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@rogerthatbarness
Hey all!
So in my (nonexistent) free time -which is whenever I tear myself away from here- I actually do write fanfiction/slow burn romances for several MCU characters/actors on Wattpad and Ao3.
Wattpad: rogerthatbarnes
Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogerthatbarnes/works
Masterlist
Always Bumping Into Each Other
Summary: Somehow a woman and a toddler boy seem to show up at the worst times possible during assorted Avengers operations.
Characters: Bucky Barnes (grumpy, then soft), Avengers team (various), original female character and 4 year old boy.
Length: 2.9K
Warnings: None, other than some violence in the name of self-defence and swearing.
Please do not copy and post this story to any other platform or translate it without my consent. If you like it please reblog. I’m new at posting on Tumblr and I need the encouragement.
“Do you see the contact yet?”
Sam was circling high overhead, watching the approach of a defecting HYDRA agent who said he wanted to change sides but would only give himself in to the Winter Soldier.
“Not yet,” replied Bucky, seated at the cafe table in front of the coffee shop. “I feel exposed just sitting here.”
“That’s what you get when you’re requested to be the person to bring him in. Hold on, he’s ducked inside of a shop. Stay alert everyone.”
There were check-ins from the others who were scattered around the immediate vicinity. Then, out of nowhere, Bucky could hear a voice.
“Corey? Where are you sweetie? No, don’t you run away from me. Corey … dammit.”
It was the kid he saw first, about four years old, with a look of glee on his face, coming towards him at full tilt, with a frantic woman chasing him, begging him to stop.
Standing up, Bucky stepped in front of the child, scooping him up in his arms and holding him until the woman caught up.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she exclaimed when she got to Bucky. “He climbed out of his stroller and took off like a bat out of hell. He’s faster than he looks.”
“No problem,” he replied, trying to hand the boy back as he noticed some people wearing masks and long coats suddenly appear in a perimeter around him. “Uh, would you get behind me for a moment?”
“Excuse me?” asked the woman, looking at him with puzzlement, then noticing the gloved hand. “Oh my God, you’re Bucky Barnes.”
He gave her a stilted smile in acknowledgment of her recognition of him at the same time as noticing the people in long coats were suddenly pulling out guns.
“It’s a trap,” he said, in his comms, pushing the table down and pulling the woman and the boy behind it with him. “I read at least half a dozen enemy. I have two civilians I have to protect.”
Several calls of “on it” reached his ears as he reached inside to his jacket holster and pulled out a gun. The woman shrieked slightly but stayed put, hugging the boy tightly and crouching as low as she could behind Bucky and the cafe table.
“Buck, sending the shield, on your nine,” said Sam’s voice.
Bucky looked left in time to put his hand up and catch the vibranium shield, holding it up between him and the intruders. They began firing anyway, making Bucky shake his head at the futility of them shooting at a bulletproof target. Firing back several times, he stopped when he saw Sam dive bomb the closet gunman, picking him up and dropping him into a fountain at the other end of the plaza. Peter’s webs encased the next man, then the young Avenger pulled on it lifting the man and hanging him in his cocoon from a lamp post. From his peripheral vision he saw another man rush towards him and stepped up, throwing the shield at his midsection knocking him over into a flower cart before the shield returned to him. Quickly, looking behind him to check on the woman and the boy he was shocked to see her in a tug of war with another gunman as he tried to take the boy. Shooting the man in the knee, he picked him up with his vibranium hand and tossed him about twenty feet away.
“Hold this in front of you,” he said to the woman, giving her the shield, then leaped into the air towards two others, meeting Thor who was doing the same thing from the other side.
Looking back at the woman he groaned when he saw another one of the gunman trying to steal the shield from her. Despite holding on to the boy with one arm she was doing a pretty good job of it, kicking the man in his legs, and using the shield against him as best she could. Striding quickly over he took the man by his collar and tossed him aside, letting Peter finish the job by immobilizing him in a web. Within another minute they had seven gunman covered in webs, and all of the Avengers on this operation visible in the plaza to ward off anyone else thinking of taking them on. Torres, still in the air, said the supposed defector took off in the other direction.
Walking grimly back to the woman Bucky tried to quell his anger at this obvious attempt to kidnap him and to use civilians as hostages. She stood up and held out the shield to him, smiling hesitantly.
“I hope I didn’t wreck a takedown or anything,” she said. “Thank you for protecting us.”
“They were after me,” he replied bluntly, accepting it, noticing for the first time she was kind of pretty. “Is your son okay?”
“Oh, he’s not my son,” she blushed. “I’m the nanny. He is a handful.” Sam and the others approached, making little Corey call out their names. “He loves you guys. I don’t know how I’m going to explain how we were caught in a shootout with the Avengers.”
“Well, you seemed to keep your head, Miss …?” smiled Sam, as he took the shield from Bucky.
“Oh, um, Jones, Cassidy Jones,” she said. “You guys are impressive to watch in action. My friends aren’t going to believe I was part of this.”
Bucky watched her with his usual stern face, but still impressed at how animated she seemed after being involved in two tussles with two gunmen, all while protecting the boy, Corey. As the police came to arrest the gunmen and take statements from the witnesses, including Cassidy, Sam looked at Bucky, who was still looking at her.
“She seems nice,” he said. “You should ask her out.”
Receiving a glare for his suggestion he chuckled then called the others for a quick debrief before they boarded the quinjet. Cassidy and Corey waved goodbye to them as they headed towards their transport. Almost everyone waved back, except Bucky who sniffed then turned away.
➿
“Corey, buddy, I know you want ice cream but you have to eat real food first,” said Cassidy, offering him a French fry.
“No, I want ice cream,” he pouted.
“One fry, just one, please,” she begged, putting it closer to his mouth in the hope of achieving a symbolic victory.
Opening his mouth he took it from her, while looking her in the eye. With a gleam that frightened her he chewed it then spat it out to the side, watching with a smile as it dropped to the floor inside the fast food restaurant. Cassidy sighed. There had to be a better way to make enough money for her Master’s degree than being a nanny to this particular hell spawn. Bending over with a napkin to pick it up, she stood up to put the half chewed food in the garbage and turned around in time to see Corey pushing against the door to the outside.
“Not again,” she groaned as she ran towards him, then found herself blocked by a family leaving at the same time.
By the time she got outside she couldn’t see him and began calling him. The sound of shouts got her attention and she started running towards them.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she muttered as she ran towards what was obviously another Avengers operation gone bad, as she noticed Captain America and the Falcon swooping down towards a melée in the parking lot of a big box store.
As she got closer she could see Corey was being held in the metal arm of Bucky Barnes, laughing as the super soldier dealt one handed with several attackers. Several of the other Avengers were tied up with other attackers as she tried to get close enough to get Corey out of there so Barnes could be doing his job rather than doing hers. Without even thinking twice she ran up to him.
“Give me Corey,” she yelled, as he looked at her in alarm.
“Get out of here,” he yelled back.
“Not without him,” she cried, then yelled again. “Behind you!”
Barnes whirled, putting his right forearm into the attacker’s throat. Turning back and glaring at her he handed off Corey and she ran, trying to find cover that would keep them out of danger.
“No, I want Bucky!”
Corey was struggling against her as she ran, but she held him like a vice, restraining him as best she could. They both watched in fascination as the team took on about a dozen attackers, some of them armed with weapons that she recognized from martial arts movies but couldn’t remember what they were called. One of the Avengers, the new guy, Shang Chi, knew what they were and took them in hand as he disabled his adversaries, then used the weapons to support his team until once again, like at the plaza a few days before, they had everyone down and the sound of police sirens were approaching quickly. She must have relaxed her hold on Corey as he suddenly got out of her arms and took off towards the Avengers, running right to Bucky Barnes and throwing his arms around the big man’s legs.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as she approached him. “He got away from me again. We were having lunch nearby and ….” She stopped talking when she saw his exasperated face.
He picked the boy up then gave him to Cassidy. “You’re not following us are you?” he asked.
“No!” exclaimed Cassidy. “Honestly, we were eating at the fast food place, just over there and I turned my back on him for a just a moment and he was gone.” She looked down, almost ready to cry. “I’m not very good at my job, am I?”
She looked up at him, realizing how blue those eyes were and how they seemed to look right through her. Even though he looked fierce, with this prominent crease between his eyebrows, his voice was soft when he answered.
“You deliberately put yourself into danger to come and get him,” he said gently. “I’d say you’re doing a great job of protecting him. You probably need another pair of eyes just to watch him.”
They both heard a chuckle nearby. “I swear that boy went right to Bucky,” said Sam. “Almost like he was a laser guided missile. That kid has a nose for trouble.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” commented Cassidy. “I really am sorry. Come on, Corey. I hope your mom doesn’t see this on the news. I’ll be fired for sure.”
Holding her hand out, Corey took it and waved at all the Avengers as he walked with her back to her car in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant. Even Bucky watched her go.
“She’s got a good heart,” said Sam. “Next time, get her number.”
“There won’t be a next time,” replied Bucky, suddenly turning away, feeling warm inside.
➿
Even though she was trying to think positively Cassidy couldn’t stop the feeling of dread in her stomach. She was supposed to be taking Corey to a play date but when she got to the park it was eerily empty and quiet, almost as if everyone who were supposed to be there had disappeared en route. Her charge didn’t mind as he made a beeline for the climbing structure and crawled up the steps then posed at the top of the slide.
“Watch me, Cassie!” he called, before diving down the incline on his stomach.
Sliding off the bottom with a giggle he raced around to climb up the structure again before sliding down. Three more times he did it before running to the swings and asking to be pushed. Lifting him into the seat that supported him Cassidy pushed him several times, slowly allowing his laughter to improve her mood. Just as she started to feel better about being in the park alone she looked up, losing the smile that had been on her face, when she saw the strange aircraft hovering above them.
“What the fuck?” she muttered, then grabbed Corey when he swung back to her and began running to the parking lot.
Several people rappelled out of the aircraft, landing all around her but not doing anything. Holding Corey tightly she waited, wondering what they were waiting for. The aircraft went over to an open area of the park, landing and opening a ramp. A man in black came down and right away she knew this man was the one behind the last two attacks. There was just something about the way he walked and looked at her that made her think this “play date” was a setup as well.
“Miss Jones,” he said, his unaccented voice chilling her to the core. “I was hoping you would bring your friends with you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, defensively.
“Strange,” he said. “Twice they showed up in the same place that you and the boy were. Yet here we are and they are no where to be found.”
“Coincidence,” she replied. “They’re not my friends. They don’t know me or my schedule with Corey.”
“Pity,” he said. “We’ll have to do this the hard way. Take her.”
The shield came out of nowhere, knocking down three of the people who had rappelled out of the aircraft. Taking off through the gap those three had left when they fell Cassidy ran as hard as she could until she was aware of someone running with her. Looking to her side she was surprised when she saw it was Bucky Barnes.
“Trust me,” he said, then scooped her up in his arms without breaking his stride, carrying her quickly towards the quinjet, parked in an open space in a wooded area. Opening the ramp, he let her down at the base of it. “Stay inside, press the red button up there to close the ramp. You’ll be safe.”
Without waiting for an answer he raced back to where the action was and Cassidy did as she was told, pressing the red button he indicated then waiting. They left the outside security cams working on the interior computer screens, and they were able to watch the battle between the Avengers team and whoever the guys in the other aircraft were. It was exciting to be part of it, without being in the midst of it. When it was over she watched as Bucky approached the quinjet. Going over to the control she pressed the red button and waited for the ramp to completely lower. Corey immediately latched himself onto Bucky’s legs as he stepped up the ramp, and he picked the little boy up. She noticed his face was bruised and he had a cut over his eye but what was even more evident was the soft look he gave her as he approached.
“You’re both okay?” he asked. “We’ve been trying to get this guy for a while. He posed as a HYDRA defector but was trying to kidnap me in the hopes of reactivating the Winter Soldier. When he saw the footage of you at the plaza he figured we knew each other and he decided to use it against us, against me.”
“He was tracking me?” Bucky nodded. “How did you figure that?”
“When it happened again at the parking lot,” he replied. “Sam cloned your phone with Red Wing, that’s the flying drone. The play date was a setup, by the other guy, not by us.”
“So we won’t see you again?”
He coughed a little. “We could meet for coffee or go out together,” he said.
“You’re asking me out?” She looked at him, seeing those blue eyes focused on her. “Okay, when?”
He smiled, and Cassidy thought she had never seen someone so handsome as Bucky Barnes when he smiled.
“Tomorrow?”
The other Avengers approached as the police had arrived to take the attackers into custody.
“Did you ask her out yet?” asked Torres, receiving a glare from Bucky.
“Yes, he asked me,” replied Cassidy. “Tomorrow, 7 pm. I assume you know where I live. It doesn’t have to be fancy, just maybe somewhere without kids.”
Even Corey chuckled at that comment, although it likely went over his head. Since Corey wouldn’t let Bucky go he walked Cassidy back to her car, helping to buckle the little boy into his car seat. As they both stood shyly outside the car, Bucky looked seriously at her.
“You should consider a career in law enforcement,” he said. “Every time you got caught up in things, you kept your cool while everything was going down. I know the Avengers are always looking for agents in a support capacity.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she replied, moving closer to the driver’s side door. “It’s been nice bumping into each other.”
“It has,” he agreed.
Cassidy surprised him with a kiss on the cheek and got into the car, backing it up, then both of them waved goodbye as they pulled away. This time, Bucky waved back.
One Shots Masterlist
Tumblr Masterlist
Thank you for reblogging!❤️❤️❤️
[Transcription: "A wild animal, when caught in a trap, will sever its own limb if it means it will get to escape. The coyote bitten by steel teeth knows nothing but to wrap its jaws around its leg to get free, the climber under the boulder knows only to drag his pocket knife across his arm until he is clawing up the slope one-handed. Hydra's new toy is much the same, single-minded, a desperate hand against cold metal and scar tissue that forms too quickly, clawed fingers raked against raw flesh over and over and over. Steadily the blood falls, in beads that slip between the plates of the machinery the creature seeks to shake."]
So I've been consumed by the winter soldier brain rot and I'm having feelings about Bucky so I'm drawing those feelings and inflicting it on you :3
Everyone check out dangerwr1tes on ao3!!! He's the man who wrote the one shot in the background :)
(he's also on Tumblr ( @salemdanger ) but he. Does not post on there /silly)
another unfinished bucky painting lmao
Somebody once told me regarding my plated desserts: “Don’t say what’s wrong with it: if you hadn’t said anything, we never would have known it was anything other than gorgeous and delicious perfection!”
I like to tell artists the same thing. This art is so far beyond me, it way as well be the Mona-fucking-Lisa.
Don’t point out your flaws cause you’d be surprised how many people don’t even see them 💖
Friends with benefits series master list.
Header made by the talented @sunday-bug. Thank you!!
Chapter 1: You had only been working with the Thunderbolts team for three months, and truthfully it didn’t take long for Bucky Barnes to pique your interest. So the fact that he wouldn’t even make eye contact with you was driving you crazy. SMUT.
Chapter 2: Bucky is having a hard time processing his emotions, so you decide to take care of things for him… Wait who is Katie? SMUT.
Chapter 3: Sometimes a conversation with your ex boyfriend is necessary for clarity, right?
Kill of the Moment
Summary: Clint would do anything to serve his queen.
Word Count: 975
Warnings: murder, harassment
Red on ao3!
You licked your lips as you felt his lips caressing the skin of your throat. “Clint,” you nearly moaned out before carding your hands through his hair and tugging gently to try and pry his mouth away from you. “It’s your turn baby.”
“These fuckers can wait, darlin’,” he mumbled against your against, one hand gripping your ass tightly, the other holding his cards in his hand. “You know you’re mine, right now. All mine.”
You chuckled with a soft roll of your eyes. Someone must have been trying to get an eyeful of your body. Your husband only ever acted so aggressively with you when he had caught someone trying to get a sneaky look at you or up your skirt. Whomever Clint had caught in the act was in for a total beating after the poker game was finished and the crowd surrounding his table had diminished. “Who is it this time, love?” you mumbled as you carded your hands through his hair. “What asshole would be foolish enough to check out a king’s wife without so much as a disregard for their own life?”
“I’m not too sure,” he mumbled against the material of the dress on your shoulder. “But there’s a man by the bar; I’ve been watching him. He’s new to this city. I’ve never seen him before. He’s been glancing this way for the last few minutes. Tell me if that would please my queen, if I handled him the way a king should handle their enemy?” He asked as he lifted his head and searched your face for any negative thoughts any declination of his offering.
“Nothing would please your queen more, my love.” you pecked his lips and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear before kissing him on the lips hard and deep for a long moment as poker chips were thrown into the middle of the table. A moment later, Clint took a fold and excused himself from the table as he’d finally caught sight of the man that had been eyeing you up all night. He tapped your thigh and you stood up away from him, a light smirk pleasuring your lips.
He fixed his suit jacket before kissing your temple and skirting around you to glide over to the bar with grace. You turned around and watched him with joy filling your eyes as you sipped from your cocktail glass. The scene in front of you caused several heads to turn; the look of pure anger on Clint’s face was enough to have alley cats zipping away in fear.
You leaned your back against the poker table as Clint stepped up to a random bar patron; an older gentleman by the looks of it. He seemed too cocky for your taste, causing a concerned grimace to put a frown on your face as Clint’s calm demeanor diminished rapidly. A pointed look towards you for approval and once you had nodded, Clint gripped the man by the back of the head and slammed his face against the glass counter, causing it to shatter away in pieces on the carpeted floor along with the bar goer’s drinks as well.
Clint had built this casino for you when you had married a few years ago. You treasured it beyond anything he had ever done for you. You loved the money, the drugs, the alcohol that passed through the place every day. Business boomed, never having a dull day. Bar fights were common. Thieves were seldom. Respect was demanded by everyone that worked for your husband. He’d allow violence from the workers if they had felt even the slightest of offended- which hardly happened due to Clint’s reputation around the city.
Bodies were a constant trash pile in the dumpsters behind the club. Clint killed so many poor souls, it’s a miracle that he still felt anything but rage at this point in his life. But you, you were the reason he felt human at all. You were the reason he hadn’t gone over the edge of life yet. And for that, he was grateful. You meant everything to him and he would kill in order to prove that to anyone who so much as questioned his faith and loyalty to you. Clint didn’t tolerate assholes who disrespected his queen. He didn’t feel appreciated when some thug on the street had whistled to you, calling you out as if you were a dog being called to his owner. You were a human being and Clint would kill anyone who didn’t think that of you.
You adored his devotion to you. You adored how much he had protected you. You admired how skillful he was with a gun in his hand. You loved this man with every fiber of your being. You dedicated your life to him, and he to you.
You watched with intense eyes as Clint exchanged several words with the man, smiling, occasionally looking over his shoulder at you as the man did the same, even as blood trickled from his temple where shards of glass stuck out in odd angles. You hid a smirk behind the cocktail glass as Clint had suddenly grabbed the poor old man by the back of the neck and slammed his face against the bar top yet again, shattering the bar into pieces. He slammed the man’s head a few more times before standing up and casually fixing his tie on the way back over to you, bloody shirt and all.
“No more peeping tom, doll face.” He smirked, pulling you tightly to his body as he snapped his fingers to grab the attention of his henchmen. “Fellas, there’s a spill on the bar that needs to be wiped down. Do you mind?” He kissed you as two men strolled by him to dispose of the body.
His Consort, His Queen
Mafia AU • Beauty and the Beast premise • All smut, all the time
Welcome to my darkest and smuttiest series. He's powerful and very morally-grey. And you're HIS. I was clearly possessed by a dark and very horny spirit while writing this, and I’m not sorry.
The whole series is right around 15k total words. I basically wrote this to dip into something a bit dark before I begin my Winter Soldier series. 18+; MDNI
Premise:
Your father owed money to the wrong man, James Buchanan Barnes, a rising kingpin in New York's criminal underworld. He's ex-military, ex-Winter Soldier assassin, and all danger. No one crosses him and lives to talk about it.
But James is not interested in blood this time. He wants collateral. He wants something more personal.
So your father gave him you.
You're delivered like a gift: dressed up, drugged, and dumped in Bucky's penthouse like a peace offering. When you wake, there’s no explanation, just a man with a glass of bourbon, a cold stare, and a quiet, brutal voice.
“You belong to me now. Your debt is your body.”
He doesn’t want love. He doesn’t even want a conversation. He wants access to your mouth, between your thighs, and he wants your obedience whenever he damn well pleases.
And you give in... because what’s the alternative?
⚠ PLEASE read the trigger warnings before beginning ⚠
Trigger Warnings: free use; dubcon/coerced consent (noncon?idk); fingering; female masturbation; being tied down; voyeurism; p-in-v sex; oral (male and female receiving); orgasm denial; emotional slow burn
Main Masterlist
Chapter 1: TEASER (Clean! Use it like a test to see if you might be interested.)
Chapter 1: The Debt is Due (18+; MDNI)
Chapter 2: Disobedience (18+; MDNI)
Chapter 3: Steve’s Assignment (18+; MDNI)
Chapter 4: Showpiece (18+; MDNI)
Chapter 5: The First No (18+; MDNI)
Chapter 6: The Bedroom War (18+; MDNI)
Chapter 7: The Crown (18+; MDNI)
Edit to add: I wanted to write this series as a challenge to myself, to see if I could show an evolving relationship almost exclusively through intimacy. So, even if you don't like the start, you might like it better by the end. Trust the process.
Will be posted every day at 4pm EST until complete - Beginning Mon 18th!
The chapters will be flagged mature (which I think is hidden in Tumblr search?), so I’ll post a clean teaser (the first 300-500 words of each chapter) at 3pm EST daily with the link to the NSFW fic.
Message me if you want to be added to the tag list! (Removal requests welcome, too!) I will NOT be tagging the daily clean teaser, only the main NSFW fic.
Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez @star-yawnznn @bartonsparrow25 @globetrotter28 @sebastians-love
𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞
𝐔𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲!𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐆𝐮𝐲
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 🗣️ 𝐈 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐛𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥, 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐎𝐁𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘.
𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 @suzs-fic-library I𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 🩷
He leads her into his room, his face like thunder, and she hurries to keep up. What has made him so angry with her is almost a certainty, but she refuses to feel any regret. This man, this infuriating, gorgeous, powerful man, he thinks he can dictate to her? To tell her how to behave in the privacy of his home? She was not some child he could order around at will.
He’d told her his friends would be at his house today, some football game or some other sport she couldn’t care less about, but he wanted her there because he’d missed her all week. Wanted her there to show off to his friends. She’d been so pleased, spent most of her week finding the perfect sundress to wear, the perfect heels to go with it. All morning had been spent making herself look as gorgeous as possible to be a great hostess with her man…
And now the jerk is angry that his friends have seen her so well put together. Angry enough to wait until the game was over and then send them away with no further explanation.
He lays back on his bed, and then points a finger, “Take that fucking dress off. And the underwear, and leave the heels. Come and sit on my face.”
“But-”
“You looked too good today, baby, and I want my fucking fill of you. You make me crazy, I had to wait all day to get your taste down my neck, so don’t you dare come until I say so!”
A/N: Who are you picturing as you read this 👀
𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝
𝐌𝐨𝐛 𝐁𝐨𝐬𝐬!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐠𝐬, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱 (𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝), 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟𝐜. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐁𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘.
𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 @suzs-fic-library 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 🩷
You knew it would be one of those days when you walk into your lover's office to give him a kiss before his meeting, and instead of ushering you out with his black AmEx card like he usually would, he drags you around his desk and bends you over his desk. You skirt is lifted and your silk underwear pulled down just past your cheeks.
“This meeting is going to be boring as hell. Stay with me and let me play with your pretty ass, baby, okay? Stay still, the call is about to start.”
You try, but the plug inside you is just hitting that spot and you’re almost biting through your tongue trying not to cry out in pleasure. Bucky squeezes the cheek of your ass, offsetting the sparks of bliss with sharp bruising pain, and pushes you more firmly over the edge of his desk,
“Breathe and be quiet, I’m taking the call off mute now. If they hear you, you can’t come for two nights,”
Your eyes squeeze shut, and you clamp your hand over your mouth to further muffle your cries. You hear the conference call between Bucky and his lieutenants start up again and you force yourself to stay quiet as they talk about Bucky’s various interests across the city. The call lasts only another ten minutes but it feels like hours, through it all Bucky idly plays with the jewelled plug he’d put in, twisting it, pulling it out, pushing it back in. Once or twice he’d toyed with your hole when it was empty, his tongue or his fingers finding their home inside you.
The call ended, Bucky rubbed firmly on your clit and you came on a ragged cry.
“Good girl,” you hear Bucky stand, his zipper descend, and feel the tip of his thick cock at your ass, “gonna ruin this ass now. Breathe for me, baby..”
So Black the Darkness Hums
Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader, unnamed husband of reader Word Count: 9.1k Summary: Your wedding day is destroyed when your village is raided by the vicious king Steven and his viking warriors. He will lay claim to all he wants, including you.
Content/Warnings: DARK, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut (oral - male and female receiving, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, anal fingering, anal intercourse, breastplay, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms), use of pet name (little bride), dacryphilia, innocence kink, implied breeding kink, exhibitionism, human tribute/trade
Notes: I was struck by the idea of a very mean viking Steve last Thursday, and he would not let me go. Thanks to the encouragements from @biteofcherry, @witchywithwhiskey, and @vonalyn. An unapologetically brutal offering for the ninth week of Chris-mas.
Additional Note: I've gone with the term magnate over chieftan per this source.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You had already made a long walk, dressed in white, towards a man today. But where this morning you had walked happily in the sunlight to your betrothed - the eldest son of the village magnate - now you walk over the flagstones of the village hall to the seat typically occupied by the magnate.
A seat now filled by the brutal and terrifying Steven - warrior and king of an army which had landed on the shores of your village to raid and conquer today.
And conquer they had.
Your white dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to your skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and leaves. The veil that had adorned your hair this morning lies discarded somewhere in the forest, torn away by grasping branches as you fled.
The memory of your desperate flight from your wedding into the woods plays in your mind like a fevered dream. The screams of the villagers, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke as buildings burned – all of it had driven you and a group of women and children to seek refuge among the ancient oaks. The forest, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, became a labyrinth of terror as you led the group deeper and deeper, branches scratching at your arms and face, tearing at the delicate fabric of your gown. The sounds of pursuit never seemed to fade, no matter how far you ran.
As dusk fell, you huddled together, exhausted, praying to gods old and new that you would not be found. But the gods were silent, and the crunch of heavy boots on fallen leaves had filled their absence. You were all discovered, bound and forced back.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the throne, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. The white gown that once symbolized joy now feels like a shroud.
The smell of blood and sweat permeates the room, a stark contrast to the polished wood and fine tapestries of the hall.
Steven's piercing eyes lock onto yours, a predatory gleam reflecting in their depths like shards of ice. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his battle-scarred hands gripping the armrests with a strength that could crush them at any moment. A round, wooden shield leans against the side of the throne. He looks both handsome and terrifying, his rugged features perfectly fitting for a fierce Viking warrior king. The intensity in his gaze sends shivers down your spine, making you wonder if he is capable of unspeakable violence or if it is all just an act to maintain his reputation as a fearsome leader. Either way, there is no denying the raw power emanating from him, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from the captivating figure before you.
Your steps falter, but a rough shove from one of Steven's men propels you forward. You stumble, nearly falling at the conqueror's feet.
"So," Steven's voice booms, a mix of amusement and contempt, "you are the bride I've heard so much about."
His face is scarred, weathered by countless battles, but still impossibly handsome, and his eyes gleam with intelligence. You see something there – a flicker that suggests he is not just a brutal conqueror, but a man with depth and complexity.
Dangerous.
"I hear you were wedded to the fine magnate’s son," Steven continues, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How fortunate that I arrived in time for the celebration."
Your throat constricts, choking back the bitter retort that threatens to escape. You force yourself to square your shoulders and hold his gaze, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.
Steven's eyes narrow as he studies you, his gaze raking over your disheveled form with predatory intensity. He leans forward, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the movement.
"Come closer, little bride," he beckons, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.
Your feet feel leaden as you force yourself to take another step forward. You are by no means small, but he is so large in comparison that the term ‘little’ would apply to most who come into his presence. The flagstones beneath you are cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft grass you had walked upon just hours before, your heart full of hope and promise.
Steven's lips curl into a wolfish grin as you approach. "Tell me," he says, his voice deceptively casual, "were you to be a proper bride for your husband?"
The insinuation in his words is clear, and heat rises to your cheeks. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes hungry and leering. You swallow hard, struggling to maintain your composure.
"I was to be a dutiful wife," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Steven's laughter booms through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "'Dutiful,'" he repeats, mockery dripping from the word. "And what duties did you imagine, little bride? Mending his clothes? Warming his bed?"
Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. The urge to lash out, to scream defiance in his face, is almost overwhelming. But you force yourself to remain still, knowing that any show of rebellion could mean death – not just for you, but for the other villagers as well.
"Whatever duties were required of me," you reply, striving to keep your voice steady.
Steven leans back in the chair. "Tell me, little bride, do you know what happens to dutiful wives when their husbands fall?"
Your stomach churns at his words, but you force yourself to stand tall. "I imagine they mourn," you reply, a hint of defiance creeping into your voice.
The warrior king's eyes flash dangerously. In one fluid motion, he rises from the chair, towering over you. His hand, calloused and rough, grasps your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
"Oh, he may have wished for death in battle, but he was merely conquered and imprisoned.”
There’s a small relief, but it’s fleeting as you know this is far from over.
“Dutiful wives plead and bargain what they can to spare their husbands an even crueler fate.”
You tremble with both fear and anger.
“And the bride of the magnate’s eldest son needs to bargain for far more than the fate of only one man.”
Your sink to your knees at Steven's words, now with the fate of your village laid at your hands. Your once-pristine dress pools around you like spilled milk over the cold flagstones. The stone bites into your skin, a sharp reminder of how far you've fallen in just one day.
Tears blur your vision as you look up at Steven, his massive form looming over you like a colossus. The firelight from nearby sconces casts dancing shadows across his face, making his scars seem to writhe like serpents.
"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Spare them. Spare the village. We are simple folk, we have nothing to offer but our loyalty and our labor."
A low chuckle rumbles from Steven's chest. "Getting on your knees is a good start, little bride," he says, his voice low.
Your cheeks burn with humiliation at his words, but you force yourself to remain kneeling. The fate of your village, your family, your new husband – all of it rests on your shoulders now.
Steven circles you slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His heavy boots echo on the stone floor, each step sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes a palpable weight.
"Loyalty and labor," Steven muses, coming to a stop before you. "Those are indeed valuable commodities. But I wonder, little bride, if you truly understand the depths of loyalty I require."
He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. His breath is hot on your cheek as he speaks. "Your village will serve me, yes. But you... you will be the seal on our bargain. The trophy of my conquest."
Your heart stops.
“And to my earlier curiosity, I shall ask plainly and have you answer me in kind: are you a virgin bride? Untouched? Unsullied?”
You close your eyes and nod.
Any hope you had been harboring that your fate would not turn this way vanishes now.
“A king is entitled, if he so chooses, to invoke the rite of prima nocta.”
Your blood runs cold at Steven's words. Prima nocta - the right of the first night. An ancient, barbaric custom that you had only heard whispered about in hushed tones. Never did you imagine it would become your reality.
"No," you whisper, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You immediately regret it as Steven's eyes flash dangerously.
He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No?" he growls. "You dare refuse me? Perhaps you need a reminder of your position."
With a snap of his fingers, two of his men drag in a bound figure, depositing him on his knees off to the side of the hall but in clear view. Your heart sinks as you recognize your new husband, his body littered with cuts and bruises.
"For every refusal, every act of defiance," Steven says coldly, "he will suffer. And not just him. Your family, your friends, you are all of you conquered and my men can hunt through this village to pull any one of them here if it serves me.”
Your eyes well with tears because you do not doubt his resolve.
“You will spare them if I give you my maidenhood?”
He straightens back up to his full height. “I think I could spare your village for at least one night.”
Steven turns to his men, waving a dismissive hand. "Leave us," he commands, his voice echoing through the hall. "But the husband stays. He will bear witness."
The soldiers file out, swiftly acquiescing to their king’s request. The heavy doors slam shut behind them, the sound reverberating through your bones. Now it is only the three of you - conqueror, conquered, and the terrified bride between.
Steven's fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back. His other hand works at the fastenings of his breeches. "Show me how dutiful you can be, little bride," he growls.
Steven towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the flickering light from the nearby torches. You can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of sweat and metal that clings to his skin.
Your eyes flicker to your husband, but he refuses to look at you, apparently unwilling to watch. You would not have him suffer, but his refusal to even look your way hurts. You held no silly romantic notions for the eldest son of the magnate, but he was a fine man, good, you had been happy to make a match with him, and you thought there was a growing affection between you.
“Do not look at him, little bride,” Steven growls, impatiently shaking you by the hair. “Why are you looking at him? Look at me. He can not help you.”
You force your gaze back to Steven, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and cruel triumph. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice.
"I... I don't know what to do," you whisper, heat flaming your cheeks. It's true - you are a virgin, after all, and the mechanics of what he expects are foreign to you.
Steven's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, little bride," he says, his voice a rumble. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."
His hand leaves your hair, moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your lower lip, rough and calloused. "Open," he commands.
You hesitate, your eyes darting once more to your husband. This time, his gaze meets yours, and you see the resentment burning in them. It wounds you more than anything this cruel conquering king has done to you so far.
Steeling yourself, you look back up at Steven and part your lips.
His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck," he commands.
With trembling lips, you obey, closing your mouth around his thick digit. The taste of salt and leather fills your senses as you tentatively suck on his thumb. Steven's eyes darken with lust, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand working at the laces of his breeches. "That's it, use your tongue."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you obey, swirling your tongue around his digit, your cheeks burning with shame. You try to focus solely on the task at hand, to forget where you are and what's happening. But the sound of your husband's labored breathing, the cold stone beneath your knees, the looming presence of Steven above you – it all serves as a stark reminder of your situation.
The sound of fabric rustling makes your stomach clench.
Steven withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers. They press deeper into your mouth, nearly making you gag. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs. "You'll need to learn this."
Your heart races as you struggle to follow his command, fighting against your gag reflex as his fingers probe deeper. The taste of salt and leather is overwhelming, and you can feel saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth.
"Open your eyes," Steven growls. "I want you to see everything."
Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. With his free hand, he finishes unlacing his breeches, pushing them down just enough to free himself.
Your eyes widen at the sight of him, fully aroused and intimidatingly large. A whimper escapes you around his fingers, and he smirks.
"Don't worry, you'll learn to take all of me in time."
Steven withdraws his fingers from your mouth, leaving you gasping. His hand moves to grip your hair again, tilting your head back as he positions himself before you.
"Open wide, little bride," he commands, his voice husky with desire.
You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. The reality of what's about to happen crashes over you like a wave. But then you hear a pained grunt from your husband, and you know you have no choice. Closing your eyes, you part your lips.
Steven wastes no time, pushing himself into your mouth with a groan of satisfaction. The taste is foreign, salty and musky, and you struggle not to gag as he fills your mouth.
"Use your tongue," he instructs, his hand tightening in your hair. "And mind your teeth."
Tears stream down your face as you try to obey, running your tongue along the length of him. Your whole body trembles with fear and revulsion, but his grip on your hair is unrelenting. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, setting a brutal pace that makes you gag and gasp for air.
"You're doing well, my little bride," Steven grunts, his voice thick with lust. "Just relax and take it all in."
You try to comply, but it's a struggle. Your eyes are dripping with tears, overwhelmed from the force of his movements, and you feel like you're choking on him. But you know you have no choice but to endure it or risk angering him further.
As he continues to use your mouth for his pleasure, you feel a sense of detachment wash over you. It's like watching yourself from a distance, your body merely a tool for his satisfaction. You can't believe this is happening – this reality had never even haunted your nightmares.
A sharp pain shoots through your scalp as Steven tugs harder on your hair, pulling your head back even further. You whimper at the sting, struggling against the urge to cry out.
"You make such beautiful noises," he growls. "But I want more from you."
With that, he starts thrusting deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time. You choke and gag around him, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.
But then something changes – he starts moving faster and faster until suddenly he stills inside you with a groan of release. Your mouth is flooded with his release, and you swallow what you can, tasting him on your tongue as he pulls out of your mouth, leaving it feeling raw and sore. A mess of tears, his cum, and your drool drip down your chin and neck as you gasp for air.
Steven's thumb roughly grazes down your cheek, a false gesture of affection. Then he speaks, his eyes moving from you to your husband. "Such a pretty thing," he purrs. "Isn't she?" the question - a taunt - directed at your husband.
He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with both of you. Steven's laughter fills the room as he continues, "They say you are a noble and good man, always treating her right. I bet you would never have asked her to do anything so degrading, may have waited months or years before coaxing her to suck your cock."
You don’t even know how to process what he is saying and how the other man is reacting - or not reacting - to Steve’s words.
“You would never use her.”
Steven’s focus shifts fully back to you.
“But I will.”
A whimper escapes your chest as he roughly grabs your chin.
“I will ruin you and wreck you for my pleasure, and he does not get to see what I will do to you next.”
The other man makes a strangled sound, finally trying to fight his bonds.
Steven laughs darkly. “It may have tortured you to watch,” he says, and then leans down and scoops you up from the floor and into his arms - bridal style to drive the point of his dominance and the humiliation of your special day home, “but not knowing what I do to your bride next will eat you alive for the rest of your days.”
As Steven carries you from the hall, your world becomes a blur of sensations and emotions. The warmth of his body contrasts sharply with the cold dread settling in your stomach. His arms, corded with muscle, hold you firmly against his broad chest, and you wrap your arms around his neck for steadiness as he moves so swiftly. The scent of leather, sweat, and something distinctly male envelops you in such close proximity, making your head spin.
As he carries you from the great hall, you find yourself unable to look away from his face. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and cold like the sea in a storm, and it chills your bones. He leans down and steals a fast, ruthless kiss, nipping at your bottom lip, and you look away when he ends it, uncomfortable with the sensation it stirs in your belly.
The corridors of the village hall, once so familiar, now seem alien and menacing. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by flickering torches, creating grotesque shapes that mirror the turmoil in your mind. The stone beneath Steven's feet echoes with each step, a rhythm that matches the frantic beating of your heart.
You pass tapestries depicting scenes from your village's history - harvests, celebrations, battles long past. They mock you now, reminders of a life that seems to have ended mere hours ago.
As Steven carries you further into the depths of the hall, the familiar corridors give way to parts of the building you've never seen before. The air grows cooler, damper, and you shiver involuntarily against his chest. He notices, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Cold, little bride?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon enough."
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, to pretend this isn't happening. But the solid warmth of his body against yours, the strength in his arms as he carries you, makes denial impossible.
Finally, Steven comes to a stop before a heavy wooden door. With one hand still supporting you, he reaches out and pushes it open. The hinges creak ominously, and your heart rate spikes as he carries you across the threshold.
The room is dimly lit by a few sputtering candles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. In the center stands a large bed, draped in furs and silks - a stark contrast to the simple furnishings you're accustomed to. You see the ceremonial bridal lace, embroidered with the flower of the magnate’s clan, laying atop the other furs and silks and realize this was the bedchamber intended for you and your husband. The irony is not lost on you - this room, where you should have spent your wedding night and started your new life with your new husband, will now be the site of your defilement.
Steven tosses you onto the bed unceremoniously, and you land with a gasp, your white dress billowing around you.
Steven looms over you, his massive frame blocking out the dim candlelight. His eyes rove over your body hungrily, and you feel exposed despite still being fully clothed. You try to curl in on yourself, to shield your body from his gaze, but he tsks disapprovingly.
"Now, now, little bride," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."
His hands move to the laces of your dress, and you flinch away instinctively. Steven's eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. With his other hand, he reaches for a knife at his hip, brings it up to the neckline of your dress, positioning the cool blade between your skin and the fabric and pulls down swiftly, tearing your dress down the middle. He releases your hands so he can use both of his to finish ripping away your clothing, throwing it to the floor. Your attempts to fight him are easily shunted, and once you’re naked, he presses you back down to the bed, holding the blade of the knife cruelly to your neck, just below your jaw.
“Do not think I will maintain much patience. I will not hesitate to punish if you continue to resist,” he promises. “Understand?”
“Yes,” you whisper, a tear escaping and rolling slowly down your cheek.
“Good," he says, his voice low and husky, "it's time to consummate the arrangement you agreed to fulfill."
He moves away, positioning himself next to the bed. His hands move to the fastenings of his leather armor, slowly removing each piece, then his shirt. The firelight gleams off his muscled torso as it's revealed, highlighting scars that tell tales of countless battles. You can't help but stare, a mix of fear and unwanted fascination coursing through you.
Steven notices your gaze and smirks. "Like what you see?" he taunts.
You quickly avert your eyes.
Steven chuckles darkly. "Don't be shy now, little bride. You'll become very familiar with every inch of me soon enough."
He finishes undressing, his massive frame now fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Despite your fear and revulsion, you can't help but notice the raw power of his body - all hard muscle and battle scars. He is undeniably handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that makes your heart race with a confusing mix of terror and unwanted attraction.
Steven climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he looms over you. His hand trails down your body, callused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver involuntarily, eyes closing.
"Open your eyes," he commands. "I want you to see everything I do to you."
Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. He looms over you, his muscled body casting you in shadow.
"Please," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "You don't have to do this."
Steven's hand cups your face. “But I want to,” he growls, “and I always take what I want.”
His lips crash down on yours, harsh and demanding. You whimper against his mouth, overwhelmed by his forcefulness. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring every inch of your mouth as his hand slides down to grip your breast roughly.
You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you as your nipple hardens under his touch. Steven chuckles against your lips.
"Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind resists," he murmurs, his thumb circling your nipple teasingly.
His hand continues its travels lower, skimming over your stomach before reaching the junction between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee wedges between them, forcing them apart and settling himself between them. His fingers find your most intimate place, and you jerk at the unfamiliar touch.
"So soft," he growls, his fingers exploring the apex between your thighs. "And already getting wet for me."
You flush with shame, hating your body's involuntary response, feeling things you’ve never felt before and with a cruel stranger instead of the man you had pledged yourself to, built a budding relationship and trust with through your courtship.
"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips. "And so tight. This will hurt, little bride, but I'll make it good for you too."
His fingers probe deeper, and you cry out at the intrusion. Steven's mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting as his fingers work between your legs. You feel a building pressure, your body responding against your will to his ministrations.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let yourself feel it."
Tears stream down your face as waves of unwanted pleasure course through you. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of the sensation.
Steven chuckles darkly. "So eager now," he taunts. "Are you ready for me, little bride?"
Before you can respond, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, and panic rises in your chest.
"Wait," you gasp. "Please, I'm not-"
But Steven doesn't wait. With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you. The pain is sharp and immediate, tearing a cry from your throat. Steven groans in pleasure, his massive frame pinning you to the bed.
"So tight," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."
Tears stream down your face as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of pain through your body. You turn your head away, unable to look at him, but his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"I told you to watch," he snarls. "I want to see the moment you break."
His pace increases, and you whimper with each brutal thrust. The pain begins to dull, replaced by a strange, burning sensation that spreads through your lower body. Your breath comes in short gasps, matching the rhythm of his movements.
You whimper beneath him, your body trembling with the shock of the intrusion. Steven's hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. The gesture is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality of his actions.
"Breathe," he commands softly. "The pain will pass."
You try to breathe more evenly, but it feels impossible as he maintains his brutal, relentless pace.
Your body feels torn between pain and an unfamiliar, building pleasure. You hate yourself for responding to his touch, for the way your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. Steven notices, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
"There it is," he growls, his pace quickening. "Your body knows what it wants, even as you continue to deny it."
His hand snakes between your bodies, finding a sensitive bundle of nerves above where you're joined. You cry out as he begins to circle it with his thumb, waves of sensation crashing over you.
"Let go," Steven commands, his voice husky with exertion. "Come for me, little bride."
Your body obeys even as your mind recoils. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, your back arching as you cry out. Steven groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the mattress, his body slick with sweat. You lie there, trembling, tears streaming silently down your face as the reality of what just happened washes over you.
Steven lifts himself onto his elbows, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You did well, little bride," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
The tenderness in his touch and his voice confuses you, but the moment passes because his eyes darken once more as he gazes down at you. "The night is far from over," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire.
He shifts his massive body, moving downward until his face is level with your breasts. His rough hands cup the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing with a possessive grip that makes you gasp. You feel his hot breath against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your body.
Steven's mouth descends on your left breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he takes it between his lips. He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of sensation through your body.
He alternates between your breasts, sucking and biting with increasing intensity. What starts as pleasure soon edges into discomfort, then pain. Your nipples, sensitive and swollen from his attention, ache as he continues his ministrations. You squirm beneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations, but his body pins you firmly to the bed.
"Please," you gasp, "it's too much."
Steven lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. "Nothing is too much for you, little bride," he growls. "You'll take everything I give you and beg for more."
His mouth returns to your breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, tears springing to your eyes yet again. The pain mingles with a confusing undercurrent of pleasure, your body betraying you once again.
Steven's hand slides down your body, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs again. He begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel yourself responding despite your best efforts to resist. You’re shocked at how your dripping hole is aching again already. These sensations are foreign to you and frightening to experience at his hand.
Steven's fingers move with expert precision, building a slow, inexorable tension in your core. His mouth continues its assault on your breasts, alternating between gentle sucks and sharp nips that send jolts of sensation through your body. The dual stimulation overwhelms your senses, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath him.
His fingers quicken their pace, circling your sensitive bud with increasing pressure. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, chasing the building pleasure despite your mind's desperate attempts to resist.
Steven's mouth moves to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "That's it," he growls, his voice low and husky.
Your body trembles on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release, Steven suddenly withdraws his hand. You whimper at the loss, your body aching for completion. He lifts his head from your breast, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
“I told you I would ruin you,” he murmurs, “and this is part of your ruining.”
Steven rolls onto his back, his massive frame sprawled across the bed. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he beckons you with a crook of his finger. "Come here, little bride," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "I want to feel that pretty mouth on my cock again."
You hesitate, your body still trembling from the denied release. Steven's hand shoots out, gripping your hair and pulling you towards him. "I said, come here," he growls, his patience wearing thin.
Reluctantly, you crawl towards him, positioning yourself between his muscular thighs. His manhood lies semi-hard against his stomach, still glistening with the evidence of your earlier coupling. The sight and scent of it make your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and unwanted arousal.
"Take me in your mouth," Steven orders, his hand still commanding the back of your head. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, you lower your trembling form towards his groin. You can't believe the turn of events that have brought you to this point – from a joyful bride to a conquered villager at the mercy of Steven and his ruthless warriors. The knowledge burns in your heart, but you force it down, focusing instead on surviving this nightmare.
As your lips touch the velvety head of his member, Steven emits a low groan of pleasure. His hand loosens its grip on your hair just enough to allow you some movement. Despite yourself, you remember the way he had thrust into your mouth earlier, how he had seemed to enjoy it when you'd used your tongue. Drawing on that brief flash of experience, you tentatively flick your tongue over his cock. The taste is overwhelming - a potent mixture of his earlier release, your own arousal, and the metallic tang of blood. It's a stark reminder of what's transpired, of your lost innocence.
Steven groans as you engulf him, his hips bucking slightly. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire. "Take it all in."
You struggle to accommodate his size, your jaw aching as you try to take more of him. His hand guides your movements, setting a steady rhythm as he uses your mouth. Your tongue teases across the sensitive underside of his shaft, encountering a vein that runs along its length, and you try to apply more pressure there. Steven groans in response, low and guttural, spurring you on.
"That's it, little bride," he grunts, the praise almost an animalistic growl. "Suck harder. Take more of me into that pretty mouth."
You struggle to obey, pushing yourself to take more of his length into your mouth. His hips begin to thrust upwards, forcing himself deeper. You choke and splutter around him, saliva dripping down your chin.
"Relax your throat," Steven commands, his voice strained with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose."
You try to follow his instructions, fighting against your gag reflex as he pushes deeper. Steven's hand tightens in your hair, guiding your movements more forcefully. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.
You raise your eyes to meet his, your cheeks burning with shame as you continue to work your mouth over him. His gaze is dark and predatory, filled with a hunger that makes you shiver.
"Such a good little bride," he murmurs, his hips starting to thrust up to meet your mouth. "Taking my cock so well. But I think you can take more."
Without warning, he pushes your head down, forcing himself deeper into your throat. You gag and choke, face pushed flush to his pelvis. The taste and scent of him overwhelm your senses, throat struggling at his intrusion, and you feel lightheaded from the lack of air. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Steven pulls you off his cock with a wet pop.
Gasping for breath, you look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His face is flushed with arousal, his eyes dark, but gleaming with… pride?
“You are such an exquisite, pliant thing,” he says. “It has been too long since I’ve been so well-pleased, so near insatiable.”
Your chest constricts at the praise. You did not want any of this nightmare, but his danger is novel and alluring, the unknown pleasures he’s exacting from your body, guiding you down paths you’ve never explored before - it’s all twisting your body and your very soul, seeping through your veins, a poison you can’t stop now that he’s pierced into you.
He sits up, frames your jaw in both of his calloused hands, and then lewdly licks one cheek and then the other, lapping at your tears. It’s not tender. He’s playing with his prey.
Steven's hands move to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sudden, forceful movement, he flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the abrupt change, your face pressed into the furs on the bed. His large hands grasp your hips, pulling them upwards as he pushes your upper body down, positioning you on your hands and knees before him.
"Spread your legs wider and present yourself to me," he commands, his voice husky with desire.
Trembling, you obey, pushing your knees out further, lowering your chest to the bed, and raising your hips higher. You feel completely exposed, a new kind of vulnerable in this position, and your cheeks burn with shame. The cool air of the room caresses your most intimate places, making you shiver.
Steven's large hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh of your buttocks, spreading them apart.
"Such a pretty sight," he murmurs.
His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your buttocks as he spreads you open further. You tense, expecting the brutal intrusion of his manhood, but instead, you feel his beard brush against your most intimate flesh as he presses his mouth to your core. His tongue, hot and wet, slides up the cut of you, and you cry out in surprise. You had been told your husband would couple his manhood with your maidenhood. You had heard the lewd rumors of men using a woman’s mouth for his cock.
No one had ever whispered even a word that a man might put his own lips to your sex, and it’s an onslaught of pleasure you were in no way prepared to experience. The moan you let out is obscene and unrestrained, and you grasp helplessly at the blankets and furs beneath you.
Steven's tongue explores your folds with wicked precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive areas. Your body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the intense sensations. You try to stifle your moans, burying your face in the furs, but Steven's hand snakes up to grip your hair, yanking your head back.
"Let me hear you," he growls against your flesh. "I want to hear every sound you make."
His mouth returns to your core, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every inch of you. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing back against his face as he continues his relentless assault. You feel his lips close around your sensitive bud, sucking hard, and a cry tears from your throat.
"That's it," Steven murmurs, his voice vibrating against your flesh. "Let go, little bride. Show me how well you enjoy being ruined by your new king.”
His words send a shiver through you, a mix of shame and unwanted arousal. Steven's tongue continues its relentless assault on your cunt, building a tension in your core that threatens to overwhelm you. Your body trembles, teetering on the edge of release.
His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as you writhe against him. The tension within you builds to an unbearable level, and with a final, targeted flick of his tongue, you shatter.
A cry tears from your throat as the waves of ecstasy wash over you. He laps up your juices eagerly, groaning in satisfaction, before he pulls away.
You whimper at the loss, and he chuckles. “Worry not, there is yet more pleasure I will force upon you this night,” he promises.
Before you can catch your breath, you feel the blunt head of his manhood pressing against your entrance. Steven guides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, over your oversensitive bundle of nerves, and you shiver. But it is soon evident he is in no hurry at this next pursuit.
Steven continues to tease you with the head of his cock, running it along your sensitive folds. Up and down, up and down. Slow strokes, sometimes bumping against your clit, sometimes ignoring it, unpredictable in the pattern so you don’t know when the surge will come. Your body trembles, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Despite your mind's protests, your hips shift back, seeking more contact, even though you're still sore from his earlier intrusion.
His fingers dip into your core, pulling from the wetness dripping out of you, and then he swipes them over your tight rosebud, and you gasp. You know immediately what he intends to do next, though you could never have imagined such a thing, and you can not process any sort of reaction against it. Indeed, he presses the tip of one of his fingers against the tight muscle, then insistently pushes through, and your heart pounds in your chest with fear. The foreign feeling is shocking.
Shocking because it should not feel as good as it does.
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears of shame and frustration leaking from the corners.
He moves his finger in and out in only a very small motion - not fucking you with the finger, but pressing pleasure there in small, torturous amounts. He resumes the rutting of his cock against your folds, and you begin to openly weep, feeling wanton, confused, but moans accompany your sobs that you cannot hide from him.
He leans over you, his broad chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks. "Eager for more, are we?" Steven chuckles darkly. "Beg for it, little bride. Beg for your king's cock."
You hesitate, torn between your body's desperate need for release and the last shreds of your dignity. Steven's free hand moves to circle around the front of your throat, possessive, threatening.
"Beg," he snarls.
The words stick in your throat, and Steven removes his finger from your tight hole and his hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.
"I said beg," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible.
Another stinging slap lands on your other cheek. "Louder," Steven demands.
"Please!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, I need... I need you.”
He slaps your ass again. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me exactly what you need."
You swallow hard. But you can’t deny betrayal of your body, aching for his touch, for the release only he can provide. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please... fuck me. I need your cock inside me."
A growl of satisfaction rumbles through Steven's chest. "As you wish, little bride."
He shifts and begins thrusting his cock inside your cunt again.
Steven's cock enters you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. He sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deep into your core, your body rocking forward with the force of his movements.
His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The room fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your breathless moans, and Steven's grunts of exertion. The musky scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air.
"So tight," Steven growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect for your king, the perfect tribute."
You respond to his words, to his touch, clenching around him involuntarily. The friction of his cock against your walls sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building a familiar tension in your core. He hits a particularly sensitive spot on the front of your walls that has you writhing in ecstasy, and he presses the head of his cock there over, and over. You're overwhelmed by the sensations, the fullness, the way he plays and experiments with your body, until you spasm, thrown over the edge into another orgasm.
Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you weak and trembling. Your limbs feel heavy, your muscles liquid, as if all the strength has been drained from your body. You struggle to stay on your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the effort of supporting your weight.
Steven senses your weakness, feeling the way your body has gone limp beneath him. With a growl of satisfaction, he pushes you down flat against the mattress. The furs are soft against your oversensitive skin, tickling your nipples and sending shivers through your body. You turn your head to the side, gasping for air, feeling utterly spent.
Before your breathing can return to anything close to normal, before you can prepare yourself, Steven’s rough hands are spreading your cheeks, and he rams his cock into your ass. The intrusion rips a tortured scream from your throat.
The pain is sharp and immediate as Steven forces his cock into your tightest opening. Your body instinctively tenses, trying to reject the intrusion, which only intensifies the burning sensation. More tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for breath, though you don’t know how you still have more tears to shed.
"Relax," Steven growls, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "The more you fight it, the more it will hurt, and I’m not going to stop."
You try to force your body to relax, to accept him, but it's a struggle against your instincts. Steven's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pain and an unfamiliar pleasure through your body.
"So tight," he groans, his pace increasing. "You feel incredible."
The friction is intense, unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's not quite pleasure, but it's no longer just pain. It burns, but the fire consumes your whole body. You feel stretched to your limit, filled completely by Steven's massive cock.
His hands roam over your body, rough and possessive, groping at your flesh. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it's futile. Each thrust draws a whimper or moan from you, your body betraying your mind's resistance.
Steven's hand snakes around to the front of your body, his fingers finding your sensitive bud. He begins to stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations of his thick cock stretching your ass and his skilled fingers on your clit create a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you completely.
You're only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping your throat - desperate, wanton moans that you scarcely recognize as your own. This may be the first night you lie with a man, but though you are inexperienced, you think it can not be possible to experience any more of the overwhelming pleasure he seems determined to rip from you yet again.
Your body trembles uncontrollably, caught between the pain of the intrusion and the impossible mounting of pleasure. Each thrust sends sparks of electricity coursing through your nerves, building the tension in your core. You've never experienced anything like this before - the intensity, the fullness, the way your body seems to betray you at every turn.
Steven's pace increases, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His fingers match the rhythm, pressing harder, moving faster. You are hurled over another cliff of ecstasy, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, body jerking futilely beneath his massive form. He pounds into you once, twice, thrice more, and on the fourth thrust, he shouts and stills, cock buried inside you, and groans as he empties his seed in your tightest channel.
Finally spent and satisfied, Steven collapses on top of you, his massive weight pressing you into the furs. You feel utterly crushed beneath him, struggling to draw breath, yet there's an undeniable warmth from his body enveloping yours that sneaks unwanted into your bones. His heart thunders against your back, matching the frantic pace of your own. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled panting as you both quest for normal breath.
The scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthier smells of leather and furs. Your body thrums with residual pleasure, every nerve ending still singing from the intensity of your coupling. You feel utterly boneless, all strength drained from your limbs.
Slowly, your breathing begins to even out. You become acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - the rough hair on his chest against your back, the way his thighs press against the backs of your legs, his hot breath against your neck, and his lips too close to that tender and intimate space as only a beloved’s should be.
Finally, Steven rolls to the side and off of you, but you are not freed from him as he bands an arm around your waist, resettling you with him. He curls around you, and you resign yourself to being held captive, bound by his thick, corded muscles yet a while longer - possibly until the morning.
Just as you are about to drop off into sleep, he speaks directly into your ear. “I have claimed all of your holes, little bride. You will always know that I had every bit of you first, leaving him nothing.” The words are cruel, wicked, and his voice low and far too intimate.
You take a shaky breath in, and out, and beg for sleep to take you so you do not have to think of how his words haunt you now and will haunt you forever.
In the morning, your body still feels spent beyond its limits, aching, but as you shift and stir, you discover the bed is empty.
Your heart accelerates at this discovery.
Then plummets the next moment as the cruel conqueror speaks breaks the silence. “Get up and get dressed,” he commands from where he’s perched on the windowsill, watching the first light of morning appear.
Your eyes dart around the room, drawn to the scraps of your wedding clothes. “I’ve no clothes to-”
“On the chair over there,” he interrupts and gestures to a pile of clothing and shoes that have been brought in.
You slip out of the bed, trying to ignore thoughts of whether or not he watches you - he has already seen your naked form, so what does it matter?
There is a well-made linen chemise with a fine, blue linen dress to go over it. You hastily slip on the chemise, but as you reach for the dress, you hesitate. The detailing is finer than anything made in your village. This came from him.
“Shall I assist you?” Steven asks, making you jump as he’s silently crossed the room to stand directly behind you.
“No, I can dress myself,” you answer, but it falls on unhearing ears, as he’s already reaching past you for the garment.
He assists in pulling the dress over your head, and his hands roughly tug at the ties of your dress. Then he turns you to face him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.
"I've decided your husband will truly be left with nothing," he declares harshly. “After last night, I cannot abide him having you as his bride when clearly you should be mine. His father - the magnate - with the rest of the elders have accepted my bargain to take my men, leave your village, and never return on condition they surrender you to me as tribute.”
You cannot speak, the shock of Steven's words rendering you mute. Your mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just said. The village elders, including your own father-in-law, have agreed to trade you away like chattel to save themselves. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving you feeling hollow and abandoned, and yet you know it was likely a choice of little difficulty when weighing the safety of the village.
Steven cups your cheek again in that way that pretends a tenderness that is not there, and kisses you roughly. His lips are demanding, forceful, claiming you once more. The taste of him is now too familiar. His beard scratches against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.
His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor. Your body responds traitorously, a warmth blooming in your core despite everything, and you tangle a hand in his long hair.
Steven breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and conflicted. His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.
"You are not why I came to these shores, but you are mine now," he says, his voice low and possessive. "My little bride, my tribute, my prize."
His words send a shiver down your spine - fear, anticipation, and something else you can't quite name. You know you should be horrified, should be fighting against this fate with every fiber of your being. But after the night you've shared, after experiencing all-consuming pleasures you never knew existed, a part of you - a part you're ashamed to acknowledge - is drawn to the thought of belonging to this powerful, dangerous conqueror.
Steven's hand moves to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he speaks. "We sail with the morning tide and leave within the hour. My men are already loading the ship with supplies - food, weapons, gold. And you, my little bride, are the most valuable cargo of all."
Your breath catches in your throat at his words. The reality of your situation crashes over you anew - you're leaving behind everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. Your family, your friends, the life you were meant to have - all of it gone in the span of a single day and night.
"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Let me say goodbye to my family, to-"
"No," Steven cuts you off, his voice firm. "There will be no goodbyes. We leave now. I am your husband, your family. My lands will be your lands, and you will learn to forget. Perhaps all the sooner as you learn to crave the pleasures only I can give and ultimately grow with my child in your womb. Mine completely.”
so... if any of you are still alive, screech for help. I won't be able to help, because I have perished from writing this, but someone else might be able to assist you.
SEQUEL: CEREMONIAL RITUALS
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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Lay Me Down
✦Read on a03!✦ ✦Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦summary: All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things. You got Bucky Barnes instead.✦ ✦warnings/tags: roommates, enemies to friends to lovers, insecurity, jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, slight body worship, dirty talk, nipple play, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: I'm trying something. Enjoy!✦
“Do you… have any pets?”
The man across from you blinks slowly, then shakes his head. He hasn’t said much at all, despite this being an interview.
But the last girl had asked some very explicit questions about your sex life. Specifically if you were open to threesomes, and—if not—if you’d be really chill about them happening in the living room.
Then there has been the guy who told you that you shouldn’t fall in love with him—despite looking and sounding like the human version of Mickey Mouse—the girl who grabbed your palm and started crying because apparently you were going to be in grave danger by the end of the month, and the couple who told you they were professional Youtubers, but when you looked them up after they seemed to be airing on the aspiring side. The guy had made you sit for twenty minutes to listen to his podcast, and the girl had told you she’d leave him for you in a second before they left.
So quiet isn’t great.
It’s far better than your other options.
And this guy seems sane enough. He hasn’t tried to sleep with you. He doesn’t look like the type to have a podcast. He’s just been staring at you from the couch, sitting a little straighter than you’ve ever seen, his resting causal on his legs. Jeans, hoodie and leather jacket, boots that he’d wiped on the mat before coming inside.
Gloves.
It’s not that cold outside, but he’s wearing gloves. And there’s something about his face that seems familiar, but he might just be that kind of pretty.
He is pretty.
Which doesn’t matter, because you’re interviewing for a roommate and not a boyfriend, but it’s still nice. Especially if, barring he says something that makes you think he’s a serial killer, he’s probably about to be your new roommate.
“What do you do for work?” You ask, tapping your pen against your knee, and his eyes flick to the motion before he responds.
“I clean things up. For people.”
You tilt your head at him. “Like a janitor?”
He huffs a low laugh, and shrugs. “Sure.”
“Sure? Or you are a janitor?”
“I’m like a janitor.”
“So what are you actually?” You raise your brows, and he sighs.
“I clean up bigger messes. Me and my… friends. We take care of things that important people fuck up.”
Fucking Christ, he is a murder. “So you’re a hitman.”
He frowns. “I didn’t say that, doll-“
“You’re either a hitman or a janitor…” you glance down at his application. “James. So which is it.”
James stares at you for a long moment, and it feels like he’s seeing into you. It makes your skin buzz and your legs feel kind of soft, and you’re definitely leaning hitman because a janitor would never need to learn how to make you fold with only a look. It could just be that his eyes are a really clear shade of blue, and it reminds you of summertime.
It’s probably that you’re interviewing a hitman, and you just called him out on being a hitman, and now he’s going to fucking kill you-
“You got my name, on that paper?”
You blink at him. “Yes?”
“Look at it again.”
You hold his gaze, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, and he’s going to stab you while you look at the paper. But James just raises his brows and nods to the paper, and you chew on your lower lip, bracing yourself to run, just in case.
He doesn’t try to kill you, as you scan over his application again. James just waits, patiently and when you glance back up at him, his expression is so neutral you’d think he was a statue.
You’d read the application before. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to find. James Buchanan Barnes, previous address somewhere a few blocks away, checked the veteran box, born March 10th, 1917, fairly average income but a good credit score when you’d run his social-
Born in 1917.
You look up at him, gaping and wide eyed, and there’s a twitch to his lips. You’d think he meant 1971, but even then, he doesn’t really look older than his mid-thirties. And he’s staring at you like he expected that reaction.
“Are you a hundred years old?”
“Hundred and six.” He shrugs, still looking vaguely amused. “You ever take a history class?”
You scowl. “Of course I’ve taken a history class-“
“They do a unit on world war two?”
“Of course they-“ You cut yourself off, looking back down to the application. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s a veteran. He’s old, but doesn’t look old, and he and his buddy clean up messes.
You feel like a fucking idiot. You watch the news. You have a subscription to the New York Times that you never fucking read, but you glance at the front page of. It’s not your fault his hair is different, and you also don’t expect superheroes to just walk into your apartment for interviews. You’d always imagined they just had a I’ve saved the world card that they can pull out and flash to get what they need. And-
“Don’t you have a tower?” You blurt, starting to shred the edge of his application paper. “Like, in Manhattan? That’s free?”
“Yep.” James shrugs, watching you carefully. “But if I keep livin’ with John stealing all the food and Valentina ambushing me for staged dates, I’m gonna jump off the roof.”
You frown. “Staged dates?”
“Apparently I need to be more personable.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Okay, well- Would you actually live here-“
“Yes.”
“And am I going to get a bunch of… super-people trying to get into my apartment. Because I was in the city for the battle of New York, and the Blip, and the Void- Which- Thank you for your service? But I’d really rather just not have that.” You gesture to yourself, and James is looking more amused by the second. “Here.”
“No super people.” He says. “They don’t know I’m doin’ this yet.”
“And when you move out?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”
You swallow, and there’s an option to tell him to look somewhere else. That he seems like an okay guy, and this isn’t about the Winter Solider thing, but that you’d just rather not be anywhere near superheroes and the mess they bring.
But it’s either this, or aspiring Youtubers.
And he really is pretty.
It helps.
“Okay.” You take a deep breath, looking back to your list of questions. “Do you drink, smoke, or use any other narcotic substances?”
James shakes his head, and you can still feel his gaze, searing over your skin. “No. They don’t work on me.”
“Because you’re… old?”
“Because of the serum.”
“Oh. Right.” You kind of feel like you have a fever. He needs to stop looking at you. “Good. That’s it, I think. I’ll call you after I look at all the applicants.”
“Alright.” James pauses. “If the superhero thing is a problem-“
“It’s not. I just, um-“ You clear your throat, and his eyes are really blue. “I need to think about it.”
He nods, pushing off the couch and offering out his hand. “Thank you for your time, even if you decide you don’t want any part of it.” He gives you a tight smile. “Can’t say I’d blame you. There’s a reason I’m tryin’ to get away from it.”
You feel kind of dizzy, so you just nod, and shake his hand. He’s using the normal one—you can feel the soft skin and muscled through the glove—and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the metal one.
“It’s safe.” He says, and you flush.
“I- I know. Sorry-“
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step back, and your hand feels like it’s been electrified, but that might just be the nerves. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
“Don’t-“ You wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. “You can just use my name.”
James nods, echoing it back to you. “Have a good day.”
“You as well.” You’re still shredding his application between your fingers. You might be about to throw up. “I- Bye.”
His lips twitch again, and he dips his head. “Bye.”
James leaves, and you take a deep, long breath.
Maybe you can sneak in a clause that any superhero stuff means the lease is broken, so you don’t get pulled into all that. But it’s not like you’re rich in alternatives anyway, and he seems like the kind of guy to clean up after himself, and he didn’t try to hit on you once.
You can have him as a roommate.
It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’ll probably never really see him, because he’ll still work at the Watchtower.
It’ll be a nice story, when you’re seventy and have grandchildren, asking if you knew any superheroes. And you’re not prime kidnapping material, because you’d just start crying and you don’t know anything.
You really don’t have that many other options.
So James Barnes is going to be your roommate.
———
He moves in fast. About ten boxes that he carries up himself, one delivery of an Ikea bed frame and dresser that he somehow builds by himself in a single afternoon, and a rug that he carries up by himself. He doesn’t even really speak to you, he doesn’t keep that much food in the fridge, and he shower really fast in the morning, so you still get hot water.
You don’t see him that much, either. After about three days, you realize he’s pretty much always gone before you get up, and back after you go to bed. It’s like you’re still living by yourself, only there’s now a vague smell of leather and pine trees in the living room, a motorcycle parked next to your car, and your rent is cut in half. You see him maybe two times in the first week overall. Once when you get up extra early, and once when he comes home suddenly around four pm, grabs something from his room, and leaves with barely a glance in your direction.
At first, it’s perfect.
Then the second week hits. And James is still never home.
But his presence is everywhere.
You’re not the neatest person. Clothing ends up on the floor of your room, and dishes can pile in the sink. There’s no obvious method to the madness of your fridge or living room, but you understand it. Everything is in its place, and its place may seem insane to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to you. Nothing ever gets lost, because you know exactly where to find it.
Your keys go under the same jacket every morning. You always pick it up, shove them in your pocket, and shrug the jacket on as you walk out the door.
But you go to grab them, and they’re gone.
The jacket, and your keys.
A lump quickly builds in your throat. You could take a bus to work, but then you’d have to leave the apartment unlocked. Plus your keyring has the keys to your office, and if you don’t have those you’re going to have to beg for a copy from admin, and they’ll yell at you for losing them in the first place. You work for a non-profit, and you really doubt anyone is going to try and steal soup receipts, but they’re still going to yell at you, and you’ll start crying, and it’s going to fucking suck.
You need your keys.
And you rip up half the apartment before you find them.
Your jacket had been hung on the wall, and there’s a new little shelf that has a tiny bowl. A key bowl. It’s cute.
You’re going to be fifteen minutes late for work.
It will be fine. You’ll tell your boss that you just ran into worse traffic than usual, and you’re almost always early, so she’ll let it slide. You’ll ask James not to move things without telling you, the next time you see him, or just text him if he keeps barely actually living in the apartment.
Overall, it’s not even the worst thing about the day, because you go out on a date with a guy your friend introduced you to, and he tries to get you to chain smoke with him.
But it only gets worse from there.
You forget to text James. Between the date, being overflowed with work, and putting back everything you’d torn apart in your frantic search, it just slips through the cracks.
So it doesn’t stop.
The cleaning.
Something is in a new spot, every time you step into the living room. You’re not sure he ever sleeps, because if he did there’s no fucking way he’d have the time to do all this. The dishes are all cleaned and in a neat order. The fridge has been classified by food group. He got coasters instead of napkins, and he fixed the broken cabinet hinge, and there’s no more dust on the floor, and all the towels in the bathroom are color-coded. You feel like you’re living in a fucking hotel.
It needs to stop.
You keep forgetting to text him. The only time you see him is after you get back from another failed date, and you’re too tired to yell at him, so you just stumble past him with a grumble and slam the door to your room. When you wake up in the morning, coffee is already waiting for you, and this feels like a waking nightmare.
James must think you’re a fucking mess. A disaster of a woman, who can’t clean, can’t organize, can’t take care of herself enough to make her own coffee. You’d seen the frown on his face when you’d kicked off your heels and tossed your jacket onto the couch. You know you hadn’t looked your best—you’d walked home in the rain, and your hair was stuck to your face and lipstick smeared with your too-small dress clinging to your body—but it had been a shit date. The guy had asked how many kids you wanted, and when you said you weren’t sure, he’d told you that you’d have six.
“Six?” You’d laughed, swirling the wine in your glass. It was easier to play that type of comment as a joke. “That’s gonna hurt.”
“You’ll get through it.” He’d shrugged, winking at you. “You’ve got birthing hips.”
You’d left early. He’d tried to stop you, and you’d punched him in the face because you can take care of yourself.
So this cleaning you up shit is going to end, now. You’re not a pet project. And James doesn’t get to just barrel into your life, move everything around, and then never even fucking talk to you.
You stay up, tonight. It’s a Saturday, and you’re talking to him, whether he likes it or not.
The door clicks open after midnight, and you stand up, rubbing your eyes. You’d only managed not to fall asleep with coffee and a lot of alarms, and every nerve in your body feels wired to snap. You don’t know why the fuck he’d been out so late—it’s Saturday, and if it’s superhero stuff he should have just stayed with the other New Avenger’s—but you just want to go to sleep.
If you go to sleep, you’ll forget to have the conversation again. You’re barely going to be able to keep it together as it is, to not scream at him and do this like an adult.
So you take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest, and clear your throat as he kicks off his shoes.
“I see you.” He drawls, and you dig your nails into your arm. “What’re you still doing up?”
You raise your chin, keeping your voice level. “We need to talk.”
James glances at you, features impossibly neutral. “Do we?”
“Yes.” It might be an intimidation tactic. You won’t let it get to you. “Stop moving all my shit around.”
“Your… what?”
“My stuff.” You snap. “My jacket and my key and- Everything. Stop changing everything without asking me.”
He frowns at you. “I’ve been cleaning up.”
“You did ask me to clean up.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” he says slowly, still watching you carefully. “I live here as well, and this place was a fuckin’ mess-“
“It wasn’t a mess!” Your voice is rising. You push it back down with a deep breath. “I had a system, and I- I was late to work because of you moving my fucking keys-“
“The keys that were under the jacket? They were about to fall on the floor-“
“And I would have known they were on the floor! You don’t just get to come in and change my whole life-“
James snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not changing your life. I’m barely even here-“
“So you have no right to move everything around.” You hiss, and he blinks at you. “If you wanted to live somewhere neat and perfect or whatever, you should have chosen that. You saw my place before you moved in, and it’s still my place. Touch my stuff again, and I cut off your other hand.”
He stares at you for a second. “You’re a lot more than you want people to think, huh.”
It’s like he’s punched you right in the gut. Knocked your right in the windpipe, make you choke on your own words and stare at him, your head grabbing his words and grounding them into a toxin for your blood. He’s still looking at you. It’s still burning all over your skin. There’s a lump forming in your throat, and your nails are going to leave little indents on your arms, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about so why is it burning in your gut-
“I’ll stop moving your shit.” He says, walking right past you with a bored tone, and his eyes are still a pretty, clear shade of blue that seems to shine in the dark.
White-hot. Sparking through you in a hot, furious way that makes your head spin and fingers curl into fists.
“Good.” You manage to mutter, and he snorts.
“Yeah, well, if you start makin’ a big mess again, I’m cleaning it. My ma raised me better than that.”
Before his words can sink in, he’s gone, the door to his room closing behind him.
His mother raised him better than that.
Than you.
You whip around, ready to bang your fists on his door and snap that your mother raised you just fine, you just have bigger things to worry about than installing fucking shelves. The only thing that stops you is another alarm, going off on your phone and snapping you out of your thoughts.
Even if he’s a shit roommate and you should have gone with the sex-life girl—at least you might be getting laid—he still signed the lease, and is at least pretending he wants to be here.
You still don’t understand why the fuck he’d do this at all, if it’s so disgusting for him. The New Avengers have to have a cleaning crew.
Hopefully, by the end of the month, he’ll give up on you and return to the watchtower.
Until then, you’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist.
It won’t be that hard. He’s barely around anyway.
——
You need to stop making predictions. You’re really fucking bad at them.
He’s around. A week passes, and you don’t see him at all, then suddenly you go out into the living room and he’s there. Sitting on the couch and reading a book, a mug of coffee on a the side table.
He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and the gloves. It’s the closest you’ve seen to him looking normal, and it feels wrong. Even when he’d just been interviewing, there had been a rigid, careful aura around him of someone more than a man. But there’s a half-eaten apple in his hand, and his hair is still mussed from sleep, and he’s so settled into the couch it’s clear he’s not moving any time soon.
You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.
For today, you settle on ignoring him. Pouring the coffee—already made again, but maybe he’s just really bad at estimating proportions—and pulling on your shoes, walking out the door without a glance back. You’ve got work, and if he wants to sit on the couch, he does technically live here. He’ll probably be gone when you get back, anyway.
But he’s not.
You’re home around six, and James has moved to the kitchen. He’s making dinner, like he’s a person. Who eats.
It feels like you’re intruding on something. Like you’re watching Thor take a shit.
You elect to keep pretending he isn’t there. He probably just had a day off, and tomorrow will be back to normal. You close yourself in your room for the rest of the night, watching TV on your laptop and messaging with a few friends about going out this weekend. It might be a trap to make you go on another date, but you don’t really care.
All your friends are married, and they really do mean well. They want you to have what they found. One of them just had a baby, and she’s been sending you the least photos because she feels bad. You’ve stopped complaining to them about not having a partner. It’s not that you don’t want one.
You’re just really really bad at dating. At going out and meeting people, showing them all the best angles of you to adore, then holding onto them. It might just be something you can’t do. That you’re not meant for, no matter how bad you want it.
And you want it. You want it when you watch stupid romcoms, and when you walk your friends dance around with their partners, and when you think about your future there’s always someone there. A faceless silhouette, who may never get to have a name.
If they do, you doubt it will be Keith, the blond-haired guy who’s had a suspicious amount of his photos texted to the group chat. You’ll give him a shot, just to say you missed. If nothing, it can be a good night at his place.
Not your place.
Not with James changing all his habits, and actually living with you. He’s even more inescapable, now. He’d stopped touching your things, but the little bowl on the shelf now holds his keys, and you feel like a bitch if you don’t put yours in as well. Your clutter stays organized, because it would be petty to scatter it everywhere just to get back at him. Petty and childish.
And you’re not petty and childish. You’re a grown woman, and you’re going to force yourself to behave as one. Even if it would be satisfying to keep your shoes just off the mat he bought, and put your food wherever you’d like in the fridge, instead of according to James’ system. But you’re going to be mature. You’re going to follow the vegetable and fruit drawer designations, and you’re going to put the dishes on the stupid drying rack.
And you will not admit to him that it all makes your apartment feel nicer.
James can just silently be smug about that himself. With his stupid books and gloves and thick thighs on your couch. He’s still pretty.
You still want to strangle him.
“I like the candles.” You mutter a few nights later—well into the sudden shift into him being a person instead of a ghost—and you’re trying to be sweet. You can be sweet. That’s a gear you can have. “Apple cinnamon is nice.”
“They’re your candles.” James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’d left them in the closet, figured you weren’t touchin’ them anymore.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s not bait. You won’t take it. “Oh? How’s that?”
“They were covered in dust, doll. Like half the shit in-“ James’ cuts himself off, and you turn with a small frown.
He’s staring at you. Scanning over your body in a way that makes you think you’re covered in some kind of fucking goo. Your legs, your arms, your dress-
Oh.
Your dress.
Somehow, in just two sentences with James, you’d forgotten that you were out in the living area for a reason. To get the heels, and test if they went with the outfit. You’re about to head out, to meet Blond Keith and hopefully at least get laid. So you’d dressed like you’re trying to get laid.
James’ eyes are pushing a little out of his head, his jaw is clenched, and his fist is curled on his leg. He’s acting like you’re a 14th century noblewoman who just showed her ankle.
To a hundred-year-old, you might be.
It’s the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him yet.
“You’re going to get cold.” He mutters, voice stuttering slightly, and you smile at him.
This kind of sweet you can actually do. Full lips and batting eyelashes and a crude, mocking tone under all the sugary fluff. “Really? Why do you think so?”
His jaw ticks. “No jacket.”
“I have a jacket, though.” You shrug, turning around to walk back into your room. “And I’ll be getting a ride home tomorrow.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “Tomorrow.”
“Yep.” You grab your jacket, and—even though you weren’t going to leave for ten more minutes—shrug it on. “Bye, James.”
He doesn’t respond. Just watches you walk out the door, all the way until it slams closed behind you. He hadn’t snapped and told you to change, but he had stared. Had acted like more than the tauntingly neutral statue that’s been sitting in your living room all week.
You’re not childish.
As long as he keeps acting like he knows what’s best for you, you’re going to milk this for all its fucking worth.
——
“Where are you going?”
You hum, focusing on your mascara in the mirror.
You could be doing it in the bathroom. But James isn’t in the bathroom. And half of this is just doing a show to get a rise out of him.
So you’re doing it in the living room.
“Out.”
“Out.” He repeats, voice low. “You just got back.”
“That was from work, it doesn’t count.”
He grunts, and you can feel him staring. “Last night count, as well?”
You just shrug, running your tongue over your lips to test the lipstick. He doesn’t need to know that this is most you’ve gone out, ever, in your life. That most of the nights are just spent with your friends, and only one or two have been with Blond Keith. Then you’d met Dan the bodyguard, who you never managed to sleep with, and Miles who wore a thousand-dollar watch, and tried to fuck you in the bathroom after the second date.
But those are all just normal date failures. The hanging out with friends all the time is getting exhausting, and they do keep trying to set you up with people, but you’ll eat glass before you hang out with Thousand Dollar Miles again.
It’s all exhausting.
Work is exhausting. Putting so much effort into pissing James off is exhausting. Dating is exhausting.
You still give him another sweet smile, before you walk out the door for your next date. It should be casual, with a guy from a dating app who had a nice face and fairly normal opinions about things. James doesn’t say anything, but—just like every night before—you can feel him watching you leave. It makes you stand a little taller, sway your hips a little more. Rushes a hot, sparkling feeling through your veins before you close the door.
It’s the high point of the night.
Dating App Henry does have a nice face. His opinions are normal.
He also won’t stop asking you for your opinions about things, then cutting you off before you can actually give them.
“Can you see yourself having kids?”
You almost choke on your shitty wine. Not again. “I-“
“I’ve thought about having, four or five? You seem like you’d be a good mother, like you organize your cabinet by colors or whatever.” Dating App Henry laughs to himself. “That’s good, because I can’t clean at all. I don’t even know how to do laundry.”
You blink at him. “You don’t know how to do laundry?”
Dating App Henry shakes his head, grinning at you like that’s supposed to be cute, and you shake your head.
“Then… I’m sorry, who does your laundry?”
“My ex did it for a while.” He shrugs. “Lately I’ve just been buying new stuff, whenever I run out. I got another raise at work, so I can afford it.”
Later, you learn that Dating App Henry is a lobbyist for AI companies.
He asks if you want dessert.
You shake your head politely, and call a cab.
Maybe it’s you, is all you can think as the dark of the city rushes by. Maybe you really can’t date, or there’s something about you that screams weirdos only. You might have to be one of those women who really focuses on their career, and retries early to paint birds.
You press your brow against the glass and squeeze your eyes shut. You already really focused on your career.
You’re going to die, and nobody’s going to come to your funeral. Sure you’ll have friends who will attend, but no one who’s going to talk about how they love loved you. Work is going to name a conference room after you, and in twenty years you’ll be nothing more than that room on the third floor, where the boss boned her secretary, because it’s being rubbed in your face from beyond the fucking grave.
James is still up, when you shove the door open and kick off your shoes.
“How was going out.” He drawls, and you shoot him a glare.
“Dogshit.”
He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, doll.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You shuffle across the room, and he looks up with raised brows.
“She bites back.”
“I’ll bite your fucking cock off.” You mutter, and it’s probably too far, but you’re so tired. “I know you’re on superheroing sabbatical or whatever, but I’ve got some work due tomorrow, and if you do anything to distract me, I’m going to put shit in your shampoo.”
James stares at you for a second, then says, “How do I distract you?”
You flip him off, and slam your door behind you.
You’re not going to die alone.
Fucking James Barnes is going to die right next to you, in this stupid apartment, and you’re going to turn into soil that shoves his further down because you hate him. And his stupid small grin, and jawline, and smooth voice, and pretty blue eyes that light your skin on fire.
And it’s not anyone’s business how—after a long day of pure frustration, working until three in the morning, and his handsome face being the last one you saw before bed—you fall into bed with your hand between your thighs and his name in tiny moans on your lips.
He’d be rough. Or soft. And he’d wrap fully around you, and only look at you. Never cut off any of your moans. He’d tease and pry them out you, and kiss your neck with slight scruff brushing sensitive skin, and a deep drawl in your ears, and everything in a neat, easy place.
You cover your mouth with a pillow, as your body shakes through your orgasm.
He’s still pretty.
A hate fuck might you. The idea of having him sneer and tease you until you cum in his big arms is a good one.
But you’re tired of just sex.
So you fall asleep, and dream of that faceless man, dancing you around in the kitchen.
———
You finished all your work. Your feet hurt from standing and giving the same presentation, over and over and over, to different rich people who still only might give you money. But you did it.
And now you get to shuffle home, order food because you don’t want to talk to James, and sleep for a hundred million years.
You push open the door, keeping your attention away from his spot on the couch—you really don’t want to see him, don’t have the energy to fight—and kick off your shoes. They land off the mat.
With a soft groan, you lean down, pick them up, and place them on the mat.
You draw back up, ready to walk right into your room, but there’s a chest blocking your path. A chest with legs, and arms, and gloves, and-
“Are you hungry?”
You slowly drag your gaze up to James’ and he’s staring at you in the way you can feel again. You swallow, and shake your head.
“No-“ Your stomach cuts you off with a deep grumble, and James huffs softly.
“No, huh.”
You scowl. “I’m not going out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about it.” His brow draws, and that’s a point for you. “I just think- Shit-“ He runs a hand over his face, and you frown.
“What-“
“I made food.” His words are fast, but strained. Like he’s trying to push them out as fast as possible. “You are welcome to it, if you want.”
He must have fallen and hit his head. There’s no possible reason for him to be making you food. You didn’t even know he could cook, and honestly, smelling the air, you’re still not sure.
“What did you make?” You ask wearily, and he shrugs.
“Tortellini.”
“And it’s… good?”
His lips twitch. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, doll.”
You could tell him no. Could shove past him and storm into your room, and just keep fighting forever.
But he’s trying.
He made you dinner. You’ve been ordering out too much this week, solely to avoid him.
You really are far too tired to fight. Even if it is some kind of trap, at least you’ll get food out of it.
“Fine.” You mumble, crossing your arm over your chest. “Where is it.”
He tilts his head to the kitchen. “C’mon. Should still be warm.”
It is still warm. More than warm. James pushes the bowl towards you, and steam is rising from the pasta.
“Are you not going to eat?” You ask as he passes you the fork, and he shakes his head.
“Ate at the Watchtower.”
“Oh.” You pause. “Then why did you make this-“
“Just eat it,” he drawls your name, and you roll your eyes, but listen. There’s something in his voice that makes you want to poke at it, to see it snap, but not now. Not when you can feel the weight of your eyelids, and the pressure of James’ stare.
You hold his gaze, taking the slowest, most dramatic bite you can manage.
It tastes like salt. Salt and slightly burnt vegetables. You don’t spit it out—you’re stronger than that—but you lean back slightly, wrinkling your nose.
“Have you ever made tortellini before?”
“No.” He grunts. “Followed the instructions on the packet thingy. Is it-“
“It’s shit.” You shrug, and go for a second bite.
James frowns. “You don’t gotta eat it-“
“I’m hungry.”
He nods slowly, and there’s about a minute before he clears his throat, and his gaze somehow burns deeper into your skin.
“There’s no superhero sabbatical.”
You glance up from the bowl, mouth full, and all you can make is a hurh? sound in response. James’ sighs, looking up to the ceiling before continuing.
“You said I was on superhero sabbatical. I’m not. Right now there are just no imminent threats, so I only have to work normal hours. That’s why I’m home.”
Home.
You don’t love how he says that so casually. Or how it makes your skin buzz a little, because home is the same place for you both. Even if you’re trapping yourself in your room, and he still won’t take off his gloves.
It’s even worse how that makes you feel sore, something twisting in your gut.
It’s easier to pretend you don’t feel any of it, and swallow your pasta.
“Okay.” You tap your fork on the edge of the bowl. “What are normal New Avengers hours?”
“Changes every day.” He mutters, words slow. “I’m doin’ whatever Yelena tells me to, and she’s trying to help, so it’s not much. Paperwork. Saved a cat from a tree a few days ago. Busted into a nightclub that was dealing some heavy drugs. Nothing important.”
You hum, taking another stab of your pasta, and James braces his hands on the table, leaning over you with that intense, impossible to ignore gaze.
You don’t flinch, or move back, but you don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating. So just tilt your head at him, keeping your voice semi-sweet and casual. “Do you want me to say something?”
“No.” James grunts, letting out a long, slow exhale. “I’m just- I think we got off on the wrong foot or something.”
“Did we?”
His nostrils flare slightly. “Yes, we did.”
“Okay.” You look back down to your pasta. “Are you asking to start over?”
“Uh-“ He coughs, and you focus on keeping your foot from bouncing under the table. You’re really not sure what’s happening, if he’s being serious, or if this is going to be some kind of trick. “Yeah?”
“Why?”
He pauses. “Because we live together.”
“People live together and hate each other all the time.”
“Well, do you hate me?”
You let out a slow breath, and look up at him. He’s still pretty. His face is still that almost unreadable mask.
But his words sound sincere.
And not fighting anymore sounds okay. He doesn’t have to be your best friend. But if you decided to ignore him, then you’re certainly being a petty bitch, and that’s too exhausting to keep up.
“No.” You sigh, and his eyes flash slightly. “I don’t.”
“Good.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he leans a little further forward. “I don’t hate you either.”
You hum, and whatever evergreen shampoo or cologne he uses is starting to invade your sense, making you feel a little drunk. If he kisses you, you’re not going to have the willpower to shove him away. He’s too pretty, and there’s a lot of heat radiating from him body, and it won’t be a hate-fuck or making love or whatever, but a stress-fuck also sounds pretty fucking nice-
“My therapist tells me I can be off-putting and controlling.” He mutters, and you blink. No kiss.
You don’t know why the fuck you thought he would.
You take a large bite of the pasta as he continues, before you can say something stupid.
“I’ve been focusing on interpersonal skills. I used to be pretty damn good at them, but- Things change.”
You mumble an agreement through your food, not really sure what you’re supposed to be contributing to the conversation here.
“I am going to ask you a question.” He keeps staring at you, and you swallow your bite.
“Oh- Okay.”
He nods, jaw clenching slightly before he speaks. “Why do you call me James.”
You blink at him. “Because it’s your name?”
“Most people call me Bucky.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Yeah. Alright.” He sighs, giving you a weak, slightly strained smile. “If we’re startin’ over, you should mostly call me Bucky.”
“Mostly?” You frown at him. “When would I call you James?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. You’re smart. You’ll find it.”
A softer heat rises in your cheeks. “I’m smart?”
“Yeah. You are.” He runs his hand over his face, jaw ticking as his voice drops. “Might have Googled that place you work at. They do good work. Not for stupid people.”
That’s making your chest glow. You try to push it down, and keep your voice even. “What jobs are for stupid people?”
He snorts. “My job. Jumpin’ on bullets and saving the world when it keeps trying to kill itself.”
“Do you not like your job?”
“It’s complicated.” Bucky mutters, something like caution crossing his features. “Am I allowed to ask you another question?”
“Is it something stupid?”
“Nah.” He huffs a low laugh. “But it might piss you off.”
You hum, and give him a small smile. It’s not forced.
None of this is forced.
And it’s a little terrifying, how quickly you went from ready to mock and shove him to eating a little slower in order to keep talking to him.
It probably doesn’t mean anything. Bucky is just easy to talk to, when you’re not trying to think of insults or picking apart how he might be calling you a mess. And he really is nice to look at.
So this is easy.
“I think you should ask me anyway.” You hum. “Just to see what happens.”
Bucky nods, he does the tongue thing again. You don’t know if he’s been doing the whole time you’ve known him and you just never noticed, but you can’t stop noticing now. His lips are full and pink. They move so smoothly when he talks.
You might be losing your mind.
“When you go out.” He says slowly, and you raise your brows. “Where are you actually going?”
He doesn’t sound as if he’s judging you. Just that he’s curious.
And you refuse to be ashamed about it, even if you’re still feeling like there’s grime growing over your heart, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re unlovable. That’s not Bucky’s problem.
So he gets the simple, bored, casual answer, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it. You don’t care.
“Mostly out with friends. But sometimes dates.”
“Dates,” he echoes, frowning at the air—most with what seems to be confusion—and you give him an amused look.
“Yeah. Like, we get dinner or a drink and talk. See if we’re compatible. Learn about each other, then maybe have sex-“
“You’re havin’ sex on dates?”
He seems shocked, and you snort. It’s not judgment. Bucky just seems truly baffled by the concept, and you have bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing more.
“Yeah. Casual sex. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex, dude, I know you’re from the 40s or whatever, but-“
“I’ve had sex.” He mutters. “But it was with girls I liked. Knew for a while.”
“What, all two of them?”
He shoots you a dry look. “You got a mouth on you, you know that?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”
Bucky’s hand curls on the table as he snorts, and his gaze is going to brand you. “Could say that, yeah.”
Before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on.
“Stevie called me a ladies man. But that just meant I got dates easy. Never really just fucked in a backroom. Not my style.”
“Yeah?” You’re saying it before you can stop yourself. “What is your style?”
He chuckles, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes your head spin slightly. He’s smiling. At you. And laughing, and this is so much fucking better than fighting with him. You don’t even know why you were so determined to fight with him to start, when it could have been like this.
And he’s still pretty. In the soft-edged light of the kitchen, every shadow is gentle on his face, and it makes his jaw seem sharper, the pace of his face more rugged, and you want to trace your hand over his jaw.
That might be too far.
You just started liking him.
You’re not going to turn this into something it’s not. He can be your friend.
But he’s so handsome. And you think you could live in his face, frozen in time under his gaze and small grin.
Shit.
You’re just horny. You’re thinking like this because you’re horny, and nothing else. It has nothing to do with how he leans closer when he speaks, and lets you speak, and made you food to try and talk something out. Like an adult, instead of two bitter teenagers.
You’re just horny.
“I’m an old man,” he drawls your name, and it makes that glow in your chest bloom, but you’re just horny. “I don’t think people my age do casual.”
“Old people fuck.” Your voice is more breathless than you want it to be. “And- I don’t think there are people your age.”
He snorts. “Fair point. You like casual?”
You shrug, looking back to your bowl, because you can’t look at him while you say this. “I don’t know.”
Bucky just makes a low sound of agreement. “Well, you at least bring pepper spray, right? Men can be creeps.”
“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. “I bring pepper spray and a pocketknife. I’m not dumb.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb. Just want to make sure you’re being safe.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, and he said that like it was obvious. As if you should have assumed that he’s worried about your safety.
As if you’re something that matters.
It feels nice. The glow in your chest is moving over your ribs, and it makes you sit a little taller, all while making it harder to look him in the eyes. If you do, you’re certain you’ll get trapped in them.
That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“No problem, doll.” You can hear the small grin in his voice, and the heat rises again. “We good?”
“Yeah, Bucky.” You poke at your tortellini. It really does taste like shit.
But he made it for you.
“We’re good.”
———
It’s happening so fast.
You stop fighting with Bucky—not James anymore, Bucky—and everything falls into an odd, perfect place.
He still can’t cook, but he cleans the apartment, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to invade anymore. He knows with things to leave in their strange places because you tell him to, and you follow all the new, small rules without thinking about it. In exchange, you make him food, and you take turns doing each other’s laundry.
Which means you’ve touched his boxers.
And maybe you’d stared at them for a few minutes, trying to not think about the part of Bucky the fabric had touched. If the size of the boxers in any inditement of the size of… other things.
You won’t think about it. That would be a violation of his privacy, and he is now your friend. You don’t think about your other friends underwear, of it they think you’re cute when you shuffle around in too-big shirts and smaller shorts.
You’ve got something good here. Something easy. If you ruin it, you’re going to have to reach out to orgy girl and see if she’s still in the market, and you really don’t want to do that when you can have Bucky.
Because you do have Bucky. You’ve learned all his favorite foods. You watch TV together, at the end of the night, and you’ve started exchanging book recommendations. He even showed you his motorcycle.
“You can ride it, if you want.” He’d nodded to the seat, giving you the half grin that sort of set you on fire, and you’d flushed, shaking your head.
“Pass. I’m not trying to die, Buck.”
“I wouldn’t let you die,” he’d drawled your name back in a teasing tone. “I need you. Without you here, I’d starve to death.”
You’d rolled your eyes. “Well if that’s your only reason for keeping me around-“
“It’s not and you know it.” He’d held out his hand, the metal glinting into the flickering garage lights.
He’d taken off the glove a couple of weeks ago. Walked into the living area wearing a t-shirt, the black and gold vibranium on full display, and you hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t anything to be said. He was comfortable enough around you to show his arm. That made you feel like you were floating up, up, up into the sky.
You’d smiled at him, passed him a bowl of cereal, and that had been it.
In the garage you’d backed away, shaking your head, spinning around what other reasons he might want to keep you around.
And you really hadn’t wanted to get on that motorcycle.
“Well, what if- The engine could blow up-“
“No, it couldn’t.” He’d flexed his hand, giving you a firm look. “You’ll like it, doll, promise.”
“Maybe, but I think I’ll like it, and then I’ll die when the engine blows up-“
Bucky had grabbed your hand, his mouth curved into a small, gentle grin, and you’d swallowed. He’s always so fucking handsome. You might have been about to drool.
“We don’t gotta do it today.” He’d said. “But I do think you’d like it. Offer stays on the table.”
You’d nodded, voice breathy again. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He’d pulled you forward slightly, and suddenly you were holding his hand as you walked out of the garage.
And it just kept escalating. Higher and higher. Bucky stands with you while you cook every night, and touches your lower back whenever he has to reach over you to grab something from the top shelf. You stop going on all the dates, because so, so fast, you don’t want to do anything but hang out with Bucky.
But your friends don’t about that. They know you’re complaining about your roommate less, but you never told them it was the Winter Solider. Or anything about him as a person.
You’re keeping it like that. If not for yourself, and all the millions of questions you’ll have to endure, for Bucky.
He doesn’t love being a public person. It’s easy to tell whenever you’re reading the news and he leans over your shoulder, seeing a New Avengers photo where he looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill the person behind the camera.
“What’re they sayin’ now.” He’d asked this morning, putting on the coffee, and you’d made a dramatic look of mock thought.
“That you’re a hero. A god among men. That we should elect you king, and every street in Brooklyn should be called Saint Barnes road.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, but his glare had been soft. “I’m not a saint, doll.”
It’s not fair how deep and smooth his voice always is, when he says that. It makes you feel fuzzy.
“You’re not.” You’d hummed, giving him a small grin. “They just misprinted Sargent.”
Bucky had snorted. “Alright. What are they actually sayin’?”
“About you?” You pretend to check the article, even though it’s the first thing you’d looked for. “The hair again.”
He’d groaned, voice dropping under his breath. “Always the fuckin’ hair.”
You’d shrugged, but you understood it. He has really nice hair. You’ve been having fantasies about running your fingers through it, or petting his head, or yanking on it as his face dove between your legs-
Not going to ruin it.
This is a good thing, so you’d taken a deep breath and dug your nails into your wrist, because you wouldn’t fucking ruin this.
That’s why you agreed to go out at all. Bucky isn’t really an option on the table, and you still want to have that. The love. The faceless man, spinning you around and around, kissing your neck and holding your hand and whispering with you in the dead of night.
You’ve been whispering with Bucky. He sits with you on the couch until the silent hours of the morning, sometimes just to be there while you work.
He’s not an option.
So you took a date with Polo-Shirt Michael, and really, really tried.
But he keeps telling you about his gains. And how many female friends he has, and how they all want him but he’s looking for true love.
“They’re going to try and scare you off, ‘cause I gave them one hit and they got addicted.” He winks at you, and you swallow a little bile. “You the tough kind of woman? You gonna be able to take it, babygirl?”
You gave him a sweet smile, folding the napkin in your lap, and stand up. “I need to shit.”
It’s not worth seeing his reaction. You head straight for the bathroom and pull out your phone, scrolling for who can pick you up. You could call an Uber, but you don’t get paid until next week, and you’re not sure getting away from Polo Michael will be that easy without backup. All your friends have date nights or vacations.
Your thumb hovers over Bucky’s contact for a minute before you bite your thumb, and call him.
He picks up in two rings.
“Hey,” he says your name and you swallow, pressing your back against the wall. “What’s up?”
“I need your help.” You mumble, playing with your skirt. “If I send you an address, can you pick me up?”
“Yeah, of course.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “What’s goin’ on, doll, are you-“
“I’m safe.” You sigh. “Bad date.”
He grunts. “Pepper spray bad?”
“Not yet. I just really want to go home.”
“Alright. I’ve got you. Be there in,” there’s a pause, then, “ten.”
You nod, the line drops, and you start to pace. You should go out and say goodnight to Polo Michael. Lie that something came up, and you’ll text him to reschedule. But he also said his girlfriend was a crazy bitch.
That’s enough of a reason to slip out without any words. You hadn’t ordered yet, so you’re not leaving him with a bill. You’d even only gotten water, so at worst he’s paying for his $90 wine.
You glance over your shoulder as you stand on the curb, to check if he’s still waiting at the table. Bucky should be here soon, and as long as you’re not spotted, everything will be-
Michael looks at you. Right at you, as Bucky’s headlights appear down the street. He stands as Buck pulls up to your side.
“Hey, what-“
“Drive.” You climb on the bike without a thought. “Fucking drive, Bucky, go-“
Bucky turns, drops an oversized helmet onto your head, and buckles it. His knuckles brush over your chin, you mouth falls open with a soft breath. By some miracle, you don’t think he hears it.
He turns back around, speeds off without anything else, and you let out an exhale of relief.
Then it hits you.
You’re on the motorcycle. The world is rushing past you and you’re on the motorcycle and you’re going to die-
Bucky pulls off to the side and you squeak at the movement, pressing your face into his back.
“It’s fine, doll.” His voice is clear as the engine turns off, but you don’t let go. “You’re gonna strangle me, you know.”
“No, I’m not.” You don’t let go. “Thank you, Bucky, I- I can walk home-“
“You are not walking.” He grabs your wrist, keeping you against his chest, and you shake your head.
“I’m okay-“
“You get dinner?”
“I-“ You lean back. “What?”
“Look like you were gettin’ dinner.” He mutters, turning to look at you. “You eat?”
You shake your head, and somehow, let Bucky talk you into one of those 24-hour diners. Your date outfit and makeup a little messed up from the motorcycle, his shoes slip-ons that make him look like an actual old man.
Bucky glances at you across the booth, and you give him a weak smile, playing with some of your jewelry.
“You wanna take this home and eat there?”
You let out a soft breath. “Yes, please. My feet feel like they’re being stabbed and vomited on.”
He snorts. “Gross, doll.”
You shrug, and your smile feels a little more real.
Then you’re at home. Bucky somehow talks you into taking the motorcycle back, and he gives you a few minutes to change and clean while he put out the food. You join him on the couch, kicking up your feet with a dramatic moan, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“So what was wrong with him?”
You turn to look at him with a frown. “What?”
“The date.” Bucky shrugs. “What was wrong with him. He not up to your standard.”
“I guess, yeah. But my standard isn’t really that high.”
He raises his brows, and you sigh.
“I just want someone that doesn’t, like, hate me.”
“That’s it?”
You nod, and Bucky snorts.
“Jesus, that is a low bar. This guy-“
“He didn’t hate me. But he seemed to not love women in general.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses, looking down to his food. “Don’t know how you could hate women. All the women I know are the best.”
You nudge his calf with your foot. “Even me?”
“Yeah, doll, even you.” He gives you a small, real smile.
He’s being serious.
So you smile back. “Thanks, Buck.”
“No problem.” He pokes your food with his fork. “Eat, doll. I didn’t spend twenty dollars for nothing.”
You focus on your food, but your fingers are shaking a little. You rode on Bucky’s motorcycle and didn’t die. But you’re also sitting still on the couch, and you can feel your heart at the top of your chest, hear it in your head.
It’s a bigger rush, just sitting with Bucky and eating.
And maybe it’s how Polo Michael looked like he was going to strangle you, or how busy you are with work, but you might be done with dates for a while.
It’s not a hard choice to make, when Bucky starts to tell you about how he worked on the shower while you were gone, and laughs at all your pipe jokes. Or Bucky’s low, rough version of a laugh, which you like better.
Not one date has ever even gotten to hear a sex joke.
So you’d really rather stay here.
———
You’re wasted.
It was a celebration. Someone just got engaged. Or broke up. Or had a baby. Or broke up and had a baby.
You’re not sure anymore. And you don’t really care. Someone had something good happen to them, and you’d wanted a reason to drink.
So you drank.
And now your head is spinning, and all your effort goes into swallowing down the vomit rising up your throat. Your skin feels like it’s lighting on fire, but it’s also freezing cold, and there’s a harsh wind but it’s not enough to shock you out of the colorful hazy lights dancing over your vision.
The hallway is spinning, and you giggle as you walk, arms out like you’re on a tightrope.
Bucky sighs from behind you.
You don’t remember calling him.
It’s making you feel bubbly, that he’s here at all.
“James.” You sing, spinning around to smile at him. “You have a funny face.”
Bucky raises his brows, catching you easily. Grounding you down to the earth, because you might have been about to float away. “Do I.”
“Uh huh.” You keep walking as he moves you, moving your fingers to trace over his features. “It’s all serious and pretty. Like a magnetic painting of a handsome person.”
His voice remains flat. “You mean majestic?”
“I dunno.” You turn again, but Bucky keeps holding you, keeping your back to his chest. “Like a… wolf.”
He hums. “I was called White Wolf in Wakanda.”
“In…” You trail off, squinting at the wall, then gasp as the word reach through the fog. “You went to Wakanda?”
“Yeah, for about two years.”
“Were there stars?”
Bucky sighs, kicking the door shut behind you. “There- Shit-“
A rush of nausea sweeps through you, and you double over, covering your hand to stop the vomit.
Big, strong arms wrap around you, and one of them is nice and cold. You hold that one, as you’re carried through the air and into the bathroom. The world spins as a toilet comes into your vision, and you let your dinner spill out into the bowl.
Your hair is somehow moved from your face, and you groan, slumping to the ground. The cold hand tries to leave, but you grab it. Press it against your brow as you take a ragged breath.
Bucky mutters your name. “I need my hand-“
“No.” You mumble, moving it to press on your cheek. “’S nice.”
He sighs, but doesn’t argue with you. Keeps sitting with you, when you surge back up for another round with the toilet. Bucky rubs your back with that cool hand, then let you nuzzle into it when you get a break. He hums, deep and smooth, and the sound is easy to hold onto, keeping you from flying out of your skin as it prickles. When you’re finally run out, he gets you water. Helps you move against the wall, and stays at your side.
Your voice slowly comes back, and you turn to look at him, only one thought managing to stay in your head.
“Were they pretty?”
“What?”
“The stars?”
He blinks, then lets out a long, slow sigh, turning back to look at the wall. “Yeah. They were beautiful.”
That’s the answer you wanted. And you’re sort of done for the night.
You let your eyes flutter shut and tip your head back, making a soft noise of content.
Everything drifts in and out, morphing between Bucky, carrying you to bed, and that dream. The one where you have someone, and it’s easy.
The light leaks through your blinds in the morning, but you don’t remember falling asleep. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t put it there.
You know Bucky did.
And when you close your eyes again, you can see it again.
The faceless man isn’t faceless anymore.
You giggle in the fantasy, spinning around and around and around, only coming back down when a smooth voice hums your name.
Blue eyes watch you with a look that you might have seen before, but can’t remember.
Bucky sways you back and forth in his arms, but only in your head.
And you never want to do anything but sleep again.
———
You did something stupid.
You offered to teach Bucky how to cook. Not told him about a video or blog or book to teach him. Offered yourself. Because you like being around him too much. And when he focuses you’ve noticed he gets an adorable expression on his face, and you want to see it more.
Tonight you could have gone out on one last date, because your friend had practically begged you to. This one had a six-pack and knew three languages.
All you could think what that Bucky knows at least five.
And that’s how you ended up here.
“I know you don’t want any part of the superhero shit.” Bucky says as you ride up the elevator. “But it’s the weekend. None of the idiots are working, which means they’re all doin’ their own thing. No one will even know you’re here.”
You swallow, but nod. “I still think we could’ve done this at home-“
“We got more options here.” He bumps your shoulder, and it makes your body rush with heat. “Plus if I fuck up, nothing important gets burned.”
You give him a flat look. “How much is this building worth, James.”
“’bout a billion.” He shrugs. “Means they got the money to replace things. Come on.”
The elevator doors open, and Bucky starts to herd you through the halls of the Watchtower. You don’t know how he talked you into this, but you’re also hitting a strange, foreign point of doing almost anything Bucky asks you to do. You trust him. He’s usually rational, and always has a logical reason for things—even when that thing is why the cheese needs to go in this drawer—and it makes your brain do a funny kind of static drawl.
You don’t know if he feels it the same, with you. If he feels anything at all.
But you’re not going to ruin it.
So you won’t ask.
“Here.” He turns you into a massive, glossy kitchen, and your mouth falls open.
“Are you saving the world with cooking?”
Bucky snorts, and moves you further into the room. “No, we’re just overfunded. What’re we making?”
“I-“ You stare around the room, trying to force yourself out of the daze of Bucky right behind you and the majesty of the kitchen. “I was going to do pizza?”
“Alright.” His voice is right in your ear. It’s distracting. “Tell me what to do, doll.”
You flush again, scanning over the cabinets. “I’m just going to give you all the instructions, but you’re going to do the actual work yourself, okay?”
Bucky hums, and you start to list off the ingredients. You’re expecting to have to run out for some things, but this miracle kitchen has everything. Even if this building does get attacked by terrorists and supervillains all the time, you sort of want to stay here forever. There’s soft music playing over speakers, and everything smells like cookies, and you’ve never seen so much space in your life.
But Bucky chose to leave.
And you still don’t really understand why.
“Bucky?” You say carefully, watching him roll the dough from your seat on the counter, and he glances up with raised brows.
“What, am I rollin’ it wrong-“
“No, you’re- You’re doing fine. Can I ask you something?”
He nods. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you decide to move out of here? It’s… really nice.”
Bucky sighs, stopping his rolling, and you swallow.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to-“
“No, it’s fine.” He lets out a slow breath. “Guess I just got sick of it. My family wasn’t the worst off, in the 40s, but I haven’t been used to… this.” He waves to the kitchen. “In years. Feels wrong.”
You nod, swinging your legs back and forth. “The luxury?”
“All of it.” Bucky does the tongue thing. He does it all the time. It’s never helpful in making you focus. “Never really wanted any of this. Just sorta happened. Valentina wanted me to walk this weird fuckin’ line of being down to earth and normal, after the news broke about John’s divorce. I told her I’d quit if she made me parade around like a monkey.”
“But…” You frown. “You didn’t quit.”
“No. Got a deal. I’d keep workin’, but I’m allowed to live normally otherwise.” He chuckles to himself, resuming his work on the dough. “Least I don’t have to be in congress anymore. I nearly punched about fifty people a day.”
You giggle, rolling your eyes, and before you can respond, a bellowing, thickly accented voice echoes through the room and nearly starts you out of your skin. You fall off the counter.
Bucky catches you around your waist, and his face is oddly tight—almost apologetic—but you don’t really have the brainpower to think about it.
He’s touching you. You’re pressed right to his chest. And he really is warm.
It’s taking a tremendous amount of effort to not press yourself into his chest. You won’t ruin the only easy thing in your life.
Certainly not in front of other people.
“Bucky Barnes!” A large, bearded man walks into the kitchen with spread arms, and a wide grin on his face. “You have returned!”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, and he’s still holding onto you. You’re not sure he’s going to let go. “I’m not back, Alexei, we’re just using the kitchen-“
“We?” The man—Alexei, the Red Guardian, you’re meeting a second superhero and Bucky promised this wouldn’t happen and you’re going to kill him—leans around, his eyes landing on you. “You have brought a girl!”
Bucky tenses. “No-“
“Yelena!” Alexei calls over this shoulder, voice echoing through the halls. “Bucky Barnes has returned with a girl! Ava- Ava, look-“
Alexei grabs someone from the hall, and a terrifyingly beautiful woman walks into the kitchen, shoving his arm away.
“Do not grab me, Alexei-“
“I did not know if it would work.” He shrugs. “You might have vanished, was a fifty-fifty. And this is important, Barnes-“
“Brought a girl. I know, I saw them enter the building.”
Alexei gapes at her. “And you did not tell me such important news?”
“No, she didn’t, because she respects privacy.” Bucky glares between them, and you’ve started to hold his arm. You don’t really want him to let go. “I told you, we’re just using the kitchen, we don’t all have to-“
“What is so urgent that we are screaming.” A shorter, equally scary and pretty blonde woman appears, growing around the small group. “It is loud, Alexei, you could have texted me-“
“There is no time for texting.” Alexei waves her off. “Bucky Barnes has brought a girl to meet us.”
“I don’t think she’s here to meet us.” Ava drawls, looking more amused than anything. “He’s been avoiding the hall cameras. And he would have told us, if he was bringing someone, he cared about enough for us to know.”
“Really, Ava?” Bucky glares at her, his grip on you tightening, like he thinks you’re going to run. “It’s not a matter of caring, I was just trying to avoid this happening.”
He waves his hand to Alexei, and Ava grins.
“I know. You’re cooking.”
“He is cooking?” Yelena frowns at Bucky. “You do not cook, Bucky Barnes. You burn everything.”
Bucky’s words sound like he’s pushing them through his teeth. “I know. That’s why we’re practicing here.”
“Why would you practice here, Bucky.” Ava hums, still grinning. “Why not at your apartment.”
Alexei gasps, and the glare Bucky shoot Ava probably would have made you start crying, but she just grins.
“This is the roommate?” Alexei claps his hands, and suddenly they’re all looking at you. Every inch of your body wants to move closer to Bucky—see if he can shield you from all of it—but you don’t think that would help your case. “You work for charity, yes? Very good cause, I believe we could talk about an opportunity. Red Guardian sponsored vaccines-“
“Alexei.” Bucky grunts, and his glare is somehow scarier than before. “How the fuck do you know where she works.”
“Because I ran a background check on her.” Another person, a blond man with a beret, materializes next to Yelena, and you’re starting to think they’ve just been hiding in the walls. “You think I’m just going to let a member of our team go and live with some random woman? She might have been a murderer.”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “She’s not a murderer, John, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s hurtful, Bucky. I could have saved your life.”
“I do not think you saved his life, Walker.” Yelena says flatly. “Look at her, she is like a baby bird.”
“Well, we didn’t know that before- Hey, wait.” John frowns at you. “This is the roommate, Bucky? The girl that you-“
“John.” Bucky hisses. “I will take your taco shield, and turn it into pieces of a taco shield.”
John sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you, man. Unless you want Ava to be your wingman.”
“I don’t need-“
“Hey, guys.” Another blond man—why are they all blond—appears from behind Alexei, and if you’re up to date on current events, that should finally be all of them. “Why are we all in the kitchen?”
“Bucky is back, Bob. He has brought a girl, but not to meet us.” Yelena sighs. “John is being an idiot. Alexei needs to take a walk before he begins to ask stupid questions.”
Alexei frowns. “I am not asking stupid questions, Yelena-“
“What was the next thing you were going to say?”
There’s a long silence, and Alexei heaves a long, dramatic sigh.
“I will take my walk.”
He starts to shuffle away, Ava following him with a mock pat on his back.
Bob clears his throat and raises his hand. “Bucky, as long as you’re back, can you please fix the toilet? I don’t want to bother Valentina, and I’m pretty sure John would just make it worse-“
John cuts him off with a scowl. “Hey-“
“Yeah, I can fix the toilet.” Bucky turns back to you, squeezing your arms. “Stay here. If anyone starts to be a dick or bother you, ignore them. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh- Okay.” You give him a small smile. “Bye.”
He does the tongue thing again, then nods and walks out into the hall, taking a nervous looking Bob and annoyed John with him.
Leaving you with Yelena.
She stares at you, and you fidget with your fingers, trying to work out if you should smile at her or not. Probably not. She doesn’t seem like the type to love smiling. All you can really think about is what just happened. How Bucky’s told them about you. Which means you’re not just his roommate. You’re at least his friend. A good enough friend to mention to other friends. The girl that-
Something.
John hadn’t finished his sentence.
And it’s going to fucking eat at your every thought, until it’s all empty except for what John going to say. What does Bucky tell them about you. Is it good. It should be good, or they probably would’ve been acting differently.
But you need to know.
Yelena’s right here.
And when you look up at her, she’s still staring at you.
So you swallow, trying to stand a little taller, and give her a small smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Me?” Yelena blinks at you, and you nod nervously. “Is it something about the New Avengers? Because I do not know any of the approved press answers, Valentina thought we should be memorizing them, but I think that is stupid, so I have not-“
“It’s not about the New Avengers.” You cut her off, rubbing at your arms as you speak. “I, um- I just wanted to know what Bucky’s told you guys about me?”
Yelena nods slowly. “Why?”
“I-“
“You know, I do not actually care.” Yelena moves across the kitchen, starting to sort through a cabinet. “He has only said good things about you.”
You flush, and the glow spreads down to your toes. “Really?”
“Yes. Are you who he is texting, all the time?” Yelena turns back around with a bag of chips, and you blink.
“I- I don’t text him all the time.”
“Yes, you do. All he does now is smile at his phone. Like a puppy. I did not know he could make that kind of face, but now he will not stop making it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be.” Yelena mutters, taking a large bite of a chip. “He is all soft now. Like a-“ She cuts herself off with a frown. “All I can think of is puppy. But that is what Bucky Barnes has become. It is adorable, and annoying.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out a proper apology, but you can’t really think outside of he says good things. And he smiles at his phone. And-
“It is nice.” Yelena sighs to herself, cutting through your thoughts. “He is more focused now, on a mission. No more brooding, like a-“
“Puppy?” You finish for you, and she stares at you for a long, tight second before smiling.
“I like you. You are funnier than Bucky. If he breaks your heart, you can call me and I will steal his arm and hide it where he will never find it.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, then shake your head. “No, Bucky doesn’t- We’re not-“
“I know, it is not worth ruining.” Yelena rolls her eyes, taking another chip before starting out of the room. “It isn’t anything, Yelena, and we’re supposed to be focusing on the mission, so shut the hell up.” Her voice has dropped to a deep, mocking tone similar to Bucky’s. “Like he does not smile all the time.”
“He-“
“I had seen Bucky smile three times.” She snaps, holding up her fingers. “That is a pathetic amount of times. But yes.” She turns to walk out of the kitchen, voice echoing behind her. “Keep acting like it is nothing. I am sure that will be very fun and fulfilling for both of you.”
———
The ceiling hasn’t changed in hours. It won’t. It’s a static object, it’s white with all the same little popcorn dots, because this is a nice apartment but it’s not that nice.
You don’t stop staring at it though.
Maybe, if it starts to shift, that will be a sign. A clear green light from the universe, that you should do something about this.
About you and Bucky.
There is no you and Bucky. There shouldn’t be a you and Bucky. It wouldn’t make any actual sense. He’s a hundred-year-old superhero, and you’re you. Nothing about you screams superhero’s girlfriend. Nothing about you screams girlfriend in general, because you have horrible streaks of luck in love, and you don’t want to hit Bucky with any of that.
You don’t even know if Bucky would want to date. He’s got other things going on, like being a New Avenger and trying to reintegrate into civilian life. You can’t really be worth that much time over the world, over something that he’s been trying to do since before he met you. And he might not even like you like that.
He smiles all the time.
Bucky’s always sort of smiled at you. It had been a crude, slightly mocking smile at the start, but you’d also screamed at him a lot. When you’d met him, he’d let out that low, amused noise that was basically a barking laugh in Bucky-words.
But he’s also talked about you, with the other people that—despite what he might grumble on the drive back home—he considers friends. And they’d all tried to keep talking to you, after he’d fixed the toilet, because they’d seemed to think you’d have information for them.
You don’t.
All you know is that Bucky is Bucky. He’s the first really good thing you’ve had in a while. It easy to come home to him and harder to leave him in the morning, and when he texts you, it always makes that glow in you rush right down to your core and toes and fingers. He’s pretty, but he’s always pretty, even when you want to rip out his stupid, handsome throat.
And maybe you’re in love with him. The longer you stare at the ceiling, the more it remains the same, the more you feel the same.
Like you love him.
There’s not much more to say.
Every time you close your eyes, he’s lingering behind them. You can still feel every place he’d touched you all day. He’s scattered all over your apartment now, but you’d never want a single trace of him to go away.
He went to work today, even though it’s the weekend, and you’ve spent most of the day glancing at the door or your phone for an update.
You don’t know why he’d give one to you. It’s probably some big, fancy classified mission.
But you’re still rolling to the side, just to text that you haven’t missed the buzz of your phone.
Your screen remains dark.
The ceiling doesn’t change.
When he gets home, you should tell him that you love him, so he can text you safety updates.
No, you shouldn’t. That’s a stupid fucking reason to tell someone you’re in love with them. Especially when you’re not sure they love you back.
He smiles all the time.
He could just be more relaxed, when he’s not doing superhero things.
He hadn’t been relaxed the first month of you living together.
This is going to drive you insane. You won’t sleep until Bucky is home. Until you know that he’s safe, or you get a sudden text from him saying I love you, in case you were wondering. But Bucky wouldn’t type like that. He wouldn’t just tell you over the phone if he loved you, either.
You can’t picture him telling you that he loves you. That might be a bad sign.
Or you just haven’t had someone say that in so long that you’ve forgotten what it sounds like.
Bucky might not even be coming home. He might have had the mission run late enough that he decided to crash at the tower, and he could stay in all that luxury and decided he’d rather have that over cleaning up after you and eating dinner on the couch, and the text is going to say he’s moving back out and you’re never going to see him again-
There’s a loud bang out in the living room, and the ceiling shakes. You shoot up in, grabbing for your pepper spray, and slide quietly off the bed. Bucky’s told you, if you ever did have a break-in, you should barricade your room or go out onto the fire escape, while he deals with it.
But Bucky isn’t home. So it’s just you and the pepper spray.
You keep your steps light across the floor, carefully taking the doorknob and pulling it open, holding the pepper spray far in front of you as you scan over the dark.
No one is there. The door is even closer, but-
A little off its hinges. The wood looked sort of splintered. And you definitely heard a bang.
There’s a low groan of your name from across the room, and it sounds like-
“Bucky?” You grab for the light switch, wincing slightly as you’re blinded by the lamps. “Bucky what-“
Your mouth falls open as you round the couch, and he’s lying on the floor, eyes half open, breathing heavy, and a lot of red staining his clothing.
Blood.
That’s fucking blood.
“Oh my fucking- Bucky-“ You kneel down, tossing the pepper spray off to the side and taking his face between your hands. “What the fuck happened, I- We need to go to a hospital-“
“No.” He grunts, grabbing one of your wrists. “No hospital, doll- ‘m fine-“
“You’re bleeding-“
“Not mine.” He starts to push up with a low groan, and your hands move frantically, trying to find some way to help him. “Just tired, doll, I’ll be alright- Fuck-“
He groans, slipping back slightly, and you only manage to catch him with your full body weight to his back.
“You’re not fine, Bucky.” Your voice isn’t strong, but you’re either about to stop crying or throw up. It’s like a small, waking nightmare. You’re not going to lose him because of luxury. He’s just going to pass out on the floor and not wake up. “Can I at least get you to your team?”
“Don’t need ‘em.” He starts trying to sit up again. “Not injured, nothin’ they can do.”
“Not- You’re obviously fucking injured, you idiot-“
“I don’t get injured, baby.” He squeezes your hand, and your eyes are stinging too much to really register his words. “We got any food-“
He groans, slumping against the couch, but at least he made it upright this time.
“You’re not eating until I figure out what’s wrong with you.” You mutter, settling yourself between his legs, and he groans.
His hand is resting on your waist. You’d bet a lot of money he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
“Nothin’ is wrong,” he mutters your name, but doesn’t fight it as you turn his face, trying to find some sort of writing that says infected wound on leg or something. “I told you, I don’t get hurt, would take a fuckin’ bomb to get me.”
“Was there a bomb?”
“No, doll, just some assholes shootin’ bullets.”
You glare at him. “Did you get hit?”
“No.” His lips twitch slightly. “You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Yes. I am.” You grab his jaw, turning it up, and he hisses. “Does that hurt.”
“No.” His words are through his teeth. “I swear, I’m just tired. Everything is spinning, if I go to bed it’ll be fine in the morning.”
You pause, your hand dropping to rest on his chest. “Everything is spinning?”
He nods, reaching up to cover your hand with his own. “Not you, though. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, flushing slightly as you scan over his features. “Bucky, did you hit your head at all?”
“Uh…” He pauses, and you can see it now. The lack of focus behind his eyes. “Maybe.”
“How hard?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t-“ You let out a slow breath. “Well, what hit you?”
“Pipe.” He mutters, suddenly avoiding your gaze. “Big pipe.”
“Big-“ You sigh, bowing your head. “God, fucking- You have a concussion, dummy.
“No-“
“Yes.” You grab his hand, slowly pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you need to get to bed.”
Bucky groans, but lets you help him up. His arm tosses around your shoulders, his face pressing into the back of your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the shiver it sends up your spine.
“You smell nice.” He mutters against your skin, nose nuzzling against a soft spot, and you take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“Look nice, too.” He’s a deadweight over your shoulders, and it’s an effort to keep him moving when he doesn’t seem to want to contribute all that much. “Like a flower.”
“I look like a flower?”
“Yeah. Pretty.”
You’re not going to let yourself think about that. He’s basically drunk right now, so it doesn’t really mean anything. Your only job is to get him into his bed—which, through an almost herculean effort, you do—and make sure there’s no serious brain damage with the limited knowledge of concussions you have.
“I think you’ll be okay.” You mumble, watching his eyes dazedly follow your finger. “But if it’s still this bad in the morning, we’re going to the Watchtower so your team can look at you, okay?”
“Fine.” He grumbles, his hand still resting over yours. “I’m sorry, doll.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You didn’t want any of this heroing shit in your life. I dragged it in with me.”
“You didn’t mean to. And it’s not like you wanted any of it, either.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want-“
“Yes, it does.” The words fall out of you before you can stop them “And it’s not like aliens are invading my bathroom. I think that would be the line.”
He sighs. “I bled on the floor.”
“We’ll clean it in the morning.” You shrug, smiling softly. “I’m just glad you’re safe, James.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he’s still holding your hand. His eyes scan over you, almost blindingly blue through the dark, and a little more focused than even a second ago.
Time seems to slow to a drizzle like honey, slipping through your fingers but sticking to them at the same time. It can’t go slow enough, but it’s still too fast to give you the chance to think.
Bucky pulls you gently down, his free hand cradling the back of your head. His tongue does the little flick thing, and you swallow, settling a little further over him. He’s warm, but his metal thumb is sweeping over the back of your hand, and it’s just enough to tell you that this isn’t a dream.
You let out a small, soft gasp as Bucky kisses you, and it’s lazy. His lips move perfectly against yours, his touch on your careful and tender. He tastes a little like sweat, but it’s hard to care when his tongue presses between your lips, and he groans down your throat.
It’s easy to deepen it. To push a little further, and run your fingers through his beard, maybe lean further down and try to feel him everywhere when he nips at your lower lip, and you whine.
Then he pulls back suddenly. Without warning. Leaving you still lightheaded, but falling back to earth far too fast.
Bucky shakes his head, pulling away with a low groan, and it starts to sting. Your eyes, your throat, your skin.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t mean it, or you took it too far, or you took advantage of him in a vulnerable state, and now you’ve ruined it.
“I- I’m sorry.” You move off the bed, wrapping your arms around your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. It’s the same as before.
But everything has changed.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” you whisper, and Bucky grunts your name.
“Wait, let me-“
“It’s okay. You don’t have to-“ You swallow, and you’re not going to cry in front of him. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
Bucky tries to call after you, as you walk out of his room, but he’s hurt. He shouldn’t have to deal with your feeling being hurt right now. You can wrap your head around just friends later, right now you just need to sit in the pain. In what you destroyed, in all the lies you’d been quietly telling yourself that maybe this time it would be different.
It won’t be.
It never is.
But when you cry in bed, the man in your fantasies is still Bucky. Because you love him, and that’s not going to be as easy to brush off as a meaningless date.
You hope it will pass.
But there’s a chance he’s going to linger in your head for the rest of your life.
You fall asleep with muffled sobs into your pillow.
And your brain is cruel.
Because you dream of Bucky all night long.
———
You’re have a plan to avoid him. You spent the bleak hours of the morning, thinking about it. You’ll give it just enough time and space for Bucky to understand that you’re not hurt by it—he never needs to see the tears staining your cheeks, or the swell of your lips from chewing them into oblivion—and then everything will go back to normal.
Your heart hasn’t stopped beating for him, no matter how hard you’ve grabbed your throat and tried to force it down. Bucky doesn’t love you back, and that’s okay. It’s in line what you know. How painfully aware you are that you’re just not the type of person who gets to have that. Which can be fine. You have good friends. A good career. Maybe to make up for the gaping hole splitting through your chest, you can talk Bucky into getting a cat.
Or he’ll just move back into the tower, to avoid the awkwardness. Which means you’d get that cat.
But lose him.
You’ve sort of already lost him. You’re not sure you ever actually had him.
Which is what you’d thought. So you were right.
You’d never wanted so bad to be wrong in your life.
It’s easy to avoid Bucky, for most of the day. You poke your head into his room while he’s sleeping, just to make sure he’s still alive. He’s snoring, his hair mussed and face smushed into his pillows, and it takes a lot of effort to pull yourself away. He doesn’t want you. You have absolutely no right to watch him in this vulnerable state, when he’s very obviously already feeling better.
After that, you dance around him. Put on the coffee, and leave enough for him to have before you go out to get some food. Sit in a cafe and turn off your notifications, but still glance at your messages every few minutes, just to see if he’s messaged you.
It’s an hour before the first text comes through.
Where are you?
You sigh, quickly type back, out working, and close the thread. You’re only telling him, so he doesn’t worry about kidnapping or something. If you keep talking to him, you’ll just miss him more, or he’ll bring up last night and you’ll have to act like everything is fine.
Finishing work happens too fast, so you go for a walk. Then another walk. Then get lunch, and stare at your phone. At the little 3 notification on your calls, and the 10 on your messages. It might not even be Bucky. It’s still better to not look.
You only go home once the Sun starts to set, and you have it all rehearsed. If he stops you, you’re going to tell him that it’s not a big deal. It was only a kiss. You never have to speak of it again, and nothing has to change. If he pushes it, you’ll keep your head level, because you’re an adult. You’ve had a lot of failed romances, and this wasn’t even an actual relationship. So it’s not a big deal.
One failed kiss hurts more than any previous break-up, though. Feels like your heart is being split in half, and you’re never going to put it back together quite the same.
But that’s not Bucky’s problem.
So you’ll stick to your lines, and recover in your room, where he can’t hear your tears.
You open the door slowly, close it silently, and yelp as Bucky grunts your name from right behind you.
“Jesus fucking- James-“
“Where were you.” He snaps, and he’s standing really close. His arms are cross over his chest, eyes narrowed, and all the carefully practiced words are dissipating in the heat from his body. He sounds angry, his eyes boring into you like he’s going to pull the answer out of you with only a glare.
He might be able to.
You feel lightheaded again.
“Out working-“
“All day?” Bucky narrows his eyes, and you swallow.
“I had a lot of work.”
“Enough that you couldn’t pick up the damn phone?”
Your eyes are starting to blur again. “I was busy,” you whisper, and Bucky lets out a slow, heavy breath.
“Well don’t fuckin’ do that. I came home from a mission, someone coulda followed me, and if you-“ He shakes his head, glowering at the air. “Just tell me. Okay?”
“Okay.” You give him a small smile, rubbing your wrists behind your back. “Is that it?”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “Is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who cornered me-“
“And you’re the one who’s been ignoring me all day.”
Shit. “I wasn’t ignoring you-“
“Yes, you were.” He grunts, taking a step forward, then freezing as you take a smaller one back. Something like hurt flashes over his features, and it drives right into your heart.
“Bucky-““No, it’s-” His voice is low, and it doesn’t sound fine. “I’d never hurt you, doll. Nothin’ could make me hurt you-“
“I know.” You say quickly, and you want to cross over to him, so he knows, but your knees feel like they’re about to give out. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m trying to give you space-“
He cuts you off with a frown. “Give me space?”
You nod weakly, and he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“I don’t want space.”
“But-“
“No, I was callin’ you all fucking day, and you think I want space?” He takes another step forward, eyes driving into some raw, needy part of you that’s pulling to him like a magnet. “You’re the one dodging me, doll. Do you want space?”
You take a deep breath, trying not to sound like every thought in your head isn’t melting into Bucky. “I just don’t want it to be weird-“
Another step. “Why would it be weird.”
“Because I kissed you.” You mumble. “And- It’s just a kiss-“
“It wasn’t just a kiss.” He grunts, and it’s getting harder to remember what you’d told yourself you’d say.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a big deal-
“No, it doesn’t.” Bucky stops, right in front of you, but he’s not touching you at all. It’s a small, strange torture. You can smell him, see twitch of his jaw and breath. But he’s not touching you. “But I kissed you, doll. So it’s up to you if we want to make it a big deal or not.”
The world does a stutter-stop. Time slows back to that honey, and his words take a second to skin under your skin. Another second for you to understand them.
When you speak, your voice is just a whisper. “What?”
“It’s fuzzy for me.” He mutters, and you’re trapped under his attention and low voice. “But I know I kissed you. So we can forget it, if that’s what you’re telling me to do. Is that what you’re tellin’ me to do?”
You shake your head. “You- You stopped kissing me-“
“I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
“Like… What?”
“Casual.” He mutters. “Just because you felt bad for me or some shit.”
“I-“
“If you want to keep doing your casual thing, I’m not going to stop you.” Bucky leans down as he says your name, and his breath is hot over your lips. “But I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m takin’ all of you, or none of you. Again, your choice.”
You feel dizzy. “You- You want me
Bucky chuckles, his lips curling into that handsome, teasing smile. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you, doll. You were the prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. Smart, too. Spent a lot of nights wondering what mighta happened if I just asked you out instead of moving in.”
“What might have happened?” You’re half echoing, because your brain is caught in a loop of whatever Bucky is saying. But the other half is a question. Because he can’t mean what you think he means.
That would mean you hadn’t ruined it.
That would mean there was a chance.
“Between us.” He mutters, just his metal hand moving on trace over your wrist, sending small shivers up your spine. “We could’ve skipped all the fighting, doll. Just gone straight to spending time together. Doing crosswords. Makin’ dinner.” He gives you a small grin, something teasing behind his eyes as his voice drops. “I might be bendin’ you over the couch right now, instead of trying to convince you that I wanted that kiss more than I’ve wanted anything in eighty goddamn years.”
He’s still looking at you. It’s making your tongue loose, your core molten. “I wanted it to.” You whisper, and he nods.
“I know, babydoll. But,” one last step, and you’re almost pinned to the door by his weight above you. “You need to tell me what you want. I’m not old-fashioned enough that I won’t touch you, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it for a while. I-“ He takes a long breath, looking down to where he’s still stroking your wrist. “I don’t get to keep things I love, usually. So I’m not just gonna mess around.”
The world is definitely blurry. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You love me?”
Bucky’s throat bobs, but he looks back up, and nods.
You take his face between your hands, and give him a wide, bright smile, the glow from your chest seeming to burst through your whole fucking body as time comes rushing back. It’s going to keep moving.
You’re not going to be alone.
“I love you too,” you keep smiling, and Bucky’s eyes shine on yours. “And I don’t want it casual, I- I just want you.”
Bucky’s voice is hoarse, as he drops his brow to yours. “I want you, too.”
You hum, standing up a little taller, just enough for your lips to brush. “Can you show me?”
Bucky makes a low, deep sound from his throat, and time isn’t dripping anymore. It’s flying, rushing through you and sweeping you away, and it doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night or the middle of the day or the end of the world.
All you can feel is Bucky.
His mouth crashes over yours, and this isn’t a soft, slow kiss like last night. It’s hungry. Rough and possessive, with his hands groping at your ass and hips, his pelvis pressed right against yours, and your grip on his shirt the only thing keeping you upright. Every single second the kiss only gets deeper, until you’re gasping against his lips for air and scratching at his chest for more, you can feel him pressing right into your leg, thick and big, and you need more-
“You have no idea,” Bucky almost growls, starting to kiss—open mouthed and wet—down your neck. “What you do to me, pretty girl. How hard it’s been,” he thrusts his hips forward, and you let out a high squeak as he sucks on a soft, pulse point. “To be a gentleman, to not get on my knees and fuckin’ beg you to give me a shot.”
“You- You wouldn’t have had to-” You let out a needy moan as his hand slips under your shirt, playing with your nipples as he kisses over your shoulder. “God, you wouldn’t have had to beg, Bucky, I’ve been thinking about it too-“
“I got that now.” He hums, grinning at you as he draws back, and you only gape at him as he slowly pulls your shirt over your head. “Fuck, you’re perfect, doll. Look at you.”
He leans back down, kissing your open mouth with an almost mocking sweetness, and unhooks your bra in one motion. You melt into him as he kneads at the skin of your hips, his cool, metal hand groping and squeezing at your breasts. His thumb runs over your nipple and starting to roll it, and you arch into him with a whine. The groan that rumbles from his chest is animalistic, and it vibrates right into your core, making your thighs rub together for a little friction.
“Oh, Bucky, I- Fuck-“
He pulls you up, keeping you trapped between the wall and his body. Your pants are quickly shed by your own frantic hands, and Bucky tosses them away, rubbing your pussy over your panties. You moan as his fingers tease your slit, then whine when they move away. He grabs your ass, lifting you a little higher, and your legs manage to wrap around his torso, your chest level with his face. He looks up with a hooded awe as you grind against his body. You throw your head back, a coil starting to build in your core, and Bucky groans your name.
“You’re like a fucking painting, baby.” He mutters, and you whimper as he kisses over your breast. “Think I could watch you try to fuck yourself on me forever.”
You shake your head, your hips rutting up as another needy sound leaves your throat, and Bucky chuckles.
“You want a little more, though, don’t you.” He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud. You writhe above him, thighs starting to get sore as he doubles his efforts.
“Oh my- Ohmygod-“ Your words start to slur, and Bucky’s teeth graze against you.
He pulls back with a lazy grin, the metal hand slowly starting to tease back over your panties. “You’re soaking,” he says your name, a low reverence in his voice. “This for me?”
You nod weakly, and his gaze drops down to where you’re spreading your legs. You try to use your grip around him to pull him closer, but he pinches your inner thigh, and you squeak.
“Patience, baby.” He mutters, kissing your neglected breast as he slowly pulls your ruined underwear to the side. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good, treat you right.”
Two metal fingers drive right into your core, curving right against a bundle of nerves deep inside your cunt, and his mouth wraps around your nipple once again. Your mouth falls open in long, loud moan as he starts to pump in and out of you at an unforgiving rhythm, always crooking at that same spot, twisting slightly every few thrusts. His tongue plays over your nipple, taking the peak between his teeth before his tongue presses flat.
Your fingers fly into his hair, and you tug hard.
Bucky fucking moans around you, and the vibrates against your tit, shooting right down to your core. You yank again, grinding down onto his hand, and he grunts. Bucky pulling his fingers fully out and leans back, licking his lips as he glares up at you.
“You get bratty.” He mutters, spanking your clit once—just enough to make you shake and send a rush through your body—and kissing your neck softly. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna get you in bed before we even get a proper date.”
“A- Oh-“ Bucky’s fingers push back into you, now going at a torturous, taunting pace. “A date?”
He hums against your skin. “I’m taking on you on a date before I fuck you, baby. I told you, we’re not doing casual.”
You nod, voice breathy as his thumb presses over your clit. “But- We can still- Fuck-“
He chuckles, starting to rub slow, firm circles over the bundle of nerves. “Not until the date. But don’t worry.” His fingers start to rub fast against that spot inside of you. “I’m still gonna make you cum on my hand.”
Bucky’s mouth moves back to your breast, and you take a sharp breath as release threatens to snap in your core.
“James-“
“Shit,” he mutters, kissing on a bruise he’d left on your collar. “Keep saying my name, babydoll. Make all those sounds I’ve dream about.”
You moan, loud and lewd, and Bucky grunts, his fingers picking up the pace. You tug at his hair again, and his thumb starts to flick your clit.
“I- James, I’m close-“
“I know.” He growls, returning his to your almost abused nipple. “Play with your tits for me, baby, c’mon-“
You cry out, grabbing your free breast and pinching your nipple, pulling at Bucky’s hair as you fall right over the edge. Your vision goes white as you clench around Bucky’s fingers. He presses in further, every shake of your body only seeming to make him work harder. Your thighs press together, when his finger finally pull out, but then he refocuses on your clit. Gives it small, rough hits that make your breath short and eyes roll back.
You try to squirm away from him, but he’s stronger, and into not until you’re a shaking, soaked and panting mess that he pulls away.
Bucky grins, leaning up to press at sweet, gentle kiss to your lips, and you melt over him. It’s just a kiss.
But it feels like everything.
Like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.
Eventually you find your voice, murmuring against his lips. “Do you have to pay my father a dowery now?”
He chuckles. “I’m not that old, baby. And,” he nips the of your nose. “We aren’t gettin’ married right now.”
“Right now?”
Bucky hums in acknowledgment, you lean away with small grin, playing with his hair.
“If we do…” You focus on his lips, swollen from touching you. “What would it be?”
“Your dowery?”
You nod, giving him a small smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“How about I just get you a cat, doll.”
Oh.
He’s perfect.
You beam at him, moving back down for another kiss. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rubbing gently against your still-sensitive skin. Holding you carefully.
Holding like he never plans to let go.
“You like that?” He mutters, and you smile.
“Yeah. I do.”
✦End note: I need those metal fingers to do unspeakable things to me okay. Please join me on that journey ✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
Desperately need Steve just showing up to the Watchtower cause Bucky was late comming home one night, and all his clearance codes still work because Valentina never actually changed the security system, ignoring everyone's gaping mouths that Captain America is Not Dead On The Moon, and giving Bucky a smooch and some take out he picked up on the way before getting comfy next to him, flipping on the tv, to ignore the mission reports all over the table, he's retired thanks, and eating his take out.
He and Buck still have their little place in brooklyn when they need to get away but otherwise Steve just moves back in and becomes the team's stay at home dad.
I keep picturing like, the team going on a mission and Steve and Bob waving them off like when one parent takes all the older kids to six flags or something but the youngest has to stay home, and steve's just like "we should do something nice for them. Lets figure out dinner?"
"Can you cook?" Hes never SEEN Steve cook.
"No, we can order take out. I can bake though. We can do something for dessert. Buck likes an apple cake, but there's this fudge recipe I've been meaning to try."
"Ava mentioned liking peanutbutter fudge once."
"Its a plan then."
"Okay. We should probably make sure Medicals shocked up and ready though, things tend to get messy."
"Good idea. And then I'll make a shopping list."
"Can we get luch at that dinner down the street while we're out? Alexei got banned so now no ones suposed to go, but I really like their burgers."
"Yeah, sure thing kid."
And then its just pictures of The Seintry sitting in a shopping cart drowing in a pile of all kinds of sweets ingredients, medical suplies, and like toilet paper and laundry detergent cause they were just out of everything this week, in a ballcap and sunglasses, being pushed around the local grocery story by Captain Not Dead On The Moon America also in a ballcap and sunglasses like Totally Normal Citizens, blasted all over the internet by that after noon.
★ GODSPEED // ERIN LECOUNT ★
The Ghost of the Arena
Summary: Dragged into the blood-soaked sands of the Colosseum, you watch as James Barnes fights for survival against Rome’s cruellest gladiators.
Warnings: Gladiator!Au, blood, knives, murder, torture, fighting pits, MCD, Blood and Entrails, Graphic Violence / Gore, Limb Severing, Dismemberment, Gladiator / Ancient Rome AU, Tragic Ending, Arena Combat, Emotional Angst / Hurt/Comfort, Captivity,
WC: 1.1K
A/N: first time writing a Gladiator AU. I would love feedback on how this is! I'm still unsure ab the fight scenes lol.
Read on ao3! Tag List
The Colosseum was alive with fire and fury, people cheering and shouting all throughout the worn-down arena. It breathed in the blood, sweat, and iron-stink of the sand, and exhaled a deafening roar. Thousands of voices smashed together, hungry for spectacle, for carnage, for blood. You should not have been there. A senator’s daughter did not belong in the stench of battle, where men screamed as blades cut deep and bones cracked. And yet, there you were, perched high in the marble tiers, eyes riveted to the gates below, anticipating the next gladiator's victory or loss.
And then he appeared.
James Buchanan Barnes. The Ghost. The Soldier. Shackles rattled as he was dragged into the arena. Iron braced his left arm, scarred and blackened from battles long past. His chest was a streak of wounds, old and new, streaked with blood and deep scars. The sweat-matted hair clung to his brow. He did not bow. He did not acknowledge the emperor. He only lifted his piercing blue eyes and, in an instant, found you.
The gates across from where he stood slammed open. Three men poured out, swords raised. The crowd’s roar grew to a fevered pitch.
“Three?” Bucky called over the chaos, voice smooth, taunting. “Is that all Rome sends? I was hoping for a challenge.”
The first man lunged. Bucky sidestepped, iron arm clanging against blade, and plunged his dagger into the man’s gut. He twisted, yanked upward, and the man screamed as hot, steaming entrails spilled onto the sand. Bucky wiped a spray of blood from his face and tossed the corpse aside.
“Your gods won’t want you like that,” he muttered, spitting on the dead body before attacking again.
The second attack came from behind. Bucky spun, slammed his elbow into the man’s throat. Cartilage crunched. Blood spattered across his chest. He seized the man’s jaw, twisted sharply—bone snapping—and let him collapse, twitching, to the sand.
The third faltered. “No…please—” he stammered.
Bucky’s blade left his hand, whistling through the sunlit air, and buried itself in the man’s spine. Screams tore through the pit as the man tried to crawl, dragging himself on hands slick with his own blood. Bucky crouched, whispering in his ear so the crowd could hear:
“Tell Hades I’m coming.”
He shoved the blade forward, silencing him.
The Colosseum exploded in cheers. Ghost. Ghost. Ghost.
And then, for the briefest moment, his eyes found yours.
----
Moments later, six more men piled out of the convoys. He emerged dripping, hair matted with dry blood, shackles dragging behind him.
“Six?” he sneered, grin wide. “Careful now, Rome, or I’ll get bored.”
The first man charged. Bucky caught the spear, twisted the shaft until it cracked, and drove it through the man’s chest. Blood sprayed in a fountaining arc, some dripping onto Bucky’s own torso.
“Oops. Did I hurt you?” he mocked.
The second lunged, sword swinging. Bucky’s chains lashed out, coiling around the man’s arms, jerking the blade upward until it tore through the man’s throat. The crowd roared, blood-spattered bodies twitching at his feet.
The third and fourth attacked together. Bucky laughed maniacally and rammed his iron fist into one’s face. Bones shattered. Teeth flew. He spun, ripped the sword from the other man, and cleaved through his stomach, blood splattering everywhere. Steam rose from the open wound, entrails slick and dripping.
The fifth hesitated, blade shaking.
“Go on,” Bucky called, voice playful, a smirk playing at his lips. “Run, or stay and make me famous.”
The man bolted. Bucky threw a dagger into his back, and he fell silent.
By the time the sixth fell, the sand was soaked dark with blood. Bucky spat into it, lifted his gaze, and smiled up at you.
--
That night, you pressed your forehead to the iron bars. His chest was crusted with blood, but his blue eyes still burned.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped.
“You shouldn’t be alive,” you whispered, voice trembling.
He chuckled, low and rough. “Disappointed?”
“You mock them,” you said. “Why? Why make them hate you more?”
“They already do,” he said, smirk ghosting his lips. “But you…you give me a reason to play.”
Your fingers brushed his. Calloused, rough, blood-stained. “Win tomorrow,” you whispered.
“For you,” he said. “Always for you.”
---
Ten men. The arena gates opened like a mouth hungry for death.
“Ten?” Bucky called, shaking blood from his hair. “Finally, Rome shows some ambition.”
He moved like a storm. One man ran toward him, sword raised. Bucky swung a chain, wrapping it around the man’s torso and yanking until ribs cracked audibly. The man collapsed, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.
Another lunged with an axe. Bucky caught it against his iron arm, twisted, and smashed the handle into the man’s skull. Brain matter and blood sprayed the sand.
A spear pierced his side. He roared, yanked it free, and drove it through the man’s groin. “Couldn’t keep this? Shame.”
The remaining attackers faltered. He lunged, chains and fists striking with brutal precision. Heads were split. Limbs torn. Entrails poured across the arena like a crimson river.
He paused, grinning. “Rome! This your empire? This your army?!”
Ghost. Ghost. Ghost.
His eyes found you again. And in that moment, the feral mask softened just for you.
----
The emperor had grown tired of his mocking. He intended to end the Ghost once and for all.
You found him in the cell, shackled, bruised, but alive. His voice was raw.
“They mean to kill you,” you whispered.
“They’ve been trying since day one,” he said. “Guess it finally sticks.”
Tears pricked your eyes. “Don’t go out there and give them a reason to…to hate you more.”
“I’ll give them reason to remember me,” he said, gripping your hand through the bars. “And when I fall…you’ll be the last thing I see, that's my promise to you.”
----
Twelve. Armor gleaming, weapons drawn.
Bucky staggered into the sand, bloody, broken, but laughing.
“Rome,” he roared, chains clattering. “Send me your best. I’ve killed your dogs, your lions, your monsters. I’ll kill your gods if they try!”
The men attacked in waves. Blades cut through flesh, severing muscles, tearing arms from sockets. Blood fountained with every strike. Bucky moved like a storm, spinning, swinging, ripping, and laughing.
A sword sliced his back. He spat blood. “Not today, friend. Not today.” He grabbed the man, yanked the sword through his throat, and sent him collapsing into the sand.
A spear pierced his shoulder. He pulled it free and shoved it into the man who had thrown it, twisting until he screamed, collapsing in a heap.
Limbs, guts, bone—everything became part of the arena. The sand turned into a slippery sea of gore.
Bucky raised his arms, chest heaving, soaked in his blood and theirs. “Is this your Rome?!” he shouted. “Is this your empire?”
The crowd screamed. Ghost! Ghost! Ghost!
And then, just before the executioner approached, he found you in the stands.
“For someone who looks away from me, you stare far too much,” he rasped, laughing, blood dripping from his lips. “Remember me, sweetheart. Let them choke on my ghost.”
The blade fell. The sand drank his blood. And you screamed his name until your voice broke.
i want 50 avengers tower fanfics of the thunderbolts on my desk by morning do you hear me
NOM NOM NOM 🔥
Keeping up w the thunderbolts when????
Someone, trust me, this is how Doomsday starts
