I’m Daya and I write silly little fics about spiderman(mostly) and marvel. I love music, marvel, and reading. My fav color is purple and fav animal is butterflies, which should be obvious from my blog themes.
This account is mostly reposts of my favorite reads, which I may turn into fic recs im not sure, and a very irregular updates of some fanfiction I write for my friends.
I’ve got an ao3 and a TikTok for a few of my fics. I try to write as much as I can, and a lot of the time I just need motivation so like request anything you wanna see.
I won’t do any smut(at least not yet) and other topics I’m not comfortable with. Yall are more than welcome to request with any character and I’ll see if I know enough to write something.
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Here’s a few links for anyone still reading:
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TikTok: daya.stark
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- list of direct links to playlists
Masterlist
Tags, Reposts, and Other things
When I reposts some of my fic recs, or I put things on my reading lists, I always use tags to separate them.
For recs: #day’s completed series’s
For my list: #day’s reading list
For miscellaneous writing: #day’s writing
For music recs, rants, or playlists: #day’s music
Taglist is available for all of my writing, as well as individual series’s, so just comment what you wanna be tagged on and I’ll add you!
Most of my dividers will come from these two accounts: @sunkissedoll @thecutestgrotto I always forget to tag them on individual posts so here’s the big credit to them for everything!!
hello I just wanted to request if you could put the bulk of your fic chapter posts under a cut? they are very long and when scrolling the tags it’s difficult. thank you!
Omg for sure. Sorry I didn’t know they didn’t have that, mainly because I put on the function that automatically shortens long works.
Summary: Tony reflects on the song that first got their band together, his childhood, how he got to be a songwriter, and current old feelings for blue eyed guitar players…
Warnings: Tony being a simp and writing a song for a girl he barely knows, bad descriptions of music and song writing, emotionally constipated men, swearing.
Word Count: 3.4k
Authors note: I like this chapter but mainly because I’m planning on setting something up later. Sorry for such a late update, I promise I’m trying to get better at this posting regularly thing, but I got very busy. I’m getting a new laptop soon so that should motivate me to write and post more often!!!
Tony had always been told he had a gift. Aside from the engineering genius, which was honestly a boring topic by the time he reached the age of eighteen, he had always been in love with music. When he was four, his mom would sit with him at their grand piano, holding his hands as they played “Clair de lune” in the bright afternoon air. In those moments, it didn’t matter that his father wouldn’t let him go out and play with other kids.
When Tony was eight, his mom signed him up for guitar lessons. The woman, Mrs. Folley, smelled like warm summer air and freshly finished wood. Even now he could see her bright smile when he picked up an old acoustic guitar. He didn’t like the guitar that much, it was harder to play around the small cuts on his hands from his mini lab in his room. Back then all he wanted to do was rebuild old match cars and make them run on their own, and listen to music with his mother as she sat at the piano. In those moments, it didn’t matter that his father would walk in and yell at him for making a mess in a room he didn’t even use.
When Tony was fourteen, he and his mother had finally convinced his father to allow him to attend a “normal” high school. Tony was beyond excited, but he couldn’t show it. The best part of his day was finally getting to join the choir at the school. He had never really liked playing instruments, definitely not as much as he liked taking them apart and finding out what made them sound the way they did. But he had always liked singing. So much so that his mother would start freestyling melodies so he could just hum along until a new song was made
As Tony walked into the choir room on that first day, a strange burst of nerves fluttered around his stomach. He stepped into the classroom of mostly girls, their perfectly curated faces turning in his direction in unison. The wave of surprise and slight disgust that flashed afterward will always be ingrained in his memory. That was the day that Tony Stark realized that there were some things about him that people would always judge him for. He stayed in the class for a week, until the teacher suggested he take a wood shop class for his elective block.
He nodded numbly, already thinking up a million different retorts to shout in her painted open doll face.
You think I really need to learn how to do MORE building?!
Kicking the fourteen year old son of the richest man in the world is the same stupid reason all you are is a prissy high school teacher.
I hope all of your vocal chords shrivel up and stop working as payment for the words you spew about me behind my back.
I should get you fired.
The last one was what made him realize that he needed to find a better outlet for the anger he felt. He never wanted to be the kind of person who would use his “daddy’s connections” to get revenge. Tony wanted to be better than that. He would be better than that.
That night, he went home and pulled out one of his blank engineering notebooks his grandfather had gifted him last Christmas. He wrote down everything he wanted to shout at the choir class, every fleeting thought he had when he heard them whispering about him in class, every intrusive way he had constructed getting revenge. After he filled three pages with his carefully crafted insults, revenge techniques, and curses on their bloodlines he read them over, his mind racing.
The next day he enrolled in the creative writing class at school.
At sixteen Tony wrote his first song. “Brain Stew” was a mess of words, an overarching feeling he felt living a life he was trapped in. He felt brain dead, and in a week he had a half baked poem that vaguely followed a misconstrued beat in his head. But he was determined, at least enough to grab one of his model electric guitars off the wall of his room. He spent a whole night, hunched over the lyrics, mindlessly strumming half wrong chords on the guitar, until he reached genius at the early hour of three a.m. He couldn’t fall asleep after that, his mind replaying the lyrics in his head until he figured out all of the kinks.
By eighteen, Tony had forgotten all about “Brain Stew”, the old thrill of writing songs long gone as he was being fully molded by his father. He was on track to go straight to MIT in the fall, he had a good enough reputation that he was ready to take over the full operations of the company in ten years. It finally felt like he had the exact balance he needed to make something of the name his father handed down to him. Now all he had to do was focus on not messing it up over the summer. He was heavily in the spotlight of the media, mainly because he was finally going to go off and go make a bunch of mistakes that reporters would snatch up like vultures and feed to the mindless public.
The one mistake he truly made that summer for that future was letting his mom sign him up for that pen pal system. The girl he was paired up with was amazingly nice. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he fell for her. He knew he didn’t have time for silly crushes on girls who lived on the other side of the world, but how could he not fall for the Japanese girl who wrote him from Across the Sea?
When he pulled out his old notebook, he hadn’t really meant to make another song. His days of making childish little melodies were long over. Now all they were was old fantasies the amazing Tony Stark would use as press click bait. But he couldn’t really stop himself once he started writing everything down. Before Tony knew it, he had a song.
My love,
I wrote you a song yesterday. I haven’t opened that notebook since I was sixteen years old and still believed that I could be anything I wanted. You have given me hope. I wish I didn’t have to tell you all of this from where I am, but one day I hope to meet you…
Across the sea
Your faraway engineer writer
He attached the lyrics to the letter and sent it quickly. Tony had to do it before he could think better of it. Over the course of twenty four hours, his entire plan for the future changed. He needed to write, needed to be connected to the music like he was when he was sixteen. He was almost too focused on his ever changing life to notice the red haired woman walking forwards the entrance of the post office.
It was just his luck that Natasha Romanoff loved playing the electric bass. Just his luck that she had been out looking for someone who knew how to write songs for her newly forming band. Just his luck that when her piercing pale green eyes roved over his nervous excitement and hunched shoulders, she didn’t think about using Tony Stark for his money or connections, but for his voice.
She told him that he should come back to her place and see the rest of her band(at the moment it was one other person), and Tony was too full of nostalgic childhood wonder to say no. Apparently Steve, her friend who was too shy to come recruiting with her, was killer on the guitar. And apparently they were in desperate need of someone who could rhyme better than the two kids who failed their freshmen year English class. Tony had laughed when he heard that, but she shook her head to tell him not to.
“I swear it’s true.” Nat said, holding back her own laugh. Her steps were quick, yet casual at the same time. She looked like she had the practiced poise of a ballerina, with the strength to kill. “We both suck at anything that comes to writing. So, if you can prove you are at least a little better than us, which should not be that hard, then you can be in the band.”
They had arrived at her garage, her practiced ease opening the door and showing him inside. Tony looked around, staring at the different amps in the corner, guitars lined up on the wall, and the mess of wires that were the floor. It looked like these teens had set up a whole operation, then simply forgot to get the rest of their band.
When they stepped inside, Tony could hear the sound of someone picking away at a guitar. Nat turned the corner, calling out before she even looked at the boy playing music. “Steve, you’ll never believe it. I actually found someone.”
All Tony could see when he turned the corner was a head of blonde hair, and shy blue eyes that met his quickly. Steve smiled small, fingers fidgeting with the neck of his guitar. “Hey.”
Something foreign fluttered in Tony’s stomach, something he chose to ignore.
“Hey.”
Nat just looked between them, her eyes flashing in mischief as she sensed something. When the two boys just stared at each other, she groaned loudly, clapping her hands. “God, stop staring at each other and introduce yourselves.” She reached out, grabbing Tony’s right hand and forcing him to shake Steve’s. “I swear I only surround myself with emotional constipated guys.”
Steve’s hand was rough in his grip, callouses on his fingers, but the palm was soft. It was a feeling that Tony, for some reason, wanted to chase. Steve cleared his throat, brushing his hair back from his face so he could look at Tony clearer.
“Hi, I’m Steve.” His voice was soft, almost like he only used it when necessary. Something about it made Tony want to keep hearing it.
Tony just nodded his head, trying to exude charm, as he spoke. “I’m Tony.”
“Like Tony Stark?” Nat gasped, finally looking at him fully.
“Nat,” Steve sighed, almost like this was something she accused people of often. He turned to Tony, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry, she thinks everyone we meet is famous.”
“Someone’s bound to be.” Nat reasoned, pushing past Steve to look closer at Tony. “And I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
Steve pulled her back, his eyes already rolling. “Nat, weren’t you happy to finally find someone for the band? Don’t scare them away.”
Nat was about to argue, pushing back her long red hair, but Tony finally spoke up.
“Actually, she’s right.”
“What?!” Both teens turned their heads abruptly, a smile already growing on Nat’s face.
Tony just shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re right. I am Tony Stark.”
Neither kid spoke for a moment, letting the words settle in the room for a moment. The silence was the calm before the storm, right before Nat screamed and started jumping up and down.
“Holy SHIT! There is no way!” She kept jumping, then abruptly stopped, tucking her hair behind her ears to push it out of her face. “Wait, oh my god. I have Tony Stark in my garage. I told Tony Stark I failed English. I asked Tony Stark to be in my band. This is the craziest day of my life.”
Steve just stood there, staring at Tony, his jaw clenched slightly as his best friend started freaking out. Finally it seemed like the spell broke, and he pointed hesitantly at Tony.
“So, what? You, THE Tony Stark, want to join our band.” Steve asked, his voice completely unbelieving.
All Tony could do was nod, suddenly feeling shy under the attention. “If you’ll let me.”
“Are you kidding?! You’re Tony Stark.” Nat laughed. “I don’t care if you don’t know the difference between ‘there’, ‘their’, and ‘they’re’, it would be plain stupid to turn you down.”
Something about that made Steve’s jaw clench again, but he didn’t speak up. Tony was quick to shake his head, pulling out the small notebook in his pocket.
“No, I want you to pick me because you want me. Not because I’m Tony Stark.” His eyes flicked up to Steve’s for the last sentence, almost like he was trying to convince him of something he hadn’t been accused of yet.
Steve and Nat just turned to each other, a silent conversation passing between them that could only come from years of friendship. Finally Nat shrugged and turned back to Tony. “Alright then, show us what you got.
With Nat and Steve sitting on mismatching stools in front of him, Tony could barely think about what he was here to do. He opened his notebook slowly, trying to think through every song he had in here. Flipping through all of the pages, Tony mentally chastised himself. All he had in the book that he felt was good enough was “Brain Stew”, but even that one didn’t feel right.
He could give them “Across the Sea”
Tony looked up at them, his eyes lingering slightly longer on Steve than he’ll ever admit. No, he couldn’t show them that. He couldn’t explain it, but something wouldn’t feel right about it.
He looked back at the song in front of him. Without thinking much more of it, Tony reached for the guitar next to him, picking it up and just trying to think about the song. He started playing it, not looking at either of the teenagers in front of him as he tried to feel the song he wrote so long ago.
When the song finally closed, he opened his eyes, looking at Nat and Steve. Nat was smiling, and Steve didn’t look like he hated it, but there was something in their expressions that didn’t feel right.
Nat spoke for the both of them. “That was a great song.”
Tony nodded, trying not to feel nervous about this. God, why was he shaking? “Thanks.”
Nat looked back at Steve, another silent conversation between them. Eventually she turned to face Tony again. “I mean it, it was a great song… But we’re just not sure it’s our style.”
Steve nodded behind her, his lips in a tight smile. Tony’s stomach dropped. Something about this felt important. He had never really wanted to be in a band, but the possible rejection from them felt like his childhood dreams crashing down around him.
His mouth moved before he could stop himself, speaking words he didn’t want to say.
“I have another song.” Tony said, trying to at least contain some of the desperation he was feeling. “I promise, it’s better. I wrote it a few days ago.”
The kids turned to each other, and Steve just shrugged. “I don’t got to be anywhere.”
They settled back in as Tony looked down at the guitar, playing the beginning chords he had just thought up early that morning.
You are eighteen year old girl, who live in small city of Japan
You heard me on the radio about one year ago
And you wanted to know, all about me, and my hobbies
My favorite food and my birthday
Why are you so far away from me?
I need help and you're way across the sea
He couldn’t look up at them again, he didn’t want to think about the way their faces might judge him. This song was supposed to be just for him and her, his girl across the sea. But something about this seemed more important, almost as if it was safe for him to show them this side of him.
I could never touch you
I think it would be wrong, oh
I've got your letter
You've got my song
As he sang, he could almost hear how each of their instruments could blend into the song. The way the beat would drop, the bass at the beginning, and the guitar solo right before the bridge. He was so hopeful that he could hear this song like that one day, so hopeful that he couldn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want his dream shattered just yet.
So you send (so you send)
Me your love (me your love)
From all around the world
As if I could live off words and dreams and a million screams
Oh, how I need a hand in mine to feel
Why are you so far away from me?
Why are you so far away from me?
I could never touch you
I think it would be wrong
I've got your letter
You've got my song
(I've got your letter)
I've got your letter
You've got my song
Playing the final chords, Tony opened his eyes, looking out at the bright blue eyes that stared back at him. He tried to think about his girl across the sea, but looking into the blond’s eyes, there was something stopping him. Tony didn’t get to dwell on the feeling, the sound of Nat clapping next to him breaking him from his trance.
She stood up, reaching forward to high-five Tony, her smile wide and excited. “Now THAT is a song that’s our style. Welcome to the band, Stark.”
Now the lights flashed across Tony’s face, a smile plastered across his mouth as he screamed the lyrics he wrote three years ago for his girl across the sea.
You are eighteen year old girl, who live in small city of Florida
You heard me on the radio about one year ago
And you wanted to know, all about me, and my hobbies
My favorite food and my birthday
Why are you so far away from me?
The crowd of Miami sang along to the first song that ever went viral for The Avengers. Tony can still remember how he felt when he first sang it for Nat and Steve. He was worried they would think he was weird, now his song is famous across the world. He hadn’t received another letter from his girl across the sea since he joined the band, but it didn’t really matter. He had written to her because he longed for a connection with someone, and now he had it.
Tony walked up to the edge of the stage, smiling brightly at the crowd as he sung the bridge.
At ten I shaved my head and tried to be a monk
I thought the older women would like me if I did
You see mom, I'm a good little boy (good little boy)
It's all your fault
Momma, it's all your fault
It's all your fault
The crowd got louder as the beat dropped again, leading into the final repeat of the chorus. Tony walked over to Nat as he sang.
Goddamn, this business is really lame
I gotta live on an island to find the juice.
Tony walked back to the audience, ready to let them sing the ending part.
Why are you so far away from me?
“C’mon!” Tony yelled, riling up the crowd. “Why is she so far away from me?!”
Why are you so far away from me?
I could never touch you
I think it would be wrong
I've got your letter
You've got my song
He brought the mic pack to his mouth, listening as the beat slowed down. As he closed his eyes, Tony could still feel how he did three years ago singing this to Nat and Steve in their garage. He spun slowly as he sang the last lines, trying to imagine his girl across the sea, like he had all those years ago.
I've got your letter
You've got my song
The song ended, and Tony slowly opened his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what his girl across the sea looked like, but when his eyes caught the blue ones staring back at him behind a bright red guitar, he knew what he wanted.
But he wouldn’t think about that, turning off that train of thought as he turned back to the crowd. He raised his hands, listening as the crowd cheered. They all waited for the next song to start, and Tony got into it as the first chords started playing.
He didn’t dare turn back, not after the little things being said about him in the press after Dallas.
He just smiled, and acted like he was thinking of his girl across the sea.
Alright yall, what do you think so far? Do we enjoy our emotionally constipated stony? Well you’re in luck because it only gets better from here. I really enjoyed writing how the band got together and I already have chapters planned where we get to see more of them.
Anyways I hope yall enjoyed this. Any and all interactions with this post are greatly appreciated, especially for overworked part time writers who are trying to figure out if they want to do this for the rest of their lives, but that’s a rant for another day.
If you wanna join a taglist for this, just tell me in the comments. Also if you have any more names for this fic drop it in the comments. I got a few ideas but I’m gonna make a poll for them soon. Damn this is long ending note, sorry for anyone still reading.
Sooooo turns out I’m still very busy catching up after exams, so I will be starting posting back up this week. Hopefully by Wednesday with a Smau post but let’s not jinx it…
Thank yall so much for your patience, I promise I’ll te and post more soon!!!
Alright I decided I’m gonna keep up this mini break for one more week cause I have so many tests this week it’s insane. I’ll post the next chapter of the avengers rock band au on Friday hopefully and get back in schedule!!
Warnings: badly explained tech because I am humanities girly, pining, idk nothing really in this one
Authors Note: this chapter is a bit boring but it’s building to the final chapters of this part. I know, the title for this chapter is really bad, but ya girl is too lazy to change it 😝
Word Count: 2.2k
Series Masterlist
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The camera feed was surprisingly easy to hack into. For all of the genius allegations that Tony Stark gets, he sure doesn’t invest much time into hacker prevention. Daya was able to get into the security footage within the first ten minutes of searching, but the real hard part was covering it up. She couldn’t just delete the footage, because then Tony would know something was up. So she opted for a simple freeze frame. She would set up a singular video from earlier in the day to cover up her sneaking out. It was a very simple concept, one she was installing at that moment, as she was trying to ignore the beeping from her phone that signalled Peter was getting closer to a crime.
As soon as it was uploaded, she grabbed her suit and let it materialize around her as she walked out of her room and towards the edge of the balcony. As her suit configured the quickest way to the crime scene, she jumped off of the balcony and enabled her suits thrusters. They weren’t as strong as Tony’s, so she couldn’t actually fly, but she was able to glide her way from high places to the street below.
Within five minutes, she was at the crime scene. It was a pretty run of the mill bank heist, and as she located and started chasing the thieves, she watched as a flash of red and blue showed up in her peripheral vision. He followed her and the criminals as she cornered and shocked both of them. Peter webbed them up to the wall before they could get up and try to attack her. The movement was quick, almost like it was practiced and the two had been working side by side for years. Daya turned around with a sigh as Peter landed behind her.
“Good job thinking on your feet, Spidey” Snark laced her tone as she walked back towards the criminals and grabbed the bags of money they had stolen.
“Right back at ya, Stark.”
What?
She turned to him in shock, only to see Peter with his mask off staring back at her. How did he know?
“How did you figure it out?” Daya asked tentatively, knowing that she was going to have to do some big lying to get herself out of this one. But in truth she was tired of lying, especially to Peter.
“The cameras were installed yesterday morning. They caught you coming home after patrol.” Peter gave her this weird look of sympathy, almost like he was pitying her. She hated it.
“Shit. Does Tony know?” She took a frantic step towards him, letting the silver nano tech fall away from her face.
“No, he hasn’t seen it yet.” Peter’s eyes gave her a look she didn’t understand. Maybe it was because she was preoccupied, thinking of a thousand different ways to get the footage away from Tony. When she finally met Peter’s eyes, she was surprised to see that he wasn’t mad. He should be mad, she had been lying to him and basically had harassed him as Voltra for the last few months. But he seemed to understand.
“I’m sorry.” She said sadly. She wasn’t entirely sure that Peter wasn’t going to tell Tony, so she didn’t know what to do to get him to keep this secret.
“Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry to me for.” Peter’s eyes turned serious as he looked at her. “But you shouldn’t be lying to Mr. Stark.”
“I know, I know, I feel horrible. But I can’t tell him.” She didn’t know when the first tear fell down her face, or why she was crying, but she noticed when Peter brought his hand up to wipe it away. She let herself lean into his touch and before she knew it, he was hugging her, and holding her close. She let the feelings she had been holding in for the past few weeks spill out as she rested her head on his chest. “You can’t tell him. Please, Pete, I know I’ve been horrible, but please don’t tell him. Please.”
“I won’t.” Peter pulled back from her and looked her in the eye. He gave her a weird look and then looked behind her, before he stepped back and pointed to the criminals. “They’re gonna wake up soon. We should finish cleaning up.”
He pulled his mask back over his face and then walked over to the criminals. Daya watched as he picked up the duffel bags, and she pressed a button on her wrist to materialize the mask around her face. She didn’t entirely know how she felt about Peter knowing who she was, but she couldn’t deny that she felt a little relieved. There was one less person she was lying to. She walked over to his side and together they worked to return the money, and they went their separate ways for the night.
The next day at school, Daya walked into her Personal Finance classroom tentatively. She hadn’t seen Peter since last night as Voltra, and she still wasn’t sure how she felt. Ignoring the feelings she felt about him since the night of the musical, she also didn’t know if she trusted him with her secret. He hadn’t been untrustworthy, per say, she’s just had a hard time trusting people.
As she walked in, she watched as Peter looked up when she entered, and almost all of her feelings of doubt vanished as she looked into those chestnut brown eyes smiling at her. She sat down next to him with a grin that she couldn’t control.
“Hey.” Peter said as he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Voltra.”
She looked up at him with shock in her eyes, until she saw his teasing smirk and she couldn’t help but smile brighter. How was she supposed to be upset when he looked at her like that?
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” She lightly shoved him away from her, as he had gotten a lot closer to her at the last minute.
She wanted to talk to him about Voltra, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Mr. Mazzone walked in and started talking about the stock market, and she reluctantly turned to face the front. She noticed when she glanced over at Peter that he wasn’t taking notes now, he was actually looking at her. Weird, right?
The rest of the class passed them by, and as they were walking out of the class together, she was surprised when Peter asked if she wanted him to walk her to chem. She would never say no to those eyes, so she smiled and nodded. They walked side by side, and that was when Daya finally gathered the courage to ask him.
“Are you gonna tell anyone?” She looked up at him as they walked, a weary look in her eyes.
He gave her a look that said he wasn’t expecting the question. She didn’t know why though, because she thought it was an obvious next statement. They didn’t know each other very well, and she had been tormenting him with her alter ego for the past few months. There was no real reason for him to keep her secret, especially if he thought it wasn’t safe for her. Him and his stupid hero complex.
“No, of course not. I get it, though I still think you should tell Tony.”
“I know, I will.” Daya let out a sigh at the thought. It had been weighing her down ever since she started doing this. She had no idea how he would react, but she feared he would shut it down immediately. He just didn’t get that she needed this. She didn’t feel safe otherwise. “You’re not worried it’s dangerous?”
He shrugged then, a response Daya truly wasn’t expecting. This guy was full of surprises. “Nah, I mean you’ve lasted this long. Plus, I get why you have to do it.”
She looked into his eyes again, analyzing the look they gave her. There was no way he understood her reasoning. “You do?”
He slowed as they entered the hallway that held her chem class. “Yeah I do. I read about what happened to you last year. I get what happens after something like that.”
She nodded and let her eyes fall back to look at the ground. Of course he was pitying her. That's great. He thinks she’s dysfunctional just because she was kidnapped last year, and he’s not wrong. Everyone thought she was broken, they treated her like she was fragile. Like somehow surviving the most horrific week of her life had made her breakable at any moment. If anything it made her stronger. It gave her a true reality check. Her life was not easy, and there were people out there who did bad things. She decided that she needed to do everything in her power to make sure no one felt that way again.
“Yeah.”
Peter watched her as they approached her class. He stopped as they came to it and turned to her. “But I think it’s cool.”
She looked up then, and saw how he looked at her like she wasn’t some broken little girl. “Really?”
“Yeah. You took something horrible that happened to you and you didn’t let it break you. And Voltra is totally badass.” He leaned closer as he said the second sentence, practically whispering to her. He smiled as she blinked up at him and took a step back. “I have to get to class. You got this, Ms. Genius.”
Daya watched with a stupid dopey smile as he walked down the hall. She was sure her eyes had sparkles in them as she looked at him. God she was so whipped.
And it helped that her heart felt a little lighter as she walked into her classroom. He thought that she wasn’t broken. He actually understood what she was doing. After almost a year of people assuming she was either too fragile to talk to like an adult, or too bratty to talk to like a person, she had found this guy who saw everything that surrounded her. Her fame, her money, her reputation, and all he saw was her. Peter saw her for who she truly was. Daya’s smile widened (if that was even possible) as she thought about that, and then grew to almost crazy size as she saw the test on her desk that had a 97% written on the top.
She sat in class and took notes, and for the first time in this class, she felt like everything was clicking into place. Not just the net ionic equation on the board, but the aspects of her life. Her grades were back up, and she had found time to be with her friends. She was balancing being Voltra and her life as Daya, and she felt truly happy. The only thing she had to fix was lying to Tony, but she told herself that she would find a way to tell him eventually.
Later, as she walked home, listening to music as she strolled through the city she had grown accustomed to over the past few months, a sudden realization came to her. If Peter saw that camera footage, Tony wasn’t that far behind. She needed a way to get that video deleted before Tony saw it. And the only one she knew who could sneak his way into that system was Peter.
She opened her phone and took a deep breath as she clicked into her conversation with Peter. She had no idea how he would react to her asking him to lie to Tony, but she had to get that footage off of Tony’s computer, so she decided it was worth whatever reaction she got.
Day: Hey Pete…..
Day: You don’t have to say yes
Day: But it would be a big help
Daya was surprised at how quickly he responded.
Pete: What do you need?
Day: Well is there any way you could get back onto Tony’s computer and delete the footage of Voltra?
Day: No sweat if you don’t wanna
Day: It would just help a lot
She looked up as she approached the tower and held her breath as she waited for him to respond. Daya didn’t know why she was so worried about his response, but her whole body shook as she heard her phone go off with a new text.
Pete: I’m on it.
Daya let out a short breath as she read it. There was no way he was that loyal to her. Her face broke out into a smile, because who else would go against their lifelong mentor, who was also a very intimidating billionaire, except Peter Parker. Her Peter. Nope, not hers. She knew better than to go down that road.
She nodded to herself as she neglected her thoughts about Peter and entered the elevator up to her room. Daya finally felt settled with her emotions, she felt calm. Things were okay, she was going to be okay. She felt the most in control that she’d been since that horrible week last year.
Daya Stark was not broken.
Not anymore.
I don’t love this chapter just bc it’s kinda boring, but I am excited to share the next few chapters because we get to finish this horrible part. I think when I write the first part, I wasn’t expecting to continue it so much more, so this definitely has a slower pace than the other two parts.
I’m also happy I’ve got this schedule kinda down, because boy do I love the validation of tumblr notifications. Yes, I have a big ego y’all need to feed 😝.
Anyway, all interaction with this post is greatly appreciated. Love y’all, until next time!
Pairing:Racer!Bucky x Ex!Childhood Best Friend!Reader
Summary: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his professional racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and return to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made in his sophomore year of college, is the cause of that.
WC: 13.3k
Contains: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / smut / female reader / childhood friends to enemies to …? / ex!best friend’s brother / miscommunication / misunderstandings / reunion & revenge / street racing (I did some research, but I took some liberties for plot purposes) / bucky is clueless and down bad / illegal activities tied to street racing / not everything is as it seems / lots of back and forth between these two idiots in love / backseat car protected p in v / dream sequence that takes bucky down memory lane / fun cameos / buckys pov so the truth of it all isn't revealed until the end
a/n hi barbies! 💗 this fic is for @stantastic-association's barbie collab! thank you to our darling @miraclediviner for putting this gorgeous collab together 💗 And thank you to the prettiest barbie of them all, my bestie @thelomlbuckybarnes who listened to me yap endlessly about this fic until it was ready for everyone to read. 💞 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist
This was it.
Bucky was home.
Nostalgia should be hitting him the hardest right now. The longing pull to be back in his childhood home with his Ma's cooking, his Pa's laughter, stupid arguments he can only get into with his sister that always end with Bucky giving her the reason. Sleeping in until his body feels like waking up, getting to pick what he wants to do in the day instead of sticking to a tight schedule—being able to just exist instead of only living for the sake of his career. He should be looking forward to all of that and more right now.
And he is, to some extent.
Underneath the nostalgia, there's an persistent thrum beneath his ribcage. Poking at a part of his heart that's been deeply tucked away within him for years. It made itself known the moment he decided to take a break from racing and come home. It followed him through press conferences and meetings, to his apartment while he was packing his bags and preparing to head to the airport. The thrumming only got louder, harder to ignore, the second he landed in his home town.
And it has your name written all over it.
"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebecca’s voice can be heard from somewhere in the distance, pulling Bucky from his thoughts. The airport was bustling with activity, people rushing to catch their flights or make it home. Bucky maneuvers through the crowd, his suitcase in tow, scanning faces at the arrivals bay until he finally spots his sister. Only half a year has gone by since he's last seen her, and yet she looks different, more grown up if that's even possible. It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.
"Hey Becs," his greeting comes in the form of a smothering hug, the kind only big brother's know how to give. She whines dramatically about him ruining the sign she made for him, pushing at his chest. He looks down at the piece of poster paper squished between them and chuckles. It's a small cheesy welcome home sign, clearly written in haste as most of the letters are wonky and the glitter thrown at it looks half-assed. He pulls away, grabbing it from her hands and smoothening it out before giving it back, "See, all better." She rolls her eyes, slapping at his arm and grumbling under her breath, "You big buffoon, learn to be more careful." Bucky barks out a laugh in response that only serves to annoy his sister more. Oh, how he's missed this.
He ignores her protests as he slings an arm around her shoulders, pushing them past the crowd of people in the direction of the elevators. "Folks didn't come?" He asks her as they get in and she shakes her head, pressing the button labeled L2, "Ma wanted to stay home and cook you up something nice for tonight. She's driving us all crazy making sure everything's perfect for you." Bucky frowns, and Becca looks at him like she's said too much, "Everything?"
The elevator doors open and they step out. "Yeah, you know how Ma gets about her cooking," Rebecca replies, waving her hand in the air like it's no big deal. He decides it's best not to press the issue, it's just dinner after all.
The conversation changes as they make their way to her car. Rebecca catches his up on her life post graduation. She talks about her new job in the city over, the apartment she's renting with a couple roommates, the coworker she doesn't get along with, how she still visits their parents on the weekends and oh, how can she forget to mention how ridiculously in love her roommates are with his teammate and friend, Steve Rogers.
"You have to get me tickets when you go back. I don't think they'll forgive me if I don't give them a chance to meet him," she mentions, and he hums in response, not fully paying attention as he places his suitcase in the backseat. But it's not like she has anything to worry about, her little sister privileges always win over Bucky in the end.
"Let me drive," he offers, closing the backseat door. Rebecca looks at him like he just asked her something atrocious. "Absolutely not. My car, I drive. Now get in," she orders, not hearing him out at all and getting into the driver's seat. Bucky is too tired to argue, so he heads over to the passenger seat and reluctantly buckles in. But as she's pulling out of the parking lot he realizes, there's something, no, someone she hasn't mentioned at all.
Bucky says your name out loud, pretty as always, but foreign on his tongue as he hasn't heard it anywhere, but in his head for years. Rebecca's body goes rigid, and he doesn't notice at first as he asks, "How's she doing?" He knows he has no right to ask. He knows he has no right to pry into your life or know anything about you now, but he can't help it. He needs to know. Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.
Rebecca stares straight ahead at the traffic on the road like it's the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time, exhaling apprehensively, "I don't know."
Well that's shocking.
"You don't know?" Bucky echoes, face pulling in a frown of disbelief. Rebecca's hold on the steering tightens ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being you. "Yeah, I don't know. We haven't been friends for years. Why would I keep up with her?" At that revelation, Bucky can practically feel the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets, a dreadful feeling creeping in to his system.
"Wait—hold on. You haven't been friends with her for years? When did that happen?" He's trying his best to wrap his head around it all. His brain picking out every memory from the last few years, holidays and birthdays he attended and not once did anyone mention you and his sister no longer being friends. Well, no one mentioned you at all, and your absence was felt, but he thought your absence had to do with what happened between you and him, not what apparently happened between you and Becca.
"Years ago," she replies simply.
"Becca."
"What? You asked, I answered."
Bucky stays silent, staring at his sister expectantly. She glances at him briefly, biting the inside of her lip knowing her brother is too stubborn to not keep pushing for more answers. "We stopped being friends after our first year of college. Things were already rocky when we started, but… I don't know we drifted apart—things happened." Her response was vague, like it took effort to reach into the past and look for a proper explanation.
"Things?" He couldn't help, but keep pushing.
Rebecca sighs, "Yeah, things. New friends, boyfriends, different schedules—look, it was a lot of things, but mainly she changed. A lot."
"What do you mean she changed?"
She rolls her eyes, Bucky evidently having pushed her too much, "God, what's with all the questions? Why do you even care?"
The truth is on the tip of his tongue, but he's too much of a coward to let it out. "I don't know, maybe because the three of us were best friends from the moment you two were put in the same kindergarten class. Because we were basically like family to each other."
"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."
The sadness in her voice tugs at Bucky's heart, watching her slump in her seat. It's obvious she wants the conversation to end, retreating into herself the way that she is. Whatever happened between you still weighs heavy on her heart. Whatever Bucky hoped to learn about you upon his return will have to wait. He thought his sister would be the one to give him answers, but all she managed to do was raise more questions.
Bucky turns to face the window, deciding it's best to not bring you up anymore. Rebecca's shoulders relax at that, reaching over to turn on the radio so the music can fill the tense silence. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the music, but nothing can stop his thoughts from drifting to things he's been avoiding.
When he first decided to take a longer break than he usually gives himself, it was to give himself a chance to figure out what comes next. Racing professionally had always been his dream, but once he achieved it, he felt lost on the after. His racing career took off when he was young, too young to understand when something takes off so fast and bigger than himself, some people get left behind in the dust.
For years, his racing career was overwhelming in the best way. Making a name for himself, proving he was good enough, was all he strived for. His parents and sister had always been supportive, even when certain family members gave their unwanted opinions on how he'd never make it, certain he'd fail. And even though they only got to see him during the holidays or when he flew them out to one of his competitions, his parents and Rebecca cheered him on every step of the way. Promotions, sponsorships, media events, touring—it took up all his time for over half a decade.
But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?
That question brought him back here, back home. Feeling lost on his purpose and fulfillment in life made him come back to where it all started. But being back here brings him back to you. And back to the biggest regret of his entire life.
Beyond the window of the car, the streets stretch out into something more familiar. They pass his old high school, the local bakery his mother used to send him to get fresh bread every week, the street that leads to his father's office, the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart. They pass a park that's been here for ages, the rusty almost rundown playground evidence of its lack of maintenance, but all the years of usage. He remembers taking you and Becca there all the time when you were kids. Chasing you two with his friends around the playground, or pushing you on the wings just a little harder every time to hear you laugh harder. Every inch of this town were where his roots were founded on and surely it must have the answers to what he's looking for.
It takes another fifteen minutes before Becca pulls into the driveway of their childhood home, a cozy light blue two story building with his mother's meticulously cared for flower beds with blue and pink hydrangeas proudly displayed in the front. There's more cars on the street than he last remembered, but he guesses the number neighbors must have grown since the last time he's been here. It wouldn't be the only thing that's changed since then.
Bucky steps out of the car, wondering if maybe he has a chance to take a nap before dinner. He vaguely listens to his sister ramble on about their mother's plans for tonight as he opens the backseat door to get his suitcase. Becca is whining about how they'll probably have to play Yahtzee for the millionth time, when he gathers his things and follows behind her.
His sister walks to the side of the house, confusing Bucky until she explains. "Gotta use the side door, the front's stuck again." Right. At least that's another thing that stayed consistent. No matter how many times his father or Bucky put in the effort to fix the door, it somehow always managed to get stuck. And his father was always too stubborn to replace it no matter how many time his mother asked him to. Stubbornness seems to run in the family.
They step into the backyard, and Bucky was halfway through making an amused comment about his father not fixing that damn door when a loud cacophony of the word surprise startles him. When Becca had mentioned the word everything earlier, when it came to what their parents had prepared for him, what she meant was a welcome party. Various family members and friends of the family were all gathered to welcome him home at least forty people. Tables were set up in neat rows decorated with blue race car table covers to match the balloons tied to each ends. Blue pennant banners were strewn from tree to tree, and whatever his parents were cooking at the grill had his stomach growling like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
So much for hoping to take a nap.
Bucky is touched by the effort his family put in to welcome him home. Although, from the moment he stepped into the backyard he isn't left alone. His mother comes over to engulf him in a hug that is larger than life itself. His father gives him a welcoming hug too before insisting he needs to sit down and eat. Bucky lost count on how many cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends, and others came up to him to welcome him home, hugging him, patting him on the back, and passing him around from greeting to greeting. Once he finally gets a moment to sit down his parents pile up enough cheeseburgers on his plate to stuff him full for a whole week.
The celebrations are enough to keep his mind off of other things for awhile. Between savoring some home cooked food, sharing stories and catching up his cousins on his adventures, and being pulled into a game of dodgeball, he barely has time to think of anything else. And yet, every so often, his eyes drift to different sections of the party as if they were searching for something. He could lie to himself about not what, but who he was searching for. Someone he foolishly hoped would be hear despite what he was told.
By the time the sun starts to set in the sky, Bucky can feel his energy deplete to a point where he can no longer hide it. It's an exhaustion that goes beyond having to evade dodgeballs to the face. Things have started to settle and everyone's migrated to their own corner of the yard depending on whether they wanted to keep playing games, relax by the bonfire, or eat leftovers. He spots his mother at the grill heating up leftovers and he makes his way over to her.
"Need some help, Ma?" He asks, grabbing one of the tongs not waiting for her answer. His mother shakes her head, "I got it, hun. You go back to having fun." She tries to get him back to the party, but at that Bucky shakes his head, scrunching his face up with a clear I don't want to look. His mother laughs at his expression and then instructs him to help out with the burger patties. She starts asking him about his travel here and how he's been liking his party, little things and start conversation. Bucky's giving her simple answers when he looks out at the guests one more time, biting on his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mother can tell he's distracted, and more than that. It seems like she knows exactly what's going on in his head.
"She wasn't invited," she starts, causing Bucky to whip his head in her direction, eyes wide like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing as she continues, "It's not like your dad and I didn't want to, but your sister was against it."
"What?" Bucky sounds and looks dumbfounded, and his mother can only respond with a short exhale. She says your name, and Bucky's heart races and breaks all in one. "How did you—?"
"You can't hide things from your mother, James," his mother interjects as if it were obvious. He gaze locks with his mother's for a moment, and there's something close to pity in them. She's right. He was never one to lie to his mother, much less be able to.
A defeated sigh slips past his lips, "Is it stupid I thought she'd be here?" His mother prepares another leftover plate as she responds, "No, not at all," she hands the plate to one of his younger cousins who scurries off with it. "She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."
Bucky clears his throat, suddenly feeling like there's something stuck in it. "Why not?" His mother gives him a look, like she has something to say, but no explanation for it. "I talk to her mom every so often, maybe once a month. She's told me they barely have any contact with her. No one really knows where she is."
"What? And no one's gone looking for her?" Bucky can't believe what he's hearing. His question has no short of worry in it, and he doesn't bother to hide it. The thought of you being out there somewhere and no one knowing—no one even bothering to look—it didn't sit right with him. It settles within him as well as poison would.
His mother's lips draw into a thin line, a somber look in her eyes. "I'm sure they've tried. I know her parents have, but it's not easy when your kids shut you out. Especially when they're in trouble." Bucky's heart sinks, "Trouble? What trouble?" His mother starts preparing another plate, like she needs something to do, "I'm not sure, hun. Her parents don't know and even your sister hasn't been forthcoming with the way things ended between them. All I know is she got mixed in with the wrong crowd and ended up dropping out of college. The last time I saw her was when Becca found out and they had a screaming match over it. I don't think I've ever seen your sister so angry…"
Out of all the thing Bucky could have been preparing himself to hear about you from his mother, none of this would have ever come close. There's something sickly brewing in his stomach and he thinks if he hears another word of your apparent disappearance, he'll spill his dinner all over the grill.
His mother can tell something is off, so she promptly sends him to bed. He wants to protest until he realizes he burned the burger patty he had been reheating and agrees some rest would be for the best. His mother gives him a goodnight hug and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing. Every step up the stairs and toward his childhood bedroom feels heavier than the last.
When he enters his room, there's an appreciative smile that appears on his face when he realizes not much has changed in here either. He can tell his mother has changed the sheets and installed one of those little air freshener devices in preparation for his coming home. And besides his suitcase in the corner, which he still has to thank his father for bringing it up for him, everything else is exactly the same. Which isn't saying much since he's always kept his room simple the older he got. A few racing posters on his walls, shelves decorated with knickknacks, a bookcase filled with books he has yet to revisit, there's not much besides that.
He strips out of his clothes lazily just wanting to get into bed already, when his eyes stray to his desk. He knows why they did. He knows what he'll find when he looks. And yet, he walks over to it anyway, feeling the lump in his throat grow when he sees it's been left untouched. Above his desk on the wall there's a bulletin board frozen in time to the last time he ever used it. He has pictures pinned all across it, happy memories from his childhood with you with him in almost all of them. Every birthday card and letter you ever wrote him is pinned on the board too. Anything you ever gave him he saved and treasured down to the smallest thing. Even to the four leaf clover you once found, gently tucking it between tape for safe keeping. Giving it to him as a good luck charm, promising him it would help him win every race he ever dreamed up as long as he kept it close.
He keeps it in his wallet to this day.
Bucky blinks away the tears he can feel forming in the corner of his eyes. He finds himself more than upset now, maybe even bordering on an anxious frustration as he wills himself to look away. He hastily strips out of his clothes and climbs into his bed, hoping that his mind can quiet once he's bundled up in it. But of course that's not the case. All he can think about now is you. Why would you disappear? Why would you leave and tell no one? Why does no one know where you are? Why did you and Becca get into a big fight and stop being friends?
And why does he feel like it's all his fault?
As he drifts off into a restless slumber, there's a final image that haunts him. It's you. Holding back tears as you look at him with the kind of ire he deserved, but never excepted he would ever have caused you.
That image takes him back to where it all ended.
It happened at his parent's lake house, the summer after his sophomore year of college concluded. The summer you and Becca graduated high school, and had to adjust transitioning into adulthood and newfound independence. Your families had thrown a big graduation party for the two of you, but it was a little too family friendly for Bucky's liking. So without telling his parents, a couple weeks later, he threw a massive party at his parent's lake house in celebration of you two.
You had always held a special place in Bucky's heart, there was no denying that. Whether you or Bucky acknowledged it was another thing entirely. Your friendship with Bucky was just as deeply bonded as yours and Rebecca's, but it was different in its own way. Somehow you found yourself being more vulnerable with Bucky about your fears of the future, about school and life. There were times you wanted to appear strong or dependable to Becca when she was going through a rough patch, and yet Bucky was always able to crumble down your walls almost as if those walls didn't exist when it came to him. From patching up a cut on your knee you'd gotten when you were six while playing hopscotch, to holding you close and soothing you when you cried over your first boyfriend breaking your heart—Bucky had always been there for you. The trust between you ran deep, deep in a way that felt rooted in something tied to your souls.
Perhaps that's what always frightened him about acting on his feelings. If he ever told you how he truly felt, that he loved you in ways that went far beyond just friends, and you didn't feel the same or it didn't work out—he'd lose you for good. And the thought of that, he couldn't even imagine it. Not having you in his life. He honestly thought he'd never survive that.
Nothing was supposed to happen that night. He kept his drinks to a minimum, not wanting to get drunk so he could watch over the party guests. He threw it without his parents knowledge or permission, the last thing he needed was to have an accident happen that he couldn't explain away. You hadn't been drinking much, if at all, either. Mingling throughout the party a little lost since Becca had been hanging out with her boyfriend at the time. Bucky shouldn't have gone over to you when you were standing in the corner by yourself, but he did. He shouldn't have invited you to dance, but he wanted to so badly, so he did.
But he should've known things would end in more than a dance. Having you so close, your body pressed against his, touching him, all over him—it drove him crazy. Careful touches at your hips and waist turned into greedy handfuls that couldn't be satisfied despite the lack of distance. It lead to you two kissing for the first time, desperate and inevitable. And that one kiss led to two then three, until the two of you stumbled up the stairs, not being able to keep your hands or lips off of each other as you made your way to Bucky's bedroom. It led to Bucky caging you underneath him on his bed, kissing you senselessly until the heat between you became too much and you slept together for the first time.
The next morning, you were tucked into his side with his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest like it would hurt him to let you go. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful as the morning sunlight blanketed your form. Bucky didn't want to get up, but he knew he had to survey whatever potential damage was leftover from the party and possibly kick out anyone who overstayed their welcome. He kissed your forehead, whispering a promise of not taking too long before slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He groaned inwardly as he made his way downstairs, hoping the damage wasn't too bad. But a quick survey of the house settled his worry. Every room was trashed, but at least nothing seemed broken or irreparably stained. When Bucky made his way back to the living room he noticed Sam, his closest friend, stirring awake on the crouch.
"You crashed on the couch?" Bucky eyed his friend weirdly, he hated sleeping on couches. Sam yawned, stretching dramatically, "Yeah, figured you'd need help cleaning up."
"Aw, aren't you sweet."
"Shut up."
Sam threw a pillow at Bucky's head, which he dodged at the last second. Sam sat up on the couch, scratching the back of his head like he was still trying to come to, "Saw you two go up to your room last night. Congrats on finally getting the guts to make a move—thought you'd never do it. I can hear the bells already," Sam teased, humming out the tune for 'here comes the bride' while wiggling his brows at Bucky suggestively. Bucky can't remember why, can't understand why, but he panicked in that moment. The image of you in a wedding dress and saying I do freaked him out so badly because for the first time it dawned on him that's something that he wanted. But you were both still so young, with so much life and experiences to love ahead of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't even know if you liked him like he loved you.
Fuck, he's in love with you.
Bucky tried to play it cool. Tried to ignore the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably with the truth. He shook his head, playing it down, "Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…" Sam was not amused by his lies, painfully seeing through them, "Bullshit. You and I both know you're hopelessly in love with that girl." Bucky's mouth opened to deny it, but another hard look from Sam had him crumbling.
"I know I know. And I think I messed everything up." Bucky slumped on the couch next to Sam, a devastated look on his face. Sam definitely was judging him. "You did not mess anything up, Buck."
"No I did. I wanted to do this the right way, ask her out on a date. Treat her right, like she deserves to be. Show her what she means to me—" A couch pillow hit Bucky square in the face, stopping him mid sentence. "Buck, you're spiraling, stop it. You didn't mess anything up. Trust me, just go up there and tell her how you feel."
Bucky rubbed at his face, soothing it from the hit, "But what if she doesn't feel the same?" Sam looked like he was two seconds from throwing another pillow, "I'm starting to think those engine fumes have caused you to go stupid or blind. Buck, that girl is so in love with you."
For a brief moment, Bucky dared to hope that Sam was right. That you do feel the same. That you'd want it to work out between you as much as he does. But then the image of you in a wedding dress flashed across his mind again, and that unrelenting voice in his head made him doubt everything once more. A voice that strangely sounded like his uncles. His father's brothers who constantly let him know how his racing career would never work out. How he'll never make good enough money and he'll just disappoint his parents. How he should just play it safe, smart. Become an accountant like his father and get rid of those silly childhood dreams because his parents didn't give up everything for him just to go "play racer." Scolding him like a child to stop being so ungrateful with his parents and get a proper job so he can take care of them like they took care of him. Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.
And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.
"Even if she is," Bucky swallowed hard, the words feeling bitter on his tongue, "even if we are, she deserves so much more than what I can give her right now."
"Buck."
"No, I mean it. Her life's just starting Sam. She's going to her dream college, finally getting away from this town like she's always wanted to," Bucky shook his head, like admitting his fears cost him something, "I'm pursuing something I don't even know will work out. And if it doesn't… I don't want to drag her into that. I don't want to drag her into my failures."
Sam sighed, feeling for his friend, "You're not going to fail, Buck. And even if you do—loves so much more than the good times. It's being there despite what happens, despite the obstacles." Bucky mulls over his friend's words knowing there's some truth to them. But, unfortunately, the voice in the back of his mind refused to let him go.
"Yeah, but loves also about walking away when the timing isn't right."
"Not when, if. You don't know which one it is yet."
With those last words, Bucky managed to find the courage to go back up those steps and back to you. With his heart on his sleeve, his hopes in the palm of your hands, and his blood pumping a mile a minute. But when he opened the door to his room, you were already making your way out of it. Eyes wide and teary when they narrowed on him.
"Hey, baby, hey," he reached out to cup your face, "What's wrong?" You flinched back from his hold like his hands were made of ice, his heart stopped. "Nothing. I'm fine," you bite out, clearly holding back. He stood his ground, "You know you've never been able to lie to me, come on tell me what's wrong." He pleaded, feeling distressed at your change in attitude.
"Nothing is wrong, just let me through already," you tried pushing past him, but his arm shot out between you and the doorway. "No. Not until we talk. Not until you tells me what's going on." He tried to get you to look at him, but your eyes were on everything but him.
"Bucky—" He cut you off by saying your name in a way that sounded somewhere between utter devotion and utter devastation. You sighed, broken and like you had something caught in your throat. "There's nothing we have to talk about, nothing important anyway."
Now that stung. Bucky would have preferred you slapping him across the face instead.
"What? So did last night mean nothing to you?" Bucky didn't stop the anger that was seeping through his hurt. You looked like you didn't know what to say or did and just didn't want to, "That's not what I said. And it doesn't matter what I think of it anyway. You got what you wanted." Bucky stared at you, scoffing in offense, "I got what I wanted? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what I mean," you said with a finality that caused him to panic. You tried evading his arm by ducking below it. But he was faster than you and stopped you from getting past him. He was frustrated by your vagueness and confused on what you tried telling him without really telling him anything. This was a complete switch up from last night and he didn't know how to handle it.
"Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but just listen to me, sweetheart. I know I can't… I know I'm not," He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated that he couldn't put his vulnerabilities into words, "My career's just starting. There's big opportunities ahead of me and I know I'm not guaranteed success. I'm not thinking of…I don't want to make any mistakes—" That last word, he should've never used that word. Because you didn't even let him finish when something between a cynical laugh and broken sob came out of you. "I get it. I was a mistake."
Bucky was quick in his attempt to shut that accusation down, "No! No! Absolutely not, that is not what I said," you tried to squeeze past him again, but this time he held onto your arm, "Would you please just listen to me?" You pushed at his chest, hard enough to hurt, the ire in your eyes and tone made his blood run cold. "Don't touch me." There was something close to hatred in your voice and that had him stunned, frozen in place. He was so stunned he could only watch you walk away to the guest bedroom. By the time he came to on what happened, he ran to chase after you only to have you slam the door right in his face. And no matter how hard he knocked, how long he waited, how much he pleaded into the wooden oak for you to talk to him, you never responded.
He was heartbroken beyond what you could every imagine. He couldn't understand where everything went wrong and why you were so upset. He wanted to talk to you, but he also knew he needed to give you space to cool down. He figured at some point in the day he'd be able to get you aside for a private conversation and clear things up.
He was wrong.
That small glimpse of you before the door slammed in his face was the last time he saw you for the next six whole years.
Reliving that moment in his dream was so vivid it startles him awake. Chest heaving, and face covered in sweat as the memory of that regretful morning resurfaces. Thinking back to the way you looked at him, to the way you spoke to him—it's enough to rip his heart to pieces all over again.
Even after all these years he still doesn't understand what happened back then, what had you so upset. At first he thought it was over his slip up and using that damn word, mistake. But thinking back on that moment throughout the years, he realized you had been upset before that. Something happened between falling asleep that night and him going up those stairs the next morning to confess to you that had set you off. And to this day he hasn't figured out what it was. The absence of you in his life, the hollow cavity losing you left in his chest—that's all he's really come to understand.
Bucky is surrounded by the darkness of his room, the crescent moon in the sky not providing much light to filter in through the window. His room suddenly feels stuffy, and the ache in his chest seems like it's going nowhere any time soon, so he gets up and decides to take a hot shower. Hoping maybe that can help him relax. He's in and out before he knows it, careful to not make too much noise in the hallway as to not wake his parents or his sister in case she stayed for the night. Thankfully, the bathroom's right across the hall from him, so there's not much noise he can make anyway.
By the time Bucky's back in his room he catches the screen on his phone light up. He reaches for it where it lies on his nightstand, seeing he's gotten a couple recent messages. He frowns when he looks at the time, it's just past midnight. Who could be texting him at this hour?
Mini Falcon: Heard you're back in town! You do not want to miss this.
Mini Falcon: [Attachment: 1 movie]
Bucky has an idea of what he's going to find when he opens the video from his old street racing friend. When he clicks on the video, sure enough it's Joaquin showing off a car meet he's at. There's a crowd of people already forming, showing off their cars and probably figuring out who's going to race tonight. He plays the video a few times, reminiscing on his street racing days, and a little envious at how nice some of the cars have gotten. God, there's no amount of money he wouldn't have bet to get a chance to race against some of those machines.
On one of his rewinds, he spots someone in the background that catches his eye. No, not someone, not just anyone.
It's you.
Bucky's jaw drop comically, pausing the video and hating how pixelated it looks when he zooms in, but even through the blurriness he swears that's you. An older you for sure, but it's still you nonetheless. He's recognize you anywhere. You're laughing with a brunette and a blonde, he thinks maybe they're you're friends.
But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?
Bucky's mind is working a mile a minute, but if that is you—which he sure it is—he can't miss this opportunity to see you. Especially not after finding out no one knows where you are. If he's found you, then he's taking the chance to bring you home.
Bucky texts Joaquin back asking for the location of the car meet. He's scrambling to look decent, throwing open his suitcase and putting on the first outfit he finds, a matching pair of black sweatpants and hoodie, topping it off with a jean jacket and cap for good measure.
When he looks at his phone again Joaquin's sent him the location of the car meet, and when he puts it in his phone's maps it shows it's being held at an abandoned industrial complex in the next town, over thirty minutes away. With his skills he knows he can get there in half the time, so he wastes no more in getting ready and heading out the door. Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.
Just as he thought, he's able to get to the meet in half the expected time. He vaguely remembers racing here once or twice, which means he also remembers how it's one of the easier spots to get caught at because of the parameters of the race. He decides to park his car a few blocks away, hidden and tucked into a parking lot, a large patch of overgrown foliage and trees obstructing the view of it to anyone passing by. He makes his way over to the car meet on foot, locating it by the booming music echoing throughout the abandoned walls of the complex.
And yet, despite the music and all the engine revving getting louder as he approaches, he can still hear Joaquin's laugh above all that.
When Joaquin spots Bucky, he excitedly waves him over to where he's resting on the hood of what Bucky assumes is his car. "Bucky, man you made it!" They greet each other with one of those hand clasping, one armed embraces that guys do. "Yeah, after seeing the video you sent I knew I couldn't miss it." Bucky responds, making Joaquin grin, "Told you," he points to the guy next to him, "This is my friend Bob. Bob this is Bucky thee legendary Bullet." The man standing next to Joaquin turns to Bucky impressed, his doe eyes wide in awe as they greet each other. Bucky shakes his head, side eyeing Joaquin as if saying 'he's exaggerating'.
"He used to win all the races back in the day, he set all the records," Joaquin adds.
Bucky was going to say something when Bob beat him to it, "All the records Blitz beat?"
"Blitz?" Bucky inquires, not remembering that name in the roster of racers he knew back when he was racing here. Joaquin nods to the car positioned in the middle of the lineup race, a gorgeous blue Nissan GT-R Bucky's sure has been tuned up like hell. "That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."
That catches Bucky's attention, "Rumlow's got a crew now?"
Joaquin hums in confirmation, "A few years back he got into a nasty car wreck. Car went up in flames and fucked up his body. He can't race now, so he got a crew to do that and his dirty work for him."
"Dirty work?"
Joaquin shrugs, "Don't know much about it. I just know he imports illegal parts from overseas to modify his cars, but I stay out of whatever they got going on."Bucky makes a clicking noise with his tongue, feeling sorry for any unlucky bastard that got stuck working for Rumlow.
"His crew hard to beat?" Bucky can't help but ask, reminiscing on all the times he beat Rumlow in a race. If his crews anything like him, then they're probably not that good. Bob is the one who answers his question, "Nope. Blitz is the best racer he's got. When he wants a certified win he has her race." Bucky takes that information in. If at any point he wanted to relive his street racing days, then it seems Blitz is the one to beat.
The three of them chat for another while. Bucky learns that Bob races too—for a team called the Thunderbolts—although he's still pretty new at it, so there's much he has to learn. Bucky offers to teach Bob a few things while he's in town and Bob seems more than eager to learn from him. Joaquin and Bob try to catch Bucky up on all the new faces in the racing scene, but it's too many names at once for him to really take anything in. Once the race starts, Bucky excuses himself from them, pretending like he saw someone he wanted to go catch up with so he could step away.
In reality, he's going back to concentrate on what he really came for. To find you.
He weaves through the crowds of people gathered, being careful not to bump into any of the showcase vehicles. As much as his eyes want to stray to admire them, he keeps his mind focused on you. He pays close attention to every single face he passes, hope blooming and then dying in his chest when he walks past someone that looks like you. When he circles back to where he started he's distraught at the realization that he might've missed you.
He goes back to Joaquin feeling dejected and like he has to start all over again with something he never really started. Bob is no longer standing with Joaquin, and Bucky barely catches the finish of the race. As expected by what he was told, Blitz comes in first with Yelena, one of Bob's teammates he pointed out to Bucky earlier, coming in a close second. He can't remember the names of the other races and quite frankly he doesn't care. They're not why he came here.
Although, even though Bucky only got a glimpse of how the race finished and a bit of the start, he's seen enough to know that whoever is racing for Rumlow is good—really good. Blitz drives like the car she's in is an extension of her body and she knows how to get it to do exactly what she wants it to. She's got the kind of control he's only seen with a handful of drivers. Him being one of them.
He finds it impressive.
Blitz's car door opens, and there's a small part of him that's anticipating putting a face to the name. And when Blitz steps out of the car, he finds himself receiving the shock of a lifetime for the second time that night.
You are the one to step out of the car.
You are Blitz.
That means, you're the one who's part of Rumlow's crew.
Shit.
What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
Bucky is convinced this has to be a dream, he's rubbing the hell out of his eyes in hopes that it is. But it's not. You're standing by your car with a self-satisfied smile on your face as you're handed the winnings of the race. Yelena steps out of her car and heads toward you with a giant grin, congratulating you on your win. It's clear you two are friends. You look every part of belonging here and he doesn't know what to do with that.
Bucky clears his throat, bumping Joaquin's shoulder, "Hey, is that..?" He can't even finish the sentence, but Joaquin doesn't need him to as he follows the direction Bucky is looking in. "Blitz? Yeah, that's her." Joaquin's confirmation only makes the pit in Bucky's stomach grow. "And you said she's part of Rumlow's crew?"
Joaquin nods, not understanding the weight of what Bucky is asking. "Yeah, I don't know much about what else she does for him, but she's his main racer. Any time he wants a guaranteed win he sends her." Bucky's scared to know, but he has to ask, "And when you mention that Rumlow's got some shady business going on, how shady are we talking?"
"Class B felonies dude," Joaquin says it like it's gossip and not the worst news he could've possibly given Bucky. At his silence, Joaquin gives Bucky a look over. "Are you good? Bro, you look like you're about to spill your guts—literally." Joaquin steps back a bit just in case Bucky does.
"I know her."
"Who?"
"Blitz." He says your real name after. The name he knows you by, the name he knew you by.
"Oh shit." Joaquin doesn't know what to say. Not with Bucky looking like he's seen a ghost. "Look, dude, she's friends with Yelena and Kate, they're good friends of mine and I know they're always looking out for her. I'm sure she's okay. Maybe Rumlow's only got her racing, not in his other shit." Joaquin attempts to comfort Bucky, but it doesn't seem like what he said did at all.
"Yeah, maybe…"
"Are you gonna go talk to her or just stare at her with your mouth open?" Joaquin teases, trying to lighten the mood. Bucky shuts his mouth and glares at Joaquin causing him to laugh. Bucky roles his eyes at him, Joaquin might've grown up, but he's still like that annoying little brother he remembers. He won't tell him, but Bucky is a grateful to have that unchanged connection to his old friend.
Joaquin's words might've not done much to comfort Bucky, but his teasing was enough to give Bucky the push to walk away from him and toward you. Joaquin whistles to cheer Bucky on, throwing some words his way that resemble good luck. Bucky shakes his head, wondering how crazy you're going to think he is for finding you here.
Every step closer Bucky is to you throws his nerves into high gear. You've already gotten your car and yourself away from the concrete race track. Somewhere over by the corner where a cluster of smaller buildings and a smaller group of people were in. He really doesn't know what to expect once he finally reaches you, or what he'll say, but he knows he can't leave without trying.
The moment you spot him approaching time seems to freeze, your eyes widening and your lips parting like you can't believe what your eyes are seeing. But just as fast as the shock hits your face, you mask it with indifference, but the iciness in your gaze is something he feels penetrate down to his bones.
He sees the door slamming in his face again. The look you gave him the last time he saw you, staring at him through the closing door like he had reached into your chest and snatched your heart right out of its cavity. And now? Now, you were glowering at him like you would put a bullet through his head and not bat an eye. Eyes looking at him with such a disdain it makes him feel physically ill.
When he finally reaches you, Bucky can only come up with one word, "Hey." He says lamely, quietly like there's an obstruction in his throat. You blink at him, crossing your arms as your friends at your side give him wary glances.
"You." Is all you say back, the word coming out almost like an accusation. Bucky grimaces, but he knows he deserves that so he tries to stay calm. He doesn't say anything else, but he glances at Yelena and who he guesses is Kate next to you, before his eyes find yours again, feeling a bit awkward at involving anyone else in your conversation.
You sigh, taking the hint, turning to your friends to ask them for a bit of space. The girls don't look happy about it, but they listen to you. Kate doesn't spare him another glance while Yelena makes sure to give him one hard glare, acting like she'd break his arm if you asked her to.
He really hopes you don't.
"Please, don't look at me like that," he finds himself saying, to which you barely react to. There's clearly a wall you've built between you, one he doesn't know how to lower for the first time in his life.
"Like what."
"Like I'm the last person you'd wanna see here."
"Well," you shrug like that's enough of an answer. Bucky takes a tentative step closer to you, making you tense up. Your reaction makes something break inside him. He steps back, feeling too many emotions all at once. A frustration at you running away, fear at you working for Rumlow, disheartened at the way you're acting like he's a stranger—confusion over everything that has and hasn't happened in the last six years. It all accumulates the second he has you this close again.
"What the hell are you even doing here?" He didn't mean for the question to come out as harsh as it did. "Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here?" You throw the question back at him with bit of venom in your tone. He elects to ignore it.
"Looking for you," he replies honestly. And that catches you off guard, he can see it written all over your face. "A friend invited me to come watch the race, sent me a video and everything. I saw you in the background of it and I thought I was seeing things. But I had to come see for myself only to find out that not only are you a racer, but you're racing for fucking Rumlow of all people. What the hell is that about?"
You wave him off, "It's none of your concern." He says your name like you're testing his patience. "It's not," you reiterate, rolling your eyes and leaning on the hood of your car, “It’s not even that big of a deal.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bucky growls out with something deeper than frustration, debating on whether or not he should just drag your ass back home instead of trying to reason with you. You stare at him like you could bite his head off. "I haven't seen you in years and all of a sudden you want to show up here and act like you're looking out for me? Fuck off, Bucky," you raise your voice at him, your own anger increasing by the minute. Bucky's arms shoot out in exasperation, tired of you twisting his actions and words into something negative, "I am looking out for you! I did all my life and that care doesn't just go away because I left for some time."
"Six years," you correct him, the heaviness of all the time apart settling between you like a wound that hasn't healed. He swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath, "Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I thought about you all the damn time during those years. I cared about you then, and I care about you now."
You don't believe him, scoffing, "I'm sure you do." He doesn't know how to get through to you. Feeling as though his efforts are going nowhere. "I'm serious. I've been thinking about you all damn day since I got here—its been driving me crazy. Especially after Becca told me you two stopped being friends. What happened there?"
"It's none of your business," you're quick to say—too quick.
He says your name again, but this time in a plea, but you're done talking. "I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone."
"No."
Before you can even start ripping him a new one, the music is cut off. Someone's voice can be heard yelling, warning everyone to get the hell out as the cops are on their way. Bucky doesn't hesitate, having through this same scenario many times before. You don't even see it coming, how fast he swipes the keys from your hand, rushing over to the driver's side of your car.
"Get in the car," he urges, and you're smart enough not to argue with him over this. He can tell you're biting your tongue as you get in the passenger's side of the car, not at all happy with him being the driver. Bucky turns on the ignition and speeds out of the industrial complex while others still scramble to get into their cars and do the same. He doesn't drive in the same direction as everyone else. Making a swift u-turn in the opposite direction everyone else is going. He ignores your protests directing him on which way to go and drives the car in the direction he left his. You don't know what he's doing until he ends up back in the secluded parking lot, parking right next to his car. There's no doubt you recognize it, having been in it more times than he can count. He shuts off the engine, making everything go quiet. There's only one streetlight working, the light flickering every so often making it even harder to see the cars past the foliage. If anyone were to drive by at this time of night, there's absolutely no chance you'd be seen.
The tension in the car is palpable, thick with everything left there is to say between you. Bucky's holding his breath like even his breathing could set you off at any moment.
"You can get out now," you say after a painfully long silence. "Not until we talk," Bucky sees the way the word spark that anger in you again. "I don't want to talk." Bucky shrugs, leaning back in the seat like he's got at all night to go back and forth, "That's too damn bad, 'cause I'm not leaving until we do." He pockets your keys in the chest pocket of his jacket, not giving you a chance to take them back.
"You're fucking unbelievable," you growl out, getting out of the car and slamming the door closed. You practically stomp your way to the other side, yanking the driver door open. "Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth.
"Don't want to."
"James."
You used his first name, clearly he's pushing you past your limits, and truthfully he doesn't want that. He just wants you to talk to him, that's all he wants. He wants to get to the bottom of whats going on with you in hopes he can help you in some way. So he gets out of the car, slower than you'd like him to, stepping to the side to give you enough room to look inside and notice your keys are missing.
"Barnes, give me my keys."
"Not until we talk."
"Are you serious?
"Deadly."
You let the door shut, before holding out your hand expectantly, ignoring his request. "Bucky give me back the keys, the car isn't mine. I have to take it back to Rumlow." Bucky's worry only grows at your words, "Why are you working for him? How did you get involved with him?"
"It's a long story."
"I got time."
"Well I don't."
You're at a stand still, neither of you willing to budge. But in the interest of moving things along, you're the first to break. "My ex got me into this mess alright? Now I gotta get myself out of it. It's that simple," you explain, but Bucky isn't satisfied with just that. "What mess?"
You take a deep breath before confessing, eyes lowering to the ground, "I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year. I didn't know they were cousins back then, and I didn't know about the family business. He swiped some money from Rumlow and then disappeared. Since I was the girlfriend, Rumlow made me responsible for paying off the money my ex stole." At the revelation of your predicament, of you being taken advantage of, Bucky has to take a deep breath and reign in his anger before he takes his car over to Rumlow's and finishes off what the car wreck didn't.
"How much?" He's apprehensive to ask, but he needs to know. You shrug, "I don't know the exact amount. I just know it's in the six figures." Bucky's heart drops, blood running cold with dread, "Fuck, sweetheart," a beat passes as his head wraps around the amount of debt Rumlow's put you in, "How much do you have left to pay off?" You shrug again, "I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon." His jaw clenches so tight, you'd think he's about to break a tooth.
"Let me go with you, let me talk to him," he says it not like he's asking you, but like he's letting you know in advance you're not doing this alone. You shake your head, refusing, "No, absolutely not."
"He knows me. I used to race against him all the time. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and let me help you." They weren't friends by any means, but there had always been a mutual respect between them.
"I don't want your help. I don't need your help." You deny, but Bucky isn't having any of that. "Yes you do. Look at you. You run away from home, you drop out of college, no one knows where you are, and Rumlow's got you racing and doing his dirty work." You bristle at being reminded of your situation. Like if it were the first time anyone's said it out loud and addressed it head on with you.
"And why do you give a fuck? I'm not your responsibility, Bucky," you spit out, making Bucky feel like he's back to square one with you. But this time, you've ran through the last of his patience. "Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me." His admission causes you to lock eyes with him and within yours he can see something is cracking, he's getting through to you.
"Shut up, and go," you whisper out the words weakly, but he shakes his head, "No. I'm not leaving you. Not again," he cups your face, brushing away a stray tear from your cheek, "I don't fully understand why you ran, although I can take a pretty good guess its got to do with that piece of shit…," a horrifying thought strikes him, "Is he threatening you?"
You tense in his hold, "Bucky drop it."
"He is, isn't he?"
Your silence is the only confirmation he needs.
A few things finally start connecting for him, "That's why your parents don't know where you are, why you barley contact them. Is he also why you and Becca stopped being friends?" The mention of Becca has you stepping out of grasp, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides, "Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."
"So why did you? Is it because of us? Because of what happened between us?" He doesn't think he's ready for the answer. But he should know better by now that answers from you don't come easily.
"Nothing happened between us."
"No, don't brush it off like it meant nothing."
"Well I wouldn't be the first to do that."
There you go again being vague and cryptic—and sounding accusatory toward him when he doesn't even know what he did. "Are you saying that because of the whole mistake thing? You don't even know what I was actually going to say. You didn't even let me finish what I wanted to say back then. Not before you stormed out of my room and slammed that door in my face. Before you blocked me on everything and I couldn't even reach out to talk to you."
His grievances don't seem to move you, "Seems like you still haven't gotten the hint." Bucky doesn't know how many more of your dismissals he can take, so he decides to leave it all out in the open once and for all. "No I haven't, and I won't because I was so hopelessly in love with you and you left my room like what happened between us meant nothing to you. You left and took my heart with you. And now that I have it back I have some things I want to say to you."
His confession throws you off balance, stumbling over your own footing as you take a step back. But he's not letting you get away this time, he's saying his peace like it's the last time you two might ever speak. "That night scared the absolute shit out of me. Because it was the first time in my life I felt as alive as I do when I'm behind the wheel. The thought of you feeling the same way I did brought that out in me and I didn't know how to handle it, and that's on me."
"Bucky, please stop."
He doesn't.
"That morning, I was trying to tell you that deep down I knew I wasn't good enough for you. I was still getting my shit together, still trying to prove myself to people who didn't give a damn about me. But on the off chance that you felt the same way, I would've dropped everything for you. I would've pursued something that would've had me better off, something close to home, close to you. I would've done what I could to help you pursue your dreams and—" this time you don't cut him off with words, but with your lips crashing against his, hard and with purpose. Knocking the cap right off his head. He's taken by surprise, but when your lips press harder, insistent on not being ignored, he kiss you back. His hands landing at your waist to keep him grounded to you.
You pull away slightly out of breath, "I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?" You don't hesitate to take the invitation, kissing him again with a passion bordering on hunger. You're stumbling backwards, pulling him in as he's crashing full force into you, lips parting to let him fully in. You're making out, your back pressed against his car, as you pull sounds out from each other that echo in the night air. He takes a moment to tell you this conversation isn't over, but you quickly shush him with another kiss. The heat between you is growing quickly, and it's no surprise when you find yourselves stumbling into the backseat of his car to take things further.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, his body hovering over yours. One of his knees slots between your legs, deliberately pressing on your core causing you to whine. You can feel the way you've soaked through your panties and tights already. He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.
His hand reaches down to rub you through your panties, finding out just how soaked you are for him. He grins wolfishly into the kiss, "Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much." His tease is met with a slap to his bicep, which only makes him press harder along your slit making you cry out. He kisses your lips one last time, trailing featherlight kisses to cheek and jaw, all the way down to your neck where he nips at the skin. His fingers brush upwards toward your sensitive bundle of nerves to continue his ministrations there.
You only let him have his way for a few more seconds before you're pushing impatiently at his chest. He's already dazed by just a few kisses from you, so when you tell him to sit back he listens without putting up a fight. He sits back in the seat, watching you with something close to devotion as you go to straddle his lap, bracketing his thick thighs with your legs. You strip him of his jean jacket and hoodie, throwing it on the car floor somewhere, raking your nails down his chest with just enough pressure to make him bite down on his lip, looking like he's moments away from coming undone.
You start to grind on him, making a mess of his sweatpants, but he doesn't care, it feels too good to care. His cock twitches beneath you and with the way you smirk at him he knows you felt it. You're making him go crazy, drunk on you, and you're living for every second of it.
One hand snakes it's way beneath your white tee to palm at your breasts, while the other grips your hip to press you down on him harder. A deep groan leaves his chest, and it mingles with your own as you crash your lips to his again, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him whine. Your hips continue their grinding motion, leaving you both breathing heavily enough to start fogging up the windows of the car. One of your hands finds the back of his head and tugs at his hair, pulling his attention long enough to slip your other hands into his sweats, giving him a teasing squeeze that his seems stars with how hard he's holding back from coming undone so embarrassingly soon.
"Oh, fuck," a deep groan rumbles with his chest when you squeeze him again, "Wait, baby, I can't. I don't got a condom on me," he grabs your wrist to stop you, "Just let me make you feel good okay? Let tonight be all about you." He tries to coax you, his hand leaving your wrist to bring the attention back to your cunt when you swat his hand away. He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it.
His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?"
You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."
Whether or not he wants to pry into that detail, you don't let him. Making his breath catch in his throat as you tear the condom wrapper with your teeth—an action he found incredibly hot.
He takes himself out of his sweats, squeezing the base of his cock to get himself under control. He's already leaking as you hastily roll the condom down his length. You're getting yourself into position when he stops you. Your gazes meet, a questioning look in your eyes. "You sure about this? We can stop if you're not. It's okay." He assures you, needing you to confirm you really want this. When you realize what he's asking, you smile at him. Taking his lips in a softer kiss, one that conveys how sure you are of this happening. "I'm sure, Bucky. I want this."
That's all Bucky needed to hear.
He rubs your folds through your panties a few more times before his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. He helps guide himself inside you as you lower yourself down on him, inch by inch. "Baby, you're squeezing the hell outta me—fuck," he curses under his breath, urging you to take it slow. He hasn't told you, but it's been a long time since it's been anything other than his hand and him. And he feels every bit of that longing as your walls squeeze him tighter the more of him you take.
"Sweetheart, you gotta give me a minute. I can't. I don't want this to end so soon," he's pleading with you, breathing heavily as the need to thrust up into you gets harder to restrain. You cup his face, making sure he's staring right into your eyes as you lower yourself completely. His breath his hot against your mouth as he gasps, the sound turn into a moan the second you start riding him. Not giving him any time to adjust as if this were your way of getting payback for the way he pushed your buttons all night.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, guiding your hips with his hands to move you in ways that have you both moaning out for each other. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for a makeout that's all tongue and teeth—messy and passionate all in one. Breathing each other in like the only source of air you need can be found within each other. And that's when Bucky feels it again, his heart soaring with how right this feels, just like the first time you slept together.
"I missed you, I—" he mumbles into your lips, but when you pick up your pace, he forgets what he was going to say. You've got him pussy drunk and wrapped around your finger—right where he wants to be.
He can tell he won't last much longer at this pace, and he needs you to come before he does. His hand goes to where you're connected, pressing circles onto your clit in the way he knows you like, making you mewl. "That's it baby, you're doing so good for me, pretty girl." His other hand grips you tighter, keeping you steady as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your hips. You whine at how deep he's going, one of your hands shooting out to the fogged up glass like that'll help anchor you. He can feel how close you are, so he doubles down, fucking up into you harder and increasing the pressure on your clit. "Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go, sweetheart, I got you," he whispers affectionately and wrecked, bringing you in for another kiss that undoes you. You come hard, crying out his name, and he follows suit, coming harder than he has in years. You got him seeing stars with the way your cunt squeezes him for all he's got.
You're both panting in the aftermath, his head resting against the backseat as he tries to catch his breath. Your head drops onto his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing at your back to help you with the aftershocks of your coupling. He kisses your temple reverently, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings as you both come down from your highs. For a few minutes, the car is quiet with a tranquility Bucky wasn't sure you two would ever get to again.
Your head rises from his shoulder, moments later, a dopey smile on your face. He laughs fondly, his hand rising to stroke your cheek affectionately, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't know if it's what he says or the way he said it, but your smile no longer reaches your eyes. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest uncomfortably.
"Everything okay?" He's looking you over to make sure you're okay, fearing he might've been a little rough with you. You clear your throat, wincing, "Yeah, it's just—I'm feeling a bit sure already." His eyes widen at that and he apologizes right away, helping you gently off of him as you both wince, sensitive at the disconnection.
You start redressing yourself, confusing him, but he didn't question you. He had hoped you two could stay together a little longer in the backseat, talk a few things out and just enjoy this pocket of happiness you had granted each other. But whatever spell you two were under seemed to be broken. And faster than Bucky could process it, you were already dressed and getting out of his car. He scrambled to clean himself up with what he had at his disposal, tucking himself back in his sweats and hastily slipping on his hoodie just as he heard the engine to your car turn on.
He gets out of his car, rushing over to you and knocking on the window for you to lower it. You do, staring at him in a way that he can't read, but it makes him uneasy nonetheless.
"You're leaving already?" Bucky can't hide the disappointment in his tone. You sigh, picking at a nonexistent thread on your jacket to keep your eyes somewhere that isn't on him. "I told you I have to return the car to Rumlow, it's not mine. He's got trackers on all his cars, so I have to return it before he comes looking for it."
"I can go with—"
"No, you'd only make things worse for me, okay? It's best if you just stay out of this."
He can't accept that, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Especially after being the only one who knows exactly how much trouble you're in. "I dont know how to help you, but I want to. Maybe I can't help, but maybe I can find someone who can."
"No, Bucky, just drop it," your tone made it clear you weren't budging from this. And maybe he couldn't make you budge on this now, but later, later he could fully convince you to let him help. "Fine, I will—for now. But, there's still some stuff I want to talk about," you give him a look and he's quick to dispel your apprehension, "Not now, I know you have to go. But later I'd like to have a proper talk. About us."
Something about you changes in this moment. Bucky can almost see it in the way you straighten up in the driver's seat, in the way your eyes glaze over with something deeply broken crawling it's way to the surface. Something meant to hurt him just as badly as he once hurt you.
"Us? Bucky, there is no us. Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that," your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say that. It sounds distant and cold, like you're trying your best to keep yourself together. However, the way in which you said certain things rings alarms bells inside his head. He's barley able to stutter out a reply when you pull back and drive off, leaving him in the dust of the engine fumes.
Those words. He's heard them before, but not from you, no, from his own mouth. He's replayed those words time and time again in his mind for the last six years. The things he once said to Sam way back then when he stupidly was trying to deny how he felt about you. You used those exact words against him tonight. It dawns on him, horrifically, that you heard him say that back then. Your anger and frustration—the heartbreak of that morning. It came from you thinking you weren't anything, but a one night stand for him.
And now youd done the same thing to him, as if trying to make things even. Maybe you had.
Bucky slumps against his car, sliding down it until he hits the floor. Pieces of a puzzle he could never solve slowly start clicking together until he gets a better picture of what happened. He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things. If you were still angry at him all these years later, then you must have not heard the rest of the conversation. You only heard the part that broke your heart and made you hate him all this time.
Was there ever a possibility you would forgive him?
Could you forgive him?
Bucky doesn't know the answers to those questions, but what he does know is that he won't find out unless he tries to earn it.
a/n Well my darling barbies, you now have a choice to make. If you decide to not forgive Bucky, then your story ends here. If you decide to give him a second chance, then you're in luck! A part two is already in the works. Once again, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ♡♡♡
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist | purple divider by @/cursed-carmine ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆
Hey sorry for no post this week. I’ve been super busy because this Saturday is prom and I’m getting ready. I’ll try to post the chapter next week and a social account post next Wednesday. Sorry again, have a nice weekend!!!
Rock Star Tony Stark Sings Love Song About a Guy in Dallas
By: Tara Hempstead
October 10th, 2011
During last night’s show in Dallas, Texas, lead singer of The Avengers, Tony Stark, makes a change to the lyrics no one was expecting. Every teenage girl in Dos Equis Pavilion was waiting for her chance to be America’s sweetheart for the hit single “Teenage Dirtbag”. But, when guitarist, Steve Rogers, threw his mic into the crowd, none of them were quite lucky enough. It seemed that a young man named Tanner was the lucky soul to catch the microphone last night, shocking everyone watching.
Many expected Tony Stark to make some sweet excuse, telling Tanner to hand the mic off to the nearest girl. There are even reports that the band’s manager, Clint Barton was calling for such action behind the scenes. But, alas, Stark made a different call, smiling wide as he sang the song with changed pronouns to the crowd of almost 20,000 people.
Many do not know what to think of the statement made last night. Some call it intentional m, claiming that the microphone throw is merely staged and a set up to sell more tickets. Others say it was a deeper statement from the lead singer about his own sexuality. One thing is for sure, there is a lot more research being done on the personal life of Tony Stark. I’m sure his father, CEO of Stark Industries, is not happy with the extra attention, and neither is the band’s record studio, SHIELD Studios.
Fans across the country have very differing views on the topic, some on either edge of the political spectrum, calling for more solid statements from the band, others claiming they should stay out of the political world. One question still stands among most Avengers’ fans. Was Tony Stark trying to tell us something with the song?
As the band’s leading gossip journalist, I can’t tell you what I’m hoping for without worry of losing my job. All I can say is we should all just wait and see how the rest of their tour pans out. They have three more stops on their route before they reach Miami, starting their East Coast leg of the tour.
Everyone will be keeping a close eyes on this band for the next few months, specifically Tony Stark. At least I know I will be. Until next time, your favorite music journalist signing off.
Tara Hempstead🎶
Alright guys that is my first little news/blog thing for the in between chapters. I think I’m also gonna post like the comments to this and the socials of the band mates so it can really be like multi media. I hope you like it and yall are ready for the next chapter. It should be out very soon!
Warnings: none, but maybe some swearing and another almost kiss(oops spoilers)
Authors Note: I’m trying to figure out a nice posting schedule that works so expect more constant updates of this story, as well as my other works. Also feel free to request anything!
Word Count: almost 2.2k
Series Masterlist
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As he sat down next to Daya in the theatre, Peter really tried to look at the stage, but his eyes just kept straying to the girl next to him. Her eyes stayed on the stage, but watching as they glowed with interest, he couldn’t help but smile at how cute she looked. She was just so pretty—no, he wasn’t thinking about that, or the way her arm was half an inch from his. Nope, not thinking about that at all.
He eventually focused on the show, and soon the lights came up for intermission. Daya turned to him as people started filing out of the room and asked, “Hey, you want something to eat? I wanna get up and walk around.”
Peter smiled up at her, loving the way her eyes seemed light and relaxed as she spoke to him. “Uh, actually I do, too. Let me go with you.” He stood up and walked behind her out of the theatre. When they reached the less busy hallway, he turned to her. “So how do you like the show so far?”
“I like it a lot. The actors are so talented. Ahh and I love the soundtrack.” She smiled and waved her hands as she spoke. God, she spoke with her hands. “I’m kinda a theater kid, so I absolutely love musicals.”
“Well, that's cool. What’s your favorite musical?” Peter and Daya got in line for concessions as he turned to face her.
“My favorite big time musical is Hamilton, because it’s what got me really into musicals, but my guilty pleasure musical is Prom.” Her eyes lit up with excitement as she spoke, moving up in line as it shortened.
He couldn’t help but smile at her, and watch her as she talked about her interests. He almost never got to see this side of her, the side that was open about all the different things she liked, and that wasn’t so guarded, and he was mesmerized by the sight.
They got to the front of the line and ordered and paid for their candy. Daya got a pack of Sour Patch Kids and a Twix bar for Noelle, while Peter got a soda. They walked back towards the theatre doors, talking about nonsense. Conversation came so easily between the two of them, it made Peter’s heart float.
Within the next hour, the show had finished and the group headed outside, saying their goodbyes as Noelle and Sam walked towards Sam’s car. As they waved off the couple, Daya turned to Peter and smirked.
“So… are you ready to head back?”
“If you are.” Peter offered his arm for Daya to take and smiled down at her as she hooked her arm with his, giggling. He got an idea as they started walking down the street, turning to her. “Hey, have you ever wanted to go swinging?”
“Swinging?”
“Like the whole Spider-Man thing. Swinging with webs.” Peter turned to fully face her now, leaning his head down to speak closer to her face.
“I don’t know, man. It lowkey looks dangerous…” Daya looked up into his eyes, and his breath hitched and his throat went dry.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” He collected as much confidence that he could and grabbed her hand and pulled her towards an alley.
In ten minutes, Peter was in his Spider-Man suit and he and Daya were on the roof of a nearby building. He had pulled his mask off and was looking into her eyes. “You ready?”
She brought her hands to his shoulders, weakly nodding. “Yeah”
“Ok, wrap your legs around my waist.”
He laughed as she raised her eyebrows at him, accusingly. “My god, relax. It’s so I don’t drop you.”
“Sure it is, Spidey.” Still, she brought her legs around his body and wrapped her arms around his neck. She clung to him, and he could really smell her shampoo now, and a scent that was uniquely her.
He walked over to the edge of the building and brought one of his arms out to shoot a web before whispering in her ear, smiling at the way the hairs on her neck stood up. “I’m gonna jump now, okay?”
He smiled at the small “okay” she let out and jumped off of the building, starting to swing through the city. He started laughing when she began screaming and cursing at him. “Fuck! Pete! Put me down! Holy shit! I swear to god! Peter Benjamin Parker! Put me down!”
He should be worried that she was yelling his name, but he couldn’t get over the cute way she was clinging onto him. He relished the way her yelling slowly started to turn to laughing. As they continued swinging through the city, he got more cocky, taking more sharp turns and even doing a semi backflip, which she yelled at him for. He eventually got them back to the Tower safely, though Daya seemed sure that Peter was trying to kill them.
Peter stopped at Daya’s balcony, outside of her room. When they had gotten back to the solid ground, he turned his head to face Daya in his arms, who had not yet let go, nor opened her eyes.
“Hey, Day, we’re good now. You can let go.” His voice was teasing as he pushed the stray curls away from her face and smiled when she finally opened her eyes. She looked so innocent and trusting when she gazed at him and her lips parted slightly as she let out a shaky breath. Her eyes scanned the mask of his suit before trailing to a spot behind him and widening in shock.
“Shit.” She dropped her legs and arms from around him and stood up straighter as her eye focused on the thing behind him.
“What?” He turned around and saw what she was so surprised about. There was a small camera positioned just above her window. Wow, he couldn’t believe that Tony didn’t trust Daya so much that he set up a camera.
He turned back to Daya, who seemed to be full-on panicking. He could understand being upset about the complete breach of privacy, but to be scared about it was something different. “What are you so worried about? It’s not like you have a reason to sneak out. This can just show him that he needs to trust you more.”
Daya looked him in the eyes then, and something flashed across them. It was almost like she was angry at him, but not really. He had no idea what the look meant either way.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Daya sounded defeated, and even though Peter believed her, the words sounded like a lie.
“The only thing you really have to worry about is Tony seeing how tightly you were holding onto me.” Peter’s voice turned teasing as he pulled off his mask and grinned at Daya. He wanted to see her laugh again, not this look of defeat on her face. “God, Day, who knew someone like you would be so afraid of heights and flying?”
“Shut up.” She said, even though she was laughing through the words. She lightly shoved him and he acted like she had done much more damage. After a bunch of laughing between the two, Peter stood in front of her, wanting to pull her in closer to him. He wanted her to be in his arms again. Peter watched as her eyes turned conflicted as she looked at him. She took a step closer to Peter and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Peter froze for a half second before he hugged back, loving the way she felt in his arms. “Thanks, Pete. I had a fun night.” She whispered in his ear.
Peter pulled back slightly so he could look her in the eyes. “No problem. I’m glad you had fun.” He gave her a smile and her eyes seemed to train on his lips. They were so close now that Peter could make out every little dip in her skin. His eyes trailed over her face before settling on her lips, as his tongue went out to wet his.
The air between them was tight with tension as they both leaned towards each other. Both of them looked like they wanted the other, but for some reason they held back. Maybe it was the friendship keeping them apart, or maybe the secrets…
Suddenly they both heard a noise coming from the camera. The noise quickly turned into a voice. “Well, I’m not having fun.”
The two pulled themselves away from each other as they heard Tony’s voice through the camera. It seemed he also installed a speaker, which was… great.
“Oh my god, Tony. What the hell?” Daya turned towards the camera in exasperation, both at the sheer existence of the camera and his ruining of the moment.
“I know, I know, you’re mad about the camera. But I put the camera there for safety. And possibly to stop whatever that was.” There was a pause before Tony continued. “Oh and by the way, Pete, I need you in my lab. Now.” It seemed the speaker cut out, signaling the end of the conversation.
“I better go…” Peter started, turning to Daya, hoping to relieve the awkwardness that had come from the interruption. He was very sure they were about to kiss, but at this point in their friendship, a lot of moments felt like that, so maybe he was just being crazy.
“Yeah, okay. C’mon, go through the inside.” she waved him over as she opened the door to her bedroom and stepped in. Peter walked in behind her, looking at the decorations of her room. He had never been there before, and as he walked through he couldn’t help but smile as all of the things in her room seemed very her.
Peter pointed to the section of the wall she had painted herself. There were bright splashes of paint that seemed like they were haphazardly splashed across the walls. “You did this?”
“Yeah, Tony doesn’t like it, but whatever.” She walked over to him and stood at his side. She fidgeted with the sleeves of a hoodie she had thrown on.
“It’s nice, I like it.” Peter gave her a smile, and it widened as he watched a blush rise on her cheeks.
“Thanks.”
Eventually Peter said good night to Daya and headed to Tony’s lab. As he walked in, he could see the billionaire hunched over a section of a new Iron Man suit as he spoke to the boy.
“Ah Peter, finally you’re done making heart eyes at my daughter.” Tony looked up at him and smirked, as he set down what he was working on and walked towards Peter.
“I wasn’t-”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I don’t care. That’s not what I called you down for. There's a glitch on one of my camera feeds, and I need you to fix it.” Tony pointed to an open computer screen.
“Okay, I guess.” Peter was annoyed. He didn’t understand why Tony needed him to do this now, especially when it was most likely a simple glitch that he could have fixed tomorrow when he came in anyway. But he still sat down and started playing through the footage, trying to find the glitch.
He quickly found out that the footage he was watching was from the new camera outside of Daya’s room, as he immediately recognized the balcony. He also quickly found the glitch and coded the system to fix the way it was displaying on the feed. After he was sure he was done, he went to close out of the video, but his curiosity made him hesitate. He wondered what the camera footage was actually catching, and why Daya seemed so nervous about it, so he played the feed again, from when it was installed earlier that day.
It was mostly just the city moving about from beyond her window, so Peter fast forwarded through it, but stopped when he saw something moving across the screen. He played it back, watching intently.
He saw that at about 4:45 pm, a figure in a metal suit landed on the balcony and walked towards the door of the room. He felt that he knew this figure, though it didn’t look like Daya. He played it back again, zooming in on the figure. He watched as the person landed on the building and in a moment he already knew who it was.
Voltra moved across the screen, towards the door of Daya’s room before she stopped and disabled the suit around her. Peter watched as she pressed the center console of her suit and it fell away from her, dropping into a small box on the floor. The person underneath was insanely familiar, so much so that when Peter recognized who it was, his mouth dropped open in shock. The person turned around and showed their face to the camera, and Peter had to close out of the footage immediately.
Daya was Voltra.
Holy shit.
Again, this is one of my favorite chapters. Although now I’m realizing that’s mostly nostalgia because I wrote the original draft like a year ago and it doesn’t exactly meet my expectations. I think my new favorite chapter is in part three, but we’ll get there eventually.
I’m really excited to get more organized with posting on here, and to share more of this story with y’all. Just a reminder that my requests and ask box is open for literally anything. So if anyone just wants to talk that’s cool too. Anyway, all interactions with this post are GREATLY appreciated! Love y’allllllll
Summary: When Tony Stark suggested changing the name in his song Teenage Dirtbag at every stop on the tour, he didn’t think it would get so annoying every time he had to change it based on the girl’s name. He doesn’t want to think about what that means for him, because he’s a little bit in denial about his feelings.
Warnings: like one swear, maybe some slightly mentioned homophobia, mentions of suppressed homosexuality/bisexuality, horribly written flirting, mentions of music things that may be completely wrong, slightly evil journalist(I’ll give her character development I promise, just not yet).
Word Count: 3.2k
Author’s Note: here’s the first little chapter to my marvel rock band au. I’m really excited to be doing this, but just a heads up, this fic is gonna have a lot of moving parts, and kinda be mixed media. As you can also tell, each chapter will be named off of a song that The Avengers “wrote”. Sorry if the genres don’t match up for the songs, I’m creating this on very little knowledge on actual rock music, so bear with me. Have fun reading!
The lights were bright, the cool air of October in Los Angeles turned sticky hot in the outdoor amphitheater. Fans cheered as the familiar beat of “Teenage Dirtbag” started playing. Tony Stark, what many would call a “genius, rock star, playboy, philanthropist”, strut towards the mic stand, a lazy smile on his face. His band mate, Natasha Romanov, reached her mic first, her low voice filling the speakers all around them.
“Alright, you all know what time it is.” Her voice was smooth, enough that you wouldn’t assume she created the lead garage rock band in the country. But The Avengers were a sensation, and she was the girl who started it all. “Let’s see who catches the microphone tonight.”
Somehow the crowd made even more noise, everyone bustling to reach out their hands, their eager eyes turning to the shy guitarist to Tony’s right. Steve Rogers grabbed the mic from the stand in front of him, flashing a small smile to the crowd before throwing it into the mass of fans in front of him. Tony looked over at the blond, a smirk plastered on his face as he wiped his dark brown hair back from his face. Finally he looked over at the audience, who had all grown silent in anticipation to see what lucky soul had caught the microphone today.
“Alright, let's see who’s lucky tonight.” Tony’s low voice spoke into his microphone. The screen next to him scanned the crowd, looking for the lucky girl. “What’s your name, honey, you gotta say something so we can see ya.”
As the girl in the audience spoke, the camera’s focused on her in the mass. “Holly!” She seemed to scream into the mic.
“Holly, huh. I think I can make that work.” Tony said, walking towards the edge of the stage, looking the brunette girl in her eyes. “Now be a doll and sing along.”
“During their Los Angeles show, The Avengers performed their hit song ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ but with a very familiar twist. Here we have the lucky girl who caught the microphone. Tell us Holly, how did you feel hearing your name in such a famous song?” The reporter tilted her microphone to the girl, both of them standing outside of the venue later that night. Nat and Tony smirked as they watched the broadcast from their TV in their hotel room.
“She didn’t care about her name. All she cared about was the thought of a rock star singing a love song about her.” Steve chuckled from the other room, drying his hair from his shower, a towel tied loosely around his waist.
Tony just rolled over, turning to face the blonde that was so beautifully undressed. “Can’t really blame her, Rogers. Not many people can resist the Stark charm.”
“Right, charm.” Steve laughed, rolling his eyes at his band mate. “I’d call it somethin’ more like douchebaggery.”
Tony feigned hurt, clutching his chest dramatically, rolling onto his back. “You wound me, Steve. You and your made up words.”
Steve opened his mouth, a snarky response on the tip of his tongue, but he was cut off by the redhead in the bed next to Tony.
“Oh my GOD, can you two stop flirting for two seconds so I can listen to the press tell me how beautiful I am?” Nat groaned, turning up the volume on the TV without looking at the now blushing boys next to her.
Steve’s entire face was red, but it was Tony that choked out a small noise of agreement. Neither of them would meet eyes again, the voice of the gossip journalist filling the awkward space between them. Neither of them wanted to think about Nat’s comment. By now they should be used to it. After three years of their band, there have been so many worse things said about their dubious friendship. But it didn’t mean anything, that they both swore on.
The journalist on the TV, Tara Hempstead, started recalling the events of the night, letting the young girl named Holly walk away and giggle with her hyper friends off camera. “Like usual, the band made a huge impact on the teenage population of Los Angeles tonight. So many new fans will be buying tickets for the rest of their tour, we’re sure of it.”
Nat turned and smiled brightly at Tony because of the comment. “Now Clint can get off our asses about spending too much on late night food runs.”
“On the slightly more dramatic side, Bruce Banner is hot off the edge of another ‘incident’.” The journalist continued, her voice changing slightly, as if she was already conspiring to spread more rumors. The three musicians all turned their attention to the TV then, trying to figure out how much the press had heard about the “incident” that night.
“At the end of their song ‘Kickstart My Heart’, Banner apparently got ‘too into the song’ and tore through his snare, setting off his anger issues. He then proceeded to throw his drum sticks into the audience, narrowly missing innocent fans, kicked through the bass drum, before storming off stage. The band was thankfully able to continue through their last song-”
Before Tara could finish her sentence, Bruce stepped into their room, as silent as he could be. But of course, not silent enough for Nat to not hear it, her hand immediately moving to switch off the TV. The boys were about to protest, before their eyes met their hot head drummer.
No one spoke for a good minute, the three of them watching Bruce’s every movement as he dropped his bag next to his bed and plopped down on the edge of it. Finally his voice broke the silence.
“It’s okay guys. I already heard what Tara’s got to say about me.” Bruce sighed, his voice defeated. “I’m reckless and dangerous. That’s all she ever says.”
“It’s not entirely your fault.” Steve reasoned.
Bruce finally met their prying eyes, his expression weak. “Who else’s fault could it be?”
That seemed to stop all other attempts from the three of them. Silence settled again, but this time heavy. It had been a long month. They had done the west coast part of their tour for the last two weeks, right after releasing their debut album EARTH’S MIGHTIEST HEROES. All of them were exhausted, and it was moments like these where they finally got to just sit and hear their own thoughts.
Eventually their door opened again, this time loud footsteps followed by expensive ones were what filled their room.
“You must all go out to celebrate!” Thor’s booming voice filled the room. Behind him, Clint followed, holding his phone as he typed furiously.
“What for, Point Break?” Tony said lazily, the nickname rolling off his tongue quicker than he could stop it.
Thor completely ignored the name, his arms open as he exclaimed. “Well, for the amazing performance tonight. There were lights, anger, expected throwing as well as unexpected. It was a perfect show.”
“I don’t know if me breaking through another drum set on stage and nearly hurting our fans is what I call ‘perfect’.” Bruce spoke around a self deprecating chuckle.
Thor just laughed, patting Bruce roughly on the back. “Silly man, of course it is. The fans love your angry outbursts and dangerous spirit. It adds to the band’s appeal.”
“Sure it does.” Nat mumbled, turning back on the TV, where Tara was still reporting on the show, this time with videos of the performance. The camera zoomed in on the anger on Bruce’s face as he smashed through his drums. They all turned to face the TV, Thor with a proud smile on his face as they watched.
Clint was the one to shut it down, finally shoving his phone in his pocket and reaching for the remote. “Nope, we’re shutting that off. Tonight was a great show, Thor’s right. Everybody loves the ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ change, Stark. Great addition to the set list.”
Tony mock saluted. “Anytime.”
“It’s really adding to our ticket sales. Young women are flocking in all across the country to buy tickets for the rest of the tour. We might even sell out the rest of the tour by next week.” Clint said, clapping his hands lightly.
For some reason, one part of that sentence caught on Tony’s brain, the words turning over in his head, festering as he half listened to the rest of Clint’s pep talk.
“No celebrating though.” Clint’s voice was stern. “All of you need to be up early tomorrow for the bus to Arizona. We are ready to start the next leg of our tour.”
Nat and Steve cheered halfheartedly, sarcastic tones in their voices. It’s not like they didn’t like performing, don’t get them wrong. But there hasn’t really been any time for them to rest over the last four weeks, instead driving all across the west coast, performing like zoo animals while gossip “journalists” drag their friends through the mud.
Clint basically dragged Thor out of the hotel room, speaking over his shoulder at the four musicians behind him. “Sleep. You all better be bright eyed as the day you signed on with SHIELD at seven tomorrow morning or else.”
Phoenix: “Julia!”
“Be a doll and sing along.”
Santa Fe: “Zara”
”Beautiful name. Sing along.”
Austin: “Courtney!”
“I can do that, Court. Now sing along.”
By the time the band was on the bus from Austin to Dallas, Tony couldn’t take it anymore. He knew they all loved the name change, but if he had to stare into one more girl’s eyes and tell her to sing along while he fucked up his own song, he was going to go crazy.
“I swear, Nat, half the time the names don’t even fit into the beat.” Tony sighed, exasperated as he leaned back into his seat. Nat was only half listening, her headphones on, playing some alternative rock band no one had ever heard of.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Tones. You asked to make this change to the set list, and it’s selling tickets. There’s no way Barton’s gonna let you cut it.” Nat mumbled halfheartedly. She wasn’t looking up as Tony dragged his hands down his face, dramatically dropping his head to her shoulder. She shoved him off her lightly, tapping the end of her pen against his head. “Maybe you should just figure out how to make the songs better for you.”
“Wow, thanks Nat. That’s soooo helpful” Tony rolled his eyes sitting up and facing the window to his right. Maybe Nat was right. Maybe he could make the best of his horrible idea.
It wasn’t like hearing the absolute miss of a rhyme in the song was really bothering him. It was the performance. He hated feeling like what he was singing wasn’t true. He wrote that song for a real girl, for someone he knew. Someone he could’ve loved. Now it felt superficial, like he was trying to create this illusion of a connection. Almost like he was selling off his feelings.
Tony watched as the state of Texas passed him. In his periphery he could see Steve sit down in the seat across from him. Tony tried not to move as he watched the blond get settled in the seat, pulling out his sketchbook and staring out the window. Something flickered in Tony’s heart for a moment. He pushed it down.
He was not going to think about that right now.
Instead he pulled out his travel notebook from the bag at his feet. He pulled out an old pen his mom gave him a long time ago and started writing. One thing Tony found out over the years is that if he just started writing, eventually he’d get a song.
Sometimes he couldn’t always control where it went.
The songs on the radio are okay
But my taste in music is your face
And it takes a song to come around to show you how
His eyes drifted up to the man across from him subconsciously. His hand moved before he could stop himself.
He's the tear in my heart, I'm alive
He's the tear in my heart, I'm on fire
He's the tear in my heart, take me higher
The words floated off the page as Tony stared at them. He did not dare to think about what they meant. No, instead he scribbled hasty little “s”’s before each line, trying to make them look natural. He shut the notebook quickly before his mind could dwell too long.
Tony just forced his eyes back to the road they drove on, not on the notebook in his lap that he held like a guilty man, not on the blond boy in front of him.
“Dallas, you know what time it is.” Nat’s voice boomed through the speakers. Tony had to fight to roll his eyes as he forced a playful smirk at the audience. Just play the part. “Let’s see who catches the microphone tonight.”
Tony watched as Steve threw his mic like he had dozens of times by now. The movement was practiced, not too far in the crowd, aimed for a group of eager girls, just playing a part. His pale shoulders flexed under his slightly damp white t-shirt. Tony didn’t allow his eyes to linger long enough to trace the tendons, instead focusing on following the microphone as it descended into the crowd.
“Alright, let's see who’s our lucky girl tonight.” Tony’s low voice spoke into his microphone. The screen next to him scanned the crowd, looking for the gracious recipient of the microphone. “What’s your name, honey, say something so we can see ya.”
At that moment Tony was thinking about anything else than the soft voice in his earpiece. That was until he heard something that made the entire stadium pause, and shock rise in his stomach.
“Tanner” the male voice spoke from the crowd, light blue eyes on every screen in the stadium. “My name’s Tanner.”
Tony could hear the gasps in the audience as everyone saw who caught the mic. He could feel the way his bandmates looked at each other, unsure of what he was going to do. He could feel the way every set of eyes was on him. He could hear Clint in his ear telling him to tell the kid to hand the mic off.
But for now he could go deaf.
“Okay, Tanner, I can make that work.” Tony smirked, winking at the fan in the stands nervously holding the microphone. He turned back to Bruce, signaling for him to start the beat, ignoring the way the drummer’s eyebrows might as well be in his hairline. After a good moment, the song started and they all got into it.
His name is Tanner
I have a dream about him
He rings my bell
I got gym class in half an hour
Oh, how he rocks
In Keds and tube socks
But he doesn't know who I am
And he doesn't give a damn about me
Tony doesn’t look into the audience as he sings the song, trying not to focus on anything but the lyrics he’s changing. It should feel foreign to him. But it doesn’t.
He danced along to the song like he normally would, turning to Nat and Steve during the chorus when the beat dropped. He tried not to think about how the press would take this, how Tara Hempstead would flip this. Tony just wanted to be in the song.
It was nearing the part he usually let the crowd sing. He knew they wouldn’t, knew that there was enough prejudice in his Texas crowd that they wouldn’t dare sing a song like this. But he did it anyway. He wanted the whole world to see their hate.
How does he know who I am?
And why does he give a damn about me?
“C’mon Dallas, sing it!” Tony shouted to the crowd.
I've got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby
Come with me Friday, don't say maybe
I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you
OOOOOOOOO
Tony finally faced the crowd, trying not to show the shock on his face when they screamed the lyrics, loud and slightly masculine. He jumped quickly back in the song for the closer, enjoying the moment that felt like freedom.
Oh, yeah, dirtbag
No, he doesn't know what he’s missin'
Oh, yeah, dirtbag
No, he doesn't know what he’s missin'...
The cheers of the audience were the loudest they’ve ever been on the tour so far, and Tony had to struggle to keep going with the last few songs. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, he was so happy.
All Tony could do was collapse onto the clean hotel bed in front of him. He couldn’t control the smile plastered across his face after the show. He was just so mesmerized by what happened, he almost couldn’t believe it.
Nat followed him into the room, throwing her bag onto the other bed in the room. He didn’t even look up when she flicked on the TV, the volume playing low in the background.
Her dry chuckle filled the empty space, her green eyes watching his child-like smile.
“So you like the song when it’s Tanner, huh?”
Tony didn’t even have it in him to tell her no, instead sitting up and looking her in the eyes.
Before he could answer, Steve and Bruce opened the door, moving into the room and dropping their stuff down on their respective beds. Steve’s brown leather back pack plopped down next to Nat’s black duffle. Bruce’s headphones were on and playing music loud enough to block the world out. The blond was smiling brightly too, his sharp blue eyes immediately meeting Tony’s.
“Stark, that song was amazing.” Steve tried to keep his voice from showing more than he wanted.
Tony laughed, though he wasn’t sure why. “Which one? ‘Across the Sea’?”
Steve just shook his head, stepping closer to Tony. “No, ‘Teenage Dirtbag’. I don’t know many people who’d sing something like that, especially in the middle of Texas.”
Tony just shrugged, trying to play off his own shock at the song. “I’m just doin’ my job.”
“Nah, it was more than that. It was…” Steve trailed off like he was trying to find the words. He grabbed the towel left on his bed, picking out his stuff for the shower as he thought. For a long second his eyes met Tony’s and something small passed between them. “I don’t know, it was awesome.”
Tony nodded, trying not to show how much that affected him as he watched the blond walk over to the bathroom and close the door. His eyes finally turned back to Nat, though severely more lovey dovey than before.
Nat just smirked, a knowing smile in her lips. “So, I’ll ask again. The song is good when it’s about a guy, right?”
Tony looked down at his hands, trying to make the smile on his face fade. His eyes trailed back up again, flicking to the door for a second before responding.
“Yeah, it’s the best when it’s about a guy.”
Ahhhhh I’m so excited to post this fic because I love writing for stony, especially when it’s part of a more complicated work!!!
This is what is supposed to go next chronologically: The Hempstead Files, 10/10/2012; then the next chapter: Across the Sea
Any interaction with this fic is greatly appreciated! Love ya guys!
summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust
word count 8K
content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.
a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language
masterlist | read on ao3
you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.
you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.
what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.
you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.
it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.
“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”
ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”
“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”
he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.
“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”
“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”
you sighed.
“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.
ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.
“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”
you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”
“so.... none of it?”
“exactly.”
pause.
just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.
“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”
“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”
you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”
he ignored you.
of course he ignored you.
the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.
for a second, nothing happened.
you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.
“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”
poof!
a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.
“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”
“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”
“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”
the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.
you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.
“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”
he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”
“define normal.”
“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”
you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”
“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”
you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”
“fair.”
then there was a beat.
“so.... that’s it?” you asked.
he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.
“that’s it.” he confirmed.
“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”
“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”
“great,” you muttered.
“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”
only for a while.
only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.
you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.
it should have been reassuring.
it wasn’t.
because about an hour in, you noticed something off.
not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.
you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.
“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”
ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”
“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”
“maybe you’re just stressed.”
you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”
you tried to ignore it.
it didn’t work.
because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.
you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.
“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.
except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.
this, whatever this was however, was far from it.
“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.
“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.
he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.
“....ryland?”
he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.
“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.
you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”
“fine. totally fine.”
“you don’t look fine.”
he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”
“you’re flushed.”
“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”
“....that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
you crossed your arms, studying him.
“you’re acting weird.”
ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.
“nothing. nothing. um—”
you frowned. “are you okay?”
“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.
“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.
by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.
“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.
ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.
he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.
your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.
you didn’t know why but it just happened.
you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.
you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—
you flinched.
jesus, what the fuck?
since when the fuck did you notice that?
nope. absolutely not.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.
it didn't.
you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.
that was a mistake.
because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.
your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.
and yet—
“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.
“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.
“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.
he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.
“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.
you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”
“you absolutely were.”
“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.
he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”
you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”
you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.
and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.
“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”
“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.
“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.
he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”
“obviously.”
“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.
he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.
“ryland.”
“....also very aware of you,” he finished.
pause.
“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”
“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”
you crossed your arms. “why?”
“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”
“i’m always here!”
“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”
you stared at him.
“more noticeable.” you repeated.
he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”
“it sounded very weird.”
“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”
“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”
“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.
you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.
then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.
“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”
“all of the above, probably.”
you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—
“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.
he went still. “what?”
you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”
“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”
you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”
“i don’t have a better word!”
“well, find one!”
“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”
you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”
“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”
“yep.”
“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”
“yep.”
“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”
he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”
you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”
“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.
“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”
you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.
you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.
“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”
“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”
“we observe.”
“we hypothesize.”
“we do not panic.”
“we are absolutely not panicking.”
you were both very clearly panicking.
“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”
“no judgment,” you agreed.
“elevated body temperature.” he started.
“check.”
“heightened sensory awareness.”
“check.”
“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”
you folded your arms tighter. “check.”
“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.
“check.”
he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”
“attraction?” you said bluntly.
he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”
the word hung there, heavy but accurate.
you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.
not just the symptoms.
the pattern.
your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.
you frowned, thinking harder.
“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”
“toxins,” he said automatically.
“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.
“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”
“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”
“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”
“so it’s not attacking us.”
“it’s affecting us.”
you both went quiet again, thinking.
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”
he stopped.
you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.
his entire posture went rigid.
“....no,” he said.
your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.
he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.
“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”
“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”
he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”
“okay....?”
“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”
“ryland.”
he stopped and looked at you.
you held his gaze.
“say it.”
he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.
“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”
your chest tightened.
“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”
your breath caught.
he exhaled, defeated.
“....pollen,” he finished.
silence.
thick.
absolute.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”
“so it’s not pollen.”
“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.
you both paused.
“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.
“yeah.”
another silence. longer this time.
he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”
he stopped himself.
you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”
he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.
you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.
to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.
you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.
“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.
he nodded, equally quiet.
“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”
“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”
“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”
you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”
“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.
“oh, jesus.”
another pause.
longer this time.
he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”
“wait it out,” you repeated.
“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”
“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.
“not even in a funny anecdote way.”
“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”
he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”
you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.
really looked.
the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—
“ryland,” you said slowly.
“yeah.” he did not look at you.
“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”
he let out a short, strained laugh.
“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”
your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”
his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”
pause.
you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.
the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.
you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.
“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”
you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”
he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”
“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.
“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.
you both paused.
“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.
“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”
another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.
another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.
you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.
it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.
and yet.
both of you looked away at the same time.
he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”
you perked up. “yeah?”
“isolation.”
silence.
“what?” your voice came out small.
“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”
you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m not kidding.”
“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”
“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”
you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”
“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”
“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.
he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”
you stared at him. really stared this time.
“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”
“yes.”
“yao and ilyukhina are—”
“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.
“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”
“we’ll adjust.”
“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”
his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”
“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”
“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.
you took a step closer without thinking.
his entire body reacted.
it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.
that alone made your point for you.
you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”
he didn’t answer.
you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”
“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.
“or it could be days,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue.
“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.
“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.
you stilled. “what alternative?”
he didn’t say anything.
which, unfortunately, was an answer.
you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”
“we really don’t,” he said quickly.
“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”
he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
“ryland—”
“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”
you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”
“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”
“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”
“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.
“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”
“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”
“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”
he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.
“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”
“we might not have a choice,” you said.
“we always have a choice.”
“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”
he flinched. barely, but enough.
“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”
your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.
“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”
“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”
“you don’t believe that.”
he didn’t answer.
you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.
“look at me,” you said.
he did.
“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”
his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”
“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”
“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.
“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”
you followed without realizing.
“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”
“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.
the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.
you frowned slightly. “what?”
he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”
“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”
“is it?” he asked quietly.
that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.
“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”
you stared at him.
he looked away again, jaw tight.
“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”
“it is for me,” he said.
there was a beat.
“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”
“i know,” he said. “i know that.”
“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”
“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”
pause.
you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”
“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”
you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.
“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”
“at what cost?”
a beat.
he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.
his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.
“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”
you didn’t answer right away.
he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”
there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.
“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”
you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.
“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”
“maybe not,” he admitted.
“then—”
“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.
you blinked. “ryland—”
“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”
“even if it makes things harder?”
“yeah,” he said. “even then.”
you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.
“you’re really that set on this,” you said.
“yeah,” he said quietly.
another pause.
“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”
he nodded once.
“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”
“we reassess,” he said immediately.
neither of you moved.
just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.
like it could disappear in a second.
like he might cross it.
like you might let him.
his jaw tightened.
his shoulders went rigid again.
and for a split second, he looked like he might—
but then he turned away.
“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”
you swallowed. “okay.”
“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”
“right.”
—
you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.
you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.
“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”
another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.
your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.
ryland’s voice.
ryland’s face.
ryland's arms.
ryland's hair.
just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.
with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.
“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”
you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.
“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”
you closed your eyes and tried to focus.
in.
out.
in—
“mhmmph—”
pause.
you blinked an eye open.
what—
“mhmphhh— fuckk—”
—the hell was that?
you tilted your head slightly, listening.
at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.
but then—
“oh, please— please—”
it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.
and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.
you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall
unmistakenably ryland.
he was in the room next to yours.
awake.
and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.
he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.
heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.
is he—
no.
no way.
no fucking way.
another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.
you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.
dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.
option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.
option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.
you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.
“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”
you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.
“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”
you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.
you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.
your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.
“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”
a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.
you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”
a beat.
“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.
before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.
no turning back now.
inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.
ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.
you didn’t give him time to speak.
you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.
he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.
for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.
then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.
the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.
after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.
“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”
“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.
you blinked. “what?”
“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”
you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”
“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”
“current events,” you repeated.
“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”
“and that data is?”
“i need you.”
a beat.
“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.
“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”
you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”
“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.
you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”
“yeah?” he laughed too.
“yeah.”
“can i kiss you again then?”
you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”
this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.
you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.
his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.
naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.
you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”
“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.
“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.
you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.
only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.
then you started to move.
slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.
gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.
“ryland— fuck, just like that—”
“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”
it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.
“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”
you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.
for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.
ryland was staring at the ceiling.
very intently.
like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.
“....so,” you said eventually.
“so,” he echoed.
another pause.
you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”
he didn’t look at you.
“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”
you snorted. “wow. rude.”
“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”
“mostly,” you repeated.
“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”
you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”
“for the record, i did not consent to that.”
fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”
“unfortunately, yes.”
“and then to me.”
he hesitated.
“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”
you stared at him for a second.
then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”
“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”
“i could tell.”
another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.
“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”
he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”
“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”
“you did not hear everything.”
“ryland.”
he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”
“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”
“please, just kill me already.”
“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”
“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.
“just making sure.”
he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”
“oh, constantly.”
“i walked into that one.”
“you really did.”
another quiet moment passed.
you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.
“....hey,” he said after a while.
“yeah?”
there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”
it caught you off guard.
not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.
you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”
he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.
“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”
he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”
another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.
eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.
you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.
he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”
your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.
“…me neither,” you murmured.
that was the last coherent thing either of you said.
because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
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I’ve finally decided to post the actual writing for the avengers rock band au!!!
First chapter will be out this week(I’m thinking Friday but I can be convinced for sooner). Drop any ideas for the name of this fic in the comments because I am in desperate need of an official name.
Anyway love yall, check out my Masterlist posts for some chapter titles and playlists and I’ll see ya soon!
