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taintedcigs · 8 months

Text

— cowboy hat rule.

pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: smut, p in v, MINORS DNI!!!!, pet names, praising, kinda degrading but not really, a lil argument, dom!steve, rivals to fcking, swearing, good old bj for our good boy stevie! reader has a nickname 'sunshine' bc i didn't wanna do y/n sorry:(

summary: helping out mr. harrington in his ranch was supposed to be fun, but steve harrington was an asshole. an absolute pain in your ass that teased you, and you gave him the same energy back, always. so when you unknowingly wear his cowboy hat, he decides to teach you what exactly the cowboy hat rule is. (wc: 5k+)

author's note: this is just horny babbling. i have no idea how cowboy lore works so if im wrong pls just close ur eyes i tried to research but i couldnt find shit just pls i just want cowboy steve dick. and ofc no proof-reading bc im lazy as hell. no dividers ugly aesthetic bc of tumblrs f ass not showing my shit in tags SIGH.

also PLSSS LIKE + REBLOG + COMMENT TO SUPPORT ME MWAH ILY

When you told Mr. Harrington you’d be more than happy to help around his Ranch during the summer, you didn’t expect Steve to become a problem, but you were wrong, so fucking wrong.

A cocky cowboy who’s way too into partying and into his looks and his fluffy hair than you could ever imagine. That’s exactly how you’d describe Steve Harrington. Even though you so badly wanted to believe otherwise, wanted to disregard the rumors and the reputation that came with him. But, he made it so goddamn hard.

All he fucking did was tease you, complain. Order you around and act like you didn’t know how to do shit. And, you didn’t, but he was supposed to be your guidance, teach you. But all he did was grumble and give you that goddamned smirk.

Yet, you couldn’t fully hate him, there was a side of him he rarely showed you, one that cared, one that offered you rides—it was more of a mumble each night but you accepted nonetheless, one that ended up at your side whenever an asswipe bothered you at the bar, one that offered you a hand on your back when you were crying, he didn’t ask what happened, didn’t speak, just stood there, letting you spill out your guts. The two of you never spoke about these incidents, ever, because he acted like they didn’t exist, like he couldn’t bear the thought of being nice to you.

You were so fascinated by him, even though you’d never admit it out loud. He was charismatic, outright funny, and had a heart of gold that you only peered one layer of.

And fuck it, he was fine, annoyingly good-looking that he was a distraction to be around when you were supposed to be working, him with those sturdy denim jeans that cupped his ass perfectly, wide-brimmed cowboy hat with a creased crown, put perfectly on his head. Even though you’d much rather see his pretty hair falling on his face, run your hands through his smooth layers.

Usually, when it got as hot as it did today, he’d even take off that stupid shirt, feast your eyes with his glimmering chest, all hairy and glistening with sweat, broad shoulders as he ordered everyone around made you gulp. Like he is doing with you, right fucking now.

“Sunshine, get back to work.” Heat travels to your cheeks quickly, and that stupid nickname rolls off his lips so bitterly, the one he always called you just because you were all nice and smiley—even when he was being an asshole to you, something that grinded his gears, you guessed it was a foreign concept to him, being nice.

You were quick to shake off the hold he had on you, getting back on your feet as you stood your ground. “I am working! Just needed a second to breathe!” The lies rolled off your lips so simply that you wondered if he caught you staring. When he turned around to leave, you guessed he hadn’t.

“Asshole.” The insult leaves you before you can register how close Steve still was to you.

Turning head-spinningly fast. “What did ya say?” He spits, making you gulp physically.

He looks out of the world stunning when he’s mad, maybe it’s a toxic trait of yours but, fuck, the way his chocolate hues turn unrecognizable, that slight quirk of his brows, and the way his muscles flex in pure anger made you rub your thighs together.

Jesus Christ. He is getting into your head, and you hate that you think of him this way when he is so mean.

“Nothing! I’m just saying it’s really hot out today,” you hum, the sun rays hitting your face not making it easier on the heat that flame your cheeks.

He gives you a snort, all mocking once he takes a step closer, making you feel hotter if that is possible. “Well that’s what happens in the summer, darlin’”

Hand on the wall he tilts his head slightly, all with sass that has you rolling your eyes. “Or did you expect the weather to give Miss Sunshine some sorta special treatment?”

You roll your eyes, an act you always did that makes Steve’s jaw clench. “Oh, come on Steve! It’s really, really, hot, and the sun is all on my face!”

“Boo-hoo, princess,” he mocks, tipping his hat, almost as if to tease you further.

You scoff, getting closer to him. “Easy for you to just stand around in that big hat!” With a narrowed gaze, you cross your arms against your chest, like a brat, another trait that annoyed Steve even further.

Then, you beam again, and Steve knows no matter how much you hate it, Sunshine is absolutely the nickname you deserve, eyes glistening with happiness that it annoyingly even brings a glint to his pretty amber hues. His gaze unintentionally droops down to tour lips, so plushy and soft looking when it curls into that pretty smile that Steve wants to kiss you all over.

“Oh! Do you mind if I?” You ask all giggly, pointing toward his wide-brimmed hat, hand teasingly standing above his head.

He scoffs as if you had just asked him the most insulting question ever. “Not a chance,” he spits, now he crosses his arms in front of his chest, eyeing you with a dark glint in his eyes, one you couldn’t decide was full of annoyance or just pure desire.

“Mhmmm… okay,” you hum, feigning innocence for a second, before snatching it off his head with another hearty giggle.

Oh, what he would do to hear that on a loop, admire the way your lips stretched into the prettiest grin, brows quirked.

“Sunshine!” He chides, much rougher than he intends to, but you don’t pay attention to him when you place the hat carefully on your head, smoothing your hair.

You shrug, looking up at him with those doe eyes that have him melting, everytime, without fail. “Admit it, looks better on me.” You shrug, expecting him to agree.

Instead, he just offers you a deep sigh of breath, eyes almost widening when he realises what you just did. “Do you even—”

He huffs, hiding the obvious pink shade thats starting to color his cheeks, you really had no idea the hold you had on him, did you? “God, you city girls have no idea about anything, huh?”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

“Cowboy hat rule?” He asks with a tilt of his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

A teasing smile curves on your plushy lips as you push for more information. “What’s that?”

“Just give me the hat back,” he insists, attempting to mask the warmth that crept into his tone.

With a shake of your head, your defiance only grows, a glint of mischief dancing in your gaze. “Not until you tell me the rules.”

“Sunshine,” he warns, voice so grumbly that heat travels all over your body quicker than the sun burning you.

“Steve?” You hum with a flirty gaze, so teasing that Steve wants to fuck you right then and there, until he teaches you proper manners, until he shows you not to be a total fucking brat and not to roll your eyes at him, until he shows you that you’re his.

But, of course, he settles on a low grumble of, “You’re annoying.”

“You used to be more creative with the insults, Harrington.” Another teasing remark, and Steve rolls his tongue inside of his mouth.

With a smirk, he takes another step toward you, when your back hit the walls of the barn, only then you realise, he has you cornered. “You wanna know the cowboy hat rule, princess?” He asks all smugly.

Gaze meaner than he is, chest almost pressed against yours, voice so low that all you can do is slightly nod.

Your breath gets hitched in your throat when his face is mere inches away from yours, hot breath fanning against your cheeks, skin heating on the impact, that brattiness you wear as a mask quick to slip off when he’s all demanding. “You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” His tone is almost a growl, pupils blown wide, making you gulp, physically.

“What?” You blink, unsure of what he’s actually asking. Excitement jumping around in your tummy.

“You heard me. Wanna take me for a ride, Sunshine?” He is so goddamn close that you are sure he can hear the annoying tumble your heart does at the weight of what his words hold.

It makes you pause, gaze sticking on his, sometimes slipping away to his soft lips, almost to signal him of something, but all you can do is try to hide the embarrassment that burns your cheeks.

“Didn’t think so,” he scoffs, backing away just slightly.

His cowboy hat is too big on your head, tipping low over your eyes, possibly hiding your nervousness as you mutter, “What if I do?”

With a smooth motion, he flips it off from your head, holding it with his palm, away from you. “Get back to work, Sunshine.”

“I’m serious—”

“So am I, those horses ain’t gonna straddle their strap themselves, off. to. work,” he hisses, turning to leave.

You huff, heat still burning off your cheeks, more embarrassed than annoyed, yet you still don’t have it in yourself to let it go, you can’t let him have this. Win this.

Quick to snatch the hat back, “So the hat rule is, wear the cowboy hat, ride the cowboy, huh?” You mumble behind him, your voice failing you, yet you appear to be giggly, and Steve heaves a deep sigh of breath, before fully turning to you.

He halts a bit when he sees you once again, in his hat, tipped low, that stupidly addicting smirk gracing your slightly-open lips, hand on your hips, and all he wants to do is fuck you till you lose that attitude of yours.

“Stop,” he warns, taking a step closer to you but with a shake of your head you back away, and he sighs, loud and annoyed.

“Gimme that, sunshine!”

“Nuh-uh.” All teasing and bratty, and grating on Steve’s last nerve. You know this, yet you wanna keep pushing him, further and further, until he snaps, until he can’t take it anymore. You have no reason to do this, you’re supposed to hate him, think of him as an annoying asshole.

But the two of you are finally tethering on that line, the line between purely teasing each other out of spite, to teasing each other out of flirting, you know that, and you don’t wanna take a step back. “Prove it.”

You are all up in his face, and all he can do his roll his eyes, cheeks beetle red, frustration worn on his face. “Knock it off.”

You tut gently, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Not until you—” Your words are interrupted quickly when he snatches up the hat from your head in annoyance, making you gasp when he discarded it easily.

“Get back to work!” His voice raises, and it makes you take a deep breath.

Shit, did you fuck this up?

“What?” You question, entire body feeling dizzy. He takes a step closer.

“You heard me.”

Another step closer, his breaths come out in short gasps, frustration taking over him. “Get back to fuckin’ work, before I can’t stop myself.”

He is close. Too fucking close, and you can’t help the way your gaze droops down to his soft lips, slightly parted open, downturned from frustration. God, you realize how hot he is when he is angry, once again. “F—from what?”

He hesitates, before licking his lips. This is it. He wants, no, he desperately needs you. Needs to put you to your place. Teach you what happens to bratty girls like you. Show you what exactly the stupid rule is. “From fucking you in this goddamn barn.”

You release the breath you’ve been holding back, feeling small, so small under his gaze. Mouth hanging open, and all you want is him to pin you against the wall, have you screaming out his name. “From making sure I show you how the goddamn cowboy hat rule works.”

Your back is plastered against the wall, his hands are by your side, you are caged beneath him, chest rising in anticipation. “Is that what you want, honey, think you can handle all of that?” He’s so smug, and you don’t know what overtakes you when he’s all in control like this, you wanna obey him, make him happy, proud, so you bite back on your insults.

His smirk is dangerously alluring, and you’re under his spell.

“Please,” you beg, heat finds your cheeks again, you hate the hold he has on you.

He barks out a chuckle, so mean, yet as equally hot. “Please, what? Speak up,” he spits, rolling his tongue inside of the roof of his mouth, lips wearing a smirk.

“Ruin me,” your voice is small, meek, yet it makes him groan.

You’re such a good girl for him, and he wants nothing more than to ruin you. Fully. Completely. Ruin you for every other man.

His head ducks down to your neck, leaving a sloppy kiss before leaning into your ear, his breath hot on your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Goddamit darlin’, you gonna be the death of me, huh?”

You don’t—you can’t answer, you’re speechless, rubbing your thighs together desperately, seeking some friction, a touch, anything.

He levels with you again, dangerous gaze on your lips, fingertips brushing against your cheeks teasingly “You know what I always wanted to do, sunshine?” He coarses lowly.

“W—what?” You ask with a gulp, lips twitching with need.

He gives you another grin, that asshole. The pad of his thumb slowly caressing your lips now, making you shiver with hunger. “Always wanted to put you to your place, you and that damn smart mouth, always runnin’ it for no good reason. I’d give you a good reason for those pretty lips, huh? Use it the way I wanna use it, fill it the way I wanna feel it,” he grunts like he said the most normal thing, yet you’re already squirming, wanting to open your lips, take his fingers in your mouth and suck on them, show him how much of a good girl you can be for him.

He has you on such a hold already, and you can’t complain. For someone who seemed to be annoyed—hell, even hated him a few minutes ago, you feel crazy, batshit insane, all you want is him.

His fingertips play with your lips all teasingly, pupils blown wide, the other hand caresses your hair so possessively that you melt into his touch. “You gonna be good for me sweet thing?”

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. “Y—yes, sir.”

Sir.

Godfuckingdammit. You don’t know the hold you have on him, do you?

He bites back on the moan that rumbles in his throat, instead settling on a, “Good girl.” Your puppy dog eyes glint at the praise, and he makes a mental note of it. .

“Get on your knees f’me, darlin’,” he grumbles, and you’re quick to obey, not minding the uncomfortable feeling of the wooden floors scraping your knees, or the fact that anyone might’ve walked in, the door was locked, and there was probably no one around yet Mr. Harrington might’ve returned to the ranch at any moment. But he made you feel safe, somehow.

You look up at him with those doe-eyes again, making him suck in a breath before he unbuttons his jeans and pushes them off his hips, boxers so tight around his hard cock that he grunts involuntarily.

Your eyes go wide the second his erection springs free, almost hitting the tip of your nose, red, angry and leaking with pre-cum, he lets out a chuckle at your expression before grabbing the base of his cock.

Same eyes, looking up at him all hungrily, Steve feels the way blood rushes quickly to his cock, making him harder if that's even possible, with a groan he runs the leaking tip across your lips. “Open up.”

Your hand replaces his quickly, and he runs his fingers through several strands of your hair, teaching you how exactly he wants you.

You open your mouth wide, just like he likes it, tongue giving his slit kitten licks, moaning at the taste of his salty pre-cum, wrapping your plushy lips around his thick head, and sucking the life out of him, determined, and feigning innocence with the soft gaze you held.

Head thrown back, heavy boots planted on the harsh ground, he lets out a low groan, stroking your hair all softly. “Look at you s’pretty like this for me.”

His hand wraps tighter around your hair, pushing you onto him, making sure you gag a little and that only spurs you on, making you whine around his cock, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Cat got your tongue, darlin’?” He chuckles all meanly.

“God, do you have any idea how many times I wanted to shut up that bratty mouth like this?” He asks with grunts leaving his open mouth, hand working harshly around your head, mouth feeling like heaven the more you bob around his thick length, struggling to take all of him.

“Those pretty lips are—mmpf, shit—better stuffed with my cock than being a spoiled lil’ city girl runnin’ her mouth, ain’t that right, baby?” You nod meekly, angelic eyes seeking for his validation before you flatten your tongue around the sensitive part of his tip, struggling to take all of him in your mouth. Earning guttural moans, eyes squeezed shut as he feels your soft lips wrapped around him again.

“Fuck, sweet thing.” You can feel his filthy grunts straight in your core, all low and lewd that you almost moan around him again, he puts one hand on the wall, helping himself to better move in and out of your throat.

He knows if you keep this up, he’ll cum right and there, and fuck, he needs that. But he needs to be inside of you more.

You keep up your stroking, now adjusting yourself properly to start licking and sucking on his balls. “Sunshine, you need to s—stop,” the words barely leave his lips, he so doesn’t want you to stop. But, he needs to cum inside of you.

Yet, you don’t listen to him as your movement speeds up, determined to feel his load warming your throat, make him proud, and your mouth bobs harder around his length, making him growl at you harshly. “Sunshine,” he warns, pulling you by your hair.

You’re quick to take a deep breath of air once he pulls you off, looking up at him with the perfect innocent eyes, your lips wearing the prettiest pout. “Was that not good for you, Stevie?”

Stevie. That nickname makes his head spin faster, all he wants to do is fuck you against those stupid rustic walls, have you screaming out for him, the whole ranch filled with your filthy noises, no one was around anyway.

“You kiddin’, sweetheart?” He gives you a chuckle, wrapping his hands around your jaw, pulling you off the floor.

“You were fuckin’ amazing,” he hums, leaning down to kiss you, tasing the salty semen on your tongue.

His hands are quick to travel along to your waist, fingertips finding their way onto your panties rather quickly, earning a gasp out of you. “Need to be in here first, honey.”

You nod, so quickly that you can feel him grinning into the kiss, his hands are everywhere, yours are more or less the same, quick to get rid of his top, to feel his toned chest in your soft hands, your top is sprawled right next to his, revealing your pink and gold bra at him, breasts peeking out just enough to have him groan, big hands quick to get rid of them.

He has you caged against the amber walls, back hitting the rough material, making you hiss. Your skin heats at the impact, it’s filthy, lewd, and so public, but none of you even care enough to break the kiss. He settles between your thighs, his pants drooped to his ankles, hands rubbing across your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The sight of you so easily submitting to him, makes his cock grow harder than he thought was possible, looking so ethereal that Steve forgets all about everything else. “Sunshine,” he breathes, hands fiddling with the hem of your panties.

“Mhmm,” is all you can muster, legs slightly open for him, and he almost feels possessive over you, it’s entirely stupid, but he looks so fucking alluring with those dark chestnut eyes, layered hair a mess, and cock weeping entirely with the thought of you.

His thumb runs over the seam of your pussy, just a glimpse of how his fingers are going to ruin you, and you pulse and clench against him already. Wet. Drenched. And all ready to take him. “You’re soaked,” he groans.

Leaning further into your ear, “is that all for me, honey?” he rasps, desperate, needing your confirmation.

Heat grows in your cheeks faster than a scorching day in July, and he grins, again, all cocky and proud. “Yes,” you admit meekly, and Steve’s quick to kiss your worries away.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growls, swirling your wetness up and around your slit, almost toying with you, having you desperately mewl for him.

He can’t put his finger on it, what it is that draws him this much into you, but he’s hooked, so goddamn obsessed that he feels like an idiot, for being this much of an asshole, for acting like a grade school boy who’s pulling the pigtails of his crush. Like a stupid cliche.

“Stevie.” That nickname, again. Godfuckingdammit, Steve thinks. You have him so wrapped around your finger, it’s like a prayer, and he’s sure you’re not aware of it. And it drives him even crazier. “Please.”

“Talk to me.” His voice is low, lips now nipping at your neck, suckling, giving you all the marks you need.

“I need you,” you hum, eyes squeezed shut, desperate. His finger discard your panties and slide easily inside of you, your back is fully dipped into the well-worn walls with how good he feels, his thick fingers making their way in and out of your soppy cunt, whines leave your lips faster than you can comprehend.

“Ruin me, Steve, fully, completely.” You don’t know how those words leave past your lush lips, but your thighs ache with need, cunt throbbing for him and him only.

His eyes widen quickly, pure hunger quick to fill his veins, mouth hanging open, curses leaving his lips at how forward you are being. “Show me the cowboy hat rule, sir.”

Steve all but groans, mouth harshly on yours again, chests pressed together and you can feel how hard he truly is, rock stiff, and aching to be inside of you. The sheer size of how he feels against your thighs almost makes your eyes bulge again.

His fingers stop moving in and out of you, before you can whine, he spins you around so fast that you gasp loudly, hands immediately plastered on the wall, pleasure and excitement fills your tummy, but the fact that he’s seeing you all vulnerable like this is embarrassing enough that you try to close your legs.

He’s quick to stop you with a grin, rough hands landing on the back of your thighs, spreading them open while tutting you. “Nuh-uh. Don’t get all shy now, princess. Spread them open f’me.” You spread them a little, cunt throbbing with how close his fingers are.

He groans again once he fully gets a view of you like this, face down, ass up, your pussy slicked with your juices, at his mercy. “‘M gonna ruin you, honey, don’t you worry.” A dark chuckle barks out from his chest, sending chills down your spine, almost making you whine.

Fuck.

His hands are rough when he has you by your waist, bruising almost. Lining his cock in front of your slick core, he swipes the head of his reddened tip inside of you with one forceful thrust. Your plushy lips open slightly, stealing your breath away as you try to adjust to his size.

Shit, shit, shit, he feels even better than you fucking expected.

His cock splits you open, filling every goddamn inch of you. You don’t know how many times you thought this, but, shit, he’s as big as the gossip in this small town says he is.

His thrusts are slow, grunts so loud and heavenly that it spurs you on more and more. His weight on you, the bruising hold. You feel him everywhere. On your back, hips, and fucking inside of you.

“F-fucking, fuck!” he growls, leaving nibbles all over your shoulder and back, even with the fact that this was Steve, and he was rough and filthy, it was wildly intimate, so wildly intimate that you could feel your heart pounding inside of your chest.

“How are you this fuckin’ tight, s-sweetheart?” One of his hands travel up to your neck, roughly holding you down, hips slamming into you with such force that you cry out.

He watches the way his girthy cock disappears in and out of you, wetting himself with your juices, filling every inch of you. “Doin’ s’good for me, princess.” His praises are heavenly, making your chest swell with pride.

He moves inside of your soppy cunt with short thrusts. Completely bottomed out, thrusting against the same sensitive spot every time as his balls, heavy with cum grind against your clit, with each movement, making you cry out his name, babbles leaving your mouth. “Yeah, you like this don’t ya? Want me to ruin this slutty pussy, huh? Ruin it for every other men?”

You nod all dumbly, yet, it isn’t enough for him. He wants to hear you, have you scream it out. “Say it, sweet thing, fuckin’ say it,” he groans, coarse voice making tingles appear everywhere on your skin.

“I-I love it, Stevie, want you to ruin me for everyone else, mmpf,” you moan all fucked out, eyes rolled all the way back to your head, hips desperately grinding against him for some more friction.

He picks up his pace, fucking into you with reckless abandon.“F-fuck doll, won’t last if you keep runnin’ that dirty mouth.”

But his words just encourage you to keep going, gasps coming out in short breaths as you manage to drive him crazier. “All yours, sir, all yours.”

He grunts at that, one of his arms snaking around and under your hips to find a better angle, lifting you up so that he can fuck his cock deeper into you, make you feel how fucking big he really is. “That’s right, baby, it’s all fuckin’ mine.”

Hot tears spill down your cheeks, entire body burning with it. The slick sounds of his hips driving into you, your moans, his low groans are all that fill the room. So fucking filthy, and you can feel yourself clenching around him.

It’s all too much; his hands everywhere, the lewd noises he makes, how deep his girthy cock is bottomed out inside of you, making you feel every ridge. It’s fucking perfect, and you desperately need to cum.

And of fucking course, Steve can feel your pussy gripping him, so tight that he knows he’s gonna cum right after you do. “Gonna cum f’me, huh? Such a good girl,” he praises, again, knowing the effect it has on you and all you can do is gasp and weakly nod.

One of his thumbs quickly finds your clit, making your pussy throb around him in pure ecstasy, all the overstimulation enough to have you crying like a bitch in heat. “Give it to me, angel,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses everywhere on your skin.

His movements pick up, padded thumb rubbing circles around your clit, the other hand landing on your nipples, twisting them while pumping into you, it’s all too much that it makes you sob and beg for him.

“Cream my cock, let me ruin you completely, darlin’” It’s all the confirmation you need as your orgasm builds and washes through you, body exploding with pleasure, spreading through your skin as you scream out his name.

Your pussy squeezes and pulses around his cock, and he fucking knows, he won’t last, not in the slightest. “S-shit, sweet thing, gonna make me cum with all those filthy noises.”

“Want that, honey, hmm? Wanna be filled with my cum? Show everybody in this town who owns ya? Owns this tight lil’ cunt?” He feels it, that pure hunger for you over taking him, coarse voice, dark eyes, like a man possessed. His fingers dig further into your skin as he desperately chases his orgasm, enjoying the sloppy sounds your pussy makes as he drives into you.

“P-please, Stevie, n-need your cum,” you weakly hum. And it fucking breaks him. Hips losing all rhythm when he spills his warm load into you, twitching inside of you once he pumps you full of his cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sunshine,” he breathes, collapsing on your back, both of you trying to come down from the high. He slips free of you slowly, his cum dripping down your thighs, making him grin proudly.

“S-steve,” you weakly murmur, collapsing in his arms. He holds you down, slight kisses left on your back, delicate in a way you have never seen him before. Yet, the two of you don’t mention it, “let me take you home,” he mutters, a gentle hold on you that makes you feel warm.

“N-no.”

“No?” Intrigued, his breath gets caught in his throat, the look you give him is so sultry that the blood rushes to his cock in an instant again. Fucking fuck, what have you done to him.

“We still haven’t followed the rules,” you purr sweetly, causing him to raise his brows in excitement, tempting him further and further.

“The rule was wear the hat, ride the cowboy, wasn’t it?” You question with a slight grin, eyes lulled, still fucked out.

Your fingertips gently grazed against his chest, hairy and slicked with sweat, his sudden dominance fading when you were so quick to switch from begging to cum underneath him to gaining that flirty, giddy personality again. Already leaving him a mess. “Y-yeah,” he murmured, watching you hungrily, his cock already weeping again.

“Then, sit down and lemme take care of you, cowboy,” you ordered again, shuddering breaths leaving him in an instant.

Now you were going to ruin him.

Fully.

Completely.

And Steve couldn’t be more infatuated. You were truly his demise.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fics #steve harrington smut #steve harrington imagines #cowboy!steve harrington

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stupidlittlespirit · 10 days

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Rating: NSFW (kissing) Type: Long form, Stanford Pines x Reader Tags: Enemies to lovers, Academic rivals to lovers, arguing that turns into making out, bullying, no pronouns used, minor injuries, making up, injury care, art student!Reader Word count: 19,567 (yikes!) My other works: here on tumblr and here on Ao3!

You're forced to work with Ford, your sworn rival, for a college project. Things quickly get out of control.

@sleeplessdreamer14 asked for this so I hope it's okay dude!

Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pines’, joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading ‘MID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.’

Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesn’t miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.

Oh no no no no no.

There is never, and will never, be anything wrong with a little bit of friendly competition.

Competition drives innovation, innovation drives achievement and achievement drives happiness. A harmless rivalry can benefit just about anybody, provided it stays as just that: harmless.

Whatever you have going on with Stanford Pines, however, is decidedly not that.

Naturally it's all his fault, of course.

You've shared a space with the man for only a couple of months now, since the beginning of the second college semester of Backupsmore, and you're absolutely positive that you've never met such a stuck up asshole in all your life.

Pines had joined your Fine Art class late. Significantly so, in fact. The course had already been halfway through its first year when he had darkened the doorstep of Studio 1B with his stupid tweed jackets and his fluffy hair, and even at the time you can recall how taken aback you'd been when Professor Stonepoor had announced his joining.

Stonepoor, a surly old chap with bright silver hair and a penchant for chain smoking indoors (one which you’re not sure you can begrudge him, honestly, because if you had to work in a place like Backupsmore, you’re sure cigarettes would be the mildest form of distraction at your disposal), had announced Pines’ unorthodox arrival to the studio one wet September afternoon.

Before any of you had had the chance to take your usual seats for the afternoon, Professor Stonepoor had clapped his hands together from behind his cheap desk and caught everyone’s attention the moment you had all filed inside. Standing at his side, Stanford had shifted uncomfortably from one loafered foot to the other under the abrupt attention of the room.

“Kids,” Stonepoor had said, in his bored, trademark voice akin to gravel being dragged across concrete. “This is Stanford Pines. I trust you’re familiar, yes?”

And of course, the entire class had nodded their affirmation, yourself included.

Barely six months into the year and Pines had already left quite the impression upon his fellow student body, a far less complimentary achievement than it might sound. Stanford had garnered a reputation of sorts, almost from his first day of term, and unlike most other rumours that run alongside young men of fraternity age, Stanford had become known for being the exact opposite of the trope: Extremely intelligent and extraordinarily lame.

Stanford Pines was, as the kids say these days, a Square. As strait-laced as they came: He never attended parties, not even when he managed to garner pity invites from some of the nicer students on campus.

He didn't take drugs, he didn’t skip classes, and he didn't drink. All Pines ever did was flex his abnormally large brain on every other student at the school. Everyone on campus knew Stanford Pines was a genius, but no one knew it more than Pines himself. Belligerently and exceptionally intelligent, and utterly obnoxious about it, Stanford never cared to let others forget it.

Professor Stonepoor had nodded at the collective hum of acknowledgement from the other students and gestured vaguely to Stanford. “Well, fortunately for you lucky people, Mr Pines will be joining the class for the remainder of the term.”

With little care for the rudeness of the action, you’d scoffed aloud and questioned exactly why a student with no artistic inclination would join a fucking fine art class halfway through term. Everybody knew Pines was a die-hard scientist wannabe, what on earth would he be doing here?

You can still recall how Stanford had frowned down his aquiline nose at your comment, despite the disinterested air he’d displayed suggesting he felt similarly.

You’d scowled right back and held defiant eye contact with him for as long as he dared.

Mr Stonepoor had rolled his eyes and replied, very simply: “Ford has…. Run out of classes to take.”

“What?” You’d laughed, disbelieving and mildly confused.

“He’s completed significantly more of his major ahead of schedule and the dean thought it might be good for him to, and I quote, ‘soak up as much education as possible’ during his time with us.”

Which was, of course, utter bullshit. The dean had probably panicked about not receiving a full year’s worth of tuition and tried to drag out his stay in this desperately underfunded shit hole for as long as possible.

You hadn’t offered more than a sceptical arch of your brow and Mr Stonepoor had met you with a disinterested shrug before simply ushering Pines towards the free desks.

At first, you'd tried to play nice despite your initial annoyance at being disturbed. Perhaps Pines would be willing to take a back seat in a class that wasn't his forte? You'd approached him as he'd stood awkwardly by an empty desk on the far left of the room, a hand outstretched in a stiff welcome and your name on the tip of your tongue.

Stanford had regarded your hand like it was covered in bees, his big, brown eyes flicking from your fingertips to your eyes, before turning away to rifle through his briefcase (and honestly, who carried a briefcase in college?) as though you'd never even said a word. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

In spite of his lack of manners, you can recall how surprised you’d been at the sound of his voice. You’d never crossed paths with him before and certainly never held a conversation with him, and it had come as a mild shock that such a voice belonged to somebody so….

Well, somebody so like him.

You’d expected a nasally tone, something more fitting of such a nerdy exterior, but instead Stanford sounded…. Strong. So completely at odds with his unimpressive stature and awkward aura, that for half a second you had been too surprised to respond.

And then his snarky address had caught up with you and you’d found your tongue well enough.

Teeth gritted, you'd applied your best faux smile and steamrolled over his rudeness. “You know, you'll need to catch up on last semester's work. I'm the highest ranking student in this class, I'd be happy to show you some of my-!”

“No need,” Pines had dismissed you without looking up. “I completed it last night. Professor Stonepoor has my folder.”

You'd laughed, until it had become clear that he wasn't actually attempting a bad joke. “You…. Are you telling me you completed an entire semester's worth of work over the summer?”

It had been Stanford's turn to laugh then and finally he'd faced you. “Oh, no,” He’d scoffed. “I did it in two weeks.”

“Sorry, you what?”

“No need to apologise,” Stanford had said before giving you the kind of smirk that screamed just how much he knew his words were intended to provoke.

Your teeth had been ground further down.

“The dean asked me to join the class a few days after we returned for term and well, as much as I consider it a waste of my time, he said it might benefit me, so I figured why not.” Stanford had shrugged.

“‘A waste of your time’?” You'd frowned.

“Of course,” Stanford scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, who pays thousands of dollars to study something as menial as art? College should be used for education, not for daydreaming and doodling.”

It had taken every ounce of decorum you owned not to punch his lights out, and from there, things had only gotten worse.

The next time you'd attended class, motivated to simply ignore Pines (and maybe to show off your extensive knowledge of your chosen subject to him to ensure he knew who he was sharing the floor with), you'd made a beeline for your usual desk only to find the object of your ire already sitting in it.

The seat by the East window of the studio was yours. Nobody else’s. You’d had a claim over it for the better part of the school year and nobody in class had attempted to challenge it. Not until Pines’ arrival, anyway.

At your insistence that he find somewhere else, Stanford has brushed you off yet again: “Your name isn’t on it. Can’t you take the one in front?”

Somewhere behind you, a classmate had hissed through clenched teeth and another had choked on a poorly stifled laugh; your exchange with one another was apparently entertaining enough to warrant a minor audience.

“No,” you’d snipped. “The light here is best, that’s why I sit in this one.”

Pines had hummed thoughtfully before finally meeting your eyes. “Well, now I’m definitely not giving it up.”

And so, he had commandeered your own seat from you in front of the entire fucking class.

But he hadn’t stopped there, oh no.

Your top student status had been more or less demolished in the space of a week.

You’ve always prided yourself on your work, on being number one amongst your classmates. You work hard and it has always paid off, as evidenced by your grades and your standing. Except, Stanford had practically appeared out of thin air and blown you out of the water immediately.

He raised his hand faster, he was quicker with his answers, more precise with his art history timelines and to make matters even more utterly miserable: he’d turned out to be an exceptionally talented artist.

His work was near-photorealistic in its detail, his anatomy was excellent and he’d picked up his colour theory in less than two classes on the subject. A significant improvement on the time it had taken you.

Stanford Pines absolutely dominated the classroom. Your classroom.

Your passion, your talent, your achievement. All of it had been bulldozed by the guy.

Of course, never having been one for going down without a fight, you had bitten back hard: pulling all nighters and skipping parties to ensure you’d still topped the charts in your scores. You’d even beaten him a couple of times, and the tangible frustration you’d felt from him had been enough to encourage you to keep at it.

That’s how the entire thing had started: You and Stanford Pines vying for top dog status of Studio 1B, horns locked and grievances held, no matter the day, no matter the project, no matter the reason. You absolutely had to beat him.

Today has been no different.

Class is coming to a close for the evening and you've spent most of it battling with Stanford, as per usual, over answers. The two of you have been going back and forth together for the better part of forty minutes before Mr Stonepoor manages to cut in whilst Stanford is taking a breath.

“While I appreciate your passion for Winckelmann, Mr Pines,” Stonepoor says, with little enthusiasm to match his words. “We really ought to be finishing up. I need to discuss the upcoming projects with all of you.”

Stanford's mouth shuts with an audible click! and you shoot him a smug look, pleased to have gotten the final word in class.

Stanford rolls his eyes.

“As you all know, in the next week you’ll be beginning work on your mid-term projects. Alongside your mini-exhibition, you’ll be expected to complete a short presentation on your chosen topic and explain the sense of meaning behind your themes.” Professor Stonepoor continues, oblivious to your exchange. “Except, this time things will be a little different.”

Stonepoor’s words are enough to get you to halt in your gloating and pay abrupt attention again.

“This won’t be a solo project, as the others have been. This time, you’ll be partnered up and expected to work together with a classmate to show how well you can collaborate with your peers.” Professor Stonepoor takes a seat in his creaky chair and procures a lighter from the top pocket of his suit jacket. He’s clearly preparing to deal with the stress that will inevitably come his way.

You raise your hand. “Will we get to pick our partners, Professor?” You ask, cautiously hopeful. You’ve only a few friends in Backupsmore: Jennifer, who you sit beside currently, and Melissa, who attends opposing classes to you but who technically counts as a peer. If you’re going to have to work with anybody, it’ll be them.

Stonepoor lights his cigarette and fixes you with a look that makes something cold settle in your stomach. “No,” he says simply, and the amusement in his voice fills you with uncomfortable concern.

Before anybody can question him, the shrill sound of the bell rings out and the rest of the students dutifully begin to pack their things away. As much as you’d like to question Stonepoor further, for now you’ll have to hope he does himself a favour and sticks you with somebody you’ll get along with.

It’s not like he’d partner you up with Pines of all people anyway. It’s unlikely he’ll want to cause himself more stress, right?

Right?

You’re lounging on the Quad later that evening, killing time with a couple of classmates and sheltering from the bright sun under the shade of an ancient oak tree, when the topic comes up again.

Thumbing through the battered copy of Pride and Prejudice on your lap, you listen to your friends complain back and forth about the strife in their lives until their annoyances invoke you directly.

“I can’t take another day of you two arguing like that, y’know,” says Jennifer, your fellow artist in 1B.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you mutter, picking at the corner of the novel and only barely paying attention.

“You and Stanford Pines,” she clarifies, and you can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “You’re driving everybody nuts.”

“It’s his fault,” You shrug one shoulder. “If he wasn’t such an asshole about, like, everything, I wouldn’t-”

“Be such an asshole back?” Jennifer finishes. “God, why don’t you two just fuck it out already?”

Her comment is enough to get you to snap your head up, attention on your novel shattered instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” You exclaim, almost choking on your tongue.

“Oh, come on,” Melissa snorts. “There’s enough tension between you two to kill the Professor ten times over.”

“And the rest of us,” Jennifer adds, high fiving the other girl. “Poor Stonepoor always looks on the verge of a breakdown when you guys start fighting.”

Melissa laughs. “Yeah, and besides, everybody’s noticed it. You’d win me ten bucks if you jumped his bones.”

“What do you- Are you taking bets on my non-existent sexual chemistry?!” You ask, appalled. “You’re not even in the same class as us, you’ve got no idea about my…. Thing, with Pines.”

Perhaps that isn’t the most ideal choice of words, but still.

As though she can read your mind, Melissa shoots Jennifer an amused look.

You scoff, shaking your head vehemently. “You’re wrong. I can’t stand him and he definitely can’t stand me. I’d rather puke in my hands and clap than touch that guy.”

There’s absolutely no way you’d consider anything of the sort with Stanford Pines. Sure, objectively he isn’t too bad to look at: He’s tall and broad shouldered, with a stocky form in spite of his lack of sporting ability, and he’s got a nice enough face, but he’s nothing special. Puppy dog eyes and strong features are ten a penny, aren’t they?

“Anyway, I think he’s kind of cute,” Melissa says, bumping shoulders with you. “Y’know, in a loser type of way.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re dating Jamie,” you grumble under your breath. The less said about her blockheaded jock boyfriend, the better…. “You like losers a little too much.”

Melissa opens her mouth to defend her pet idiot, but she’s cut off by someone shouting your name.

You glance up just as someone skids to a halt in front of your group, their trainers sliding on the poorly maintained lawn. You can vaguely recognise him as a kid from the studio…. Danny? You think. Darryl? “Oh, hey, uh….”

“Damian,” says Damian, looking a little annoyed. “We’re in Studio 1B together. Have been for a while now.”

“Right….” You give him an apologetic smile. “What’s up?”

Damian pauses, like he hadn’t expected to actually have to voice his reason for catching your attention. He looks uncomfortable and it sets your teeth on edge.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, shifting to stand up. “Has something hap-”

“Have you, uh….” He clears throat stiffly. “Have you seen the partner listing for the mid-term project yet?”

You frown. “No, I didn’t even know it was up.”

Damian flinches again and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. It went up like twenty minutes ago….You might wanna take a look. Figured you’d want to know..”

You’re not sure you’ve ever moved so fast in your life. Without more than a thanks to Damian, you toss your paperback into your bag and leap to your feet, barely hearing the annoyed shout of your friends as you scramble past them to head straight for the arts building. You take the stairs two at a time, weaving between crowds of other students, your heart beating so hard you think it might burst right through your shirt.

Why would Damian bother to alert you? You’re fairly certain you’ve only ever exchanged niceties with the guy over the paintbrush station, he’d have no reason to bother you about something like this unprovoked. Not unless….

“You’re driving everybody nuts….”

As you round the landing of the stairs, you spot the old stained door that leads to Studio 1B, along with the bulletin board that’s positioned right at its side. There's a small gathering of students around it, all talking amongst themselves, and you slip right through them to get up close to the A4 pieces of paper that's tacked to the cork surface.

Your eyes scan it, desperately searching for confirmation that you're overreacting and that Damian is probably just being helpful, right? Not forewarning of an incoming storm like you fear he might be, until….

Oh.

Oh, no.

Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name, and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pines’. Joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading ‘MID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.’

Oh no no no no no.

You can feel the eyes of other students of 1B burning into your back. Clearly your predicament is common knowledge already. You feel a warmth burn on the base of your neck and very carefully, you avoid meeting their gaze.

Perhaps there's still time to talk your professor out of it. It's not even 5PM yet, he'll still be knocking about in the classroom for a while and if you’re quick, it might be your best and only opportunity to talk him into reconsidering. Surely he'll be easily convinced to change his mind? It's not a secret that he's more than a little fed up with your bickering; you're certain that the only reason he allows you and Stanford to go back and forth so often is because it means he can put less effort into teaching the rest of the class. He practically owes you both one!

Ditching the throng of students, you press your ear to the door of the studio. It sounds like somebody is already talking to Stonepoor , but whoever it is will have to wait. Right now, you're on a mission to ensure your sanity stays intact.

You hammer a quick series of knocks on the door before wrenching it open and ducking inside without even bothering to wait for a welcome, your protests already loaded in your mouth: “Professor Stonepoor , there's some kind of mistake on the-!”

Your words die a quick death on your tongue when you realise who it is that's currently talking to him.

Stanford Pines looks over at you from where he's standing, arms crossed and brows furrowed, in front of your teacher's desk, evidently as equally as annoyed as you are. He's wearing a blue button down shirt and brown corduroy pants, and his hair looks messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it in distress.

You know how he feels.

Stonepoor leans sideways slightly in his chair, another cigarette in his mouth (he really must be stressed), and peers around Stanford's broad form at you. He doesn't seem very pleased to have you here.

“A mistake?” Asks Stonepoor, tiredly.

“Yes,” you say assuredly, ignoring the way Stanford watches you approach. “On the partner list. You put me and…. Him,” you struggle to keep the disdain from your voice and Stanford scoffs. “Together.”

Stonepoor laughs and for once he sounds genuinely amused. “No mistake there. You'll both be working together on this project.”

Instead of vomiting your heart, it drops out through your ass and a cold dread settles in its place. “What?!”

“Precisely my sentiment,” says Stanford, nodding. “Why on Earth are we being paired up? I could do far better work alone, I don't need someone dragging me along-”

“‘Dragging you along’?!” You snap, scowling over at him. “I'm perfectly competent, thank you. I don't even see why we'd need to work together out of everyone else in the class! If Stanford wants to work alone, why can't he-”

“Because this is a paired assignment,” says Professor Stonepoor slowly, like he's talking to an idiot. “And you two are top of the class. I'd like to see what you can come up with when you put your heads together willingly, instead of butting them back and forth.”

Stanford huffs, petulant. “But I-”

“But nothing, Mr Pines,” Stonepoor sighs, exhaling a long cloud of smoke and sitting back in his chair. “You're an excellent student, Stanford, truly-”

Stanford puffs out his chest at the acknowledgement and you have to force yourself not to pull a face to illustrate your disgust.

“-But you're still a student,” Stonepoor goes on. “And I'm your professor. It's my call, and I say you two need to learn how to work cooperatively for once. You won't get anywhere if all you do is piss each other off, so the decision stands. Work together.”

You want to argue more and you can tell that Stanford does too, but Stonepoor isn't having it. It quickly becomes clear that you'd each have better luck arguing with the stack of still-drying canvases in the corner rack of the room.

The moment you open your mouth, he holds a hand up to silence you. “If you can't get along and you can't produce something worth my time, I'll give you both the lowest grade and you can fight it out over who gets to hang that on their wall. Do I make myself clear?”

And just like that, your fate is sealed.

You're going to have to work with the one person you like least, whether it destroys your sanity or not.

Stanford sighs, long suffering and put upon, and once you've accepted your situation, he follows you from the classroom and out into the hallway. Thankfully it appears most of the people who had been lingering around initially have moved on, leaving the corridor uncomfortably quiet and the perfect place to lay down some organisation.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to Stanford.

“So, here's the deal-”

“Why don't we just-”

You both speak at the same time, words rushing out in a hurry to beat one another to the point, and Stanford sighs.

“Look, I'm as apprehensive about this whole thing as you are, believe me,” he says. “I'd be perfectly happy to work alone but it seems as though we're just going to have to get along for this whether we want to or not.”

As much as it pains you to admit it, he's right. Stonepoor has made that perfectly clear. You’re not going to let this fucker leave a blemish on your record and you’re sure he feels similarly.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning against the classroom door. The stress of all this has already exhausted you and you haven't even had one on one time with him yet. God, this is going to suck. “Let's just…. Agree a truce for now, right? We get through the next few weeks, get our heads down and then we can go right back to how things are supposed to be. Deal?”

Stanford nods. “Deal.”

You mirror him and yank your bag up your shoulder. “Starting tomorrow, meet me in the library. The art history section. We can work out what we want to do and build from there. Sound good?”

It doesn’t look like it sounds good to him, but to his credit, Stanford nods stiffly. “Be there at six.”

“Done.”

As expected, Stanford is utterly unbearable to work with. If, that is, what you’re doing can even be compared to working together.

From the moment your ass touches the seat opposite him at the library table, he rubs you the wrong way. For one thing, he doesn’t even greet you. He doesn’t even so much as look up at your arrival, for god’s sake. Instead, he keeps his big nose buried in a dusty book he’s reading and says: “You’re late.”

You cast a glance at the wall clock to see that you are, technically, about four minutes behind when you said you'd be here for. That doesn’t mean you’re going to take the heat for it though.

“Barely,” you mutter, dumping your bag onto the table and making his thermos wobble.

That’s enough to get him to look up.

Stanford frowns and catches it before it can fully tip over, avoiding a spill. “If we set a meeting time, I’d appreciate it if you kept to it,” he says snippily.

You nod, but you’re not really taking his chastisement on board. You’re too busy checking out the array of books he has splayed open in front of him like a weathered old cheeseboard for his perusal. You’re expecting them to be books on the Renaissance or maybe some old masters biographies (he seems like the type to enjoy the classics), but when you peer closer you’re surprised to see that they’re predominantly all physics books. Even the yellow legal pad at his elbow is full of mathematical equations.

“Not interrupting something, am I?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at his work.

Stanford clears his throat and snaps his book shut before you can gawp much more. “Of course you are,” he murmurs, beginning to clear them away. “Art is hardly my most prominent area of work, you know. Some of us are studying for more than one thing, hence the importance of time management.”

“And just how many things are you studying for, Stanford?” You say, amused by how easily you can get under his skin. “I hope they won’t get in the way of this project.”

Stanford furrows his impressive brows at you. “Just because I don’t care about art, that doesn’t mean I’d let my work slip,” he says as he piles the textbooks up. “And I’m taking five degrees, thank you.”

“Five?!” You say, a little bit louder than is appropriate for the setting.

Stanford shushes you, as do a few more students at other tables, and you offer them an apologetic wave before repeating yourself at a more suitable stage whisper: “Five degrees? How the fuck are you managing that?”

Stanford scoffs, sitting forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the table. “With a great deal of talent and commitment, of course,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

Holy shit, you think. That’s insane. As much as you want to fire off a snappy comment about big headedness, you have to admit that perhaps some of it is warranted if the man can manage five fucking degrees in one go.

“I intend to take more but I’m focusing on those for now. I plan to make it to PhD as quickly as possible so I need to concentrate and manage my efforts accordingly. I’d hate to throw off my groove by picking up random, useless classes that I’ll never use again.” He pauses to bark a laugh. “Not that this isn’t exactly that, mind you…. No offence.”

You roll your eyes. “Every offence taken. Art might not be as academically lauded as science or maths, but it’s just as important.”

Ford snorts as he shoves his books into his briefcase, mildly amused by your comment.

“I’m serious, Stanford,” you say, defensive. “How do you think you get those illustrations in your anatomy textbooks, for example?”

“Those are different,” Stanford says, waving you off. “They serve a purpose.”

Jesus.... This guy’s grandiosity knows no bounds. “All art serves a purpose for somebody. Just because it doesn’t serve your every purpose, doesn’t make it useless,” you scoff. “Art informs science just as much as science does art.”

Stanford opens his mouth to answer back but he seems to fall short of actually finding the words to fire off at you. Behind his eyes, you can practically see the gears whirring and ticking as he weighs up your statement in his mind, and after a moment, he exhales the air he’d saved to fight back with through his nose, sharp and short. The tips of his ears are a little pink and he looks decidedly annoyed.

It strikes you suddenly that you might have just accidentally bested your sworn rival over a ridiculously simple concept. Your skin prickles with righteous pride and you fix him with an assured smirk, absurdly pleased to have beaten him so casually.

Rather than apologise, Stanford simply ignores your statement and flips through his yellow legal pad, settling on a clean page and placing it between you both. “If you're done debating me,” he says, clearing his throat. “I suppose we ought to figure out our roles, yes?”

“I’m not debating you, Stanford,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. Sure, technically you won your point, but you’re not actually trying to beat him in this discussion any more than you are just bringing the truth to his attention. He really can be a misanthrope sometimes. “We’re socialising. Normal people do it all the time, so I’ve heard.”

He looks a little taken aback at that, and you can't help but think the owlish way he blinks at you suits him quite nicely in comparison to usual scrutinising stare. “Oh,” he says. “Right.” He nods quickly and averts his gaze downward to the pad.

It's painfully clear he isn't used to being spoken to on such a level. You almost feel a little bad for him. It must be hard to make friends when you're all work and no play, and especially when someone has the aura of a person who'd rather be laying on train tracks than holding menial conversation….

Mentally, you yank on the reins of that line of thought: you are absolutely not going to feel bad for someone that's always such a jerk to you, and to everybody else. No way.

Stanford taps the pad of paper between you both. “I can do most of the work. You’ll just follow along and I’ll write in some speaking parts for you, so that way you’ll still be included in the grade,” he says, rolling his shoulders and slipping back into the usual aura of asshole-ness.

There goes that empathy.

“What?” You stare at him like he’s gone mad, the smile sliding off your face. “Absolutely not. This is as much my project as it is yours! We can go fifty-fifty, that way it’s totally fair.”

“No disrespect,” says Stanford, and you can tell he’s about to say something that intends fully to illustrate how much he doesn’t mean that caveat. “But your history and research is lacking, and you tend to focus more on the intricacies of the piece than on the entirety of the project. I’d be happy to shoulder most of the work. That way we’ll have fewer weak points.”

You grip the edge of the table, hard. Weak points? Who does this guy think he is?!

“I want to earn my grade, Stanford,” you say, quite admirably keeping the anger from your tone. “Maybe you’re used to working with people who are happy to sit in for the ride and get top marks for doing fuck all, but I’m not that kind of person. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me as such.”

He regards you for a moment, seemingly nonplussed by your adamant refusal to accept the easiest option, and for a moment you think you’re going to have to fight it out with him.

You’d rather not get banned from the only library Backupsmore owns for beating him to death with his own physics books, but you’re not going to just let him take control like he so clearly wants to.

However, much to your surprise, once he’s finished turning over your words in that big brain of his again, he nods. “Fine. If you think you can do it, have at it.”

You’re astounded he’s given in so easily until he adds:

“But if you start to drag me down then I won’t hesitate to scrap whatever you’ve come up with and do it all again from scratch myself.”

There it is.

As an afterthought, he tacks on: “And if we're going to be partners, you might as well call me Ford. I prefer it.”

A nickname? That's awfully familiar of him…. But you suppose if he prefers it then you'll bite.

“Fine,” you say. “Then let’s do this, Ford.”

And if you’re not mistaken, he might even smile a little at that.

This is going to be a weird couple of weeks….

Nothing much changes in the classroom.

The two of you still go back and forth like your lives depend on it, much to the visible chagrin of your professor and peers.

At first, your pairing with Ford had been the talk of the studio. The other students had made offhand comments about it all behind your back, but none had brought it up to your face.

Melissa and Jennifer had been as amused as they were apprehensive about it all, both of them begging you to at least try and get along for everybody’s sake, but of course all you’d manage to do for the first week or two was complain and lament to them about the entire situation.

“He’s a total nightmare! A complete control freak and a perfectionist. I can’t survive another day with him, I swear,” you froth to the girls over lunch one afternoon, after yet another frustrating session spent with Ford.

The entirety of the study time had been spent arguing back and forth about painting techniques, and you had had to leave before you’d throttled him with a cleaning rag.

Every complaint fell on deaf ears, of course. Both Jennifer and Melissa only ever exchanged mutual looks of exasperation with one another any time you moaned about him and neither seemed to offer much more than a conciliatory ‘that sucks’ with each grievance you bring them.

Eventually, you and Ford had come to the agreement of using ‘uniqueness’ as the basis of your project.

The idea had been brought up at the start of the third meeting, once everything had been arranged for responsibilities and chores, when Ford had dropped into conversation that he held a penchant for the strange and unusual.

Although your initial reaction had been to disagree simply on principle, the idea had been interesting enough that you’d caved without much argument.

When you questioned why his interest lay in things like cryptids and paraphenomena when he clearly lauded himself as a serious scientist, he’d given you a strange look that you had struggled to decipher.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he’d asked toward the end of your second week together, watching as you’d painted fine details onto the fur of thylacine one rainy Tuesday evening.

You’d shrugged. “Because you’re a nerd?”

That was the most obvious answer, wasn’t it? Excluded by his peers and his own intelligence, he probably felt a kind of kinship with things that others didn’t accept. Perfectly understandable, you supposed.

Whilst you’re no genius, you’ve never been immune to exclusion. You can recognise traits in monsters that you might share with them, in the ways that nobody ever believes in them.

His interest made sense and for some reason, it had even made you feel a little more…. Connected to him. And while you’d rather die than admit that aloud to anyone, a secret awareness of empathy for the guy wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“No,” Ford had replied, coming to stand behind you. “It’s because I…”

You’d lifted your head from your work, glancing over your shoulder and craning your neck to stare up at him expectantly.

Ford had paused as he’d met your eyes, unsure of an answer for only the second time in your presence, before he’d cleared his throat and looked away again. “It hardly matters. I suppose you’re right.”

He had stood so close behind you after that, silently observing; the scent of his cologne, all spice and musk, filling your nose and making your mouth water.

You had struggled to concentrate then, but you’re sure it had been for no specific reason, of course. Just a simple case of being uncomfortable with having someone in your personal space. That was all. Nothing more.

Still, Ford pushed harder for results than any other project partner you can recall having. Possibly even harder than any teacher you'd ever had, too.

Despite giving you the grace to put your own touch on the project, it had become clear very quickly that Ford was decidedly not very good at collaborations.

He worked at a break-neck speed and with laser precision in everything he did, whether he was passionate about the subject or not, and if you couldn’t keep up? Well, that was a personal failing on your part, obviously.

His intensity had built up very quickly and it hadn't taken long to feel less like you were partnering equally on a job and more like you were being dragged along in the dirt by an unruly workhorse.

Long hours in the studio weren’t unheard of for you, but pouring over your canvases until the wee hours of the early morning every night? Less so. Arguments over techniques and methods weren't uncommon, and unrequested criticism from Ford quickly became the norm.

Lack of sleep and total dedication to the project combined with all your other classes had begun to take a toll on you. For Ford, it seemed he barely needed sleep or lunch breaks, but for your much more average ability, you couldn't quite say the same.

Even your arguments in class had become less and less heated as you'd lost the free energy to fight it out with him.

The first time you'd almost dozed off during a study session in the library for background research, Ford had clicked his fingers in front of your closed eyes with the loudest snap known to man, jerking you awake and almost causing you to fall out of your seat.

“If you can't keep up, just say so,” Ford had quipped, going back to his elegant cursive-filled page of notes. “I told you I'd be happy to take over.”

Of course, you'd told him to fuck off. No way would you be seen dead giving him what he wanted. No matter how exhausted you got, regardless of the pressure on yourself, you absolutely would not give in…..

Which is why today, you find yourself slumped before your half finished canvas, vision blurring at the edges from lack of rest and head throbbing painfully.

There's only one week left of prep time for the project and you're not even sure you'll live to see the fruits of your labour at this point. Your back aches from sitting at awkward angles and leaning over your work for one too many hours a day, your hand is painfully stiff from gripping pencils and paintbrushes 24/7, and alongside the pressures of this project, you've still got to contend with your other classes too.

Fine Arts degrees aren't all about painting nice pictures and using free time to kick back and slack off, despite what some people may think. Your grades are important to you and you're pushing yourself in every other class you have too: history, sculpting, printmaking and more. You're spread as thin as you can be and it's taking its toll.

At this rate, you'll fail in several of those. Even a few of your teacher's have pulled you aside to ask about the abrupt decline in your attendance (late nights lead to oversleeping, who knew?) and you're not sure you can bear another ‘are you taking this seriously?’ scolding from them again.

You've arrived early today. Typically you meet in the spare studio with Ford at six o'clock sharp, but today you'd decided to try and come in sooner in order to get a head start.

You've fallen behind with some of the work; the oil piece currently propped up in front of you is still only in its early stages and it'll take you a while to get it finished to the standard you hold yourself to, plus you still need to draft your speeches for each painting and write your cue cards out too.

If you can push yourself to complete the best part of this painting today, though, then it will be one less thing to worry about. Not to mention that you haven't even started on your presentation rehearsal yet.

Miserably, you dump your paintbrush in the glass of murky water on the trolley beside it and sit back with a groan, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. You're so fucking stressed you want to cry.

Your eyes burn when you lower your hands and distantly, you realise that you already are crying. Wetness trails down your cheeks and you can feel the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment. Crying over a fucking presentation. Pathetic.

You cast a glance over to the corner of the room where Ford has left out one of his own pieces of work to dry, and it only makes you feel worse. He's so precise with his brush strokes and colours, and so effortless with what he does.

It's enough to encourage more tears; his skill is admirable, even if you'll only ever concede that through brutally gritted teeth, and knowing that he's so talented even in a subject he doesn't care about only makes you feel worse.

“This is ridiculous,” you groan aloud, voice thick with distress.

Why hadn't you just taken Ford up on his offer? Stupid fucking pride, always getting in the way of an easy ride and making things harder than it needs to be….

You sniffle and heave a great, shuddery sigh. Could be worse, you think miserably. Ford could be here to see me be all pathetic and snotty.

And because the universe is a cruel and unforgiving mistress with a sick sense of humour, the door to the studio opens at that exact moment and the man himself barrels in with an arm full of textbooks. “I hope you're here early because you plan to make back the time on those diagra-!”

Ford stops mid sentence, eyes going wide at the sight of you. The door bounces off the wall behind him and slams shut as he stares in your direction, taking in your downtrodden appearance.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You feel your entire face go red, and roughly, you wipe at your eyes. You attempt to duck back behind the safety of your canvas and hide your tear stained face from the exact person you'd hoped to avoid, but Ford has already seen the state of you. There's not much you can do to hide it.

You clear your throat, head ducked to conceal your face. “I'll get them done,” you say, only slightly croaky. “Relax.”

Ford stands rooted to the spot, his textbooks hugged to his broad chest. He's silent for a minute, only staring right at you with wide eyes, and then he mirrors your awkward throat-clearing. “Are you…. Okay?” He asks, stiffly. “Did something happen?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,” Ford says, finally wandering over. “And people don't tend to cry when they're just ‘fine’.... Something must have-”

“I'm stressed, Ford,” you cut in, a little sharper than is necessary. You're not really in the mood to explain everything to him like he's your therapist, but maybe he'll back off a bit if you give him something to sate his (evidently unstoppable) curiosity. “I have other classes as well as the one we share, you realise? Other projects. It's- It can be a lot. I'm tired and I'm stressed.”

Ford frowns, his confusion palpable. “Stressed?” He repeats, putting down his armful of textbooks on a nearby desk. “About art?” He sounds so baffled, like it's impossible to imagine someone might struggle with such a ‘lesser’ pursuit than his own.

It’s enough to get your back up so high that you instantly forget to measure your response before you open your mouth. Maybe it's the tiredness, or the mounting pressure, or maybe just a combination of all of it, but you just can't take his obnoxious way of addressing you anymore.

“Ford, give it a fucking rest would you?” You snap, standing up from your chair in anger and finally meeting his gaze. He already knows you're upset, there's little point in hiding it anymore.

“See, this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you! You just don't get it! You're so fucking intense about all of this,” You gesture vaguely towards your canvas and the rest of the room, confident that he'll pick up what you mean. The entire fucking project. “I'm not used to it! I've never worked with somebody so- so like you, before.”

Ford flinches and somewhere within you, you feel a little guilty at your choice of phrasing. It's probably not the first time he's had someone say such a thing, judging by his reaction.

Undeterred, you push on, unable to stop the exhausted word vomit: “Staying up every night, pushing me on everything I do, it's relentless! You're relentless! I'm not like that, Ford, I can't just burn my candle at both ends when there's nothing left to burn.”

Ford seems surprised by your outburst. It's hardly the first time you've yelled at him, but it is the first time he looks out of his depth about it. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead of answering, he runs a hand through his messy chestnut hair, forcing the strands to stick up, and blinks back at you, deer-like.

Under any other circumstances, you'd find it funny how blatantly nervous he is at your display of emotion. Ford is the sort of person who runs solely on logic, on equations and science, and definitive answers.

He's never once given you the impression that his IQ extends to EQ and seeing him try to figure out how he ought to approach such a difficult problem would be comical if you weren't so upset right now.

After a moment of silence, filled only with you sniffling, Ford finally finds his voice again. “I told you, I can handle the workload alone if you can't-”

“Oh, sure!” You scoff, before he can finish his stupid sentence. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Then you can totally win this stupid thing by yourself and leave me in the mud.”

You shake your head and turn away, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “I knew I shouldn't have said anything, you're just gonna use this against me now, aren't you?” You mutter.

Ford, unexpectedly, looks a bit hurt by your unfounded accusation, and guilt nibbles at your gut again the moment you've said it, even if it is a genuine concern of yours.

“I would never do that,” he says defensively. “We're partners, aren't we? It wouldn’t be…. Fair for me to use your emotional state against you like that.”

He sounds so genuinely certain in his words that you find yourself unable to answer him. You'd expected him to laugh and snatch the project out from underneath you instantly, with little care for your wellbeing.

Not necessarily out of spite, but out of indifference. The way he rejects your assertion so defensively is enough to make your eyes water all over again.

“I'm not a robot, despite what some people may think. I know how it feels to work under pressure,” Ford says, and you suppose he must, what with the extortionate number of degrees he’s currently juggling. “Maybe not from art,” he admits. “But I’m not immune.”

“I told you, I can take on what you struggle with,” Ford continues on, and at your attempt to interrupt, he steamrolls on. “And before you say anything, no, I don't mean that because I think you're not good enough. I just mean that I can help.”

You raise your brows, surprised, and turn to face him. “I thought you thought my work was shit,” you say, picking up on his comment instantly.

Ford frowns. He takes a deep breath and comes to your side, a bit hesitant to get closer than within arm's length of where you stand at your station.

“I don't think that at all,” he says, like it should be obvious to you. “Why would you-”

“Ford, all you do is criticise the stuff I create,” you say, exasperated. “You spent forty minutes telling me my shading was bad on that fucking sketch last week alone.”

Forty minutes is conservative. The drawing hadn’t even been part of the mid-term line up. It had been a warm up piece before you’d started on your actual project work, and yet he’d still gone off about how your light source had been inconsistent, that the still-life had lacked depth et cetera et cetera.

You’d seethed in the corner and attempted to burn holes through the back of his head with your venomous gaze for the rest of the evening, but he hadn’t noticed a thing. He rarely does.

To his credit, Ford looks embarrassed now that you’ve brought it up. He adjusts his glasses nervously. “That's not- I don't do that because I think you're bad,” he assures you. “I do it because I can see where you'd be even greater. I just… Thought it might help.”

You stare at him. Out of all the reasons for him to be so pushy, he thought he was helping? “We hate each other, Ford, why would you even want to help me get better?”

“‘Hate each other’?” Ford says, only growing more confused. “I don't hate you. On the contrary, I thought we were having fun…. Are you…. Not having fun?”

You stare at him as though he's just sprouted a third eye. “But, in class- all we do is fight and argue, and-”

“That's just good debate, isn't it?” Ford says with an awkward laugh. “Did you- Don't tell me you thought I hated you?”

Well, now you feel like a total fucking idiot. “I mean, can you blame me?” You say defensively. “You’re hard to get a read on. I’m not exactly a telepath.”

Ford gives you a shy, lopsided grin and rubs the back of his neck, bashful. “Right, right. Sorry,” he says, the first apology you’ve ever heard from his mouth. “I suppose I assumed you could handle the way I am sometimes, what with the way you work in class,” he admits.

“Fiddleford, my roommate,” he explains, “He says I can be… What was the word he used?.... ‘Difficult’,” Here, Ford puts dramatic air quotes around his roommate's statement and it’s enough to make you smile a bit, watery and weak.

“How very diplomatic of him,” you hiccup a laugh and Ford smiles again, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. There's a compliment hidden in his words when you turn them over in your mind: I thought you could handle the way I am.

“He’s much better at being tactful than I am,” Ford admits, looking a bit sad about the fact. “I’m afraid I’m not the best at all this social stuff. If I gave you the wrong idea about it all then….. That wasn't my intention.”

He's looking at you strangely, his eyes searching yours in the silence. He almost looks guilty. It's as though something has flicked a switch inside of him and for a moment, the impossibly high walls with which he surrounds himself have lowered fractionally. Only a little, but enough for you to catch a glimpse of something…. Softer.

Up this close, you can read the minute changes of his expression far easier than when he's across the classroom or buried behind a book. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so near to him before, not face to face like this, anyway, and you can see all the shades of brown in his eyes.

He’s got wonderfully long lashes, thick and curved in a way that would make even a beauty queen weep with envy, and a smattering of very light freckles across his strong nose. The bridge of it is curved and convex, a Roman-esque quality that only adds to the subtly strong features of his face and balances out the harsher lines of his face.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, brain caught in a loop of cataloguing his features. He really isn’t all that bad looking up close….

Ford’s gaze drops to your mouth. The movement barely lasts point-five of a second, hardly long enough to even really take note of before he aborts it in motion, the two of you sharing a slightly awkward laugh. A redness tints the tops of his cheeks.

The familiar scent of his subtle aftershave wafts towards you again, and you’re reminded of when he’d stood behind you during that studio session a week or so ago.

You swallow thickly and look away to quell the funny feeling that makes your stomach flutter nervously. You’ll blame your vulnerable state for that.

Desperate to find something to distract yourself with, you look down to where he's nervously toying with the brown leather band of his wristwatch. The sleeves of his chequered shirt are rolled up today, exposing his forearms and showing off the threads of veins that stand out under the skin, and you follow them down to his hands in the hopes of finding a way to avoid examining from whatever dangerous territory your thoughts are trying to wander into.

And boy, do you find one.

Momentarily, you wonder if the tears in your eyes are blurring your vision too much to see straight. You've no idea how you’ve never noticed it before. You’ve seen him painting, seen him gesticulating wildly when he’s gotten passionate about something you’ve challenged him with, and yet somehow, the realisation has completely slipped past you.

When you react, you don’t think about what you’re doing. You're too caught up in your desperation and your shock to really consider that the move might be unwelcome or rude: You just do it.

“Oh, my god,” you murmur, reaching out for him. “You do have six fingers.”

Rumours about Ford’s hands have always floated around school, but you’ve never given them much credence. You’re not one to care about physical features like that; life isn’t a freak show and you’re not part of a baying townsfolk who want to point and laugh at someone else, so you’ve always glossed over them. But when the realisation takes you by surprise so suddenly, you act without considering the consequences.

Like your touch has scolded him, Ford yanks his hands back and steps back, away from you. He looks panicked, as though you’ve just announced his worst fears aloud, and you watch in real time as those castle walls come crashing down all over again.

The redness on his face burns brighter than ever before, a deep rouge that soaks across his cheeks and ears like watercolours on paper, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so humiliated. His eye contact drops and his expression shifts from panic to anger.

“Look, hate me if you must but I’d rather you not make a big deal about that,” he says stiffly.

“What? What are you talking about?” You frown, shaking your head. His demeanour has changed so suddenly that it makes your head spin more than the smell of white spirit does after cleaning your oil palettes. “I wouldn't-”

Ford bumps into your abandoned chair in his haste to retreat, sending it skittering backward until it rocks onto its side with a clatter. He hurriedly snatches up the textbooks he'd left on a nearby desk earlier and shoves his glasses up his nose again, righting them from where they've slipped down in his hurry.

“If you need time to catch up on your end of the project, then just- Just say the word and I'll finish it alone,” he snaps.

And then he's scrambling from the room, shoulders up around his ears and posture slumped as he wrenches the door open and exits as quickly as he'd entered, leaving you to stare after him in utter disbelief.

What the fuck?

Ford doesn't show up to the next study session. He leaves a note on your desk that reads ‘caught up in physics, will see you next time’, which really makes no sense because he'd have to come all the way across campus from the science labs to deliver it. If he was that busy, surely he'd have just left you to it?

Alas, he doesn't make an appearance at the session and he doesn't approach you afterwards to check on your progress, either.

You can see that he's finished his paintings, however. They sit at the back of the spare studio, right near where you work after hours, and you've been admiring them all week.

He has a nice little collection of pieces now, including a moody looking wendigo oil painting and a very pretty study in watercolour of a type of flower that you're not botanically inclined enough to know the name of, but you've a sneaking suspicion it's the gross one that smells like corpses.

You're even mildly disappointed that you haven't had the chance to ask him about it and then watch him passionately lecture you on its ins and outs and whatever else he might find fascinating about unusual flora.

It’s not like you miss him, though. Obviously not. If he was here, he’d just be insufferable about it all, of course, and throw off your creative vibe with all his science talk. At the start of the project, after you’d seen all the physics books he carried on his person so often, you’d made the mistake of politely asking about his lab work and then been subjected to a full hour of listening to him harp on about topics that might as well have been in a foreign language to you.

But then the way he’d just sort of….Lit up about it all had been strangely breathtaking. He had practically burst into fucking flames of passion about molecules and dimensions and all sorts of things the moment you’d shown even the most tepid bit of interest that you hadn’t had the heart to stop him.

He’d looked so alive, so much more animated than you’d ever seen him, and something about it had been horribly endearing.

Still, you totally don’t miss that. Not his wild gesticulating, not the way he would run his hands through his hair in concentration and leave it all fluffy and stupid right after. The way he would chew his lip as he watched you paint.

Definitely not. Too annoying and far too distracting, for reasons you’d rather not study too closely.

In class, Ford barely looks at you. He doesn’t say hello, he doesn't bring up the project, he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence when you attempt to talk to him on the way out of class, either.

It feels awful.

You try to tempt him into debate a few times but shockingly, he doesn't rise to it. Instead, he looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight and head bowed, and he even pretends not to notice when you purposely get a history fact wrong in the hopes he might feel compelled to correct you. That’s the moment you realise that something is seriously wrong.

You hate to admit it, but the lack of challenge and his avoidance is making you so fucking miserable that even the other students have begun to pick up on it.

You’ve been moping about so much recently that Melissa and Jennifer have dragged you along to a party under the guise of getting you so insanely drunk that you might either admit what’s pissing you off or forget about it altogether.

As far as you’re aware, none of them know the real reason for your melancholy and they’re putting it down to academic stress. They’re not entirely wrong in that vein anyway, and you suppose it might be good to focus on something else (and chug free booze), so you agree.

Which is why you find yourself standing about on the quad this evening, dressed up as nicely as you can be bothered to be, and milling around while you wait for the others to get their act together and head over to the East Wing dormitories where the party is taking place.

The group is made up of yourself, Jennifer, Melissa, and Melissa's boyfriend Jamie, plus one of his idiot friends that you're too annoyed by to ask their name.

The others are already drunk enough that it's been a challenge in and of itself to herd them downstairs and out into the open night air, and getting them to actually follow you across campus is proving equally as hard.

You're only slightly buzzed; barely a couple of clear-liquor drinks in so far and not at all as wasted as you'd like to be if this is going to set the tone for the evening.

Frustrated, you roll your eyes at where Jamie and his buddies are attempting to show the other girls how many people they can lift with just one arm, and step away. “Are we planning on actually making it to this dumb party, or do I have to watch you guys try and put your backs out all night?” You ask, not even attempting to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Melissa laughs and shakes her head. “Oh come on, you're no fun!” She says, coming to your side to hang off your arm. “Live a little!”

The bag on your shoulder, the one you carry with you everywhere, slips down a little at her insistent touch and you huff, pulling away to correct it. It's less filled than it usually is tonight, only holding your purse, your keys, and the small, reliable, battered sketchbook that you always keep close just in case inspiration hits.

“I'm living vicariously through you,” you tell her dryly. “But right now I'm cold and I want a fucking drink, so can we please just get a move on already?” The night air is cool enough to prickle gooseflesh on your bare arms and you rub at them insistently.

“Take my jacket, babe,” says the other jock, lumbering over in the hopes of winning favour.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” you refuse, wrinkling your nose a little. You really don’t want to give him the wrong idea and let him think he’s got an in with you. You know how these types are, after all.

“God, lighten up already!” Jamie scoffs, swaggering along with one arm thrown around Melissa. “You're being such a bitch tonight.”

You open your mouth to inform him that you're most assuredly not being a bitch but that you'd be very happy to show him what you're like when you are, when Jennifer cuts you off.

“Working with Stanford Pines for whoever-the-fuck knows how long will do that to a person,” she snorts. “That's enough to turn anyone into a dick.”

Jamie and his buddy gawp at you. “No kiddin’?” The jock says, a broad, blonde spectacle with unsettling blue eyes. “You’re in with that fuckin’ loser? Bummer, dude.”

“Oh yeah,” Melissa giggles. “All we hear these days is how much he sucks. Says he's a real asshole….”

“What's he doing in an art class?” He asks. You think his name might be Riley. “Isn't he like, a total math geek or whatever?”

Before you can interrupt, Jamie laughs, obnoxious and scathing. “Oh yeah, totally. I bet he only gets hard for science, right?” He says, grinning nastily toward you. “Or have you been- What's that guy called…. Purlow? Pavlov? That's it, Pavlov!” He snaps his fingers together, clearly pleased at the chance to flex some of his psychology minor in front of the girls. “You been Pavlov-in’ him to get hard another way?”

“Ew!” The girls collapse into giggles.

You grit your teeth. “Wow, Jamie, it's so cool that you know such a big word!” You grind out, jaw flexing. “I didn't know they taught Psych 101 in Kindergarten.”

“Hey, fuck you-”

“And,” you keep going, temper rising not least because of the topic. “For your information, we've just been doing a project together. It wasn't exactly by choice and anyway, he won't even talk to me anymore so problem solved, I guess.”

“Wait, is that why you two stopped fighting in class all the time?” Asks Jen, suddenly intrigued. “Did something happen?” Her intonation is suggestive and you know she's probably coming up with wild theories in her mind already.

Melissa squeals. “Oh my god, did you finally fuck him?!”

“No!” You say immediately, shaking your head. “Nothing like that!”

The boys guffaw and shove each other around, jeering and laughing. “That's fuckin’ gross,” says Riley, “Who would wanna screw him?”

“Hey, I heard he’s got six fingers,” sniggers Jennifer. “I bet that makes a difference, huh?”

“God, shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I told you, it’s not-”

“What a fucking freak,” laughs Jamie.

“He’s a loser, babe,” scoffs Riley, attempting to put an arm around your shoulders again. “You need a real man, not a fuckin’ dork like that. I bet he-!”

“Look, he’s not that bad!” You interrupt, raising your voice a bit and shucking the boy’s arm off of you. “He’s not- He isn’t a total asshole all the time, okay? And he’s not a freak, that’s not cool. Don’t talk about him like that.”

Truthfully, you say it accidentally. You don’t mean to defend him and especially not to this particular group of people, but they’re being so mean spirited and these jocks are such dickheads that you feel dirty even allowing them to say as much as they have.

All’s fair in love and war between you and Ford; going back and forth with one another is purely business. It never reduces to calling the other person names or taking low blows like this, and it feels weird to let other people outright bully him. Especially over his hands.

You think that might be the cause of his whole meltdown earlier this week, and even the thought of him overhearing such cruelty makes you feel sicker than any amount of alcohol could.

The others stare at you like you’ve announced you intend to swan dive from the campus clocktower and momentarily, all of them are silent. That is, until Jamie opens his big mouth again: “What are you, like, in love with him or something?”

You feel your face suddenly begin to get very warm. “What?” You laugh, trying to sound dismissive. “No! God, no! Of course I’m not! I just-”

“Holy shit,” Jennifer says, a slow grin spreading on her face as she puts the puzzle pieces together. “You’re totally into him, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been so lame recently! You’re all sad that he won’t talk to you!”

“No!” You refute, holding your hands up defensively. “No! It’s nothing like that!”

Your bag slips down your shoulder again and Jennifer grabs it without warning, dragging it off of your person and procuring your sketching journal.

“You’re such a liar,” she says, laughing, “Look, here,” She opens the journal to the page that your pencil is lodged into and flaunts it to the others. “I saw you drawing these last free sesh’ when he wasn’t in class! Makes total sense now….”

You instantly know exactly what she’s showing them: In free sessions, you’re given time to practise areas you might need to improve upon, and Ford had mentioned your anatomy a while ago. You’d taken it on board, however testily, and found yourself sketching away that afternoon.

Only, what you’d been drawing had been Ford’s anatomy. Nothing lewd, obviously, but something still intimate: his hands.

Ever since noticing them, you’ve been intrigued. Call it fate from the theme of your project, but something about them has drawn you in and you’ve struggled to forget them. They’re fascinating and beautiful and very weirdly him, and maybe yes okay you've been having some complicated feelings about him recently but does everybody need to know?!

Jamie laughs at you, snatching the book from Jen and inspecting the sketches up close. “Holy shit,” he says. “You’re made for each other, pair of freaks!”

“Fuck off, Jamie!” you snap, face burning. You try to snatch the book back and he holds it aloft, out of your reach. “Give it back!”

“No way!” He jeers, and then he glances off above your head and his ugly grin grows even wider. “Hey, check it out…. There’s your boyfriend now! Why don’t we ask Fordsy what he thinks of these?”

Much to your utter horror and absolute distress, when you turn to see where Jamie is pointing, you spot Ford striding across campus. He’s wearing an argyle sweater and brown slacks (and bless him, he really does look like a nerd), and he seems to be heading towards his own dorm.

He hasn’t spotted your group yet and silently, you pray that Jamie is just trying to rile you up.

Except, Jamie gives less of a fuck about your prayers than the universe itself does. He raises one shovel sized hand and yells out to him: “Yo, Stanford! Hold up a minute there, buddy!”

Ford freezes on the spot and turns your way, eyes wide like a rabbit in headlights. He looks confused.

“Jamie, don’t you dare!” You hiss, attempting to kick at the bigger man’s shins as he strides past you. It does nothing to stop him and instead, you turn to Jennifer. “Do something!” You say, and you hate how much it sounds like begging.

“Take a chill pill already,” Jennifer laughs. “He’s just kidding around.”

It takes great self control not to tear your own (or her) hair out as the rest of the group trot after Jamie.

Petrified, you jog along to catch up with them and by the time you reach them again, they’re already collaring Stanford.

Jamie slings a heavy handed arm around Ford’s shoulders, knocking his glasses askew, and he jerks him about a bit. “How’s it hangin’, buddy?” He asks, grinning. “Up to no good?”

“What?” Ford says, both annoyed at being stopped by such a group and awkward about how to deal with the interaction.

Jamie rolls his eyes and shakes his head, dramatically playing it up for the sake of the others. “What are you up to tonight, man?”

“Oh,” Ford shrugs. “I just finished at the library, I was going home. That’s all.”

Jamie laughs and the others join in. “On a Friday night, dude?”

“Is…. Is there a more suitable night to do it on?” Ford asks, sounding genuinely curious, and oh god your heart breaks for him.

The boys share a look of incredulity and laugh amongst themselves as you elbow your way through them. They part after a second, with some sharp elbow pokes to persuade them to move, and you stop in front of Ford and Jamie, hoping you don't look as distressed as you feel.

Ford's expression hardens the moment he notices you. It's obvious he's about as pleased to see you as he is to see the others and although, admittedly, that stings more than it has any right to, you half hope it might work in your favour to get him to leave.

“Hi, Ford,” you say, hoping you sound both casual and suggestive enough to let him know he should run for the hills. “Why don’t you get outta here and we’ll just-”

“Woah, woah,” says Jamie, cutting in before you can finish your sentence. “Not so fast, man. I have a question!”

Ford's frown deepens and he looks over at Jamie. Although the jock is tall, Ford matches his height well enough that, other than his lack of muscle, means that he doesn’t seem to be quite as intimidated as somebody of a smaller stature might be. That being said, he still looks decidedly uncomfortable with the whole affair.

“Uh, sure…?” Ford says, shrugging one shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

Jamie stifles a laugh and looks to the others, who similarly struggle to keep their laughter contained.

You know where he’s taking this topic. He’s still holding your sketchbook, waving it around to punctuate his words. “Jamie, leave it alone, stop being-”

“Come on, don't be such a square!” Melissa laughs, and Jamie is quick to agree.

“Is it true you've got extra fingers, Fordsy?” Asks Jamie, through the most horrible shit-eating grin you've ever seen. “According to certain sources,” He winks dramatically at you, implicating you in his plan. “You're rockin’ six on each hand, right? That’s far out, man. ”

Ford pales and simultaneously turns a deep shade of crimson, and his gaze snaps immediately to you. “What?” He says, his usually deep voice suddenly weak.

“You heard me, check it out,” Jamie flips open your sketchbook and you know he's showing Ford the pages of your sketching study.

Ford's brows knit upwards as he realises what he's looking at, distress and anger clear on his handsome face, and your blood turns to ice.

He looks devastated, eyes scanning back and forth over your work like he can't believe what he's seeing. Rather than seize the book for a closer look, you watch as he slips his hands into the pockets of his pants, hiding them from the view of everyone else, and your heart squeezes unpleasantly in your chest.

The subtle way that he does it makes you realise this is probably not the first time he's pulled such a move.

“You…. You drew these? Of me?” He asks in a small voice, glancing up at you. There's such a dejected sadness in his eyes that you almost want to be sick.

“No!” You say immediately. “I mean- Yes, I did, but not- I didn't draw them like tha-!”

“Some people must dig freaks, man, you're all over this shit!” Jamie chokes out through his laughter and the others follow suit.

“Shut up!” You snap at him before turning your attention back to Ford. “You don't understand! Yes, I drew them, but not because-!”

“I understand perfectly,” says Ford stiffly, and something steely and cold flashes in his gaze. He presses his mouth into a thin line and you can tell he's not just upset, but furious.

“Yeah,” Riley grins, stepping forward for his turn in the ring. “If you weren't doing it because you thought they were fuckin’ weird then why were you drawing them?”

“I….” Your voice dries up. What are you supposed to say? Because I think they're really stellar and unique, and I think you are too? Jamie and the others will eat you alive. The words just won't come and all you can do is stare back at Ford, equally as red faced and humiliated.

Jamie is still harping on about the sketches, pointing things out to Ford who isn't looking at anything he's being shown. He's just…. Staring right back at you with a mixture of genuine sadness and utter betrayal on his face.

You have to look away after a moment. It's too much to bear and you feel so awful that meeting his eye feels shameful. Although you know you haven't done anything with the intention of hurting him, you know how it must look.

When you tune back in, Jamie is still going: “-should be grateful you got to work with her, buddy. What other chance would a guy like you have to be friends with-”

You're not sure what makes you react, whether it's the combination of guilt and embarrassment, or whether it's simply because you've had enough of all this, but almost automatically, you step forward and shove Jamie away from Ford.

“Jamie, shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him as hard as you can manage in his stupidly broad chest. “Don't talk to him like that, asshole, it's not fucking cool. You're a piece of shit, man.”

Thankfully, the push is just about strong enough to get Jamie to stagger back a couple of paces and relinquish his grip from around Ford's shoulders. He stumbles and his laughter dies, along with the others.

“Hey!” He growls, stepping toward you and puffing out his chest. “What did you just say to me?”

This is exactly the reason you hate his type. They're loud and braggadocious and cruel, and they absolutely cannot take the heat themselves.

You square your shoulders back. You're nowhere near his size and if he decides to hit you then it'll be a permanent lights out for sure, but you're hoping he might at least realise his girlfriend would be upset if he knocked out her classmate. Desperately hoping, in fact….

“I said, stop. You're acting like a loser, leave him alone,” you say, admirably firm in spite of your nerves.

Jamie stomps over to you, teeth bared in a grotesque grimace. “You fuckin’ bitch, who are you callin’ a loser?!” He stretches out one hand as if to grab you and you brace yourself for the final nail in your coffin, when Ford abruptly steps between you both.

“That's enough,” he says firmly, sounding more fierce than you've ever heard him. “If you want to act like a child and bully me, do it. I don't care.” Ford glances back at you. “But don't drag other people into it just because you're a fucking drunken manchild who can't take it.”

For half a second, everything goes deathly silent. No one says a single word. All you do is gape at Ford in utter disbelief at his cutting words, as do the others. Even Jamie looks completely blindsided by it.

Clearly not finished, Ford keeps going, and this time it seems he’s talking more to you than to everyone else. “I don't need anyone to stick up for me, I'm not a child anymore. I’m perfectly capable of arguing against idiots like y-!”

Unfortunately for Ford, no matter how much you deserve his ire, with his attention on you instead of the threat, he completely misses Jamie reeling one of his big fists back and you watch in horror as he swings it in Ford’s direction.

You barely get the chance to let out an aborted shout of warning before Jamie’s knuckles collide solidly with Ford’s nose and send him stumbling back past you. They make a sickening crack! as the hit lands perfectly across his face, and Ford is sent sprawling on his ass in a lightning quick second.

Jamie moves as though he intends to follow Ford to the floor and keep hitting, but one of the other boys thankfully catches his fist and prevents him from going through with it. The group shout amongst themselves about it, evidently surprised by the sudden turn.

Instantly, you drop to your knees in the damp grass beside Ford and hover anxiously around him. Blood gushes out of his nose as soon as he hits the floor, cascading down over his lips and smattering onto the wool of his sweater, and his glasses are thrown from his face with the force. He groans in pain, his once hidden hands flying up to cradle his injury and to stem the bleeding. It does little to help.

“Oh, my god!” Your hands hover around his face helplessly, unsure where to touch him. “Fuck, Ford, are you-!”

“He’s fine,” says Jamie, waving away the concerns of the others. “Forget about him, we’re leaving.” He leans down to grab you by the arm but you smack him away angrily.

“Fuck off!” You shout, voice wavering. “You hit him!”

“So? He shouldn’t have mouthed off like that,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. “Whatever, you wanna stay with him? Fine. Be two fuckin’ freaks together for all I care.”

He gestures for the others to follow him as he begins to walk towards the party dorm, carelessly tossing your sketchbook into the dirt beside Ford. You look up to the others for help, yet they only spare you a half-hearted sympathetic look before following the ringleader.

You want to yell after them, to tell them how pathetic they are laughing along, but for now you’ll have to save your anger. Instead, you root around in your bag for some spare tissues and quickly hold them up to Ford’s bloody face. “Shit,” you breathe, noticing just how much blood there is. “I’m taking you to the medical office, Ford.”

You grab his glasses and attempt to help him to his feet, however he shrugs you away. “Get lost,” he says thickly through the wall of blood on his mouth, snatching his glasses from your hands and shoving them into his pocket.

“What?” you say, confused as though you’re the one who’s just had your shit rocked. “Ford, you're hurt, let me help you!”

“I don't need your help!” he snaps, struggling to his feet.

You’re taken aback by his reaction, however he’s a little shaky, clearly discombobulated by the hit and the entire event, and even though he doesn't seem open to your touch, you catch him by the elbows to steady him.

He wipes his lips with the sleeve of his already-ruined sweater, dark blood swiping across the wool. It’s a fruitless effort; the gore is simply further smeared around his face. It does little to reduce the mess and everything to spread it, and Ford turns his head away from you to spit out the blood that's gathering in his mouth.

As soon it's clear that he can stand unassisted, Ford shakes off your tentative touch as though you're some kind of leper. He meets your eyes and the look he fixes you with is so searing that it's enough to turn your insides to liquid ice. He shoulders you aside and takes off across the lawn, ignoring a few curious onlookers and striding towards his dorm.

Momentarily, you’re too stunned to follow him. He’s never looked at you like that before and frankly, it fucking hurts. After all this time, after all of your disagreements and squabbles, Ford has never been quite so…. Disgusted with you.

As much as you might like to crawl under a rock in your ashamed state, you just can’t leave things like this. Besides, he might be seriously hurt beyond what you can see; that punch was solid and Ford isn’t much of a fighter, not to your knowledge anyway. If he dropped dead of a brain bleed or something equally as awful and dramatic, you’d never forgive yourself.

Frankly, you’re not sure you ever will anyway.

You shove your sketchbook back into your bag and take off after him, jogging across the damp grass to try and catch up with his purposeful movements.

“Ford!” You call out to his retreating back. “Wait up!”

He does no such thing. His stride doesn’t even falter at your request.

You push onwards, trying to tamp down the frustration you feel and speeding up just enough to reach his side as he swings open the door to his building, leaving a smear of blood across the handle. “Stanford!”

“Stop following me!” Ford snaps over his shoulder. He lets it fall heavily back onto you without even glancing in your direction.

You ignore him, chasing after his back. The building is surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening; there are usually at least a few students milling about in the halls, whether they’re looking to party or just avoid studying for a few hours, most of the time there’s someone about.

Not tonight though, it seems. Perhaps they’re all off to the party you’re supposed to be attending…..

As you follow Ford down the North hallway, past the walls of pigeon hole letterboxes and glass cases of alumni photos, you try again to stop him. “Ford, come on, you’re bleeding everywhere. Just stop a second, please,” you cajole. “What if you have a concussion?”

Ford still doesn’t answer. He keeps power walking down the corridor, taking a sharp right and barrelling into what seems to be a common area.

There are couches and chairs pushed towards the corners of the room, arranged around mismatched tables and strewn with remnants of earlier life: styrofoam coffee cups and screwed up pieces of paper, and even a couple of crumpled beer cans.

As he passes through, Ford shows no signs of slowing and your frustration rises. “Look, you can be mad at me all you want but please just let me take you to the nurse’s office!”

“I’m fine,” Ford says, voice strained in a way that betrays how much he definitely is not fine. It’s a sick parody of your last conversation in the studio.

He starts to speed up again, nearly jogging now in his determination to escape you as he approaches the farthest side of the room, and despite the way your breath is already burning in your lungs, you force yourself to match his stride.

The shaky way he dismisses your worry only upsets you more and in your unfit desperation, before he can reach for the exit, you jerk out a hand and grab the sleeve of his sweater, snatching him back by the fabric at his elbow. “No, you’re-!”

“Let go of me!” Ford rounds on you, shoulders squared and chin jutted upward like he expects you to be the next person to fight him. He halts so suddenly that you almost crash into him, stepping into your space and causing you to stumble back a few paces.

He’s tall enough to be intimidating when he draws himself up fully like this but you refuse to let him make you back off.

“No!” you shout back, keeping a firm hold of his sweater as best you can. “Let me help you, Ford, I can explain-!”

“Did you all have a good laugh?!” Ford asks bitterly, cutting you off. He seizes your wrist, his grip tight over where you’re clutching onto him. “About my hands? About me?! When you showed them those sketches, did it feel good to win their stupid approval?”

He squeezes your wrist tightly and you grit your teeth, acquiescing your hold on him and releasing his sweater. The blood on his fingers smears across your skin, cool and coagulated, and he uses a strength you didn’t know he possessed to hold you still.

“It's not like that!” You say, breath hitching. “I didn't draw those for anybody but myself.”

“Bullshit!” Ford snarls, jerking your wrist back and forth. “I know you're lying!”

“It's the truth!” You snap, hackles rising at his roughness and his accusations.

Tonight has been full of mistakes on your part, sure, but if Ford won't even let you explain then how are you supposed to even try and fix all this?! “Jamie and the others grabbed my sketchbook off of me, Ford. I didn't give it to them! That stuff was private!”

“Then why would you even have things like that in there?!” Ford yells back, scowling.

“Because I- It wasn’t supposed to be-” You stumble over your words as you shout back at him, anger and humiliation lodging them in your throat, and Ford seizes the opportunity to scold you further.

“Exactly! Stop lying to me!”

“I’m not lying to you, Ford!” You wrench your hand from his grip, fed up with his claims. For all your guilt, you’re not going to let him just shout and scream at you in a public hallway until he deigns you with the opportunity to explain yourself. “I wouldn’t do something like that, no matter how little you think of me!” You say, jabbing him in the chest with your finger a few times.

You rock up on your toes to try and draw your faces level as you bark back and forth at each other. “They were the ones who brought it up, not me! I was telling them to stop!”

Ford’s jaw flexes with each jab of your finger, lip twitching with anger. ��Yeah, right.” He laughs, scathing. “You think I missed how you reacted in the studio earlier this week? I mean, was that even the first time you realised or was it just the first time you saw me up so close that you couldn’t help yourself? I know you think I'm a freak, just like everyone else does! That's why you drew those- those fucking caricatures of my hands and you laughed it up with your stupid little friends about me!”

“No, I-!” idiot

Ford jabs a finger into your chest, right above your heart, mirroring your pose to him and pressing down hard as he shouts in your face, like a haughty parent telling off their unruly child. “You know, I hate to admit this, really I do, but I'm actually disappointed in you! I had hoped it wasn’t like that between us! I enjoyed that you disliked me because I’m smarter than you, because I’m a better artist than you are, and not because of my hands. Everybody else goes straight for the obvious bait because they can never compare to the rest of me, but I suppose you must be just like your asshat, jock buddies afterall!”

“I am not-!” You attempt to shout over him, to interrupt his tirade, but Ford keeps going, poking you hard again.

“And do you want to know the worst part about all of this?” He demands, looking borderline insane with wide eyes and blood all over his face. “The worst part is that your sketches were fucking terrible! Your anatomy is just as shitty as it was the day we met!”

Like a dam, your limited composure breaks. The insult is small in comparison to all his other harsh words, some of which you can even admit you might deserve, but his obnoxiousness has grown steadily like a snowball careening down a slippery slope and gathering mass, and that’s the final nail in the coffin for you.

“You know what, Ford? Fuck you!” You shout, driving your own finger back into his broad chest as hard as you can and poking him with every word. Your breath comes in short, sharp pants as you lay into him, your noses almost touching as neither of you back down to the other.

“Fuck you! You fucking idiot! You don’t know anything about how I feel. Do I think you're an asshole with a god complex? Absolutely! Do other people say all kinds of shit about your hands? Of course they do! But I never cared enough to actually check how many fingers you have! The other day in the studio, that was the first time I ever even noticed it! ! I never thought that you were a freak, Stanford, not even once!”

Something strange falters in Ford's expression but you barrel onward, refusing to give him the chance to come back at you.

“Our entire project is about uniqueness, you stupid fucking idiot!” You continue, desperately fighting the thick lump that rises in your throat and the burning that prickles the corners of your eyes. You're so exhausted and worked up, so humiliated and angry, and this is the fallout of everything at once. There's no stopping it now.

“I mean, for god's sake, we talked about how much we both like unusual things! That's why we picked that fucking topic, Ford! I like odd shit! I wasn't drawing your hands so that I could show my so-called friends and laugh about it with them, you moron! I was drawing your hands because I can't stop fucking thinking about them or how pretty they are, or how fucking pretty you are and if you just listened to me for once in your stupid-!”

You don't even get to finish your sentence before Ford's mouth is on yours, hot and determined, in the fiercest kiss you think you’ve ever experienced.

You're not sure who moves first.

With barely a whisper between the two of you it's hard to tell, but in a flash the distance is closed and your hands are twisted in the front of his dirty sweater, leveraging him down as he backs you up into the closest wall.

Ford makes a guttural sound, the kind that rumbles in your chest, and one of his hands gropes blindly at your waist as he returns the kiss whilst the other plants itself beside your head on the wall.

He’s clumsy and unskilled, and you’re pretty certain you can feel wet blood smearing across your own face as he presses into you, yet he’s so enthusiastic that you can’t bring yourself to care much about any of that right now. It just feels so fucking good.

He tastes like coffee and copper, and his musky aftershave overwhelms your senses again, enveloping you as he presses even closer along your front. Ford's broad form is warm against your exposed skin where his weight pins you up against the wall. He's clearly been tipped off of balance by the motion and without his quick thinking of walking you back to the surface, you're sure you'd have bowled over by now.

Your hands slip up from the front of his sweater to tangle in his thick, curly hair, fingers catching in amongst the strands to pull him in until he's melting against you, pliant under your touch. It's evident that he doesn't have much practice at this and that, combined with the fervour of the motion, makes the kiss sloppy.

As foggy as your brain is right now, you manage to conjure just one silly thought as you coax his tongue with your own: Finally. Something I am better than him at.

Ford gives another groan at the sensation and almost instinctively, he slides a leg between yours. It's not clear if he knows how arousing it is or whether he's simply trying to balance himself better, but it does wonders for you all the same.

Warmth burns in the pit of your stomach, a molten hot interest that takes you by such surprise it practically has stars blooming behind your closed eyelids.

It feels like this is the catalyst: the final moment that’s been building and building between you both ever since Ford arrived in Studio 1B. Rivalries and arguments that on the surface, had appeared to everyone but the two of you as a sign of more than just academic passion and the desperate need to be right. Everything has led to this and god, does it feel spectacular.

The tangy flavour of blood begins to overwhelm Ford's spit and just as you tilt your head to up the ante, sighing happily against his mouth, your nose catches his in the motion and Ford rips himself away with a yelp of pain.

“Fuck!” He cries, letting go of your waist and pushing off the wall to cradle his nose.

You start, completely having forgotten about his injury, and rush to his aide. “Shit! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think-”

More blood trickles out from his nostrils, though thankfully not quite as much as on the initial hit, and winces. “Probably not the wisest of ideas in this state,” Ford mutters thickly, but he's giving you a lopsided smile that's big enough that you can tell he doesn't seem to mind too much. You can even see the blood that's settled in the gaps of his teeth.

A similar expression crosses your own face: a shy, stupid grin tugging at your mouth as you both share the same pleasantly surprised, if disbelieving, look. A few moments of silence follow the halting of the kiss and your situational awareness creeps back in.

The abrupt reminder of his injuries and the fact that you're likely equally now covered in blood, coupled with the fact that you're both still in a public space is enough to kick the sensible part of your brain into action.

You clear your throat and push up off the wall, straightening your clothing where Ford has left it rumpled with his wandering hands. “We should probably get you cleaned up before we….” You trail off, unsure of exactly where you mean for your train of thought to go.

Ford nods, understanding. “Right. Of course.”

“I’ll walk you to your room,” you say, gesturing for him to show you the way. “If you won’t go to the nurse then at least let me fix you up a bit.”

Ford nods again, cheeks flushed, and takes you through the double doors you’d stood by barely five minutes ago, leading you deeper into the building. He’s only living on the second floor with his roommate and thankfully, it doesn’t take too long for you to reach his dorm.

There still aren’t many students hanging around up here and the ones that are are far too preoccupied with their own business to even spare a glance at you both. You suppose that without engaging in a screaming match, you can pass by covered in whatever substance you like without drawing attention.

“F is out visiting his parents this weekend,” Ford explains as he unlocks the door to his room and lets you inside. “It’ll just be us.”

“‘F’?” You ask, stepping into the darkness.

“Fiddleford, my diplomatic roommate,” Ford says, and even in the dark you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Ah, I remember,” you grin.

Ford fumbles around until he finds his desk lamp, flicking it on and filling the room with a soft, warm glow. It makes the mess on his face look an otherworldly black. He busies himself with rummaging around in the bottom drawer of what you presume to be his personal desk that sits at the side of his bed, and you take the opportunity to absorb his living space.

All the dorms in Backupsmore are built the same: cheaply and efficiently with the bare minimum added, and Ford’s is no different. The far wall is exposed brick, with a broad window in its centre, while the other walls are covered in drab, ochre wallpaper.

Above Ford’s half-made bed is the navy BMU flag along with a few posters that are, frankly, quite adorable. There’s one of Tesla posed before his famous coils and another of Sagan, with what you can only describe as an alarmingly seductive look on his face. Admittedly, Sagan is quite the looker, as is Tesla when you really consider it, so you can hardly blame Ford for his choices.

Nestled around the posters are books. Lots of books. All packed in tightly on cheap shelves and those that won’t fit with their partners are stacked up around the room in untidy piles. You can count at least six different stacks by his bed alone, most of which seem to vary from physics to astronomy to advanced mathematics.

Ford must catch you taking it all in because he clears his throat awkwardly and you break away from your staring to look at him directly. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t really get any company in here besides Fidds, so it’s a little messy.”

You laugh quietly. If only he could see the state of your room…. “Don’t worry about it,” you assure him. “Nobody comes to college to be tidy.”

Careful not to disturb their precarious resting places, you pick your way around the book piles and take a seat on the edge of his bed.

Ford joins you after he adjusts the desk lamp to shine directly over you, carrying a small white plastic box and setting it between you both. He retrieves his glasses from his pocket and puts them beside the box so he can sit comfortably.

You realise it’s a proper medical kit. “Do you just happen to carry around a first aid box with you all the time?”

Ford huffs a laugh as he clicks it open and roots through it to find what he needs. “When you get bullied enough as a kid, you start to learn that carrying around things like first aid come in pretty handy sooner or later.”

He says it so casually that your heart squeezes in your chest. “Ford….” You say, soft and slightly pained. “That’s awful, you know that, right?”

Ford shrugs one shoulder, procuring some sterile wipes and plasters from the kit. “You get used to it.”

You want to tell him that that's ludicrous, that he shouldn't have to do any such thing, but you know how cruel people can be. It's not like he can do much to stop them anyway; Ford fights back intellectually, not physically, and talking back to someone in the way he has done tonight has only worked out poorly for him. Rather than reply, you put your hand on his knee and he pauses in his motion of opening the wipes.

“If anyone gives you trouble again, tell me,” you say with a smile. “I'll put white spirit in their coffee.”

“Thanks,” Ford laughs and you can see the upset tension leave his shoulders a bit. “I’d rather not kill anyone over it, but that’s very kind of you…. In a weird, unethical sort of way.”

He goes to use the wipes on his face but you stop him, taking the packet from his hands and plucking a couple out. Ford lets you do it without any quarrel, watching you closely.

The blood isn't too thick when you begin to wipe it away, although it has begun to oxidise into a more congealed state, and carefully you start to swipe it away underneath his nose.

For a few minutes, Ford observes you in silence before finally speaking up again: "Did you really draw my hands because you like them?" He asks, voice quiet.

You don't meet his eyes as you take hold of his chin, gently tilting his head towards the light a little more. "Yes," is all you reply, praying he doesn't pick up on your embarrassment.

The area you're working on is close enough to his mouth that you catch him bite down on a smile, and you try to fight your own grin by doubling your focus on your work. Neither of you press the matter.

You clean up over his philtrum and his lips, covering your thumb with the wipe and swiping it across his closed mouth slowly. You swear you do it only to ensure that you’re being gentle, but you can hear Ford’s breath catch in his throat with the movement and you’re not immune to the intimacy of the act.

Despite not looking directly at him, you can feel his gaze boring into you. You imagine this must be how his science experiments feel, pinned down under his watchful eye and dissected by observation. Admittedly, it’s not the worst feeling in the world….

Once the blood is gone from his face, you turn your attention to the rest of his injury. The hit must have been solid; a strong blow square on the nose. There’s a fairly clean cut across the bridge, probably from both the force and the metal of his glasses biting into the thin skin there. The edges are raw and reddened, and already you can see a purplish bruise beginning to spread from the cut outwards towards his left eye.

“I don’t think it’s broken, thank god,” you murmur, dabbing the cut gently. “But you’re gonna have one hell of a bruise for a while.”

Ford winces slightly. “That’ll be humiliating to explain.”

“People will think Jamie is the embarrassment, Ford, trust me,” you assure him. “All you did was stand up for yourself…. And for me. Thank you for that, by the way. You really didn’t need to-”

“He was going to hit you.” Ford interrupts. “I didn’t want that, no matter how upset I was.”

“Maybe, but it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.”

Ford catches you by the wrist where you’re finishing with his nose, lowering your hand, and you meet his gaze. He's looking at you like you've said the stupidest thing imaginable. “No, you didn't,” he says, so firmly that you find yourself unable to argue.

“I still should have done something sooner, Ford. This whole thing is my fault,” you say, shaking your head. “I swear that I didn't draw those sketches of you because I wanted to show the others, and definitely not because I think you're weird. I'm sorry that I didn't just admit everything before things got so out of control, but I meant what I said earlier.”

“I think it's fairly clear that we both misunderstood each other, wouldn't you agree?” Ford says with a tiny smile. “I overreacted in the studio without thinking and I didn't want to bring it up in case you really did think I was a freak. I'm not sure I could've taken it, to be honest.”

“Is that why you've been avoiding me all this time? Skipping sessions and stuff?” You frown.

Ford's cheeks stain red, visible even in the low light, and he looks away with a nod, abashed.

“Why not just talk to me, you idiot?” You say, not unkindly.

It's evident that he's embarrassed to go further into detail, but he's piqued your interest now. It's too late to play coy and he probably knows it.

“I….” Ford huffs, still not meeting your eye. “Fidds is my only friend here and, well…. Even when you and I argued in class you were never cruel about it. You held your own and I respected that. I still do. That's why I assumed we were having fun,” he says, recalling your discussion in the studio last week.

“And then we started working together. I suppose I expected it to be terrible but you talked to me like I was just another normal person. You asked me about myself. No one ever does that….” Ford says, looking so wistful that your heart threatens to break further. “Usually it’s about my hands or my brain, or ‘Ford, can you do my essay for me?’, ‘Ford, can I copy your test?’, and it was just so different that I suppose I hoped we might eventually become friends. When you saw my hands and reacted out of nowhere, I worried that you'd wind up being just like the others, so I avoided asking so I didn't have to have my fears confirmed.”

You struggle to form the words that you desperately want to say. Not out of humiliation or fear this time, but because the lump in your throat is so big that nothing seems to be able to get past it beyond a weak sounding: “Ford….”

“That was wrong of me, I know,” he continues. “Old habits die hard and all that…. Plus, I can't say my intentions were wholly pure, but that is mostly your fault.”

That's enough to startle a laugh from you. “Oh?”

Ford smiles to himself and takes a deep breath, like he's finally admitting to a deep secret. “You're very attractive, I couldn't really help it…. Why do you think I kept standing so close to you in the studio?”

You can feel your cheeks burn and you smile, stupid and shy. Slipping free of his grip, you take his hand in your own and lace your fingers together. The fit is unusual with his extra appendage but you find that it's quite nice to have your palm so entirely encompassed.

Ford is surprised by the action, staring down at where you're holding him.

“Look at me, Stanford,” you command, and he does exactly as you ask without hesitation.

You use your free hand to grab his glasses from the bed and, mindful to avoid irritating the cut, you slide them onto his face gently so that he can see you properly.

“You almost drove me mad with that, you know?” You smile and Ford does too, hope dawning on his handsome features. “I admit that I thought you were a total asshole at first. You made me look like an idiot as soon as you started in class and I hated it. You didn't even want to be there but you were better than everyone else, and I took it personally. I mean, you were also kind of a jerk about art and that did get under my skin….”

Ford winces, looking suitably guilty, but you smile.

“The more we spent time together, though, the more I realised that you’re not so bad…. Still a bit of an ass but it’s not like I’m always an innocent party either,” You grin. “And for what it’s worth, in the studio that day? I only noticed your hands while I was looking for something to distract myself with because you were so close to me. I was worried I’d make an idiot of myself and do something stupid that I couldn’t take back.”

“Oh….” Ford’s brows raise. “And…. Do you want to take back the- Our- I mean, what happened earlier?”

It’s sweet that he can’t quite say it. “You mean when you kissed me?”

“Technically, you kissed me,” he argues back without hesitation.

“I don’t think that’s how it went down,” you smirk. “Fairly certain you were the one who started it.”

“I'm afraid I only work with cold, hard facts.” Ford grins. “You'll have to prove it.”

“Make me.”

Ford takes a sharp breath in, gaze dropping to your mouth. “You have no idea how much I want to, but…. You're still covered in my blood.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten about that.

“Shit,” you mutter, grabbing one of the wipes and blindly smearing it over your mouth. You must look crazy.

Ford laughs under his breath and takes it from you, making quick work of the spots you've missed. After a moment, he speaks again: “That was my first kiss, you know,” he admits.

You're too polite to voice your lack of shock, but you had suspected it might be. Ford is hardly the type to get about in such a way if his behaviour at Backupsmore is anything to go by.

Even in the flurry of action it had been easy to pinpoint a certain lack of grace. Not that it's an issue for you, of course, it certainly feels nice to possess a skill that he doesn’t for once. “And how was it?” You ask, tactfully avoiding any insecurity he might have over it.

“Besides hurting my nose?” Ford says, tossing the wipe onto the soiled pile. “Better than correctly calculating a hypothesis before anyone else has even started the experiment.”

You stare at him blankly.

“Thrilling,” Ford clarifies with a grin, and then he's kissing you again. It's gentle and nervous, yet hungry enough that you can feel how desperate he is to return right back to that earlier moment.

You make a soft, happy sound, your eyes falling closed and hands reaching up to cup his face. Again, Ford takes a hold of your waist and leans into you, exhaling heavily through his sore nose. You'll have to remind him to take some painkillers before he loses himself completely for the evening….

The rest of the night passes just like that: Exchanging slow, delicate kisses with barely restrained heat and talking about life. Ford (just about) apologises for his anatomy comments ("They're better than the other ones, at least....") and you take it in gracious stride; a lot of things have been said (or not said, as the case may be) tonight that neither of you mean.

It won't do to hold them against one another now and anyway, you can pick a better time to help him work on his constructive criticism delivery than right this minute.

Things don't progress further than that, though. You're too concerned that his brain might still be rattled from the punch and even he confesses he's a little nervous about bleeding all over you again.

You stick to chatting, punctuated by measured makeouts and hesitant touches, and somehow it’s impossibly more arousing than jumping into bed with him immediately.

Hours go by before you can bring yourself to leave, and when you do Ford is polite enough not to beg you to stay even though it's blatant that he wants to. You’re both completely rumpled, hot from toe to tip and wound tighter than a drum, but Ford doesn't pressure or guilt you to come back in the way others have before.

He offers to walk you home again, but the temptation to bring him inside your own dorm would be too much; you decline and assure him that for both of your sakes it’ll be better that he stays here, and Ford, being the smart cookie that he is, understands immediately.

“Would you like to come over after our next study session? We could practise our presentation, hang out for a bit,” He suggests when you're standing on the threshold of his door, ready to leave. “Maybe listen to some records….?”

You hope that's code for ‘fuck each other's brains out’.

“That sounds groovy,” you say, smirking. “Are you bringing the vinyl's or should I?”

Ford flushes pink from his throat to the roots of his hair at the heavy innuendo in your question, but he keeps it together admirably, leaning on the doorframe as casually as he can. “Well, you’ll be my guest,” he says, trying not to grin. “It would be awfully rude of me to make you bring them yourself, would it not?”

Oh, that is so definitely code for ‘fuck each other’s brains out’.... This is going to be fun.

The two of you share a long, charged look, all barely restrained smiles and electric hope, before the slamming of a door down the hallway is enough to spur you back onto your original course of action.

“I’ll see you in class, Ford,” you say, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, and then he’s closing the door and leaving you out in the hallway alone.

That night, your dreams really are the sweetest they’ve ever been.

In the end, your mid-term presentation with Ford is a resounding success. Professor Stonepoor seems pleasantly surprised by your cooperation, though he gloats a little about it being his plan all along, and all your hard work pays off when he awards you both top marks. He does also pull you aside to ensure that you aren’t the one responsible for giving Ford his black eye, but Ford is quick to assure him that it’s quite the opposite.

Everything else between you both stays a secret, at least for now. Not because you’re ashamed or because Ford is unsure, but because it’s just too much fun to play along with the rivalry narrative. The back-and-forths stay the same in class, though now they serve closer to full on foreplay than academic fighting, and despite the fact that you’re sure a few people might have caught the little glances you throw at each other, nobody pulls you up on it. If they’re still placing bets on your chemistry, you’ll be damned if you give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure.

When Stonepoor catches the two of you making out in the spare studio after hours one evening, however, said plan falls apart. He declares, very jovially, that at least two other faculty members are going to owe him twenty bucks before he shuts the door on you, and as much as you want to complain about his lack of professionalism, the moment you meet Ford’s eyes neither of you can keep it together for long enough to form the words.

All’s well that ends well, you suppose.

A/N: and yes, Stonepoor's name is a play on Rockwell, a famous artist from the 70's (man standing up meme!). I thought it was funny and I'm not sorry.

#stanford pines x reader #ford pines x reader #gravity falls x reader #gravity falls #ford pines/reader #stanford pines/reader #reader insert #stanford pines #gravity falls/reader #alexa: play tupac's back

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moon-buggg · 3 months

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SCP au drabble

set a week after YN gets taken to the facility, basic au info here

warnings: yn was kidnapped by an offbrand scp foundation after they didn't get killed by Moon and thats whats being discussed and im not sure how to tag that. Yn is a little emotionally dumb, flirty sun

no word count because I wrote this in the tumblr post maker in a frenzied haze

"You are stuck here... because of us?" Sun asks, carefully, tentatively. His, frankly, absurdly tall body hunches over so he can be at eye level. Under any other circumstances, you'd be terrified of the strange creature trying to comfort you. As is, his presence is incredibly comforting; the sole friendly face in a sea of questionable actors.

"I mean, pretty sure they expected Moon to kill me," Sun flinches just slightly, ears tilting ever so slightly back, "so I don't think I was ever meant to leave this stupid place, anyways."

You'd fallen asleep in the darkness of what you now know as Sun and Moon's room, and had awoken to several researchers and armed guards preparing you for a barrage of tests. Those first few days had been a horrible mess of exhausting tests and tedious interviews as your white-coated captors tried desperately to discover what made you different.

Why you'd survived.

They still hadn't found anything, but at least the tests seemed to be slowing down ever so slightly. After an uneventful introduction to the more passive, daytime version of the thing they expected to kill you, it was decided that you'd be allowed to visit him once every other day.

Jury seemed to still be out on if it was worth risking another encounter with Moon.

"It's not your fault," you add after a beat of silence, "or Moon's for that matter. You're both trapped here just as much as I am."

A soft, crooning sound rumbles out from Sun's chest as he slinks back into a seated position that leaves him still about a head taller than you. Gentle lights pulse across his fur, barely visible under the harsh fluorescent lights. He seems to struggle to find the right words, before giving up.

Carefully, as if approaching a startled animal, he reaches out a hand. When you don't react to the long claws coming at you, he continues. Turning over his hand to keep those sharp claws decisively away from you, he runs his knuckles over your head in a clear attempt at a comforting gesture.

It's startling how much it works.

"Oh starlight, far too kind for a place like this." His voice is soft and quiet in a way that makes your face feel warm. You choose not to think about it too hard. "You shouldn't be locked away."

"Neither should you." The words are harsh and automatic, and seem to startle Sun who draws back as if burnt. His glowing fur brightens significantly, its starting to get uncomfortable to look at, actually.

He recovers quickly.

"There you go," the words are teasingly chiding, "proving me right starlight." He reaches a long claw out again, this time using his knuckle to gently boop your nose.

He bends, using his long neck to crowd into your space. It's hard not to feel a little threatened by those big teeth so close to your face, and Sun's widening smile does little to help. Seems like you can't help but feel flustered today.

"At least you'll have me to keep you company." His voice is just a bit too hopeful, like he's desperate for you to agree. Poor guy seems utterly starved of positive affection. The urge to comfort him is hard to ignore, so you don't.

It's easy enough to thread your fingers into the long mane of fur that frames his face. The feeling is distracting, it's so warm...

Movement brings you back to the moment as Sun leans ever so slightly into your touch. Right, right, you had a reason for this.

"We're in this together," you say in what you hope is your most sturdy, comforting voice. Sun's presence has done a lot for you in the few days you've been here so far, and you want to do your best to be a comforting presence to him in return. You don't miss the way his fur seems to glow brighter and hotter at your words.

Acutely aware of where your hands are, you realize that grabbing a giant monsters face out of no where probably wasn't your best idea.

"Sorry!" you quickly release Sun's face, your own face hot with embarrassment, "Sorry! I shouldn't have just grabbed you like-"

"We didn't mind, starlight," he interrupts, pulling back out of your personal bubble. His hand ghost over where you touched, smoothing the fur back down, "no, don't mind at all."

#dca x reader #sun x reader #sun x y/n #dca x y/n #dca au #scp au #my writing

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iguessweallcrazyithinktho · 3 months

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So it's come to my attention a little birdy @judegossip has been lying about shit on here. I'm honestly ok with most gossip account everyone is on their own thing, it's cool, but this girl in particular is a fucking mess.

First off I make a post saying y'all need to be careful with what you're posting on here because rightfully so, football player teams look on social media(especially Jude. This isn't an opinion or a guess it's a fucking fact) to see what bullshit y'all say to damage his reputation and what not, And not even a few hours later she makes a post saying Toby messaged her.

BUT ACTUALLY HE DIDN'T! She got someone else to message her and make it seem like it was Toby

Don't read any further if you don't like gossip. You've been warned!

The account (who I have no problems with btw) made up a fake story at her request and she proceeded to post acting as if Toby was the one who sent that shit to her ass

Not only is she deranged but she's also clearly lying and her anons are obviously making fanfictions against Jude. Now I want to tell you, as someone who has had a gossip account before I know for a fact you can send anons to yourself through desktop. And people lie because it's easy. Not only is she trying to make it out as if Jude is gay she also keeps making claims Jude has had a 3some with Toby and she has a picture of said 3some taking place. And Jude is some shitty ex boyfriend because "someone close to Jude" came to Tumblr and told you.(I've heard that one before too lol)

My momma didn't raise a fucking fool. As I stated people make stuff up and I have once or twice lied about knowing something or having something when I didn't for attention (stupid right? I know. I was young and dumb)

Also her talking about toby potential nose job why do you gaf exactly? She clearly has some weird beef with Toby for no fucking reason at all. Here she is continuing to feed into this shit, lying to her anons as if she wasn't the one making this up

She's homophobic and also she's a zonist apparently (the account who messaged me has proof of that). I doubt this woman is a real jude fan the way she talks about this man and his family and friends.

Now idgaf if her or her little minions come at me( nothing you say will hurt my feelings. Everything is funny to me) but I refuse to sit here and let someone do this shit. Not only is it deranged but clearly she's a serial attention seeker who ego is driven by people anonymous messaging her. I don't know if you're a fucking child or something but you need help babe and I hope you get it because you need that shit

I don't want to be a gossip account so I won't answer too many anons on this. Instead I'll answer something via tags or message me and I'll explain. I will also not be tagging any post after this unless necessary to do so. The tags are supposed to be a fun place, not a shitty one. (also I don't care if you share this anywhere else other than Tumblr)

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #england nt #jude gossip #jobe bellingham #real madrid #england national team

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bossbtch1 · 11 months

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Against All Odds part 3 (Final)

Summary : Bucky's betrayal left you deeply wounded, you sought revenge to make him feel the pain he caused. Following your act of retaliation, you distanced yourself from him despite his numerous attempts to apologize. Instead, you found comfort in Sam, and Bucky couldn't ignore the growing closeness, leaving him seething with jealousy.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Reader (No mentions of body type or ethnicity other than the reader being female)

General tags : Smut and Groveling

TW: NSFW, 18+, Strong language, Hurt, Comfort, Groveling, Jealous!Bucky, Unprotected Sex, P in V, Hair pulling, Light Spanking, Breeding kink, Overstimulation

Word Count: 14,5k (So yeah... I'm sorry it has to be this long)

A/N : We've reached the end of the story, and I appreciate your enthusiasm and support for this chapter. Apologies if it turned out to be a lengthy fic; I contemplated splitting it into two chapters but couldn't bring myself to do that to you all.

P.S. I'm trying something new with hyperlinks to provide visualizations for certain scenes. I initially wanted to include them for the smut as well, but it didn't align with Tumblr guidelines, so I kept it PG. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the finale!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

A week after that when you were running in the treadmill, you saw Bucky trying to approach you. You ignored him and ran faster. "Y/N... Y/N, please! Let me apologize." Bucky's voice could be heard, but it was drowned out by the music in your ears.

You just kept running. You knew Bucky was trying to apologize. "Can't hear you, music too loud!" You yelled.

He didn't give up and said, "Please just give me 5 minutes.”

"I'm busy.”

"Just five minutes. That's all I ask for."

"No." You pressed a button, and the speed of the treadmill increased. You kept running.

He tried one last time, "Please. Just five minutes."

You ignored him. He got the message.

He stood there, watching you run. You were not paying any attention to him, or even acknowledging his presence. The look on his face was pure sadness. He was not going to give up though. Bucky waited until you finished your run, and then asked, "Hey…”

You ignored him and went out. He followed you.

"Y/N. Wait." He said chasing you before you got into the shower, "Doll. I'm sorry. I fucked up big time. I really am. I was stupid. I wasn't thinking."

You didn’t care, you ignored him and went to the shower, hoping he would leave after you taking a shower, but of course he was waiting for you.

When you got out, he was sitting on the couch. You went out there with nothing but a towel on. "Y/N what are you doing? You're going to get cold." He said.

You rolled your eyes, "What do you think I'm doing, Barnes? I just took a shower. Is there a problem with that?"

He shook his head. "No, but you shouldn't be wearing a towel. You should be dressed. You're going catch a cold." He then averted his eyes from your body and stared at the floor.

"I thought you said I looked good without clothes, Barnes." You smirked. "Is there something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Y/N, put some clothes on."

You then walked toward him and sat on his lap, "Y/N what-"

You cut him off by kissing him passionately. His eyes widened in shock, and then closed as he kissed you back. He was confused as you broke the kiss. You then dropped the towel, exposing your naked body to him. He stared at your breast for a second, before looking into your eyes.

"Y/N," he began to speak but stopped. He was stunned, "Y/N what are you doing right now? Why did you take the towel off?"

"Don't you like me naked? Do you not find me attractive, Bucky?" You asked him with a pouty lip.

"Yes. You're very attractive. Of course. But... We shouldn't."

"Why not? We had sex before, why not now?"

"Because... That was before. But now you are angry at me. I'm not going to do that again. I won't take advantage of you. It's not right."

"Don't worry about it Bucky." You got closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Come on Bucky. I want you. Don't you want me?” You said, moving closer until your lips were inches apart.

He swallowed hard, staring into your eyes. "You're not in your right mind. You're not thinking straight.” He could feel himself getting hard. His resolve was breaking. "Doll, please. You know I want you, but I need to know that are we good? I can't have you and leave. It would kill me."

You smirked at him, "We are good." You said seductively, "For now." You whispered, biting his earlobe gently.

He groaned as his cock hardened at your words. "Doll…” He swallowed hard, looking into your eyes.

"Are you going to give me what I want?" You asked.

"If... If that's what you want. Then, yes."

"Then prove it to me. Kiss me."

He hesitated, but leaned forward and kissed you. His lips were soft and warm. You deepened the kiss, moaning softly as you felt his tongue slip between your parted lips. Your hands moved to his shirt, pulling it off. You threw his shirt on the floor and your hands found their way to his belt. You undid his pants and pulled them down, letting his dick spring out.

You reached for his cock and stroked him slowly. He moaned, bucking his hips forward. "Fuck, doll." He breathed.

"You like that, Buck?" You asked.

He nodded. "Yes, so much."

You then positioned yourself above his cock. "You want this?" You teased him, rubbing his cock against your entrance.

"Fuck, doll." He groaned. "I want this."

You smirked. You then sink down on him slowly, taking in every inch of him. He grunted, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "Oh fuck. That's it. Fuck. You feel so good, doll."

You rode him, grinding your hips. "Oh, god." You moaned. He started to thrust into you, groaning. You rode him, picking up the pace. You started riding him as fast as you could. He grunted, his grip on your hips tightening. He started thrusting in and out of you, faster and harder. You were also meeting his thrusts, moaning and whimpering. You pulled his hair, making him moan loudly.

He hit your sweet spot and you were screaming his name. He kept hitting your g-spot. You were getting close. He kept thrusting, faster and harder.

"Fuck, doll. You're so fucking tight. I love how your pussy clenches around me. You're so hot." He pulled your head toward him to kissed you but you denied his lips. You threw your head back, moaning loudly.

"Oh, fuck! Yes! Oh my god!" You screamed, riding him faster. "I'm close. So close."

He reached between your legs, rubbing your clit. You were on the edge, and you needed just a little more to push you over. He rubbed your clit, faster and faster. "Bucky, I'm gonna come!" You cried out.

"Yes, come on my cock. Come for me."

And you came, screaming his name. Your orgasm triggered his. He came, shooting his load inside you. He grunted, thrusting hard. "Holy fuck." He moaned, still thrusting. "You're amazing."

You collapsed onto his chest, panting, wrapping his arms around your waist. Then after you caught your breath, you unwrapped his arms from you and got off him. You rolled your eyes and he was confused. "You didn't let me kiss you earlier, what happened doll? Are you mad at me or something? Did I do something wrong?" he asked, pulling on his boxers and sitting up.

You ignored his questions and stood up, reaching for your scattered clothes. "Y/N, what's wrong?" he pressed, his tone laced with worry.

You smirked at him, "Thanks for that, I needed it." You had taken revenge on using him.

Bucky stood there, stunned and feeling utterly foolish. He couldn't believe he had allowed you to manipulate him like that. "You said we're good..." he protested weakly, his voice filled with hurt and confusion.

Your response was cold and calculated, "Yeah, I said 'we're good for now,' which was then and not right now. So, I got what I needed from you." You didn't spare him a glance as you began to dress, your movements swift. "We're done here." You made a move to leave, but Bucky seized your arms, his grip tight and desperate.

"You're not leaving this room, not until you tell me why the hell you just did that." His eyes pleaded for an explanation, the hurt etched in his features tearing at your resolve. For a fleeting moment, a pang of guilt flickered within you, but you swiftly brushed it aside. "Y/N, stop. You can't just use me for sex," he implored.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you met his gaze head-on. "I can, and I did. Now, let go of me," you retorted, pushing him away with unyielding determination.

His eyes were now full of anger and disbelief. "So all this time, you were just acting? Pretending to be okay with me? Pretending that you've forgiven me? All this time, you didn't actually forgive me?!"

"Ha! Please, when did I said I forgive you? What do you think I am? A fool? You don't get to act like the victim here. It's your fault!” You yelled at him.

"You don't think I know that?! I fucked up, Y/N. I made a mistake and I'm sorry.” Running his hand through his hair. “What the fuck!"

"What do you mean 'what the fuck'? It's what you did to me! You fucked me and threw me out. What's wrong with me doing the same to you?" You scoffed, crossing your arms.

"You can't do that, Y/N…"

"I can't do that? I can't do the exact thing you did to me? That's rich, Barnes." He stayed quiet. He didn't have anything to say because he knew you were right.

"How does it feel, Barnes? Fucking hurt, doesn't it?" You said staring at his face. You wanted him to hurt just like how you did, you wanted to hurt him. He flinched, his jaw clenching. You were glad he was in pain, it gave you satisfaction. You wanted him to suffer.

He stared at you, his blue eyes filled with pain. You ignored it and started walking toward the door.

"Wait! Y/N please. Don't go. Stay." He pleaded as he grabbed your arm, "I... I was a jerk. I was scared and stupid. And... I was a fool, I don't want this to be over…” He said while looking into your eyes with his blue orbs. “Please, Y/N, just let me fix this…”

"I wish it were that simple. But it's not. It's too late. I guess we were doomed from the start." You said and ripped your arm from his grasp. “You don't get to hold me anymore. Don't ever come near me again. I mean it." You said sternly.

He stood there, tears welling up in his eyes, helpless and uncertain, fully aware that he had messed up beyond repair.

You couldn't stand the sight of Bucky, it broke your heart as much you hate to admit it. It took all your self-control not to run into his arms and hug him. But you had to stand your ground, he hurt you and you had to show him how much it affected you.

You turned around and walked away, then you heard glass shattering behind you. You didn't have to look back to know that the mirror had broken. Bucky had punched the mirror in his anger and frustration.

You walked out of the door, slamming it behind you.

And with that, you left him standing there, alone and broken.

Couple weeks after that you avoided Bucky like a plague. You were trying to forget about him and move on with your life. You never look at him and whenever he was near you, you would use every excuse to walk away or leave the room. If you were stuck in a situation where you had to interact with him, you kept it professional and didn't engage in any unnecessary conversation. Your relationship with Bucky had always been strained right from the beginning, making it no surprise to the other Avengers. So, your growing distance and avoidance tactics went unnoticed.

Bucky was trying his best to keep his distance from you, far enough so you would be comfortable but close enough so he could make sure that you were safe. You knew he was still trying to apologize and fix things with you. You didn't understand why he was doing this, his words, his touch, the way he's looking at you. You didn't need his apology, didn't want his sympathy. You didn't need him. Not now.

Every time he saw you, he would always try to catch your eye, but you never looked back. It was a little hard at first, since he had to see you almost every day, but as time went by, you guys had less interaction because of missions.

Now you were allowed back into the mission field and you were craving it. It took your mind off Bucky and it helped you forget about him.

You didn't need him in your life.

You wanted nothing to do with him.

But he wanted everything to do with you.

He was desperate.

You had no room in your life for someone who couldn't decide where you stood. The push and pull was exhausting, the mixed signals maddening. You also have gotten your revenge, you should feel satisfied. But you weren't. Why weren't you happy?

After awhile you were back on your normal self and started to move on, not because you stopped caring, but you didn't feel the constant heartache anymore. You could think about Bucky and not start crying or break into a cold sweat.

Meanwhile, Wanda shared the news that the gifts for Vision had been a success. While you were genuinely happy for them, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy deep down.

One day after a long mission, you were watching TV in the common area when you saw the three musketeers walking towards you. They were laughing and talking. You paid them no attention and just kept watching TV.

Sam was the first to greet you, his friendly smile easing some of the tension within you. "Fancy seeing you here, YN. It's been a while." He settled down beside you, and you scooted over to give him more space, returning his smile.

You smiled, it had been awhile since you saw them, you were actually starting to miss him. You knew it wasn’t their fault what happened between you and Bucky, so you didn't treat him differently.

You were glad to see Sam again, he was the only one that was acting the same around you. Bucky looked over at your direction, and when you saw him you looked away from him.

"Yeah. Been going on missions with Nat." You replied, attempting to keep the conversation casual.

Sam leaned in a bit, "How's that going for you?"

"Really well. I'm learning a lot. Nat is amazing. She taught me some of those moves too. Not as great as hers, but good enough to defend myself," you responded, appreciating the opportunity to share a positive aspect of your life.

"Nice." Sam smiled.

Taking a seat on the chair next to the couch, Steve turned to you with a warm smile. "How are you holding up, Y/N?" Steve asked, you knew he was asking about your emotional well-being.

"Fine," you gave him a little smile.

The room descended into awkward silence. The three men were making an effort to engage in conversation, but your discomfort hung heavy in the air. You didn't want to be mean or rude to them; after all, they had done nothing wrong. But being around Bucky felt almost unbearable, a constant reminder of a painful past.

“We're here for you. If you ever feel like talking, we're all ears." Steve offered gently. "If you want to talk about it, of course. If not, that’s totally fine too."

Bucky tried to intervene, sensing that you were about to share something he might not want to hear. "Steve, don't—"

You felt a surge of frustration, and despite Bucky's warning, you decided to share your pain, partly to hurt him back. "Well, there was this one person," you began.

"Well, there was this one person..” You started, cutting Bucky off. You decided to share your pain, partly to hurt him back, staring at Bucky.

Bucky clenched his jaw and averted his gaze. You saw a flicker of pain in his eyes.

Sam chimed in, "There's always someone.”

"Okay, the truth is that I met a guy." You rolled your eyes, trying to mask your vulnerability with a dismissive tone. "It turns out, he wasn’t the person I thought he was. I thought he liked me, and, well…"

Sam prodded, "Well what?"

"He didn't like me. It was all a joke to him." You paused for dramatic effect, locking eyes with Bucky. "The guy was so cold-hearted, he even admitted that he used me, that I was just a mistake." Your words were pointed, meant to hurt, and your gaze bore into Bucky as you sought to inflict the same pain, he had caused you.

Sam was visibly uncomfortable. Steve's face fell. Bucky stared at the floor, his fists clenched.

"Oh. That's... that's unfortunate. I'm sorry. Are you alright?" Steve asked gently, concern etched in his voice.

"Yes. I'll be fine. It's not the end of the world. I mean, it hurts. But I'll live." You answered.

Sam's expression twisted into a mix of anger and empathy. "That's beyond messed up. If I were there, I would beat him up."

"Yeah," you replied, your tone bitter. "But, don’t worry I already paid him back.”

Bucky looked guilty, his expression mirroring the remorse he felt. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor. He stayed silent, stayed silent, fully aware of the pain he had inadvertently caused you.

“Nice! This is why I like you, Y/N!” Sam nodded in understanding. "So, what's your plan now?"

"Moving on," you replied, your voice steady. "I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me sad."

"Good call," Sam said, his tone filled with assurance. "You're amazing, Y/N. Whoever ends up with you will be incredibly lucky. He doesn't deserve your attention. And here's the best part: when you find someone better and move on, he'll be left regretting ever hurting you. That, my friend, is the sweetest revenge."

You nodded, touched by his supportive words. "Thanks, Sam. You're the best."

The atmosphere gradually shifted back to normal as you grabbed a beer to pregame before Tony's party. However, you kept avoiding Bucky's gaze, your responses becoming short and distant.

While Steve was talking with Bucky, Sam leaned closer, his voice low as he whispered into your ear, "Maybe what you ordered worked after all."

You pulled away from him, narrowing your eyes in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Sam smirked knowingly, "You know what I mean," he whispered back, his tone playful and suggestive.

"No, I don't." Your confusion deepened, genuinely puzzled by his words. You hadn't ordered anything, so what was he talking about?

The realization struck you suddenly, and you smacked his thigh in disbelief. "You did not!" The shock in your voice echoed around the room, leaving everyone stunned by your reaction.

Sam laughed heartily, "What? What did I do?" He feigned innocence, grinning mischievously.

"Come on, Sam, stop teasing her," Steve chimed in, giving Sam an amused yet admonishing look.

"I swear, man, I wasn't," Sam protested with a chuckle.

Natasha, always one to read between the lines, chimed in, appearing out of nowhere. "We all know you enjoy teasing the girl."

Sam looked genuinely surprised. "Damn, Nat, can you please not sneak up on me? I almost had a heart attack."

Natasha simply smirked, her response dripping with amusement. "You'll be fine." Her nonchalant remark only fueled the laughter in the room, leaving you momentarily flustered.

You were about to press Sam with more questions, but he managed to divert the conversation, addressing Natasha instead. "When's the party starting, Nat?" His timing seemed convenient, clearly trying to avoid further interrogation.

Natasha checked at her watch and then back at the group, "In about an hour or so, but I need to go now. I have some things to finish."

Ever the gentleman, Sam promptly stood up. "I'll help you, Nat," he offered, his tone earnest.

"That's sweet of you, Sam. Maybe I can find you a girl that likes bird costumes." She joked and the group laughed.

"Funny." Sam said sarcastically, then they walked away.

"Sam!" You called after him, but he continued walking, seemingly ignoring you. Frustration bubbling within, you raised your voice, "Get back here!"

Feeling the heat of embarrassment rise in your cheeks, you huffed in annoyance and sank back into your seat. The room fell into an awkward silence, and you shifted uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of Steve and Bucky.

You met their eyes, "What?" you snapped, but they only exchanged a subtle glance, their expressions unreadable.

Deciding you had had enough, you stood up abruptly. "Alright, I'm going as well. I need to start getting ready," you announced, trying to sound composed despite your frustration.

Bucky made a move to follow you, but Steve quickly caught his arm, holding him back. "No," Steve whispered, his voice barely audible. "Don't, not yet."

Time for the party, it was to celebrate the mission succeed. Tony arrived with Pepper, Wanda, and Vision. Then soon everyone gathered. He was keeping the party small though, only Avengers and close friends. It was a small party though.

In the midst of the party, as people bustled around grabbing food and chatting, you discreetly pulled Sam aside. "Did you know the inside of it?" you whispered.

Sam simply looked at you with a mischievous smile, "Umm no?" Sam teased, his grin widening.

Frustration tugged at you. "Ugh, come on, Sam. Just spill it," you urged.

He chuckled, enjoying your perplexity. "Yes, Y/N, guilty as charged. I was the one who accepted the delivery," he confessed, his tone lighthearted. Your playful annoyance was evident as you lightly hit his chest. "You weren't there. You've been MIA for the past couple of weeks.”

"Oh my god, Sam, you're a dick," you groaned, shaking your head at his antics. "That's rude, you shouldn't snoop around people's packages. It's an invasion of privacy."

"It wasn't on purpose, okay?" Sam defended himself, his grin unyielding. "I can read where it's from, and you don't need to be a genius to guess what's inside. So, yeah, I knew. And you know, it was really interesting to see the stuff you ordered," he teased, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. You just want to dig a hole and bury yourself.

As you both grabbed food together, you shot him a warning glare. "I'm sorry, Y/N. Don't worry, my lips are sealed," he assured, trying to be serious but failing to hide his amusement.

"It better be. If you tell anyone, I will kill you," you growled, half-joking but also dead serious.

"So, any plans with it?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Sam," you warned him, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Just saying. It's a very interesting device. It has so many settings and functions. It would make things easier," he continued, unable to resist teasing you further. "I'm sure it would come in handy," Sam chuckled, taking a bite of his food.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, feeling embarrassed. “Shut up," you hissed, wanting to hide and disappear, not knowing what else to say.

“Any guy would love it. If you know what I mean," he added, nudging you playfully and making you blush even more.

"You are making me uncomfortable," you whined, pouting like a child. "I am not talking to you anymore," you mumbled.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “It's perfectly normal. Don't be shy," he said, his words meant to be comforting but the smug smirk on his face was anything but. You groaned, wishing the earth would swallow you up right then and there. Dropping your face in your hands, hiding behind them.

“How did you know it was for me? I could've bought it as a present for a friend or family. And, you can't just accept someone else's package."

"Because you wrote your name on it," Sam pointed out, his expression playful. "You could've used a random name if it was meant to be a secret. And come on, I was the only one there. What was I supposed to tell the delivery guy? 'Hey, this package isn't mine, can you go back to the warehouse, please?'"

Taking a bite of your food, you couldn't help but chuckle at his logic. He had a way of making even the most awkward situations seem amusing.

Sam chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "So, you bought sex toys and lingerie as a present?"

You were about to answer him when Tony dinked the glass and said, "Hello everyone, thanks for coming here." He paused as everyone clapped. "Let's raise our glasses for all of us, may we have a great year." Everyone raised their glass and cheered.

Before everyone drink, Tony stopped us "Not you kid." He pointed at Peter, "You're not allowed to have alcohol, go drink some soda."

"Aww come on, Mr. Stark. I’m not a kid anymore." Peter protested, attempting to sound mature.

"No, and don't complain or I'll kick you out."

“Fine.” Peter rolled his eyes but left to grab a soda.

You smiled as you saw Pepper leaning against Tony's side. They looked happy. You couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy at their public display of affection. You wanted that with Bucky. You sighed, looking down at the drink in your hand.

You were sitting between Sam and Bruce. Bruce was quiet most of the time and Sam kept talking to you and Bruce. You had fun and the food was great. You didn't really drink that much, you just had two or three drinks.

Across from you, Bucky's glances were hard to ignore. His expression was far from cheerful, but you relished in his irritation. Seizing the opportunity, you continued to emphasize your closeness with Sam, subtly trying to provoke Bucky.

Sam tapped you and leaned in again to whispered, "You still haven't answered my question."

You shot him a playful grin. "Didn't know you were so curious, Sam. Besides, I don't feel obligated to reveal my secrets."

"Touché, Y/N, touché," Sam replied, a smirk playing on his lips. " But come on, humor a man, will you?"

"Alright, how about this? I bought it for a friend," you responded casually. “They're just really shy about it."

Sam raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye, "Oh yeah, and does this friend have a name?"

"They do, but I don't have to tell you everything," you said with a smile.

Sam nodded, and smiled back, "You're right, you don't." You saw Bucky sat in front of you, looking like he was about to kill someone. You smirked on the inside, knowing it was working. "I'll tell you something though, they're pretty lucky to have a friend like you."

"Well, I am the best." You winked at Sam.

He was going to say something when the two of you were interrupted. "I need to talk to you," Bucky growled at Sam.

"I'm in the middle of a conversation, can't it wait?"

"No," Bucky responded, glaring at him.

You knew Bucky was jealous, you could tell by the look in his eyes, and you liked it. You smirked, "Yeah, Barnes. Don't be rude, you're interrupting us."

Bucky looked at you, and he could tell by the look in your eye, that you knew what you were doing, and were enjoying it. He clenched his jaw and staring at you.

Sam smiled, "It's fine, I have to use the bathroom anyway. Talk to you later?"

You nod, smiling at him, "Sure thing, Sam."

He got up, and you watched as he and Bucky walked to the other side of the room, talking quietly. You wished you knew what they were saying, but you had a feeling that it was about you.

"That was interesting," Wanda said, making you look at her.

"What do you mean? It was nothing."

She smirked, "You're an awful liar, and I can tell when you're trying to make a certain someone jealous."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Just a bit." Wanda smiled. "But he deserved it, he was being a dick to you, so you can have a little fun."

"Exactly."

"But remember, don't let it go too far."

You nodded, looking back at them. They were still talking, but Sam had his back to you, so you couldn't see his expression. Then he turned around and walked back towards you.

"Hey, I gotta go. Thanks for the chat, I'll talk to you later."

You smiled and said, "Oh where are you going? We could hang out more."

"I have work to do."

"On a Saturday?"

"Yes, the glamorous life of an Avenger," Sam quipped.

You sighed dramatically, a playful pout forming on your lips. "Fine, have fun saving the world."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Sam winked at you.

You scoffed, "Please, I’m not a child."

"Whatever you say," Sam said, laughing as he walked away.

Rolling your eyes, you let out a sigh, focusing on your drink. It was clear that Bucky had a hand in this – he was the only one with any issue against Sam. But it seemed to work, because as soon as you started talking to Sam, you could see the anger in Bucky's eyes. You ignored him.

As the night wore on, the music grew louder, and the crowds began to dance. It was a great party. You were sitting at the bar, drinking a glass of whiskey. You didn't feel like dancing or partying, you didn't have the energy to do it.

You turned around and caught a glimpse of Steve and Bruce dancing with Wanda and Natasha. Then Bucky came beside you, his eyes focused on something. He was leaning against the counter, his back to you. A sigh escaped your lips, and you rolled your eyes discreetly, wondering why he continued to linger around you.

He finally glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes meeting yours, and he offered you a small smile. Just as you contemplated leaving, Bucky spoke up, "I see you're getting comfortable with Sam."

Not in the mood for an argument, you nonchalantly shrugged and responded, "He's a good friend."

Bucky's voice lowered, and he muttered, "A little too friendly, don't you think?"

You met his intensity with a nonchalant attitude, taking another sip of your whiskey. "So?"

"What do you mean, 'so'?" Bucky's frown deepened. "Can't you see? He's flirting with you and you flirted back. He’s all over you."

"And?"

"Why would you do that?!" He asked.

"I believe that's none of your concern, Barnes." You continued to sip your drink, maintaining your composure.

"I care about you," Bucky said quietly.

You snorted, turning your attention back to your glass.

Bucky shifted in his seat, turning to face you. He placed his hand on top of yours, causing you to flinch. "I mean it, Y/N. And Sam is my friend.”

Then you raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Am I not allowed to be friends with him? I don't have any problem with him."

Bucky's jaw clenched, his frustration boiling over, "Look, Y/N. You and Sam are getting very close. Friends don't do that. Do you know how he looked at you?"

A mischievous glint lit up your eyes as you prodded, "Oh, how is it? Tell me."

"Like he's about to jump you anytime," Bucky replied, his tone tense with disapproval.

"Is that a bad thing, Barnes?" you teased, your smile intentionally provocative, knowing it irked him.

"Of course, it is," Bucky snapped, his patience wearing thin.

You couldn't help but chuckle, finding his jealousy rather entertaining. As Bucky's patience wore thin, he snapped, "This is no laughing matter."

"Sure it is," you retorted, your voice light and teasing. "Why even care? You made it clear that it was just a heat-of-the-moment thing. So, perhaps I’ll fuck him next. It seems like he's interested." Casually, you finished your drink and set the empty glass on the counter. "Thanks for the heads-up." You turned to leave, but his hand shot out to your wrist, stopping you from getting up. Your gaze flickered between the metal hand and his eyes.

"The fuck you won’t." Bucky's voice was low, his expression hard, his jaw clenched tightly. “If he touches you, I’ll break his arm."

Instantly, you yanked your hand away, your eyes narrowing in defiance. "Don't touch me," you warned, your voice sharp with anger, setting a clear boundary against his possessiveness.

Bucky's blue eyes flashed with anger, his fists clenched at his sides. "Don’t fucking touch him. Or anyone.” He leaned closer to you, your body tense. “Because, I'm the only one who should touch you," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

You met his glare head-on. "And why would I do that? So you can break my heart again? No thanks. I'm not a toy that you can play with, and discard when you're bored.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, and grabbed your arms, pushing you against the counter. "No, I don't want to see you with him. You're mine."

With an exasperated sigh, you held his gaze, your patience wearing thin. You didn't want to continue this game of emotional tug-of-war. "Let me remind you, Barnes," you said, your voice steady but firm, "Last I check, we're not boyfriend and girlfriend. You made it very fucking clear that I was a mistake and you used me.”

You attempted to leave, but Bucky's grip on your arm tightened, pulling you closer. His touch sent an electric jolt through you, "Last I check, you belong to me when you were begging and squirming as I fucked you, doll. I can make you forget him, I can fuck you better than him. I'll show you how a man fucks his woman, doll."

His words sent a shiver down your spine and you could feel your core pulsed. Goddamn it, why did he have this effect on you. Despite the undeniable physical reaction, you mentally reinforced your resolve.

“Nope. I learned my lesson. And did you forget about what I said to you? Don’t go near me," you replied nonchalantly. "Now if you'll excuse me." You tugged at your hand, wanting to break free, but he held fast.

He held your hand and pulled you back to him. "No," he said simply.

"Yeah, well, I'm done taking orders from you," you shot back, refusing to back down, though your heart raced in your chest.

"I'm not letting you be with him, Y/N," Bucky asserted, his voice low and possessive.

"That decision isn't yours to make," you declared, avoiding his gaze, aware that meeting his eyes might shatter your resolve.

"Why? What's the problem, Y/N?" he pressed, his frustration evident.

"Are you seriously asking me that?” You glared at him, “YOU'RE THE PROBLEM! YOU ARE THE FUCKING PROBLEM BUCKY!" You yelled and his grip loosened, and you pulled away from him. You didn't care that the room had fallen silent, with everyone's attention now focused on your heated exchange. Unfazed by the sudden silence, you continued, "I'm tired of your excuses, your indecision, and your damn games. It's always one step forward and two steps back with you. I told you I’m done!"

"So you're done with me, and now you have Sam, so you'll follow him around?" Bucky's words were laced with bitterness and jealousy. "Who's next, huh? Steve? He's Captain America; you should fuck at him instead, climb him like a tree. Or better yet, maybe you can do all of us. Let us have a go."

Regret instantly washed over him as he realized how hurtful his words had been. "I'm really sorry," he began, "I didn't mean—"

But it was too late. Your anger boiled over, and without thinking, your hand flew across his face, the sharp sound of the slap echoing in the room. "What did I do for you to treat me like this?" you demanded.

"Is it because I joined the team because of my connection with Fury?" Your tone cut through the air like a razor. "I worked for this for years. I’ve fought, bled, sacrificed, and pushed myself to the limits, all to be an Avenger. I earned my place, damn it. Do I not deserve it? Why are you punishing me? Fucking tell me!”

You were beyond caring about the eyes fixed on the unfolding drama. 'Let them gossip,' you thought bitterly, your focus solely on the man before you.

“Sorry that life was hard on you, but don’t make it hard for anyone else either," you continued, "No, you know what? I'm not sorry. Life is shit sometimes, and that's just how it is. You have a right to be upset and have feelings, Barnes. But the way you treat people, the way you treat me like trash, that's not okay. It's not fair, and I won't stand for it any longer."

His jaw tensed, and for a moment, it seemed like he wanted to say something. But you didn't give him the chance. "Oh, my bad. Feeling is a foreign word to you, right? Maybe they died when you fell off that train in the '40s."

He could only watch as tears welled up in your eyes, as his mouth moved but no words came out. He was speechless. He couldn't say anything, only guilt was evident on his face.

"Or maybe you forgot how they work. Since you been the Winter Soldier for so long, your emotions are a bit rusty. How does one even deal with feelings and shit when they're programmed to not have them? When they're forced to kill, hurt, and torture innocent people.”

Your tone was merciless, and you instantly regretted your words as you saw the hurt flash across Bucky's face. But you couldn’t stop, the dam had burst, unable to halt the torrent of pent-up frustration.

“They turn you into a weapon. Is that who you are, Barnes? A weapon, a monster without a soul. You've lost all your feelings, all that remains is a cold-blooded, heartless killer. The Winter fucking Soldier.” Your words spat out.

His jaw clenched, and his hands formed fists, his usual rage replaced by a profound sadness. "You’re right… I'm nothing but a monster..."

Steve stepped forward, trying to mediate the escalating tension. "Come on, guys, let's all just take a moment to cool down," Steve said, attempting to diffuse the situation.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his predictable attempt to intervene between you both. "Oh, no, Steve, there's no need to cool down," you retorted, "because there's no fire, except for the flames of my rage. Your best friend here is the one who started the fire."

"Y/N-" Bucky tried to say something, but his words trailed off, lost in the thickness of the charged atmosphere.

“I thought there was more to you than just the Winter Soldier, but every time I see you, you prove me wrong." But your fury was uncontainable, and you turned to face Bucky again, your eyes ablaze with righteous anger. "Stay the fuck away from me, Barnes. Don't come near me. Don't talk to me. Don't even fucking look at me."

Feeling the weight of your anger and frustration, you turned abruptly and rushed towards the exit. You were done, utterly fed up, unable to bear it any longer. Unbeknownst to you, tears slipped down your cheeks. With a swift motion, you wiped away the tears, refusing to let them further betray your vulnerability.

As you strode through the streets, lost in your thoughts, you found your mind drifting back to a time when Bucky had attempted to apologize. You were still so mad at him for what he'd done, you were not going to forgive him any time soon.

One night, you were sitting on the sofa in the common room, trying to focus on your book, when the door opened. You saw Bucky coming in and he stopped dead on his tracks when he saw you. You immediately got up, wanting to leave before things got bad.

But, of course, Bucky couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Hey, doll, how are you?"

You didn't answer, grabbing your book and trying to walk away.

He followed you, "Doll, can we talk?"

You were already walking down the hall when he said that, "I don't have anything to say."

"Then just listen, please." Bucky almost begged,

You stopped, sighing and rolling your eyes. You turned around, and crossed your arms, not wanting him to come near you. "I don't have to." You walked faster to your room.

"Please I'll do anything, just let me apologize, I'm begging you!" Bucky was following you still,

You turned around, "Why would I want you to do anything with you? Just leave me alone." You said, turning around and continuing walking.

"C'mon, Doll, I know you hate me, but let me apologize and explain myself.” Bucky said,

You didn't even bother looking at him and kept walking faster.

"Doll, just please," Bucky was starting to get desperate.

You got into your room and locked the door. He knocked couple of times but you ignored him. You put on your headphone and blasted the music. You could hear Bucky banging the door. You were ignoring him until he didn't go away. You turned the volumes up to a deafening level and tried to drown out his voice.

The memory dissolved abruptly as you felt a hand on your wrist, your reflexes primed for confrontation. You whipped around, ready to hit the person behind you, but the person behind you caught your fist. Your eyes flashed with anger.

"What the fuck do you want? Why are you still following me?" you seethed, your voice dripping with contempt. "Fuck off. You're the last person I want to see right now."

Bucky tightened his grip on your wrist, his eyes pleading with sincerity. "I'm so sorry. I know that's not enough, and it doesn't make it better, but I need you to understand how truly sorry I am. I can't bear the thought of losing you."

You scoffed, "Yeah, sure. Tell that to someone else.” you retorted, your tone laced with bitterness. "I'm sick of hearing apologies." You attempted to pull away, but he held firm.

"I meant it, Y/N." Bucky insisted, his voice earnest. "I'm telling the truth. I'm an idiot, and I made a stupid decision. I'm trying my best to make up for it."

"Go," you demanded, your voice breaking as your frustration boiled over. "I don't want to see you. Just leave me alone."

"Y/N, please…" Bucky persisted, his voice laced with desperation. He walked beside you, oblivious to the curious gazes from passersby. You stared around, people started to recognize him since he was the famous Winter Soldier. Even when he was wearing casual clothes, and not in his Winter Soldier uniform, his metal arm still drew attention.

You walked faster, wanting to get away from him. But he was faster. You didn’t want people to notice that the infamous Winter Soldier was following you, so you stopped. "Just leave me alone!" you yelled, your anger fueling your words.

As soon as you yelled, the bystanders gasped and started whispering amongst themselves. The last thing you needed was more drama and attention toward you. Embarrassment washed over you, and you turned to run, desperate to escape the public scrutiny. Bucky matched your every step. He reached out and grasped your hand, refusing to let you go.

In an attempt to break free, you fought against his hold, muscles straining with the effort. "Let go of me, Buck!" you protested, attempting to wrench yourself away from him. The crowd around you seemed to blur into a background hum as your focus remained solely on Bucky.

"Not until we settle this," he replied, his voice low and intense, his fingers tightening around your arms.

Your glare deepened, frustration boiling over. "There's nothing to settle here, Barnes. Now, let go of me. Before I make you," you warned, your tone sharp with anger and defiance.

A stubborn glint flickered in his eyes. "No." His grip tightened slightly, his jaw clenched with resolve. "Make me, Y/N," he challenged, his voice steady. "I know you're strong, so make me."

In a surge of frustration, you summoned all your strength and pushed against him with all your might. Bucky stumbled backward, losing his balance, and fell to the ground.

You stood over him, your voice laced with defiance. "There," you panted, your chest heaving with emotion, "I did it. I hope you're happy."

Bucky remained silent, but the bystanders, their eyes wide with disbelief, started recording the scene with their phones, capturing the unexpected sight of you standing tall over the fallen Winter Soldier. The urge to smash their phones surged within you, but you resisted, your focus solely on the man at your feet.

"Well, I'm going. You're making a scene,” you declared, taking your first steps away from the growing commotion.

"I just want to talk, doll." He got up.

"And I don’t wanna listen." Yet Bucky, refusing to let you go that easily, got up and followed after you, his footsteps echoing behind you. Your patience wearing thin, you spun around, your eyes ablaze with anger. "Stop following me you creep!"

Having had enough, Bucky seized you and pulled you into a nearby alley. He pinned your arms against the wall, a conflicted look in his eyes. "Let me go," you growled, straining to break free from his firm hold.

"You know that I can't. I won't.” Bucky replied, his voice tinged with remorse.

A surge of panic gripped you, "If you don't, I'll scream." Your threat to scream hanging in the air.

You were about to let out a piercing cry when Bucky swiftly placed his hand over your mouth. "Don't scream. Please," he implored, his eyes pleading with you. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you."

In response, you bit down on his hand, but he didn’t flinch. "I know you're furious. You have every right to be. But I’m truly sorry.” Bucky's words poured out, sincere and raw. "Please just give me time to explain everything."

You maintained your glare, your eyes brimming with tears you refused to shed. And finally, Bucky released his grip on your mouth and hands, taking a step back, giving you room to breathe. His voice softened, carrying the weight of his regret. "Listen to me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have treated you like that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.”

You tried to push him away, but he wouldn't budge, not that it did anything, the metal arm didn't even move. His eyes were begging, and he looked sincere, you wanted to believe him, but you couldn't.

"Go to hell! I hate you!" The dam finally broke, tears spilling over. You felt weak and vulnerable, consumed by anger and hurt. You then hit his chest, "I hate you!" Hit it again, "You're the worst!" Hit it again, "You fucking hurt me!"

You hammered his chest repeatedly to vent out. Bucky stood there, unmoved, letting you vent your rage on him. You were crying hard at this point. You were upset that he saw you like this, looking weak.

Then you felt tired emotionally, you stopped hitting him as you realized what a mess you're becoming. Your hands hurt because you were hitting him too much. He grabbed your wrists, "Doll you are hurting yourself, stop pushing me.. don't hurt yourself."

"You did it first! You hurt me, you broke my heart." You continued pushing him, "let go of me, please." You started crying harder, you couldn't see because of the tears and your head was throbbing.

You dropped down your gaze to the ground not wanting to see his face. You didn't know why he was acting like this, you were so fed up. "I don't want to see your face, Barnes. I can't believe you had the audacity to still show up in front of me. When you know that you're a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be forgiven."

He let go of your arms and you wanted to push him away but you were so tired, so exhausted. He placed his hand beside your head caging you in, you knew he was staring at you. "I know… I'm a monster. I know I didn't deserve you. I'm sorry… for everything."

You stayed silent and just crying, your heart aching at the memories. It was so painful.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, but I just wanted you to know. But I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of the things I said. I'm the monster, not you. You're everything good and I'm nothing." You continued to stay silent not wanting to give in.

You couldn't hold your emotions in anymore, so you just cried. He wiped your tears from your eyes and you shook your head not wanting him to touch you, you hated it, you hated that he was here. He sighed and removed his hand from your face.

You felt like he deserved it, he hurt you, and you want him to feel the pain. He stepped back a few steps, giving you space. "I'm sorry for hurting you, Doll." He apologized, "I'm a fucking asshole and a coward. I should have never done that."

"Please doll, don't cry… I'm really sorry… I shouldn't say those words. I shouldn't hurt you." You continued to cry, "Tell me what to do to make it stop."

"Just go away, Bucky." Your voice barely whispered.

"Do you really hate me that much, doll?" You nodded at him, "Will it make it better if I go away?"

You stayed silent, this was what you wanted, for him to leave. But why did you feel so hurt? You didn't answer him, you couldn't answer him.

Instead you just sobbed like a mess. "Y/N, please, look at me." You didn't, you were so tired of everything, you couldn't even lift a finger. You felt numb and just sad, it hurt so much.

"Please, doll. I'm a jerk, a horrible person. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.” He dropped down on his knees looking at you with sad eyes, begging. “Please. I need you. I can't lose you."

You were shocked, the most feared assassin in the world was on his knees, in front of you. He looked at you, and you just shook your head. He was being sincere and genuine, but you couldn't accept it. "I need you, please. Give me a chance, let me make it up to you. I beg of you, don't leave me." He was being sincere and genuine, but you couldn't accept it.

You were looking at him crying, not knowing what to do. There wasn't an excuse, nothing would make this better. You felt your heart break, seeing him like this made your heart ache. You had so much pain inside of you. You just couldn't.

"Bucky, just stop." You tried to made him stand up but he wouldn't. "Get up, this is stupid."

He shook his head, "Not until you give me a chance. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, I'm not even worthy of looking at you, but please, let me have a chance." He looked up at you with tearful eyes.

"Don't do this. You're making it worse." You said and he grabbed your hand, "If it means I get a chance, then I'm not getting up. Just please, tell me what I can do."

You closed your eyes. This is so wrong, he was so wrong, this is not right. "I can't do this, this is crazy." You closed your eyes tightly and sighed. You were conflicted.

He shook his head and cried, "I didn't know what came over me, I wasn't good at expressing my feelings, I don't know what else to say, except that I'm sorry.”

You scoffed, "And why do you think you have the right to say that, after all the shit you've done?"

He looked at you, and spoke, "Because, I was wrong, and I'm really sorry."

You didn't want to give in but he was looking at you with such an innocent expression, he looked so broken and helpless. "Sorry just doesn't cut it, Barnes.”

He was quiet for a moment, then spoke, "I know I don't, doll. I know I'm a monster. A murderer. I don't have a right to live." He said in between sobs, and you couldn't help but feel pity towards him. "I've given up all my hopes and dreams when I've been in the hydra. But you give me hope, doll. You give me dreams."

His eyes were filled with sadness, tears streaming down his face. "The minute I saw you, you were everything that was right. I didn't know who you were, and I had no idea how I was going to tell Steve, or anyone. I was afraid. So, I tried to stay away, but the more I was away, the more I missed you.”

Your heart beat faster, you felt something in your stomach. You couldn't describe it, you went to knelt in front of him, he didn't dare to meet your gaze. "Bucky, look at me.”

"I don't have the right, doll. I don't deserve to look at you." He said in between his sobs. “I'm a monster. I deserve to die, not to love."

"You are not a monster.” You placed your hand on his cheek, stroking it gently, hoping it would soothe him. “I’m sorry too for hurting you for all the things I said to you...”

He leaned into your touch, placing his hand over yours. "Please, don't apologize. It was all my fault. I caused this, I hurt you." He whispered.

"We both hurt each other, Bucky. We both fucked up.”

He still didn't meet your gaze. You held his chin and forced him to look at you. You cupped his cheeks, he looked so broken. You wiped his tears, and said, "Why did you say those things to me? Why you said I was a mistake? Why did you say you used me? Why Bucky?"

He took a deep breath and said “Because I was afraid that if I got close, I'll just end up hurting you. I always fuck up in the end somehow, look what I did. I'm such a stupid man. I'm an idiot and an asshole." He took your hands from his face, kissing them before placing them back to his cheeks. "I've never felt anything for anyone. I've never loved anyone, never been in love. Not until I met you. When I'm with you, I feel different. When you smiled at me, when you look at me, I feel that I could be a better man. I want to be a better man for you. You make me feel, you make me alive, you made me happy. You showed me a new life. You're everything I could've ever dreamed of. You're perfect and I don't deserve you."

His hand then touched your hand caressing it lightly, "I was really going to confess everything to you that night. I was going to tell you that I like you, and ask you if I can take you out, or if I can have the chance to show you how much you mean to me. That you make my heart beat fast, and how my whole body goes numb, and my skin tingles when I'm around you. I wanted to tell you that I love you, because I'm pretty sure that I do. But, when I was about to do it, I knocked on your door couple of times, but you didn't answer, so I thought that maybe you were already asleep. So I decided to wait until the next day.”

He took a deep breath before he continued. "That morning, I got a message from the victim's family when I killed them as winter soldier. They told me how they wished that I died instead. How they wished that it was me. And they said they had a daughter, and her name was Bianca. They said, she was beautiful and full of life. They said, if it wasn't for me, their daughter wouldn't have been murdered."

Your heart broke at his confession, but you stayed silent, listening to him, you couldn’t speak, not yet.

He confessed as he looked at you, his eyes filled with tears, and you couldn't help but cry too. "I felt so guilty hearing them said that. I was angry because of what I did. I was mad at myself, and I didn't want you to get involved with someone like me. I can't have anyone else get hurt. I don't know what I’ll do if anything happens to you."

You pulled him into a tight hug, and he clung to you. His arms wrapped around your waist. "I wanted to push you away, you deserve someone better. I thought, maybe if I was a jerk, you would stop liking me. But as soon as I realized, I regretted everything.”

You held him tighter, your heart aching for him. He sobbed quietly, burying his face into your neck. “I'm sorry, I didn't know what I was thinking. You were never mine, but losing you broke me. It was so hard for me to keep myself away from you when all I want is to be with you. I know it, and I don't deserve you.”

"It's okay, I'm here." You rubbed his back, trying to calm him down.

He broke the hug and looked at your eyes, "You have every right not to believe me, but please. Give me a chance. One last chance, and if you decide you still hate me, then I'll let you go. But please, please give me a chance to prove myself."

You didn't know what to do. He was broken, and he was begging you for a chance. It was the least you could do. You were conflicted, but your heart won over, you couldn't bear to see him on his knees like this. "Okay, Bucky. But first let's stand up, my legs are killing me."

He pulled you up, his arms encircling your waist, pulling you flush against him. "I won't disappoint you, doll. I promise. I will make it up to you, and if it takes me forever, then I'll do it."

You stood and looked at him, "Bucky, if we're going to do this. You must promise me, no more secrets. We have to be honest to each other. We have to learn to talk about our problems, and we have to try and understand each other. If you have something bothering you, don't push me away. Come and talk to me."

"Okay, I promise." He nodded, "Thank you, doll. For giving me a chance. I won't fail you." He pulled you closer, his hands gripping your hips, his eyes burning with lust.

You looked at him and smiled, he looked back at you and gave you a small smile. "But that doesn't mean I already forgive you. It's going to take some time, but I want us to work on this. Together."

"Yeah, I know. I will beg every minute if it takes.” His hands moved to your hips, holding you firmly in place. You both stood there in silence before he asked, "Doll, what are we now?"

"What do you mean?" You knew what he was asking but you pretended to not know.

"Doll, can I ask you out? Will you be my girl?"

You relished the moment, letting him wait with a playful pause. His nervous anticipation brought a smile to your face. "Yes, if you'll have me."

Bucky sighed in relief, "Finally!" A broad smile adorned his face as he hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around. Laughter bubbled from within you. "Thank you, doll." He gently set you down, and you both stared at each other.

You then wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. He was shocked at first, but soon his arms wrapped around your waist. He kissed back and it was the most passionate kiss ever.

You then wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. He was shocked at first, but soon enough, he responded. You moaned into the kiss, your body melting into his embrace, and his arms circled your waist, pulling you closer.

His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entrance. You parted your lips, allowing his tongue to slip inside, tasting your mouth. Your tongue danced with his. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth. His hand found its way into your hair, tugging slightly, eliciting another moan from you. He pulled back and pecked your lips, smiling softly. "You're beautiful, doll."

You blushed and bit your lower lip, a smirk forming on your face. "You're not so bad yourself, sergeant."

He chuckled and shook his head, "You're making me blush, doll."

“Shut up, kiss me again.” You tugged his collar and pulled him closer, your lips colliding in a passionate kiss. You two had a lot to talk about, but that could wait. Right now, you just wanted to stay in his arms. You wanted him.

Bucky then grabbed your ass and lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. You felt the wall behind you and Bucky placed his metal arm on the wall.

You felt his erection rubbing on your center, and he started grinding his hips into yours. You felt him rub against you and moan into your mouth. "Ahh, Bucky."

You could feel him twitching through his jeans, and his metal hand moved from the wall, to under your shirt. He caressed your stomach and moved his hand upwards. Your heart was pounding, and you were excited.

He stopped the kiss and placed his forehead on yours. “Doll, can I?"

"Yes." You whispered.

His hand cupped your breast, and he groaned. “You drive me crazy, doll." He pinched your nipple between his thumb and finger. You moaned and he placed his other hand down your pants. You felt him pull your pants down, and he slipped his fingers in between your folds.

"Bucky."

"Doll, you're so wet." He groaned, and started to rub your clit. "So beautiful."

His metal hand continued to play with your nipples, and he used his left hand to start rubbing your clit faster. You started to moan louder, and Bucky put his other hand over your mouth.

"Shh, baby, be quiet. I don't want the others hearing." He smirked and removed his hand from your mouth. You bit your lip and his finger started to slide inside you.

"Please Bucky..."

"What do you need, doll?"

"You."

He grinned, "Are you sure? I mean we just made up."

"I'm sure, and plus I've already touched myself thinking of you."

Bucky groaned, "Oh god, that's so fucking hot. Tell me more."

"I was fingering myself and I was thinking about your dick, and how much I needed you. I was thinking of your cock filling me up."

"Oh god, fuck."

"But it wasn't enough, and it would never be enough. I needed your big fat cock to make me cum."

When things got intense, then suddenly you heard something fell down. You both froze and looked around, then Bucky let you go and you were back on your feet.

Then a rat came out, and you and Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. You laughed, and you were blushing.

"Hey, don't laugh." He teased.

"That was a huge ass rat! What was it doing in here?" you exclaimed.

"Welcome to New York, doll. It's a rat haven." he chuckled.

“Ugh, gross." You laughed and shot him a playful glance.

Bucky responded by wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you in for a kiss. "Shall we continue this somewhere more private?" he suggested with a mischievous grin.

"Thought you won't ask." You said, smiling. You kissed him and bit his bottom lip. He moaned and looked at you and smirked. "Lead the way, Sergeant Barnes."

"Anything for you, doll." He guided you outside the alley, holding your hands. As you walked down the street, you felt a nervous excitement. His hand in yours, palms sweaty, he squeezed your hand and shot a warm smile your way.

You couldn't believe that he was actually holding your hand, and he was being nice. You felt something in the pit of your stomach, a good feeling. The man you have been in love with for two years, the man who is now your boyfriend, and the man who is going to take you back home and make you scream his name.

"Wanda saw us you know in the gym, why did you lie about it?" You looked up to him and he averted his gaze.

Bucky face hardened, he looked annoyed, "She told you that?" You nodded in confirmation. He sighed, a conflicted look in his eyes. "I didn't want you to be embarrassed or feel awkward. I thought it was best to say no one saw us. I guess she's a rat, just like those in the alley," he gritted his teeth, frustration building.

You chuckled, "It was awkward, I mean I got blackmail by her into buying her sex toys." You were giggling but Bucky wasn't.

"She did that to you? I'll talk to her." Bucky's tone indicated he was ready to take matters into his own hands.

"No, no, it's fine. Really," you reassured him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't be upset. And please, don't have a word with her. It's between me and her."

"Fine, baby. Only because it’s you who asked me.” He said.

You giggled and leaned up and kissed his cheek. Then Bucky called a taxi and opened the door for you. You blushed and thanked him. He climbed inside the car and sat close to you. He put his arm around your shoulders, and you laid your head on his chest.

The whole ride was silent. You noticed this wasn't the way to the compound, "Where are we going, Buck?"

He rubbed his thumb on your bare skin and you relaxed in his arms. "To my place."

"You have a place? But you live in the compound."

"Yeah, I have a place in Brooklyn. Just for me, no one knows about it, except Steve. I wanted some privacy and peace away from everyone. But, now you're going to know where I live, too."

"Oh, okay." You were so comfortable and calm that you fell asleep. You woke up to a gentle touch of a hand, stroking your hair.

"Wake up, doll. We're here." You arrived at your destination.

You lifted your head and looked at him sleepily. He looked at you and chuckled, "How can you be so cute and sexy at the same time, huh?"

You blushed and giggled, "Shut up."

"C'mon."

He took your hand and guided you inside the building. It was really nice, the hallway was bright and had a fresh scent. It was an old building, but it had a modern vibe. He opened the door and let you in.

It was a spacious studio apartment. The living room was open to the kitchen and the bedroom. "Wow this place is amazing."

When you turned around, Bucky immediately kissed you and his hands were cupping your face. You smiled as he kissed you and his tongue slid in. The kiss was hungry and passionate, you felt how much he desired you, you could taste him, smell him. He pushed you against the wall and his thigh was pressed between your legs, rubbing you through the fabric.

His body pressed up against yours. His thigh was pressed between your legs, rubbing you through the fabric. He let go of your hand and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. "Mhhh..." Your lips parted and his kisses moved to your neck. You were breathing heavily, moaning his name. His teeth nibbled at the skin and you grabbed his hair.

He moved his hands down your back and cupped your ass, lifting you up. Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist and your arms were on his neck. He carried you to the bedroom, his hands were everywhere and you were moaning into the kiss.

He sat on the bed and you were sitting on his lap. "Let's not stop this time, okay?" He looked into your eyes.

"Yes, yes." God yes, it had been too long since you had his cock inside you and you desperately wanted him.

"Good girl." Bucky started kissing your neck and you moved your hips, trying to grind against him. You let out a moan and held his head, running your hands through his hair.

He started pulling off your clothes and you sat up and took off your shirt. Bucky stopped and was just staring at you. "What are you waiting for?" Your grip tightened around his hair.

"Sorry, just admiring the view." He pulled off his shirt, and then took his pants off. You stared at him, and he was breathtakingly beautiful. His body was chiseled and sculpted like a Greek God, and he was the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Fuck..." You cursed as he unclasped your bra and began sucking on your left nipple and while his metal hand was kneading your right breast. He did the same to the other side. You were a moaning mess under his touch.

"Your breasts are so perfect, doll. Can't get enough of them."

You kissed him again and began grinding your hips against him. He then grabbed your hips and began grinding you back, you felt him getting hard, and you felt like you were going to explode soon. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were dark, lustful.

You then started to take off your panties. "No, leave them on. That's my job." He threw you on the mattress and got on top of you and started sucking and licking your nipples before he went down kissing your body. He was trailing wet kisses to your stomach. He took off your underwear and spread your legs.

Then he was on his knees, he kissed your inner thigh and made you whine. "So impatient, baby."

"Shut up."

He chuckled and then he was kissing the junction of your thighs and hips.

"Bucky, please!"

He smirked and then licked your slit. Your hands went to his hair and he was holding your hips. He was sucking your clit and licking your entrance. You were writhing under his touch. started licking your pussy, eating you out like a starving man.

"Holy shit... Bucky!" You were panting and he was going deeper and deeper. You couldn't think straight anymore. All you could think was his mouth on your pussy. His tongue was working wonders on your cunt. You were moaning his name and tugging his hair.

He inserted a finger and pumped slowly, making you gasp and moan. "Ah, Buck, feels good." Your breath hitched.

"I can feel your tight pussy clenching around my finger, Y/N." He said as he added another finger. You arched your back and whimpered. He sucked your clit and pumped his fingers faster.

His fingers were reaching places that you didn't know existed. He sucked harder and was now fucking you with his fingers. You could feel his metal finger and the vibrations were intense.

He curled his fingers and you arched your back. He was sucking your clit and licking, too. Your legs were shaking and he was holding your hips harder.

"Fuck! Bucky!" You couldn't take it anymore. You were so close. "I'm gonna come."

"Come for me, baby. Come on my face."

"Fuck! Oh god. Bucky!" You screamed as you came on his face. You felt him smile as he licked up all your juices.

When he was done, "That's it, doll. Good girl. Come here." He got on top of you and kissed you. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it was making you even more horny.

He was kissing your face and lips. "I want to ride you properly now, Bucky."

"God yes, whatever the lady wants." He moved off of you and lied on his back, and you crawled on top of him.

You kissed his chest and his stomach, then you looked into his eyes as you were moving down on him. You were rubbing his cock between your folds. His hands were on your hips, squeezing and digging his nails in.

"Baby, please." You heard him whisper.

"Please, what, Buck?"

"Please, stop teasing me. I need you, now." He was looking at you, and his pupils were so dilated, you could barely see his beautiful blue eyes.

You lined his cock up with your entrance and sank on him, both of you moaning when he was fully inside of you.

"Jesus Christ, doll. You're so tight. And warm."

You put your hands on his chest and started moving up and down on him, slowly at first. He was squeezing your thighs and hips, helping you move.

"Shit! Oh, fuck!" You were bouncing on him now, and he was thrusting up to meet your hips. He was gripping your hips tightly. You started to bounce up and down, and your hands were on his chest. "You feel so good, Buck. You're stretching me out so well."

"Yeah? You're riding me like a champ, baby." He was breathing hard and grunting every time he was slamming into you.

"Ahh, Bucky, yes!" You were biting your lips and throwing your head back, and Bucky was thrusting up.

"Mmm, you like that, sweetheart?"

"Yes! Harder!" You closed your eyes, he felt so good inside you.

"Look at me, baby. Look at me, while I'm fucking you."

You opened your eyes and you were bouncing faster, and he was thrusting his hips faster, too. He was hitting your g-spot and you were getting closer to your orgasm. You were squeezing his biceps. "I've been waiting to fuck you properly since our last time. Couldn't wait to make you scream my name, doll."

"Then do it, make me scream, Buck"

"I will, doll. I promise." You were slamming into each other now, both of you close. You felt his finger touching your clit. "Ahh, you look so pretty when you're riding me, doll. Look at you. So fucking perfect. You're gonna make me cum."

He was looking at you with lust in his eyes. You grabbed his metal arm and sucked on his fingers. You started to suck harder, and you moaned.

He started thrusting harder and faster, the bed was hitting the wall. His hand went to your clit and he started rubbing fast. His other hand kneaded your breasts. You moved even faster and you were getting close, "Buck, you're so good. I'm close."

"I know, I can feel it. You’re doing so good for me, doll. Fuck, doll. Can I come inside you? Please?"

"Yes! Yes, please, come inside me, Buck."

You were screaming his name and digging your nails to his chest. His hand left your breast and was gripping your hips hard. You knew it was going to leave bruises. You were bouncing faster and your orgasm hit you like a truck.

"Oh god, Bucky!" You screamed his name and collapsed on his chest.

"I'm gonna fill your tight pussy up, baby."

"Please, Buck, please."

"FUCK! Y/N! Take it all, baby. Take it." He was filling you up, and you could feel him twitching inside of you.

"Yes! That's it. Fill me up, Buck."

"Jesus." You were both panting and trying to catch your breath. You were resting your head on his chest, and you could hear his heartbeat. He then flipped you over, so you were under him. You felt him that he was still hard, and he was looking at you with a grin. "Can you handle another round, doll? Or are you too tired?"

You smirked and raised your eyebrow. "Are you challenging me, Barnes?"

"Maybe."

"Let's see how long you can keep up, sergeant."

"I can do this all night, doll. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started."

"Good, 'cause I'm not finished with you yet." He smirked and moved over you.

"You're in for a wild ride, Barnes."

"Bring it on, doll." He pulled your legs and you were in a mating press position, with him towering over you.

"Show me what you've got, soldier."

"Oh, I'll show you." He pulled your legs and you were in a mating press position. He was teasing you with his tip and you were moaning loudly. You were already so sensitive, you were ready to cum again.

"Tell me you want it."

"Yes. I want it! I want you, Bucky."

"Beg me, doll."

"Please. I beg you, please fuck me."

"Who owns you?"

"You do. Only you!"

"Good girl." With that, he entered inside you in a swift motion and buried himself to the hilt and you screamed. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard, and make you forget everything."

He was holding your legs and spreading them more. You were a moaning mess underneath him. He pounded into you so hard, and you were gripping the sheets. Your orgasm was approaching and he was holding your hips hard. You were sure he was going to leave a mark.

"You're not gonna walk after I'm done with you." He was thrusting faster and harder. You were a mess, you were sweating and panting. He was rubbing your clit and pumping into you. He was kissing your neck and you were screaming his name.

Then, he was thrusting fast and rough, and kissing your face. He was nipping your neck and biting. You were leaving marks on his back, and he was gripping your hips.

The way he thrusts his hips, it was like he was a fucking machine. He was a man of his word, and you weren't going to walk tomorrow. He was grunting and groaning and kissing your neck.

He was now pounding so hard into you, and your breasts were bouncing. "You love when I fuck you, don't you?"

"Yes, Bucky. Yes, I do. You're stretching me out so good, Bucky. Don't stop."

"Oh, I'll fuck you until the morning, baby." He was now fucking into your g-spot and his vibranium hand was rubbing your clit.

"Fuck! Bucky, I'm gonna come again!"

"Cum for me, doll. Be a good girl."

"Fuck, Bucky." He gave few more thrusts, and you were seeing stars. You were coming hard and screaming his name.

You were both panting, and Bucky was trying to catch his breath. "Holy shit, doll."

"Yeah, that was amazing."

He lifted his head, and looked at you. "Was? I'm not done, yet."

"What?! Bucky, we can't do it anymore. I already came three times. I can't go again."

"Awww, is my little kitten too sensitive, huh?" He teased you as he lightly slapped your pussy making you yelp.

"Stop it." You said, still sensitive, “Please…”

"Well, we're just getting started. I meant when I said I'm going to fuck you until the sun rises." He flipped you over and he was kissing your back. "Your body is so perfect, baby."

His hands were rubbing and squeezing your ass cheeks. "I want to take you from behind, baby. Can I do that? I want to see that pretty little ass.”

"Mmmmm, fine."

He slapped your ass and you moaned. "Such a good little kitten." He slapped your ass a couple more times, and you moaned. "Now, I'm gonna make you purr like a kitten."

He grabbed a handful of your ass and spread your cheeks. He was teasing you with his tip, and you were pushing your ass against him. "Such a horny kitten, you are." He slowly pushed his cock into you, and you were moaning. He grabbed your hips and started to thrust. He was fucking you slow and deep. But then, he was moving his hips faster.

You were lying on your stomach, and Bucky was pounding into you hard and fast. You were screaming his name. "You're all mine, baby."

He gripped your hair yanking you into pulling you into a kiss. You opened your mouth and his tongue slid in. He explored every inch of your mouth. Your tongues wrestled for dominance, and he won.

"That's it, doll." He was fucking you so hard, he was slapping your ass, and was holding your hips. His dick was hitting all the right spots. You were a moaning mess, you couldn't form words. He was fucking you hard and fast.

The slapping noises were getting louder and the bed was squeaking. His hands started to pinch your nipples making you scream his name, the pleasure was too intense. "I'm close, baby. Let's cum together."

He then continued pounding and you could feel his dick twitch inside. He was grunting and panting. “FUCK, Y/N!” He then came, filling you up. His cum was dripping out of your pussy. He was still inside you, riding out his high.

He pulled out of you but then you noticed he was still hard. "Buck, how are you hard again?!"

He chuckled, "You're the one who made me like this."

You were mesmerized by his stamina but also scared at the same time. He got in between your legs and kissed you passionately. He was kissing down your body and leaving a trail of wet kisses.

“Fuck… Ah… Bucky I can’t… Not anymore.” You were so sensitive and spent, you have came so many times.

"Your moans say otherwise, doll." He grinned as he took his cock and lined it to your entrance and entered you without warning once again. You screamed and gripped his biceps.

He was thrusting his hips faster and hitting your g-spot. You were both moaning loudly, and saying each other's names. "You're taking me so well, sweetheart." You were a sweaty mess and Bucky was gripping your hips.

He was pounding into you and he was so big, it felt like you were being ripped apart. But, you loved the pain. You were scratching his back and leaving marks. You were both leaving bruises on each other's body.

"Fuck, Bucky. Ah, yes!" He was pounding into you and you were moaning loudly.

"That's it, doll. Moan for me."

He was thrusting deeper and harder. Your hands were roaming around his body. You were touching and squeezing every part of him. You cried out as he increased his speed. "Fuck Bucky i can't..." you couldn't come anymore, you were overstimulated.

"Yes you can doll, I know you can." He rubbed your clit faster with now his teeth bit your nipple, “Fucking give it to me, doll.”

You cried out and came all over his cock. "That's my good little kitten." He praised.

But he wasn't done with you yet. You felt so much pleasure and pain, but it felt so good. Bucky thrusted faster and harder, his thrusts were deep. He slammed into you and started thrusting even faster and deeper.

"Shit. Bucky, ahh..." You gasped when his hand found your neck and he squeezed. His grip tightened and he began pounding you harder. You were moaning his name over and over again. You could feel every inch of his thick, long dick, and it was filling you so good.

He then leaned down and was fucking you deep. His metal arm was wrapped around your waist and the other one was choking you. He was sucking and licking your breasts. You were moaning uncontrollably. "Fuck, I'm so close. Let's come together, come to me one more time."

"I can't, Bucky! It's too much." You whimpered. “Please, no more.” You were begging him, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You can do it doll. Show me what a good girl you are.” He pounded to you faster, his thrusts becoming erratic as he pistoning you in and out.

You were a sweating mess and you couldn't form a coherent sentence. "Holy shit, oh my god, ahhh, fffuck, ahh, ah, mhh, ohh, shit."

You gripped the sheets and screamed his name and you were shaking uncontrollably. Your vision went white and your ears rang. You felt your body go limp. You couldn't move. Your body was overstimulated and tired.

Bucky continued thrusting and you felt him twitch inside you. You both cried out each other's names as you came together. Bucky got off you and laid next to you, pulling you close to him.

You felt so sleepy afterwards, you were spent. He then cleaned you both up before he snuggled with you. "How are you feeling, baby?" He asked.

"Like I can't feel my legs."

He kissed the top of your head and laughed. "Sorry about that, doll."

You chuckled. "Don't apologize. That was the best sex I've ever had."

He held you close and kissed you deeply. You ran your fingers through his hair and he cupped your cheek. As you laid there with him, “I’m sorry Bucky for what I did to you back then on the gym, I took advantage of you… I-“

Bucky stopped you with kissing you. “I know doll, you don’t have to apologize. Like you said, we both hurt each other. Let’s not from now on okay? I promise I’ll be the best version of myself and no more hiding from you.”

You smiled at him, “I would like that.”

Bucky then kissed your forehead, “I love you, Y/N.”

You couldn’t believe your ears, he said it again, “I freaking love you. I've fallen for you ever since the day you helped me out at the hospital and you didn't judge me, you treated me with nothing but respect when I treated you horribly. You have a heart of gold and I'm just glad I was able to finally tell you my feelings. I'm sorry for the way I treated you before, I was just scared to let you in but now I want you in my life, you make me feel safe and loved."

He cupped your cheeks, "Please stay with me. Don't let go of me. I'm begging you to be mine, just mine. Only mine. And I will give my whole life for you, just to be with you, to make up for the time we lost. You are all that I want and all that I need. You are the one for me. If I can't be with you, I don't want to be with anyone else. Please let me take care of you and treat you like the angel you are."

He leaned down and pressed his lips on yours as he whispered, "Be mine and no one else's. Please..."

You felt tears in your eyes, this time it was tears of happiness. "Yes...yes Bucky...I'll be yours. I'm all yours." You went to kissed him but soon the kiss deepened. You moved on top of him as he squeezed your ass and you grinded against him.

Bucky broke the kiss and groaned, "Doll, we have to stop." He put his hands on your waist, trying to slow your movements. Bucky bit his bottom lip. "Or I’m going to get blue balls for the rest of the night."

Your eyes went to his cock seeing it starting to get hard once more. You chuckled and got off him. Bucky laid on his side as you snuggled next to him, "You're right."

Bucky kissed the top of your head, "Thank you, doll. Thank you for loving me. For being my girl and only mine."

"You are welcome, and thank you, for making me yours." You snuggled close to him.

He pulled you closer and caressed your cheeks, "You are perfect, just perfect."

He pulled the sheets over you, so you didn't get cold. You yawned and closed your eyes as you held Bucky's hand and drifted off to sleep. "Sleep well, baby."

You smiled, “Good night, Bucky.”

You were happy, and he was happy. This was all you ever wanted, and it seemed like everything was going well.

But, you still have a problem, a big one. Your friends and the Avengers. They would definitely freak out.

—— FIN ——

Thank you immensely for supporting this series! Your encouragement means a lot. Although I might not be very active here, your comments always bring a smile to my face. I hope you'll stick around for my upcoming projects!

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