Welcome! You can call me A! Pretty much just going back to my 15yo self's interests at 25 years old. Clearly that bitch knew what she was about. â˘Marvel⢠â˘Dan and Phil⢠â˘MUSIC SO MUCH MUSIC⢠â˘Amy Winehouse I love you⢠â˘Writing⢠â˘Being bad at arts and crafts⢠I'm Queer as the name implies so don't like it then fuck off. This blog is 18+
Part Summary:Â A horrified comment beneath a furniture-restoration video leads to an unexpected connection with a stranger. What begins as cautious advice about an antique soon becomes late-night calls and the start something neither of you is ready to name. But just as you finally make plans to meet, your stranger mysterious work threatens to keep your relationship confined to the phone.
Warning: Online relationship, hidden identity, Steve being frustratingly secretive, cancelled plans, brief emotional hurt/disappointment, mutual pining, idiots falling in love..
Word Count: 4.9k
A/N: First Sprint of @star-and-shield-collective's writer's relay game  in coloration with @indigo-jungle and @salty-tang (Go Team tis 2.3 Timtams)
The first pass of the sander took off more than the finish. You watched in mute horror as it chewed through the thin layer of veneer beneath it, leaving a pale, uneven scar across the bureauâs drop-front.
âNow, donât be afraid to really get in there,â the man on your screen advised loudly. âPeople get too precious about old furniture, but if you want a professional finish, you need to strip it right back.â
âNo,â you whimpered. âNo, no, no- â
A streak of raw substrate emerged beneath his hands.
You paused the video. Simply stared at the frozen image: At the idiot and the one perfectly salvageable writing bureau.
Rare, generous. 1920, No, 1950âs at best. Restoration.. Lie... He was murdering it.
You had only clicked because three separate customers had sent you the video that week, all asking whether they could use the same method on their own furniture. One had already bought the industrial-strength chemical stripper recommended in the description.
You knew better than to open the comments.
Most were variations of gorgeous transformation, love the white, and canât believe people throw things like this away. One person wanted to know where he had bought the brass-effect spray paint used on the original handles.
Your eye twitched.
You scrolled past the creatorâs pinned list of affiliate links and clicked into the comment box.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:Â Before anyone follows this tutorial: please donât.
You paused, took a breath and attempted to sound like a professional.
The surface being sanded at 4:16 is veneer, not solid timber. Once you sand through it, it canât be âevened outâ later. The existing finish shouldâve been identified and tested in an inconspicuous area before either an orbital sander or chemical stripper came anywhere near the piece.
Still professional. You continued.
The hardware appears to be original or, at minimum, considerably older than the creator suggests and removing it so harshly was unnecessary. Please also donât soak antique timber with a household sprays or use steel wool, or assume every dark mark is damage that needs to be erased.
Mostly professional.
Then you reached the farmhouse-white paint.
If youâve made it to 12:38 and are considering painting your own bureau, step away from the chalk paint. Make a cup of tea. Reconsider the path that brought you here.
You hit Comment before good judgement could intervene.
It wouldnât reach everyone. The video had substantial views and your warning would soon disappear beneath another flood of praise and requests for the exact shade of white.
Still, you had tried.
You were closing the tab when the notification appeared.
AuburndaleGrant18 replied to your comment:
Well, arenât I glad I found this comment now and not ten minutes later. Or I mightâve made a mistake that will have me run out of every serious restoration group on the east coast!
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. At least one innocent piece of furniture might survive the video.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
That depends. What grit?
The reply came almost immediately.
AuburndaleGrant18:
That feels like a trap.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Itâs a risk assessment.
It took longer for the reply to come back this time. Was the user actually going to check?
AuburndaleGrant18:
Eighty?
You sat forward.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Put it down.
AuburndaleGrant18:
It is down and away from the anything it may damage.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
If itâs still on the property, move it farther away before it damages something through proximity.
You smiled knowing you seemed a little ridiculous, but this was the internet. Being extreme was acceptable.
AuburndaleGrant18:
What if I promise not to take it out of the workshop draw? Is that satisfactory?
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
I just watched a man sand through walnut veneer to âbringing out the natural grain.â Iâm doing a community service here.
His response appeared a moment later.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Fair. Do you know a lot about bureaus only I do have questions. Bit mines not the same as this one.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
In what way?
AuburndaleGrant18:
Doesnât look quite like this one.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
I might need a little more than that.
AuburndaleGrant18:
It has drawers.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
An astonishing breakthrough.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Marginally. How old is it?
His answer took longer.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Older than the one in the video. I think.
You glanced at the time, then back at the increasingly useless information appearing beneath your comment.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Do not sand it. Do not strip it. Do not paint it. Take clear photos of the front, back, underside, drawer joints, hardware and any damaged areas.
Send them here.
You added your work email address before you could question why you were offering a stranger free professional advice at nearly eleven oâclock at night.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Yes, maâam.
You closed the tab and went about your nightly routine, already half-convinced that was probably the end of it until your work inbox chimed, sharp and unexpected in the quiet.
You hesitated for a moment before opening it.
A new email sat at the top of the screen.
From: Steve Grant
 Subject: The bureau you just saved from me
 You looked at the number of photographs, then at the clock.
Apparently,Steve did take some instructions seriously.
You opened the first attachmentâŚand forgot all about going to bed.
The first photograph showed the bureau from the front, standing alone against a bare white wall.
The second showed the back panel, slightly uneven in finish but intact.
The third and fourth gave you the left and right sides in turn.
All photos were methodical: the drop-front opened to reveal the interior compartments, the drawers pulled out to show their runners and joints, the underside of the piece, and close-ups of the hardware, lock area, and scattered veneer damage.
You assessed the rest, making small mental notes. There were scratches around the lock, a dark ring on the top and a chip missing from the veneer near the back corner.
It had been worked on before. More than once, and not always by someone who knew what they were doing.
Still, it was solid. The drawer joints looked intact. The drop-front sat slightly crooked but showed no obvious signs of warping. A protected strip of timber beneath one of the drawers offered the faintest glimpse of the warmer finish buried beneath the varnish.
Not rare. Not untouched. Not likely to make anyone rich.
But salvageable.
You returned to the body of Steveâs email.
From: Steve
Subject: The bureau you just saved from me
Attachments: 14
This is what I have.
A friend found it for me, they know I have a thing for old pieces. But I canât tell you much about where it came from or what was done to it before he bought it.
Another friend told me I could learn how to fix it on YouTube. In his defence, I donât think he meant that particular video.
-Steve
You enlarged the photograph of the underside, adjusted the brightness and found what might have been the remains of a manufacturerâs mark beneath the later stain. Too faint to read, but useful enough to support the rough date.
You should have sent him a short response telling him to book a proper assessment with someone local.
Instead, you clicked Reply.
From: Second Story Restoration
 To: Steve
 Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
Based on the shape, drawer construction and what I can see beneath the newer finish, Iâd place it somewhere around the late 1910s to 1920s so old is right if itâs original.
It appears to be a walnut veneer over a less expensive secondary timber. That was common and does not mean the piece was poorly made, but it does mean the veneer is thin and needs to be treated carefully. This is why your eighty-grit sandpaper needs to be kept far away.
The current drawer pulls are replacements. You can see the shadows from the previous hardware around them, and the screws are newer than the rest of the piece. The dark, glossy finish is also unlikely to be original. Someone appears to have refinished it, possibly more than once and there may be an older finish underneath.
The good news is that the structure looks solid. No major warping, the drawer joints look stable and the damaged veneer seems limited to a few small areas.
The less exciting news is that the replaced hardware, previous refinishing and veneer damage will affect its resale value. I donât think youâve accidentally acquired a priceless antique. Even properly restored, it probably wonât be worth a great deal in purely financial terms.
You stopped there, rereading the final paragraph.
People often came to you convinced that age automatically meant value.Â
But Steve hadnât asked what it was worth.
That doesnât mean it isnât worth restoring.
Before I tell you where to begin, I need to know what you want from it. Are you hoping to improve it for resale, make it functional, return it as closely as possible to its original appearance, or preserve it as it is? Those would all require different decisions. Why is doing work on it important to you?
You hesitated before sending it.
The question felt more personal than the rest of your assessment. But restoration was personal. Anyone who pretended otherwise had never watched someone run their fingers over a scratch in an old table knowing the story. Or held something older then their own grandparents and wonder whose lives it had touched.
You pressed Send.
You went back to looking at the piece, wondering what journey it had been on before Steve, how many homes had it lived in? And now you were playing a part in putting it back into the world.Â
You were almost so lost in your own thoughts you didnât hear the ping of your own inbox.
From: Steve
To: Second Story Restoration
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
My mother had one like it.
Hers might have been a little wider, and the compartments inside were laid out differently. Iâve only got my memory to compare it to.
When I was little, I used to sit beside her and draw on whatever scraps of paper she could spare while wrote letters. One of the drawers always stuck in damp weather.
My friend knew Iâd been looking for something similar. He found this one and thought it was close enough that I might be able to make it feel like hers.
I donât want to sell it. Iâm not worried about making it look new, either. I just want to take care of it and make it usable again. Maybe draw at it.
The apartment Iâm in now doesnât feel much like mine yet. I thought this might help.
What should I do first?
-Steve
The image of a small boy drawing beside his mother. It was such an ordinary memory, offered without embellishment, that you could almost see the worn scraps of paper and the stubborn drawer.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
Well, let's get you somewhere to draw.
Before we remove anything, we need to work out what is actually on the surface and whether the older finish beneath it can be preserved.
Start with:
nitrile gloves;
white cotton cloths and cotton swabs;
a soft natural-bristle brush;
a small bottle of mineral spirits;
methylated spirit or denatured alcohol;
painterâs tape;
Work somewhere well ventilated, keep both solvents away from heat or flame, and do not mix them.
You went on to outline steps, how to clean things off just by dusting, how to pick a test area, how to start with the mineral spirits, what to look for, was it only dirty or to the finish shift to tacky or cloudy? Did it transfer to the swap, then heâd need to swap with denatured alcohol and what to look for when he did that..
Photograph both areas before testing, immediately afterward and again once they are dry. Send me the pictures with a description of anything you felt or noticed.
Most importantly you out line all the DO NOTs
Once I know how the tests react, Iâll be able to give you better guidance.
You read through the instructions again, added a warning that the cloths needed to be left flat to dry somewhere safe rather than screwed into a ball, then sent it, given the hour you doubted he was still up at this time and headed off into bed. You had barely set your phone on the nightstand when it lit up once more.
From: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
So, just to be clear, the sandpaper is still forbidden?
You smiled despite yourself, your fingers already moving across the screen.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
If you keep mentioning it, the sandpaper will be used as evidence in an ongoing investigation.
Unless I tell you otherwise, sandpaper does not touch it.
You sent the email, switched off the lamp and settled beneath the covers.
That should have been the end of it. You had given him a preliminary assessment, a cautious first step and enough warnings to keep the bureau safe until morning. Whatever Steve decided to do next was his responsibility.
Still, as you placed your phone facedown beside the bed, a small, warm buzz settled low in your stomach the familiar anticipation of a new project beginning to take shape.
And this time, it wasnât even a piece you were working on.
Steveâs test photographs arrived three days later.
The first six were as carefully framed as the original set. The seventh contained half his thumb.
From: Steve
Subject: Results
The mineral spirits lifted dirt, didnât make the finish tacky, but the alcohol did.
There was an amber colour on the swab, so I stopped immediately. Iâve attached photos from before, after and once everything dried.
The drawer also made a noise when I removed it. I donât know how to describe it without sounding like Iâm asking you to diagnose furniture over email.
Would it be easier if we got on a call?
That didn't seem like such a bad idea. You told yourself it was a professional consultation and sent him your number.
He called less than a minute later.
âHi.â
His voice was deeper than you expected: warm, cautious and distinctly Brooklyn. It made something inside you prick up.Â
âHi.â
Silence stretched between you.
You could hear him breathe. Somewhere in his apartment, timber gave a faint, complaining creak.
âSo,â Steve said finally, âthis is less awkward in writing.â
A laugh slipped out of you. âReally?" You felt awkward.Â
âWell this seemed more efficient." That you could agree on. Â
âSo you said the drawer?â Your voice sounded a little flaky but at least you'd get back onto firmer ground with the furniture talkÂ
"Yes, right, drawer." You could hear him walking "I'm going to put you down near the, just hold on." Steve held the phone near the runners while he carefully moved the drawer. You listened to the soft scrape, asked him to check the lower edge.
"Should I be worried?" His voice came back on the line
"Doesn't sound too bad but maybe try and get the drawer all the way out so you can see what's catching there, but do it in the morning so you can see with better light."Â
The consultation should have ended there.
Instead, Steve asked, half amused and half genuinely curious, âAre you some kind of furniture whisperer, or can you really tell things just by sound?â
You huffed a quiet laugh. âIf there was a snag in the runners, it would sound more like a scrape...sharp, uneven. What you have is a groan. Like itâs rubbing, not catching.
âRight,â Steve said slowly.
âWhen youâve been around this stuff long enough,â you added, âyou learn to notice what means what.â
âHow long have you been around things like this?â Steve asked one night, voice softer than usual.
You made a heavy noise. Â
âForever,â yous started getting honest, âmy whole life.â
He didnât interrupt.
You leaned back in your chair, staring at nothing in particular as you spoke, letting the words come.Â
âMy grandparents restored things. Furniture, frames, anything people thought was too far gone. My aunts were always into antiques tooââ you added. âSo I just⌠grew up around it. Looking at peopleâs treasures. Seemed right I'd go into the business, and why I spend my nights trying to save amateur from YouTube disasters."Â
Steve didnât speak for a moment, and in the silence you could hear the faintest shift of him on the other end of the line, like he was turning the thought over carefully.
âI should let you sleep,â Steve said, though he sounded no more eager to hang up than you felt.
âYou should send more photos of drawer tomorrow."
âSo you do want to hear from me again?"Â
âFor the bureauâs sake.â You added, biting into your own lip
âOf course.â His smile was audible.
After that, emails became messages. Messages became voice notes.
At first, the bureau remained threaded through everything.
Steve sent progress photographs. You talked him through cleaning one small section at a time and stopping whenever the surface behaved unexpectedly. He began sketching replacement drawer pulls based on the pale impressions left by the originals, his pencil studies far better than you had anticipated.
You: You really are good at drawing aren't you.Â
Steve: It's a way I like to spend my timeÂ
You: Any other skills you have that I might like to know about?Â
Steve: Iâm very good at folding fitted sheets too.
You: Now I know youâre lying.
Soon, he began sending questions that required no professional guidance whatsoever.
A photograph arrived from an antique shop: an ornate chair upholstered in violently orange velvet.
Steve: Saw this and knew you'd hate it
The chair was awful, and a reproduction too. But what got your attention was the shopâs name, you knew that, and where it was. Brooklyn.
It was the first time you had an idea where he lived, though he had probably worked out you were in New York from the address beneath your business signature weeks ago. You hadn't quiet thought much about where Steve lived. How close he actually was.Â
You began sending him the worst restoration videos you encountered; not because he needed warning, but because indignation was more satisfying when shared.
He retaliated with photographs of peculiar antiques and increasingly implausible questions about whether they could be saved.
Calls slipped into the spaces around your lives. He spoke to you while you closed the workshop; you listened as he cooked, occasionally interrupted by a smoke alarm he insisted was overly sensitive. You learned he worked as a government consultant, although every question about what that meant earned a vague answer and a swift change of subject.
You heard names without context: Bucky demanding he hurry up, Sam laughing somewhere nearby, Peter apparently responsible for the original YouTube suggestion, and Nat telling Steve he was hopeless at something he refused to explain.
Weeks passed.
One night, long after the conversation had wandered away from furniture, Steve stopped answering.
âSteve?â
A low, even breath sounded through the speaker.
You smiled into the darkness.
âGoodnight, then.â
You should have ended the call.
Instead, you placed the phone beside your pillow and closed your eyes, letting the quiet proof of him fill the room.
For the first time, it occurred to you that the bureau might no longer be the reason you kept answering.
#~#~#~#~#~#
By the time Steve sent you a photograph of the bureau with a sketchbook open across its drop-front, it finally looked lived in not just a project.Â
The finish while glossy, allowed the grain to show through, the drawers sat properly in their runners and the replacement pulls no longer looked quite so out of place even though the dark ring on the top remained.
âDo you think we should try to take it out?â Steve asked that evening.
You studied the close-up on your screen phone still pressed to your ear.Â
âWe could probably lessen it,â you started. âBut I like it, Iâd leave. Youâve already stripped enough.â You enlarged the photograph, following the pale edge of the mark. âYou donât want to erase what it was before you.âÂ
Steve stayed quiet and you didnât try to press to hard, letting him sit with it. Knowing while you were looking at the pictures he was looking at the piece itself.Â
âI used it today,â His voice coming over softer, reaching across time to you. âSat down and drew for a while. Itâs strange.â You heard his fingers brush over the timber. âThe apartment feels different with it here. I think I feel different with it hereâ LâAnd more like home?â
âGetting there. Like this place feels less like somewhere Iâm staying just staying and somewhere Iâm putting down roots.â
âRoots are good. Objects hold proof that people were hereâ You liked that about what you did, giving anchors in time. Steve was quiet again.
âI wish you could see it in person.â
The words sat between youâŚheavier than they should have been after months of calls from opposite sides of the same city.
âYou could let me. I mean the whats a train right?â You werenât sure when you said it the world falling out. He was close. It wouldnât be hard to just give in to that feeling in your stomach. Surely heâd worked it out that you probably lived close.Â
Then he exhaled. âAre you free Friday?â
You sat straighter. âThis Friday?â
âSeven oâclock. Thereâs a little Italian place about halfway between us. Sam says itâs good.â So, he had been looking.Â
By the sounds of it heâd been thinking a lot more than you had.Â
âDoes Sam know asking out stranger from the internet?â
âHe knows youâve spent months preventing me from destroying furniture.â You snorted so hard the noise made your brain vibrate from your noise.Â
âIâm free Friday.âÂ
A booking confirmation arrived while he spoke: Friday, seven oâclock, table for two. You stared at it, suddenly aware of your heartbeat, a little studded.Â
âThis will finally prove you exist,â you hadnât realised youâd said the words out loud
âFriday. Seven oâclock. After you can come conduct a full inspection.â
âFriday..â You repeated sounding a little lost in it all, the booking, the reality youâd finally be meeting Steve.Â
Neither of you had called it a date.
Neither of you needed to.
#~#~#~#~#~#
By Wednesday, you had changed your mind about what to wear four times.
Not that you were thinking about it.
You were merely standing in front of your wardrobe, holding two nearly identical shirts against yourself while considering which one looked more like something you might casually wear to inspect a piece of furniture over dinner. It was a matter of being prepared.Â
The bureau had become a useful excuse for several things neither of you wanted to name. Youâd gathered two other options for some hardware that he could swap out, both sets were period-appropriate, something that might bring this bureau a little closer to the one his mother had used. You wrapped them carefully and placed them beside your bag.
Steve seemed nervous too.
His messages became more frequent but less substantial, as if he kept finding reasons to confirm you were both still moving toward Friday.
Steve: How are you going to know itâs me?
You: Youâll be the man waiting outside an Italian restaurant looking like he regrets agreeing to meet someone from the internet.
Steve: That might not narrow it down.
You: Did you want to let me know what you might be wearing, would that help?Â
Had he never been on an online date before? Steve seemed woefully unsure of the whole process.Â
Steve: Blue coat?Â
At least that was something, you had some marker at least to look for now
You: Can you say my name before I accidentally leave with the wrong anxious stranger.
Steve: You don't have to worry, Iâll be there.
You read those three words more times than you intended.
Iâll be there
The following evening, your phone rang while you were cleaning the workshop.
You smiled when Steveâs name appeared.
âCalling to confirm you still exist?â
âHey.â The sound of his voice had the smile fall from your face, while your hands went cold.Â
It was wrong. Tighter than usual, with noise and movement behind it; doors opening, footsteps, someone speaking too quietly for you to make out the words.
âWhat happened?â you just wanted to believe he was having a bad day, the grip on your phone getting tighter.Â
âI have to leave.â Your stomach droppedÂ
âLeave where?â Your voice cracked before you could stop itÂ
âI canât tell you.â His sounded stressed as someone called for him in the distance. Of course he couldnât.
âHow long?â
âI donât know. Something came up with work, and I have to go now.â
âNow?â Youâd never asked about his work, and now you wish you had. Maybe then it would make you feel easier about this
âIn about twenty minutes.â No timeâŚ. You looked toward your bag at the surprise youâd planed for him.Â
âAnd tomorrow? â
âIâm sorry.â You could hear it in his voice; this was not his choice but that didn't make it any easier for you. The disappointment came sharp and immediate, but you pushed it down.
âItâs fine. It isnât your fault if work-â
âIt isnât fine.â
âNo,â you admitted. âIt isnât. But we can choose another night when you get back.â
Steve went quiet.
That soft silence you had learned to recognise was gone. This one was guarded, its edges closed tightly around whatever he still wasnât telling you.
âSteve?â
âI donât know when Iâll be back.â
âThen when you know.â You kept your tone light, open..Â
âI donât want to promise something else and disappoint you again.â His was so defeated, certain,Â
Again. He was rethinking all of it. As though this were not one cancelled dinner, but confirmation of something he had expected all along.
âYou didnât disappoint me by having to work.â you tried to sound less hurt, like it wasnât as crushing as it felt.Â
âI made you a promise I couldnât keep.â
âSo make another one.â God- You didn't know why you were pleading.Â
âI canât.â The answer came too quickly.
You lowered yourself onto the stool behind the workbench. Weeks of unanswered questions seemed to gather around that single denial; the government work he never explained, the conversations he redirected and the life you only heard in fragments through the phone.
âSteve..â you started so carefully unsure why you felt the need to keep things going, you didn't know him.. But you did, you wanted to, wanted to know about the man who had kept your night filled, who had made you smile just by calling, âI donât need another date right now,â you said carefully. âI need to know whether this is ever going to exist anywhere other than my phone.â It was unfair to ask right now but if he wasnât going to really be in this with you what was the point.Â
âIt will.â You felt something in you give into hope âJust, when- thatâs hard.â he kept going, You both stayed quiet for a moment while you tired n
âWere you really going to come tomorrow?â
âYes.â His answer was immediate. âI wanted to meet you. I still do.â Someone called his name in the background. âI have to go,â Steve voice came torn.Â
You pressed your lips together, refusing to ask him to stay when he had made it clear he couldnât.
âAll right.â You closed your eyes holding your phone tight to your ear.,Â
âIâm sorry.â He did sound it, you had to trust he wasn't a liar.Â
âI know.â You didn't blame him, if what he said was true, this was beyond him,Â
Neither of you spoke. Usually, one of you would stretch the ending out; one last joke, one more question, some small excuse not to disconnect.
This time, Steve said goodbye.
You said it back, the line going silent. You sat still on your still holding your phone, feeling more crestfallen then you had real right to be.Â
Three days passed without a word from Steve.
You told yourself that was expected. He was working, whatever it was it had been urgent enough to pull him away short notice.Â
By Sunday evening, the disappointment had settled into something quieter. You were no longer replaying the promise he couldnât make. You were thinking about the strain in his voice, the noise behind him and how defeated he had sounded when he said goodbye.
Your call when straight to voicemail.
âHey, Steve.â You paused, unsure how to say everything without making it heavier than it needed to be.
âI just wanted to check in and make sure youâre okayâ Your fingers tightened around the phone. âIâve been thinking about our call. I donât want you out there thinking youâve ruined this because you couldnât promise me another night.âÂ
You glanced at the hardware you kept wrapped near your bag. Waiting. âYou donât have to make another promise right now either. Just call me when you get back.â
A breath caught softly in your throat.
âIâm here, Steve. And when youâre ready to see meâŚwhenever that might be..Iâd still really like to see you too.â You hesitated. âSo come back safe, okay?â
Then you ended the message and set your phone on the workbench.
There was nothing more you could do except trust that, wherever Steve was, he would eventually find his way back to you.
Flinched at
Started at
Jolted at
Was met with
Was struck by
Was greeted by
Recoiled at
Winced at
Was interrupted by
Was jarred by
When they're listening carefully:
Listened to
Focused on
Hung on
Attended to
Tuned into
Followed
Tracked
Strained to hear
Zeroed in on
Locked onto
When the sound is confusing or uncertain:
Thought they heard
Could've sworn they heard
Believed they heard
Mistook
Half-heard
Barely caught
Couldn't quite make out
Failed to catch
Wasn't sure they heard
Wondered if they'd heard
When they're eavesdropping:
Overheard
Caught
Listened in on
Eavesdropped on
Picked up
Managed to hear
Listened through the wall
Caught snippets of
Made out
Secretly listened to
When they're emotionally affected by the sound:
Absorbed
Took in
Froze at
Processed
Balked at
Recoiled from
Welcomed
Clung to
Hung on every word of
Sat with
When the sound is overwhelming:
Was bombarded by
Was engulfed by
Was surrounded by
Was drowned in
Endured
Sat through
Couldn't escape
Was assaulted by
Was consumed by
Was overwhelmed by
It must feel so surreal being Steve Rogers. Imagine retiring from your superhero days and thinking you've finally found peace then one day that guy who once cold-blooded murdered your #1 fanboy shows up on your doorstep and hands you his business card with possibly the nerdiest-looking photo of himself?
Okay so um... It was a bit more than 10 hours, but in my defence I fell asleep.
â¨Anywayâ¨
Bucky Barnes V Halter Necks
Part 1
Warnings:
Very light smut, dirty thoughts, light dirty talk, Bucky is a boob man.
Very much un-beta'd
I am still new to writing, so be nice. Likes are cool, comments are amazing!
Thanks for reading!
Bucky Barnes was anything but a simple man.
He'd lived through a world war. Had been brainwashed and turned into a killing machine. Was given a metal arm and an ocean of trauma, that he waded through more often than not.
He's over 100 years old and looks in his thirties, for Christs sake. That's anything but simple!
So yeah, he was not a simple man.
No way.
Well...
That was true...
Until his eyes landed on your dress.
Well not quite the dress.... The halter top.
Bucky became a very simple man once his eyes laid upon that.
His cheeks tinged the lightest of pinks.
His throat became dry.
His heart almost stopped beating altogether.
It wasn't his fault really, when you think about it.
You just looked so fucking hot.
Your curves, which he had never seen outlined before, were hugged nicely. Very nicely. (And other things were on display more than he'd ever seen).
Bucky was starting to feel something of his own being hugged nicely, by his jeans.
Shit.
He needed to stop looking before he came in his pants like a damn teenager.
But he just couldn't pull his eyes away.
Not from how the straps -tucked so neatly behind your neck- framed your chest perfectly.
How the A-line showed the tops of your soft tits.
How they bounced as you laughed....
He throbbed.
Bucky had to stop looking. Now.
Impossible.
Illegal probably.
But thenâ
"Bucky, thank god!" A voice called to him,
His eyes peeled away from your tits and to the source of the voice. He didn't need to move his eyes far.
Bucky managed to croak out a weak,
"Hey, Dolly."
His eyes moved down again then back to your face.
Your tits were coming closer, oh god,
Danger
Danger
Danger
His brain exclaimed.
But Bucky was not thinking with his brain.
"I've been waiting for you, where've you been?" You ask him, relief making you more relaxed. More settled.
Bucky noticed how your breathing slowed, deeper breaths lasting longer now. Don't ask him how.
He also noticed his pants getting tighter.
You looked at him expectantly.
His brain fumbled.
Shit. Your question!
"I, um, Iâwhat? Oh! Yeah, uh, Sam told me I was dressed like a hobo and made me change about three times." Bucky chuckled, distress still covert enough to get him by.
"Aw man, I missed hobo Bucky? Worst night of my life!" You joked, mock stomping your foot.
"Tell me about it" Bucky murmured, eyes roaming whilst he had the chance, his hand nonchalantly moved downwards, trying to fix his not so little problem.
His jeans were still tight. Tighter maybe.
He held back the groan that almost slipped past his teeth.
Buckys eyes roamed for a moment too long, up and down. Lingering happily in all the places they could.
When he looked up, he caught your eyes.
You'd caught him.
Staring.
At you.
Shit.
Bucky looked like a deer caught in headlights. A kid who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, almost disbelief at his own stupidity.
His heart raced. He was ready for you to slap him in the face, pour your drink on him as you called him a perv. Anything.
But you didn't.
You looked away. Your shoulders drawing forwards. Head tilted down. Face flat.
Disappointment.
Even worse.
"Dolly, 'm sorry, I didn't mean anyâ" he began
"It's fine," You huffed out, "Everybody's been staring. Think they forgot there's a girl under the tactical suit."
Oh.
You hadn't been disappointed at him looking at your perfect tits. Hadn't even noticed.
You'd seen him scanning your dress... And had felt judged.
He had to fix this, whilst not looking at your tits. Your perfect, beautiful tits he could just smoosh his face into and kiss all over andâ
Focus Barnes!
Bucky took a deep breath, trying to centre his attention on anything but his own thoughts.
"Hey," Bucky stepped closer, trying to catch your eyeline, "'m not shocked and I definitely didn't forget about the woman under the tactical suit," .
You look up at him, eyes watering just slightly. Cheeks tinged the same shade of pink, but blotchier.
The thoughts he has, he needs to go to a confession booth. No. They might send him to hell where his sinful thoughts belong.
But the way you looked at him?
Made him throb even more.
He tried his best to hold in a groan.
"...I meanâ Why does everybody keep staring?" You say, eyes still watery. Your face looks exhausted.
Bucky makes a mental note to kick himself for not listening, for not noticing you even started talking to him.
But the question makes him smirk.
Why is everybody staring?
Because you're fucking hot.
Because you look like my midnight snack.
Because they all want to take you home.
That's what he wants to say.
His smirk only grows.
Your brow furrows, "What? Is there something wrong?"
Buckys still in his thoughts (or thots). Ears now decoration only.
Even your frown is hot.
Your hands on your hips, leaning forward slightly.
Perfect view.
Were you doing this on purpose?
"James!" You were getting agitated now, ready to rip Bucky a new asshole if he didn't tell you what was wroâ
Bucky made a sound.
Did he... Just... Moan?
No. No!
But...
Yes?
Your eyes widened.
"Jaâ Bucky!" You whisper yelled, your cheeks now red instead of pink.
Buckys cheeks were the same colour.
You looked him up and down, trying to figure out just what was going on. And then you saw it. The tent in his pants.
"Oh." You breathed.
Buckys cheeks had turned an even darker shade of red. Scarlet. His face could be a mood ring from all the colours it was turning.
Finally buckys brain caught up to him. (The blood had to start rushing somewhere else at some point, right?)
"Dolly, I'mâ I'm so sorry. I didn't mean toâ it's just that, Well, your dress isâ Shit. It's not your fault. I'm justâ I'm so fucking sorry Dolly." Bucky rambled.
You on the other hand, were eerily quiet.
Is this why everybody kept staring?
Because you were.... Hot?
"...It'll never happen again, I swear it.." Bucky continues, panicking clearly
Hot enough that a super soldier was moaning at you for chastising at him?
This was an unexpected turn of events.
You smirked.
Turned your head.
Innocent look on your face.
Bucky stopped talking five seconds ago. Clearly scared for himself.
"Well, now I know why everybody was staring at me, I suppose. Right James?" You say, looking devilishly sweet.
I really love your writing, reading it makes me wanna write and create myself. And I'm feeling more confident about posting, so I hope it's okay that I tagged y'all!
A/N: Entry for January Jumble Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles  Â
Prompt: Jan 31st  âI said behave⌠not that I expected you to listen.â
Steve stepped in like he always did; calm, measured. Â The only thing out of place was the bandage wrapped around his forearm, stark white against his skin. You ere cold from the tile under your bare feet where the thin hospital gown didnât reach. The only warmth was the angry throb in your jaw where the muzzle rubbed your skin raw, and the dull echo of your heartbeat in your ears.
His eyes flicked to the restraint at your mouth, the bruises circling your wrists. Something like disappointment crossed his face, soft and almost wounded.
âI said behave,â he sighed, nudging the door closed with his foot. Tray in his hands clinking softly; real food, you realised. Beside the plate, an IV bag hung from a portable stand like a quiet threat. âNot that I expected you to listen.â
You tried to stare past him, anywhere but his face.
He set the tray down on the small table, taking his time. âYou know I donât like this,â he stated flatly nodding at the leather straps on your face. âYou were doing so well before. Talking to me. Letting me help you.â
His gaze slid to the bandage again, then back to you. âBut you hurt me,â he stated simply. No anger. Just quiet reproach, like a teacher with a stubborn student. âSo now we have⌠precautions.â
He picked up the IV bag swapping it between his hands âSo hereâs whatâs going to happen,â Steve said gently. âYouâre going to eat. With my help. Or I hang this up and we do it the other way.â
He stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell soap and antiseptic and that other smell under it
âI donât want to force you,â voice almost tender. âI want to take care of you. But you have to let me.â
Please keep interacting with this post because when I come to tumblr to procrastinate, this shows up again in my notifications and guilts me into writing again
Okay so um... It was a bit more than 10 hours, but in my defence I fell asleep.
â¨Anywayâ¨
Bucky Barnes V Halter Necks
Part 1
Warnings:
Very light smut, dirty thoughts, light dirty talk, Bucky is a boob man.
Very much un-beta'd
I am still new to writing, so be nice. Likes are cool, comments are amazing!
Thanks for reading!
Bucky Barnes was anything but a simple man.
He'd lived through a world war. Had been brainwashed and turned into a killing machine. Was given a metal arm and an ocean of trauma, that he waded through more often than not.
He's over 100 years old and looks in his thirties, for Christs sake. That's anything but simple!
So yeah, he was not a simple man.
No way.
Well...
That was true...
Until his eyes landed on your dress.
Well not quite the dress.... The halter top.
Bucky became a very simple man once his eyes laid upon that.
His cheeks tinged the lightest of pinks.
His throat became dry.
His heart almost stopped beating altogether.
It wasn't his fault really, when you think about it.
You just looked so fucking hot.
Your curves, which he had never seen outlined before, were hugged nicely. Very nicely. (And other things were on display more than he'd ever seen).
Bucky was starting to feel something of his own being hugged nicely, by his jeans.
Shit.
He needed to stop looking before he came in his pants like a damn teenager.
But he just couldn't pull his eyes away.
Not from how the straps -tucked so neatly behind your neck- framed your chest perfectly.
How the A-line showed the tops of your soft tits.
How they bounced as you laughed....
He throbbed.
Bucky had to stop looking. Now.
Impossible.
Illegal probably.
But thenâ
"Bucky, thank god!" A voice called to him,
His eyes peeled away from your tits and to the source of the voice. He didn't need to move his eyes far.
Bucky managed to croak out a weak,
"Hey, Dolly."
His eyes moved down again then back to your face.
Your tits were coming closer, oh god,
Danger
Danger
Danger
His brain exclaimed.
But Bucky was not thinking with his brain.
"I've been waiting for you, where've you been?" You ask him, relief making you more relaxed. More settled.
Bucky noticed how your breathing slowed, deeper breaths lasting longer now. Don't ask him how.
He also noticed his pants getting tighter.
You looked at him expectantly.
His brain fumbled.
Shit. Your question!
"I, um, Iâwhat? Oh! Yeah, uh, Sam told me I was dressed like a hobo and made me change about three times." Bucky chuckled, distress still covert enough to get him by.
"Aw man, I missed hobo Bucky? Worst night of my life!" You joked, mock stomping your foot.
"Tell me about it" Bucky murmured, eyes roaming whilst he had the chance, his hand nonchalantly moved downwards, trying to fix his not so little problem.
His jeans were still tight. Tighter maybe.
He held back the groan that almost slipped past his teeth.
Buckys eyes roamed for a moment too long, up and down. Lingering happily in all the places they could.
When he looked up, he caught your eyes.
You'd caught him.
Staring.
At you.
Shit.
Bucky looked like a deer caught in headlights. A kid who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, almost disbelief at his own stupidity.
His heart raced. He was ready for you to slap him in the face, pour your drink on him as you called him a perv. Anything.
But you didn't.
You looked away. Your shoulders drawing forwards. Head tilted down. Face flat.
Disappointment.
Even worse.
"Dolly, 'm sorry, I didn't mean anyâ" he began
"It's fine," You huffed out, "Everybody's been staring. Think they forgot there's a girl under the tactical suit."
Oh.
You hadn't been disappointed at him looking at your perfect tits. Hadn't even noticed.
You'd seen him scanning your dress... And had felt judged.
He had to fix this, whilst not looking at your tits. Your perfect, beautiful tits he could just smoosh his face into and kiss all over andâ
Focus Barnes!
Bucky took a deep breath, trying to centre his attention on anything but his own thoughts.
"Hey," Bucky stepped closer, trying to catch your eyeline, "'m not shocked and I definitely didn't forget about the woman under the tactical suit," .
You look up at him, eyes watering just slightly. Cheeks tinged the same shade of pink, but blotchier.
The thoughts he has, he needs to go to a confession booth. No. They might send him to hell where his sinful thoughts belong.
But the way you looked at him?
Made him throb even more.
He tried his best to hold in a groan.
"...I meanâ Why does everybody keep staring?" You say, eyes still watery. Your face looks exhausted.
Bucky makes a mental note to kick himself for not listening, for not noticing you even started talking to him.
But the question makes him smirk.
Why is everybody staring?
Because you're fucking hot.
Because you look like my midnight snack.
Because they all want to take you home.
That's what he wants to say.
His smirk only grows.
Your brow furrows, "What? Is there something wrong?"
Buckys still in his thoughts (or thots). Ears now decoration only.
Even your frown is hot.
Your hands on your hips, leaning forward slightly.
Perfect view.
Were you doing this on purpose?
"James!" You were getting agitated now, ready to rip Bucky a new asshole if he didn't tell you what was wroâ
Bucky made a sound.
Did he... Just... Moan?
No. No!
But...
Yes?
Your eyes widened.
"Jaâ Bucky!" You whisper yelled, your cheeks now red instead of pink.
Buckys cheeks were the same colour.
You looked him up and down, trying to figure out just what was going on. And then you saw it. The tent in his pants.
"Oh." You breathed.
Buckys cheeks had turned an even darker shade of red. Scarlet. His face could be a mood ring from all the colours it was turning.
Finally buckys brain caught up to him. (The blood had to start rushing somewhere else at some point, right?)
"Dolly, I'mâ I'm so sorry. I didn't mean toâ it's just that, Well, your dress isâ Shit. It's not your fault. I'm justâ I'm so fucking sorry Dolly." Bucky rambled.
You on the other hand, were eerily quiet.
Is this why everybody kept staring?
Because you were.... Hot?
"...It'll never happen again, I swear it.." Bucky continues, panicking clearly
Hot enough that a super soldier was moaning at you for chastising at him?
This was an unexpected turn of events.
You smirked.
Turned your head.
Innocent look on your face.
Bucky stopped talking five seconds ago. Clearly scared for himself.
"Well, now I know why everybody was staring at me, I suppose. Right James?" You say, looking devilishly sweet.
I really love your writing, reading it makes me wanna write and create myself. And I'm feeling more confident about posting, so I hope it's okay that I tagged y'all!
yayayayay for spring break!! I had an idea!! what about reader who tells (beefy) bucky she can't come during sex with a partner but she still enjoys it and he's all understanding & sweet but then they're having sex and he puts her in a mating press and she comes for the first time ever with someone and he loses it and is all cocky and saying "you just needed it deeper" and then every time after that, she's whiny and desperate to come and he's teasing her saying "you need me to put you in position?" and she begs for it, only coming when he puts her in a mating press
- @buckybsdoll đŤśđź
mating press mention; hello blue!
--------
Youâd told him on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, his metal fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bucky had listened with that soft, patient look he saved just for youâbrow furrowed, blue eyes steady.
âI just⌠I donât finish with partners,â youâd said, cheeks burning. âI get close, I enjoy it, but it never happens. I still want you. I still want this. I just donât want you to feel like itâs your job to fix me or whatever.â
Heâd cupped your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. âDoll, nothing about you needs fixing. If you wanna feel good with me, weâll feel good. If you donât come, weâll still have fun. Iâm not keeping score.â Then he kissed you slow and sweet until you were breathless, and that was that.
Two hours later youâre in his bed, sheets already twisted, his mouth between your legs like heâs got all night. Heâs so carefulâbroad shoulders keeping your thighs open, tongue slow and filthy, two thick fingers curling just right. Youâre moaning, hips rolling, pleasure coiling tight and warm in your belly, but you know how this ends. You always know.
âBucky,â you gasp, fingers in his hair, âyou donât have toââ
He lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes dark. âI want to. Let me take care of you, baby.â
You nod, because how are you supposed to say no to that? He crawls up your body, all that beefy muscle and warm skin, cock heavy against your thigh. When he pushes inâslow, thick, stretching you openâyou moan loud enough to echo. He feels incredible. He always does. You rock with him, hands on his back, nails digging in as he fucks you deep and steady, murmuring praise against your throat.
âThatâs it, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me. You feel so good.â
Youâre lost in it, in the drag of him, the way his dog tags brush your chest, the low rumble of his voice. But the edge stays just out of reach, same as always.
Then Bucky shifts. He hooks his hands behind your knees and folds you clean in half.
Your eyes fly open.
The press is suddenâyour thighs pressed to your chest, ankles by your ears, his massive frame pinning you down so completely you canât even squirm. He sinks in deeper than you thought possible, cock dragging right against that spot that makes your brain short-circuit. The angle is filthy, overwhelming. Every thrust grinds against your clit and punches straight into the place thatâs never been touched like this.
âOh my godâBuckyââ
He feels it the second you clench. His hips stutter. âFuck, doll, youâre squeezinâ me so tightââ
You come like a freight train.
It hits you so hard your vision whites out. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking against his shoulders, a broken cry ripping out of you as you pulse around him, wet and hot and endless. Youâve never come with anyone before. Never. Not once.
Bucky loses it.
His eyes blow wide, pupils swallowing the blue, mouth dropping open in pure stunned lust. âHoly shitâdid you justâ?â He drives in again, harder, chasing the way your cunt flutters and gushes around him. âYou came. You came on my cock, baby. Fuck, look at you.â
Heâs grinning now, cocky and wild, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks you through it, hips snapping sharp and deep. âYou just needed it deeper, huh? Thatâs all it took? My pretty girl been waiting for me to fold her in half and ruin her little pussy?â
You canât even answerâjust whimper and nod, tears slipping down your temples because it feels too good, too much. He groans, low and wrecked, and comes right after you, buried to the hilt, growling your name like a prayer.
After that, everything changes.
The next night heâs got you bent over the kitchen counter, fucking you slow and lazy while you try to finish the dishes you started. Youâre closeâwhining, pushing back on himâbut itâs not enough. You know what you need now. You hate how badly you need it.
âBucky⌠pleaseâŚâ
He chuckles, dark and knowing, and slows down even more. âWhatâs wrong, doll? You sound so desperate. Use your words.â
You shove your face into your arms, mortified and aching. âThe position. Please. I needââ
He pulls out, spins you around, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. In two strides heâs got you on the couch, legs shoved up and back until your knees are by your shoulders. The second he sinks back inside you come againâhard, fast, sobbing his name while he laughs softly against your mouth.
âGreedy little thing,â he murmurs, still moving, still hard. âOne taste and now you canât get off unless I bend you in half like a pretzel, huh?â
It becomes your thing.
Every time after that you turn into a whiny, desperate mess the second he teases you with shallow thrusts. Youâll be riding him, hands braced on his chest, bouncing so pretty, and heâll just smirk up at you.
âYou close, baby?â
You nod frantically, hips grinding faster. âMhmâBuckyâpleaseââ
He grabs your waist, stilling you. âNah. Not like this.â His voice drops, filthy and sweet all at once. âYou need me to put you in position? Need me to fold those pretty legs up and fuck you so deep you see stars?â
You whine, high and pathetic, cheeks burning. âYesâyes, please, Bucky, I need itââ
He flips you so fast your head spins. Knees to chest, his massive body looming over you, cock sliding back in with one brutal thrust. You come instantly, screaming, nails raking down his back while he fucks you through it with that smug, adoring grin.
âEvery damn time,â he growls, hips snapping. âOnly come when Iâve got you pinned and open like this. My perfect girl. Say it.â
âIâfuckâI only come when you put me in the mating pressâoh godââ
He kisses you messy and deep, still thrusting, still teasing. âThatâs right. And youâre gonna keep begging me for it, arenât you?â
You nod frantically, already feeling the next one building.
Because now you know the truth: you can come. You just need Bucky Barnes to press you down, fold you up, and give it to you deeper than anyone ever has.
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