Brook

romanticization final boss ⭐️

[brookghaib-blog]

Masterlist

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

The ghost I left behind: I, II, III, IV, V, VI

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

The ghost I left behind : One-shot

Summary: It’s Bob’s turn to watch baby Georgie without his mother for the afternoon while Y/N gets a rare, much-needed break—a hair appointment and solo coffee date she's been putting off for a year. She leaves Bob at the Watchtower with an overly detailed list, and a kiss on the cheek. Bob is confident to do it alone. He’s ready. He is not ready.

The quiet things that remain: I, II

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only yo leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never ti her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

The Weight of Familiar Things

Summary: After breaking up in hig school, Y/N had never really moved on from the best relationship of her life with Bob after he disappear out of thin air. While working on her shift, Bob reappears the same away he went away.

The Dying Love of a Super-Soldier

Summary: After moving to Florida to live a normal life, Y/N had managed to achieve everything she wanted. Even after Bob and her being a complete failure that made her rot from the inside, leaving her heartbroken and unable to fully recover. Only a new, unexpected event would make her snap.

Loose Ends

Summary: Y/N and Bob meet at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, both struggling with addiction. They form a deep bond that slowly grows into love. When Bob suddenly disappears, Y/N relapses and falls apart. Months later, Bob returns, determined to help her heal. Together, they face their pasts and find hope and love in each other’s arms.

It's Quiet Between the Stars

Summary: After surviving a lifetime of pain, addiction, and betrayal, Y/N begins the long road to healing with Bob—her anchor in the dark. Hidden away in the Watchtower, love grows between two broken souls as they learn that peace isn’t found—it’s built, moment by fragile moment.

Almost Loved: I, II, III, IV

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Silent arms

Summary: After a harrowing traumatic past and struggling to control her recently discovered powers, Y/N finds an unexpected refuge in Bob. Through patient care, quiet moments, and gentle love, Bob helps her rediscover trust and hope, and together they begin to heal from their broken pasts.

We Live in Venus: I, II, III

Summary: Y/N has a sharp edge and a soft spot for her childhood best friend, Bob Reynolds, finds herself caught in a toxic rhythm of late nights, blurred lines, and broken promises. As Bob battles addiction and and his path in life, both loving each other way too much. Have you ever fell in love without knowing what love is?

Golden Arms, and Dark Whispers: I, II

Summary: Y/N and Bob share a deeply passionate relationship, cracks begin to show beneath their perfect facade due to Bob's double life, hoping for a normal loving family life, and her pregnancy. Y/N's mental state deteriorates, making her vulnerable to the sinister influence of the Void, who turns her into a pawn for control.

High on Her Love

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the perfect, in love couple, until Thanos successed. Years after the blip, Bob is still coping with the loss of his late girlfriend, Y/N L/N. Alone in a world that he hated, he finds ways and paths to find her everyday, not caring about the consequences. Even if it creates his void.

A Walking Diamong

Summary: At an opulent gathering, Bob crosses paths with the enigmatic Y/N, who seems to only speak in riddles, but both captivating by each other. Who could guess that someone with a small presence such as Bob would make such a difference from one simple conversation.

A Damsel in Distress

Summary: In which the team is eager to meet Bob's ''imaginary'' girlfriend, and the chaos just seems to pile up as the time goes by.

The Public Meets the Thunderbolts

Summary: A camera crew follows the team around, interviewing them, orders from Y/N, Bob's girlfriend, who thinks it would be excellent for her wannabe reality show. It wasn't.

--

Pairing: James 'Bucky' Barnes x reader

I Wish Tou Knew: I, II

Summary: After losing her husband under mysterious circumstances, Y/N builds a quiet life in Brooklyn, finding unexpected comfort in two neighbors: Yori and his friend Bucky Barnes. As her bond with Bucky deepens, she begins to heal—unaware that he’s hiding a dark secret: he was the one who killed her husband.

Another Version of You: I, II

Summary: In order to find a piece of secret information that would change her life, Y/N goes back to the 40's to retrieve, where she meet Bucky Barnes before it all. How could she love someone she couldn't have ? How could she love someone who doesn't exist anymore? How could she love a version of someone she could never retrieve?

Bigger Than Loss

Summary: After a painful divorce, Y/N isn’t looking for love, until Sam sets her up on a blind date with his friend. What begins as awkward dinners and shy glances unravels into the best dinner of their lives, but Y/N’s grief and secrets threaten to push him away. Even after many attempts.

[brookghaib-blog]

Entering Tumblr after the spider man movie and just getting smut left and right

[brookghaib-blog]

sometimes I wish I had the energy to go back to writing I’m so sad that I stopped committing

[shiruigami]

# GOJO CRASHES OUT AGAIN

the gap moe is gojo satoru, number one gaming youtuber in japan, and how he crashes out loser style whenever people hit on his vlogger girlfriend. (that’s you, by the way.)

content: language, crude humor, crack fic, modern au, youtuber au, everyone is an adult, hints of reverse harem

[oporotheca]

rare is this love

the world knows your weight once more— though not nearly as intimately as your husband. inspired by hozier's "run".

tags: grief, mentions of death, mentions of child loss, sukuna missed his wife and is not afraid to show it

notes: surprise sukuna fic for the project today because i've been listening to the song that inspired it on a loop lately. enjoy!!

credit: sukuna fanart by @/phantomosis, divider by @/mieluno

Hozier project m.list

wc: 1,133

“Where is my daughter?” 

The first words you’ve spoken in over one thousand years are those of a mother who already knows the answer to her question— who can see it as plain as day on the face of the man who stands before her now, little more than a corpse that walks. 

You can feel your child’s absence in the spaces between your ribs and in the itching agony that festers in your gumline. 

Your mouth yearns to say her name, but you will not let it. 

It is not theirs to hear. 

“I’m terribly sorry.” 

The voice of the thing that watches you drips with the kind of faux sympathy that makes nausea coil in the pit of your stomach like a viper waiting to strike. Your fingers twitch and curl into fists. 

“I’m afraid to say that your daughter passed quite a long time ago. I’m sure you recall?” 

And certainly, some part of you does. 

You can hear her cries on a loop in the space between your ears, her pleas for you, for her father who had sworn to always keep her safe as much a memory as they are a nightmare. 

Still, a part of you cannot possibly believe she’s truly gone— that someone might be cruel enough to bring you back to a world that does not have her in it. Anger twitches beneath your brow, but you refuse to let it make itself known. 

“I see.” 

Your words are clipped, sharp, and certain— every bit the woman you once were back when you could still call yourself such a thing. 

Sure, you had been gentle as well, in those few and far between times when the world had allowed it— but were you somehow expected to be even now, when every light you’d ever known— and even that which you had borne, had been snuffed out? 

Had your previous suffering not been enough? 

Still, even in spite of all these wonderings, your second question is that of a wife who has not yet learned her lesson. 

“Where is my husband?” 

. . . 

Ryomen Sukuna is no fool, and he is not easily tricked— he has waited over one thousand years for freedom, and will stop at nothing to make it so. 

Nothing will get in his way. 

And yet, here he is, staring at a figure who cannot possibly be, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He knows cruelty— has created it with his own four hands more times than he can count, but this is nothing like he has ever known before. 

Whoever had conceived of such a disgusting farce will have their flesh scalded from their bones and their life made forfeit. 

He will make it so. 

Still, even after he has announced this for all to hear, you do not dissipate and you do not cease. 

He feels your presence like a cattle prod, and despises the part of himself that yearns to move closer and know once and for all whether or not you’re truly there. 

But soon, he does not have to wonder. 

Because you step forward, and the world seems to shift beneath his feet. 

The abhorrent thing behind you seems surprised at this, but Sukuna notes that Uraume does not. They simply follow suit— two paces back, just as they always had. Once, it had been a far greater distance, but you had insisted upon them standing near enough so you could hear each other speak. 

His chest tightens, and he wishes he did not have to feel anything at all. 

He knows absence so well it has become his closest ally and greatest enemy in equal measure— it keeps so much at bay, and he has never been afraid of being alone. 

Still, he remembers the weight of you and your shared child, and has found himself agonized throughout each and every moment of living without it.

Absence. 

Ryomen Sukuna is more than familiar with the concept. 

And this? This is not it. 

He feels no shame in the steps he takes toward you now, expression fixed into a permanent scowl, anger pulling his lips into a snarl. 

How could you? How could he?

He walks more than halfway to get to you, and knows he would do it again and again just to be with you faster. 

One more moment. How many times had he pleaded for such a thing from gods who never once listened?

When he finally reaches you, Sukuna does not bother with some bored facade— he is a man who has endured far too long without you to act as if he has not yearned for the alternative. 

His massive hands frame your cheeks with a gentleness he had only ever managed to manifest for you and the child you’d so graciously carried in your womb all those years ago. 

He swears he still hears her laughter in the ceaseless twinkling of the stars. 

And yet, as he takes you in and feels you close for the very first time in centuries, he finds that the relief is squandered by the sorrow and anger in your eyes. 

“You are ill at ease.” He acknowledges, the calloused pads of his thumbs running absentmindedly across your soft cheeks all the while. 

“I am in mourning.” 

Your correction is a dull, throbbing thing— words that you never should have needed to say aloud again. 

You had wallowed in grief for so very long before death had managed to take you from him— each day a mockery of what it could have been had he just kept his word. 

Had he just kept his family safe. 

It infuriates him to witness you suffer so all over again, as if you had not paid your dues the first time. 

And yet, just as before, that same drive to make you smile remains, no matter how impossible such a task had turned out to be at the end of your last life together. 

This time, he will not fail. 

“Tell me what you want,” his voice is water running beneath a long-rotted bridge, “and I will make it so.” 

And if the world had forgotten of the ferocity that had once made up the marrow between your bones, it would soon remember all too well. 

Your eyes are rare shining jewels, so very precious that they had only ever existed within one other. 

If only the world had been more deserving. 

“Teach them shame.” 

Your words are certain, and the smile on your husband’s face becomes more and more apparent with every syllable. 

His gaze flickers up briefly to the being who stands proudly in a suit of flesh and lies, and returns to you almost immediately after, as if in desperate need of something more appealing. 

“Gladly, wife.”

[miunicornfluff]

coming back on here 2 say this

fuck I.C.E

fuck tr*mp

fuck ep*tein

fuck shitrael

fuck sexism

fuck k*rk

fuck pro-life

fuck white supremacy

fuck racism

everything is political.

no one is illegal on stolen land

arrest everyone mentioned in the files

i love immigrants

free palestine, cogo, venezuela, etc

abortion is healthcare

blame the predator, not the victims clothes.

no uterus no opinion

love is love

trans woman = woman

trans man = man

mental health matters

all addictions matter

[yenayaps]

Accelerate

pairing: gojo x milf!reader

synopsis: a story in which a depressed satoru gets sent to the future and sees just how bright it eventually becomes. meanwhile, you're reminded of how much of a brat your husband used to be when you first started dating.

cw: MDNI, time travel, smut w/ a touch of angst bc we LOVE plot, satoru's actually so mean at first lol, dad!jo (him and reader share a daughter together)

notes: hiiii we got 6.5k words for this one ❤️ comm for the lovely @sadlittlecucumber i hope u like!!!!

song rec: drag path — twenty one pilots

Satoru’s life ended up being a fucking bummer. 

His best friend’s a mass murderer. Shoko’s gone off to do her own thing with medicine. Nanami left to go become a banker or whatever. Ijichi’s… Ijichi. Oh, and Haibara’s dead. Everyone who’s alive seems to have moved on— so should Satoru, honestly. But times proved that to be quite difficult. 

He’s starting to understand where Suguru was coming from with the whole exorcise-absorb mantra. Except for him, it was exorcise and destroy, leaving every cursed site he’s stepped foot on looking like god himself decided to hit the reset button to obliterate the place.

Nobody says anything about it. He’s probably the closest thing to a god. Despite having tried his hardest all throughout his youth to fit in and act as if he was just like everyone else, people were still terrified to fuck with him. 

And despite the chaos he’s constantly surrounded by— mainly from his own doing— the days still find a way to bleed into each other, morphing into a never ending cycle of boredom and violence. It’s quite the combo. The higher ups are lucky he’s too tired to plot anything behind their backs. 

He’s exhausted. 

The past is too blurry. The future’s too bleak. 

Gojo was bound to fuck up sooner or later. The thought of him finally snapping like Suguru did, dangling in the back of his mind, taunting him. 

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number. 

All rights reserved © 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai.

[aransmind]

choose your fav gojo

[brookghaib-blog]

Hot take: the happiest Gojo fic there is, is where him and his high school sweetheart ran away together after Geto turns sides, and they send Shoko gifts and cute letters full of pictures every week while killing every sorcerer that tries to get a hold of him to come back to the jujutsu world.

[surethingmoto]

OH MY FUCKING GODDDDD (@neverrisa on titkok)

[liviennewestwood]

@madamechrissy

[brookghaib-blog]

I’m eating the stoner! Choso up so bad, I just threw myself into the jjk college au

[arinavah]

haircut

[brookghaib-blog]

I find it sad about how itadori is underrated in fanfiction, he’s even the mc of the show 😔

[brookghaib-blog]

Vol. 2 trash as hell, but i’m still waiting for that fanfic to drop on henry creel

[brookghaib-blog]

Me on the tags desiring a romantic trope to attack me but I get slapped with smut left and right ( I will never find it )

[brookghaib-blog]

archiveofourown.org/works/23005267/chapters/55004728 - bakugou x reader, slowburn, childhood friends to enemies to lovers. bffs with izuku!

ily 🤟🏻

[superbassbuck]

two tickets to iron maiden

pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"

word count: 11.7k masterlist

a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.

synopsis: You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.

Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.

You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.

And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.

Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”

All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.

Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.

“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.

Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.

“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.

“Buck,” Steve tried again.

Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”

“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”

Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.

He did have a chance with you.

He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.

The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.

God, he fucking despised girls like you.

But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.

Just like him.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.

He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.

Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.

He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.

Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.

Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”

And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.

You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.

👑: hey

👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?

No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.

And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.

bucky: yeah

bucky: looks bad

From there on, you were his dirty little secret.

And he was yours.

“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”

“Hate her or want to fuck her?”

Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”

Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”

“This Friday,” Bucky interrupted gruffly. “I know.”

“And don’t forget to hang the posters—”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”

“Get out of my face, Steve.”

Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.

And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?

But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.

“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”

You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”

John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.

“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”

“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”

A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”

You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”

John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.

“That’s my girl!”

My girl?

You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.

“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”

“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”

“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.

Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.

You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.

“Wait—hold on—”

You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.

Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.

“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.

“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”

“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”

John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”

“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.

“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.

John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.

Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”

John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…

Bucky had called you an angel!

“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”

“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”

John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”

“Bucky,” you warned.

His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."

“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”

He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.

Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.

“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.

“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.

“John and I aren’t dating—”

“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”

“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.

You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.

But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.

“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”

You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”

Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.

“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”

You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.

“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”

“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.

Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.

But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.

That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.

“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”

You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.

“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”

Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.

“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.

Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.

“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.

“To your gig?” you frowned.

He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.

Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.

He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.

“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.

“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.

He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”

You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.

But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.

Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.

“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”

It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.

Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”

Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”

“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.

Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”

Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”

As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.

Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.

He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.

His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…

It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.

“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.

“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.

“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.

Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.

Just him.

His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.

He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.

He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.

“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.

He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.

“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.

“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.

He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.

“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.

“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”

The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.

His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.

Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.

Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.

He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.

It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.

Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”

“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”

Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?

And that was all it took.

He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.

“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”

They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.

And that was the final truth Bucky hated.

He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.

Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.

You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.

Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.

“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.

“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”

“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”

You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to get out of there.”

“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”

You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.

“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”

He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.

You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”

If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.

“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”

You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”

Your smile faltered.

His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.

Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”

Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”

“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what you said.”

A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.

But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.

So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”

You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”

“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”

You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”

He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”

Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.

At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.

You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”

He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.

“That looks disgusting.”

He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.

He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”

You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.

When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?

With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”

He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”

He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.

And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.

After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.

He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.

“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.

“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”

“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”

A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.

“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.

He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.

“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.

He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.

You were close, so fucking close.

All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.

He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.

Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”

You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”

He nodded. “We should take you home—”

“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”

He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”

You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”

His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”

He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”

You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.

Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.

His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.

You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”

He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.

His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.

You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.

“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”

He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”

“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.

His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”

A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.

“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.

“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.

You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.

“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”

Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.

You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.

It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”

While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.

The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.

You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.

He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.

“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”

“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”

He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.

“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”

He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”

Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”

“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.

You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.

“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”

Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.

“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”

“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”

“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.

You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.

A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.

“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”

Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.

“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”

“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.

“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”

“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.

A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.

“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”

Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.

Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.

“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”

He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”

His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.

“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.

Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.

A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.

And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.

“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”

“Come to my show on Friday.”

“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”

You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.

“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”

He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.

“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist, “you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”

Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.

He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.

He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.

Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.

“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.

He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”

“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”

His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”

“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”

You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.

It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.

It was Thursday afternoon.

Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.

But it was no use.

Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.

Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.

Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.

But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.

Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.

He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.

It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.

bucky: can we talk?

bucky: i’m sorry

bucky: i miss you

Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.

bucky: you looked happy today.

He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.

Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.

It was Friday morning.

Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.

In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.

You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.

He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.

He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”

Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.

“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.

With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.

Your eyes widened.

He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.

“Bucky, I—”

Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.

“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re probably not that good.”

All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.

Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”

But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.

And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.

“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”

“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”

“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”

You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.

“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.

They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”

“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”

One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”

You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”

One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”

“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”

The group went silent.

You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.

It was Friday night.

The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.

Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.

Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.

He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.

But not your face.

“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”

Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”

But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.

Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?

You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.

And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.

What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.

He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.

And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.

He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.

He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”

Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.

Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”

The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.

Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.

He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.

He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.

As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.

Until he saw pink.

There, near the middle of the crowd.

You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.

And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.

This was love.

You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.

“Hey, loser.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.

but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.

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