nicholas had you laid out on the bed, back cushioned against the headboard, pillows supporting your hips. his finger moved slowly, never daring to quicken the steady pace they pumped in. his free hand rested on your inner thigh, prying them apart, fighting the soft flesh that so desperately wanted to close. he hummed, eyes gazing up at you, his knees sunk him deeper into the mattress. his eyes were sharp, yet rounded in their look. sparkling up at you as his fingers curled into your walls. slick, filthy sounds that hitched your breath, panting as you cried at him. “please… i can’t take it— it’s too much” you squirm under his grasp, his hold on you tightening in response. “shh, it’s okay… you're so close just let it take over.” he cooed, low. the steady pace continued despite your own words, his fingers curled deeper into you, thumb lazily rested next to your swollen, plump clit.
“you feel it don’t you, the coil in your stomach, heat pooling in your lower back?” his fingers quickened their pace, hungrily tangling them into your walls, letting the arousal drip over his wrist. “let it, let it build, even if it feels too much, you’ll be good for me won’t you? let me feel you finish all over my fingers?” he looked at you with an insatiable thirst.
when you felt your gaze lock onto his he thrust deeper, harsher into your cunt as the stare stretched sparks into the air. watching your expression tense as you flail helplessly.
nicholas stared at you, watching you melt with his name on your tongue, begging for him to let this burning die down. but he couldn’t stop now, overtaken by his own thirst to watch you crumble. the stinging welled behind your eyes, pooled down your cheeks. chest heaving as you fought his strength, the slickness seeped down into the silk sheets that rubbed against your hot body— friction that caused sweat to drip down your skin.
you tried to meet his vision, return the intimate gaze that built the tension in you—all for it to be rolled back, broken with a cry that teared from your throat.
he never pushed too far into you without giving you that kind, devilish smirk, massaging your inner thigh to calm your rapid breath— only ever brushing the sensitive surface unknowing its effect. you cried out, tried to squirm your hips away, all for it to be met with a delicate shove back into them. returning his fingers deeper than they were before. you felt the sharp tips of his finger tips press deeper, like they wanted to mark you as his.
your vision blurred, buzzing over your body that washed over in crazed waves, ears focused on the wet filth that filtered from your pussy, and the soft reassurance he whispered. and at last your walls fluttered over his fingers, falling apart over him.
your thoughts tremble under his hold, his fingers slowing their pace, gently milking out every single drop they could. “look at how good you were for me~ see… you really did handle it so well~”
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who loves jerking off on the bathroom floor for some reason even tho it is the most unsanitary place in the whole house
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who falls asleep on the couch, wakes up hard in the middle of the night so he pulls down his underwear just enough to let his cock out, rubs it against the couch until he cums and goes back to sleep, doesn't bother on cleaning it up or pulling his underwear up
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who licks his whole palm whenever he jerks off, you know, someone would normally spit on their hand before getting back to it but he likes the salty taste built from jerking off
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who gets off smelling the same dirty piece of your underwear he keeps deep down under his own clean underwear drawer, doesn't bother on grabbing another piece ever since he picked his favorite one
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who tasted his own cum "out of curiosity"
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki with a piss kink wbk😋 pisses all over his tummy while he is overstimulating himself, doesn't even bother putting a towel under him either, loves doing it in the shower as well he just loves the warmth of it, likes it when you do it while you ride him yeah yeah
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who eats you out after filling you up, slurping the fluids like its his favorite meal
ᥬᩤ nasty!taki who lets you hump his pillow and doesn't wash it for days
⤷ thunderbolts*!bucky barnes x apothecary fem!reader
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, thunderbolts fluff, opposites attract, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy and sunshine, sex pollen (dubconnish) dom!bucky, bucky is hungryyy, rough sex, angry sex, oral (m!receiving), intense eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 8.6k
⭐︎ a/n: probably my final thunderbolts fic huzzah before bucky gets slimed in doomsday (will edit this in a few months when the movie comes out)
synopsis:
The team is in dire need of a healer. So when Alexei mentions that he knows someone who's proficient with medicinal herbs, Bucky has his hesitations. How could someone possibly heal people with stupid plants and minerals? Then, upon meeting, you accidentally give Bucky a tincture that leaves him feeling all fuzzy and warm, proving his concerns exactly right. And only you can help him get rid of his ache.
← previous fic | main masterlist
There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.
As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.
“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”
“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.
“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.
“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”
“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.
“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.
Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”
Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”
“Thank you, Bob—”
“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”
Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.
“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.
And John, of course, does.
“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”
“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.
“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”
Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”
“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression.
“We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”
Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.
Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”
Ava, John, and Bob shrug.
Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”
It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.
So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.
“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”
You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.
Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.
“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.
Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”
You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”
“Our team needs a healer.”
To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.
“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.
Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.
“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”
You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”
Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.
You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.
“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”
“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”
“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”
That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.
“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”
“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.
“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”
“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”
“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”
John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”
You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.
“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”
The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.
“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”
Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”
“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”
The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.
Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.
Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.
It actually makes perfect sense.
Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.
Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”
“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”
“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.
Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.
“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”
Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”
While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.
“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”
Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.
Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.
“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”
Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.
“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”
Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?
With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.
“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”
Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”
You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.
“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”
“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”
You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”
Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.
You furrow your brows. “What was that?”
“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.
“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”
Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”
You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.
“Here,” you say. “Try it.”
Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”
“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”
He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”
You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.
Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.
He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.
“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.
Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”
You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”
As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.
But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.
The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.
He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.
When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.
What the hell is happening?
He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.
He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.
“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.
When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”
You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.
“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”
With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.
The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.
He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.
“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.
You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”
You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”
You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.
When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.
“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”
“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”
You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”
Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.
It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.
There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.
A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.
“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”
Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.
Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.
His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.
In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.
The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.
His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.
“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”
“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”
You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.
“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”
You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.
“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”
While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.
“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”
Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.
“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.
You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.
“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”
Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.
He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.
He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…
“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.
That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.
He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.
You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”
Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.
As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.
Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.
You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.
You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.
“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”
Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.
You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.
You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.
It doesn’t sound like pleasure.
It sounds like he’s in pain.
Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.
“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”
Silence, save for his labored panting.
Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”
You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.
You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.
You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.
He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.
Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”
“Where are you going?”
You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”
Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”
You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”
“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”
You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.
“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”
He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.
The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.
“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.
Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.
“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”
“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”
His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.
“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”
You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it.
With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.
His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”
His cock twitches at the realization.
“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”
Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.
“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”
Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.
“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”
Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.
His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.
Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.
The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.
With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.
“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”
He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”
Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.
His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.
“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”
You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.
“On your knees,” he urges.
Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.
“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.
Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.
He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.
“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”
You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.
His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”
Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.
“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”
Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.
You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.
“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.
“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”
Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.
“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.
You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.
“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”
His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.
His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.
You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.
He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.
“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”
“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”
He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.
“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”
A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”
“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”
Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
“Bucky—!”
You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.
Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.
“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.
Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.
“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”
His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.
A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.
“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.
The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.
“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”
The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.
With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.
Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.
A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.
He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.
Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.
“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”
You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.
“Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”
He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”
His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.
You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.
“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.
Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.
His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.
Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.
Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.
“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.
A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.
He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.
Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.
“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.
Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.
That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.
“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”
A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.
John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.
“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.
“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.
“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”
“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.
Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”
Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”
“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”
Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.
The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.
The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.
“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.
The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.
“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”
“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”
Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.
John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.
John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”
Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”
Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”
“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.
Bucky’s jaw clenches.
Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.
His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.
You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.
The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.
Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“I’ll go.”
this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
I have a very specific vision of jo accidentally overstimulating the reader because he just gets so pussy drunk and loses himself without realizing cus he just wants to make reader feel good and that’s how he feels good…. Pls tell me you understand😣 like he doesn’t even realize!!
oh don’t u worry nonie, i understand completely ;) messy eater joooo mmmmnnhhh yummyyyyy (˶˃⤙˂˶)
jo doesn’t even wait for your signal because he already picked up on many prior to coming back home and laying you on the bed, hands literally ripping off your cotton underwear and pressing against your inner thighs, pushing them further apart to accommodate his head.
he would want you to crush his skull with your thighs..
yeah, he comes to the set thought; he doesn’t mind passing out that way— in the best way he could ever imagine, just the thought makes him moan against your slick lips.
jo’s in absolute cloud nine, tasting in his opinion would be the sweetness nectar straight from the budding flower, almost purring as the slippery, liquid arousal seeps onto his tongue with every lick and clouds his better judgment.
of course, you’re squirming, back arching as he gives you no time to adjust or shake off the initial shock of him pouncing on you without any warning, but his hands keep you there and keep you close.
he wants to make a mess, his eyes slightly rolling behind his fluttering eyelids as he presses open mouthed kisses over your mound and sucks all the pleasure from your puffy lips. he’s been begging for it all day, for this every single day. he’s even said please, caressed and nuzzled into your body in ways he knows you adore. he knows you love his desperate need, the way he practically whines as he literally collapses and pressed his face into your stomach to mutter continuously, “please? please, pleasepleasepleaseplease, my love, lemme eat you, please?”
“… ok! oookay! just one more, promise??”
so he doesn’t care that he’s practically purring from your taste, he doesn’t care about the tightening grip of your hands tugging his roots, he doesn’t care about the quiver of your thighs underneath his warm palms. he squeezes the soft skin; plushy, you feel squishy, so malleable between his spreading fingers as he pulls you impossibly closer to his awaiting mouth.
his tongue is slick, full of spit. he does have a bit of a drooling problem, saliva pooling even before he was able to drag you into your room from the idea of getting his meal.
it’s for his pleasure, his hips rutting against the bedsheets underneath his body as your own buck up into his face. it only adds onto his pleasure; knowing he’s the reason for your confused whines melting into nothing but a beautiful motley of harmonious symphonies.
why wait, when he realizes he can have his fill anytime any day?
he might be suffocating at this point, but again, he does not care. his tip of nose and the majority of his lower face might be glistening with the concoction of your slick and his spit, but he’s kissing and licking until he’s had his fill.
he might as well cry in joy from how warm he felt.
he needs this.
badly. you understand..
yeah, your hands might be pushing at his forehead with weakening strength for him to pull away but he’s not done. yeah, maybe he already unknowingly pulled two orgasms from you just with his flicking tongue, but he doesn’t want to pull away.
he only does when he realizes the lightheaded buzz was coming from the lack of oxygen, lips parting from yours in a slick pop and a sigh of relief as if he was the world’s thirstiest man finally detaching from his favorite juice. his eyes roll open to glance at the mess.
puffs of his breath waft over your sensitive sex as his open smile grows at the beauty in front of him, and he could giggle from his thoughts but he can’t ignore the slight tremble on your lower navel. his lips must’ve looked as puffy, swollen and reddened as your pussy and now he just has to giggle like a drunken, love-insane man.
delicious, desperate.
yeah, you might’ve been whining for him to not look or for even laughing, but everything is muffled. he must’ve looked completely wrecked with his hooded, unfocused gaze staring directly at your sex, hair fluffed from your constant touch, covered with a glistening sheen everywhere—
i mean, he does get messy.
his tongue rolls out from his mouth to break the line of spit that connects your lips to his, because he can’t waste anything.
jo can’t waste another moment before he’s leaning into your pussy with the same open mouth sucks, his gripping hands pulling you closer as he savors every part as much as he can. it’s like a constant routine he will never ever get tired of, his eyes rolling shut from the comfort of being in his favorite place ever. his tongue flicks upwards in one long stripe before he’s leaning in once again to kiss languidly at your budding nerve as he hears your warbling whines. he knows how much you despise hearing the actual slickness of your arousal in his mouth; but maybe he does it on purpose, or maybe he just does it because he loves the sound of it.
the sound of his pure insatiable need for you in wet squelches as he practically makes out with your dripping sex, tilting and leaning his head in with each smooth as if he was deepening a kiss.
his jaw aches, but he continues to chase after your sweet lips with each audible kiss and slurp.
he has to make love to your sex somehow; care for her, treat her right, shower her in pure affection.
again, a man of his word, jo could pass out exactly like this, happy and in between your thighs. he doesn’t care about him losing his breath again as he shakes his head from side to side, hair ruffling over his closed eyelids from the movement. he can hear his name falling from your open mouth between increments, increasing in pitch and frequency, almost muffled against the sinful sounds emanating from his make out with your pussy.
“mpphh jo, you said once.. you p-promise!”
you sound utterly wrecked, his hips rutting harder into the sheets and veins protruding clear on the back of his hands from his tightening grip. he doesn’t know whether to let your plush thighs go or push them apart as they fight against his palms in attempt to close around him, testing his physical and emotional strength.
should he just let you pop his skull?
maybe his incoming release might be clouding his senses even more, but it seems like he just wants you surrounding him in every sense as well.
his eyebrows furrow upwards underneath his fluffy bangs, his cheeks painted in pink and glittering with sweat and your liquid arousal. it doesn’t surprise him when his pleasure suddenly increases tenfold as his orgasm rapidly washes over him, his hips jerking against the sheets as his lips free your delicate skin to moan.
his body is ridged as it overcomes every part of his being, his muscles tightening underneath his perspired skin before they seep into nothing but jello.
his voice is hoarse and cracking as he moans languidly, high and drawn out, lips plush over your quivering sex from the intensity of his ecstatic release and he doesn’t care about his dampening grey sweats as he rides out his high with rutting hips.
he does care about his noises, opting to latch onto your pussy to muffle his moans with vibrating hums instead after he softly comes down from his release into a soft puddle of liquid limbs.
jo’s such a mess, tears almost falling down his cheeks from the pleasure of it all.
at least he’s had his fill, and after a while of just resetting himself back to a normal state by calming his breaths and muddled brain, he pulls off from your swollen lips and gives it one final lingering kiss — full, languid, and fully sincere.
summary: just what I think of each of these characters when it comes to pull out 🗣
— 𝒮teve ℛogers ;; He likes to think he’s good at it. And honestly? He is. Respectful, controlled, painfully self-aware. The second he feels himself getting close, he speeds up, grits his teeth, and pulls out right on time—usually on your stomach or chest. Gentleman. HOWEVER—deep, deep down? He does have a breeding kink. He just won’t admit it. The day you whisper “it’s okay, I’m on the pill”? He hesitates just long enough to ruin his perfect record.
Rating: 10/10. Practically flawless. Just a little too responsible.
— 𝒯ony 𝒮tark ;; This man cums like he’s paying rent. He could pull out. He knows how. Won’t. He’s like, “You knew the risk,” and just lets go. Finishes inside you with a smirk, kisses your temple like he didn’t just pump you full, and asks for another round like nothing happened.
Rating: 7/10. Could pull out. Ignores it. Still makes it hot.
— ℬucky ℬarnes ;; NO WAY this man is risking it, but for the sake of the game, let’s say he tries. He means to pull out. He really does. But the second you tighten around his cock when he’s close? Too late. He’s already twitching, already filling you up. Feels guilty after, mutters apologies, but ask him for another round and he forgets all about it.
Rating: 5/10. Tries. Fails. Feels bad. Does it again.
— 𝒯hor 𝒪dinson ;; Sweetheart himbo with the pull-out instincts of a golden retriever. You tell him “pull out,” and he’s like, “But why, beloved?” while thrusting deeper. His idea of affection is cumming in you until it’s leaking down your thighs and calling it “a gift from the gods.”
Rating: 0/10. He means well. That’s the problem.
— ℒoki ℒaufeyson ;; Oh, he can pull out. He just won’t—unless it’s to tease you. Otherwise? He stays buried until the very end, groaning in your ear about how good you feel while he fills you up. He wants to watch it drip out. It’s about power. Ownership. Ruin. You say “pull out”? He says “make me.”
Rating: 0/10. Wicked.
— 𝒫eter 𝒫arker ;; He’s studied the theory. He wants to pull out. He really does. But the second things start getting too good? He’s whimpering, cock twitching, finishing inside you before he even realizes it. Apologizes mid-orgasm and offers to run to the pharmacy still inside you.
Rating: 3/10. He tries. He panics. He fails.
— ℰrik 𝒦illmonger ;; Pull out? Babe, he hears you say it and smirks. Doesn’t even pretend to listen. Holds your hips down, grinds in deeper, and finishes inside like he means it. Tells you “You better take all that,” like it’s a challenge and a threat. Might pull out once—just to finish on your face and call it a reward. But most nights? He’s filling you up like it’s his personal mission.
Rating: -100/10. He’s doing it on purpose. You’re not walking right tomorrow.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, college au, banter, alcohol, second chance, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, miscommunication, arguments, fluff, public sex, fingering, finger sucking, dry humping, names: "good girl" "baby"
⭐︎ word count: 14.5k
⭐︎ a/n: its finally out... thank you to the readers who are supporting my dirtbag series! dedicated to my best steve girlies who watched me slave over this: @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @epiphanyrogers
synopsis:
Years of drift had turned you and Steve Rogers into strangers. Now being in college, he was the dirtbag guitarist in a rising band, and you were the quiet girl buried in her books. You figured your friendship was over—until he discovered you were the secret pen behind his rival band's greatest hits. Suddenly, Steve is miraculously crawling back.
← main masterlist | steve's playlist | dirtbag marvel series | bucky's story ➜
You remember it as clear as day.
Steve’s voice—which was much higher than yours back then—squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Bucky.
“This game blows,” little Bucky would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even havin’ fun.”
“Don’t be like that in front of the missus, Buck!” Steve would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you.
It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near.
“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”
Bucky would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Steve was, and hand you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”
And the minute Sarah bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Bucky were at Steve’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Steve would take the guitar, and Bucky would go crazy on the drums.
Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.
It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy.
It was ultimately you, Steve and Bucky.
One day in high school, Steve was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to the tune of Wake Me Up When September Ends. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.
“You know,” Steve had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”
You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”
“Oh?” Steve hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Conceited much?”
You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”
Steve shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line—one you would never share with the class.
“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”
You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.”
Steve let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His blue eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer.
“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”
You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Steve was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.
“Very funny, Stevie.”
“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”
“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Bucky?”
“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Steve. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Bucky.”
Steve shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”
You knew exactly where this was going.
After years of friendship, you knew Steve was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity.
As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.
“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”
You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.
“That’s the problem,” Steve said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hidin’ behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”
You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.
“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Rogers has spoken. Can we stop now?”
“Come on, listen to me for once,” Steve pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”
You always knew Steve meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Steve—”
“You’re incredibly talented!” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless—”
“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”
You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Steve kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.
Making you feel small yet again.
“About what?” he challenged.
You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway.
“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Steve. A real one. While you and Bucky are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”
Steve’s face fell.
The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.
“Steve… I—”
“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”
Christ.
You had attacked the one thing he loved most.
What kind of friend were you?
“Steve…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I—”
“No,” Steve scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”
He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door.
“I’ll see you around.”
Then the door shut coldly.
Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Steve.
You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Bucky, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.
It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?
Steve had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.
Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court.
Unmoved.
You missed Steve dearly.
He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him.
You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.
“CIVIL WAR” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Steve right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was shaved at the sides and shaggy at the top, and stubble traced the line of his chiseled jaw.
He also looked like he had been working out.
He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.
Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Bucky.
Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Shield Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.
“You goin’?” a familiar voice asked from your left.
You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Bucky stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.
“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Bucky was to you now. A total stranger.
“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Bucky spoke up before you could walk away completely.
“He would want you there, you know.”
You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Steve really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?
You could only look over your shoulder and give Bucky a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.
“No, he wouldn’t.”
It was an hour before their set at Shield Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.
“Christ,” Natasha muttered, peeking past the curtains with her bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” She turned to Steve with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Rogers.”
Steve crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, F.R.I.D.A.Y., to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than Civil War performing as an opener?
He was starting to think Tony Stark—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.
Sam, sensing Steve’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. “You good, man?”
Bucky was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask.
Whatever Steve was feeling, Bucky was likely feeling it, too. But Steve was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.
“Just peachy,” Steve finally replied.
He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Stark and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.
“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Steve told the group. “If half these people came for F.R.I.D.A.Y., then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”
“I know all of you folks are stoked to hear Civil War,” Tony Stark’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Steve’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where Nat stood.
“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Tony could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Steve’s stomach.
Tony grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Steve scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?
“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Tony said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “War Machine, AC/DC—” The crowd cheered. “Spiders, System of a Down—” Groups of girls screamed Peter’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Iron Man. Black Sabbath—”
The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.
The opening chords of War Machine began to rip through Shield Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Steve hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Peter Parker moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.
“I don’t get it,” Steve mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his broad chest. “How does a kid like Parker end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with old fucks like Rhodey and Vision?”
The audience was eating it up.
Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Tony Stark’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Tony Stark—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?
Bucky stood just behind Steve, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Peter, he chewed on his toothpick, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.
“Kid’s alright,” Bucky mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”
The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Iron Man, the crowd kept roaring for more. Steve clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.
“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next—”
“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”
Steve snapped his head back toward the stage. Tony was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room.
Steve’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me?
They were already over their time.
“We’ve got a song for you folks—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Tony smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”
The dive bar went ballistic. Steve was already losing his cool after finding out F.R.I.D.A.Y. was performing, and now with Stark and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Steve felt like his head was going to explode.
“A new song?” Bucky’s brows furrowed, giving Steve a look.
Peter started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that only Dave Grohl could fucking do with Everlong, which only built the hype of the crowd even more.
Rhodey’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Tony stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Steve knew he was cooked.
The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Peter’s drumming or Tony’s voice that sold the song, then it was Vision’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy Deacon or McVie style groove, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.
It was, without a question, the best song Steve had ever heard.
It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.
Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”
By the time the song ended, Steve was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Steve couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Tony out.
Tony caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his stubbled chin.
“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”
Steve gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.
“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s goin’ to be running this town before long.”
Tony pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage.
“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”
And the moment Tony said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.
Steve no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Tony’s aggravating voice.
All he could hear was the echo of that name.
Your name.
“Steve.”
You.
“Are you okay?”
You had started writing songs? Since when?
“Steve, we’re up—”
And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?
“Steve!” Bucky’s voice cut sharply against Steve’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in—”
“Bucky,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Tony just said? He said her name—”
“I know,” Bucky interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”
Steve clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Bucky was already thinking.
But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.
“You’re right,” Steve finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”
And the show they performed after F.R.I.D.A.Y. was a disaster.
It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.
Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.
You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Steve.
Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.
But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.
Steve wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.
You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.
He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.
Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.
Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of a broad frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.
Steve stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.
“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.
It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”
With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.
You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.
“Not now, Steve,” you whispered.
Steve didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.
“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”
You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.
“I’m busy studying, Steve,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”
The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Steve’s large presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.
“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”
The sheer audacity of Steve Grant Rogers made your skin prickle.
You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time?
Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.
That ‘all-good,’ charming Mr. American smile of his.
With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Steve’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.
“Where are you going?”
“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.
You heard the groan of Steve’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.
You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.
You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks—”
But when you turned to take it, Steve was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.
“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.
“Steve,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now—”
“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.
He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.
“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”
You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”
When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then—”
Steve stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his tatted forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.
“I heard the set that F.R.I.D.A.Y. played at Shield Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”
You felt your heart drop.
In all the times Steve had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with F.R.I.D.A.Y. And what did he mean, playing at Shield Dive? You’d secretly supported Civil War from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Steve and Bucky—but even you knew that Tony’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.
You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.
“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.
Steve didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.
He stepped closer, the tips of his boots nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Get out of my way, Steve,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”
But Steve stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.
“Look—I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”
You bit your lip, feeling apprehensive.
“Steve…”
“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”
He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face.
But it never came.
The strain in Steve’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.
The vulnerability in his blue eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.
“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”
Under Steve’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y.
There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”
But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.
“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly.
Steve looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Tony Stark, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.
And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him.
But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.
You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.
Steve bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.
“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.”
You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all.
That’s all?
Before you could press him, Steve simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.
But he pulled away.
“I’ll see you around,” Steve murmured.
He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.
Later that day, Steve found himself sitting in his living room with Bucky over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together.
“So,” Bucky said, handing Steve a beer before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”
Steve brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”
Bucky smacked his lips. “You know what.”
Steve knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Shield Dive, he’d told Bucky he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for Civil War instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?
He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.
“Come on,” Bucky nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”
Steve ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bucky wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.
“I did, yeah.”
“And?” Bucky prodded.
“She… she said yes,” Steve swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his beer bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”
Bucky blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.
“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”
That one sentence made Steve feel ten times worse.
“Yeah,” Steve mumbled. “I guess she does.”
He took a long, slow swallow of his beer. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Bucky was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Steve’s hand was shaking.
The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small.
Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with Bucky and the band.
“This is great news, man,” Bucky cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like the good ol’ days.”
Steve chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Bucky said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.
He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.
As the week went on, Steve found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.
He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.
He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by.
The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A man like Steve Rogers—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, covered in tattoos and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.
He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them.
Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.
You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.
Steve had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”
You blinked. “Uh—”
But before you could even think about denying him, Steve pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.
Steve pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.
Your heart ached a little.
You always remembered how much Steve loved to draw.
“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”
He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.
“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”
It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it.
The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him.
With Steve in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.
“Motivated?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”
You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”
Steve tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”
Steve blinked, taken off guard by your words.
The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.
Steve couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.
“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Steve grinned. “It could be a lot worse, sweetheart. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”
“Oh, God,” you cringed. The sweetheart nickname didn’t even register as a surprise because of how naturally it rolled off his tongue. “That was the worst.”
“The worst?” Steve playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”
You chuckled. He was still the same old Steve you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”
“Out of tune?” Steve repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”
At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!
Steve was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.
Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.
“You might’ve thought that then,” Steve teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”
You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tight enough that his muscles bulged against the fabric of his shirt. You swallowed hard trying not to look.
“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”
You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Steve’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.
“I missed you.”
Your laughter slowly faded, and Steve mentally cursed himself.
Fuck.
Did I just screw this up?
But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.
“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.
Steve’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.
“Right. Study.”
Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Steve sitting right across from you.
As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Steve hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.
But just like back then, Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it, keeping his gaze respectfully on yours rather than on your legs or the way your dresses accentuated your cleavage.
He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise.
“You know, Bucky’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Steve spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”
Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Bucky had the hots for the most popular girl in school.
“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Steve’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”
Steve’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.
“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Steve explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”
You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
Steve looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”
“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”
Steve’s breath hitched.
The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. They seemed innocent enough on the surface, but there was something in the way you held his gaze that made the moment feel impure. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.
“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”
“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”
The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say.
You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw his gaze snap down to the curve of your chest pressing against the fabric of your dress.
He looked up quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.
You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.
“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”
With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Steve. Finding sanctuary behind the empty Self-Help and Health section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.
Fuck. Pull yourself together.
You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Steve every day, secretly pining for him.
Growing up, you’d always known Steve was handsome, but now, as an adult, he had become the kind of man who made you feel something much deeper—something undeniably… sensual.
And you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was feeling the same way.
You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind.
Hey, Steve. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?
No. That sounded too desperate.
Hey, Steve. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?
Hey, Steve. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?
“You okay?” Steve asked suddenly.
You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book—”
You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.
Steve blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.
“A Comprehensive Guide to Sexual Wellness and Libido,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”
Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity.
“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.
Steve chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.
“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.
“No?” Steve drawled, his voice like velvet.
He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.
“Then why are you fidgeting, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that since you’d started talking again, yet the nickname suddenly sounded different. It no longer felt like the casual shorthand of a childhood friend.
It felt like a name you’d give to someone you loved.
To someone you wanted.
“There has to be something on your mind,” Steve murmured, his voice dropping even lower.
His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“I know that look.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”
Steve tilted his head, his expression almost patronizing as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”
His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, making your breath hitch. “Because there are a lot of things on mine.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words.
“Thoughts of you... suddenly wearing these pretty dresses and makeup,” Steve hummed, his eyes dark with appreciation as he took you in. “Clothes you didn’t wear before. Tell me—are you wearing them for me?”
A slow exhale left your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes. “And if I was?”
A low groan rumbled deep in Steve’s chest. All those years growing up with you, he’d always thought of you as the innocent girl-next-door, the one with her nose perpetually stuck in a book. He never imagined that years later, he’d find you like this— admitting that you’d been wearing these short dresses just for him.
And him only.
“If you were…” Steve began, his hand that wasn’t cupping your jaw traveling slowly down. His palm traced the fabric of your dress, resting at your hip. “Then that would make me so fucking happy—because after all these years, you still know that you’re my girl.”
Steve gave your hip a soft, appreciative squeeze before sliding his hand further down, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he played with the hem of your skirt.
“My best girl.”
He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly bunching the material upward. You felt the cool library air hit your skin for only a split second before his warm palm replaced it, pressing firmly against the bare skin of your thigh.
“Steve…”
He leaned down, his nose nuzzling the top of your head as he breathed you in, his hand sliding higher up your thigh beneath the dress, roaming freely.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your hair. “I missed you.”
Both his hands settled at your waist now, planting you firmly in place as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I missed you too, Stevie,” you breathed, the name coming out so vulnerable it was nearly a whimper. “So much.”
Steve felt his heart thump at the familiar nickname. Stevie. He’s been called that countless of times by his close friends, but every time you said it, always stirred something warm in his chest.
And when you said it like that, breathless and nearly pleading, it made him want to do unspeakable things to you.
“You’re just asking for it now, aren’t you?” Steve growled.
With his hands firm on your hips, he spun you around, making you gasp softly as he pressed you against the bookshelf. “Turn around. And stay quiet.”
You didn’t even have time to think before his broad chest was pinning you from behind.
A sharp gasp escaped you as he hooked his fingers under your hem and hiked the dress up, exposing the cotton of your panties before pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass.
“Steve—!” your face went hot at the feel of him. “You’re…”
“Hard?” Steve finished for you. He gave his hips a slow, deep rock against you, letting you feel the heavy length of him straining against his jeans. “I know, baby. But how can I not be? Not when you’re wearing a dress like this.”
He rocked against you, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming freely over your body and bunching the fabric of your skirt into his palms. His hands were so warm, so large, you couldn’t believe that after all the years you’d spent imagining those calloused fingers on your skin, you were finally being handled like this in the middle of a library.
“Fuck,” you whimpered.
A high pitched whine escaped you when his right hand palmed your cunt through your panties underneath your skirt, his fingers adding pressure as he made circles over your clit.
It didn’t take long for you to get wet with the way he’s handling you.
“Oh—! Steve—!”
“Quiet,” he growled, his other palm coming up to muffle your cries. “You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble now, would you?”
You shook your head. “Mmphh.”
With his hand still clamped over your mouth, he gave your cheeks a squeeze as he peered over you from behind. “Will you be a good girl?”
You nodded.
The way Steve’s cock was suffocating in his jeans felt like pure torture.
Everything about this could make him bust in his pants right then and there—having his childhood ex-best friend, a good girl with her perfect grades and her books, pushed up against the shelf and being touched by a loser like him was filthy.
It was wrong, and yet, it was everything he had ever wanted.
“That’s it,” he cooed, “my good girl.”
His fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties before sliding down to find you, his fingers pressing against your wet folds. Steve shuddered, his breathing turning heavy at the warm and slick contact.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair. “You’re so wet.”
A broken, muffled sound escaped you against his palm as he pushed a finger against your tight entrance. At the same time, he kept up the heavy grind of his hips against your ass, dry humping you through the rough denim of his jeans.
You mewled against his mouth and Steve chuckled darkly, pushing his finger past your tight entrance letting himself sink into your warm, tight cunt.
It was exactly how he imagined it— you felt incredible from just his finger alone, and with how tight you were squeezing him, he could only imagine how great it would feel with his dick instead.
“Mmph!” you groaned, rocking your hips back against his hand, inviting him in deeper.
The movements of your hips desperately moving for more was enough to make him go mad.
“Desperate little thing,” Steve panted, his grip on your mouth tightening as he felt you tremble. “Moving your hips like that for just my fingers—” he ground the heavy length of his cock against you harder. “I should just pull it out, push these panties to the side, and fuck you right here in the middle of the library.”
“Ah—mmph, Steve… p-please…”
Steve added another finger, the stretch making your knees go weak. You cried out against his palm when his thumb found your clit, pressing down and rubbing to match his fingers thrusting in and out of you.
“That’s it,” he growled against your ear. “Goood fuckin’ girl.”
You gripped the edge of the bookshelf, the wood digging into your palms as your legs finally gave out.
Steve caught you, his chest pinning you even harder against the shelf and making it shake.
“God,” he moaned. “Shit—feels so good, baby.”
His cock throbbed and twitched against the denim, the friction pushing him closer and closer to cumming.
His mind addled with lust, he shifted his hand from your mouth, sliding his index and middle fingers between your lips instead.
With half lidded, heavy eyes, he looked down at you. Blonde strands of hair fell messily over his forehead as he stared at the way you sucked on his fingers to stay quiet, your shimmery lip gloss coating his skin.
“Pretty,” he breathed, feeling himself getting close just from looking at you, “so pretty—God, you’ve always been so beautiful.”
Your cunt clenched around his fingers. Knowing that Steve needed you this badly—even after all this time, in every way that you had always needed him—was enough to make you cum.
“Steevie, mmph—” you whined around the fingers sitting vulgarly in your mouth, “gonna… cum—”
Steve’s heart leaped at your words. His cock was straining, leaking a desperate amount of precum against his jeans as he rutted against you like a helpless dog.
He should have been in control, but your whines and the way you clamped down around his fingers— warm and impossibly tight—made it hard for him to keep it.
He was going to make sure he came with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Good girl,” he praised with a rasp.
He rocked his hips against yours, making your chest thud against the shelf, the books rattling. “Fuck, I need to feel you, baby. I need you to cum for me—”
Steve’s voice broke as his pace turned frantic. His hips moved an uneven and messy motion, humping you faster and harder until his entire body suddenly went rigid—his hips locking tight against yours as he finally let himself spill in his pants.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded the front of his jeans, his cock pulsing. You could feel the warmth against your back, and you let out a sharp gasp as he rocked his hips one last time —letting the mess soak into denim and against the fabric of your skirt.
He buried his nose into the crook of your neck as he fought the urge to cry out a moan. You mewled against his fingers, your knees shaking as you fell apart.
“Steve…” you let out a breath of disbelief. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Fucking hell…” Steve cursed, trying to catch his breath.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick squelch echoing in the quiet aisle.
“That was—”
The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle.
You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment. Steve moved with frantic shaky hands to smooth down your skirt and try to adjust the heavy, damp bulge in his pants.
He let out a breathless, low chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself—and of you.
“Close.”
Since that day in the library, you and Steve had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.
Your bedroom.
Ever since that heated afternoon against the bookshelf, Steve had grown bolder. He let his fingers run through your hair, staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and his hands were constantly finding excuses to touch you— even if it was just playing with the fraying wool of your cardigan.
To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.
And that was the problem.
If Steve wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right.
Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Bucky and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Steve promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.
buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?
buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
Steve ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent.
You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere.
He smiled as you approached, haphazardly swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.
“Done studying already?”
“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.”
Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.
“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.
He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.
Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest. Steve smelled exactly the same as he always had—masculine, with a clean hint of aftershave and the faint scent of leather.
“What’s on your mind, my darling girl?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back.
“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Tony won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”
You could feel Steve stiffen slightly at your words.
“Is that so?”
You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”
When Steve had first found out you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y., you had been ready for the interrogation.
You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.
Steve stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press.
You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”
His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.
“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.
You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”
“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”
You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”
Stopped talking.
Steve’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.
“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”
You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Steve’s heart ache.
“I’m—”
“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”
Fuck.
What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?
He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Tony—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.
And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.
“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”
You looked up, and Steve felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.
“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”
He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.
“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”
He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.
“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”
You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window.
He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.
I love you.
But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.
“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Steve’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”
Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too.
“It’s fine—”
But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.
“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack—”
As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Bucky sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Steve could grab it.
buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?
buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.
You glanced up at Steve, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Steve… what is this?”
Steve’s heart plummeted. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Bucky had sent.
“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “Buck’s just being—”
“Is this what this is, Steve?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?”
You had walked straight into Steve’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush.
You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time?
Steve scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away.
“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me—”
“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did—”
“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.
You had let him touch you, handle you, and defile you in your safest place—among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.
A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”
“Please—” Steve reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.
“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get in my fucking pants just so you can be some one-hit wonder?”
Steve flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him.
“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, sweetheart. Just hear me out—”
Sweetheart.
Hearing the nickname now made you physically ill.
“Get out.”
Panic flared in Steve’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this—”
“Get out of my house, Steve!”
The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.
He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you.
He let it happen.
It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.
He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.
Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention.
“Wait!”
And to his surprise, you actually did.
You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there.
A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Steve.
“What?” you shouted over the rain.
Steve stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.
“I lied to Bucky!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Tony, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.”
He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined.
“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”
He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.
“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Tony. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”
Your hand tightened around the doorknob.
Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.
“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”
Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you.
He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.
“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”
When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.
“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”
You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly.
For a fleeting, desperate second, Steve swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes.
He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.
“Goodbye, Steve.”
Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.
You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Steve broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent prose.
You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Steve had left in your chest once more.
Steve had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Tony was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.
Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever.
Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Steve and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.
A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Steve.
Bucky stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the Civil War poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.
“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted him awkwardly.
He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve had already explained everything to him.
They were best friends, after all.
To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”
Bucky looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Steve… uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”
So much for avoiding the awkwardness.
“I see,” was all you could manage.
Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Bucky stopped you.
“Wait. I… about everything with you and Steve,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”
You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.
“Take care of yourself, Bucky.”
After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Steve’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.
Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Steve to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear.
“Wait!”
You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Steve. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.
You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.
“I don’t want to talk, Steve,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”
But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.
“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”
You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a wild mess, and a thick layer of stubble shadowed his jaw.
He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.
In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.
My best girl.
Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for Civil War?”
“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours.
He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.
“I’m not the best at writing...” his voice sounded fractured and worn thin. “I usually let Sam handle the lyrics. It probably won’t sound half as good as the things you write, but it’s for you. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.”
He had written a song?
For you?
You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.
As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Steve, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.
“I don’t know what to say—”
“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”
With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.
“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”
The words stung, but Steve had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.
“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”
He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.
“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a self-deprecating huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”
You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”
The sound made Steve’s smile brighten.
Another small victory.
“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.
The conversation was clearly over, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow.
You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Steve had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen.
With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Steve’s breath.
Then, the acoustic guitar started to play.
The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on Civil War’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.
Then, Steve started to sing.
You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy.
Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart.
The song was a masterpiece of us.
It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Steve Rogers—a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this.
By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying.
first time writing steve rogers on his own guys... kinda nervous... thank you for taking the time to read my work and i hope you guys enjoyed it!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 6k
⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
← previous fic | main masterlist
The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.
It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.
“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”
“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”
“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”
In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”
You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
“This one.”
You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”
Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”
“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.
“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”
But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”
Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.
Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.
He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”
Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.
“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”
“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”
Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.
“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”
So, you do.
You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.
“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”
“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.
“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.
Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…
“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”
“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.
“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.
“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) thinking ‘bout STEVE ROGERS who, despite seeming like an innocent man who doesn’t have a lot of sex, is really really good at sex.
he uses his strength to always hold your legs on his shoulders or hoist you up against the wall. he makes sureeee you keep eye contact on him whenever he’s deep in your walls.
“keep your eyes on me darling.” he’d say in that soft voice as his balls are slapping against your clit with each rough thrust.
he’s so gentle with his dominance too :( he pulls your hair but doesn’t yank, he picks up your head but doesn’t force it up, he prods his fingers into your mouth but doesn’t shove. he’s never mean, even in his most stressful moments, the most he’ll call you is “a brat” and “cock slut” and even that is pushing it.
call him captain and he’ll be bending you over the counter, fucking your hole until the only thing you can say is captain. when he doesn’t shave and he lets his beard grow— oh he eats your ass alright, making sure you get that sensation of his beard all up your cheeks and thighs, spitting in your hole and toying with it with his fingers.
“gotta stretch this pretty girl out.” he says as his tongue swirls your tight hole. “shhhh, I know baby doll, just lemme do it and I’ll be in you in no time.”
he knows exactly how to make you cum each and every time. and he gets real frustrated if he can’t make you cum… he just wants his pretty girl to be okay, that’s all!
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
18+ bucky's metal arm just makes it sooo much better
he moves slowly and deliberately, the coldness of the arm travelling its way up your thigh and underneath your dress, the soft mechanical shifts coming from his arm following suit. his head is between your legs, pressing kisses on the inner part.
you let out a startled moan when he reaches between to press against your aching clit, the difference in temperature jarring as starts to rub against it. he soon retracts his hand, leaving you to squirm before strongly lifting you up to put you on all fours.
"promise you'll be good for me?" he asks, humming in delight, enjoying the view of your naked body from behind.
"y-yes!" you whine, biting your lip in desperation.
he places his palms on both sides of your hips, one cold while the other warm, and lines up his tip against your greedy pussy that's begging for him to fuck you silly.
he thrusts like there's no tomorrow. harsh drags of his cock as he goes in and out of you repeatedly, hitting all the right spots at such a fast pace. you let out obscene noises that echo through the room uncontrollably, feeling the tight grip he has on your sides, enough to leave a mark.
"fuck, i love you so much," he goes down to whisper beside your ear, enjoying the warmth from your walls. "you're such a good girl— my good girl."
the snapping of his hips grow louder and hungrier, climax becoming more evident in his sounds as well. he stops, throwing his head back while giving you a loud, hard spank with his artificial arm.
thick loads of cum spurt inside you, steadily flowing out and dripping onto the bed, but he doesn't stop there.
can he really call himself a man if he doesn't make his girl cum?
he continues fucking you, sending hard thrusts that make your mind go hazy with pleasure. your cries are mixed in with your babbles of "please" and "more".
your legs are trembling by the time the final wave of pleasure crashes over you, your essence coating his cock.
trigger warnings dead dove do not eat pseudo sibling incest, smut, humiliation, corruption kink, noncon/dubcon, sub euijoo
⋆˚🐾˖°
euijoo was the perfect stepson. your mother remarried his father, and the four of you started living together. your mother always praised how perfect, and kind, reliable he is. he was the image of a perfect child that every asian parent wanted. he had a good job, was filial and helpful, and didn't cause problems. it suddenly felt that you had competition at this ripe adult age. and it got under your skin, feeling threatened by him.
really, it's odd. you're all adults here, yet your mother is praising him like he's a little child. or rather— a son she always wanted but never had.
"euijoo did the dishes without being told" or "euijoo's so hardworking and sweet"
you hated it. how his usually wide, bright eyes would crinkle when he smiled. how he would bow his head shyly. how he would let out that ingratiating, humble laugh when your mother complimented him. you hated your mother for giving attention to him instead of to you.
"not at all, mom…" he would reply with blushed cheeks.
who the hell does he think he is?
you wanted to destroy him.
.
you watched him for days, then weeks, months… never being cordial to him, much less friendly. his attempts to get closer to you were in vain. every 'good morning' went unanswered, and every chore he did for you, for example, ironing your clothes, or carrying your groceries, was met with coldness and a no 'thank you' at all (which led to your mother reprimanding you for being rude). euijoo didn't mind, bowing his head meekly. he thought you just needed time to warm up to him.
he catches you, staring at him sometimes. at dinner when you would wrap a tongue around the fork, licking it for a second longer than a normal person would, your tongue darting and wetting the utensil. how obscene. he averts his eyes quickly, turning back to the conversation between your mother, your stepfather and him. you stopped caring about these mundane things a long time ago. his ears turning red betraying his calm exterior.
you notice the way he would stutter when speaking to you, and the way he would bow his head when walking past you, averting his eyes. his voice was always meek, and soft, trying to appease to you and not anger you. oh so respectful, and gentlemanly; it made you want to roll your eyes. perhaps he was.. intimidated by you.
good.
.
until one day . . .
your parents were away on a trip somewhere… you couldn't remember where. you weren't paying attention. but the fact is, the both of you were at home, alone.
the inevitable happens.
he resists, it's cute, almost.
"we shouldn't—" he tries to push you off. he's stronger, isn't he? he could've easily pushed you to the ground, but he didn't, holding back his strength. "this is wrong.. i'm your—"
"you are not. my. brother." you spit out the words venomously, pushing your body up against him.
you kiss him, but he doesn't kiss back. his hands trembling at his sides, as you pull off his spectacles and tossed it aside. your tongue pries his lips open, licking sloppily in his mouth, the clash of the enamel of teeth loud in the otherwise silent house.
you push him to the couch, the same one your stepfather would sit at and watch television, or the one your mother would gather with her friends to sip tea and gossip.
clothes are off, your impatient hands, but him barely resisting at all. he wanted this too, doesn't he? you removed his boxers. he was hard, leaking precum. he wanted this.
you climbed ontop of him and sank down, quickly taking him.
he laid underneath you, his cheeks and eyes wet with tears streaming. his chest heaved, and his lips were swollen and his hair messed. he tried to muffle the sounds from his mouth, his hands grabbing at the couch. he looked nothing like the perfect stepson your mother adored.
"you're not very good, aren't you," your voice whispered mockingly as you moved up, and down, fucking yourself on him like as though he was just an object for your pleasure. like this is all he's good for.
he shook his head, seemingly unable to respond. he didn't know what you were referring to, but it didn't really matter. he cried and tried to resist like he didn't want it, but his body betrayed him. please... stop—-…. he whispered weakly, but the way his cock throbbed inside of you, hot, thick, sticky where the both of you were connected, said otherwise. subconciously, rutting upwards; desperate, and needy. like a dog.
you already know he's a goner.
it didn't take much for him to finish quickly.
"pathetic virgin," you mocked him once again. "you liked it, didn't you? cumming inside? gross…"
he looked away in embarassment, trying to catch his breath. his face burned in shame. but he made no attempt to move away or push you, instead, it almost felt he leaned even more into your touch, heating up from your bare skin; docile, and timid. it excited you.
"i... s…sorry—…"
you smiled. this was just the beginning.
.
the four of you are seated at the dining table, having dinner. your parents are talking about some business thing, and euijoo is nodding along quietly, sitting opposite you. the chopsticks in his hand neatly picking up small, precise amount of rice, not even a single grain dropping. his posture was perfect, his back straight and his head attentively nodding. not even a strand of hair out of place. the trained image of a perfect son. but, there was something behind his eyes. maybe guilt. . . or fear.
you watch him, like you always do.
you slide your foot out of your home slippers.
your toes brush his ankle. soft, yet sudden, making him jolt subtly. you watched as he tensed up. you trail your foot up his calf, painstakingly slow and torturing him. the fabric of his lounge pants is thin, and you could feel the warmth of his skin radiating.
"how are you these days, sweetie?" your mother asked, just checking in. you hummed. same old, same old. you pressed into his knee and he shifts slightly, suddenly looking down at his plate like as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.
"you know, you should really be a little bit more like euijoo…" your mother nags. "he's a good boy." you rolled your eyes patronizingly. there she goes again. good boy? more like a good dog, perhaps. euijoo shakes his head in embarassment.
your eyes narrow onto him in annoyance, foot pressing into his crotch to retaliate, punishing him for something he didn't do. your hand slips into the pocket of your pants and your fingers grab onto a tiny remote control. you click on a button.
euijoo's body immediately goes rigid, his hands suddenly trembling. the chopsticks in his hand accidentally clacking against the bowl, dropping a piece of meat onto the table. a small whimper escapes him.
nobody noticed. your mother continued chattering on whilst your stepfather chimes in occassionally, agreeing and laughing along with her. beads of sweat fell down euijoo's temple as he tries to compose himself and remain still. nobody notices, but you did. the way he squirmed in the wooden dining chair. you watch as he bites the inside of his cheek. a soft vibration from the cock ring underneath your foot, the quiet buzzing sound masked by the sounds of conversation. his clothed cock twitches and hardens even more. .
you leaned back in the dining chair, a satisfied smirk on your face.
summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
you are responsible for your own media consumption. don’t like? don’t read
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌
