simple. Clear. Horrible. Cook looked at the box again. The cartoon faces smiled back at him from his lap, cheerful and stupid, and untouched by consequence. It had no blood on it. No shaking hands. No girl waiting upstairs with pieces of herself missing. No Tasha slumped against a steering wheel. Just bright colors and soft rounded letters, as if all of this was still a joke you could buy at a counter and give to someone for a laugh. His thumb pressed into the cardboard until it bent. For one second, he imagined doing it.
Not properly. Not with any plan. Just a flash of it, sudden and ugly: stepping into the road, swerving the car into a wall, taking a knife from the kitchen and making himself brave for once in his miserable fucking life. Ending it. Ending her. Giving her back whatever part of her he had stolen. The thought lasted long enough to make him feel sick. Then it passed. Not because he couldn't picture it. Because he could. Because, in the picture, she was free. And Cook wasn't there to see it. He deleted the call from his phone. Then the number. Then he checked it twice, because panic made him thorough in ways guilt never had. He wiped the box down with the hem of his shirt even though his fingerprints were everywhere by now, then shoved it into the glove compartment beneath old receipts, a cracked CD case, and a packet of Rizla with two papers left inside. The cartoon faces disappeared under rubbish. Cook shut the compartment. There. Gone. That was how people like him handled the truth. Put something over it and decided it was buried.
When he got back upstairs, the flat was quiet. Too quiet at first. The kind of quiet that made his skin prickle before he saw her. She was sitting on the edge of his bed in one of his shirts, knees drawn up, bare feet tucked under the mattress frame. Her hair was damp at the ends like she had tried to wash more than her hands. The bathroom light had been left on behind her, striping the hall in yellow. His towel lay abandoned on the floor, streaked faintly pink where she must have scrubbed at her skin until the worst of it came off. Not all of it. A thin crescent of blood still clung under one nail. Cook saw it before she curled her hands into the hem of his shirt. Her face lifted the second he came in.
“Are you angry?” she asked. Cook closed the door behind him. The lock clicked. He felt it in his teeth. He should have said yes. Should have said worse. Should have told her he was scared of her, scared of himself, scared that the only way to undo any of it required him to stop breathing. Should have told her about the box, the call, the man on the phone, the termination condition sitting in the glove compartment under receipts and dust. Instead, Cook crossed the room and touched her face. She went quiet instantly.
“There you are,” he said, because the line still worked and he hated that it did.
Relief crossed her so fast it looked painful. “I didn’t know where I was.”
“I know.”
“I saw her.” Her voice shook. “Tasha, and then outside, and then glass, and then—” She swallowed hard, staring at him like he could decide how much of the memory survived. “I hurt her.”
Cook kept his hand on her cheek. “You were upset.”
“She was bleeding.”
“You were confused.”
“I hurt her, Cook.”
His thumb brushed her cheekbone once. “She got in your head.”
The words changed the air between them. Her brow pulled in. “No.”
“Tasha got in your head,” he repeated, gentler this time, like he was reminding her of something she’d forgotten. “She was trying to make you doubt yourself.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Cook stepped closer, until her knees brushed his legs. “You keep thinking there’s some other you under all this. Some better version waiting to come back and tell you I’m bad for you.”
Her mouth trembled. “There is.”
The honesty of it cut through him so cleanly he almost stepped back. Almost. Instead, Cook’s hand slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, not holding tight, not yet. Just there. Present. Familiar. A reminder.
“No,” he said. “That’s what everyone else told you to be.”
She stared up at him.
“This is you.”
Her breath caught.
“You just finally stopped pretending.”
She shook her head once, small and frightened. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Cook asked. “You came back to the car.”
Something fractured behind her eyes. Cook saw it and pushed.
“You remember that, yeah? The night it started. I was sitting there like a fucking idiot, and you came back. Could’ve gone home. Could’ve left me there. But you didn’t.”
Her hands twisted in the hem of his shirt. “Because I wanted you,” she said, but it sounded like someone had placed the words on her tongue and made her taste them.
Cook’s stomach turned. He smiled anyway. “There you go.”
Her eyes filled. “Cook…”
“You wanted me.”
She shook her head again, weaker this time. “I was scared.”
“You wanted me,” he said, and now his voice had an edge under the gentleness, something he couldn’t keep buried. “Not Ryan.”
The name cut through the fog. Her expression emptied. “Ryan?”
Cook’s grip firmed before he meant it to, not enough to choke, enough to make her attention snap back to him. “You remember him?”
“I…” She blinked hard. “I don’t know.”
“You liked him.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t know,” she said, panic rushing back into her voice. “I don’t know, Cook. I can’t tell what’s mine anymore.”
That should’ve stopped him. It sat right there in front of him: the truth, plain as Tasha’s voice in the fogged-up car. She couldn’t tell what belonged to her. He had done that. His wish had taken her wants and bent them around him until every thought came out wearing his name. Cook leaned down until their foreheads nearly touched.
“Then let me tell you.”
Her eyes searched his. His heart was going too fast, ugly living proof that he had chosen himself once already and was about to do it again.
“You didn’t want Ryan,” he said.
Her mouth parted.
“You didn’t want Tasha.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“You wanted me.”
Her voice broke. “I wanted you.”
Cook closed his eyes briefly. It felt like winning. “Say it properly.”
“I wanted you,” she whispered. “I only wanted you.”
She was crying now, silently, like her body knew it had been made to lie and couldn’t stop obeying the lie anyway. Cook wiped the tear away with his thumb. The tenderness of it was almost obscene.
“Good,” he said.
The word ruined her. Her shoulders sank, relief cutting through the panic, devotion closing over the wound he had made. She leaned into him like he had saved her from something, when all he had done was press his hands over her mouth until her own voice came out wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
Cook took in the bathroom light glowing behind her, the towel on the floor, the tiny red crescent under her nail, his shirt on her body, his name in her mouth. Then he thought of the operator’s voice again. The wish ends when you die. His hand moved into her hair.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
She nodded quickly.
“And you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
“So stop looking like that.”
She tried. That was the worst part. She actually tried. Swallowed it down, rearranged herself into something he could bear to look at without seeing the car park reflected back at him. Cook kissed her, not because it was the right thing, not because she needed comfort, but because the alternative was standing there with the truth between them, and Cook had never known what to do with truth except make it uglier. She kissed him back after a moment. Of course she did.
By morning, pretending had gotten easier than remembering. Cook woke with his arm still locked around her waist, her body tucked against his like she’d fallen asleep mid-apology and never finished the sentence. For a few seconds, the flat was ordinary in the miserable way his flat was always ordinary: cold air near the window, stale smoke in the curtains, a mug on the floor with tea dried brown at the bottom. Then she shifted, and everything came back. Tasha’s car. The horn. The hotline. The wish ends when you die. Cook stared at the ceiling and didn’t move.
Beside him, she made a small sound in her sleep and pressed closer, fingers curling against his shirt. The red under her nail was gone now. She must’ve scrubbed it out sometime in the night, or he had, or both of them had done enough cleaning that his head had folded the details into one ugly blur. His shirt had slipped at her shoulder, showing the edge of the bruise his mouth had left there, and the sight of it still gave him that same sick, satisfaction.
Mine, he thought.
Then, immediately after, because the universe was a sadistic little prick: Stolen.
She woke up with his name already in her mouth. “Cook?”
He shut his eyes. There were a hundred things he could’ve said. He could’ve told her about the hotline. He could’ve told her the truth while morning made everything less dramatic and more damning. Instead, he rolled toward her and put a hand on her hip. “Morning.”
Her expression changed too quickly, nervousness bending toward him before it knew what else to be. “Are you still angry?”
“No.”
“Are you lying?”
Cook’s mouth twitched. “Obviously.”
She didn’t smile. That was new. Or old. He couldn’t tell anymore. Her eyes searched him like she was trying to read his answer before the curse finished deciding how she felt about it.
“I remember some of it,” she said.
Cook’s hand stalled.
“Not all,” she added quickly, like she was scared the memory itself would upset him. “Just bits. The car. Tasha crying. You pulling me back.” Her fingers curled into the sheet. “I remember asking what did I do.”
“You were upset.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Cook said. It's the only one you're gonna get. “It’s the only one that matters.”
She turned away toward the curtains and the weak morning light leaking around the edges. For a moment, she looked like someone trapped in a room she didn’t remember entering. Then Cook touched her face, and her attention came back to him too fast.
“You need to stop picking at it,” he said. “You’ll only make yourself worse.”
“I hurt someone.”
“I already told you, Tasha got in your head.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
The room went silent.
Cook felt the question land in his chest and stay there. He hadn’t meant for her to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He’d imagined keeping it vague, messy, something she’d done but didn’t have to name. Hospital. Accident. Bad night. Anything that left the final shape of it blurred.
“Cook.”
His jaw worked.
“Yeah,” he said.
The answer hollowed her out. No sobbing. No screaming. Not at first. Her fingers slipped from the sheet, her mouth parting around a sound that never made it out, and for the first time since the wish, Cook saw her look at herself like she was the thing in the room to fear.
Then Cook ruined it.
“You didn’t mean to.”
Her eyes filled. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.” The words came out small, but they came out hers. “You don’t know that.”
Cook’s hand dropped from her face. The loss of contact seemed to scare her more than the confession. She reached for him instantly, then stopped herself halfway, hand hovering between them like she didn’t trust it to be her own. That should’ve killed something in him. Instead, it made him angry. Not at her. At the pause. At the tiny stubborn piece of her still trying to choose. Cook sat up.
“Get dressed,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“We’ve got work.”
“Cook—”
“Gareth’ll be watching everyone. Ryan too.” He swung his legs off the mattress and found his jeans on the floor. “You don’t show up, it looks weird.”
“It is weird.”
He turned back to her. She flinched before he even spoke. Cook saw it. Cook hated it. Cook kept going anyway.
“You want everyone asking questions?” he said. “You want them looking at you?”
Her defiance drained, replaced by fear so quickly it proved him right in the worst way.
“No.”
“Then get dressed.”
She stared at him for another moment, eyes wet, mouth trembling around something she didn’t say. Then she nodded.
Of course she did.
Kingpin’s opened late, which was Gareth’s version of respect.
By noon, the front doors were unlocked, the arcade machines were shrieking, and the fryer was back to pumping grease into the air like nothing human had ever happened within fifty feet of the place. The back corner of the car park was still taped off. Tasha’s car was gone. Someone had thrown sand over the worst of what had been left on the tarmac, but rain had dragged some of it thin, carrying it in faint reddish trails toward the drain near the bins. Cook saw it before she did. He stepped in front of her without thinking. Not to protect her from it. To stop her reacting where anyone could see.
She almost walked into his back. “Cook?”
“Eyes on me.”
Her fingers were cold when he took her wrist, disappearing almost completely into the sleeve of his old jacket. His jacket. Because apparently even after everything, Cook still couldn’t stop making little claims on her where people could see. No. Worse than that. He liked seeing her in it. Inside, Gareth was pacing by the front desk with his phone in one hand and a clipboard in the other, face blotchy, beard rough where he kept dragging his fingers through it.
“No one says anything that isn’t what they already said,” he snapped before Cook had even clocked in. “Police come back, you cooperate. Customers ask, you don’t know a bloody thing. Press ask, you don’t know a bloody thing louder.”
JJ stood near the shoe rental, arms folded tight across his chest, staring at nothing. His face had a greyish cast to it. Every few seconds his eyes flicked toward the back corridor and then away again, as if looking too long might bring Tasha through it. Ryan was behind the lanes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. The second Cook walked in, Ryan’s attention fixed on him with a hatred so evident it made the room feel hotter. Then his eyes moved to her. She was standing half a step behind Cook, quiet, hands tucked into the sleeves of the jacket. She looked smaller when she wasn’t performing devotion. Not physically. Just dimmed somehow, like the morning had drained the violence out of her and left her with the echo of it. Ryan looked from her to Cook, and whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten. Cook felt her shift beside him.
“Don’t,” he said under his breath.
“I wasn’t.”
“Yeah, you were.”
Her fingers brushed his wrist. “I just don’t like how he’s looking at you.”
Cook almost laughed. Almost. Because Tasha was dead. Because the back lot still had caution tape around it. Because Ryan’s grief had teeth, and all Cook could think for one sick second was that she still cared more about Ryan looking at him than the body that had been dragged out of the car. He leaned closer, mouth near her ear.
“Then don’t look back.”
She went still, then her eyes dropped to the floor. Of course they did. Gareth clapped his hands once, sharp and desperate. “Right. We’ve got two parties booked, one staff member down, and if anyone starts crying where customers can see it, I swear to God I’ll join in and then we’re all fucked. Move.”
It should’ve been impossible to work. It wasn’t. That was the worst part. Shoes still needed spraying. Lanes still jammed. Kids still shoved tokens into machines and screamed when the claw dropped half an inch from a stuffed plushie. The world had a disgusting talent for carrying on. Tasha had been alive yesterday. Today, a man complained that lane five had swallowed his daughter’s pink bowling ball and could someone please fix it because they’d paid for the full hour. Cook fixed it. He crawled half under the return while the machinery coughed and rattled above him, grease and dust sticking to his forearms, and tried not to think about Tasha’s head hitting the wheel. Tried not to think about the hotline, about the box in his glove compartment.
When he came back out, Ryan was waiting. Not by accident. He stood near the staff-only door with a bucket of lane cleaner in one hand and murder in his face. Not the messy kind she had. Ryan’s was quieter. Human. The sort that still knew what consequences were and hated itself for wanting them anyway.
“We need to talk.”
Cook wiped his hands on his work trousers. “Popular fucking phrase lately.”
Ryan didn’t blink. “Now.”
“No.”
Ryan stepped closer. “Did she do it?”
Cook’s eyes flicked, just once, toward the prize counter.
She was there with JJ, sorting tickets into bundles because Gareth had stuck her somewhere visible, somewhere bright, somewhere he could pretend visible meant safe. Her hands moved carefully. Too carefully. Every few seconds, she looked over at Cook like she could feel the distance tugging. Cook looked back at Ryan.
“Careful.”
“Did she do it?”
“You grieving, mate? Or interrogating?”
Ryan’s face twisted. “Don’t call me mate.”
Cook’s smile came on out of habit. It didn’t reach anywhere real. “Alright. What do you want me to call you?”
“I want you to tell me why Tasha’s dead.”
The word hit the air between them. Dead. Not hurt. Not hospital. Not accident. Dead. Cook felt it move across the room even though Ryan had kept his voice low. It seemed to find her anyway. Her head lifted at the prize counter, eyes locking onto him. Cook’s stomach dropped. Ryan saw it. Saw her. Saw the line between them work. His expression changed.
“Jesus,” he said quietly. “You know.”
Cook grabbed his arm and shoved him through the staff-only door before Ryan could say it any louder. The back corridor smelled of damp cardboard, bleach, and the bins outside. The fluorescent light overhead flickered hard enough to make the walls twitch. Cook let go first, because keeping his hand on Ryan felt too much like admitting Ryan had made him move. Ryan shoved him back. Cook hit the opposite wall, shoulder first.
“There he is,” Cook said, breath coming sharp. “Knew you had a little fight in you.”
Ryan’s eyes were red. Not crying now. Past that. “What did you do to her?”
Cook’s mouth shut. Not what did she do? What did you do to her?
Ryan stepped closer. “She wasn’t like this.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Cook laughed, short and ugly. “You all experts now, yeah?”
“I knew her.”
The words landed exactly where Ryan meant them to.
Cook’s hands curled at his sides. “Did you?”
Ryan stared at him. Then something bitter moved through Ryan’s face, grief and guilt and cruelty all getting tangled together.
“Yeah, Cook. I did.”
Cook’s jaw flexed.
Ryan took one more step. “You read her phone?”
Cook said nothing.
“That’s why you’ve been looking at me like that.”
Cook’s smile came back wrong. “Careful, mate.”
Ryan laughed then, but there was nothing funny in it. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah? Go on.”
“She was coming round mine,” Ryan said. “Before all this. Before you started acting like she’d been yours the whole time.”
Cook felt the corridor tilt. Ryan saw it and kept going.
“She was texting me. Wearing my hoodie. Getting in my bed because she wanted to, not because I had to hover over her every second like a fucking creep.”
Cook’s hand curled into a fist.
Ryan’s voice shook, but he didn’t stop. “And the worst part? I told you to ask her out because I knew she’d say no. I knew she didn’t want you like that.”
Cook hit him. It wasn’t clever. Definitely not planned. His fist cracked across Ryan’s mouth hard enough to snap his head sideways, and for one beautiful second the only thing in the world was impact. Ryan stumbled into a stack of flattened cardboard boxes, caught himself, then came back swinging. His knuckles caught Cook in the cheek. Pain flashed white. Cook laughed through it because laughing was better than making the sound he actually wanted to make. He shoved Ryan back towards the door at the end of the corridor, the one that opened behind the lanes where the machinery ran loud enough to eat voices. Ryan grabbed the front of his Kingpin's polo.
“You ruined her,” Ryan spat.
Cook drove his shoulder into him, slamming him against the wall. Ryan’s breath punched out.
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know she was scared of you.”
“She came back to me.”
“Did she?” Ryan’s mouth twisted, blood bright at the corner. “Or did you finally wear her down enough that she stopped sounding like herself?”
Cook froze. The corridor seemed to narrow around the sentence. Ryan’s chest rose and fell hard. He looked past Cook then, toward the small rectangular window in the staff door. Cook turned. She was there. Standing on the other side of the glass. Watching. For a long moment, no one moved. Her eyes went from Cook’s split cheek to Ryan’s bleeding mouth. Then to Ryan’s hands, still twisted in Cook’s work shirt. Something in her face went empty. Ryan let go first.
“Don’t,” he said. Not to Cook. To her. That made it worse. Cook opened the door before she could.
“Go back out front,” he said.
She looked at Ryan, then at Cook. Ryan shook his head slowly. “Don’t listen to him.”
Her hand flexed at her side. The bandage pulled tight across her palm. Cook felt the whole thing balance there, awful and delicate. He should’ve told her to leave. He should’ve told Ryan to run. Instead, because Ryan had said she was coming round mine and Cook could still feel the words chewing through his ribs, he said, “He’s upsetting me.”
Her face changed. Ryan saw it happen.
“Oh, fuck you,” he said, voice cracking. “Cook, don’t—”
She didn’t run at first. That was what made it scary. She walked through the staff door with the same terrible focus she’d had outside Tasha’s car, shoulders still, bandaged hand flexing at her side. Ryan backed up on instinct, one hand lifted like he could talk her down, like there was anything in the room left to reason with. Cook saw the exact second Ryan understood he wasn’t looking at someone angry. He was looking at someone aimed.
“Stay back,” Ryan said.
She didn’t even blink. “You hurt him.”
Cook’s split cheek pulsed with heat, and some rotten little part of him thrilled at how quickly she’d made it simple. Ryan had blood on his mouth. Cook had blood under his skin. That was enough. That was all the curse needed. It didn’t care about Tasha, or the phone, or the way Ryan had said she was coming round mine like it was a knife and he knew where to jab. It only needed Cook hurt and Ryan close enough to punish.
Ryan looked past her. “Cook.”
Cook should’ve said something. He should’ve grabbed her, should’ve pulled her back by the waist and told Ryan to get out, should’ve used the same horrible obedience that made her drop her eyes and come when called. The command sat ready in his mouth. Stop. Leave him. Come here. But Ryan’s words were still lodged under his ribs. She was coming round mine. Wearing my hoodie. Getting in my bed because she wanted to.
Cook said nothing, and she closed the distance.
Ryan shoved her away when she reached for him, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep her off. That was his mistake. Her shoulder hit the wall, and the sound she made wasn’t pain. It was surprise, followed by something low and furious. She came back faster, catching his wrist with both hands and twisting it down so sharply Ryan swore and stumbled sideways into the door behind the lanes. The machinery was louder back there, all clatter and hum, the ugly industrial guts of Kingpin’s hidden from customers by painted walls and ugly carpet. A return motor coughed somewhere beyond the door, belts turning, rollers dragging, pins knocking together in hollow plastic thuds. Ryan tried to wrench his arm free, but she went with him, body pressed close, face blank with effort.
“You touched him,” she said.
Ryan’s eyes flashed with panic. “I didn’t—”
“You made him bleed.”
Cook moved then, too late to be innocent and too slow to be useful. “Alright, that’s enough.”
She didn’t hear him. Or she did and chose the stronger command: his hurt, her rage, the wish turning both into permission. Ryan stumbled through the half-open service door and hit the narrow space behind lane seven. The air changed at once, hotter and worse, thick with dust, oil, and old rubber. The ball return was exposed in pieces back here, not the glossy customer-facing mouth that spat balls neatly onto the rack, but the underside: belts, metal runners, wheels turning with a grinding patience that made Cook’s stomach tighten.
“Get her off me!” Ryan shouted.
Cook grabbed her shoulder. “Stop it.”
She jerked out from under his hand so violently his fingers slipped off the jacket. Ryan tried to swing again, but she caught his arm and shoved forward with everything in her, driving his hand down toward the moving gap beside the return belt. Ryan realized what she was doing half a second too late.
“No—”
His hand went into the machinery.
The sound was immediate and awful, a wet crunch swallowed under the churn of the return motor. Ryan screamed, high and shocked, his whole body folding toward the trapped hand as the belt dragged and bucked around him. The machine didn’t care. It kept trying to do its job, kept pulling, kept grinding, the rollers knocking his knuckles sideways in a way hands were never meant to bend. Cook lunged for the emergency switch. His palm slapped the red button hard enough to hurt. The belt stopped, but the silence after was somehow worse because Ryan was still screaming. He dropped to his knees, clutching his wrist with his free hand, his other hand caught at a wrong angle inside the metal mouth of the return. Blood ran fast over the black rubber belt and dripped onto the concrete in thick, ugly spots. One finger twitched when it shouldn’t have. Another didn’t move at all.
“Fuck,” Cook breathed. “Fuck, fuck.”
Ryan sobbed through his teeth, trying not to look at it and looking anyway. “My hand! Oh my God, my hand!”
She stood over him, chest rising and falling, the bandage on her palm red again where the fight had split it open. Her face wasn't blank now. It was bright with purpose, eyes locked on Ryan like the machine had only done half the work.
“He hurt you,” she said to Cook, almost pleading with him to understand.
Ryan looked up at her, ruined hand still caught, face pinched in pain. “You’re sick.”
That did it. Cook saw it happen and still didn’t move fast enough. There was a rack of spare pins against the wall, scuffed and dirty from practice lanes, their white plastic bodies scarred with black marks. She grabbed one by the neck with both hands. Ryan tried to scramble back, but his trapped hand kept him anchored in place, dragging a gutted sound out of him when he pulled against the crushed fingers.
“Don’t,” Cook snapped.
For once, the word hit her. She hesitated, pin lifted, breath shaking in her throat. Her eyes cut to him, and for a second the whole room balanced on the thin, disgusting edge of what he wanted her to do. Ryan was crying now, properly, sweat and tears and blood all mixing on his face. “Please.”
Cook looked at him, at his hand, at her holding the pin.
Then Ryan said, “She’s not yours.”
The pin came down.
It cracked against the side of his head with a hollow, brutal sound that seemed too loud even with the machines around them. Ryan’s body jerked sideways, his shoulder slamming into the return housing. Blood opened at his temple and ran immediately into his hairline, down along his ear, over the corner of his jaw. He made a noise like air leaving a bag. She hit him again. Not clean this time. The pin glanced off his cheekbone and caught his mouth, splitting his lip wider, knocking his head back against the metal. His teeth clicked together with a sound Cook felt in his own jaw. Blood sprayed across the pin in a curved red stripe, then onto her shirt, Cook’s jacket, the concrete between them.
“Stop!” Cook grabbed the pin before she could swing a third time, wrenching it hard enough that she nearly came with it. “I said stop!”
She fought him for it, wild for two seconds, then all the force went out of her at once. The pin slipped from both their hands and rolled across the concrete, leaving a thin red track behind it. Ryan sagged beside the machine, half-conscious, his breath coming in broken, wet pulls. His trapped hand was still caught in the return, mangled and slick, and Cook couldn’t look at it for more than a second without his stomach trying to turn itself inside out. The door behind them banged open. JJ stood there, face drained of all expression, one hand still on the handle. His eyes took in Ryan first, then the pin, then her, then Cook. For one long second, nobody spoke. The only sound was Ryan breathing through blood and pain, the soft drip of something hitting the concrete, the muffled shriek of children out front winning tickets from a machine.
JJ whispered, “What the fuck?”
Cook moved before anyone else could.
“Get Gareth,” he said.
JJ didn’t move.
“Now,” Cook barked, and that finally snapped him out of it.
JJ stumbled back through the door, nearly tripping over his own feet as he ran. Cook turned to her, grabbed her by both arms, and dragged her away from Ryan before she could look down long enough to understand what she’d done. Her breathing was too fast. Her pupils were blown wide. Blood dotted her cheek in tiny specks that weren’t hers.
“Look at me,” Cook said.
She did. Of course she did. The obedience hit him like nausea.
“Go to the toilets,” he said. “Wash your hands. Wash your face. Don’t talk to anyone.”
Her lips parted. “But—”
“Now.”
She obeyed, but not before glancing back at Ryan. The sight of him seemed to cut through something. Her face buckled, horror pushing up through devotion, and Cook saw her almost say his name in that scared, lost voice from the car park. He stepped in front of her before she could.
“Go.”
She went. Cook crouched beside Ryan, hands hovering uselessly because there was nowhere safe to touch. Ryan’s eyes rolled toward him, unfocused but aware enough to hate.
“You did this,” Ryan rasped.
Cook swallowed. “Shut up.”
“You did.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ryan.”
Ryan’s mouth twitched, a bloody, terrible attempt at a laugh. “She didn’t even know why.”
Cook’s throat tightened. Boots pounded down the corridor. Gareth arrived first, JJ right behind him, both stopping dead at the edge of the service space. Gareth’s face collapsed into something Cook had never seen on him before. Not anger. Not annoyance. Fear, pure and stupid and useless.
“What happened?” Gareth shouted.
Cook looked at the stopped machine, the blood on the concrete, the pin against the wall, Ryan folded beside the return with his hand ruined inside it. A dozen lies came running at once, each worse than the last.
“He slipped,” Cook said.
Gareth stared at him. “He fucking what?”
“He was messing with the return.” Cook stood, wiping his palms on his trousers even though that only spread the red thinner. “Hand got caught. Hit his head when he went down.”
JJ made a sound behind Gareth. Not belief. Not disagreement. Just panic trying to find somewhere to go.
Ryan coughed, blood bubbling at his mouth. “Liar.”
Cook looked down at him. Ryan looked back. For a second, Cook thought Ryan might say it. Might say her name. Might say everything in front of Gareth and JJ, and whatever police came crawling back into Kingpin’s after this fresh disaster. But pain broke across his face before words could, and he folded over his trapped hand, choking on another scream when he shifted wrong. Gareth snapped into motion then, not because he believed Cook but because the emergency gave him something easier than the truth. “JJ, call an ambulance. Now. Cook, don’t fucking touch him. Nobody touches anything.”
JJ ran. Gareth turned on Cook, voice low and shaking. “Where is she?”
Cook’s heart dropped. “Who?”
“Don’t,” Gareth said. “Don’t you dare, not now.”
Cook’s cheek throbbed. His ribs hurt. His hands smelled like blood and rubber and old grease. Behind the customer wall, someone laughed loud enough to carry, bright and horrible, followed by the crack of pins at the end of a lane. Gareth stared at him like he was finally seeing the thing everyone else had been circling. Cook held his gaze and said nothing. The toilet door opened somewhere down the corridor. She stepped out with wet hands, face scrubbed clean enough to leave the skin rubbed raw-looking under the harsh lights. Her bandage was soaked through again. She looked at Gareth, then JJ’s empty spot, then Ryan on the floor. Her face crumpled.
“What did I do?” she whispered.
Gareth turned toward her. Cook got there first. He caught her by the wrist, careful of the bandage this time, and pulled her behind him. “Nothing,” he said.
Ryan made a broken sound from the floor. Cook didn’t look at him.
“Nothing,” he repeated, and felt the lie take shape around all of them.
The lie didn’t hold this time. Not properly. It got them through the next ten minutes because panic was louder than truth. Gareth shouted. JJ came back shaking with a phone pressed to his ear. Ryan kept slipping in and out of sense, groaning through his teeth whenever the smallest movement dragged pain through his ruined hand. Cook stood between her and everyone else like his body could block the whole scene from becoming what it was. But no one looked at him like they believed him. Not JJ, pale under the fluorescent lights, eyes darting between the blood on the pin and the blood on her sleeve. Not Gareth, whose face had gone hard in a way Cook had never seen before. Not Ryan, half-folded beside the machine, mouth bloody, eyes glassy with pain and still full of enough hate to keep finding Cook through it.
“She did it,” Ryan rasped when the paramedics came.
Cook’s stomach dropped. Gareth looked at her. She stood behind Cook with both hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, bandage soaked red, face scrubbed raw from the bathroom sink. She didn’t deny it. That was the worst bit. She didn’t cry, didn’t argue, didn’t perform innocently. She only looked at Ryan like some part of her was trying to wake up and couldn’t get past the fog. One of the paramedics asked her to sit down.
Cook answered before she could. “She’s in shock.”
Gareth snapped his head toward him. “Enough.”
Cook’s mouth shut. One word, and it hit harder than any of the shouting had. Not from Ryan. Not from Tasha. Gareth. Red-faced, cheap, useless Gareth, who’d spent years caring more about broken lane motors than broken people, looking at Cook like he finally knew exactly what kind of rot had been spreading under his carpet. Police came after the ambulance. Of course they did. This time, there was too much to sand down before opening. Too much blood. Too many witnesses. Too many broken things happening around the same two people. Cook gave his statement in Gareth’s office while an officer with tired eyes wrote everything down and asked the same question six different ways.
Had Ryan attacked him first? Yes. Had she intervened? She panicked. Had she used the bowling pin? Cook didn’t see. Had she shoved Ryan’s hand into the return? Cook didn’t see. The officer stopped writing. Cook smiled like his cheek wasn’t throbbing. “Bit busy getting punched, mate.”
The officer didn’t smile back. Through the glass strip in the office door, Cook could see her sitting on a plastic chair by the staff lockers with JJ beside her and another officer crouched in front of her. She looked small under the strip lights, not because of her body, but because the room seemed to have stripped all the command out of her. Her hands sat open on her knees. The red bandage glared against her lap. When the officer asked her something, she looked toward Cook. The officer followed her gaze. Cook looked away too late.
By the time they let them leave, it was because no one had enough straightforward answers to do anything else yet. Ryan was in hospital. Tasha was dead. The girl from the car park was still alive but no longer some one-off bit of violence they could bury under bad luck and Gareth’s lack of CCTV. Everything had started connecting itself in people’s heads, thin red lines between nights Cook wanted kept separate.
Gareth caught Cook near the back door. He looked older than he had that morning. Not softer. Never that. Just worn down, as if Kingpin’s had finally asked too much of him and he hated them all for making him notice.
“You don’t come in tomorrow,” he said.
Cook blinked. “What?”
“Neither of you do.”
“Gareth—”
“I said don’t.” Gareth’s voice shook once, then steadied into something ugly. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening, and I don’t want to know. But if she comes near this place again before police sort it, I’m calling them myself.”
Cook’s laugh came out thin. “Bit late for principles, innit?”
Gareth stepped closer. For once, he didn’t look ridiculous. “Get out.”
Cook wanted to say something clever. Nothing came. Outside, the late afternoon had gone grey and wet, the sky sagging low over the car park. She followed him without speaking, footsteps too quiet behind his. The tape was still around the corner where Tasha had died. Rain had softened the edges of everything except the memory. Halfway to his car, she stopped. Cook noticed because the distance pulled at him now too, some sick echo of the way she always felt him. He turned and found her standing by the drain, staring at the car park like she could replace the scene of every bad thing she’d done printed over the concrete.
“I don’t want this,” she said.
The words were quiet, but they carried. Cook’s chest tightened. She looked at him then, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, there was no worship in her face. No softening. No automatic reach toward him. Just fear and grief and something exhausted enough to be honest.
“I don’t want this,” she said again.
Cook took a step toward her. “You’re upset.”
“No.” Her voice shook. “No, don’t do that. Don’t tell me what I am.”
He stopped. Rain caught in his hair, cold at the back of his neck. Her hands curled against her sides. “I can feel it when you say things. I can feel myself changing around them. Like my head turns wrong. Like I’m there, and then I’m not.”
Cook swallowed. She pressed both hands to her chest like she could hold herself in place. “I remember Ryan. I remember liking him. I remember Tasha. I remember thinking she was nice to me when you were being a dick about something. I remember all of it until you talk, and then it moves. It all moves.”
“Come here,” Cook said before he could stop himself.
She flinched. Then her body took one step. Only one. She froze with horror on her face, staring down at her own foot like it had betrayed her. Cook felt the bottom drop out of him and hated, viciously, that some part of him still wanted to see if she’d take another. Her eyes lifted to his. Wet. furious. terrified.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Cook’s mouth went dry.
“I don’t want you,” she said.
The sentence landed exactly where he’d always known it would. Not like Ryan saying it. Not like Tasha reporting it. Her. Standing in the rain, shaking under the weight of everything his wish had done to her, finally getting one clean line through the curse and putting it between them.
“I don’t want you,” she repeated, and the second time it broke her voice. “Not like this. Maybe not ever. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what’s mine.”
Cook looked at her and saw the whole horrible truth of it. The car. The willow. Her at the window. Her in his bed. Her hands in Tasha’s hair. Ryan’s hand caught in the machine. Every time he’d said come here and watched her obey. Every time he’d told himself it was close enough to love if she kissed him back. He could still do it. That was the thought that ruined him most. He could say her name the right way. Step closer. Touch her face. Tell her she was confused, that she was his, that she’d always been his. The curse would help. It always helped. It would take the pain out of her eyes and put the devotion back. It would make her easier to hold.
Instead, maybe because the rain was cold enough to feel like punishment, maybe because Ryan’s scream was still in his ears, maybe because Tasha’s last breath had followed him all the way into daylight, Cook finally said it.
“I made a wish.”
She stared at him.
His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “That night. In the car. After you got out.”
Her breathing changed.
“I had that stupid fucking willow thing,” he said. “The gift. From that oddity shop by Kingpin’s you told me about. I broke it.”
Her face lost everything.
“I wished for you to want me.”
For a second, even the rain seemed to go quiet. Then she took a step back. This time, it was hers. Cook felt it like a door slamming in his face.
“No,” she said.
He almost laughed, because of course that was what people said when the truth was too ugly to fit into the room. No. As if refusing it could make the world rearrange itself. As if he hadn’t spent days doing exactly that.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and hated how useless it sounded.
She looked at him like she didn’t know what sorry was supposed to do with all the blood.
“You made me?”
Cook said nothing.
“You made me want you?”
“I didn’t know it would—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked hard. “Don’t you dare say you didn’t know. You wanted it.”
He looked away.
She laughed once. Small. Broken. Nothing like amusement. “Oh my God.”
“I didn’t know it’d be like this.”
“But you knew enough.” She looked down at her bandaged hand, then back at him. “You knew enough to keep going.”
That was the bit he couldn’t answer. She came closer then, slow and careful, like approaching him cost her something. Cook didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to. She stopped close enough that he could see the rain caught on her lashes, the tremor in her mouth, the terrible clarity in her face.
“Then I’m yours because you asked,” she said.
Cook shut his eyes.
“No.”
“Yes.” Her voice was soft now, and that made it worse. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m yours because you asked something to take me.”
He opened his eyes. The curse moved under her grief like something waking up. He could see it, and he hated that he could see it: the way her anger bent toward pain, the way her pain bent toward him, the way even this truth tried to make her reach for the person who had caused it. Her hand lifted. Stopped. Shook in the space between them.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
Cook nodded, because she should. Then her fingers caught in his shirt.
“I love you,” she said, and broke on it.
That was the worst thing the wish had done. Not the blood, not Tasha, not Ryan, not the girl by the bins. It hadn’t erased the hate or spared her the truth; it had left both alive in her mouth and made the love louder. Cook caught her wrist before she could come any closer. For one breath, he almost let her go. Then he pulled.
summary: you are just another girl living in New York, when a text from your boyfriend spirals into meeting the mob boss James Buchanan Barnes
warnings: MDNI, mob!bucky, mobsters doing what mobsters do (murder, threatening behaviour), smut, possible stockholm syndrome, no use of y/n, no beta, all mistakes are mine, more detailed warnings in each fic
credits: dividers by wispyxfae, gifs made by me
bitten once, twice saved (12k words)
it's give and take (1.2k words)
the unfathomable deception (500 words)
i'm fakin' (2.5k words)
visions in black (7.4k words)
˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ thank you all for checking out this mini series! ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
just a small group of friends who happen to also be bucky writers coming together to present you a world of different buckys. sit back, relax, and enjoy.
be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption. @firingstars™
title gif by the sexy @barnesonly || winter soldier dividers
buckyverse — @firingstars
⤷ welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!
bwatober! — @houseofhyde .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️
⤷ one, two, bwa is coming for you… what’s scarier than one bwa collab? another bwa collab! welcome to our rendition of kinktober/flufftober, a collection of 17 bucky fics featuring select prompts. the only thing more terrifying than our deadlines is the emotional coin-toss you’ll be playing with each fic… so what will it be: dick or sweet?
once upon a time...⏾⋆.˚— the tales of bucky barnes masterlist— @superbassbuck
⤷ “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Bucky Barnes. Some say he was a devoted prince, others whispered of a pirate adrift on wild seas, and others claimed he was an ugly beast cursed by ruin.Yet no two tales of him were ever the same, for not every story follows the path as old as time.”
the twelve days of christmas — @chateaubarnes ❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
⤷ 'twas the night before christmas, and all through the house, not a bucky was stirring, not even to pout...
lifting the pink veil — @spdrveil
⤷ bucky writers’ association (2026) × lifting the pink veila duo collaboration starring @pinksplace and @spdrveil .ᐟwith a special bonus feature from @unificsation ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
✶ 𝓣AKE 𝓑UCKY 𝓗OME .ᐟ — @superbassbuck
⤷ i, superb ass, and my right hand man, @houseofhyde, are returning to our origins as directioners and bringing you 6 fics, inspired by one direction songs.
spring into stardew — @pinksplace
⤷ After suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of Pelican Town, Bucky Barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips. Oh! And of course, falling in love.
.ᐟ all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.
this is an 18+ space that contains bucky barnes x reader content. some of these stories can be extremely wholesome, and some of these stories can be extremely sensual and/or dark. please take note of the warnings before proceeding. I am not responsible for your media consumption.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
nav. ➞ 🤍 fluff ❤️🔥 spicy ❤️🩹 angst 🖤 dark
✮.ᐟ 𝐩*𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ❤️🔥
⠀ camstar!bucky x virgin!reader
⤷ You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series
✮.ᐟ just don't look! [7.2k] 🤍❤️🔥
⤷ Bucky is the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, loving, and respectful. But months into, and you still haven’t slept together. He’s holding back, afraid he’ll lose control, but you’re determined to break that good-boy resolve. Now, in the night slip he bought you, his only defense is simple: don’t look.
✮.ᐟ 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 [13.7k] ❤️🔥
⠀ pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader
⤷ Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.
⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series
⤷ What happens when Bucky Barnes, the campus dirtbag, has a secret relationship (if you can even call it that) with the most popular, unapproachable girl in school? You get broken drumsticks in a fit of rage. You get smeared lipstick from heated make-out sessions. And most importantly, you get dirty little secrets.
⤷ part of my 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (steve coming soon...)
✮.ᐟ runnin' down the road, loosen my load [18k] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ farmer!stucky x reader
⤷ Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.
𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞-𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐬 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
✦— single dad!bucky x teacher!reader
⤷ Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. His world revolves around his daughter, Rebecca, and he likes it that way; steady job, cozy home, no room for romance. After a less-than-pleasant first meeting, he discovers you’re Rebecca’s elementary school teacher. He's determined to avoid you at all costs, and he definitely doesn’t plan on falling for you… especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.
𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
✦— single dad!bucky x florist!reader
⤷ After your grandmother’s death, you inherit her failing floral shop and an empty house. A bad first day in town gets worse after a run-in with the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes. You instantly despise each other and vow to stay apart. But in a town this small, that’s impossible, especially when you unknowingly hire his moody teenage son to work at the shop.
𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 🤍❤️🩹❤️🔥
✦— congressman!bucky x america's sweetheart!reader
⤷ Reformed assassin turned congressman Bucky Barnes is drowning in bad press and public distrust. Desperate to save his career, his team proposes a bold fix; a marriage of convenience to you, the beloved daughter of a decorated war hero and America’s sweetheart. The arrangement is strictly business, benefiting you both. But behind the cameras, you can’t stand each other, but pretending otherwise may be the hardest part.
⤷ You were nothing more than Hydra’s gift to the Winter Soldier, a prize he claimed after every mission, a toy to use as he pleases. But when the base collapses in chaos, you brace for him to finally cast you aside. Instead, he makes a choice so unexpected it shatters everything you thought you knew.
✮.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! ❤️🔥
⠀ includes house tour, p*rnstar, 40-love, need a ride?
⤷ introducing you bucky's employed era, where ❝ bucky barnes is trying to earn some bucks.❞ employers fear him, his clients eat him!
✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ congressman!bucky x secretary!reader
⤷ Bucky Barnes never expected that his timid, shy secretary—who could barely greet “Congressman Barnes’ office!” on the phone without stuttering—would be writing filthy, inappropriate fanfiction in the workplace. The most logical thing to do would be to fire you, but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to do it.
⤷ Trying to find romance when you live with your best friend, who also happens to be a guy, is not the easiest thing ever. It especially doesn't help when the best friend in question just happens to be jealous and territorial as fuck.
✮.ᐟ give it up for the thunderbolts*! [4.9k words] ❤️🔥
⠀ ⠀ rockstar!bucky
⤷ What was supposed to be a fun Friday night at a concert with your friends resulted in reuniting with your past high school sweetheart, who now also happens to be the lead guitarist in a new uprising rock band, the thunderbolts*.
✮.ᐟ first class [2.1k words] 🤍
⠀ pilot!husband!bucky x wife!reader
⤷ Bucky is the pilot everyone knows. Top of his game, perfect safety record, and no room for nonsense on his flights. He doesn't chat much with the crew—rarely even cracks a smile. He's respected, but also feared. But when you—his wife—is on board, he turns into complete mush.
✮.ᐟ everybody knows that i'm a good girl, officer 🖤❤️🔥
⠀ cop!bucky barnes
⤷ You were driving late at night, and you got pulled over for something so trivial—it felt targeted. You think you might get away with a warning if you play your cards right, but Officer Barnes has a dark look in his eyes, and he doesn't like to be messed around with.
✮.ᐟ soft around the edges [1.1k words] 🤍
⠀ chunky!beefy!bucky x pregnant!reader
⤷ Ever since you got pregnant, Bucky has been putting on extra weight—specifically around his stomach area. He's been feeling insecure, thinking you won't be attracted to him anymore. But little does he know, you absolutely fucking love his body.
✮.ᐟ right my wrongs [3.6k] ❤️🩹
⤷ arguments with your boyfriend bucky always upset you, but it's the aftermath of the fight that leaves you hurting the most.
✮.ᐟ i put a spell on you [14.2k words] 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
⠀ salem witch au
⤷ Bucky never believed in love, yet you haunt his thoughts after only a few stolen words. Unable to explain the obsession, he convinces himself it must be witchcraft. And if you’re the cause of his torment, then there’s only one way to stop it… with fire.
✮.ᐟ candyman [3.1k] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ 40s!bucky
⤷ what happens when a hopelessly devoted, broke brooklyn boy spends his last few cents on a lollipop just for you? well, you lick it up, he gets hard watching you, and then you come up with a much sweeter way to pay him back.
✮.ᐟ boo!-ty call [10.2K] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ virgin!bucky x sex operator!reader
⤷ According to Steve and Sam, Bucky Barnes is a hopeless virgin with a crush on a phone sex operator. Dragged to the frat’s Halloween party to finally lose his v-card, he strikes out—until he hears a voice that sounds strangely familiar.
✮.ᐟ if your man wanna get buck wild. [6.3k] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ mob boss!bucky x mob wife!reader
⤷ After seeing your husband discreetly forward half a million dollars to a mysterious woman, you can't help but suspect Bucky isn't being loyal. So, you grab his wallet and make him pay for it all, because revenge is better than money.
✮.ᐟ I ❤️ MY BOYFRIEND [4.7k] 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
⠀ beefy!bucky
⤷Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d be ready for a relationship. Maybe he still isn't fully, but being with you has shown him just how much his world can change for the better through soft, vulnerable moments.
✮.ᐟ my congressman gave to me [8.0k] ❤️🔥
⠀ congressman!bucky x assistant!reader
⤷ Secret Santa goes wrong when you draw your boss and nemesis, Congressman Barnes—and gift him something wildly inappropriate. What you don’t expect? He drew your name too.
✮.ᐟ once bitten, and twice shy [3.8k] 🤍❤️🩹
⤷ bucky hated christmas. growing up poor meant no fancy trees, gifts, or home-cooked meals. and the snow, for obvious reasons, he despised it. unfortunately for him, his girlfriend loves christmas, and you're trying to get him into the holiday spirit: starting with decorating.
✮.ᐟ take it easy [4.6k] 🤍
⤷ Bucky hates working on the boat, but when the Wilsons’ pretty family friend is the one barking the commands, he doesn’t mind it one bit.
✮.ᐟ super-soldier problems [4.6k]❤️🔥
⤷ After having a girlfriend, Bucky’s finally learning that there is much more that cums with the super-soldier serum than just muscle and strength.
✮.ᐟ so, this is love? [19.6k]🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹 𝓹𝓽.2
⠀ king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
⤷ The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
✮.ᐟ let me in, baby [5.3k] 🖤❤️🔥
⠀ vampire!bucky
⤷ After months of silence, Bucky shows up at your door in the middle of the night—bloodied, beaten, and his pupils blown wide with a hunger for you that you've never seen before. Despite everything telling you to push him away, your heart can't help but invite him inside.
✮.ᐟ table for two one. [4.6k] ❤️🩹🤍
⠀ mob husband!bucky
⤷ One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.
✮.ᐟ smooth as tennessee whiskey [20k]❤️🩹❤️🔥
⠀ dbf!cowboy!stucky
⤷ Eager to travel the world after college, your father decides to step in and choose the countryside as your reluctant first destination. He's concerned for your safety, so he arranges two very close friends to watch over you as you set out on your new journey.
✮.ᐟ the brooklyn special. [10.1k]🤍❤️🔥
⠀ 40s!stucky
⤷ After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?
✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞!
── .✦ one direction inspired collab w/ @houseofhyde
⤷ i want you to rock me !
⤷ do you like the way we kiss in the dark?
⤷ you say you're a good girl.
⤷ After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
size difference ⟡ coney island baby ⟡ somno ⟡ crying and breeding ⟡ sick bucky ⟡ jealous bucky ⟡ bucky after a fight ⟡ domestic bucky ⟡hyperspermia ⟡ read more here
about! → elle, 22, nsfw reposts. don't write explicit smut but do reblog it. nerdy!college bucky lover, lee bodecker enthusiast. some fluff, some darker stuff. audhd so my brain comes up with weird things sometimes. not responsible for your media consumption, read the warning tags!
asks → open
requests → open
find my req rules here!
bucky fluff | vitamin bucky , christmas came early , secret santa claus paws
college!bucky | per noctum ad astra, jealousy jealousy
blurbs | stoner!bucky, can you lift my car with your hand? no like… can you?
dad!bucky | second chance, fake makeup and blueberries
thunderbolts! bucky | hot chocolate and you’re my hero, how not to watch a film, operation kiss and go, down memory lane, drunken promise, worrying issue
jamie "bucky" barnes (female!bucky barnes) | practise what i preach
dbf!bucky barnes | sneaking around
mob!bucky | a very bucky christmas, thinking about...
stucky | things the war couldn't take
general bucky | on the road again, filling the gaps, emotional hypothermia, all he had to do was ask
series masterlist | january scribbles masterlist | misc. seb characters | taglist
Hiii can I request a Jason x reader where the reader faints at a party or one of Bruce’s galas and everyone is freaking out but it just turns out she’s pregnant? 🩷🩷🩷 thank youuuu
The Gala Incident
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
You've been to enough Wayne Galas to know the rhythm of them. Arrive fashionably late (Jason's preference, not yours), endure exactly forty-five minutes of small talk with Gotham's elite (your limit, not his), find Bruce to make an appearance (mandatory), and then hide in a corner with appetizers until it's socially acceptable to leave.
Tonight is not going according to plan.
For one thing, the smell of the hors d'oeuvres is making your stomach turn. For another, the room feels approximately eight thousand degrees despite the October chill outside. And for a third, you've had to excuse yourself to the bathroom twice in the last hour.
"You okay?" Jason murmurs in your ear, his hand warm on the small of your back. He looks unfairly good in his suit, tailored perfectly, making him look less like a crime lord and more like he actually belongs among Gotham's wealthy elite.
"Fine," you say, which is a lie. You've been feeling off for days. tired, nauseous, emotional over the strangest things. Yesterday, you cried because Jason came home with the wrong brand of coffee creamer.
"You've been saying that all week," he says, eyes narrowing. "And you barely touched dinner."
"The salmon was too..." You stop, swallowing hard as another wave of nausea hits. "It smelled weird."
"It smelled like salmon."
"Exactly. Weird."
Jason looks like he wants to argue, but Dick appears at his elbow with two champagne flutes. "There you are! I've been looking for you guys. Bruce wants a family photo and... hey, you look pale."
"I'm fine," you insist, taking the champagne glass on autopilot. The smell hits you immediately.. sharp, acidic, wrong. Your stomach revolts.
"Whoa, hey." Jason takes the glass from your hand before you drop it. "Maybe we should get you some air."
"I'm fine." But even as you say it, the room starts to tilt. The chandelier above you seems too bright, the conversation around you too loud. Your vision goes spotty at the edges.
"Babe?" Jason's voice sounds far away. "Babe, look at me."
You try. You really do. But the floor is rushing up to meet you, and then everything goes black.
You wake up to chaos.
"—call Dr. Thompkins—"
"—is she breathing—"
"—someone get Bruce—"
"—EVERYONE SHUT UP!"
That last one is Jason, his voice sharp with panic. You're on the floor, you realize, your head in someone's lap. Jason's lap, based on the expensive suit fabric under your cheek.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is gentler now, shaking. "Hey, there you are. Stay with me, okay? Don't close your eyes."
"M'okay," you mumble, trying to sit up. Bad idea. Your head spins and your stomach lurches.
"Don't move." Jason's hand is in your hair, keeping you still. "Someone's getting a doctor."
You force your eyes open properly and immediately wish you hadn't. You're surrounded by concerned faces, Dick hovering anxiously, Tim on his phone, probably calling every medical professional in Gotham, Damian looking uncharacteristically worried, and Bruce pushing through the crowd with Dr. Leslie Thompkins in tow.
"I fainted," you say unnecessarily. "At a Wayne Gala. That's so embarrassing."
"That's what you're worried about?" Jason's hand is shaking in your hair. "You just collapsed. You could have hit your head, you could have—"
"But I didn't." You reach up to touch his face, trying to reassure him. He looks terrified, all the color drained from his face. "Jason, I'm okay. I just... I've been feeling a little off lately."
"Define 'off,'" Dr. Thompkins says, kneeling beside you with her medical bag. She's been the Wayne family doctor for decades, has patched up more vigilante injuries than she probably cares to count. "Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"
"All of the above?" you admit. "And I've been really tired. And emotional. I cried at a cat food commercial yesterday."
"The one with the kitten?" Dick asks. "That one is pretty sad."
"It was about senior cats finding homes," you say. "I sobbed for twenty minutes."
Jason is staring at you like you've grown a second head. "You didn't tell me any of this."
"I thought I was just stressed." You let Dr. Thompkins check your pulse, your blood pressure, shine a light in your eyes. "Work's been busy, and you've been dealing with that thing in Crime Alley—"
"I don't care about Crime Alley right now. I care about you." He says it fiercely, and you can see the fear underneath the anger. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"
"Because you worry," you say softly. "You worry so much already."
"Of course I worry. You're—" He stops, jaw clenching. "You're everything."
Dr. Thompkins is watching you both with an expression you can't quite read. "When was your last period?" she asks casually.
You blink. "What?"
"Your last menstrual period. When was it?"
"I—" You try to think back. "I don't know. A few weeks ago? Maybe... six weeks?"
The room goes very quiet.
"Oh my god," Dick says.
"Holy shit," Tim adds.
Damian just stares.
Jason has gone completely still, his hand frozen in your hair. "Six weeks."
"Maybe seven?" You're trying to do math in your head, but everything feels fuzzy. "I haven't really been tracking it. I'm usually pretty irregular when I'm stressed, and—" You stop, the implications finally catching up to you. "Oh."
"Oh," Dr. Thompkins agrees, a small smile playing at her lips. "Combined with the fatigue, nausea, emotional sensitivity, and fainting spell... I think we should run a test."
"A test," you repeat stupidly.
"A pregnancy test," she clarifies, and the word seems to echo in the sudden silence.
Pregnant.
You might be pregnant.
You and Jason might be having a baby.
"I need—" You try to sit up again, and this time Jason helps you, his movements careful and mechanical. "I need to take a test."
"I have one in my bag," Dr. Thompkins says. "Always prepared for situations like this. Bruce, is there somewhere private?"
"My study," Bruce says immediately. He's been quiet this whole time, watching with that unreadable expression he gets. "Third floor, first door on the left."
Jason helps you stand, his arm around your waist like he's afraid you'll collapse again. Maybe you will. Your legs feel like jelly and your mind is racing.
Pregnant. You might be pregnant with Jason Todd's baby.
The walk to Bruce's study is a blur. Dr. Thompkins walks ahead, Dick and Tim trailing behind like anxious ducks, Damian muttering something about "another Todd" that you don't have the energy to process.
Jason hasn't said a word.
In the study, Dr. Thompkins hands you a small box. "Bathroom's through there," she says, pointing to a door you hadn't noticed. "Take your time."
You look at Jason. He's staring at the box in your hands like it might explode.
"Come with me?" you ask quietly.
He nods, still not speaking, and follows you into the bathroom.
It's awkward, taking a pregnancy test in Bruce Wayne's private bathroom while your boyfriend watches. You follow the instructions with shaking hands, set the test on the counter, and then you both stare at it.
"Three minutes," you say, reading the box. "We have to wait three minutes."
Jason makes a sound that might be acknowledgment.
"Are you—" You turn to look at him. "Are you okay?"
"Am I okay?" He laughs, but it sounds slightly hysterical. "I don't know. Are you okay?"
"I don't know either." You lean back against the counter. "This wasn't... we weren't planning this."
"No." He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "We weren't."
"If it's positive—" You stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"If it's positive," Jason says slowly, "then we're having a baby."
"Yeah."
"A whole baby. A tiny person."
"That's typically how it works."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Are you scared?"
"Terrified," you admit. "Are you?"
"Fucking petrified." He moves closer, taking your hands. "I died once. Came back wrong. Spent years being angry and violent and doing things I'm not proud of. I'm not exactly father material."
"Jason—"
"But if you are pregnant," he continues, his grip tightening on your hands, "if we're really doing this, then I'm in. Completely in. Because you're not doing this alone, and this kid, our kid, they're going to know they're wanted. They're going to know they're loved."
Your eyes are burning. "You really mean that?"
"I've never meant anything more." He pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'm scared as hell, but I'm also... if you are pregnant, I'm happy. Is that crazy?"
"No." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "I'm happy too. Scared, but happy."
"We should probably check the test," Jason says, but neither of you moves.
"Probably."
"I'm terrified of looking."
"Me too."
You stand there for another moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. Then, at the same time, you both turn to look at the test on the counter.
Two lines.
Very clearly, unmistakably, two pink lines.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Oh my god," Jason repeats.
"We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby." He says it like he's testing out the words, seeing how they fit. Then, louder, with a growing smile: "We're having a baby!"
He picks you up, spinning you around, and you're both laughing and crying at the same time. When he sets you down, he kisses you, deep and thorough and full of promise.
"I love you," he says against your lips. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." You cup his face, memorizing this moment. "We're really doing this?"
"We're really doing this." He grins, and it's that rare, genuine smile that makes your heart skip. "Holy shit, we're having a baby."
There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Everything okay in there?" Dr. Thompkins calls.
You open the door to find the entire family crowded in the study: Bruce, Dick, Tim, Damian, and even Alfred, who must have been summoned at some point.
"Well?" Dick asks, practically bouncing with anticipation.
Jason wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. "We're pregnant," he announces, and his voice cracks on the words.
The room erupts.
Dick literally screams, launching himself at Jason for a hug that nearly knocks you both over. Tim is grinning so wide it must hurt. Damian looks torn between horror and something that might be excitement. Bruce... Bruce is smiling, a real, genuine smile that makes him look years younger.
"Congratulations," he says, pulling you both into a hug. "I'm so happy for you."
"I'm going to be an uncle!" Dick is still screaming. "I'm going to be the best uncle! Tim, we're going to be uncles!"
"I'm already planning the nursery security system," Tim says seriously. "And a background check protocol for potential babysitters."
"The child will need proper training from an early age," Damian adds. "I suppose I can make time in my schedule to ensure they're not completely incompetent."
"That's very generous of you, demon spawn," Jason says dryly, but he's smiling.
Alfred appears with a tray of tea and water. "Congratulations are in order," he says warmly. "Though I must insist you sit down, miss. You've had quite a shock."
You let Jason guide you to the couch, suddenly aware of how shaky your legs still are. He sits beside you, his hand never leaving yours.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks quietly while the others chatter excitedly around you. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? A hospital?"
"I'm okay." You squeeze his hand. "Better than okay. I'm pregnant."
"You're pregnant," he repeats, like he still can't quite believe it. His hand moves to your stomach, resting there gently. "There's a baby in there. Our baby."
"About the size of a lentil right now, if I'm doing the math right."
"A lentil," he says, wonderstruck. "That's so small."
"They'll get bigger."
"Yeah." His thumb strokes your stomach through the fabric of your dress. "They will."
Dr. Thompkins appears with some pamphlets. "I'll want to see you in my office next week for a proper examination and blood work. In the meantime, start taking prenatal vitamins, get plenty of rest, and call me if you have any concerns. No alcohol, no caffeine—"
"That explains why the coffee tasted wrong," you murmur.
"—and take it easy. Fainting can be normal in the first trimester, but I want to keep an eye on you." She smiles. "Congratulations to you both."
"Thank you," Jason says, still staring at your stomach like he can see through to the tiny cluster of cells that's apparently making you both parents.
The rest of the evening is a blur. You never make it back to the gala, Bruce makes excuses for you, and nobody questions it. Instead, you stay in the study, surrounded by the family, drinking tea and fielding a million questions and listening to Dick and Tim argue about godfather rights.
"I'm the oldest," Dick insists. "I have seniority."
"I'm the smartest," Tim counters. "I can teach them practical skills."
"I am the only one with the discipline to raise a child properly," Damian adds.
"Nobody's raising this child except us," Jason says, but he's smiling. "But if we're talking godparents..." He looks at Dick. "You're loud, irresponsible, and you let Damian use your car as target practice last month."
"That was ONE time!"
"You're in," Jason finishes, and Dick practically tackles him with another hug.
"What about me?" Tim asks.
"You once stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight working on a case. You're not allowed to babysit until you learn what sleep is." Jason pauses. "But yeah, you're in too."
"I suppose I can serve as well," Damian says with an air of great sacrifice. "Though I expect the child to address me with appropriate respect."
"They're going to call you Uncle Dami and you're going to deal with it," Jason says.
For once, Damian doesn't argue.
Bruce appears at Jason's shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Jason tenses slightly, but nods. They step away, speaking in low voices near the window. You can't hear what they're saying, but you watch Jason's shoulders gradually relax, watch something soft cross his face. When Bruce pulls him into a hug, Jason hugs back.
When they return, Jason's eyes are suspiciously bright.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Yeah." He sits beside you, pulling you close. "Bruce just... he said he's proud of me. Said I'm going to be a good father."
Your heart clenches. "You are. You're going to be an amazing father."
"I'm going to try." He kisses your temple. "I'm going to try so hard."
"I know you will."
It's past midnight when Alfred finally insists you both go home and rest. Jason doesn't want to leave, convinced you might faint again, or something worse might happen, but Dr. Thompkins assures him you're stable and just need sleep.
The ride home is quiet. Jason drives with one hand on the wheel and one hand on your thigh, like he needs the physical contact to believe this is real.
"We're having a baby," you say into the silence.
"We are," he agrees.
"We're going to need a bigger apartment."
"We'll find one."
"And a crib. And diapers. Oh god, so many diapers."
"We'll figure it out."
"What if I'm a terrible mother?"
Jason pulls over, right there in the middle of the street, and turns to look at you. "You're going to be an incredible mother. You're kind, patient, smart, and you put up with me on a daily basis. That alone proves you can handle anything."
"What if you're a terrible father?"
"Then you'll tell me, and I'll do better." He takes your hand. "We're going to make mistakes. Probably a lot of them. But we're going to love this kid with everything we have, and we're going to figure it out together. Okay?"
"Okay." You bring his hand to your lips, kissing his knuckles. "Together."
"Together."
When you get home, Jason immediately starts googling everything about pregnancy. What to expect, what foods to avoid, what vitamins you need, symptoms to watch for. He makes a list of baby books to order, creates a spreadsheet of potential names (which you'll probably never use, but it's adorable that he's trying), and sets reminders to make sure you take your prenatal vitamins.
"Jason," you say finally, watching him from the bed where you've collapsed in exhaustion. "Come here."
He looks up from his laptop. "I'm almost done. I just need to finish reading about first trimester development—"
"Jason. Come here."
He sets the laptop aside and climbs into bed with you. You curl into his side, his arm coming around you automatically.
"We have nine months to figure all this out," you remind him. "Tonight, let's just... be happy."
"I am happy." His hand finds your stomach again, resting there like it belongs. "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it."
"Kiss me," you suggest. "That's a good start."
So he does. He kisses you soft and slow and sweet, and when he pulls back, he's smiling.
"I love you," he says. "Both of you."
"We love you too."
You fall asleep like that, Jason's hand on your stomach, his voice soft in your ear as he talks to the baby that's barely bigger than a lentil. He tells them about the family they're going to have, the uncle who will spoil them rotten, the grandfather who will teach them everything he knows, the butler who will sneak them cookies.
He tells them about their mother, about how strong and beautiful and perfect she is.
And he promises them, voice thick with emotion, that they will always be safe. Always be loved. Always be wanted.
It's the best promise you've ever heard him make.
Bonus : Seven Months Later
"I can't believe you're making me go to another Wayne Gala," you groan, trying to find a comfortable position. At seven months pregnant, comfortable is a relative term.
"It's the last one before the baby comes," Jason says, helping you with your shoes because you can't reach your feet anymore. "Bruce promised it would be quick."
"Bruce's definition of quick and mine are very different."
"We'll stay for an hour. Two tops." He stands, offering his hand to help you up. "Besides, everyone wants to see you. Dick's been asking about the baby every single day."
"Dick's been shopping for baby clothes every single day," you correct. "We have more clothes than the baby could wear in a year."
"That's what I told him." Jason's hand goes to your stomach, something he does constantly now. The baby kicks in response, and his face lights up like it does every single time. "Hey there, little one. You ready for your first gala?"
"They better not decide to make an appearance tonight," you mutter. "I did not spend an hour on my hair just to go into labor."
"If you go into labor, your hair will be the least of our concerns."
The gala is exactly as tedious as you remember, except now you have a convenient excuse to sit down. Jason doesn't leave your side, bringing you water and snacks and glaring at anyone who gets too close.
"You're being overprotective," you tell him.
"You fainted at the last gala we attended," he reminds you. "I'm allowed to be cautious."
"That was seven months ago!"
"And I'm never going to forget the feeling of catching you as you collapsed." He squeezes your hand. "So yeah, I'm being overprotective. Deal with it."
Dick appears with a wrapped present. "I know we're supposed to wait for the baby shower, but I couldn't help myself."
"Dick, you just bought them a bouncer yesterday," you say.
"This is different! This is special!" He's practically vibrating with excitement. "Open it!"
It's a tiny leather jacket, replica of the one Jason wears as Red Hood.
"Absolutely not," Jason says immediately.
"It's adorable!" you counter, holding it up. "Look at the little zippers!"
"Our child is not wearing a Red Hood jacket."
"Our child is going to look amazing in a Red Hood jacket."
You're still arguing about it when Bruce finds you, a rare smile on his face. "How are you feeling?"
"Large," you say honestly. "Very, very large."
"You look beautiful," he says, and it's so sincere that you want to cry. Pregnancy hormones are no joke. "Jason's been telling me about the nursery. Sounds like you've got everything ready."
"As ready as we can be." Jason's hand is on your stomach again. "Though I keep thinking of things we forgot. What if we need—"
"You'll be fine," Bruce interrupts gently. "You're going to be wonderful parents. Both of you."
Later, after you've made your rounds and satisfied everyone's need to touch your stomach (why do people think that's okay?), you and Jason escape to the balcony for some air.
"Seven months ago, I fainted right over there," you say, pointing to the ballroom. "And now look at us."
"Now we're about to be parents." Jason wraps his arms around you from behind, his hands cradling your stomach. "Best fainting spell ever."
"I don't recommend it as a pregnancy announcement method."
"No, probably not." He kisses your neck. "But I wouldn't change a thing."
The baby kicks hard, and you both feel it. Jason laughs, the sound full of joy and wonder.
"I can't wait to meet them," he says.
"Two more months."
"Two more months," he agrees. "And then everything changes."
"Everything already changed," you say, turning in his arms to kiss him. "The moment we saw those two pink lines."
"Yeah," he says softly. "It really did."
And as you stand there on the balcony of Wayne Manor, seven months pregnant with Jason Todd's baby, surrounded by a family that loves you both, you can't help but think that fainting at a gala was the best thing that ever happened to you.
Well. Second best.
The best is sleeping in Jason's arms every night and kicking your ribs every day.
VICTIM #1 : jason peter todd. you saw him, you wanted him. quiet boy in the back of the library, too built for a guy with his nose shoved in a battered copy of jane eyre. he thought he knew girls like you, the same shaking tactic worked every time. not this time, you weren’t the girls who tried to win him over with batted lashes. you just had a stronger will than them.
WATCH OUT .ᐟ smut, MANEATER!READER, glasses!jason todd, booksmart!jason todd, he thinks he’s capable of resisting maneater!reader but noooo, riding, marking, thighsman!jason, he also low-key is a tits man, reader chews bubble gum, rich!reader, munch!jason, shy!jason, yes, reader is a player but she really wants jay, body rolls because we all have them and this is size-inclusive, we’re not all skinny bitches, phone sex??? kinda, dirty talk, switch!jay, canonically bi!reader, genius!literate!reader, she's smart, y'all, chance encounters, jason really wants that cookie, glasses kink (reader’s side), panties kink!jason, m.masturbation, seduction, shameless!reader, he quickly becomes obsessed with reader in a sexy way, dw, whimperer!jason, we love a reader who’s a bad person
ADDITIONALS : bad girls (m.i.a)
The librarian took an eyeful of your ass when you walked in. She was on the phone with her loving boyfriend.
You didn't mind one bit. You'd come in for a copy of Sense and Sensibility so you could scoff at the characters, but it wasn't like you'd dress for the occasion. Even if you stuck out like a sore thumb in tiny denim shorts.
The library was pretty much a hunting ground. More often than not you found the best fuck from the boys and girls with their heads in a book. Bars had been filled with men who think they're more well endowed than they are, but the three inch dicks spoke for themselves.
A nerd you had sex with last week sidled up to you, rubbing the back of his neck. The vomit green sweater he had on almost made you retch. Some guys had such terrible fashion choices. "Hey." He murmured, side-glancing you, your nose almost wrinkled. "Remember me? You said you'd call me."
You almost laughed. "I did, didn't I? I guess the bad sex just put me off."
"You said it was amazing." He mumbled, his face flushing. You didn't miss his glance to your tits.
You actually laughed this time, snapping your fingers in his face. "Eyes up here." You smirked, looking him over. Your hand ran down the coarse fibres of his sweater. "Practice how to fuck a girl, then I'll call you." A six foot two hunk of something walked through the shelves behind the guy you were currently talking to.
This guy had your attention. He'd settled himself at a table with Jane Eyre, pushing his glasses up his nose as he opened the book, perusing the front page. Huh. Graphic tee, leather jacket, worn jeans and this guy was musing over a classic.
Your eyes swept him, the lip bite was involuntary but he just triggered that. His jaw was begging for some purple marks, you could lick up that popping vein in his neck. Leather creaked and strained against his biceps— mm, what you wouldn't give to ride those. The pretty flush on his cheeks, they'd bloom a deep scarlet when you get him under you. Not if, when.
Who's this? And did he know he was making your panties wet?
"Bitch." The guy beside you — Mark, or something boring like that — grunted as he walked off.
"This bitch made you call her mommy." You clapped back, eyes still on the fine man across the room. His lips were rosy, you just knew this man ate pussy.
Your heels thunked on the carpet as you strutted over. "Have we met before?" You asked, drawing his attention away from the book. "Could've sworn I've seen you from somewhere." Yeah, the line was overused. That was the point.
"Uh, no, we haven't." Jason replied awkwardly, even more so as your palms rested on the table. He got a full view of you. Your skin had the glow of body oil, your gloss put a magnifying glass to your lips, crisp eyeliner, sunglasses perched on your head — who the fuck wore those to be indoors — chain dangling from your neck. Following the metal led to a clear view of your chest hidden by the lace of a bra peeking over a leopard print cami. You looked like you'd walked out of a Y2K magazine, like all the girls who’d shoved their tits in his face. He wasn’t dealing with that again. "Can I... help you with something?" He had pretty eyes. Where does a man get off, having those eyes?
You pointed to the book about American history beside him. “Can you pass me that?” Of all the god-awful flirting tactics that usually worked, it didn’t this time. He just muttered “sure” and passed you the book, going back to Jane Eyre.
What the fuck? How thick was his skull?
You walked out with frustration bubbling under heated skin. That was the first time a man didn’t stutter at the sight of you. He’d just acted like a book was more interesting than your lips. Fuck him for being that sexy and playing hard to get.
You’d missed his flush when his eyes fixed on your thighs as you exited.
Your stupid Carerra Cabriolet had broken down on the side of the road, when it was fucking boiling out. At least you’d chosen another tank today, it made things a little easier for you when you had your tools out, bent under the bonnet of the car, trying to figure out the problem.
The roar of a bike almost deafened you, until it stopped right beside you. Your eyes locked on faded Levis, biker boots, but those arms were unmistakeable. The tip of your tongue traced the outline of your canine, lips stretching the longer you recognised that build, those god-gifted hands that were tracing the pages of a book just a few days ago.
Would you look at that. The library hottie.
He lifted his helmet off, ruffling his flattened hair so it’d stick up. The black fell in front of mossy green eyes, which took you in. You were the same girl from the library, the one who he accidentally checked out when you walked away. The sun kissed your thighs from its perch in the sky, his gaze trailed up, up, tracing, memorising the black lace of panties peeking above the waistband of your shorts like they did again with your tank top. You seemed to be a fan of that. Your chest rose and fell with every laboured breath. He caught the tongue tracing your canine. Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped.
“Car trouble?” He asked, hooking his helmet on the handlebars of his bike. “That’s some great luck, in this heat.” His eyes followed a bead of sweat trailing down your neck. His tongue ached— fuck, why was it doing that?
“I sure am lucky.” You replied, velvet voice making something in his fingers twitch. And somewhere else that he wouldn’t mention right now. “D’you know your way around cars? I could use some help here.”
He should say no. He should say he didn’t know shit then drive off in his bike, but he wasn’t a liar and he wasn’t gonna strand you out here in high heats. So, yeah, he took his swelteringly hot jacket off — fashion over comfort if he wasn’t Red Hood — slinging it over your car’s trunk. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help.” He was so going to regret this.
Your eyes were still on him. The black highlighting your eyes only making warmth creep up his spine and making its way to his ears, but you didn’t budge. You just stared. His hands hovered by either sides of your waist, eyes tracing the curves, the rolls of your stomach as you bent a little towards him. A soft “fuck” was at the tip of his tongue.
His hands gripped your waist, moving you gently— shit, the callouses on his hands. They were rough on your skin; you weren’t afraid to somehow into that. Maybe all the men who overuse hand cream sensitised you to the guys who actually used their hands. “Sorry, can I just…”
He was keeping talking to a minimum. It made you smile, especially as his black tank brushed your back and his fingers pressed into the skin where your tank rode up. “Sorry.” He mumbled again, looking under the bonnet. His eyes caught the spark plug. “Here.” He gestured to your spark plug. “You’ve got a worn spark plug. Got a spare?”
“Yeah, I do.” You bent down, you felt his eyes slide over your ass, greedy, and down your legs, stopping at your high-heeled boots. Ripping his eyes away from you as you stood up, crisp wing striking again. He didn’t miss the glint in your irises when he took the plug from you, manicured nails scraping his fingers. His soft muttered “thanks” punctuated the replacement of the spark plug, and without another word, he backed off to his bike. Hoping to get away before his brain betrayed him.
“Can I get your number?” Your voice stopped him in his tracks. He tried not to look at your lips, your moving jaw as you chewed on spearmint gum that burned the back of his throat. “In case this kinda thing happens again. I could use a guy who’s good with his hands.” You really would use him.
“I, um, ok.” He swallowed, putting out his hand for your phone. You gave it to him, the freakishly soft pads of your fingers caressing his knuckles this time. He was fucked. But he keyed in his phone number, pressing the ‘save contact’ button and giving it back to you. You read the contact name.
“Jason.” His name slid over your tongue, through his veins, straight to his dick. What was it about you? He swore he was better than this. “Can finally put a name to the face.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t.” He regretted that as soon as it left his mouth. Now he couldn’t avoid making a connection, treating you like you actually meant something in his life. If he let you mean something, you’d distract him, he knew your type.
Oh, he didn’t know shit about you.
Your laugh shot up his spine, your name rang a million times in his brain when you gave it. It rang in the daydream of you on top of him, clothed pussy moving slow, languid, over his cock. It rang every time he moaned your name in that fucked up image. He— he had to stop that. Now. “See you.” He almost tripped over his words, swinging a leg to mount his bike. Your smile was fresh in his head. Your tongue, your teeth that and caught your bottom lip as you watched him drive away.
You’d have him. One way or another.
Your name lit up his phone one random Friday afternoon. A text, a simple one. Your shower stopped working suddenly and you needed his help.
“M’not a fucking plumber,” He muttered, but it was pathetic how quickly he stood up and got his jacket on. Pathetic was how fast his index hooked his keys like he was, line and sinker. Maybe he was your plumber. And mechanic. He could be anything you wanted him to be.
This was either the start of a really bad joke, or highly erotic pornography.
He hesitated before knocking on your door. Ignoring how he’d spent the last five minutes driving above the speed limit. Denial was one of five stages of grief, or its distant cousin: horniness.
He waited. One minute second, two minutes seconds, three— the door swung open.
A silk robe was wrapped around your body. Tied in a knot. Damp hair plastered to your cheeks, valley of your tits covered with cascading droplets that disappeared down the V of the fabric. Very… flimsy fabric that was covering you. Barely. Your no-gloss smile still stole his gaze. How were your lashes curled with no mascara? Your leg peeked out from beneath the silk. His breath hitched. His face flushed. “You came.” You purred.
“You called.” He replied stiffly, stepping in. Kicking off his shoes by the door. Your apartment was… luxurious, but he wasn’t expecting less. He was almost expecting a brothel. But that was stereotyping, he wasn’t a big fan of that. “So, your shower just stopped working?”
“Out of the blue.”
“What makes you think I know how to fix it?”
“A hunch.” The grin you had on made him feel like he ate shit. The defeatist sigh was his white flag.
“Your hunch would be right.” You notched the win on your robe’s belt. You watched his ass as he disappeared into your bathroom. Bingo.
It wasn’t like you were lying about the shower, it had stopped right before you were about to put on a hair mask. It just gave you a very good excuse to call your pet project over.
“Looks like it’s a pipe issue, I got it.” He called over his shoulder. This bathtub was bigger than his single bed. But then again it attested to the difference between la bourgeoisie and la pété thune. Draped over a radiator was your loungewear. Tiny things— rib-knit cami, sleep shorts that probably stopped just short of your ass, matching white panties. In a row, right there.
The panties caught his eye. They were soft, lace at the trim, satin otherwise, fuckin’ gorgeous. You wore those. Just to sleep, you wore those. What the fuck. Why the fuck. Why the fuck was his mouth watering? His tongue heavy? Aching? Begging to circle your clit over the fabric with his tongue just so he could watch the fabric dampen, drench, cling to your cunt? He had to get out of here. Drive off. Start a new life, maybe crash at Dick’s place in Blüdhaven. He’d be safer there.
He found the pipe problem. He fixed it, it was backed up. The panties called his name; since when was he susceptible to that?
“Those were a gift from Victoria’s Secret.” He hadn’t noticed his gaze was fixed on the white fabric draped on the radiator. It snapped back to you. You were leaning against the doorframe, tongue back on your canine. Now that he looked again, he realised it was pointy, like a vampire.
Now that he looked again, he wanted it to drag up his neck.
He looked back at the panties, back to you, tripping over his tongue. “I—I didn’t mean to—” He still stood up, ready to plead guilty and for forgiveness, but your hum stopped his train of thoughts.
You pointed at the panties, tilting your head. “You can keep those.” His brain almost short-circuited. Huh? “I don’t mind.” This was… if you were sane, you’d kick him out. Scream. Maybe get a restraining order.
“I—” Words caught in his throat, “you—”
“Keep them.” You insisted softly, picking up the panties, finger hooking into his belt loops. A sharp tug brought him close, too close for his dick to be comfortable in his jeans. Your fingers slipped into his front pocket of his Levis, tucking the satin panties into them. Never breaking eye contact. Your spearmint breath fanning across his lips. “Never gave you a proper thank you. For saving me twice.”
“You don’t need to do that.” He almost leaned in himself. To get a taste of whatever was on your tongue, to satiate himself while he didn’t have access to your pussy.
Your lips tugged. Into a smile that burned his insides. “Sure?”
“No.” He breathed, and his whole body melted before your lips even captured his. More like devoured. That was a better word for the nasty smack of lips on lips and how your nails carded into his hair. How you pushed your saliva into his mouth with your tongue, forcing his lips apart with a sharp tug to the hair at his nape.
He couldn’t stop the moan. The whine. His hands helplessly grabbed at your thighs, silk bunching up, itching to undo the robe, lips attaching to your jugular, sloppy, open-mouthed, greedy kisses stamped onto your skin.
You got him.
You’d got him, but you pulled him off your neck by the collar of his shirt. “Another time, sweetie.” His head followed the drag of your finger down his jaw, pressing into your finger as it trailed down his chest. “Gotta finish my shower.”
“When?” He rasped, pupils blown. Dick hard. Breath laboured after you pulled all the oxygen he had from his lungs.
You paused, pouting as you mused. “I’ll call you.”
Fuck.
He wished it was you riding him. He had to settle for your panties instead.
The fabric was soft against his palms, even more so against his dick as he fisted it. This wasn't even a measured affair, his sweats were haphazardly pulled down so the waistband collected around his upper thigh. Same went for his boxers, sheets only covering him from the knees down. Everything was silent, too still, save for his frantic breaths, whimpers and faint thwaps of his hand moving up and down his cock.
He needed your cunt to drag up his dick and make it wet, he needed your pussy to suck in his dick, to use it, use him, he needed your mouth by his ear telling him how good he made you feel. He was incomplete without it.
"Fuck, ma, please," He didn't know why he was begging, when you couldn't hear him. You were in your apartment, you couldn't hear him calling out your name to God knows who. Maybe worshipping at your altar was enough to grant him permission to, y'know, come.
Some sick part of him wanted to call you up. Ask you whether he could finally have an orgasm he'd been chasing for the last thirty minutes, it was a twisted thought, but his hand scrambled for his phone on his bedside table. Almost knocking it over amidst his moans.
He’d put you on speed dial at some point. He’d blacked out when he did, apparently, he couldn’t remember when. Sometime between fantasising you on top of him and picturing eating your pussy. The two weren’t mutually exclusive.
His thumb frantically tapped on the green button, knowing it was an ungodly hour of the morning. Knowing you said you’d call him when you wanted to fuck. He just wasn’t pressed to wait.
But you knew it’d happen. You’d been ticking off the hours in your head, laying on your king-size, for when this six-two hunk of a man would crack and call you, desperate for your permission. You’d played the waiting game before.
So you waited again.
Let the phone ring for ten seconds, really dragging it out, letting him delay himself that tiny bit more for an ego trip. He stared at your caller ID the longer his moans grew louder. His hand slowed down because he hadn’t heard your voice yet, he hadn’t asked you—
“Hello?” Your voice, sickly sweet, rang out from the phone. He put you off speaker, slamming the phone to his ear, so close, so ready, whining into the microphone. Your lips curled on the other end.
You could only hear his breathing. His paced up puffs of breath punctuated by needy whines which had your panties soaking through. Gosh, this really was something. “Speak up, Jason.” You sing-songed, prompting a low groan from him.
“Need t’come, ma.” He couldn’t recognise his own voice. Raspy, hoarse, from all the broken sounds he’d been letting out for god knows how long. “Can I—? Please — shiiiit — please lemme, m’so close.”
Your laugh was taunting. It only shot a shiver up his spine. “Oh, Jay,” He could practically hear your smirk through the phone, “you really need my pussy, huh?”
“Fuck, yeah, I do.” He nodded frantically, hand picking up the pace around his cock. Satin dragging against his skin. “Wanna — haah— feel that fuckin’ pussy around my cock, wanna— wanna taste it, m’gonna eat you so good, ma—”
Huh. You’d managed to break this guy in a matter of a week, an incredible feat, even for your standards. Here he was, babbling about going down on you. Your index crept down to circle your clit over your shorts. Your long sigh soothed his ear. “Mhm, Jay, I know, baby— come f’me?” The sugar talking earned you a deep moan from the other end, the shallow breaths and whimper of your name telling you he’d definitely come. His head thudded back against the pillows, covering his dick with your panties so they caught every thick rope of come. He felt so dirty. “Sounded so good, sweetie." That made it feel better. Less pervy.
There was a pause as he caught his breath and composure. “Fuck, ma, when m’I gonna see you?”
You'd never felt like this before.
Jason's tongue dragged over your cunt, almost folding you in half in the effort to make your thighs clamp around his head. His face was buried in your pussy, slurping whatever you had to give him, so much so that saliva mixed with your dripping arousal. He was moaning, moaning, against your clit, bumping it with his nose.
He was too fucked out to be methodical. Too fucked out from fucking his fist with your satin panties for a week when "I'll call you" was a long time coming. You'd finally told him to come over, after seven tortuous days.
He'd narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket.
He rolled his hips, humping the bed so his dick would get some friction, pads of his fingers sure-fire bruising your skin, they'd be visible for days. You'd be walking around with his fingerprints blooming just under the hem of your shorts. That was hot.
Obscene slurping sounds had you gripping his hair harder as his thumb flicked and teased your clit, two fingers filling you up. "Oh, shiit, Jay," Your eyes rolled back at the intrusion. You were keeping him, for sure.
His fingers were long. Thick. Crooked from being broken one too many times. They instantly brushed your g-spot, he curled them just right, you couldn't help the moan that came when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked. Stacking one thing on top of another so he could make you feel as good as he did over the phone.
"Look at this—" He stopped to whine against your pussy, vibrations sending your head knocking back against your headboard, "this pretty fuckin' pussy, huh?" He was just babbling at this point, trailing off into incoherence the longer he licked you clean. "Kept me waiting so long, ma, jus' wanna make you feel good."
He'd never felt this bliss before.
Your clit dragged on the base of his cock every time you lifted yourself up and dropped back down. Hard slaps of skin on skin was the soundtrack to Jason grabbing your thighs in a frenzy, pupils blown, unable to look away while letting out the most lascivious moans you'd ever heard in your life as his glasses tilted with every bounce of you on his cock.
This was either the start of a really bad joke or highly erotic pornography.
That question got answered real quick.
He propped himself up, to be able to fuck up into you but also kiss the tits that had been taunting him for ages, sucking your nipple into his mouth like it owed him rent. You couldn't help the grab onto the strands of his hair that desperately needed a trim as he sucked insistently, one hand sliding between your thighs so he could rub his name onto your clit with two fingers. You'd spelled out your name in hickeys that spanned his neck and chest. Lipstick prints spanned his jaw and scarlet smeared over his lips.
His green eyes were desperate, looking up at you. "Fuuuck, ma, s'good," He mumbled incoherently, releasing your tits with a slick pop to run aimless kisses over your neck, "s'warm, feels fuckin'—" The smacks of his hips against yours, the smacks of his lips on your skin, they sent you barrelling to a new high.
Your hand messed up his hair, other leaving red trails across his back. Scarlet that any girl would look at and realise that this man belonged to someone. If they didn't get the hint from the smudged lipstick and hickeys. "Yeah, Jay, you're so good, huh?" You praised, his hips picked up the pace. Your head tilted back, clamping down on him, he swore into the crook of your neck. "I'm— m'coming, baby, come with me, yeah?"
"Uh-huh — shit, I — haah —" It was a wave submerging him that reached you too. A cry of each other's names that would end up with a noise complaint at your door the next morning, considering the headboard had been knocking the wall for the past two hours. He'd come inside you, warmth filling you till you felt it in your throat, hand stroking his hair as his breath shuddered against your neck. You were keeping him, for sure.
He lifted his head from your neck, you reached out to wipe the sweat from his flushed temple. His head followed your hand like it held his will to live.
sick, but he wouldnt have it any other way. | survivor!3fs x zombie!reader
: ✶ summary ⸝⸝ : you dont know how this happened. you arent aware of how the world started crumbling down just overnight. but you know you dont care anymore. not when the urge in you to feast on flesh that isint yours gets overwhelming.
: ✶ a/n ⸝⸝ : hhheyyy.... gulp. this isint the usual way i would write my fics, but i really wanted to see if yall would allow me to romanticize the dark and grotesque. no i dont condone anything like that truly, but its just for the aesthetics okay ill shut up erm! just ignore this post if you dont like it lolz.
: ✶ wc ⸝⸝ : 1487 words | not proof-read at all
: ✶ warnings ⸝⸝ : VIEWERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED! ; descriptive gore ; death ; zombies ; blood ; axe used as a weapon ; english is not my first language ; angst with slight comfort ; lowkey the state of the world is in shambles and almost everyone is dead so not much hastag hopecore
୧‿̩͙ ˖︵︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵︵˖ ‿̩͙୨
“B-back off!” Max gritted out as he tried to shove off a zombie from on top of him, his head craning to avoid being infected. The disgusting drool and vile, rotting smell of a decomposing human invades his senses, making him grimace strongly.
The zombie only groaned and slurred, swatting a clawed hand in a sluggish attempt to attack the brunette. Max panicked and swinged his axe towards the undead, leaving the weapon stuck onto the zombies neck — yet it sat unfazed, giving Max the opportunity to push it off and stomp its head.
When the slow writhing stopped and the gurgling turned silent, Max could take a breather and pull his axe back from the corpse.
Unfortunately the sight of gore didnt make him that queasy anymore. He hated how numb he became towards it.
Max just wished he could return to the normal life he had, where he didnt have to constantly worry about saving his own skin and the undead walking after him with each step he took.
The man swallowed shallowly, tightening his grip on the bloodied fireman axe as he stood stiffly for a bit over the decomposing body. Thinking. He wasnt sure why he kept fighting even after watching the whole world fragment before his very eyes, dying right now was definitely an easy way out, but there was still this flickering light of hope in him.
He took a step back, another, before turning around fully to continue his trek in search of… something.
Max didnt want to go the easy way out, not just yet.
-
Max flinched strongly when he heard the gut-curdling scream of a person, just a few feet from his frail hideout, his hand automatically reaching for the axe — still uncleaned from last night (He really ought to though, unless he wants to get infected with whatever blood is on it).
He knew he shouldnt be sleeping so peacefully in such a vulnerable way, but he hasnt been able to get a wink of sleep for the past couple of days when wandering the streets. Normally he wouldve been called homeless and a hobo by the neighbours by now, but its not like theres anyone left to reprimand his odd behaviour now.
Back to the matter at hand though, he pushed himself up from the ground and slipped out from his hiding like a little meerkat trying to scope out for any nearby danger. His heart almost stopped entirely when he saw a zombie huddled near the ground, just under the streetlight. Eating away to its sickened hearts content. It was feasting on something fresh, he could tell even if he couldnt see exactly what.
The hopes of it being a poor wildlife animal instead of a human was crushed to smithereens when he stealthily approached the undead and saw what he feared most.
A human with sterile eyes, a ripped limb and an exposed ribcage.
Max carefully changed his stance without alerting the zombie in front of him, lifting the axe over his head like a lumberjack readying himself to chop some wood, before striking efficiently and finishing off the monster.
The second time his heart stops was when he realised he was far too late to save you. You were probably the very same person that screamed like that when it attacked you. Maybe if he wouldve been a bit faster when waking up, he couldve saved your life.
Maybe not save you from any attacks, but he wouldve gladly offered some of his bandages, just so he could have someone he could talk to. He swore he was going insane, not being able to talk to another human being and all that.
With a shaky and dispirited sigh, Max just shifted in his shoes and turned around, deciding to look for food and scraps now that he is already up and outside of his hideout. What he didnt know though, was how fast the virus in your body began to spread. Or how fast you were already sitting up on your knees, head tilted to curiously watch him loiter around the street.
The hushed whisper that sounded a lot like the word “human…” had him freezing up again.
Max carefully turned around, just to see you seated on your knees on the concrete, head lolling to the side like it was too heavy for your neck to hold. Your other (and only) hand rested on the ground, like trying to keep your body from collapsing. The oddest part was the fact you didnt try to inch closer towards him, nor make any other noises despite some whines.
Call him crazy because he stepped closer towards you, despite knowing how zombies usually act to a human.
Call him crazy but he thought you seemed friendly.
-
“Stay here, okay?” Max mumbled quietly, hand reached out like trying to teach a puppy to sit still. He still had no idea if you even understood a single word he was saying. But hed guess that if you really didnt understand what he was saying, you wouldve already attacked him long before. You seemed to be a lot more aware and complex than most zombies.
He took another step back from you, only for you to slur out a whine and trail after him like a kicked puppy.
… so much so for teaching you simple orders.
With a defeated yet soft sigh, Max let you limp up towards him and wrap your arms around him. You were a little cold, but it was definitely better than being jumped by a famished zombie. This wasnt the first time youd touch him without the intent of hurting him.
“How am i supposed to take care of you if you dont sit still, hm?” the man teased with a small chuckle, but wrapped his arms around you. “.. Ah- i guess i dont really… need to take care of you, actually. Youre not alive.”
Its been at least a month of having you trail after him, and he cant lie — its nice having someone to chat with. Even if you didnt necessarily always respond back.
Max rubbed the heel of his palm against your spine, but slowly willed himself to pull back, even if you kept clinging onto the sleeve of his shirt. “Alright, seriously though. Stay.” He repeated, guiding you to sit down on the floor.
“Ill be back” he promised
-
But it took him a couple of hours to finally return.
When he did push himself past the slip of the entrance to the shared hideout, he was wounded. A huge gash on the side of his collarbone just over his shoulder, crimson blood soaking the fabric of his shirt.
And all you could do was just stare. Stare and lust over a bite like the zombie you truly were.
You stood up from the ground and took a step closer towards him. Max didnt move first, but when he noticed the crazed hungry look in your eyes, he stumbled back. His back bumping into the wall.
He laughed nervously, gripping onto his shoulder stronger. “H-hold on– i- im sure we can find you something else to eat, love…”
But Max felt pity for you, he really did — he knew you havent eaten anything since the two of you met, and he couldnt blame you if you were extremely hungry by now. He was surprised you havent eaten him in his sleep before already.
The brunettes mind raced further when you stepped closer again. Surely there was another way to feed you, right?? Though his mind silenced instantly when you pressed your chest against him, head gravitating towards his shoulder and licking the dripping blood.
As much as he didnt want to die now… he couldnt help but wonder if life maybe would be easier and more convenient if you both were zombies. All the time he has spent with you tagging along with him, he has developed a small… liking towards you. No matter your missing arm or your pale skin.
Call him crazy but he loved you.
Your jaw slackened further, and he knew his time was running out already. He had to make a choice.
And living without you just seemed too cruel. You were just hungry.
With a shaky sigh, he tilted his head further to the other side of you, giving you all the space you needed to cram him down. It would probably hurt like hell, but hed rather die a painful death than live knowing he has to kill you someday if theres no cure.
And you took your sweet fucking time with him. Devouring his shoulder bit by bit, until the only thing coursing through his veins was the virus and — oddly enough — your love.
Now the two of you could lurk in the dead silent streets, together, fingers interlaced.
He was sick, but he wouldnt have it any other way.
୧‿̩͙ ˖︵︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵︵˖ ‿̩͙୨
wait i actually kinda fuck wit dis WAIT NO PLS DONT EXECUTE M
ᢉ𐭩babydaddy!rafe intro post ᢉ𐭩babymama!reader intro post ᢉ𐭩their story && background explained in the series
BLURBS && REQUESTS
ᢉ𐭩a day in the life with babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader ᢉ𐭩babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader’s night time routine ᢉ𐭩“what does babydaddy!rafe && readers sex life look like?” ᢉ𐭩how bsf!rafe used to react to reader going out to dates with other guys ᢉ𐭩babydaddy!rafe dealing with a teenager + how they are when they’re family expands
DIGITAL MEDIA
ᢉ𐭩texts with babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader p1 ᢉ𐭩texts with babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader p2
the entire internet seems to ship you and finn─except finn is painfully offline, so he doesn't know. you, on the other hand, decide to have a little fun with the rumors.
❪ masterlist. 2.9k words. fluff, co-stars/friends to lovers. cw: alcohol consumption. dedicated to @eviesjournal and the convo we had about how we'd do the famous thing wayyyy better than finn. silly little fic, hope you enjoy! ❫
It was somewhere around three in the morning, and you stared blearily at your screen as the bridge of Ayo Technology by 50 Cent backed a few slowed down, lovingly color-graded clips of you and Finn from an interview on your For You page. At certain angles, it looked like you were kissing.
People surely didn’t lack imagination.
You and Finn had known each other for years. Two awkward tweens when you first met on the set of the first season of Stranger Things, and you’d somehow latched onto each other. That bond only tightened over the years. By the fifth season, ten whole years later, you couldn’t picture your life without his dark and perpetually unruly hair and tall frame draped across your living room couch. There were snacks stolen between takes and clothes migrating from his closet to yours. The comfort of growing up side by side. Best friends was the obvious label. However, the internet had other ideas.
The shipping had started when you were young. You’d always been aware of it, and honestly, you’d found it more funny than anything. (Once, you and Sadie had gone on a deep dive through fanfiction websites with no shame and several shots of tequila. In hindsight, it was one of the best nights of your life. Some people were alarmingly creative.) Still, for reasons completely beyond your comprehension, the intensity of said shipping had skyrocketed in recent months. The onset of season five promo hadn’t helped. Every so often, a TikTok would ambush you, a solemnly narrated analysis of the way Finn looked at you on a red carpet, or the moment you’d collapsed in his arms laughing during an interview. Undeniable proof you’d been married for two years and owned a dog.
Okay, fine. Maybe you did act a little over the top sometimes, but you were both just clingy people. That was just… your thing.
Finn stayed blissfully unaware. You still weren’t sure how someone could be so offline, but one glance at his phone, bereft of social media and needless notifications, told you everything you needed to know. The shipping between was your own little secret (and the rest of the cast and staff, apparently… everyone except his.) You weren’t sure why you kept it that way. You just did.
So it was three in the morning, and yet another edit of you and Finn had crossed your recommended, and tiredness had enough of a hold on you to give you an idea that planted itself as the funniest thing you ever thought of.
After Stranger Things wrapped, it would take an absurd trick of fate for you and Finn to ever land on the same set again. Putting aside the idea twisted your stomach unpleasantly at the thought, the shippers would surely be in mourning, grasping at straws and the last blurry screenshots they could get. You wondered, what better way to thank them for years of unintentional entertainment than to just… fan the flames a little? A simple playful lean into the rumor mill as a send-off?
Honestly, it sounded hilarious.
You’d sent a text to Sadie then. hey, remember the Vanity Fair interview? i’m gonna need us to swap seats during that.
Her reply came fast. what are you plotting, and you could only grin at that.
The day of the interview came. The night before, Finn had slept over like he so often did with his dedicated toothbrush in your bathroom cup and pajamas folded at the end of your bed. It was basically your, plural, apartment. He’d left earlier this morning to get ready, and in his wake he’d forgotten the sweater he’d worn the day before slung over the back of your couch. A sweater you distinctly remembered being photographed on him. Your stylist had not been convinced, but gave up after a bit of verbal wrestling even though she questioned your insistence. You slipped the sweater on, paired it with a nice skirt, and headed off to hair and makeup.
When you arrived at the interview set, Sadie was already seated beside the spot she’d given to you. She zeroed in on the sweater immediately before she looked up at you with amusement dancing across her face.
“Oh, so you’re really doing this,” she laughed.
You nodded with a self-satisfied smile. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. The rest of the cast filtered in soon after, settling into their seats. Caleb shot you a knowing look. “Nice sweater.”
Finn arrived last and sat down beside you without second thoughts. That is, until he glanced over. You could practically see the gears turning in his head as you did your best to keep in your laugh.
“That’s mine,” he intelligently noticed, leaning closer and running the tip of his fingers against the familiar sleeve in disbelief. “That’s the one I left this morning.”
The touch made you shiver, but you masked it with a composed smile. “It is, actually. My stylist thought it’d go well with the outfit. What do you think?”
Either it was a trick of the light, or his pale complexion flushed a darker red. Lips pursed, he nodded. “It looks good. It suits you. You should—uh—you should borrow my stuff more often. The oversized thing, and all, it’s… it’s nice. Y’know.”
“Guys, focus, please! The cameras are rolling!”
The bubble burst and both of you snapped out of it as the interviewer launched into her first question.
Two days later, the interview dropped, and you and Sadie cackled like Salem witches sprawled on her couch as you scrolled through the corner of Twitter dedicated to you and Finn. You tried very hard to ignore the pleasant tug in your chest when someone pointed out how Finn’s gaze seemed fixed on you, and his sweater, the entire time. You quite liked the way he looked at you.
Your little scheme dragged on for a while—months, to be precise, filling the gap between Volume One and Volume Two with ideas you devised during sleepless nights. Sadie contributed when boredom struck her. The next hit was a picture taken at your local coffee shop, one fans had noticed you often went to. Sadie came with you that day, and she just so happened to have a trenchcoat that looked a lot like Finn’s brown one. Like a pair of middle-schoolers, you spent ten minutes arranging her hand just right so it could be his. You posted it to your story with a Beabadoobee song. Subtlety was not the goal. Your notifications blew up right after.
Surprisingly, a reply came from Gaten’s account. whos that lol, the text read. it’s finn btw. i stole gaten’s phone.
You couldn’t help but feel more than a little delighted.
Purely because of the fans’ reactions, of course.
Even though Finn and you had always been touchy, at least with each other, you turned the dial all the way up. In the middle of interviews, you’d lean over to fix his collar or pluck imaginary lint out of his hair. You took an unreasonable amount of pleasure in watching him flush, stumbling all over his words to scroll through the carnage online afterward. According to the internet, you were official now and dropping hints for the fans to pick out.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for Finn deciding to play right back, though.
All of a sudden, he was everywhere in your space. A hand resting casually on your thigh, an arm slung over the back of your chair, his shoulders brushing yours just enough. He started handing you his jackets, teased you more boldly during interviews, his eyes lingered longer… There was the panel incident too, in California, when—
“If I was El,” you’d said into the microphone, emboldened by Millie’s enthusiastic finger-clapping beside you. “I’d totally have broken up with the guy.”
Finn shot you an affronted look while Sadie and Caleb, who shared the panel with you, burst into laughter. He reached over and practically yanked the mic from your hands. “You’re totally exaggerating. Mike’s isn’t that bad, he’s a teenage boy! He’s just confused!”
“All teenage boys are assholes Finn. I’ve been around you wayyyy too much during that part of your life. I’d know.”
“You’re all conspiring against him,” he accused, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re doing.”
“We are not! You’re the one exaggerating now,” you argued back. Sadie leaned forward and cupped her hand around her mouth. “We are!”
Finn turned to you. “Baby, I—”
He couldn’t go any further as the audience erupted into cheers and scandalized oohs. You stumbled over air, your elbow slipping off the armrest and your mouth falling open in shock. Heat rushed up your neck, blooming across your cheeks all the way to the tip of your ears as Finn dropped his gaze, smiling bashfully at the ground. You didn’t miss the quiet laugh he let out when he looked back at you. Mortified, you shot a glance at Sadie, who was wearing the biggest, most unapologetic grin you’d ever seen.
Had she told him about your plan? He would’ve told you… right?
Or did he just want to make this a competition?
Whatever it was, you decided not to let it destabilize you. You swallowed down the blush, placed a hand on his arm as you laughed it off, and pretended you didn’t notice the way Finn’s eyes stayed trained on your fingers.
And it just kept on going. The little touches and comments, the condescending pet names when one of you messed up, or when you’d jokingly fight on set, during events and interviews. What had once been occasional became frequent, so frequent it began bleeding into your private life.
Finn started draping himself over you during movie nights, his arms winding around your waist, his head resting comfortably on your chest while your fingers carded through his hair. You found yourself rummaging through his shirts to wear at home, which he noticed and always complimented your choice. You’d cling to his arm while crossing the street even when you knew there were no paparazzis around. He fixed your hair without asking. You sat next to each other in every interview. The pet names slipped out during breaks on set.
There wasn't anyone to document those domestic instances. And for reasons unknown, you realized you liked it this way. Enjoyed the new pace your relationship with Finn had taken.
Until the wrap-up party.
Ten years of your life. Ten years of care poured into a character sealed shut with the click of a camera. The final day had tasted bittersweet to everyone. Many tears were shed, and your mascara had definitely stained Finn’s sleeve as he held you close. But that could only mean the party, two days after, would be all the more fun—which it was! That was how you all ended up lounging across the floor of Gaten’s apartment, a half-empty bottle of white wine sweating between you. You drank straight from the bottleneck, passing it around in a circle. When the bottle reached Finn, he waved it away, mindful that he was driving you home.
You smiled at him when he handed it to you, holding his gaze as the wine burned sweetly down your throat.
“Man, I’m gonna miss this,” Caleb sighed, staring at the ceiling.
Millie snorted. “It’s not like we’re never going to do this again. We’re not dying.”
“Yeahhhh, but it’s not the same, you know? We were up to so much shit on that set.”
Laughter rippled through the room as memories bubbled up, old and new. You were practically draped against Finn by then, your head near his shoulder as he leaned back against Gaten’s coffee table.
“You’re telling me,” you said fondly.“Remember when Sadie tripped over cables on her first day and fucked up the entire lighting system?”
Sadie gasped in mock outrage, glaring at you while everyone else howled. It took less than two seconds for the group to spiral into recounting every Sadie mishap from the last nine years she’d shared with you. Eventually, she raised her hands, silencing all conversations under amused eyes and pointed directly at you.
“I cannot believe you’re talking all high and mighty,” she started, her eyes gleaming, “when you’ve been doing fan service for the past few months.”
You froze. Behind you, you felt Finn straighten. You shot Sadie a frantic look, slicing a hand through the air in a silent stop, but she only met your gaze with an expression that told you, very clearly, that she knew what she was doing. Or at least, you hoped she did.
“What do you mean?” Finn asked, chuckling nervously.
“Oh, she’s been playing up your friendship because the fanbase has been shipping you two like crazy,” Sadie explained breezily, waving a hand as if she’d been asked about the weather. “It was mostly because we thought it was funny. Also, I gotta say, the fanfictions have really improved since you two started. Huge step up in quality.”
Your stomach was in your feet.
“The fanbase ships us? Together?” Finn asked, incredulous. then turned to you. You had to force yourself to lift your eyes to meet his, but the confusion in them only made you more embarrassed.
“Yeah. Yeah, they do.” You tried to sound as bright as you could as you quickly looked away.
“You didn’t know? Dude, you’re the opposite of chronically online. It’s like you live in a cave,” Gaten laughed, shaking his head. “Reminds me of that whole Sillie thing back in 2019.”
Millie barked out a laugh, brandishing the bottle of white wine. “Oh, that was a fun era.”
The night carried on with the rhythm of stories, but there was now a subtle tension threaded between you and Finn, pulled taut but still refusing to snap. It followed you all the way outside. You’d sobered up by then, the cold night air biting as you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. Finn’s car waited at the curb. You reached for the passenger door handle.
“Hey.”
You turned to see Finn had stopped, his eyes fixed on you.
“Something wrong?” you asked.
He shifted his weight, eyes flicking down and back up again in a shadow of hesitation. “So, all that… you know. The hoodies and the holding hands, that. That was a joke?”
“No,” you said immediately. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t a joke. I just thought it’d be fun to… to kind of pretend that something more was going on for the fans. Give them something, since we won’t really be seen together like this anymore.”
Quieter, you added. “And we won’t be on set together, not like before. If you know what I mean.”
“So you didn’t mean it.”
Confusion twisted your guts as you stared at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, blurring his expression far too much for you to make out what it was.
“I don’t know.” You took a deep breath. “Did you want it to mean something?”
A little voice in your chest you didn’t know existed was pleading. Please say yes, please say yes. Finn stepped closer, closing the distance until there was but the smallest space left between your bodies.
“To be honest, I didn’t really know people saw us like that,” he started, burying his hands deeper in the pockets of his jacket. “What I do know, though, was that I had this really stupid crush on you ever since I was, like… twelve. And when you started doing all that, I thought maybe you finally liked me back. Now, I don’t know if you meant any of it, but I—” His lips curved in a nervous smile. “I kinda hope you did.”
Your heart leaped in your chest, as if you’d just jumped off an airplane and your parachute had been delayed. Finn opened his mouth again, probably to backpedal and to reassure you it was fine, that nothing had to change if you didn’t reciprocate, but you didn’t let him. You did reciprocate.
You shut him up before he could speak—grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and kissing him.
His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you closer as he kissed you back, hard and soft all at once. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, and you laughed into the kiss when he smiled, which only made him kiss you again, and again, and again.
You finally stopped when your back hit the passenger door, Finn standing in front of you, both a little breathless as you stared at each other with starry eyes.
“And that only took us…. what? Ten years?” you teased.
Finn laughed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, not forgetting to press a kiss to your neck as he did so. “I’m forever grateful to whoever decided to write fanfictions about us. You have to show them to me now. You’re obligated.”
“And under what obligations?”
“Uh, the fact that I’m literally your boyfriend?”
You chuckled. “Wow. You’re upgrading fast. I can’t believe you—”
He kissed you again, cutting you off, and you forgot whatever you’d been about to say. You liked it better this way.
Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket, long forgotten, with a text from Sadie you wouldn’t see until the next morning. so are yall together yet me and caleb have a bet going. it’s been nine years.
And a week later, Finn posted on Instagram—not his social media manager, himself, guys! That’s big! It was a grainy film photo of you in his shirt, hair a mess, standing in his kitchen with two coffee mugs and the brightest smile flashed at the camera.
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