Series Summary: Amidst growing sexual tension in your shared home - often alone due to your mother's business trips, you and Steve Rogers, a police officer and your stepfather, finally engage in a forbidden relationship... that is soon joined by his best friend, Bucky Barnes.
Series Warnings: MDNI, stepcest, daddy kink, dom/sub dynamics, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, choking, rough sex, cokwarming, ice play, creampie, age gap (reader is of age), power imbalance, degradation, physical punishement (spanking), a little of emotional manipulation, masturbation, punishement play, possessive control, cum play, mention of infidelity (Steve cheats on his wife with reader)
Some others may be added as the writing goes further.
Pairing: Stepdad! Steve Rogers x Reader x (step)DBF! Bucky Barnes
summary; you and dean have been a “thing” for a while, but given your.. biological nature, your relationship never goes anything past nasty fucking lovemaking. after all, this is just “testing the waters” or whatever. it's not like anything major will happen between you two.. right? 6.2k words
content; heavy smut. alpha/omega dynamics. alpha!dean/omega!reader. age gap (like 10-12 years?). pussy-whipped!dean. mentions of sterilisation/sexism (because.. hunters). vaginal sex. knotting/marking. crying during sex (DEAN!!). use of pet-names ("sweetheart"/"kid"/"pup"). breeding/biting/bondage kink. slight angst/trauma. established relationship. squirting. slight manipulation (dean wants to boink!). set around season 11.
any notes? thank u for 800!! honestly, y'all can blame @samcests for this one. she convinced me to write alpha!dean, even though we all know he's the og omega princess. but the horniness got to me! don’t worry; dean is needy and cries for like.. all the smut. so. enjoy. oh, and title from miss sabrina carpenter’s iconic juno. love y’all!
you’ve known about the winchesters for a while.
infamous across all fifty states, you’ve been taught to be weary of them. until you met them on a vampire case just shy of four years ago; the type of case that’s scented with death and unsavoury things, the bitterness of things better left unsaid. you’d crossed paths purely by chance– you’ve never been the type to seek people, or rather help, out, unless you really have to– but they’re the type to be attracted to danger. or just attract danger in general. so, you kept a distance, tried to make it through the case without losing a limb (or your mind).
but then dean had decapitated a vampire in order to stop it from turning you. that’s when the infatuation started.
you call it that, infatuation, because you’re not entirely convinced that this is love. more a means of survival. you decided to stick with them after the case, follow them around like a lost puppy, even live with them. they’ve got a lot that you don’t– skills, smarts (debatable), and a whole lot of experience– and, hey, they might be useful.
anyway. that’s how it began.
now? the shared bathroom sink is lined with your expensive skincare products (dean’s never one to shy away from pulling a few more credit card scams to buy what you like), neatly arranged next to sam’s fancy shampoo and a razor that’s seen better days. mornings are spent arguing what to have for breakfast– whether it’s okay to have pancakes, again, or something healthier should be whipped up. there’s evenings that are spent enshrouded in comfortable silence, the only noise coming from sam flicking through another lore book or dean opening another beer.
something settles and loosens, but also tightens. conversations that can only exist in the private sanctuary of the bunker; nostalgic memories that have more biting angst and resentment to them than necessary; haphazard patch-ups of knife and gun injuries, accompanied by dean’s bravado act that’s seen better days getting the best, and simultaneously worst, of him. but vulnerability is never a weapon. never a monster that needs to be slain. or ganked, for that matter.
vulnerability is allowed to exist here. and, sure, sometimes it’s not appreciated, a desperate need to “man up” and take control– typically outspoken in a heat of unadulterated rage– and sometimes it’s left to simmer. it’s not all the time, though; not unlike some hunters you’ve spent time with, who decide that letting your walls down can only be stupidity. no– life with the winchesters is something else entirely. almost a dream.
but then real life cuts in– all thorns, no roses. because you can’t shield yourself in the bunker forever, hide away from the world for good. there’s the job, the life; hunting.
hunting means removing oneself entirely. take yourself away from the politics and general bullshit of life. chew up all the niceties and make yourself bloody; forget you were ever human. there’s no devotion in this way of living. there are only the means of survival.
and survival means everything to dean. it’s how he gets through the day; if he lives, great, it’s another victory to him. but it’s the macabre nature of his life that ensnares him, leaves him trapped in a prison of generational trauma and living up to his deceased father’s expectations. you know he’s seen more depravity and carnage than you ever have, haunted by it through the mantra of needing to keep going. blur out anything he’s seen, everyone he’s saved. really– only the losses are counted for. those are the ones that stick.
even then, it’s not the end. the horrors of day-to-day life follow him into sleep, and it’s only when you are there, next to him, that he seems to allow himself to feel safe. constantly seeking out subconscious reassurance, as if the sudden absence of you will kill him.
survival is imbedded into dean. anything else is an afterthought.
for someone who’s been possessed by a demon, carried the mark of cain, been to hell and purgatory (and a bunch of other things that take too long to list), this should be nothing new. he’s lived under such intense pressure and scrutiny that is designed to break a person entirely, it shouldn’t faze him.
and yet, this does; your relationship.
it’s almost humiliating. for both of you.
that binding of biological nature that keeps two people entwined. the slight chemical imbalance that attracts one to another like magnets that can’t be ripped apart. a sexual desire to become one as you can’t live without them.
alpha and omega.
heat cycles, ruts, knotting; the whole nine yards.. then increased tenfold once you find your partner. or maybe it’s just you two. you tend to fuck like depraved animals who have to mate or die. oh, and dean’s just incredibly strange sometimes when it comes to sex.
it was only when you got together that the problems arose. the feelings had been there for a while– never verbalised because you can acknowledge the hefty age gap and the issues that surround it, and dean’s, well.. dean– so nothing happened. your relationship stagnated. until one drunken night at a bar in rhode island and suddenly, you were both laying your cards on the table. flying the white flag of surrender. sam was just glad that you two wouldn’t keep flirting-but-not-flirting in front of him anymore.
after that, you both claimed you were “taking it slow”. you both claimed it was “testing the waters; nothing serious”. you both claimed, privately, that this was just some response to trauma; it wouldn’t lead to anything major..
..and then, he claimed you.
no pre-warning. no conversation. dean just.. did it. bit down on your neck with such attentive precision, such nauseating depravity– such love– that you couldn’t focus on anything else afterwards. you could’ve died for all you knew. and all because he had to have you– for good.
then again, you’ve always been claimed. your heart has always been his. you just never knew it.
you’ve known people who go through life and never meet “the one”– your volatile parents, for example, who made a “life-long and regrettable mistake” one drunken night but stayed together, for you– but you knew that couldn’t be you. life always changes, especially when you’re a hunter, and nothing ever seems stable when you’re prone to constant losses. you needed something permanent. you just didn’t expect that “something permanent” to be some 6’1 hunter with a penchant to fight dirty, and fuck dirtier.
and ever since then, the two of you have been inseparable. it’s not like it’s some scandal for two hunters to be together, though, some gossip-rag level of news that’ll leave the whole world in shock. no– because considering who you are, and who the winchesters are, there’s much more pressing issues in the world.
it’s just worse when the.. biological matters come to light, though; sure, you carry dean's scent on you like a medal of valour, and you’ve both got matching teeth marks directly on your mating glands, but that’s natural. there’s rules to this soul-binding– they’re not written, not spoken, but they do exist. and for good reason. a slip-up in human behaviour can become an investigation for the masses. scrutinised for acting on an instinct that leans into something animalistic and primal, abandoning any sense of humanity.
and then there’s you two– acting as if these rules don’t apply. it’s when the lines between sanity and insanity blur. where dean’ll get possessive over you in public, practically ready to rut into you when someone dares to even glance at you, but follows after you like you’ve got him leashed or something the split-second that you’re in private. or how you seem to always– always– be in his lap, and yet find yourself questioning why all of your underwear seem to be wet constantly.
but you two aren’t all that perverted. he’ll put his hands on your abdomen to try and relieve your cramps when you’re in heat, do anything and everything you need and ask. you’ll avoid him when he’s in a rut, because you know how disgustingly insatiable he gets. better yet, it’s easier to simply remove yourself from the whole of kansas when he’s like that, not just the bunker. he’s got the internet, after all. and you two have the ability to self-restrain; you’re both very aware of what your passionate.. lovemaking can lead to.
it’s not like you haven’t discussed it– the concept of having a child. but, of course, you’re “testing the waters”, and you’re pretty sure that mating in order to produce something more than an orgasm doesn’t fall under that. and whilst you know that dean totally could be a dad, you’re both hunters. you know from those brief moments of vulnerability, when it’s allowed, that he’s still terrorised by his dad. and you’re not even sure you even want kids.
suppressants can only take you so far. over the years, you’ve been told repeatedly by women to get sterilised, remove the problem altogether, and yes you smile and nod and accept their advice, you never do it. even though, in this line of work, it’s probably best to do it. it’d mean no more leers, nor distasteful glances from other hunters; how your biological, rather sexual, needs are a major issue to them, particularly male hunters. and, of course, you’ve heard all the tales about how motherhood ruins a hunter’s career. you don’t need to lose your passion, not anymore than he should lose his. all or nothing, as the saying goes.
however, in cases such as right now, you really wish you’d taken the advice.
you can’t remember how you got here– or where you are, or what day it even is– but you know one thing is for certain; you’re in heat. it’s brutal, like someone’s peeling off your skin and twirling your muscles and bones into ribbons, and all you can do is focus on the pain.
something sharp hits deep inside of your abdomen, like taking holy glass and piercing you, trying to make you new. except it’s anything but. you’ve known your heats to be frustrating, never without pain, but it’s never been anything like this. the slightest of movements make you feel as if there’s minuscule needles being stuck in you at random, leaving you unable to move from your current hiding space.
needless to say, everything hurts.
you’re sure that this is your worst heat ever, intensified by the fact that you have run out of suppressants and never bothered to get anymore, and you’re possibly, most definitely going to die–
“what’re you doin’ in here?”
your eyes snap open. looking up through blurred vision, your head hazy with exhaustion and lust, you find dean standing in the doorway. he’s got his arms folded over his face, brows furrowed as he stares down at you. he seems unable to enter the space any further, as if there’s some invisible barrier between the two of you, and you make no movement to get up.
this is weird– this space and everything inbetween– and though you’re not exactly in the headspace to go off and chase monsters, you know something is off. for a start, your bond keeps you two attached at the hip, so your sudden disappearance was obviously going to affect him sooner or later. hell, he’s probably combed every inch of the bunker, meticulously searching for you until you turn up. as long as you’re not dead, it should be enough. but it’s not.
you left him. it’s the last thing you should’ve done, especially given your current state. and it’s a slap to the face, the refusal–
huh. you can see why dean’s concerned. sort of.
you look up at him again, silently seeking confirmation. you’re right– whilst you’re all hot and needy, he stares down at you like a man starved. it takes him a minute catch up on what’s going on here– as if the heavy scent in the air wasn’t enough– and in an instant, his gaze becomes hunger; something only to be satiated by your warm, wet cunt.
“what’re you doin’, pup?” he asks again. you notice how he shudders slightly, a perverted and delighted grin spreading across his face. he’s beginning to slowly make his way into.. wherever you both are, as if he doesn’t know. but you know how this works; he wants the confirmation, the biting thrill that comes with knowing that he is what you need to feel better. makes him all important.
but all you can think about is that if dean gets any closer, you’ll knee him in the groin.
“hurting,” you reply. your mind is anywhere but this current conversation– particularly in the heat in your abdomen that refuses to give you a second of peace– and you don’t notice how weak you sound. how much it sounds like you’re trying to egg him on, adding fuel to this forsaken fire between you two. “‘m fine, though.”
and as he lets out a short laugh, clearly not fooled by your lies, you turn your head away and bury it into one of his nearby flannels. you clamp your thighs together at the scent. maybe you do want him.
he’s at the side of the bed now, and you can feel how he seems to hesitant on sitting down or staying where he is. the mattress moves slightly, his knee nudging the side of it, and you snap your head back up at him, frowning.
“go away,” you warn. every second dean spends in your secluded– horny– vicinity, the wetter you feel your underwear grow. you’ve been here before; you know how this real-life porno will end if he keeps pushing you. and he will, because that’s what a caring, pussy-whipped boyfriend does. “‘m serious.”
but dean doesn’t listen. “y’realise where you are, right?”
deciding that playing along is the only way to get him to leave you alone, despite the full-body crippling ache you feel blooming inside of your body, you finally raise your head properly and look around the room.
it’s the storage room, you realise, where you’ve formed some nest in the corner on the single bed. the old dean bed; the one he had before you were a thing, before you convinced him to buy a bigger, better one because it was too small for sleeping together on. oh, and sex.
you’re curled up in a ball, as tight as you possibly can. you’ve found that pressing your knees into your abdomen and stomach seems to alleviate some pressure (and, sure, you could’ve just asked him to hold you, but something about this heat– or just life in general– told you that was a bad idea, you’re not one to question fate), as you periodically bury your face into the collection of stolen items of clothing you’ve nicked from him in the passing weeks.
right now, like a mother protecting its young, your only goal right now is to keep the nest safe, undisturbed. and that goal does not involve your boyfriend fucking you raw.
“i just wanted to be alone, okay?” you shoot back, your voice laced with agitated tiredness. “i don’t need my boyfriend to come rushing to my aid every time that i’m– i– y’know–”
“jesus, how old are you? sixteen? ‘s not exactly like you’re on your period or somethin’; it’s au naturale,” dean scoffs, as he slumps down on the bed next to you. the mattress dips slightly, your body naturally curving into yours, and you have to bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from jumping at him. “sweetheart, y’ever consider how i feel when you get like this? or what i’m even feelin’.. like right now?”
you frown, letting the question wash over you a few times. through a lust-ridden mind, his words might as well be insolvable puzzles. he might as well be from some multiverse, another planet even, because nothing makes sense. your breathing goes heavy as you try to decipher what he’s said.
he’s gone back to grinning at you, relishing in your torture that’s now enhanced tenfold, but you won’t be beaten that easily; so even as your stomach goes all funny in guilty, suspicious knots, you’re determined to find an answer.
you stick to the most basic of basics. it can’t be the latest case– typical vampire case in kansas; practically in their own backyard, which you all wrapped up in a day– because it went well. something heavy’s weighting on you now, as your thoughts travels through wormholes and rabbit’s burrows to only bring you to dead ends and further questions. maybe he’s just pretending, fucking with you in order to fuck you.
so, you focus on dean . mainly, because he’s right there. so close, and yet, so far. it’s unfair– he’s probably acting on instinct, waiting for those wanting words of “i need you”, because you’re just as pathetic for him as he is for you. but also, he might not. despite this short-lived separation, your brains are both hardwired to want one another, to seek each other out when needed. when it’s so necessary that the world itself might be ending.
this is worse than the loneliness you feel when you have to abandon him during a rut, or the emptiness you feel when your heat ends and he’s not looking after you 24/7; whatever this is, it’s real. and yet, you can’t have him, not properly, because the world says so, and you say so. however, even as your brain screams at you about anything and everything people can (and will) say about you, your body curls into him. and that’s when it hits you.
the answer has literally been in front of you all this time.
it’s dean.
he’s looking at you the same way he does when he’ll practically whimper about how much he loves you as he fucks you, teeth sinking into you as saliva wets your skin. those eyes you’ve seen convey a thousand and one emotions, certain feelings that start to seep into yours and blur the lines where you end and he begins. and he smells all wrong. he smell like he’s– wait–
the stars have well and truly aligned, and in turn, have cast upon both of you the worst, and most depraved, fate possible.
you’re both in heat.
your eyes flick down. “sorry, it’s just–” and the words get caught in your throat, your brain attempting to form some ill-formed lie. however, you can’t think of anything. can’t think of anything except your boyfriend fucking you raw. “it’s not like i– like i don’t want you, but–”
“but you still want me,” dean finishes for you, even though it contradicts what you just said. “y’made your nest outta all my crap, pup. god– i can smell you all over my stuff that you haven’t brought in here. and what do i get, huh? fuck-all.. well, i get sammy up my ass ‘cause you decided to go awol on me in a time of fuckin’ need.”
your face burns, and you go to bury it in the bare mattress. it’d been stupid to think he wouldn’t have noticed that, especially when you’d been rutting against your shared bed on nights when he wasn’t there– probably caught up in some tv show in the dean cave or whatever– burying your tear-stained face into the pillow just from the sheer thought of him. all whilst he was about ten-feet away from you.
and now? now, you’ve woken up every morning for three days straight, wet, sticky and ashamed, and yet unable to ask him– your boyfriend– to take care of your problem. it’s why you’re avoiding him.
shame.
“you belong to me, ‘kay? and especially your pussy,” he tells you, giving you no room to argue. it’s worse when you feel his hand rest heavily on your thigh, and it’s worse when you feel his fingers graze your cunt. not your best idea to wear just a hoodie and underwear, but you didn’t expect your brief, depression intermission to cut into your heat like this. you didn’t think you’d need to put in effort. “can make you all better if you let me, kid.. make me better as well.”
and before you can answer, he pins you to the small bed by the throat, his hand resting against your pulse. dean’s trying to control himself, trying to be gentle as he can to avoid hurting you, but you can see in his eyes that it’s him who’s hurting. and it’s understandable– that biological, primal, instinct is what’s driving him at the moment, telling him what to do. controlling him like a marionette. you can’t blame him. not ever.
through your slightly stagnant breathing, you notice his eyes glass over. you’ve never known dean winchester to cry, but crying because you won’t let him fuck you? it’s a new low.. or maybe, a new high. “i can’t lose you as well,” he mutters, his face contorting into a frown. it’s dark, something you’ve never seen before– like he blames you– and it scares you. “gotta stop runnin’ from me. gotta let us do what we have to do, pup, ‘cause it’s what fate wants us to do.. to be together..”
“you’ll always have me,” you babble, not sure if you mean it or not. subconsciously, you do, but with the way your cunt pulses and aches as he forces your legs apart, you’ll say anything and everything to get him inside you within the next ten seconds. “but– if you could just– help–”
his hand presses against your mating gland, making you all the more dumb and eager for him. “oh? so now y’want me to help you?” and when you whimper in response, the hand on your throat tightens.
dean knows that you get a bit.. sensitive when he chooses to silence you– if he’s not biting and marking you up, that is– all simply by choking you. choosing when you can and can’t make those sweet noises that drive him feral.
he likes it. that control. some of the only control he has in life.
“you always gonna be mine, yeah?” he asks, although you know you have zero say in this. you let out a strangled moan as his rough fingers press down on your gland again, wet teeth shining in the dim light as he relishes in your reaction. “yeah– fuckin’ thought so, sweetheart.”
this is the final straw for dean; before you know it, he’s burying his face into your neck, completely pinning you to the bed from the force he uses. he licks and nips at whatever he can get– your jaw, your neck, everything– like he’s on a one-man mission to make everyone know who you belong to. “gonna make you smell like me– is that what you want?” he mutters against your skin, and you feel him smirk as you nod feverishly. “god, gonna do so much more than make you smell like me..”
his hands grab and grope at you, keeping your body as close to him as possible. you shiver when his hands venture up and under your hoodie, pawing at your aching breasts and making you whimper. “baby, please,” you beg, feeling for his hand through the thick material and keeping him there. “make it better for me.”
he’s groaning into your neck now, muttering something incoherent about how he’ll do whatever you want. it’s funny– for a man like him, to come so quickly undone at the slightest of affection. your affection. or maybe, it’s just all your perversions. but you don’t think about that right now. instead, you bring yourself to the more.. pressing matters you have to deal with.
such as his knot, which you can now feel pressing firmly against you wet cunt. he grinds into you feverishly, that hard bulge making you whimper underneath his aggressive yet loving touch. “gotta have you now,” dean murmurs into your skin, the words so quiet, and yet so loud– you swear that they’re being imprinted into you, a reminder that you’ll forever (and only) be his. “gotta– fuck– gotta make you feel so good, sweetheart..”
he’s more needy than you are, bucking his hips into your cunt like he’s already in you. his teeth catch against your mating gland as he whines, hands forcing your legs as far apart as they can possibly go. you let out a small, stuttered gasp as you feel his cock pulse against your clothed cunt, pre-cum leaking from the tip and staining your underwear. he’s hesitant, you realise, never actually sinking his teeth into your neck like he usually does, instead just runs his tongue over the same spot, savouring your taste.
all the smallest of movements leave you whimpering, grinding for more, your hands scratching at his flannel shirt. a silent plea for him to give you more, but he doesn’t– he’s teasing you, some sadistic punishment, and all because you avoided him. his hands grope at your ass as his mouth finds yours, teeth and tongue bumping consistently like you both can’t get enough of each other. with one hand, you try to tug your underwear done, let him see how you’re ready for him, and eventually his hand finds your fumbling one, helping you get them off.
he pulls back for a moment, panting as he examines you. you’re splayed out under him, waiting with held breath for him to make the next move. it’s agonisingly slow– an act that takes seconds feeling like hours– and you begin to paw at him.
“no, no– not yet, sweetheart,” through gritted teeth, dean takes both your hands into his, shaking his head. “wanna make this really good f’you; give you what you need, ‘kay?”
and as soon as you nod, despite how miniscule and reluctant it is, he lets go of your hands and begins un-doing his belt. he shoves down his jeans just enough to free himself, before grabbing ahold of your hips and beginning to turn you over. you start to mutter some incoherent protest, babbling about how you want to see his face and all– as if this isn’t some animalistic ritual where you two are about to fuck like it’s your last day on earth– but he simply shushes you, pinning your wrists behind your back.
“this isn’t fair,” you mutter, as your face meets the mattress. however, your complaints go unnoticed as he ties his belt around your wrists, the soft click of the buckle securing you. you feel yourself pout, even if he can’t see your face. “dean–”
but you cut yourself off as you feel his bare cock against the curve of your ass, pre-cum dripping onto your skin like melted wax. you shift against him, pressing yourself up to him in desperate need of him to fuck you. with a guttural groan, he slowly begins to push into you, taking his time as to not hurt you, one hand holding onto your restrained wrists.
“just– gotta take my time with you,” you hear dean say, as you already begin to clamp down on him. even with just a few inches in you, it feels good– your body still craves everything, though, that perverse ailment to soothe your needs. and when he pushes you a little too much into the mattress, your hips roughly bumping into the firmness of it, you jerk slightly, a weak moan escaping your lips as your clit meets the surface. this is enough to cause him to snap. “fuck, sweetheart, i– ican’ttakeit–”
he’s even more incoherent as you, as he stretches you out with his cock. “feelin’ so good f’me today,” he tells you, his cock pulsing inside of you violently. of course, this is one of the rare occasions where dean hasn’t worked you up– pushed you to near-orgasm territory again and again, all with the simply use of his fingers; had you crying and begging for him to fuck you– so you can’t help to cry out at the burning that begins to bloom, your nails digging into your palms.
“hey, hey– none of that, yeah?” you stop your sniffling just enough to hear him, turning your head so you can see him out of the corner of your blurry vision. his face immediately softens, and you can feel his hand pulling at your clenched ones. “don’t need to be all like that when you’ve got me, pup. promise– gonna stop you feelin’ all that pain.”
you bite your bottom lip. “you promise?” the words sound like someone else’s; all child-like and full of blind belief. but it’s also dean. you know that whatever he promises, he’ll see it to his dying days to make sure it stays true for you.
“yeah– i always will,” and he gently begins to rock his hips (as if that makes his promise anymore real; but with your lust-ridden mind, you think it does), working himself deeper until he’s buried at the hilt. he’s got one hand on your waist, the other on your shoulder, as his knot bumps up against your entrance. he doesn’t force it in– much unlike other guys you’ve met, who always attempt to– much rather focuses on thrusting into you, seeing how much you can take. “see? bet that you’re already better than you were– and all because of me.”
the combination of his knot, already so swollen as it nudges up against your cunt with each thrust, as well as the wet, vulgar sounds that emanate throughout the room make you whine, pushing your ass back into him. he fucks into your faster, harder, pulling you up so you’re on your knees as he attacks your neck. his teeth never actually sink in, just graze the same spot– your mating gland– over and over.
“fuckin’ need you so bad,” dean groans pathetically, arms wrapping around your body like a snake trapping its prey. you can feel his face pressed against the space where your neck and shoulder meet, something wet mixing with the slick that seeps from your gland and you sweat. tears. “you– you have no idea how much i need you–”
“ineedyoutoo,” you babble out, as quickly as you possibly can before you go back to whimpering and whining. every time he brushes up against your gland, it messes with your brain– you’re so desperate for him to claim you, to knot you, and yet, you can’t find the words to ask. “‘m never gonna leave you again, please–”
as the tip of his cock begins to tap up against your cervix, his hands sneak back up and under your hoodie, finding your tits and groping them. you shudder at the roughness, biting down on your bottom lip as his knot stretches your cunt open just a little bit every time he thrusts into you.
“gotta make you full of me, yeah? give you a– a kid an' all?” he cries into your neck, hands moving down your body until they rest in front of your abdomen. dean presses down gently, making you groan, feeling for himself. his thrusts have grown more erratic, lost of that certain rhythm that kept him in control. you can tell how eager he is to do it, to finally knot you, and for once, you’re not going to say no. “gotta put it in you– gotta– shit–” he stops himself from crying out once more by sinking his teeth into your flushed skin; instead, it’s your turn to cry. “gotta fill you up with me, pup– got it?”
you’ve started to sob now, your own cries competing with his. your cunt keep spasming around him as he drags his cock against your walls each time he thrusts in and out, trying to keep him in place. when you do this, you can hear him grit his teeth, his nails instinctively dig into your abdomen like you’re actually hurting him. however, it’s not until your cunt tighten around him a little too hard– even with your slick gushing over of you and soaking the both of you– that he lurches forward and almost knocks you over.
it’d be fine.. if his knot hadn’t (finally) made its way inside of you.
the noise you make might as well be a warning sound. you cry out so loudly that it’s on the verge of a scream, and dean clamps a hand over your mouth, occasionally slipping from the wetness of your face. he keeps fucking into you, though, now officially up and in your guts as his knot keeps him in place. your muffled noises seem to just encourage him; the only thing, aside from you, that will satiate his depraved, animalistic appetite.
“thank you,” he whine into your neck, ignoring how you struggle against his firm hold. every time that you feel his cock pulse and throb within you, you can’t help but to push yourself away from him, like you’re trying to escape.. something. “fuckin’– stop it, now. ‘m not lettin’ you go now, pup– gotta finish this off.”
and despite how gruff he sounds, how exasperated he is that you’re still refusing to let him properly mate with you, he drops his hand from your mouth, holding you firmly to his chest. you can tell he’s about to cum– the way he’s gone deathly silent, except for the pathetic, albeit aggressive noises he makes. with an occasional mutter of how “y’mine” and “needyounow”, he pants and whimpers loudly against your gland, getting dangerously close to biting down on your sore flesh. he’s still thrusting into you with that frenzied pace, until he suddenly seizes up and stills.
the first load of his cum is enough to make you choke. you can feel his heavy cock jerk and pulsate inside of you, his knot impressively pushing deeper into you as he fucks his cum into you. the thickness of his knot, however, ensures that nothing leaks out, stuffing you until you’re sure that you cannot physically hold any more. but it keeps coming out, making you gasp a little when dean's shaking hand presses tentatively down on your sensitive and full abdomen.
another gush of warm cum floods your cunt, this time heading past your cervix– simply because there’s nowhere else for it to go. he keeps rutting into you, not as hard and feverish as before, but just enough to make sure he’s breeding you. “‘m so proud of you– did so good f’me,” he groans against you neck once more, praising you as his teeth nip at your gland. your tilt your head a little, giving him better access; you’re already bonded to him, for good, so this is nothing more than a reassurance. a re-do of the first time you had sex together. the knotting was just to make sure you didn’t get away. and if you were to get pregnant..
“do it– please!” you cry, your pulse loud in your ears. “wanna be yours forever!”
the puncture hurts at first– you’re forever sore from the amount of times dean sinks his teeth into your neck, even if it should be second nature at this point– but you’re distracted by that brief ach of pain as you feel your cunt squirt around him, grinding your ass back into him. all this does is cause him to sink his teeth in further, harder, like he refuses to let go of you. he grunts against your flesh, mumbles something completely unintelligible, before he finally releases you.
“gonna give you everythin’ you need,” he’s ragged, his pent-up frustrations defeated from his primal.. exertions. his cock occasionally throbs in you, his knot stretching you out more and more as his keeps pushing his cum into you. “promise ‘m gonna give you a baby if that’s what i have to do to keep you, pup.. can’t have you gettin’ away anymore..”
he still holds you firmly to his chest, the two of you breathing and panting heavily. you merely nod in agreement to whatever he’s saying, not properly taking in anything. it’s not like you do plan on leaving him– probably not ever after.. this– and hearing what he says to you, promises you, makes something bloom in your chest. it’s not dread (something you’ve felt before when guys try to mate and then get all controlling over you), but something that calms you; a silent reminder that he means good by his words, no matter how delirious he may sound.
maybe it’s not love, not yet, but it’s getting there.
it’s nice.
however. your brief moment of comforting reassurance is broken when dean starts talking again..
“maybe we should get you a more.. permanent mark,” he casually comments, between soft licks against the bite mark, as he seals the bond. he’s still got you to his chest, and you can feel the slight irritation that claws at your throat when you can sense his wicked grin. “how bare is your lower back?”
smoking for the first time in a long time and ben is making me sooooo horny
~ ~ ~
the stern glances, the smirks, the way he could just throw you if he wanted too. and he’d make you suck him off when you were high, even give you some more to encourage the ditzy and slutty behavior.
those deep groans and hits against your cheek by his big palm, laughing at how wrecked you were. he would absolutely love all the spit and messiness. “Suck some more down, baby. Awh, you like it? Like suckin’ on my fuckin’ dick? Want my nut, baby?”
summary. homelander is coming to talk to his father when he stumbles upon the two of you in bed.
contents. MDNI!!!!! f!reader, s5 spoilers, sub reader, pet names, dark content, ben/reader with homelander pov, voyeurism, dacryphilia, overstimulation, cunnilingus, typical homelander behavior & gross soldier boy behavior, weird family dynamics, homelander god talk, also ben is kinda softish and in love, reader isn't a supe — 2.5k words
notes. i started this like two weeks ago, so it's not exactly compliant with the plot anymore but i'm posting anyway. forgive me if i write homelander poorly </33 i am experimenting
It’s rare that Homelander considers his timing poor—even rarer that he believes his choices are anything but divine intervention, a cosmic hand nudging their worldly God in the right direction.
He’s getting off the elevator when he first questions that belief, wonders what message could possibly be received from the intimate act he’s stumbled upon. A sharp inhale is the first sound he hears; faint enough to be considered normal, but with an undertone of passion that he can’t write off.
He’d only been coming to talk to Soldier Boy—his father—about the V1, about everything that happened at Fort Harmony and the tensions that are spreading like a sickness between them, poisoning the path to Homelander’s destiny. His father is creating too much friction when he’s supposed to be helping, suppressing his hatred instead of being honest.
An apology is going to taste like bile on Homelander’s tongue, but he’s willing to extend something of an olive branch if it will placate Soldier Boy enough to help him find the key to immortality.
That had been his plan, anyway—try and smooth things over with Ben. He just hadn’t anticipated stumbling upon the two of you caught in the throes of passion.
Homelander hears your voice through the walls, high-pitched and loud, his father’s name spewed out like a prayer before ending on a sharp moan.
He knows, immediately, that it’s you on the other side of the door—his father’s sweet little pet, the human that worships Soldier Boy like a god, who has no regard for the heavenly power that Homelander has been gifted with.
You are also the only human in the world that’s getting away with such misplaced devotion.
Homelander licks his lips, tensing his jaw as his eyes itch to burn through the drywall, red flares that will your pretty little head off once his father spills his seed into you. It would be gratifying to knock Soldier Boy down a few pegs, to make him realize that Homelander is the god that humans are supposed to worship, not him. Ben does not have the upper-hand just because his poor, powerless lover has been allowed to live this long.
He considers it; that timeline of events plays out before Homelander’s eyes like a film reel. It would be gratifying, yes, but stupid—the life of one human isn’t worth risking his chance at eternity.
Homelander knows that his father would hate him if he killed you, would see him as something worse than a disappointment, and he’d track down any remaining V1 to destroy it himself.
Not that Homelander thinks he can’t succeed without his father. He can find the V1 on his own, but there’s no reason to create unnecessary obstacles.
Your death can wait a little longer.
“Please, Ben,” Homelander hears you say through the wall, your voice soft, far too gentle for someone like Soldier Boy to love. “Fuck.”
“Yeah? You like that, hm?” There’s a pause, a mocking laugh as his father’s voice deepens. “’Course you do, pretty cunt’s still squeezing my fingers so tightly. Can’t even count the number of times you’ve come, and she still wants more. Dirty girl.”
Homelander considers leaving, but the thought is brief, overshadowed by his growing desire to, somehow, get back at his father. Soldier Boy will be more sorry about what happened back at Fort Harmony if the real force of Homelander’s powers are used against him, if he can find a way to prove he’s misjudged his son yet again.
The desire to kill you erupts once more, but Homelander stays still, silent, assessing the scene from a shadowy advantage like a natural predator.
When another cry leaves your lips, curiosity wins out and Homelander peers through the wall, peeling back the layers with his super-powered vision.
The room is a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, and he grimaces at the bodily fluids he can detect on nearly every surface. His scan of the bedroom is quick, much more dismissive than studious, before he focuses his attention on you and Soldier Boy.
Your cheek is pressed into the bed, head tilted in Homelander’s direction, the view enough to see the pleasure, laced with a hint of pain, that is sketched into the lines of your expression. Exhaustion wears at you, spilled cum is drying on your stomach, but your body still radiates with heat, still beats with need as tears gather at your lashes.
His father’s face is deep in your cunt, fingers stretching your folds as he sucks your clit, hard enough to have your back arching up off the bed. With a gasp, your hands fly to Ben’s hair, lacing through the strands as you tug reactively.
To Homelander’s surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to mind your attempts at control, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, every word raspy and salacious. “You taste so fucking good. Sweet as candy, aren’t you, doll?” Ben mutters against your skin, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before diving deeper into your cunt.
He pins your other leg onto the mattress, spreading your thighs far enough that every inch of you is exposed to the man before it. It also gives Homelander the perfect view of his father’s tongue deep in your core, slurping up the juices with more passion than he’s ever seen him devote to anything.
Homelander feels himself growing hard, an erection forming steadily in his pants, straining against the tight material of his uniform. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore it, hoping that his hatred for you will cool the conflicting lust he feels.
A few of your nails have cracked, the tips bloody from the way you’d dug them into Ben’s back. Had he been a weaker man, a man without V1 and years of experimentation done on him, there would be long, red lines scratched into his taut muscles.
Instead, the skin is flawless, the dried blood there belonging to you alone. You’re not strong enough to harm him, but Ben doesn’t care, perhaps, even, derives pleasure from how easily he can handle you.
Homelander thinks it’s demeaning that his father is so devoted to you when you’re so weak, when you’re nothing compared to his otherworldly strength. It makes Homelander sick to look at you, to see the hazy affection that clouds Ben’s irises, because that’s his father, and it’s wrong that any love he’s able to muster up should go to such a pathetic creature.
Tears gather at your lashes, and you dig your nails deeper into Ben’s scalp, crying out painfully. “Too much, Ben,” you say, writhing on the bed beneath him, voice wracked with desperation.
No sympathy is spared from Soldier Boy. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you free even as the tears fall onto your cheeks, heavy from the overstimulation. Your lips are swollen and parted, saliva coating the corners of them as you take whatever Ben will give you.
For whatever reason, his father is infatuated with you. You aren't special; there’s nothing marginally interesting about you, except for, perhaps, the fact that you aren’t scared of anyone on the Seven, not even Homelander.
You’re still human, though, still sickeningly fragile, and Homelander is beginning to wonder if that’s why Ben is so determined to find the V1, if he has ulterior motives that don’t include giving his son the gift of immortality.
That lights him up with indignation that, for some reason, only goes between his legs. He can’t look away from the scene before him, can’t tear his eyes from the sickeningly sweet affection that has become tangible between the two of you. His father is many things, things that even Homelander can’t figure out, but he is just as starved for adoration and you give it to him tenfold.
He doesn’t understand—can’t understand why your love is so undying. Soldier Boy is no better than Homelander, he is no God, and yet, he has still earned the pure, innocent love of a human, the love that Vought had always promised was Homelander’s birthright.
Frustration rises in him and Homelander palms himself over the suit, suppressing a groan, the pressure relieving only a bit of his lust. He needs to be more careful, needs to find a way to get to the V1 before his father. There’s more room in his heart than Homelander initially believed, and while there’s a slim chance you’d even survive an injection of V1, his father might be foolish enough to try.
Homelander could kill you—he should kill you before it comes to that. He wants his father to see that you’re not worth anything, certainly not worth the world that could be built with their two forces combined. If he can just get you out of the picture, maybe things will be smoother.
Maybe you’re the reason his father keeps turning against him.
The thought flares his eyes red again, threatening and bright, but the color flickers, dies back down into their normal blue as he feels the repulsive want take control. Homelander is too intrigued by the way his father is fucking you, the way his tongue flicks into you, rendering you a mess. He’s never seen Soldier Boy so vulnerable, and though his walls are still high, there’s a softness about him that remains behind these doors.
“Come on, sweetheart, I know you’ve got one more in you.” Ben says, scoffing at the tears running down your cheeks. He is mocking, but gentle at the edges, careful to search for your breaking point. The stamina and strength of a supe is ten times that of a human, and ten times that for someone like Soldier Boy. If he doesn’t want his toy to break, he has to know its limits.
You whimper, closer to pain now than you were before. A choked sob escapes your lips, but your orgasm creeps up on you, your body shaking miserably as it tries to force another one through the painful stimulation.
That’s more gratifying to Homelander than anything—the pain on your face—and he presses his palm to his bulge harder, faster, resting one hand against the wall as he thrusts his hips into the other. He’s careful not to make a sound, though he’s certain Ben’s hearing is not as good as his, and he’s probably high enough to write it off as delusion.
“I-I can’t—” you say, and it would seem miserable if you weren’t breathless, if you didn’t want to come again so badly.
Soldier Boy groans into your cunt, his eyes commanding as he gazes up at you over your hips. The tears falling down your cheeks, onto the bed, are making him harder, his cock swollen between his legs, even though he’d come just minutes before. He drags a hand down the length of it, enough to give him some relief, but not enough to come quite yet.
“You can. You’re close I can feel it.” He traces a soothing, possessive circle on your thigh with his thumb, keeping you steady on the bed. “Touch those pretty tits for me. My girls aren’t getting enough attention.”
You obey without question, lazily dragging your hands up your stomach and onto your chest. The moment your fingertips graze your nipples, you come to the edge of a climax, your voice louder, body more pliant under Ben’s touch.
His father grins, face shiny with your slick as you grope yourself.
Homelander pulses with need, shaking with a silent moan as he watches you play with your breasts. He swallows back the sounds, suppresses the lasers that flick in his irises. You have a nice pair of tits, ones that would look even better swollen, leaking with milk, and briefly, he wonders if his father would share you. You’re just a human, after all, and you could serve a much greater purpose if you devoted yourself to two gods instead of one.
Or, maybe, his father will find a way to fix the mistake he’s made in his lab rat son, to create the child that Homelander apparently isn’t. A better version of him will never exist, and Soldier Boy would be stupid for ever thinking so, even though Homelander knows the thought has crossed his mind, knows that he is too much of a disappointment for Ben to ever try to build the kind of relationship with Homelander that he craves.
The hypotheticals don’t matter because Homelander knows you wouldn’t be a good mother, not to someone of their bloodline. You’d infect any super-abled child with your pathetic human morals, twist their minds until they suppress their powers and try to fit into a world that doesn’t want them.
That is, of course, if the child didn’t tear you apart from the inside-out first.
Homelander grits his teeth, a metallic taste flowing into his mouth as he thinks of it, of watching you grow a baby inside of you that will ultimately be your demise. His breath stutters; he’s pathetically close, but his orgasm doesn’t come until a moment later, when he realizes that his father isn’t half the man he thinks he is, and he’ll never be the God that Homelander is.
Soldier Boy a slave to your pleasure—a weak, measly being—even when he pretends everything he does is for himself. You’re crying, and though Soldier Boy is tugging at himself, he’s not focused on making sure he comes—he wants to break you down, build you back up with his mouth and his hands. Ben wants you to worship him, wants you to see him as a holy figure, wants you to praise him even as he degrades you.
He is controlled by his emotions, too swayed by a pretty face and a sultry tongue.
Unlike his father, Homelander is no longer focused on winning over people’s love, and certainly not the love of one person.
You release one more sob before you come, soaking his father’s face with whatever your body has left to give. His father works you through the orgasm, even though you can hardly move, your eyes shut, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
“That’s my girl,” Soldier Boy says, and he’s so proud, so caring, that it has Homelander spilling into his pants right after you. It lasts for a few seconds, and then relief comes, then the disgusting sensation that settles as the cum dries in his suit.
The realization of what he’s done is not staggering, but it hits him just as his father presses a kiss to your forehead. You’re half passed-out already, eyes closed as your breathing evens out, thighs still sticky with bodily fluids, but you mutter something unintelligible under your breath anyway.
Even with his hearing, Homelander can’t catch the words, but Ben doesn’t seem to understand either. Still, his father gives you something of a smile before leaning over to pluck the joint off of his nightstand, keeping one hand possessively on your thigh. He’s still hard, but for a few minutes he sits there in the quiet of the evening, smoking, before he places the blunt back in the ash tray and moves to take care of the erection himself.
Homelander decides that’s his cue to leave. He can justify watching his father fuck you, but watching only him masturbate over your sleeping body feels like a line he shouldn’t cross.
Sparing one last exhale, Homelander slinks off the floor, hoping that neither of you hear the elevator ding.
thanks for read, a kiss for all of you. reblog & comments are always appreciated <33 divider by cursed-carmine
pairing: teenage dirtbag!steve rogers x nerd!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, college au, banter, alcohol, second chance, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, miscommunication, arguments, fluff, public sex, fingering, finger sucking, dry humping, names: "good girl" "baby"
word count: 14.5k
a/n: its finally out... thank you to the readers who are supporting my dirtbag series! dedicated to my best steve girlies who watched me slave over this: @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @epiphanyrogers
☆ main masterlist || steve's playlist || dirtbag marvel series || bucky's story ☆
synopsis:
Years of drift had turned you and Steve Rogers into strangers. Now being in college, he was the dirtbag guitarist in a rising band, and you were the quiet girl buried in her books. You figured your friendship was over—until he discovered you were the secret pen behind his rival band's greatest hits. Suddenly, Steve is miraculously crawling back.
You remember it as clear as day.
Steve’s voice—which was much higher than yours back then—squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Bucky.
“This game blows,” little Bucky would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even havin’ fun.”
“Don’t be like that in front of the missus, Buck!” Steve would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you.
It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near.
“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”
Bucky would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Steve was, and hand you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”
And the minute Sarah bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Bucky were at Steve’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Steve would take the guitar, and Bucky would go crazy on the drums.
Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.
It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy.
It was ultimately you, Steve and Bucky.
One day in high school, Steve was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to the tune of Wake Me Up When September Ends. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.
“You know,” Steve had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”
You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”
“Oh?” Steve hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Conceited much?”
You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”
Steve shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line—one you would never share with the class.
“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”
You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.”
Steve let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His blue eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer.
“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”
You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Steve was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.
“Very funny, Stevie.”
“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”
“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Bucky?”
“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Steve. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Bucky.”
Steve shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”
You knew exactly where this was going.
After years of friendship, you knew Steve was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity.
As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.
“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”
You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.
“That’s the problem,” Steve said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hidin’ behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”
You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.
“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Rogers has spoken. Can we stop now?”
“Come on, listen to me for once,” Steve pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”
You always knew Steve meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Steve—”
“You’re incredibly talented!” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless—”
“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”
You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Steve kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.
Making you feel small yet again.
“About what?” he challenged.
You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway.
“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Steve. A real one. While you and Bucky are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”
Steve’s face fell.
The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.
“Steve… I—”
“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”
Christ.
You had attacked the one thing he loved most.
What kind of friend were you?
“Steve…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I—”
“No,” Steve scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”
He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door.
“I’ll see you around.”
Then the door shut coldly.
Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Steve.
You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Bucky, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.
It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?
Steve had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.
Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court.
Unmoved.
You missed Steve dearly.
He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him.
You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.
“CIVIL WAR” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Steve right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was shaved at the sides and shaggy at the top, and stubble traced the line of his chiseled jaw.
He also looked like he had been working out.
He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.
Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Bucky.
Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Shield Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.
“You goin’?” a familiar voice asked from your left.
You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Bucky stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.
“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Bucky was to you now. A total stranger.
“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Bucky spoke up before you could walk away completely.
“He would want you there, you know.”
You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Steve really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?
You could only look over your shoulder and give Bucky a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.
“No, he wouldn’t.”
It was an hour before their set at Shield Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.
“Christ,” Natasha muttered, peeking past the curtains with her bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” She turned to Steve with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Rogers.”
Steve crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, F.R.I.D.A.Y., to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than Civil War performing as an opener?
He was starting to think Tony Stark—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.
Sam, sensing Steve’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. “You good, man?”
Bucky was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask.
Whatever Steve was feeling, Bucky was likely feeling it, too. But Steve was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.
“Just peachy,” Steve finally replied.
He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Stark and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.
“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Steve told the group. “If half these people came for F.R.I.D.A.Y., then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”
“I know all of you folks are stoked to hear Civil War,” Tony Stark’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Steve’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where Nat stood.
“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Tony could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Steve’s stomach.
Tony grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Steve scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?
“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Tony said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “War Machine, AC/DC—” The crowd cheered. “Spiders, System of a Down—” Groups of girls screamed Peter’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Iron Man. Black Sabbath—”
The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.
The opening chords of War Machine began to rip through Shield Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Steve hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Peter Parker moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.
“I don’t get it,” Steve mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his broad chest. “How does a kid like Parker end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with old fucks like Rhodey and Vision?”
The audience was eating it up.
Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Tony Stark’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Tony Stark—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?
Bucky stood just behind Steve, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Peter, he chewed on his toothpick, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.
“Kid’s alright,” Bucky mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”
The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Iron Man, the crowd kept roaring for more. Steve clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.
“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next—”
“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”
Steve snapped his head back toward the stage. Tony was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room.
Steve’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me?
They were already over their time.
“We’ve got a song for you folks—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Tony smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”
The dive bar went ballistic. Steve was already losing his cool after finding out F.R.I.D.A.Y. was performing, and now with Stark and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Steve felt like his head was going to explode.
“A new song?” Bucky’s brows furrowed, giving Steve a look.
Peter started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that only Dave Grohl could fucking do with Everlong, which only built the hype of the crowd even more.
Rhodey’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Tony stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Steve knew he was cooked.
The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Peter’s drumming or Tony’s voice that sold the song, then it was Vision’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy Deacon or McVie style groove, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.
It was, without a question, the best song Steve had ever heard.
It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.
Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”
By the time the song ended, Steve was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Steve couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Tony out.
Tony caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his stubbled chin.
“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”
Steve gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.
“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s goin’ to be running this town before long.”
Tony pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage.
“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”
And the moment Tony said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.
Steve no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Tony’s aggravating voice.
All he could hear was the echo of that name.
Your name.
“Steve.”
You.
“Are you okay?”
You had started writing songs? Since when?
“Steve, we’re up—”
And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?
“Steve!” Bucky’s voice cut sharply against Steve’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in—”
“Bucky,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Tony just said? He said her name—”
“I know,” Bucky interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”
Steve clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Bucky was already thinking.
But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.
“You’re right,” Steve finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”
And the show they performed after F.R.I.D.A.Y. was a disaster.
It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.
Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.
You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Steve.
Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.
But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.
Steve wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.
You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.
He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.
Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.
Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of a broad frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.
Steve stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.
“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.
It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”
With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.
You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.
“Not now, Steve,” you whispered.
Steve didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.
“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”
You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.
“I’m busy studying, Steve,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”
The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Steve’s large presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.
“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”
The sheer audacity of Steve Grant Rogers made your skin prickle.
You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time?
Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.
That ‘all-good,’ charming Mr. American smile of his.
With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Steve’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.
“Where are you going?”
“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.
You heard the groan of Steve’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.
You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.
You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks—”
But when you turned to take it, Steve was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.
“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.
“Steve,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now—”
“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.
He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.
“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”
You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”
When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then—”
Steve stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his tatted forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.
“I heard the set that F.R.I.D.A.Y. played at Shield Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”
You felt your heart drop.
In all the times Steve had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with F.R.I.D.A.Y. And what did he mean, playing at Shield Dive? You’d secretly supported Civil War from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Steve and Bucky—but even you knew that Tony’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.
You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.
“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.
Steve didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.
He stepped closer, the tips of his boots nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Get out of my way, Steve,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”
But Steve stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.
“Look—I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”
You bit your lip, feeling apprehensive.
“Steve…”
“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”
He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face.
But it never came.
The strain in Steve’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.
The vulnerability in his blue eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.
“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”
Under Steve’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y.
There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”
But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.
“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly.
Steve looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Tony Stark, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.
And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him.
But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.
You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.
Steve bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.
“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.”
You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all.
That’s all?
Before you could press him, Steve simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.
But he pulled away.
“I’ll see you around,” Steve murmured.
He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.
Later that day, Steve found himself sitting in his living room with Bucky over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together.
“So,” Bucky said, handing Steve a beer before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”
Steve brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”
Bucky smacked his lips. “You know what.”
Steve knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Shield Dive, he’d told Bucky he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for Civil War instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?
He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.
“Come on,” Bucky nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”
Steve ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bucky wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.
“I did, yeah.”
“And?” Bucky prodded.
“She… she said yes,” Steve swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his beer bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”
Bucky blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.
“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”
That one sentence made Steve feel ten times worse.
“Yeah,” Steve mumbled. “I guess she does.”
He took a long, slow swallow of his beer. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Bucky was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Steve’s hand was shaking.
The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small.
Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with Bucky and the band.
“This is great news, man,” Bucky cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like the good ol’ days.”
Steve chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Bucky said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.
He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.
As the week went on, Steve found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.
He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.
He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by.
The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A man like Steve Rogers—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, covered in tattoos and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.
He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them.
Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.
You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.
Steve had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”
You blinked. “Uh—”
But before you could even think about denying him, Steve pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.
Steve pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.
Your heart ached a little.
You always remembered how much Steve loved to draw.
“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”
He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.
“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”
It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it.
The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him.
With Steve in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.
“Motivated?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”
You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”
Steve tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”
Steve blinked, taken off guard by your words.
The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.
Steve couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.
“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Steve grinned. “It could be a lot worse, sweetheart. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”
“Oh, God,” you cringed. The sweetheart nickname didn’t even register as a surprise because of how naturally it rolled off his tongue. “That was the worst.”
“The worst?” Steve playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”
You chuckled. He was still the same old Steve you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”
“Out of tune?” Steve repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”
At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!
Steve was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.
Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.
“You might’ve thought that then,” Steve teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”
You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tight enough that his muscles bulged against the fabric of his shirt. You swallowed hard trying not to look.
“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”
You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Steve’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.
“I missed you.”
Your laughter slowly faded, and Steve mentally cursed himself.
Fuck.
Did I just screw this up?
But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.
“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.
Steve’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.
“Right. Study.”
Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Steve sitting right across from you.
As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Steve hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.
But just like back then, Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it, keeping his gaze respectfully on yours rather than on your legs or the way your dresses accentuated your cleavage.
He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise.
“You know, Bucky’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Steve spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”
Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Bucky had the hots for the most popular girl in school.
“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Steve’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”
Steve’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.
“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Steve explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”
You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
Steve looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”
“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”
Steve’s breath hitched.
The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. They seemed innocent enough on the surface, but there was something in the way you held his gaze that made the moment feel impure. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.
“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”
“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”
The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say.
You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw his gaze snap down to the curve of your chest pressing against the fabric of your dress.
He looked up quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.
You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.
“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”
With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Steve. Finding sanctuary behind the empty Self-Help and Health section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.
Fuck. Pull yourself together.
You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Steve every day, secretly pining for him.
Growing up, you’d always known Steve was handsome, but now, as an adult, he had become the kind of man who made you feel something much deeper—something undeniably… sensual.
And you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was feeling the same way.
You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind.
Hey, Steve. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?
No. That sounded too desperate.
Hey, Steve. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?
Hey, Steve. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?
“You okay?” Steve asked suddenly.
You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book—”
You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.
Steve blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.
“A Comprehensive Guide to Sexual Wellness and Libido,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”
Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity.
“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.
Steve chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.
“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.
“No?” Steve drawled, his voice like velvet.
He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.
“Then why are you fidgeting, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that since you’d started talking again, yet the nickname suddenly sounded different. It no longer felt like the casual shorthand of a childhood friend.
It felt like a name you’d give to someone you loved.
To someone you wanted.
“There has to be something on your mind,” Steve murmured, his voice dropping even lower.
His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“I know that look.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”
Steve tilted his head, his expression almost patronizing as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”
His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, making your breath hitch. “Because there are a lot of things on mine.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words.
“Thoughts of you... suddenly wearing these pretty dresses and makeup,” Steve hummed, his eyes dark with appreciation as he took you in. “Clothes you didn’t wear before. Tell me—are you wearing them for me?”
A slow exhale left your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes. “And if I was?”
A low groan rumbled deep in Steve’s chest. All those years growing up with you, he’d always thought of you as the innocent girl-next-door, the one with her nose perpetually stuck in a book. He never imagined that years later, he’d find you like this— admitting that you’d been wearing these short dresses just for him.
And him only.
“If you were…” Steve began, his hand that wasn’t cupping your jaw traveling slowly down. His palm traced the fabric of your dress, resting at your hip. “Then that would make me so fucking happy—because after all these years, you still know that you’re my girl.”
Steve gave your hip a soft, appreciative squeeze before sliding his hand further down, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he played with the hem of your skirt.
“My best girl.”
He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly bunching the material upward. You felt the cool library air hit your skin for only a split second before his warm palm replaced it, pressing firmly against the bare skin of your thigh.
“Steve…”
He leaned down, his nose nuzzling the top of your head as he breathed you in, his hand sliding higher up your thigh beneath the dress, roaming freely.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your hair. “I missed you.”
Both his hands settled at your waist now, planting you firmly in place as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I missed you too, Stevie,” you breathed, the name coming out so vulnerable it was nearly a whimper. “So much.”
Steve felt his heart thump at the familiar nickname. Stevie. He’s been called that countless of times by his close friends, but every time you said it, always stirred something warm in his chest.
And when you said it like that, breathless and nearly pleading, it made him want to do unspeakable things to you.
“You’re just asking for it now, aren’t you?” Steve growled.
With his hands firm on your hips, he spun you around, making you gasp softly as he pressed you against the bookshelf. “Turn around. And stay quiet.”
You didn’t even have time to think before his broad chest was pinning you from behind.
A sharp gasp escaped you as he hooked his fingers under your hem and hiked the dress up, exposing the cotton of your panties before pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass.
“Steve—!” your face went hot at the feel of him. “You’re…”
“Hard?” Steve finished for you. He gave his hips a slow, deep rock against you, letting you feel the heavy length of him straining against his jeans. “I know, baby. But how can I not be? Not when you’re wearing a dress like this.”
He rocked against you, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming freely over your body and bunching the fabric of your skirt into his palms. His hands were so warm, so large, you couldn’t believe that after all the years you’d spent imagining those calloused fingers on your skin, you were finally being handled like this in the middle of a library.
“Fuck,” you whimpered.
A high pitched whine escaped you when his right hand palmed your cunt through your panties underneath your skirt, his fingers adding pressure as he made circles over your clit.
It didn’t take long for you to get wet with the way he’s handling you.
“Oh—! Steve—!”
“Quiet,” he growled, his other palm coming up to muffle your cries. “You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble now, would you?”
You shook your head. “Mmphh.”
With his hand still clamped over your mouth, he gave your cheeks a squeeze as he peered over you from behind. “Will you be a good girl?”
You nodded.
The way Steve’s cock was suffocating in his jeans felt like pure torture.
Everything about this could make him bust in his pants right then and there—having his childhood ex-best friend, a good girl with her perfect grades and her books, pushed up against the shelf and being touched by a loser like him was filthy.
It was wrong, and yet, it was everything he had ever wanted.
“That’s it,” he cooed, “my good girl.”
His fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties before sliding down to find you, his fingers pressing against your wet folds. Steve shuddered, his breathing turning heavy at the warm and slick contact.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair. “You’re so wet.”
A broken, muffled sound escaped you against his palm as he pushed a finger against your tight entrance. At the same time, he kept up the heavy grind of his hips against your ass, dry humping you through the rough denim of his jeans.
You mewled against his mouth and Steve chuckled darkly, pushing his finger past your tight entrance letting himself sink into your warm, tight cunt.
It was exactly how he imagined it— you felt incredible from just his finger alone, and with how tight you were squeezing him, he could only imagine how great it would feel with his dick instead.
“Mmph!” you groaned, rocking your hips back against his hand, inviting him in deeper.
The movements of your hips desperately moving for more was enough to make him go mad.
“Desperate little thing,” Steve panted, his grip on your mouth tightening as he felt you tremble. “Moving your hips like that for just my fingers—” he ground the heavy length of his cock against you harder. “I should just pull it out, push these panties to the side, and fuck you right here in the middle of the library.”
“Ah—mmph, Steve… p-please…”
Steve added another finger, the stretch making your knees go weak. You cried out against his palm when his thumb found your clit, pressing down and rubbing to match his fingers thrusting in and out of you.
“That’s it,” he growled against your ear. “Goood fuckin’ girl.”
You gripped the edge of the bookshelf, the wood digging into your palms as your legs finally gave out.
Steve caught you, his chest pinning you even harder against the shelf and making it shake.
“God,” he moaned. “Shit—feels so good, baby.”
His cock throbbed and twitched against the denim, the friction pushing him closer and closer to cumming.
His mind addled with lust, he shifted his hand from your mouth, sliding his index and middle fingers between your lips instead.
With half lidded, heavy eyes, he looked down at you. Blonde strands of hair fell messily over his forehead as he stared at the way you sucked on his fingers to stay quiet, your shimmery lip gloss coating his skin.
“Pretty,” he breathed, feeling himself getting close just from looking at you, “so pretty—God, you’ve always been so beautiful.”
Your cunt clenched around his fingers. Knowing that Steve needed you this badly—even after all this time, in every way that you had always needed him—was enough to make you cum.
“Steevie, mmph—” you whined around the fingers sitting vulgarly in your mouth, “gonna… cum—”
Steve’s heart leaped at your words. His cock was straining, leaking a desperate amount of precum against his jeans as he rutted against you like a helpless dog.
He should have been in control, but your whines and the way you clamped down around his fingers— warm and impossibly tight—made it hard for him to keep it.
He was going to make sure he came with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Good girl,” he praised with a rasp.
He rocked his hips against yours, making your chest thud against the shelf, the books rattling. “Fuck, I need to feel you, baby. I need you to cum for me—”
Steve’s voice broke as his pace turned frantic. His hips moved an uneven and messy motion, humping you faster and harder until his entire body suddenly went rigid—his hips locking tight against yours as he finally let himself spill in his pants.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded the front of his jeans, his cock pulsing. You could feel the warmth against your back, and you let out a sharp gasp as he rocked his hips one last time —letting the mess soak into denim and against the fabric of your skirt.
He buried his nose into the crook of your neck as he fought the urge to cry out a moan. You mewled against his fingers, your knees shaking as you fell apart.
“Steve…” you let out a breath of disbelief. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Fucking hell…” Steve cursed, trying to catch his breath.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick squelch echoing in the quiet aisle.
“That was—”
The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle.
You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment. Steve moved with frantic shaky hands to smooth down your skirt and try to adjust the heavy, damp bulge in his pants.
He let out a breathless, low chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself—and of you.
“Close.”
Since that day in the library, you and Steve had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.
Your bedroom.
Ever since that heated afternoon against the bookshelf, Steve had grown bolder. He let his fingers run through your hair, staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and his hands were constantly finding excuses to touch you— even if it was just playing with the fraying wool of your cardigan.
To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.
And that was the problem.
If Steve wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right.
Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Bucky and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Steve promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.
buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?
buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
Steve ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent.
You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere.
He smiled as you approached, haphazardly swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.
“Done studying already?”
“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.”
Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.
“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.
He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.
Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest. Steve smelled exactly the same as he always had—masculine, with a clean hint of aftershave and the faint scent of leather.
“What’s on your mind, my darling girl?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back.
“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Tony won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”
You could feel Steve stiffen slightly at your words.
“Is that so?”
You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”
When Steve had first found out you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y., you had been ready for the interrogation.
You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.
Steve stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press.
You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”
His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.
“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.
You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”
“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”
You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”
Stopped talking.
Steve’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.
“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”
You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Steve’s heart ache.
“I’m—”
“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”
Fuck.
What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?
He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Tony—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.
And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.
“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”
You looked up, and Steve felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.
“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”
He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.
“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”
He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.
“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”
You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window.
He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.
I love you.
But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.
“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Steve’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”
Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too.
“It’s fine—”
But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.
“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack—”
As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Bucky sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Steve could grab it.
buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?
buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.
You glanced up at Steve, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Steve… what is this?”
Steve’s heart plummeted. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Bucky had sent.
“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “Buck’s just being—”
“Is this what this is, Steve?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?”
You had walked straight into Steve’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush.
You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time?
Steve scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away.
“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me—”
“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did—”
“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.
You had let him touch you, handle you, and defile you in your safest place—among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.
A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”
“Please—” Steve reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.
“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get in my fucking pants just so you can be some one-hit wonder?”
Steve flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him.
“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, sweetheart. Just hear me out—”
Sweetheart.
Hearing the nickname now made you physically ill.
“Get out.”
Panic flared in Steve’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this—”
“Get out of my house, Steve!”
The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.
He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you.
He let it happen.
It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.
He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.
Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention.
“Wait!”
And to his surprise, you actually did.
You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there.
A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Steve.
“What?” you shouted over the rain.
Steve stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.
“I lied to Bucky!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Tony, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.”
He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined.
“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”
He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.
“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Tony. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”
Your hand tightened around the doorknob.
Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.
“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”
Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you.
He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.
“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”
When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.
“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”
You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly.
For a fleeting, desperate second, Steve swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes.
He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.
“Goodbye, Steve.”
Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.
You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Steve broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent prose.
You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Steve had left in your chest once more.
Steve had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Tony was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.
Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever.
Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Steve and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.
A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Steve.
Bucky stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the Civil War poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.
“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted him awkwardly.
He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve had already explained everything to him.
They were best friends, after all.
To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”
Bucky looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Steve… uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”
So much for avoiding the awkwardness.
“I see,” was all you could manage.
Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Bucky stopped you.
“Wait. I… about everything with you and Steve,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”
You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.
“Take care of yourself, Bucky.”
After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Steve’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.
Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Steve to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear.
“Wait!”
You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Steve. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.
You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.
“I don’t want to talk, Steve,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”
But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.
“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”
You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a wild mess, and a thick layer of stubble shadowed his jaw.
He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.
In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.
My best girl.
Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for Civil War?”
“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours.
He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.
“I’m not the best at writing...” his voice sounded fractured and worn thin. “I usually let Sam handle the lyrics. It probably won’t sound half as good as the things you write, but it’s for you. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.”
He had written a song?
For you?
You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.
As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Steve, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.
“I don’t know what to say—”
“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”
With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.
“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”
The words stung, but Steve had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.
“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”
He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.
“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a self-deprecating huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”
You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”
The sound made Steve’s smile brighten.
Another small victory.
“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.
The conversation was clearly over, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow.
You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Steve had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen.
With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Steve’s breath.
Then, the acoustic guitar started to play.
The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on Civil War’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.
Then, Steve started to sing.
You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy.
Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart.
The song was a masterpiece of us.
It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Steve Rogers—a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this.
By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying.
first time writing steve rogers on his own guys... kinda nervous... thank you for taking the time to read my work and i hope you guys enjoyed it!
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The way soldier boy talks about being a 'real man' is so nasty and perverted I love him. Can't help but think about how old fashioned and bossy he is
soldier boy who doesn't like you using profanity because it's unladylike, but also makes you call your pussy 'daddy's cunny'
soldier boy who thinks it's his god given right to grab you ass anytime, any place, and it is often so rough with his huge hands that when he squeezes you can feel a light tug at your rim
soldier boy who will dole out a slap to your face if you forget to say your pleases and thank yous
soldier boy who refuses to shave his pubes because, according to him, 'shaving your pubes makes you a fag' (and he likes to see how soaked you can make them)
soldier boy who thinks it is his duty and right to break in all of your holes
soldier boy who thinks he's being real progressive when he feeds you tiny hits of his joint because he loves seeing how needy the high can make you
soldier boy who thinks he owns your body and can comment on it as he sees fit
soldier boy who will tell you to put a little plug in your ass so you're ready for him when he comes home
soldier boy who keeps a polaroid of his thumbs spreading open your swollen, leaking, pussy in his wallet
soldier boy who is obsessed with making you cum just so you are even more pliant and whiny for him, and won’t stop even when tears are leaking down your face and you’re trying to push him away
Ghost approaches you where you sit in the mess hall, surrounded by your teammates. Placing a warm hand on your shoulder to get your attention. A smile spreading across your face when you see its him.
He leans in closer, gently gripping your jaw to keep you looking up at him. His other hand hooking below his mask to lift it just above his mouth. Your heart flutters excitedly. You had been begging him to be more publicly affectionate. Kissing you in front of the entire mess was a huge deal.
Then he squeezed your cheeks gently, forcing your lips to part so he could spit straight into your mouth with no problem. Giving your cheek a firm pat before tugging his mask back down and leaving you. Flushed and buzzing. Surrounded by the disgusted stares of all the other soldiers.
dean winchester is the type to grab and slap your ass ages into your relationship and comment on how your ass is getting ‘fat’ and ‘thick’ and he’d have that stupid grin because he’s definitely been feeding you more to make that ass thicker.
