they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences
silences: sometimes a boy will slip
from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why,
sometimes a boy will swing from the leaves.
Southeren Gothic, Ricky Laurentiis
⁺₊⋆ ⁺₊⋆ " — will not purify me."
this blog does not support bigotry of any kind—especially against my indigenous country, palestine.
please consider educating yourself on the countless demeaning myths and lies. learn more about the incredible people who have faced atrocities with smiles and think about donating clean water, food, and supporting!
boycott big corporations that fund the genocides happening in palestine, sudan, and congo.
my friend Karam Bassel needs all the help he can get! let's get him and his family to their goal. ♥︎
engravings on the rotting wood will point you towards ...
important disclaimer! / officially on hiatus !
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲. — about the blog + theme credits. (coming soon)
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭. — masterlist.
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦 — recs. (coming soon)
pairing | husband!bucky x wife!reader word count | 4.2k summary | your husband has always been obsessed with you. but he seems extra with all the looks he's been throwing at you feeding your daughter. whatever is on his mind? warnings | smut, 18+, total kinkfest, MDNI, sub!bucky, lactation kink, mommy kink, unprotected pnv (shoutout to lactational amenorrhea!), usage of nicknames (baby, sweetie, babyboy, sweet boy for him. mommy for you), no use of y/n. a/n | i heard there’s enough smut without plot, so i decided to rectify that problem by writing more smut without plot rubs hands like an evil fly. so, this is basically no plot, just vibes. please do not read if this is not your cup of tea (or milk, see what i did there, ehehe) seriously, this is just so much filth, i kinda went overboard. probably be the filthiest thing that ever came out me. tread carefully. based on this ask. hope you like this, anon! d/t | @sheriff-bodecker obviously <3
you’re half-dressed and cradling your daughter against your chest. one of your hand cups her perfect little head while the other strokes her back in a steady rhythm.
her soft, wet suckling fills the quiet, punctuated now and then by that tiny sigh she makes when she pauses for air.
you’re tired now. but in that floaty, dazed way that’s oddly peaceful, like your body knows you’ve just made a whole human and is demanding your stillness.
the robe you’re wearing parts a little, when you shift on the bed, exposing the warm skin to the night air. one breast is out, full heavy and leaking, the other still tucked away. your belly is softer than before. your thighs, too. and yet you’ve never felt more powerful than in this moment: feeding someone that grew inside you.
something moves in your peripheral vision, and you don’t have to take another look to know that it’s your husband.
the wedding band glints at his finger, as he stares at you. again. and he’s not being very subtle about it.
he’s leaning in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move. like someone pressed pause on his brain and he’s just stuck there.
you don’t look at him for a while. you just let him watch. it’s become a quiet game between you lately. he studies you, drinks you in like he thinks you’ll vanish. and you pretend not to notice until the weight of his hunger becomes impossible to ignore.
you clear your throat softly, but your eyes remain on your daughter. “you’re staring again.”
“i know.” there’s no apology in it. it’s just the truth, like it’s just a fact. his gaze slides down your body and drags its way back up, lingering far too long on the breast not currently occupied, albeit it being covered. “i can’t help it.”
you finally glance at him.
he looks like a man with his hands tied. like he’s trying to be respectful, like he’s trying to wait until you give him permission.
but there’s just something wild just beneath his stillness.
you tilt your head, just a little. “what is it, baby?”
you let your eyes drag down his body now. there’s the evidence of barely-there outline of his cock already thickening beneath the fabric of his pants. your eyes find his face again, he’s red in the cheeks, breathing real slow he’s trying to will himself not to get hard watching you feed your child.
you feel the wicked little grin tug at your lips before you can stop it.
“do you want a taste?”
you ask it so damn lightly. like you’re offering him a sip of your latte.
his mouth actually opens a little. but nothing comes out other than air. his arms uncross and his hands hover at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore.
“what?” his voice is croaky, like he’s forgotten how to speak entirely, and english sounds more like an inconvenience rather than a language he’s fluent in.
“you’ve been staring for twenty minutes like you want to get on your knees and suck it.”
bucky makes a noise in his throat that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan. his eyes drop again, then snap back up, like he’s afraid he’ll come just from looking too long.
“you’re—you’re not serious.”
“oh, but i am.”
you shift your daughter slightly, stroking her tiny back as she continues to suck lazily in her sleep-heavy rhythm. “you’ve been walking around this house like a kicked puppy for a month. you’re hard every time i take my robe off. flustered every time i bend over. and don’t think i didn’ notice how long you stood outside the door last night just listening to me pump.”
his lips part again. nothing. just breath, yet again.
“fuck.” he finally manages to drag one word out of his throat.
“you want to taste what your daughter gets, don’t you? you want mommy to feed you, too.” you say the latter like it’s a statement, not a question.
you don’t know what came over you when you uttered that word, what spurred you to actually say it. but the way he reacts tells you he’s into it.
in fact, he’s very much into it because he whimpers. actually whimpers.
“say it. say what you want, baby.” your voice is barely a whisper, excited to see what might come out of his mouth. because not everyday does a six foot super soldier look like the ground has been ripped away from him.
his eyes flutter close like he’s in pain. “i want—fuck. i want to suck your tits, mommy.”
you smile like you’ve won something. hearing him call you that is a different type of arousal, one that you hadn’t felt before, but now embraced it fully. he’s exactly where you want him.
“good boy,” the two words leave you way too easily.
your husband moves without thinking. crawls onto the bed like he doesn’t remember how his knees work. when he’s finally kneeling beside you, his hands hover again, like he’s uncertain.
you’re still feeding your daughter. she’s still latched, little sucks slower now, fading more towards sleep.
bucky, on the other hand, is breathing hard.
“you want to wait until she’s done? or do you want the other one now?” you ask sweetly, like you’re not short-circuiting your husband in real time.
his eyes flick down to your boobs, and then back to you, then down again, as though he’s weighing his options. “now.”
you reach up and tug the robe down off your other shoulder, letting the soft fabric fall completely. you’re bare from the waist up now.
you bring your hand to the full breast he’s been staring at and squeeze just slightly. a thin stream of milk beads at the tip.
a moan rips out of him. and you haven’t even touched him, nor has he touched you. yet.
“open,” your voice is way too soft for an order.
his lips part instantly, like he’s waited enough.
you guide his mouth to your nipple, and he latches as though he’s the one who’s starving. his hands go to your waist, gripping you tight like you might float away. the groan he lets out when he tastes the first trickle of milk is obscene.
there’s no hesitation in the way he suckles, it’s just him, his mouth, his tongue and soft suction.
“good boy,” you whisper again. “drink.”
you stroke his hair, like you’re petting something loyal. you can feel the tension leaking out of him with every suck. and the unmistakable strain of his cock against his sweats now that he makes no effort to hide it.
“that’s it,” you coo. “you missed mommy, didn’t you?”
he nods against your skin, mouth never leaving your breast.
“you’ve been so patient and sweet. helping me every day. putting our daughter down. kissing me goodnight and walking away with your cock hard, haven’t you?”
he pulls off for half a second with a gasp, mouth still wet and swollen with saliva and milk. “i tried to be good.”
you smile and guide him back to your nipple.
“you were. that’s why i’m letting you drink.”
his groan vibrates against your skin and your whole body spikes with heat. you’re soaked between your legs now, your thighs clenching every time he pulls more milk from you.
there’s precum leaking through his pants that you can clearly see now.
your daughter unlatches with a little sigh, drunk on milk and sleep, and you shift carefully to lay her in the bassinet beside the bed.
bucky doesn’t stop sucking. he just follows you, stays latched, hands on your hips like he thinks you’ll take it away if he lets go.
you chuckle breathlessly and run your fingers through his hair. “you’re really needy, huh?”
he just nods.
“you wanna make mommy come first?”
he looks up at you, with stark black eyes and lips impossibly pink.
“please.” he pops off your breast to utter the word and goes right back to it, like that’s where he belongs.
you stroke his hair again, watching his eyes flutter. his tongue moves slower as he sucks you, almost softer now, more worship than hunger. his grip on your hips is tight, like you’re his anchor.
“god, you’re a mess. look at you.” your voice is thick with both affection and arousal.
another groan slips past him as he pulls back slightly, tongue dragging along your nipple as he breathes out. your breast is wet with milk and spit, your nipple flushed and shiny and swollen. he looks up at you like he’s drowning in it.
“i c—can’t think when you say it like that,” he stammers, “you say it and my brain just… shuts off.”
you grin down at him. “good. i don’t need you thinking right now. i just need your mouth.”
you lean back against the headboard, spreading your legs slowly, watching the way his eyes drop and his jaw tightens at the sight of your bare cunt.
you’re soaked. well, no surprise there. you’ve been aching since the second he looked at you like that. since you saw his cock twitch behind the fabric of those old sweatpants.
“you still remember what i like?” you spread yourself for him with two fingers. “it’s been a while.”
bucky exhales like he’s about to cry. “i remember everything, mommy.”
the word, even uttered for the hundredth time today, brings a new wave of arousal between your thighs. “then show me.”
there’s no hesitation inn his movements as he crawls between your legs and settles there.
the first touch of his mouth is soft. his lips part and he exhales hot against your folds before dragging his tongue up in a wet line that makes you moan and buck your hips upwards.
“ohhh, fuck—yes, just like that, baby.”
he groans in response as he licks deeper, the tip of his tongue pressing just enough to tease before flicking against your clit.
he’s slower than he used to be. maybe careful is the word. like he knows your body’s changed and he’s not here to rush it. he’s here to worship every inch of you.
he spreads you with his thumbs and sucks your clit into his mouth slowly, and your hand flies to his hair.
“there’s my good boy—ahh—keep going.”
he moans again, hips rocking down into the mattress like he can’t help it, like he’s trying to grind through the fabric just to relieve some of the pressure.
his tongue slides down to your entrance to tease and circle, and then goes right back up to your clit.
“fuck, bucky, don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
he mumbles something into your pussy and it takes you a second to realize he said, “won’t stop, mommy.”
you tug his hair harder. “say it again.”
he obeys you in an instant as he looks up with half lidded eyes, “i won’t stop, mommy.”
your cunt clenches around nothing, and you laugh. maybe it’s a little mean what comes out of you next.
“you’re so fucked out and you haven’t even had your cock touched yet.”
he whines. genuinely whines. he actually rocks his hips down again like he’s going to lose it just from licking you. you decide to test that theory.
“you gonna come in your pants like a good little mommy’s boy?”
he lets out a strangled sound and sucks harder, tongue swirling over your clit until your whole body arches off the bed.
“jesus— yes, baby, right there, don’t stop—”
he’s locked in now, moaning into you and grinding down. very desperate and obedient of him.
you just ride his mouth like you own it. because you do. every inch of him. every twitch of his tongue and clench of his jaw belongs to you.
your orgasm hits like a wave. sudden and earth shattering after the abstinence.
you cry out and pull his face into your cunt, grinding down, letting him drink every last second of it from your body.
a moan tears off him like he’s the one coming.
when it finally passes, you loosen your grip on his hair and stroke his scalp gently. breathing hard, he pulls back slowly. his entire face is wrecked.
“did you…?” you raise your eyebrows in question.
he swallows. “i—almost.”
you glance down and see the wet patch on the front of his pants. cupping his face, you lift his jaw up, “you want to come, sweet boy?”
without waiting for his answer, you push his back towards the headboard. he leans back, sweats still on, cock still straining hard against it, like it aches.
“pull down your sweats, baby,” you order him and he obeys without wasting a second. there’s no thoughts behind his eyes, only desperation.
when his pants are discarded to the floor, you gaze over him. his cock stands proud, a little bent towards his abdomen, smearing precum.
the tip is flushed, a delicious shade of pink, begging to be tasted. but you have other plans for him.
you slide up higher to where he is, bracketing his thighs with yours.
he watches the whole thing like he’s watching the moon rise. his hands come up automatically, gripping your hips, trying to hold you steady.
your swollen, aching cunt is hovering over his dick. when you cannot support your body so much, you feel yourself sitting over him, more like, right over his dick.
a hiss leaves his lips as your pussy makes contact with his cock. but he makes no effort to move you, only supporting you by your hips.
“mommy, please i need to be inside you,” his voice is a wreck when it does come out.
you thoroughly ignore his request, as you drag your cunt over his cock once. he whimpers like it actually hurt him, and your hand flies to his cheek.
“are you okay, baby?”
“no—aah, fuck, mommy, i’m gonna cum if you keep—keep doing that.”
you trail your fingers up his abdomen, smearing a bit of cum as you go. his abs clench under your touch. you’re not even trying to be cruel, but the effect is devastating.
the flesh arm leaves your hip to find your tit, and he brings it to his mouth. even wrecked, he needs to be drinking.
you lean forward a bit, making it easy for him to nurse. carding your fingers through his hair, you pull him towards you, and he comes to you without hesitation.
he squirms a little under your touch, and you pull back to see his lips glistening.
“what is it, baby boy?”
“ah—fuck, mommy, it hurts! please— please do somethin’,” his voice is hoarse, and you grind down on him, maybe just to torture him a little more, thus pulling a whimper out of him.
he buries his face in your neck and mumbles, “please, mommy.”
you think he might cry if you keep this up.
“aw, you’re so needy, baby,” you coo and run your hands through his hair. a whine leaves him as he nuzzles closer to you.
you sit back up slowly, watching the way his eyes track your every movement. you reach for his cock and wrap your hands around the base, gently, so gently, that touch equals torture.
he lets out a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat.
“you’re so full, baby,” you marvel at your husband.
you stroke him slowly, barely moving your wrist. the pressure is feather-light, more tease than anything. the tip of his cock is angry-red, veins flushed up along the shaft, pulsing under your hand.
his hips twitch, like he’s trying not to fuck into your fist.
“i’ll come if you do that, mommy, aaah, please.”
“i thought you wanted to cum, sweetie.” your eyes flick up to his face. he’s flushed from the neck to his ears. his head tips back into the headboard, so much so you think it might hurt, but then you remember he’s a super soldier and that he can probably take it.
“i do—i do, i just— i wan’ to cum in you, mommy.”
“you poor thing,” you stroke him slow and steady now, your palm gliding over the slick head with every pass. “did i let it build too long? should i have let you cum sooner?”
“please please let me inside you—nnngh—please mommy.” he’s trembling now. his whole body is reacting, like you’ve bypassed his brain and gone straight to the part of him that just feels.
deciding that you’ve tortured him quite enough, you lift yourself from his thighs and let your cunt hover right over his cock.
his hands grip your hips, in an attempt to push you down, but you hold yourself together as you slide his cock up and down your pussy until it catches your entrance, earning another groan from him.
a broken sigh emerges from him when you finally lower yourself fully on his cock, and you’re seated snug on his lap.
his head slumps towards your body as you start slowly grinding on top of him.
greediness engulfs him as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue working circles over it until his lips wrap around it fully, followed by which there’s a soft suckle.
the dual assault on your body is too much, especially since this is the first time you’ve welcomed him inside you after delivering your babygirl.
like he’s read your mind, his metal arm grips your hip tighter, while his flesh arm snakes down between your legs to find your swollen clit.
the sensation of him rubbing slow circles on your aching nub is almost too much, and you feel yourself slipping away, falling into another mind blowing orgasm.
all while, he hasn’t taken his mouth off you, drinking languidly. you feel his cock twitch inside you, and your walls clamp down on him, both of you reaching the sweet release at the same time.
the milk let down increases when his latch doesn’t waver, but only strengthens as he spills hot cum inside you.
breathing grows heavy on both sides, until you cannot do anything. not even move. wrapped up in one another, like there’s no possibility of space between you.
he lifts his face from you, and that’s when you catch sight of him. utterly gone. milk and spit and the remnants of your cum adorn his face, lips flushed pink, and irises completely eclipsing his pupils.
you lean down and kiss him, tongue slipping into his mouth with lazy ease.
“you’re okay, baby,” you whisper. “you did so good.”
he doesn’t even speak. something like a groan comes out of him and you nuzzle against his cheek, still smiling.
“i love you,” he whispers, looking down at your chest, eyes dragging over the shiny, slick skin of your breasts. “you’re still leaking. fuck. mommy, you look edible.”
edible isn’t a word you’d use to describe yourself, but whatever floats his boat. you roll your eyes at him, but your thighs clench.
“wanna suck it again,” he mutters, dragging his thumb across the side of your breast. “lick it up and swallow every drop. god, you taste so good—so warm—”
you press your hand flat against his stomach. “you’re literally trembling.”
“i know.” he laughs breathlessly. “my legs don’t work. my balls are empty. my brain is gone. i’m just a mouth now. just a mouth and a cock actually.”
you snort into his skin.
“god, you’re disgusting,” you whisper, but there’s no heat to it, you punctuate the sentence by placing wet kisses to his collarbone.
he turns his face toward you, brushing his nose against your temple. “i mean it. the second you said i could have a taste—fuck, something in me just broke.”
you could feel his cock slightly harden in you by the second, and he looks at you like he’s just realised that too. but he also knows you don’t have enough in your body to give him another orgasm.
you try to nuzzle close to him, try to grind down on him despite being wrung out, but he gently lifts you off him and you both silently hiss.
"can we just lie down?" to which you reply with a kiss to his lips. he takes that answer eagerly and curls into your side.
he's half on top of you now, one arm slung across your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. his face is pressed against your chest, lips brushing the swell of your breast.
the stillness doesn't last longer as he twitches every now and then, little aftershocks still rippling through him.
you think he’s drifting. until he shifts slightly and murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “can i…?”
you glance down. he’s looking at you with that dazed expression again. completely blissed out and somehow still wanting. he nuzzles your breast, dragging his mouth lazily over your skin, and repeats it, "mommy… can i just… can i nurse again?”
you smile and kiss the top of his head. “of course, baby.”
shifting slightly, you guide him to the soft weight of your breast, your nipple already stiffening at the feel of his breath. he’s gentle, so damn gentle it almost breaks something in you.
he opens his mouth slowly, presses his lips to you, and latches without a word.
you realise there's no hunger or desperation this time, like earlier when he was moaning and grinding and trying not to come.
this is something else. this is soft. and soothing. and soft.
his tongue drags lazy circles around your nipple. he sucks lightly, rhythmically and his cheek is pressed to the curve of your breast like it’s the only place he ever wants to live.
you wrap your arm around his head, fingers sinking into his hair, just to hold him closer.
you feel the letdown and the warm ache. the subtle sting that comes just before the release.
but you just watch him without a word.
he moans softly, the sound vibrating against your chest.
“tastes so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “so fucking warm. feels like you’re feeding me straight from your heart.”
quiet laughter ripples through you. “i might be.”
he sucks again, deeper now, lips sealed around your nipple, his tongue moving with slow precision like he never wants to stop. your other hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing gentle circles there, keeping him grounded. keeping him yours.
“i love this. i’d live here if you let me.”
you smile and tilt your head to kiss his forehead. “you already do.”
his hand slides over your belly, stroking the soft skin, fingers tracing the stretch of you, the weight you still carry.
“i love this body,” he whispers. “you made me everything in it. you feed me from it. you fucking break me with it.”
a slow exhale leaves you, and he just keeps nursing.
you can feel his cock— not hard, but not soft either —resting against your thigh. it twitches every now and then like it’s remembering earlier. like it’s responding just to the taste of you in his mouth.
he shifts a little, pulling your breast deeper into his mouth, moaning as he suckles like he’s trying to coax every last drop from you.
his tongue flicks gently, then presses firm. you can feel the tug low in your belly. your nipple aches, your core pulses, but you stay still and let him take what he wants.
let him keep drinking.
“am i gonna get addicted to this?” he mumbles around your skin.
“you already are, baby.”
“i don’t wanna stop.”
“you don’t have to.”
you look down again. he looks so peaceful. so full of want and contentment at the same time. he shifts his legs a little, then presses closer, curling into you like he’s trying to melt into your skin.
you whisper into his hair, “you want to switch sides, baby?”
he hums. “mmhm.”
you gently ease him off your breast. his lips make a soft, wet pop as he pulls away, and he actually whines. his tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth, already chasing the taste again.
you guide his head to the other side, lift your arm so he can tuck beneath it, and he latches just as eagerly as the first time. maybe even more.
this nipple’s still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and the moment his tongue touches it, you shiver.
he groans.
“god, mommy,” he mumbles. “still leaking.”
you run your fingers through his hair, stroke the curve of his jaw.
he keeps sucking. messy now. even drooling a little. he's moaning like it gets better the longer he stays latched. and it might.
you’re not sure where the pleasure ends and the intimacy begins anymore. it’s all blended together—this soft, sticky need that just keeps pulsing between you.
your thighs are slick again. you don't have to voice it out for him to know that.
he pulls off suddenly, just for a second, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. his lips are swollen, and you feel him shaking.
"i love you so much," it's a statement, that holds more love than it could ever express.
"i love you too, baby," you caress his hair and pull him closer to you.
a smile spreads on his lips and he kisses the side of your breast. then latches again, eyes fluttering shut. and drinks.
[ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ] an upcoming anthology of natasha romanoff fics that i plan to work on and release during﹙ and possibly after ﹚this month of november.
[ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐔𝐓 ] hello my darlings!! i am so excited to write and put out these works for all of you, i've had so many fic ideas that have been wandering around in my brain so i thought it'd be best to finally put them down somewhere! shoutout to @54nboo for the wonderful name that is "natvember" and to @houseofhyde for being a fellow nat crazy and encouraging me to write for this beautiful woman more and more. please note that this list may be subject to change! i may add or get rid of ideas here and there, so revisit this post frequently or comment below to be added to the taglist for this event for updates!
series .ᐟ
❝ 𝓛IVE TO RIDE, RIDE TO LIVE. ❞ ﹙ ch. ii ﹚
biker!natasha romanoff x reader
⤷ in which you become quite.. acquainted with the members of the liberty legion biker gang in new york, some more intimately than others.
❝ 𝓦HO’S CALLIN’ MY PHONE ? ❞
cyber villain!natasha romanoff x assassin!reader
⤷ after escaping the confined walls of the red room, you live your life in a lonely and purposeless haze. until one day, your busted, second-hand nokia rings. on the other line? a voice offering you a lifeline. a job. a kill. but who is it exactly that's calling your phone?
one-shots .ᐟ
❝ 𝓛OVEGAME. ❞
music manager!natasha romanoff x rising star!reader
⤷ when you, nat's newest starlet, find yourself plastered in the media for all the wrong reasons, nat takes matters into her own hands. do you want love, or do you want fame? it's up to nat to make sure you're in the game.
❝ 𝓔N POINTE. ❞
red room ballet instructor!natasha romanoff x reader
⤷ you were the red room's star pupil. sparring, shooting, you excelled in every category. but the only thing you truly cared about was ballet, more specifically— your instructor, natasha. you preened under her attention, flushed at every brush of her fingers against your skin, responded so obediently to every thrust of her hips against yours. what? you were a teacher's pet, after all.
❝ 𝓜Y (WO)MAN ON WILLPOWER. ❞
girlfriend!natasha romanoff x reader
⤷ having natasha romanoff as your girlfriend was nothing short of your best achievement. being able to kiss, love on, and admire the world’s favorite ex-assassin up close was not something that you took for granted. but as of recent, your shared home’s felt a bit more empty. with natasha constantly on missions, you were lacking the attention you were used to. while she's incredibly in touch with her emotions, of late it seems like she wouldn't even touch you with a twenty foot pole. has natasha forgotten her devotion to you? and if so, what will you do to get her back?
❝ 𝓦E ALMOST BROKE UP AGAIN. ❞
ex﹙ ? ﹚girlfriend!natasha romanoff x reader
⤷ it was a constant back and forth between you both. natasha’s work never made your relationship easy, and your two very clashing personalities didn’t help. when things get heated yet again between the two of you, will your relationship sink or swim?
❝ 𝓑LACK EYE & TWO KISSES. ❞
red room!natasha romanoff x s.h.i.e.l.d!reader
⤷ you’d always heard rumors of the infamous black widow, the red room assassin everyone kept an eye out for. but when a run-in with natasha during an op peaks your interest about her, you find yourself in an obsessive spiral, desperate to catch her. when natasha catches on to your intent, she decides to play along. she does love a game, after all.
❝ 𝓜ONISTAT & VAGISIL. ❞
best friend!natasha romanoff x reader﹙ jennifer's body au ﹚
⤷ natasha romanoff. your too-touchy, too-close, best friend forever. except she’s just been turned into a vampiric succubus and kills boys for life source. and also totally obsessed with and in love with you. she never really understood why you were with your loser boyfriend, anyway. she was always the better choice. and she can think up a few ways to convince you.
drabbles .ᐟ
clairvoyant!natasha﹙ the conjuring au ﹚
natasha's victoria's secret angel
college situationship!natasha
morning wood
punishment
So cute! Reminds me of the old sites that I would spend so much time creating my avatar for. No wonder why I became obsessed with The Sims back then haha!
im soso late to this and got trashed in the gc help but thank you to my lovelies @metal-armed-muse (my wife <33) @kqtholins and @sheriff-bodecker for the tags !!
this was basically by go-to fit during the summer and i loved it soso much !!
if you'd like to make little version of yourself this is the picrew site !
no pressure tags of course hehe : @umbreoni @colettebarnes @demiebarnes @54nboo love u babies <33
we’ve had cockdrunk.. so it’s only fair we have cuntdrunk. oh and, plus breeding kink because where would we be without it (literally) 😁 18+ mdni.
bucky barnes should really think before he speaks. he regrets it even more so when he says: "i’m not opposed to having kids. i just didn’t think i was fit for having them."
and get this— this is where bucky barnes should’ve really started to think his words through before speaking them, because after a momentary pause, he speaks, the words flying out his mouth way too quickly.
"before i met you."
he says, staring you deep into your eyes— more like in your soul, or so you hoped just so the words would stick better— before he took a bite of that stupid five-dollar taco from the taco bell just down the street from his brooklyn apartment.
he regrets it, now more than ever, because in his current predicament, he’s currently three orgasms deep in your cunt, traces of his past releases oozing out of your clenching hole and onto the remnants of the soaked bedsheets below your bruised thighs.
maybe, he doesn’t regret it, you think. or else, he wouldn’t have been confident in his abilities in having your legs astride on each side of differentiating hips, as he rams into your cunt, each squelch a higher octave than the last. his pelvis meets yours in a cacophony of skin-slaps, balls smacking against the globe of your ass as he ruts into you with a quiver of his lips.
"f—fuck, baby…" he cries out, his cock a sensitive mess, only making every gummy ridge of your walls more prominent to his length— more vulnerable and raw, "you’re so be—ah!—autiful."
he whines your name into your mouth with a delectable thrust of his hips into your core, pressing your thighs towards your tits, smushing them closer together as he fucks into you deeper. a whimper tumbles off your tongue, only for it to die in his throat as he swallows it with a saccharine kiss, one where he shows that he’s a man deprived; like he’s a man starved and hungered; like he’s a man famished.
his lips fumbles with yours, the kiss clumsy yet full of desire and want. staring into his barely-opened eyes, you stare deep inside the cerulean hues of his irises. instead of the usual lust, you could only discover a great deal of need. it was clear to see that he yearned for you. that he yearned for this.
you cupped his jaw in your hands, forcing his cocked head back onto your face, eyes meeting each other in a loving gaze as your thumb lulled a crimson-tinted cheek. for a second, his hips stutter— a clear indication that he was nearing his tipping point, the temptation of filling you up yet again so vivid, and so visceral in his head.
"cum— shit— jamie…" you sighed, tipping your head back into the pillow, as his length nestled deep in your cunt. his brows furrowed, as his forehead pressed against yours as his eyes squeezed shut and a bitten lip became visible on his face, the crinkle of his nose prominent, "fill me up—! need you to make me a mama…"
"'mgonna be the best papa ever," he huffs into your skin, the memories of brooklyn engraved thick in his accent as his head snakes towards the crook of your neck with a gentle groan, kisses peppered onto the side of your jugular.
"gonna be so— so, so good for you, mama."
genuinely don’t think i’ve ever written something so fast 🧍♀️
pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"
word count: 11.7k
masterlist
a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.
synopsis:
You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts.
That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts.
You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.
Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.
Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.
You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.
And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.
Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”
All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.
Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.
“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.
Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.
“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.
“Buck,” Steve tried again.
Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”
“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”
Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.
He did have a chance with you.
He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.
The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.
God, he fucking despised girls like you.
But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.
Just like him.
Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.
He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.
Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.
He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.
Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.
Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”
And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.
You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.
👑: hey
👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?
No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.
And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.
bucky: yeah
bucky: looks bad
From there on, you were his dirty little secret.
And he was yours.
“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”
“Hate her or want to fuck her?”
Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”
Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”
Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”
“Get out of my face, Steve.”
Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.
And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?
But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.
“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”
You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”
John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.
“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”
“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”
A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”
You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”
John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.
“That’s my girl!”
My girl?
You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.
“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”
“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”
“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.
Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.
You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.
“Wait—hold on—”
You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.
Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.
“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.
“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”
“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”
John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”
“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”
John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.
“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.
John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.
Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”
John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…
Bucky had called you an angel!
“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”
“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”
John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”
“Bucky,” you warned.
His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."
“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”
He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.
Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.
“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.
“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.
“John and I aren’t dating—”
“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”
“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.
You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.
But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.
“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”
You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”
Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.
“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”
You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.
“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”
“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.
Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.
But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.
That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.
“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”
You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.
“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”
Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.
“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”
Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.
Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.
“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.
“To your gig?” you frowned.
He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.
Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.
He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.
“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.
“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.
He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”
You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.
But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.
Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.
“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”
It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.
Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”
Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”
“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.
Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”
Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”
“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”
As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.
Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.
He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.
His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…
It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.
“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.
“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”
“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.
“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.
Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.
Just him.
His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.
He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.
“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.
He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.
“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.
He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.
“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.
“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.
He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.
“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.
“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”
The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.
His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.
Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.
Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.
He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.
It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.
Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”
“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”
“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”
Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”
He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.
Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?
And that was all it took.
He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.
“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”
They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.
And that was the final truth Bucky hated.
He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.
Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.
You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”
“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”
“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.
Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.
“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.
You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.
“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”
“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”
You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.
“I just wanted to get out of there.”
“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”
You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.
“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”
He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.
You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”
If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.
“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”
You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”
“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”
Your smile faltered.
His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.
Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.
You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”
Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”
“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is what you said.”
A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.
But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.
So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”
You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”
“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”
Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”
You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”
He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”
Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.
At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.
You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”
He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.
“That looks disgusting.”
He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.
He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”
You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.
When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”
The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?
With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”
He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”
He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.
And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.
After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.
He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.
“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.
“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”
Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.
“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”
“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”
He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”
A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”
“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”
You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled.
You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.
He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.
“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.
He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.
You were close, so fucking close.
All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.
He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.
“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.
He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.
Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”
You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”
He nodded. “We should take you home—”
“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”
He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”
You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”
His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.
“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”
You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”
He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”
You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.
Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.
His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.
You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”
He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.
His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.
You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.
“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”
You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”
He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”
“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.
His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”
A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.
“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”
A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.
“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.
You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.
“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.
“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”
You nodded, biting your lip.
Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”
Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.
You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.
It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.
“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.
He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”
While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.
The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.
You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.
He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.
“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”
“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”
He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.
“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”
He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”
Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”
“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.
You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.
“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”
“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”
Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.
“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”
“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”
“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.
You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.
“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”
“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.
A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.
“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”
Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.
“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”
“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.
“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”
“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.
A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.
“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”
Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.
Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”
You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.
“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”
He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”
His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.
“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.
Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.
A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.
And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.
“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”
“Come to my show on Friday.”
“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”
You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.
“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”
He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.
“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist—“you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”
Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”
It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.
He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.
He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.
Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.
“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.
He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”
“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”
His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”
“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”
You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.
It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.
It was Thursday afternoon.
Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.
But it was no use.
Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.
Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.
Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.
But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.
Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.
Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.
He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.
It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.
bucky: can we talk?
bucky: i’m sorry
bucky: i miss you
Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.
bucky: you looked happy today.
He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.
And then nothing.
No reply.
Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.
Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.
Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.
It was Friday morning.
Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.
In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.
You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.
He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.
He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.
“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”
Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.
“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”
You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.
With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.
Your eyes widened.
He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.
“Bucky, I—”
Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”
Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.
“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”
“They’re probably not that good.”
All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.
Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.
“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”
But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.
And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.
“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”
“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”
“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”
You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.
“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.
They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”
“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”
One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”
You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”
One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”
“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”
The group went silent.
You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.
Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.
It was Friday night.
The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.
Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.
Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.
He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.
But not your face.
“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”
Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”
But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.
Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?
You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.
And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.
What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.
He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.
And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.
He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.
He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”
Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.
Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”
The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.
Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.
He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.
He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.
As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.
Until he saw pink.
There, near the middle of the crowd.
You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.
And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.
Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.
This was love.
You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.
“Hey, loser.”
THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.
but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.
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dude, i just combusted when i first saw this on my dashboard.
this was UGH. do you guys know the tiktok storylines of those 2000s slideshows people are making? yeah this is it, BUT EVEN BETTER.
pauline has such a distinct way of words that makes you feel as if you're snuggled up with your favorite blanket with a cup of hot cocoa. or in this case, i felt like i was literally watching a full-out MOVIE when i was reading this helloooooo ?? i mean this fic needs to be produced, directed, and cast ME as the main character PUH LEASE 🙂↕️
let me get my shit rocked lovingly by dirtbag bucky PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE —
also, the yearning made me feel SICK. the constant asking to come to the show, the readers reluctance even though we ALLL knew she LONGED TO GO, also if this didn't make me hate blond men even more.... KILL ALL BLOND MEN *cue the mark jiff LMFAO*
this was incredibly written; you could smell sweet perfume and cigarettes coming from my screen, the story progression, again, made me feel like i was watching a 2000s-made movie, and the dialogue was nothing short of just absolute perfection. theres more i wanna say but i'll keep to here for now <33
