rulerofstars

[rulerofstars]

pretty church girl

oneshot: you’ve always been the church's golden girl—sweet smiles, soft dresses, sunday devotion. but when sergeant barnes returns, quiet and scarred, his steady gaze strips you bare. in pews and candlelight, tension simmers slow and sacred, until every glance feels like a prayer and every touch, a sin. with him, desire feels dangerously close to worship.

pairing: modern! sergeant! bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+) 6.9k words. slowburn SMUT. sacrilege. raw penetration. fingering. creampie. sex in the church (i am so sorry). filthy smut. body worship. minors, dni. i am so going to hell for this.

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy as fierce as the grave.”

Pastor Thomas’s voice settles low into the marrow of the sanctuary, like it belongs more to the wood than to his throat, woven into years of confessions and casseroles, baptisms and burials. Song of Solomon, chapter eight, verse six. A verse meant for brides, for devotion. 

The June light slants through the stained-glass windows in muted halos, bleeding color across the old pews and softer sins. The scent of wax, lilies, and lemon oil clings to the thick air. Outside, the heat is climbing, inside, it gathers slowly between skin and fabric, between your thighs, between breath and restraint.

Your dress sticks faintly to the curve of your waist, the fabric stretched tight over your lap, clinging in places you wish it wouldn’t. The stockings itch beneath your knees, but you don’t move. Stillness is safer. Stillness hides the way your body betrays you when it shouldn’t. Your Bible rests closed in your hands, heavy with underlines and quiet doubts, and your knees remain pressed together in the obedient pose you’ve perfected over the years.

You look the part, demure, lightly glossed lips, posture faultless, a ribbon in your hair like some Sunday painting. But inside, you are heat and hunger and something far less holy.

Beside you, Natasha slouches in her usual irreverence, legs crossed like she owns the pew. Her red hair tumbles out of its barrette, she leans over, breath brushing your shoulder. “I swear, I’m about to drop dead,” she mutters, voice low and lazy. “No coffee. No air. Your uncle’s trying to preach us straight into Revelation.”

You flick her a warning glance, lips barely parting. “Nat. Hush.”

Her mouth quirks, unapologetic. “What? You think Mrs. Carter’s gonna smite me with that hat?”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight. 

Natasha’s teasing feels distant when you glance across the congregation. The town’s finest: fanning themselves with bulletins, murmuring prayers with dry mouths, shifting in their pews like sheep waiting for the bell to ring. There’s comfort in the predictability of it all—Mrs. Thompson dabbing her forehead, the Levin twins flicking spitballs when they think no one’s looking, old Mr. Jenkins snoring softly into his tie.

Then you see him.

Back row. Second pew from the door. Half in shadow.

Your lungs forget how to fill.

White shirt. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The stark line of his forearms catching the fractured blue light from the window. Broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, as though he doesn’t belong to the pew or the building or even the air. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

You know that name. Everyone does. Even when people don’t say it, it lingers in town like the burn of communion wine on the tongue. The sergeant who disappears and reappears like a ghost. The boy who left with too much silence and came back older than the war he fought in.

You hadn’t seen him since last summer—when you passed him roofing nails and lemonade during a heat wave that melted straight through your better judgment. When he called you darlin’ like it wasn’t a sin to speak that way in front of the steeple. When he looked at you with those storm-gray eyes, slow and sure, and smiled like he saw every rule you ever followed curled up at his feet.

He was trouble. You knew it then.

But now? Now he’s ruinous.

His jaw is sharper, dusted with stubble. A new scar drags a pale line across the corner of his chin. His face is unreadable, but his hands, resting on the hymnal in his lap, are tight. White-knuckled. Like the sermon is something to endure. Like you are.

You shift slightly, thighs pressing tighter together. It does nothing to relieve the pressure, only makes it worse.

Natasha leans over again. “No way. No actual way. He's back?” Her voice catches the edge of a gasp, tempered by a wicked sort of thrill.

“I don’t know,” you manage. Your voice is hoarse.

“God, he looks…” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Like sin in a shirt.”

You swallow, jaw stiff. “Shut up.”

But she’s right. He does.

He looks like a man built out of grief and war and hard decisions. Like someone who wouldn’t flinch if you kissed him wrong. Like someone who would ruin you sweetly and make you thank him for it.

“Bet he hasn’t looked away since you walked in,” Natasha whispers.

You stiffen. You don’t dare turn back. Not yet. You can feel it, though, like pressure against your skin, like being watched through a keyhole, like heat crawling under your dress in places you can’t mention during confession.

“He was staring last summer too,” Natasha adds casually. “Remember the festival? While you were passing out lemonade?”

You don’t answer. Because you remember. You remember every second of it. How he watched your fingers wrap around the cup. How his gaze trailed down the slope of your neck like he was memorizing it. How he didn’t look away, not even when your hands trembled.

“You’re imagining things,” you whisper.

“Am I?” Natasha hums, smug. “Look at him now.”

Your fingers tighten around your Bible, nails digging into the leather. And against every whisper of sense you ever inherited from your grandmother’s lectures and your mother’s modesty, you lift your gaze.

And find him already watching.

His eyes lock with yours—steady, unflinching, like they’ve been waiting. Not curious. Not playful. Hungry. And not in the way a boy looks at a girl in passing, not like a crush or a flirtation.

No.

This is a gaze that says: I would kneel for you. Or make you kneel for me. It depends on the hour.

His mouth doesn’t move. His hands don’t twitch. But the weight of him—of it—lands between your legs with aching clarity. You feel it. Low and deep. Like a question no prayer can answer.

You look away.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already said amen with your body.

The service closes with “Amazing Grace,” the final verse sung off-key but full-hearted. An old hymn, a familiar one, but today the words feel strange in your mouth.  Voices rise and fall unevenly, and when the last note fades, the congregation stirs like a spell has been broken.

The pews empty with the slow chaos of a summer Sunday. Bulletin pages flutter like leaves in the breeze from the open doors. Your uncle stands at the entrance, shaking hands, nodding gently to familiar faces, each one softened by light and routine. Natasha’s already vanished, no doubt chasing lemon bars and iced tea in the fellowship hall, her halo of red hair the only warning left behind.

But you stay.

The quiet chapel feels safer now that it’s half-empty, stripped of voices and eyes. You move through the rows slowly, hands methodical as you gather hymnals, stack them spine to spine. It’s a ritual. One you’ve claimed for yourself. Tidying things while your thoughts fray. Your dress whispers against your legs with every step, the hem brushing your skin, static clinging to your stockings. 

You’re not the saint they think you are. But you’re good at looking like one.

That’s what matters here, isn’t it? Pretty posture. Kind smiles. A polite “bless your heart” that can cut cleaner than sin. You know how to play this part, the girl with just enough shine to distract from the cracks.

Your fingers brush a forgotten tissue in the pew, and you pause just long enough to hear voices drifting in from the vestibule. The low hum of your uncle’s voice. Familiar, reassuring. Then another... lower, rasped.

Him.

“James,” your uncle says, warmth curling around the name, “we’re planning a Thanksgiving Mass. To give thanks for you and the boys coming home safe. I’d like you to speak, if you’re willing.”

Your hand stills, the bulletin in your grasp crinkling beneath your fingers. You hadn’t known. No one had told you there’d be a Mass. That he would be its centerpiece. 

You shift closer to the aisle, quiet as a shadow. Through the curve of the vestibule, you glimpse him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, face angled toward the light. He doesn’t belong there. Not really. But he looks like he could, if he let himself. He takes up space in a way that doesn’t feel fair.

His frame eclipses the doorway. Shoulders broad under crisp white cotton. His sleeves are still rolled. Still wrongfully intimate. Like his wrists have known the burden of restraint, and his forearms could still break it.

“Not sure I’m the man for that, Pastor,” he replies, voice rough and quiet. “Words aren’t my thing. Neither are crowds.”

His tone isn’t humble, it’s factual. Honest. Like he knows what he is and what he’s not, and he’s not interested in pretending otherwise.

You catch the sharp gleam of the scar on his jaw, etched like it was earned. You wonder what part of him bled when it happened. 

Pastor Thomas chuckles, warm and unwavering. “You’ll do fine, son. The Lord brought you back. That’s a story worth sharing.”

Bucky hums, noncommittal, and you should go. You should leave. But your feet are heavy. Rooted to the worn wooden floor like they’ve decided they’d rather burn than miss this.

Then he sees you.

No. Finds you.

Across the room, through half-light and silence, his eyes catch yours like a snare. And something inside you stumbles. Not your feet. Your faith.

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t smile.

His gaze doesn’t search, it knows. It lands on you like a thumb pressed gently against the base of your throat, a question and a warning both. You lift your chin instinctively, jaw tight, breath shallow. You hope it reads like defiance. But your heart betrays you, thumping recklessly, desperately, like it doesn’t believe in restraint anymore.

You’re still gripping the tissue like it might tether you when you hear them, his footsteps. Not loud. But sure. Each step is a confirmation that he’s coming closer.

You don’t turn.

Not yet.

“Need help?”

His voice is low. Right behind you. Close enough that you feel it in your spine before you hear it fully. You turn slowly, deliberately, because anything faster might reveal too much. He’s only a few feet away, holding a small stack of bulletins. His forearms flex slightly with the weight, veins visible, movements restrained, like he’s always holding something back. Like he could split a pew with his bare hands and wouldn’t apologize.

“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than you intend, smoothing your skirt out of reflex. You need control. You need space. You need him not to be looking at you the way he is.

“I don’t need saving.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take offense. Just lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.

“Didn’t say you did.”

He steps forward and places the bulletins gently on the pew, fingers brushing the worn wood with unexpected reverence. Every motion is quiet. Careful. Like he’s spent years learning how not to break things.

“Just offering.”

You grab another hymnal too hard and it lands in the stack with a dull thud.

“Well, thanks,” you mutter, eyes not meeting his. “But I’ve got it.”

He lingers. Not moving. Just watching you.

And it’s worse than a smirk. It’s worse than any teasing or flirtation. His silence is knowing. It leaves room for you to trip over your own heartbeat. It asks nothing and says everything.

You don’t trust it. You don’t trust him.

And yet...

Your body betrays you with every pulse of heat under your skin.

You can feel the faint hum in your fingertips. The way your breath shallows when you finally glance at his mouth. The slight part to your lips. 

“All right,” he says at last, voice dipped in something gentler than before. He turns away like he’s not trying to take the air with him. But just before he disappears into the doorway, he glances back.

“Good to see you.”

The words are simple. They shouldn’t make your knees weak. They shouldn’t leave you standing there, staring at your reflection in a polished hymnal like a girl who’s already been ruined in thought, if not in body.

But they do.

—

Weeks passed. Long, thick cozy weeks filled with the same rituals, Sunday services, choir rehearsals, bake sales, and casserole rotations. You keep yourself busy. Keep your hands full and your smile polite.

You stand behind the soup station, ladle in hand, your dress a soft petal pink that hugs at the waist and flares gently at the hem. It’s modest, church-safe, but the way it clings just enough when you lean forward, it’s not innocent. Not really. Your lips are tinted to a subtle shine, catching the light each time you smile politely at a neighbor or crack a joke to one of the kids. Your hair is pinned back with delicate precision, curls tucked into place.

You’re polished. Poised. Perfect.

And you’re distracted as hell.

James Barnes hasn’t been back to Sunday service since. Not that you’ve kept track. Not that you’ve stared too long at the back seats, wondering if it was him that made the air feel different. Not that your heart doesn’t stutter every time the church doors creak open.

You haven’t seen him.

Until now.

You don’t sense him before you see him. There’s no shift in the air, no chill across your neck like in some storybook.

He’s just suddenly there.

Across the table. Holding a tray in his hands.

His jacket is gone—no black barrier between his body and the room. Just a plain gray shirt, sleeves pushed up. His forearms are bare to the elbow, veins visible like topography on a map you don’t dare read too closely. His hair is a little damp at the ends, curled near the nape like he just ran his fingers through it out of habit. He doesn’t smile too much. Doesn’t speak, only when asked.

Your fingers tighten around the ladle.

“Chicken noodle or vegetable?” you ask, voice softer than it should be.

His eyes hold yours a moment longer, like he’s letting the sound of your voice settle in him before answering.

“Whatever you think’s best,” he says, and the gravel in his tone ripples through you like someone dragging their thumb along your spine.

You shouldn’t react. You shouldn’t feel it.

You dip the ladle into the chicken noodle slowly, trying to look as unaffected as you pretend to be. As you pass the bowl across, his fingers meet yours—just for a second—but it’s enough. The touch sends a jolt up your arm.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, holding your gaze a second too long before moving on, his tray held steady. You exhale only once he’s past you.

He walks to the edge of the room, settling at a small table in the corner, where the noise can’t reach him fully. You watch him eat slow, methodical. He doesn’t glance around. But he’s present in a way that’s almost unnerving—aware of everything, even if he doesn’t react to it.

He looks at families like they’re echoes of something he’s lost. Like he’s not sure if he misses it, or if he just envies the simplicity of belonging.

“Earth to you,” Natasha murmurs, appearing at your elbow with a plastic cup of lemonade and a sly smile.

You blink, pulled back into your skin. “What?”

She grins wider. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.” But your voice isn’t convincing. Your cheeks are already warm.

“Oh, please.” She sips her drink, gaze flicking over to Bucky. “That man eats soup like he’s brooding on a mountain somewhere.”

“He’s not brooding,” you mutter, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to defend him. You look back toward him and catch the moment he rises quietly to help Mr. Hargrove adjust his chair. He’s gentle. Careful. He doesn’t rush the older man or flinch when thanked. His movements are restrained, but there’s a softness in the way he places a hand on Mr. Hargrove’s shoulder that twists something in your chest.

“Heard he’s been going to the grief group,” Natasha says, quieter now. “Doesn’t talk much, but he listens. Really listens.”

You swallow.

Of course he does.

—

The church’s annual rummage sale spills across the lawn like a quilt, blankets unfurled, tables groaning under crockpots and glass trinkets, old ladies manning booths with sun hats and clipboards. The air smells like cinnamon bread, mothballs, and last year’s perfume. Laughter rises from the youth tent, mingling with the sharp rustle of donation bags and the distant notes of someone strumming a guitar.

You’re tucked beneath a white canopy, surrounded by cardboard boxes of clothes, carefully folding sweaters and arranging them into neat piles by size and color. Your dress is a pale blue today—modest neckline, flutter sleeves, cinched at the waist. It brushes your knees when you crouch to dig through a box of scarves, the cotton soft and worn from too many washes. 

You’re trying to focus. Really.

But your eyes keep drifting.

You’re folding a forest green cardigan when voices filter through from the other side of the rack, low, familiar, and just loud enough to pause your breath.

“Come on, Buck, it’s not that bad,” says someone with a warm, amused voice.

Bucky.

“Steve,” comes his gravelled reply, filled with dry disdain. “I look like an idiot.”

Another voice, deeper, playful: “Man could wear a trash bag and make it work. Even ugly Christmas sweaters.”

You freeze, clutching the cardigan a little too tightly, peeking between the racks like a guilty thought.

Bucky stands beside two other men, one tall, blond, with kind eyes and a faded plaid shirt, clearly the peacemaker. The other, handsome and grinning, carries the energy of someone who always gets the last word.

And James...

He’s holding up the most hideous red sweater you’ve ever seen. Rudolph stitched with googly eyes and a pom-pom nose. His brow is furrowed, jaw set, expression hovering between horrified and resigned.

But his eyes, when they land on his friends—are softer than you’ve ever seen them. Like for a brief moment, the weight he carries lets up, just slightly. Just enough to let something tender slip through.

“It’s for Christmas,” the blond says, Steve, you guess, trying to sound reasonable.

“It’s October,” Bucky mutters.

“Early prep,” the other man adds, grinning. “Ugly sweaters are a chick magnet. Right, Steve?”

“Sam—” Steve starts, face flushed, and Sam just cackles.

You duck back behind the rack, heart suddenly racing.

You don’t know why seeing him like that, a little relaxed, surrounded by people who know him unsettles you.

Maybe because it makes him human. Not just this dark-eyed soldier who lingers like storm clouds in the corners of sanctuaries. Maybe because it cracks the outline of the mystery you’ve built around him. Maybe because you liked it.

You’re folding a scarf, willing your pulse to settle, when...

“Need help with those?”

His voice slides into your bones.

You spin, scarf forgotten, to find him standing behind you, closer than he should be.

The ugly sweater is draped over one forearm, but it’s his eyes you notice first. Clear, steady, gray as winter and just as cold until they settle on you

Your throat tightens.

“I’m good,” you say quickly, too quickly. You step back instinctively, bumping against a box, the cotton of your dress catching on cardboard. “Just sorting for my uncle.”

He nods once. Doesn’t leave.

Instead, his gaze drifts to the rack beside you.

“Looking for anything specific?” he asks, voice low enough to keep between you.

“My aunt needs cardigans,” you reply before thinking. “Medium. Maybe large. She likes them loose.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him. It’s stupid. Pointless.

But he nods, like it matters.

Then he starts looking.

No hesitation. No small talk. Just quiet, focused movement as he shifts hangers aside, fingers brushing knit sleeves and lace trim, eyes scanning the rows. His brow furrows in concentration, the same way it did back in the chapel—like he sees the world in sharp lines and weight.

You steal glances.

His scar looks more pronounced in the sunlight. His hair is messier today, wind-tossed, one dark lock falling across his forehead. His shirt clings to his back when he bends to reach a lower hanger. You shouldn’t be looking. You know that. But your gaze keeps betraying you.

Within minutes, he pulls three cardigans from the rack: dusty rose, seafoam green, and cream. All soft, a little worn, and exactly the kind your aunt hoards in her closet like armor.

“These work?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You blink, surprised. “Yeah. Perfect.”

He holds them out. You reach to take them, and your fingers brush.

You don’t pull away immediately.

Neither does he.

When you finally glance up, his eyes are already on yours. And for one breathless, endless second, you’re not in a rummage tent surrounded by old clothes and casserole pans. You’re in some private, weightless space where nothing exists but the hum beneath your skin and the way he’s looking at you.

You open your mouth, unsure what you’re even going to say, when—

“Buck! You buying that sweater or what?” Sam’s voice slices through the air, easy and loud.

The spell breaks.

Bucky’s jaw tenses. The softness fades like a curtain drawn shut.

“I should go,” he says, stepping back.

You nod, throat dry. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

And then he’s gone, the red reindeer sweater swinging limply from one hand as he walks back toward his friends, their laughter rising around him like smoke.

You hold the cardigans to your chest, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to stare. Trying not to feel the ghost of his fingers still lingering on yours. But when you glance up, just once, you catch the faintest twitch of his lips at something Sam says.

And your chest flutters—small and secret and completely, helplessly real.

—

Today's prayer service ends with the slow murmur of Amen echoing through the chapel. Candles flicker across the altar like dying stars. The scent of wax lingers thick in the air, threaded with incense and old wood. Outside, the sky has opened up and rain falls in relentless sheets, hammering the roof and streaking the stained-glass windows with watercolors. Most of the congregation has already fled, their laughter and boots fading across the slick stone path. The sanctuary empties quickly.

All except for you.

And him.

You’re still gathering candles in the soft hush, moving between pews with practiced care. The hem of your green dress skims your legs with every step, fitted enough to cling when you bend, the fabric catching on the curve of your hips. Your lips are red tonight. A sinful shade, bold against the candlelight. Your hair’s loose, damp near the temples from the mist that snuck in earlier, curling slightly around your shoulders. You hadn't intended to stay this long, but you always do. You like the quiet after services. Like to feel the hush settle into your bones.

But tonight, it’s not just yours.

You hear him before you see him.

He’s at the front now, by the altar, stacking hymnals with the kind of care that suggests reverence, not obligation. Rainlight casts him in fractured hues hrough the stained glass. His shirt, gray, damp at the collar, clings to his chest and shoulders. His hair’s slightly mussed from the rain, one curl clinging to his temple, and there’s a shadow along his jaw.

He hasn’t looked at you yet.

But he doesn’t have to.

His presence coils through the chapel like smoke.

"Rain’s keeping everyone out," you say, trying for lightness. Your voice breaks the quiet, but not the tension.

He looks up, finally.

“Good thing,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, quiet enough that it feels like it’s for you alone. “Gives us time to clean up.”

He sets another hymnal down, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath his skin. You catch a whiff of cedar, leather, rain, and maybe war. It fills your lungs and lodges somewhere between your ribs.

You don’t ask for help.

But he joins you anyway, stepping into the aisle beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn’t speak.

And you don’t either.

But the silence between you? It's alive.

The two of you work side by side, collecting stray candles and crumpled programs, and though your fingers never quite touch, they move in rhythm, close enough to feel, never enough to satisfy. You’re too aware of him. Of the heat he carries, the way his movements are quiet but commanding.

He nods toward your dress as you reach to place another candle. “Careful with your dress,” he says, voice steady but low. “Wax’ll ruin it.”

You glance down, then back at him. “This old thing?” you say with a faint smile, brushing the fabric. “You sound like my aunt.”

He lets out a quiet huff—amusement, and his eyes flick over you once more. “Doesn’t look old,” he says simply, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes your spine straighten.

You don’t look at him.

But you feel his gaze like the weight of prayer.

Another candle slips as you move—a clatter against wood that echoes too loud in the stillness. You both reach for it at once, and for the first time, you touch.

His fingers meet yours. Warm, firm. You both pause. You could move. You should move.

But you don’t.

Not right away.

You clear your throat, cheeks warm. “Clumsy,” you mutter, standing again, smoothing your dress more out of nerves than necessity.

“Happens,” he replies, placing the candle down carefully, like it deserves respect.

You watch him for a moment. The way he moves. The quiet precision. There’s no arrogance to him. Just control. And control is its own kind of seduction. You turn, gathering the last of the candleholders, but his voice draws you back.

“Been comin’ here a while,” he says. It’s not a question. Just a thread he’s decided to pull. “Used to feel different. Quieter. Now...” His eyes flick to yours. “Better with more of you around.”

Your lips part. The breath you draw feels too full. “Really, James?.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to crowd your space with his warmth. He sets a hymnal on the pew beside you, then lingers—close enough you can see the faint crease in his brow, the flecks of something almost blue in the gray of his eyes.

“Bucky,” he says, low and certain. “Not James. Not with you.”

It knocks something loose in your chest.

You nod, almost breathless. “Bucky,” you echo, trying the name on your tongue. It tastes like honey and warning.

His eyes darken, not in danger, but in depth.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles gently at your waist. The contact is featherlight. Careful. But the intention behind it is anything but innocent. His thumb brushes, just once, over the side of your dress. Not suggestive. Not aggressive. Just there.

And your body hums in response.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, reverent, sinful. His voice is the kind that belongs in confession. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

You feel the words like a hand at your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. And you don’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Show me,” you whisper.

He leans in, barely touching his lips to yours. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. 

But your hands rise, uncertain but brave and settle over his chest. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, alive.

Then he kisses you.

Gentle.

Sacrilegious.

His lips brush yours with reverence, not hunger, and your mouth parts without a second thought. It’s not urgent. Your fingers curl against him. His hand finds your lower back, anchoring you, holding without taking. He tastes like rain and smoke, like silence, like ache.

He pulls back first.

Breathing ragged.

Forehead to yours.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re somethin’ else.”

So is this.

So are you.

You smile, slow and knowing, fingers lifting to trace the sharp line of his jaw. The scar beneath your touch is rough, an uneven line carved by something cruel but here, beneath your fingertips, it feels sacred. Claimed. “Gentleman, huh?” you murmur, teasing, your voice a hush in the chapel’s hush.

He chuckles, deep and quiet, the sound vibrating against your palm. His hand settles at your hip, broad and warm, thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like he’s checking for fragility. “For you,” he says, voice low and thick, reverent as a vow.

Then he kisses you again. Slower now. Deeper. His tongue parts your lips with careful grace. He tastes like rain, like patience, like restraint stretched too thin. Your breath catches, your pulse thrums, and your thighs press together under the growing heat—soft and aching where you want him most.

But it’s not just lust. It’s the way he holds back, like you deserve more than hurried touches and breathless abandon. 

“Wanna do this right,” he breathes against your mouth, his hand sliding down to your lower back, guiding you gently, reverently, to the back pew. The wood creaks as you lower, the old bench cool against your thighs. He kneels between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times, but never like this. Never for this. His frame is massive, towering, but lowered before you now, his eyes locked to yours, asking. 

You nod—small, sure.

His fingers slide up your legs with aching patience. Your dress bunches at your hips, and for a long moment, he just looks at you—=, at your trembling thighs, your flushed face, your breath shallow. And then he moves, so slowly it feels like a confession.

You whimper, soft, unsure if it’s from the need or the way he’s looking at you—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

“Touch me, Bucky,” you whisper, barely a sound, barely a breath.

And he does.

His fingers trace higher, finding the hem of your dress, and he pauses again, eyes searching yours. “This okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, like he’s afraid to break you. His care makes your breath hitch, a spark flaring low in your belly, but it’s his gentleness that holds you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he groans, soft, his hand inching your dress up, slow, revealing the soft skin above your stockings. His fingers graze lace, feeling the first hint of your slick through your panties, and he exhales, shaky, like he’s been holding it in. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice awed, gentle, “this pussy’s already wet for me, ain’t it?”

You blush, biting your lip, not desperate, just curious, wanting. “Maybe,” you tease, voice soft, and he chuckles, low, wicked, his finger brushing your clit through the lace, light, teasing, making you gasp.

"God."

He leans in, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, darlin’,” he whispers, teasing, lips brushing your skin. “Not when you’re this wet and sweet under me.”

You laugh, soft, clenching your thighs, earning a low moan from him. “You’re trouble,” you whisper, fingers grazing his neck, wanting to mark him. His free hand cradles your back, keeping you close.

“Love this,” he growls, lips brushing your ear, teeth grazing, soft, his finger still teasing through lace, not pushing, just stoking the fire. “Gonna make you feel so good, doll.” He pauses, eyes meeting yours, checking again, and you nod, leaning into him, wanting more, but patient, letting him lead.

A sudden gust rattles the chapel windows, rain pounding harder, and you both freeze, glancing toward the sound. The moment breaks, tension easing, and you laugh, nervous, the spell softening but not gone. “Storm’s loud,” you murmur, smoothing your dress, and he nods, hand resting on your knee, steady, grounding.

“Keeps us here,” he says, voice low, eyes glinting. “More time.” He leans in again, lips brushing your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your heart stutter. “You sure ‘bout this, darlin’? We can stop.” His voice is gentle, respectful, and it pulls you closer, wanting him more.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice raw, and he groans, his hand sliding back up, peeling your panties down, slow, careful, lace slipping over your thighs.

“Fuck, this pussy,” he murmurs, voice awed, finger brushing your bare clit now, making you whine, hips twitching. The wet sounds are soft, obscene in the chapel’s hush, and the rain’s roar makes it feel like a secret, sacred and sinful.

“More,” you plead, soft, and he obliges, dipping a finger inside, stretching, curling slow, hitting your spot. Your pussy grips him, cream coating his finger, and you moan, quiet, head tipping back, the intimacy overwhelming. “Bucky, fuck,” you gasp, and he covers your mouth, gentle, muffling, his lips brushing your ear.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, amused, naughty, breath hot. “Don’t want the angels listenin’.” His finger thrusts deeper, thumb circling your clit, slow, building you up, and you’re trembling, pussy dripping, the risk spiking your pulse, his cock hard, pressing against your thigh, patient but huge.

“Feel so good,” you murmur, muffled, and he kisses your neck, soft, lingering, his free hand sliding up your back, holding you like you’re precious. “Want you closer,” you whisper, fingers tugging his shirt, pulling him in, and he groans, low, shifting, his massive frame pressing against you, shielding you.

And then it deepens everything. The intimacy, the tension, the sheer care of it. His fingers trace slow, deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving yours. The chapel holds its breath, the candles flicker like they're witnessing something unholy. 

Or maybe divine.

“Gonna give you everything,” he murmurs, adding another finger, fucking you slow, deliberate, wet sounds louder now, your pussy clenching. Your eyes roll, thighs shaking, and he watches. “Fuck, look at you,” he whispers, voice thick, “takin’ my fingers so sweet.”

You chuckle, shaky, clenching again, earning a moan. “Tease,” you whisper, biting your lip, and he smirks. 

“Cum for me, darlin’,” he murmurs, fingers curling, thumb relentless, and you shatter, pussy spasming, cream coating his finger, a muffled scream against his hand. He holds you, lips on your neck, soft, whispering, “That’s it, baby, fuck, so perfect.” 

“I need you, Bucky,” you whispered, voice raw and dripping with want, your gaze locked on his steel-blue eyes, darkened with lust.

He exhaled a low, guttural sound, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him. Through the rough denim of his jeans, you felt the hard, throbbing outline of his cock, thick and insistent, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, brushing against him, and he hissed, head dipping to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. “Baby,” he murmured, “you’re gonna kill me.”

With a swift motion, he freed himself, his cock springing free, veined and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. You swallowed hard, your mouth watering at the sight of him, so potent, so ready. His hand guided himself to your slick folds, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what was to come. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you pressed yourself closer, your thighs quivering. “Please, Bucky,” you begged, voice a sultry plea, your legs hooking around his waist, urging him nearer.

He growled low, his hand cupping your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the old wooden pew, the creak of the wood echoing in the sacred space. “Gonna love this pussy,” he rasped, his eyes burning into yours, holding you captive as he positioned himself at your entrance.

The first push was exquisite agony. His cock breached you slowly, the thick head stretching your tight walls, parting you with a delicious burn that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like he was carving a space inside you, claiming you inch by inch, the sensation overwhelming—full, hot, and unrelenting.

He’s watching you come apart, his lips parted, reverence in every movement. His fingers never rush, never push too far. He keeps you right at the edge, not to tease, but to honor the feeling. His hand curls around the back of your neck, grounding you, and your head falls forward, resting against his.

Your pussy fluttered around him, gripping him instinctively, and you moaned, head falling back as the pleasure-pain of his size consumed you. “God, Bucky,” you whimpered, “you’re so fucking big.”

“Shit, so tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, his vibranium hand steadying your hip as he eased deeper, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was intense, but the intimacy of his restraint made it sacred, a slow, deliberate act of worship. When he bottomed out, filling you completely, your walls pulsed around him, and you both stilled.

He began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a promise, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, igniting sparks that curled through your spine. The wet, filthy sounds of your bodies filled the air, and you clung to him, your fingers raking down his back. 

“Fuck, feel that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “your pussy’s grippin’ me so good.”

“Harder,” you whined, craving more, and Bucky obliged, his thrusts deepening, the pew creaking louder under the force. “Yes, fuck, yes!” you cried, your pussy creaming around him, the slickness easing his glide, making every thrust smoother.

He shifted you then, guiding you to turn, your palms bracing against the back of the pew as he positioned you on your knees, your dress hiked up around your waist. The new angle made you gasp as he re-entered you, his cock hitting deeper, stroking a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “Goddamn, look at you,” he growled, his hand smacking your ass lightly, the sting blooming into warmth that made you yelp, then grin. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

You arched your back, pushing back against him, meeting each stroke with a desperate need. “Cream on my cock,” he urged, his voice a dark caress, and the combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless drive of his cock sent you spiraling.

"That's it, that's my pretty girl, Oh— God."

Your orgasm crashed over you, your pussy pulsing, clenching around him as you screamed into the crook of your arm, cream dripping down your thighs.

He wasn’t done. With a gentle tug, he pulled you upright, your back against his chest, his lips finding your neck as he guided you to straddle him, facing him now. You sank onto his cock, the new position intimate, your faces inches apart. His eyes locked on yours, and the connection was electric, his hands guiding your hips as you rode him, slow and deliberate. “Fuck, darlin’,” he panted, his flesh hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “You’re really somethin’ else.”

The pace built again, your thighs burning as you chased another peak. When you came again, it was softer but no less intense, your body trembling as you clung to him, his name a prayer on your lips. 

His groan was raw, almost feral, as his body tensed beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck, baby, this pussy’s gonna make me lose it,” he growled, his voice rough and urgent, thick with lust. “So fuckin’ tight, squeezin’ my cock like you were made for it.” His hips stuttered, thrusting up into you with a desperate edge, and you felt the first hot pulse of his cum spilling deep inside you. “Shit, I’m cummin’ so hard for you,” he rasped, his words dripping with filthy reverence. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy up, make you drip with me, baby—fuck.”

Each pulse of his release was a searing claim, his cock throbbing as he poured himself into you, the heat and fullness overwhelming, slick and messy as it leaked down your thighs and onto his lap.

His thumb strokes slow across your cheek, and the air between you is heavy with unsaid things, with want, with restraint. His other hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers, as he leans closer, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, like he’s tracing a rosary made of skin.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, and the words are hoarse, unraveling. “Pretty thing. Touchin’ heaven sittin’ on this pew.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, your bodies entwined, the rain a soft murmur outside, the air thick with the scent of sex and intimacy. Your fingers carded through his damp hair, tracing the strands that clung to his forehead, and he sighed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for it.

The storm rages outside.

And inside, he worships.

Not God.

You.

[rulerofstars]

the general’s daughter

oneshot: trapped in a suffocating arranged marriage to sergeant bucky barnes, you endure his quiet distance and nonchalance, convinced his heart belongs to someone else. but when a devastating injury forces him home, your silent care begins to chip away at his walls—and your own resolve.

pairing: modern! sergeant! bucky barnes x reader

tags: 4.4k words. fluff. angst with a happy ending… kinda. modern!au. fixed marriage. miscommunication. inspired by the blower’s daughter / damien rice.

You've always known your life wasn't entirely your own. Being the daughter of a general meant expectations, obligations, and a future carved out long before you could spell the word choice. But when your father sat you down three years ago and told you about the arranged marriage to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, you didn't fight it. Not because you agreed, but because you were tired of arguing, tired of being the perfect daughter, tired of hoping for something more.

James, Bucky, as his friends call him—was a stranger then, and he's barely more than that now. The son of a disgraced colonel, he was offered a deal: marry you, secure your father's influence to restore his family's name, and gain a promotion that would pull him out of the enlisted ranks. In return, your father got an alliance with a family desperate enough to owe him loyalty. It was a transaction, cold and calculated, and you were the currency.

You met Bucky once before the wedding, at a formal dinner your father hosted. He was polite, quiet, his steel-blue eyes meeting yours only briefly before sliding away. He wore his dress uniform and answered your father's questions with clipped precision. You tried to make conversation, asking about his favorite book, his hometown, anything to see past the wall he'd built. He gave you one-word answers and a tight nod, his jaw clenching like he was biting back something he couldn't say.

The wedding was small, efficient, held in a chapel on base. You wore a simple white dress, your mother's pearls, and a smile you'd practiced in the mirror. Bucky stood ramrod straight, his vows delivered in a voice so flat it could've been a mission report. When he kissed you, it was quick, perfunctory, his lips barely brushing yours. You told yourself it was nerves, that he'd warm up, that you could make this work.

You were wrong.

The first year was a masterclass in loneliness. You moved into a modest house off-base, paid for by your father's money, and threw yourself into being a wife. You learned Bucky's routines: up at 5 a.m., home late, dinner reheated in the microwave. You kept the house spotless, ironed his uniforms, sent care packages during his deployments with notes you spent hours writing: Stay safe, I’ll see you soon. You attended family days at the base, standing awkwardly beside wives who knew each other.

He was not cruel. That was the worst part. If he'd been a jerk, you could've hated him, could've justified the ache in your chest. But Bucky was just... absent. Polite when he was home, thanking you for dinner in that same flat tone, but never lingering. He would sit on the couch with a beer, staring at the TV like it held the secrets to the universe, while you sat at the kitchen table, pretending to read. His phone would buzz, and he'd step outside to answer, his voice too low for you to hear. You didn't ask who it was. You were afraid of the answer.

Nat, Steve's wife, was the first to hint at it. She'd become your friend, dragging you to coffee or yoga when Bucky was away. One day, over lattes, she hesitated, then said, "He's... complicated, (Y/N). I've seen him at the bar near base a few times. With a woman. I don't know if it's anything, but... you should know."

You nodded, your throat tight, and changed the subject. But the seed was planted. Wanda, who worked in the base's admin office, mentioned it too, casually, like it was common knowledge, "Bucky's always at that dive bar when he's on leave. With some blonde woman." 

And you do not know if it was just the imagination fueled by the stories you hear, but you started noticing things—lipstick on a glass he'd left in the sink, a faint floral scent on his jacket that wasn't yours. You never confronted him. What was the point? He'd married you for a deal, not love. 

You were just collateral.

By the second year, you stopped trying to win him over. You still cooked, still cleaned, still sent the packages, but it was rote, a performance for the audience that never existed. You poured yourself into other things: volunteering at the local animal shelter, where the dogs didn't care who your father was; book club with Nat and Wanda, where you could lose yourself in stories that ended better than yours. You smiled at family days, but you stopped seeking Bucky out, stopped hoping he'd notice you.

But what made it harder was the knowledge that he was trying, in his own quiet, crooked way.

Not with words. Never with words.

But you started to notice things. The way the dishes were done before you got home, though you hadn't asked. A blanket folded at the end of the couch when you were working late nights, a mug of tea left steaming beside your laptop. Once, when the kitchen sink started leaking, you came downstairs to find him knee-deep in the mess, shirt rolled up, trying to fix it himself. He didn't even tell you, just muttered about needing new washers and brushed past you without waiting for thanks.

You'd mention something in passing, how the porch light flickered, or that you missed your favorite kind of cereal—and a few days later, the problem would quietly solve itself. No fanfare. No "I did this for you." Just... presence, like he didn't know how to say what he meant but needed to show it somehow.

He sat beside you more often now. Not close enough to touch, but near. Like proximity was the limit of what he could give. Like he wanted to be near your warmth without knowing how to step into it.

But he never asked you why your eyes were red after a call with your mother. He never reached for your hand in the dark. He never said your name like it mattered.

And again, he wasn't cruel. Never that. 

He just stayed on his side of the invisible line. Always.

You told yourself it was enough. That effort, even unspoken, even clumsy, was something. Maybe this was just how he loved. But most nights, you lay in bed with your back to his, and all you could feel was the miles between you.

You told yourself you were fine.

You weren't.

—

The injury happened, one autumn during your second year of marriage. A training accident, faulty equipment, a misstep, shrapnel tearing through Bucky's left arm, giving him the metal prosthetic. It's not life-threatening, but it's bad. Nerve damage, torn muscle, months of recovery. He's sent home, grounded, no deployments until he's cleared.

He's a ghost in his own house, haunting the living room with a scowl and a sling. He's restless, snapping at small things—the remote's out of reach, the coffee's too cold, why is the thermostat so high? You don't take it personally. You know it's the pain, the fear of losing his edge, the weight of being useless in a life defined by duty. 

But it hurts.

It hurts in the quiet moments. When you bring him his meds and he doesn't look up. When he winces as you help him change, like your touch is another burden. When you sit across from him at dinner and he can't meet your eyes, as if even that much might make it real: that you're here, and he's falling apart.

But you stay.

You drive him to physical therapy appointments that leave him shaking with rage. You wait in the hallway with magazines you don't read, staring at the same page until your vision blurs. You cook meals he doesn't ask for. You change his bandages like you're dressing a wound on your own body. You try not to flinch when he does.

He doesn't say thank you. Not at first. Just grunts, shrugs, nods that barely register. And yet... things start to shift in the quiet.

He stops pacing when you're near. Sits longer at the table, even after his plate is empty. Watches you from the corner of the room like he's trying to remember something. One night, when you're rewrapping the gauze around his arm, his fingers graze yours. It's the lightest touch. He doesn't pull away.

But he doesn't lean in, either.

Then one evening, weeks in, you're standing at the counter chopping carrots for soup, when his voice breaks through the low hum of the radio.

"Why do you do this?"

You freeze. Knife mid-air. "Do what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely. The kitchen. The food. The gauze and the clean laundry and the appointments marked on the calendar. His arm rests on a pillow, sling abandoned for the night, his expression drawn tight. "All of it. You don't have to."

"You're hurt," you say simply. Because it's the easiest truth to give.

"You don't... you don't owe me this. You never did."

You feel it land in your chest. That low, dull ache. The one that never really goes away.

The thing is, you've told yourself the same thing, a hundred times. You don't owe him this. You never did. And yet here you are, night after night, "loving" him in ways that don't even look like love anymore. Just maintenance. Just endurance.

"I'm your wife," you say, barely louder than a breath. It sounds strange now, worn out, like a word you've been carrying too long without using.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Then shakes his head, barely. "Not really."

It's not said with anger. Not with venom. Just... resignation. And somehow, that makes it worse. It's not meant to hurt. But it does. God, it does. Because he's not wrong. You're not really a wife. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way that's felt.

You stand there for a beat, silence pressing against your chest like a fist. The ache of a marriage lived in pieces. A love that outlived its shape.

You turn back to the cutting board, blinking fast.

"Soup'll be ready in ten," you whisper.

—

The months drag on, and Bucky's arm heals slowly. He's still home, still grounded, but he's different now. He's not the same man who came back bruised and wordless. He moves softer, like he's afraid of waking something.

He starts fixing things, not just the leaky faucet you once complained about, but other things too. A crooked drawer. A jammed door. A broken chair leg that's been wobbling for some time. He does it without a word, as if he's trying to apologize with actions instead of sentences. He loads the dishwasher, folds laundry without asking which pile is yours. And then there's dinner. He sits across from you like he used to, but his gaze doesn't burn—it lingers. He asks about your day, about the shelter dogs, about the book you leave open on the coffee table. He listens.

And it's unbearable.

Because his voice is gentler now, like he's relearning tenderness. And when he smiles, tentative, almost shy. It's the kind that makes you feel seen. And you hate how easily it slips beneath your skin. How your guard falters with each passing evening. How part of you wants to believe in this version of him, in this life he's trying to build out of the rubble.

But you can't.

Not again.

—

The weather is unusually kind, sky pale, and air light with the first sigh of spring. You say something offhand about needing to get out of the house. He nods. And somehow, a blanket is packed, sandwiches are made, and you're driving to the park like it's something you've always done.

You sit beneath a tree, a little away from the others, just close enough to hear the laughter of children playing nearby. The sun filters through the leaves, dappled gold on his shoulder. You eat quietly. He leans back, hands behind his head, eyes half-lidded like he's trying to memorize the way the breeze feels.

"I used to think I'd be a dad," he says, not looking at you.

The sentence hits you sideways. Not hard. Just... unexpected. Like a memory you forgot was yours too.

"Yeah?"

"Back before," he shrugs, gesturing vaguely, to the war, the wounds, the life that took root in ashes. "Before everything got loud."

Not long after, a kid, maybe five, six at most—wanders a little too far from their parents, a juice box clutched in one hand, a plastic dinosaur in the other. He stumbles near your blanket and looks up, blinking at Bucky with the quiet boldness of someone too young to understand fear.

Bucky gives a small smile, tentative but warm. "Hey, little man."

The kid just stares. Then holds out the dinosaur wordlessly.

Bucky glances at you, confused, and you nod.

He reaches out slowly and accepts it.

The kid beams, then turns and runs back to his mother, giggling.

Bucky stares at the dinosaur in his hand like it's something ancient and precious.

You don't say anything. But he turns to you. The warmth between you isn't loud. It doesn't demand. It just exists. And for the first time in months, maybe longer, you both let it.

—

But you spent three years loving a man who wouldn't let himself be loved—three years waiting for words that never came, watching him vanish behind his silences. You built your walls out of the quiet he left behind, bricked them with disappointment and varnished them with restraint. You've done too much work to let him unravel you now.

So you keep your distance. You learn how to speak in half-smiles, to answer his questions without letting him in. Even when Natasha raises an eyebrow at the way he looks at you. Even when Wanda laughs behind her mug and says...

"He only loads the dishwasher when you're in the room." 

Even when Steve and Sam swing by, their voices full of old warmth and new hope, clapping Bucky on the back like he's returned from some personal war. You see their glances, those knowing flickers toward you, like they're already rewriting the story you're still afraid to start.

You feel your heart thudding against its cage, restless. Hopeful. Terrified.

Because he's not just changing.

He's making it harder not to believe he means it this time.

—

Your third anniversary arrives like a storm you've been bracing for, every detail of the evening planned with the precision of a final act. Not for love, not for celebration, but for an ending. The "warranty" is fulfilled. Bucky's promotion is secured, his family's debts wiped clean, your father's influence no longer binding him to you. The deal that forged this hollow marriage is done, and you're both free. 

The divorce papers, stark and final, have been hidden in your dresser for weeks, their presence a quiet ache in your heart. Tonight, over dinner, you'll give them to him as a gift—his freedom, wrapped in an envelope, the last thing you can offer a man who probably never wanted you.

You spend the day crafting his favorite meal with trembling hands. It's not about romance, it's about dignity, a way to prove you gave this marriage everything before letting it go. You set the table with your mother's cherished china, plates used only once before, at the engagement dinner that sealed your fate. You pour two glasses of red wine, your movements deliberate despite the grief clawing at your chest, and sit, waiting, the napkin in your lap pressed smooth.

Bucky descends the stairs, his steps lighter than you expect, almost hesitant. He's in a button-up shirt, slightly wrinkled at the collar, his hair damp from the shower. His metal arm catches the candlelight as he pauses in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the table, then settling on you. A small, rare smile tugs at his lips, not wide, not warm, but genuine in its quiet way.

"Wow," he says, his voice soft, almost reverent as he takes his seat across from you. "This is... somethin' else."

"Happy third anniversary," you say, and your voice is almost too soft, worn down from days of rehearsing it into something neutral. You manage a small smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "Three years. I thought... I should give you something worth remembering."

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the table. "You didn't have to go all out," he says quietly, like the words are too big for the space they're in. Then, after a pause: "Thank you. For staying. For these three years."

The words land like an apology and a goodbye, all at once.

Dinner unfolds in a quiet torment, the candle's flame wavering between you, casting shadows that feel like ghosts of your years together. You fill the silence with safe topics. He responds, more engaged than usual, his voice carrying a warmth you haven't heard in months. He even chuckles once, a low, rough sound, when you mention a foster dog's habit of stealing socks. It's disarming, this glimpse of a Bucky who could have been, and it makes the envelope in your purse feel heavier, like a betrayal.

But you can't delay the inevitable. 

"I have a gift for you," you say, standing to retrieve your purse from the counter. Your hands shake as you pull out the envelope, but you clench your jaw, forcing composure. This is your offering, the final act of a wife who tried and failed. "It's time."

Bucky's smile fades, his brow furrowing as you slide the envelope across the table. The word Divorce stares up at him in bold, unyielding ink. His jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing under the skin, and his eyes narrow, not with anger but with a raw, wounded shock that steals your breath. He doesn't touch the papers, just stares at them like they're a wound he didn't expect.

"What's this?" His voice is low, rough, trembling with something that sounds like fear.

"My gift," you say, sitting back down, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. You keep your voice steady, though it feels like you're shattering. "Three years, Bucky. Your promotion's secure, your family's debts are gone. My father's influence isn't holding you anymore. This is your freedom. You don't need me now."

He stares at the papers, his good hand curling into a fist, knuckles whitening against the tablecloth. "You think that's what this was about? The deal?"

"Wasn't it?" You meet his gaze, refusing to flinch, though your chest feels like it's caving in. "You never wanted this marriage. You never wanted me. I've seen it every day for three years. And it's okay—I'm not angry. I just want you to have what you truly want."

He shakes his head, a harsh, broken laugh escaping him, raw and jagged. "You think I want this? You think I want to be free?"

The pain in his voice is a blade, cutting through your defenses, and you see it—the anguish in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump like he's been carrying a weight you never noticed. 

"I know there's someone else," you say, softer, the words bitter on your tongue. It's the only truth that's made sense, the only way you've survived the late nights, the private calls, the whispers from Nat and Wanda about a woman at the bar. "I've known for a long time. I don't blame you, Bucky. I just want you to be happy."

His head snaps up, his eyes blazing with a desperate intensity. "There's no one else, (Y/N). There's never been anyone else."

You blink, his words crashing into you, unraveling the story you've clung to for years. "But... the nights you didn't come home, the calls you took outside—"

"Work," he cuts in, his voice rough but unwavering. "Training that ran late. Calls with my CO, Carol Danvers, with Steve, with my mom about her medical bills. I don't know what you heard, what you thought, but there's no one else. There couldn't be."

Your mind spins, memories fracturing. The lipstick on a glass, the floral scent on his jacket—had you misread it all? Had Nat and Wanda's hints been nothing but your own fears reflected back? You've spent years believing he was unfaithful, because it was easier than facing the truth that he simply didn't love you.

"Then why?" Your voice breaks, a sob clawing its way out. "Why were you so cold? Why did you shut me out? I tried, Bucky. Believe me when I say that I gave you everything... and I am sorry if it didn't feel like it."

He looks away, his jaw clenching so hard it might shatter, his eyes glistening with tears. "I was wrong," he says, his voice low, trembling with regret. "I was wrong to hide how I felt, to keep you at arm's length. I thought... I thought I was protecting you. My life was a mess. Debts, my mom's health, this damn arm. I didn't want to drag you into it, didn't think I deserved to let you in. I thought you'd be happier if I stayed out of your way."

The confession is a gut punch, stealing your breath. All this time, you thought he was indifferent, but he was shielding you from his own brokenness, believing he was saving you by breaking your heart. The realization is a knife, twisting deeper with every word.

"But God help me, I fell so hard for you."

He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working like it physically hurts to speak. His eyes don't leave yours, shining and desperate in a way you've never seen.

"I don't want the divorce," he says, and his voice cracks halfway through the sentence, even though he fights to keep it steady. "I don't want to lose you. I never did."

He takes a breath, shoulders trembling as he tries to hold the rest in, but he can't. Not anymore.

"I want you," he whispers. "Not the house. Not the papers. You. I want the chance to finally, finally, get it right."

The silence between you swells.

Then his voice breaks, barely a sound, just the echo of something crumbling from the inside out.

"But if this... if me trying now is too late, if it just hurts. I'll go. I'll sign whatever you need me to. I'll make it clean."

His jaw tightens, and he looks down, blinking too fast, as if holding back years of words he never gave you.

"Just… say the word," he says, breath shallow now. "Say go, and I swear, I won't make it harder for you."

The question hangs like a guillotine, and your heart stops. You look at him, at the man you've loved through every silent, aching moment, and the thought of him leaving, of this house empty, of your life without him—rips you apart. But you've spent three years believing you were a burden, a duty he endured. You think of the freedom you're offering, the life he could have without the weight of this marriage, and you force the words out, each one a shard of glass.

"It's best," you whisper, barely audible, tears choking you. "For both of us."

His face crumples, a flash of devastation so raw it nearly breaks you. He nods, once, like a soldier accepting orders, and stands, his chair scraping against the floor. "Okay," he says, voice hollow. "I'll... I'll get my things."

You sit there, frozen, as he moves upstairs, the sound of drawers opening and closing echoing through the house. The candle gutters out, leaving you in darkness, and you clutch the tablecloth, tears falling silently. You tell yourself this is right, that you're setting him free, but the pain is unbearable.

He comes down with a duffel bag, his essentials packed, clothes, his old journal, a photo of your wedding day. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, his eyes red-rimmed. "I'll have Steve come back for the rest," he says, voice breaking. "I'm sorry. For everything."

And then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, too soft for the way it cleaves the moment in two.

You hear the jeep's engine start, it was the sound of goodbye.

You just sit there, numb, your body too stunned by the silence. It isn't until the engine fades down the roadway that the grief begins to rise, slow at first, like a tide. And then all at once, it drowns you.

You stumble out to the porch, one hand gripping the railing like it might stop you from falling apart. But it doesn't. Your knees hit the wood. A sob rips through you, and then another, until you can't breathe past the ache.

He's gone. He's really gone. And everything you never said now echoes in the emptiness he left behind.

The jeep's taillights pause at the gate, and then they're moving backward, the engine growing louder. You look up, blurred through tears, as Bucky pulls back into the driveway and steps out, his face etched with panic and resolve. He crosses the lawn in long strides, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands hovering near your face, afraid to touch.

"I don't ever want to leave," he says, voice rough with tears, his eyes searching yours. "I have only ever loved you, and I was too damn scared to show it. Tell me to stay, baby. Please, tell me you want me to stay."

You sob harder, the weight of his words crashing into you, and you reach for him, your hands trembling as they grip his shirt. "I don't want you to leave," you choke out, voice raw. "I never wanted you to leave."

He pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, his face buried in your hair. "I'm here," he murmurs, over and over, like a vow. "I'm here, and I'm never leaving again."

You cling to him, your sobs mingling with his, the porch cold beneath you but his embrace was warm. And above you, the night stretches on, quiet, endless, and full of stars you hadn't noticed before.

The skies watched as you rekindled the flame. Loving him was never easy. It will never be perfect. But this time...  you're not reaching alone in the dark.

This time, his hand finds yours.

This time, he stays.

Not because he has to. Not because it's safe. But because he wants to, because he finally understands that love is about choosing.

And he chooses you.

Again and again and again.

[rulerofstars]

off track, on you

oneshot: you’ve always known your dad’s best friend was into extreme sports—but not that extreme. not the kind that made your knees weak and your brain short-circuit the second you saw him ride.

pairing: dbf! rider! bucky barnes x reader

wc: 2.3k words. fluff.

you were bored out of your mind.

with your dad away on another extended work trip, you’d exhausted all your usual entertainment options. streaming services had nothing new, your friends were busy with their own lives, and scrolling through social media had lost its appeal hours ago.

that’s when you remembered your dad’s best friend, bucky barnes. your relationship with him had always been… complicated. he’d been in your life for years, always hovering somewhere between annoying guardian and endearing friend—and lately, those lines had started to blur in ways that made your heart race.

without overthinking it, you grabbed your phone and scrolled to his contact. your thumb hovered over his name for a second too long before you finally tapped it. the line started ringing, and you instantly regretted your decision.

he answered on the third ring, his voice low and a little amused like he’d half-expected you. “hey.”

there was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to be awkward. you swallowed. “what are you doing today?”

“not much. just heading out to meet some guys.”

your brows knit together. “guys?”

“bike guys,” he said, the way someone might casually say mailmen or golfers. “motocross stuff. nothing big.”

that made you sit up straighter. motocross? he never told you about that.

“you do motocross?” you asked, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.

“i dabble,” he said, as if the word dabble could ever apply to something that involved literal dirt tracks and flying motorcycles.

there was something smug in his tone, and it annoyed you. “i want to come.”

he went quiet for a beat, as though weighing the idea. “you sure?”

“yes,” you replied, maybe too fast. then, to cover it up, you added, “why? don’t want me there?”

“i didn’t say that.” you could practically hear the smirk through the phone. “alright, i’ll come pick you up.”

you hung up before you could overthink the way your pulse quickened at that.

fifteen minutes later, the low rumble of his car echoed outside your apartment, and you caught sight of him leaning against the door, looking unbothered in that infuriatingly effortless way of his. no honk. no knock. just a single text: outside.

you rolled your eyes and grabbed your jacket, muttering under your breath as you locked the door behind you. “so dramatic.”

the second you got into the passenger seat, you shot him a glare. “you could’ve told me to bring a jacket. or warned me if this was a dusty-freaking-arena situation.”

“you asked to come,” he said, not even bothering to hide his grin. “you don’t get to be mad now.”

“i’m not mad,” you muttered, crossing your arms as the engine roared to life. “i just have expectations.”

“uh huh.” he spared you a quick glance. “you’re frowning.”

“this is just my face.”

he laughed softly and shifted gears, the car pulling away from the curb. the drive was longer than you expected, back roads that coiled past empty fields, stretches of gravel, and rows of warehouses you hadn’t even known existed. you stayed quiet most of the way, trying not to look too eager every time he adjusted the rearview mirror or shifted in his seat. eventually, the landscape opened into a clearing of packed dirt, aluminum bleachers, fluttering red flags, and the low growl of engines filling the air.

you blinked. “this is… loud.”

bucky didn’t say anything, just parked the car and walked around to open your door. you stepped out before he could fully reach it, brushing past him with a frown that deepened the moment the dusty air hit your face.

he fell into step beside you, hand briefly grazing your lower back to guide you through the thickening crowd. it was subtle, but you felt it anyway. warm, grounding, annoying in the way it made your chest tighten just a little.

when you reached the metal stands, he left you alone for a few minutes, only to return balancing two drinks, a salted pretzel, and a tray of hot dogs like some casually gifted street magician.

“i didn’t ask for all this,” you said, looking down at the mess of food he shoved into your arms.

“i didn’t want you passing out mid-eye-roll,” he said, settling beside you. “consider it survival rations.”

you shot him another glare, but it didn’t land quite the way you intended. he was already backing away, pulling off his hoodie and slinging it over his shoulder. “enjoy the show, princess.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he was gone—already jogging down toward the track area where a cluster of guys were lining up bikes and pulling on gear.

you didn’t expect much. honestly, you thought he’d just hang out, maybe talk to people and watch a few races. you figured it would be loud and dirty and maybe boring. what you didn’t expect was for bucky to slide on a helmet, kick up a leg, and mount a bike like he’d been born on one.

“what the hell,” you whispered, sitting up straighter in your seat.

it happened fast. one moment, the bikes were circling the track in practiced formation, weaving around mounds and ramps. the next, one of them peeled away from the group and launched off a jump, flipping through the air before landing in a blur of dirt and smoke. the crowd erupted in cheers.

your jaw dropped as the rider sped through the track, pulling trick after trick, every turn sharper, more impossible. you squinted through the dust, heart pounding, and that’s when you saw it—that unmistakable red stripe on the back of the shirt.

“no. way.”

it was bucky.

bucky, who never told you this was his thing. bucky, who just dabbled. bucky, who was currently flipping through the air like gravity owed him money.

you sat there, stunned, pretzel in one hand, drink forgotten in the other. every time he jumped, your stomach lurched. every time he landed, you barely breathed. and when he did a midair twist off the biggest ramp on the track, you felt actual rage bubbling in your throat.

he was grinning when he returned, helmet under his arm, sweat on his brow, hair sticking to the sides of his face. he looked too good for someone who just disrespected physics.

“well?” he asked, catching the look on your face.

you didn’t answer. just stared at him with wide eyes and a scowl that could peel paint.

“you didn’t like it?”

“you never said you’d be flying through the air,” you snapped. “you said motocross, not death wish. you also told me you just dabble!”

he blinked, then broke into a full grin. “you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad.”

“you’re frowning.”

“i’m always frowning.”

he dropped down beside you, thigh brushing yours. “it’s cute.”

you shot him a glare sharp enough to kill a man. “it’s reckless. and unnecessary. and you’re… you’re insane.”

bucky reached over, plucked a piece of your pretzel, and popped it into his mouth like he hadn’t just been scolded. “you should’ve seen your face.”

you wanted to smack the smirk off him, and maybe also kiss it, but mostly smack.

before you could snarl something else, he stood and held out a hand. “come meet my crew.”

you hesitated, then took it.

the group of guys waiting by the fence were all rough voices, sunburnt arms, and grease-stained jeans. they took one look at you and immediately turned to bucky with raised brows.

“this her?” one of them asked, looking you over with an amused grin.

“yup,” bucky said, pulling you slightly behind him.

“she looks pissed,” another said.

“i am not pissed,” you snapped.

they laughed.

“she’s cute when she’s mad,” someone said.

“she’s always mad,” bucky added, glancing at you. “that’s her thing.”

you glared at him. “it’s not my thing.”

he leaned in just a little closer. “it is now.”

you didn’t say goodbye to his friends. you didn’t even wait for bucky to follow. you turned on your heel with a dramatic scoff and stormed off toward the car like you were about to sue gravity itself.

dust kicked up around your boots with every step, sun hot on your skin, but nothing burned hotter than the fury curling in your chest. the kind that made your hands ball into fists and your mouth twist into something dangerously close to a pout. he could’ve told you. hell, he should have told you.

motorcycles. tricks. midair flips. like he was invincible.

you reached the car, yanked the passenger door open, and slumped into the seat with your arms crossed tight over your chest. you didn’t look at him. not when you heard his boots approaching. not when he opened the driver’s side door and leaned against it instead of getting in.

he let out a low chuckle. “so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

you didn’t answer. you stared straight ahead through the windshield, jaw set, like ignoring him might buy you back a shred of dignity.

the silence stretched. then you heard him move, footsteps crunching against the gravel, and the next second, the driver’s side door shut. he didn’t start the car. didn’t touch the wheel. instead, he turned to face you fully, elbow propped against the console, eyes fixed on your profile like he was trying to memorize it.

“c’mon,” he said softly, voice rough in that way that always made your stomach flutter whether you wanted it to or not. “talk to me.”

still, you didn’t move.

he leaned in a little closer. “what’s wrong, baby?”

your head whipped toward him, eyes sharp. “don’t call me that.”

his mouth twitched, but he didn’t back off. if anything, he got bolder, voice dipping lower, tone all velvet and coaxing.

“tell me what upset you,” he murmured, like he wasn’t trying to win a fight, he was trying to win you. “you looked so worried when i was out there. can’t get that look outta my head.”

you hated that your pulse betrayed you. you hated that his voice could get under your skin like that.

“i wasn’t worried,” you muttered, face turned away again. “i was annoyed.”

“oh?” he drew the word out, slow and smug. “annoyed by me flipping midair like a goddamn legend?”

you glared at him.

he raised both hands in mock surrender but kept smiling. “okay, okay. no jokes.”

you looked away, biting your cheek. “i didn’t know you did THAT kind of thing. that you… you’re just so damn reckless. you didn’t even warn me.”

a pause. then a quieter, more honest reply.

“you’re right. i should’ve told you.” he leaned in just a little closer, his knee brushing yours. “i didn’t think it’d matter. didn’t think i’d matter that much to you.”

your eyes met his then fully, finally. and it was infuriating how sincere he looked.

“of course it matters,” you said, voice breaking around the edges. “of course you matter.”

bucky went still, just for a second.

like your words landed somewhere deeper than either of you expected. his gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. and when he spoke, it was quieter than before, almost unsure, which was rare for him.

“you mean that?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you turned to face him fully, both knees tucked under you on the passenger seat now, hands folded in your lap so you wouldn’t do something stupid… like reach for his.

“i didn’t come here just to be entertained, bucky. i came because i… i like being around you. even when you’re an idiot on a motorcycle.”

he exhaled something like a laugh. soft. nervous.

“i didn’t know you felt that way.”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, well, i didn’t either. not really. not until you started launching yourself into the sky like a dumbass.”

“and that’s what did it for you?” he teased. “the danger?”

“no,” you snapped, heat rising to your cheeks. “what did it for me was realizing how scared i was. how mad i was at the thought of you getting hurt. because it wouldn’t just be some guy wiping out on a track. it’d be you.”

a pause stretched long and heavy between you.

then his voice, low and steady.

“you were scared for me.”

“yes,” you muttered. “obviously.”

he reached over, hand curling lightly around your wrist. not pulling, not grabbing. just holding.

“‘m sorry, doll, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “i just—i wanted to show off a little, i guess.”

you squinted at him. “for me?”

he grinned sheepishly. “yeah. is that pathetic?”

you blinked. “a little.”

his grin widened. “thought so.”

you sat there in the hush of the cooling car, engines revving distantly outside, the soft buzz of wind against the windows. his fingers hadn’t left your wrist. and slowly, it turned into your hand. into your fingers slipping between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he looked down at it. then at you.

“if i kissed you right now,” he said carefully, “would you punch me?”

“depends how good the kiss is,” you replied, brows raised.

he smirked. “so i’ve got one shot?”

“mm-hmm.”

and then he kissed you.

slow at first—like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. then deeper, more certain, like he’d been holding it in for years and didn’t plan to stop now. his hand slid behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. you made a quiet sound, one he swallowed up like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

when you finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, you were the first to speak.

“okay,” you whispered. “you get one more.”

he didn’t even wait a beat.

[rulerofstars]

little miss home-renter

long drabble: your frustration with your dad's best friend constantly showing up in your life takes an unexpected turn when you're forced to call him for help building your bed at midnight.

pairing: dbf! bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, romcom, enemies to lovers... kinda, steve is literally daddy, 1.6k words.

you don't even get the chance to open the door before you hear them bickering, their voices carrying through the hallway like they own the damn building.

"back straight, steve," bucky's voice rings clear as a bell. "you're gonna pull something, old man."

"i'm carrying the lighter box," your dad retorts.

"yeah, because i let you," bucky shoots back, the smirk evident in his voice even through solid wood.

you sigh so hard you might've bruised a rib.

every. damn. time. you invite your dad over, bucky shows up too. like he's glued to your father's side, surgically attached or bound by an oath made in blood. it's like they've never outgrown their glory days, still thick as thieves, cracking jokes and throwing their backs out for fun. you get it, veteran loyalty, lifelong friendship, whatever. but sometimes, you just want your dad. not... bucky.

especially not when you're in sweatpants with a coffee stain on the knee and a ratty college shirt you've had since freshman year. and especially not when bucky looks like he walked off a mechanic calendar—tight black shirt stretching across his chest, jeans that hug in all the right places, that metal arm flexing under cardboard weight like he's deliberately putting on a show.

you pretend not to notice. you're getting good at that.

the door finally swings open, revealing your dad's beaming face and bucky's imposing figure right behind him, box balanced effortlessly on one shoulder like it weighs nothing. the sunlight catches on his metal arm, and you have to squint just to look at him.

"there she is!" your dad exclaims, placing his significantly smaller box down to wrap you in a bear hug. "my little homeowner."

"it's a rental, dad," you mumble into his shoulder, but you're smiling despite yourself.

over his shoulder, your eyes meet bucky's. he gives you that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes you want to either slap him or…

you push that thought away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

the move goes fast, too fast. you barely get a word in before the couch is already set against the wall, your boxes stacked alphabetically (thanks, bucky, you controlling jerk), and your dad's cracking open beers like he just fought a war instead of carrying a microwave.

"to new beginnings," your dad toasts, raising his bottle.

"and to actual furniture," bucky adds, eyeing your mismatched thrift store decor with amusement dancing in his eyes.

you try not to scowl when bucky ruffles your hair like you're still twelve and says, "proud of you, kid. all grown-up and everything."

you bat his hand away with more force than necessary.

"i could've done it without you guys," you insist, chin raised slightly in defiance.

your dad snorts so hard beer almost comes out his nose. "sure, pumpkin."

bucky doesn't say anything, but his eyes say everything, skepticism mixed with something softer that you refuse to analyze.

they leave an hour later, your dad promising to bring extra tupperware because you can't live on takeout forever, bucky making a joke about your fridge being stocked with "fermented oat milk and nothing else."

"i have condiments too, asshole," you mutter.

"ketchup packets don't count as a food group," he fires back without missing a beat.

you flip them both off behind the door once it closes.

the first few hours alone are glorious. quiet. yours.

you open boxes. hang photos. light candles that smell like "urban rainstorm" and "financial stability." you blast music no one can tell you to turn down.

but then you make the mistake of tackling the bedframe.

four pieces in, you realize the screws don't match the holes. seven pieces in, one of the slats breaks with a crack that sounds suspiciously like laughter. ten pieces in, you're sweating and breathing heavily and considering just sleeping on the damn floor forever. you lie there for a full minute, sprawled among wooden planks and screws, trying to will the bedframe to finish itself through sheer female independence.

it doesn't.

you groan. you curse. you dramatically fling an allen wrench across the room like it's personally betrayed your lineage.

then you reach for your phone.

your thumb hovers over your dad's contact, but something makes you scroll down to the "b" section instead.

it's 12:41 am when you open the door, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing mismatched socks and the expression of someone who has swallowed a gallon of pride and is still choking on it.

bucky leans on the frame, toolbox in one hand, unreadable smirk on his face. he's still in the same clothes from earlier, but somehow he looks even better in the dim hallway light. it's patently unfair.

"you look like you've been through war," he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.

"i hate furniture," you mutter, closing the door behind him. "it's a capitalist conspiracy."

"i told you to wait till tomorrow." his voice is low, amused but not mocking.

"you said that, but you also laughed when i said i'd build it myself."

he shrugs, bending down to examine the wreckage that was supposed to be your bed. "and i was right. you built a modern art installation. could probably sell it for thousands."

you glare, arms crossed over your chest. "less talking. more fixing."

to your surprise, he doesn't say much after that, he just works. efficient. calm. occasionally giving you little instructions like you're his assistant and not the one who dragged him out of bed past midnight.

"hold this." 

"hand me that phillips head." 

"not that one, the other one." 

"no, not—jesus, do you know what a phillips head looks like?"

you sit back at some point, watching him. the way his brows furrow in concentration. the steady pace of his hands, metal and flesh both equally gentle with the wood. the flex of his back muscles under his shirt as he leans forward to tighten a screw. it's annoying, how naturally capable he is. like he was built for these kinds of moments. like he was meant to be there, in your apartment, fixing the things you couldn't.

you cross your arms. "why are you always with him?"

he doesn't look up. "with who?"

"my dad. you never come without him. doesn't it get old? being his... sidekick or something?"

he lets out a quiet breath. almost a laugh. tight and amused. "he's my best friend."

"i know. but still. it's like he can't go anywhere without you. i invite him for dinner and boom—there's bucky. i call him for help, there's bucky. i move out, and who's lifting my couch? bucky."

this time, he pauses. looks up. his blue eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. his expression is unreadable, but something in it makes your breath catch.

"you mad about that?" he asks quietly.

you blink, suddenly unsure. "no. i just... notice."

something shifts in the silence between you. he nods once, like he understands more than you're saying, and goes back to work. his movements seem different now—more deliberate, careful, like he's thinking about something else entirely.

it's 2:07 am when the bedframe finally stands tall and smug in the middle of your room, a testament to his skill and your failure.

"built like a tank," bucky says, brushing his hands together, metal glinting under your cheap overhead light. "you'll sleep like a queen."

you give it a test push. it doesn't creak. not even a wobble. of course it doesn't.

he's walking toward the door, toolbox in hand, when you stop him.

"wait."

he turns, one eyebrow raised in question.

you try not to look too hopeful, too eager. "i baked cookies earlier. i was gonna give them to dad but... you want some? as a thank you."

his brow rises higher, and there's the faintest twitch of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "you baked?"

"yes, barnes, i can bake," you snap, defensive. "i'm not completely useless."

"never said you were."

he accepts one like it's an offering from another realm, bites into it cautiously as if expecting it to bite back. chews. Nods.

"these are actually good," he says, genuine surprise in his voice.

you cross your arms, trying to look offended but secretly pleased. "wow. you sound shocked."

he licks a crumb from his thumb, throws you a look over his shoulder that makes your stomach do something complicated. "you finally did something on your own. i'm proud."

you hurl a pillow at him. he catches it midair with his metal hand, reflexes sharp as ever.

smirking. always smirking. like he knows something you don't.

"thanks," you say, softer this time. "for coming over. at midnight. you didn't have to."

he studies you for a moment. "yeah, i did."

something in his tone makes you look up, really look at him. for a second, you think you see something in his eyes— beyond the teasing, it was warm and genuine and it makes your heart skip.

but then he's moving toward the door again, and the moment evaporates like it was never there.

"next time," he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, "just call me first. not after you've demolished half the furniture."

"there won't be a next time," you lie, and both of you know it.

he just shakes his head, that infuriating half-smile back in place. "night, brat."

you watch him leave, metal arm glinting under the kitchen light, and wonder if he knows he's the one thing you wouldn't mind your dad bringing around all the time.

maybe someday you'll tell him.

but not tonight.

tonight, you sleep on a perfectly built bed, stomach full of cookies, and the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air.

you're independent. kind of. but you're not stupid.

you know who you'll call next time, too.

[rulerofstars]

autumn whispers

oneshot: in the space between being a public hero and a private man, between the chaos of saving the world and the peace of your shared sanctuary, lies the most profound truth—that even after facing the darkness of the void, bucky barnes still finds his way home to you.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, fluff... more fluff. thunderbolts. bucky barnes. 1.9k words.

The warm studio lights beamed down on the polished hardwood floor of the talk show set. Outside, autumn leaves danced in the crisp October air, but inside, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the audience quieted down. A montage of explosive battle footage played on the large screen behind the host's desk: scenes of the Thunderbolts fighting side by side against the latest world-ending threat.

"And we're back with our very special guest tonight," the host, Marissa, announced with practiced enthusiasm as the camera panned to her and her guest. "The man who went from war hero, to villain, to hero again, to congressman, and now back to saving the world—Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!"

The audience erupted into applause as the camera focused on Bucky. You couldn't help but lean closer to your television screen, heart fluttering despite yourself. There he was, Bucky Barnes, looking almost unfairly handsome in a navy blue button-down that brought out the steel blue of his eyes. His brown hair, now grown out to just below his chin, was tucked behind his ears with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.

He smiled politely, the expression warm but reserved in that way only Bucky could manage. The past decade had smoothed some of the harder edges from his face, but the slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was in the spotlight, remained.

"Thank you for having me, Marissa," he replied, his voice carrying that gentle gravel that always sent shivers down your spine.

"So, Congressman Barnes, or should I call you Sergeant Barnes again?" Marissa asked with a flirtatious edge to her voice, leaning slightly toward him.

"James is fine," he answered with a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"James," she echoed, clearly delighted. "After three years representing New York's 14th district in Congress, many were surprised when you answered the call to rejoin the Avengers for this latest crisis. Tell us about that decision."

Bucky shifted in his seat, his vibranium hand, now sleekly designed with Wakandan tech that allowed it to appear almost indistinguishable from his right except for a subtle metallic sheen, rested comfortably on his knee.

"Well, when you've been fighting as long as I have, you learn that duty comes in many forms," he started, his voice thoughtful. "For the past few years, I thought my duty was best served in Congress, fighting for veterans' rights and rehabilitation programs for enhanced individuals. But when the call came that the Thunderbolts needed backup..." He paused, a shadow of something deeper crossing his features. "Some battles need to be fought on different fronts."

You smiled at the television, remembering the late-night conversations that had preceded his decision. The worry in his eyes, the way he'd held you close as if trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms before leaving.

"And what a battle it was!" Marissa exclaimed. "The footage we've seen is just incredible. Working alongside the Thunderbolts again after your own time on the team—how did that feel?"

Bucky's expression softened slightly. "Like coming home, in some ways. That team—we've been through a lot together. There's a trust that develops when you've fought side by side with people who've also known what it's like to seek redemption."

"Speaking of coming home," Marissa segued smoothly, her tone shifting to something more personal as she leaned even closer, "one thing our viewers are dying to know, is there someone special waiting for you when you return from saving the world? The Internet has been abuzz with speculation about Congressman Barnes' love life."

The camera zoomed in slightly on Bucky's face, catching the nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes. You held your breath, knowing what was coming.

"No comment on that front," he replied diplomatically. "I prefer to keep my personal life private."

Marissa wasn't deterred. "So you're saying you're single and available?" she pressed, her smile widening.

A flash of amusement crossed Bucky's face, there and gone in an instant that most viewers would miss. But you knew that look, he was thinking of you.

"I'm saying that some parts of life are sacred enough to keep away from the spotlight," he countered gently but firmly. "I learned that lesson the hard way over many decades."

"Fair enough," Marissa conceded, though she looked slightly disappointed. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of viewers who'll be happy to hear there might still be a chance with the heroic congressman."

Bucky gave a noncommittal smile as the conversation shifted to policies he had championed in Congress and how his perspective as both a veteran and an enhanced individual had shaped his legislative priorities.

You switched off the television with a fond shake of your head. He'd handled that perfectly, as always. The agreement you'd both come to early in your relationship, to keep your love life completely separate from his public persona had served you well. No reporters camped outside your door, no intrusive questions about your past, no scrutiny of every aspect of your relationship.

Just the two of you, living your quiet life together between his more public responsibilities.

You glanced at the clock, he'd be home soon. The interview had been pre-recorded three days ago, before he'd returned from Washington. With a smile, you headed to the kitchen to finish preparing his favorite autumn meal.

The door clicked open quietly just as you were pulling the apple cider from the stove. The familiar sound of Bucky's footsteps—always lighter than you'd expect from a man his size—made your heart leap.

"Something smells amazing," his voice called from the entryway.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway of your small but cozy kitchen, jacket already hung by the door, boots removed. His hair was slightly tousled from the autumn wind, cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The sight of him, not Congressman Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, not even Avenger Bucky, but just your Bucky—made warmth spread through your chest.

"Welcome home," you said, setting down the pot and crossing the room to him. "Just in time. I saw your interview."

His arms encircled your waist as he pulled you against his chest, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply as if drawing strength from your scent. "Yeah? How'd I do?"

"Mmm, very diplomatic," you murmured as his lips found the sensitive spot below your ear. "Marissa was really trying her best, wasn't she?"

Bucky chuckled against your skin, the sound reverberating through you. "Didn't even notice," he mumbled. "Was too busy thinking about coming home to you."

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, reaching up to tuck a strand of that soft brown hair behind his ear. His eyes, those incredible blue-gray eyes that had seen nearly a century of history—looked at you with such tenderness it made your breath catch.

"Missed you," he whispered, his voice dropping to that intimate tone reserved only for you.

"It was only three days this time," you reminded him with a smile, though you'd felt every hour of his absence.

"Three days too many," he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Congress, Avengers, interviews... none of it compares to this. To you. To us."

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, still amazed after all this time that this man—this complicated, beautiful, heroic man—had chosen a quiet life with you when he could have had anything or anyone.

"I made something special for you," you said, gesturing toward the kitchen where delicious aromas wafted through the apartment.

His eyes lit up with simple pleasure. "You spoil me, doll."

"You deserve to be spoiled," you replied easily. "Now go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

He stole a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom, and you returned to the stove with a smile playing on your lips. The routine was familiar, comforting, a pocket of normalcy carved out of extraordinary circumstances.

The small dining table in your apartment was already set, candles waiting to be lit. Outside your window, the trees on your quiet Brooklyn street displayed their autumn finery, reds, golds, and oranges creating a fiery tapestry against the darkening evening sky. You'd chosen this apartment together three years ago, when Bucky had first run for Congress, close enough to his district office but far enough from the heart of the city to give you both room to breathe.

Bucky returned, changed into a soft henley and comfortable pants, his hair damp and combed back from his face. The scent of his cologne, subtle notes of cedar and bergamot—filled your senses as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, helping you bring the food to the table, lighting the candles, pouring the cider into the ceramic mugs you'd bought together at a craft fair last autumn. As he passed behind you, his hand brushed against the small of your back, a gentle touch that sent pleasant shivers up your spine.

"So," you began as you settled into your seats, Bucky choosing to sit close beside you rather than across the table. He casually rested his hand on your thigh, thumb making small, gentle circles against the fabric of your pants. The warmth of his touch radiated through you as you leaned slightly into him. "How did the debriefing go? The real one, not the TV-friendly version."

Bucky took a bite of the food, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation before answering. His face was so close to yours that you could feel the gentle warmth of his breath, inhale the intoxicating blend of his natural musk and subtle cologne. "Better than expected. Bob says hi, by the way. Wants to know when we're coming over for dinner."

"Tell him anytime he's willing to cook," you teased.

Bucky smiled, a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Will do." He took another bite, then added more softly, "It felt good, being back in the field. Different than Congress. More immediate. In Congress, you fight for change that might take years to see. Out there, you know right away if you've made a difference."

You nodded, understanding the complex relationship he had with his dual roles. "You make a difference either way, Buck. Different battles, like you said in the interview."

"Speaking of the interview," he said, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, "sorry about the 'single' implication. You know how it goes."

You waved a dismissive hand. "Please. I knew what I was signing up for." You took a sip of cider, the warm spices dancing on your tongue. "Besides, I kind of enjoy being your best-kept secret, Congressman Barnes."

His expression softened as he turned to face you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to cup your cheek. The candlelight caught the subtle gleam of his vibranium fingers against your skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted of cider and something uniquely him, a taste that never failed to make your heart race. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Not a secret," he corrected gently. "Just private. There's a difference."

"I know," you assured him. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

The decision to keep your relationship out of the public eye had been mutual from the beginning. After everything Bucky had been through, decades of having his choices taken away, years of fighting to reclaim his identity—privacy had become sacred to him. And you, having seen the media circus that surrounded other Avengers' relationships, had readily agreed.

It wasn't hiding; it was preserving something precious.

After dinner, you moved to the small living room, settling onto the worn but comfortable couch that faced the electric fireplace. Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering gently against the windows. Bucky pulled the handmade quilt, a gift from Wanda, over both of you as you curled against his side.

"Want to watch something?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Bucky shook his head, his arm tightening around you. "Just want to be here. With you. No screens, no cameras, no reporters. Just us."

You nestled closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. His vibranium arm, always slightly cooler than his flesh one, curved protectively around your waist.

"Tell me something good that happened while I was gone," he murmured into your hair.

This was another ritual, finding moments of simple joy to share with each other, a practice that had helped Bucky learn to recognize the good in his life after decades of darkness.

"Mrs. Kapoor from downstairs brought up some homemade samosas yesterday," you told him. "Said they were a thank you for helping her grandson with his history project. I saved you some—they're in the fridge."

"She makes the best samosas in Brooklyn," Bucky said appreciatively. "What else?"

"The maple tree in the park has turned completely red now. It happened almost overnight. And I finished that book you recommended, the one about the lighthouse keeper. You were right, the ending was worth the slow middle."

He smiled against your temple. "I've been reading books long enough to know a good payoff when I see one coming."

"Your turn," you prompted, looking up at him. "Something good from your trip."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. "There was this kid at the hospital we visited after the battle. Couldn't have been more than eight. Lost his arm in an accident last year." His voice softened. "He showed me his prosthetic—nothing fancy, but he'd decorated it with Avengers stickers. Had Steve's Captain America mask right at the top."

Your heart squeezed. "Bucky..."

"I showed him some of the basic maintenance I do on mine," he continued. "Simple stuff, things his parents could help with. But the way he looked at me, doll..." Bucky shook his head slightly. "Like having one arm didn't make him less. Like it made him special. Connected to something bigger."

You reached for his metal hand, bringing it to your lips and kissing the palm gently. "You changed how he sees himself."

"Maybe," Bucky acknowledged. "That's worth all the congressional hearings and PR interviews combined."

The rain grew heavier outside, drumming a soothing rhythm on the roof. The warm glow from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across Bucky's face, highlighting the contours you'd memorized with your fingertips on countless nights like this one.

"You know," you said thoughtfully, "if Marissa knew what she was missing: quiet nights, pot roast, and rainstorms—she might have tried even harder to get that dating confirmation."

Bucky laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not a chance. This isn't for sharing." His expression grew more serious as he gazed down at you. "Sometimes I think about how different my life could have been. All those years as the Winter Soldier, then the fighting, the pardons, the political career... None of it prepared me for this."

"For what?" you asked softly.

"For how it would feel to come home to someone who knows all of me—every part, every history, every name I've ever had—and loves me anyway." His voice dropped to a whisper. "For how simple and yet impossible it seemed that I could have this kind of peace."

You shifted to face him fully, cupping his face between your hands. "James Buchanan Barnes, are you getting sentimental on me?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Might be. Happens every autumn. Something about the changing leaves makes a century-old man reflective."

"Well, this century-old man better save some of that reflection for tomorrow," you teased. "We promised to help Yori rake his yard, remember?"

Bucky groaned dramatically. "Why did I agree to that? I was just in a battle to save the world."

"Because he promised to make us sushi afterward," you reminded him. "And because you're a good friend, even when you pretend to be grumpy about it."

He sighed in mock resignation, then suddenly moved, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion that reminded you of the superhuman strength he usually kept carefully controlled. "Fine. But that means we should make the most of tonight."

Your breath caught as his hands settled on your waist, warm and secure. "Any specific ideas, Congressman?"

His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned closer. "Several. None of which I'll be sharing on national television."

As his lips found yours, gentle at first and then with growing intensity, you smiled against his mouth. Outside, the autumn storm continued, leaves swirling in the wind, the world rushing by with all its complexities and dangers. It was an ordinary moment. And yet, as you padded across the room to join him underneath the sheets, accepting every kiss, every touch, every bit of his being— you knew this was everything neither of you had dared to dream possible.

Congressman, Avenger, Thunderbolt, Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, the world knew him by many names. But in the gentle warmth of a Brooklyn sunset, he was simply yours, and you were his, and that was the greatest truth of all.

[rulerofstars]

haunted

teaser: bucky barnes is a broken weapon with too much blood on his hands and silence in his eyes. iris thorne isn’t here to fix him—she’s fury’s best medic and tech expert, sharp-tongued and colder than her scalpels. she doesn’t do attachments, especially not with the haunted assassin she’s forced to patch up after every mission. but the air shifts when they’re alone. every brush of skin feels like something dangerous waking up. he’s the last man she wants. she’s the last woman he deserves. but some ghosts don’t haunt you—some want you. and bucky barnes? he’s not done fighting.

pairing: bucky barnes x oc

tags: enemies to lovers

The air is thick with dust and static, the kind that clings to your lungs and tastes like war.

I duck behind crumbling concrete, heart thudding hard enough to echo in my ears. My comm’s been fried for five minutes. My pulse is the only thing I can hear.

“Really picking great vacation spots lately, Barnes,” I mutter to no one.

Then I hear it—a thud. Footsteps behind me. Close. Steady. No urgency, just that infuriating calm that could only belong to one person.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky’s voice cuts through the quiet, smug and low like a shot of whiskey. “I just saved your ass.”

I don’t look up. “I had it handled.”

“You were two seconds away from getting a knife in your spine.”

“I counted three,” I snap, standing up and brushing the dirt off my thigh. “Besides, if I died, you'd miss me."

He snorts. “I’d miss the whining.”

I turn, and there he is—smudged in soot and blood, hair damp with sweat, eyes sharp as glass. He’s bleeding from his temple, but of course, that doesn’t seem to bother him. Nothing ever does.

But I notice.

I always notice.

The way the cut curves along the side of his face like a story waiting to be told. The way his chest rises, calm and steady, while my own breathing is still catching up. There’s a splatter of someone else’s blood dried on the collar of his suit. His mouth is slightly parted. He doesn’t look like someone who just took down five armed men. He looks bored.

I can feel it—low in my gut—that slow, crawling irritation that comes with him. With us. And underneath that, something worse. Something heavier. He always brings it out of me. That friction. That heat.

“I can stitch that cut for you,” I offer, tone dry. “Or you can bleed out. I’m flexible.”

He smirks. “You offering to patch me up now, Thorne? Didn't think you cared.”

“I don’t,” I say, stepping past him toward the next hallway. “But Fury would be annoyed if I let you die.”

His metal hand catches my arm—not roughly, just enough to make me stop. “You sure about that?”

My body reacts before my brain does.

Heartbeats pick up. Muscles coil tight. His touch is cool, but it spreads fire under my skin like a curse I can’t shake. I hate that he gets to me. Hate that I know the exact weight of his hand, how his grip always feels like a dare. Hate that I still remember the first time he nearly crushed my throat and the terrifying part wasn’t how strong he was—it was how fast I forgave him.

“You’re wasting time,” I say, not quite pulling away.

“Maybe.” His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then snap back to mine. “Maybe I like watching you squirm.”

There’s no space left between us now.

My back is to the wall, his body a shadow barely a breath away. I can smell him—sweat and gunpowder and whatever soap he uses that somehow still lingers even after a firefight. His eyes flicker, not just cold but alive. He looks at me like he’s memorizing every flaw and file-saving it for later.

“You talk a lot for someone who can’t look at me without blushing,” he adds.

God, I hate him.

And I hate that he might be right.

My jaw tightens as I shove him back—not hard, but enough to break whatever spell that was. “Don’t flatter yourself, Soldier.”

He lets go. Finally. But that smug expression stays glued to his face.

He enjoys this. The push and pull. The heat of almost. He knows I won’t admit what’s already obvious: that something inside me shifts every time he walks into a room. Not something soft. Something disruptive. Something dangerous.

We both know how this works. The mission continues. The fight resumes. We go back to pretending this thing between us doesn’t exist.

But as I turn and head down the corridor, I feel his eyes on me.

Watching. Waiting. Haunted.

Just like me.

read more here

[rulerofstars]

the unlikely schemer

oneshot: after breaking up with kuroo, you and your cat, kevin, are stuck in an awkward co-parenting arrangement. but with kevin’s matchmaking skills and some help from friends, old feelings start to resurface. will your tangled past and kevin’s scheming bring you back together, or is it too late for second chances?

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x reader

tags: fluff, exes-to-lovers, co-parenting

i. the cat custody misunderstanding

You’re just tying your shoes, running late as usual, when your phone pings. The text is short, so typical Tetsu.

“Is Kevin with you?”

It takes a minute to sink in. You’d just assumed Kevin was at Kuroo’s place today—it was his turn, after all. You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen as if you’re about to reply, then think better of it. You know exactly where this is going, so you text Kenma instead. He’s usually somewhere between Kuroo and sanity in situations like this.

“Hey, tell Kuroo to check his laundry basket. Kevin always curls up there.”

Minutes later, Kuroo sends a photo of an empty laundry basket with a sarcastic caption: “Look at this. So Kevin. Very here.”

So, it’s going to be one of those days.

By the time you reach Kenma’s apartment, you’re not surprised to find him gaming quietly in the living room, headphones half-off and tapping away at a console, with Kuroo leaning against the counter, arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow at you, which you promptly ignore, focusing on Kenma, who’s practically part of your support network at this point.

“Kuroo lost Kevin. Apparently, he’s ‘everywhere but nowhere,’” you explain with a mock eyeroll, making quotation marks in the air.

Kenma barely looks up from his game. “Pretty sure I saw Kevin’s cat carrier in your car last time we hung out.”

You freeze, suddenly remembering. In a rush to get back to work yesterday, you’d left the carrier in your back seat. Kuroo notices the realization flicker across your face and lets out a sigh, shaking his head in that trademark half-exasperated, half-amused way that used to drive you crazy.

“So,” he says, voice low and full of dry amusement, “you’re the one texting me about losing the cat when you had him all along?”

You cross your arms defensively. “In my defense, I assumed he was curled up in some basket in your laundry room. It’s his thing, you know?”

Kenma finally looks up, glancing from you to Kuroo. “Maybe you guys should put a tracker on him.”

“Right? It would save us a lot of hassle,” you say with a chuckle, nudging Kuroo’s shoulder. “Or, we could always get two cats. Double the trouble, double the mess for both of us.”

Kuroo smirks, and his gaze lingers a little too long on you before he finally looks away, back to the counter. “Yeah, we’re barely managing one cat. Two? I think I’d lose my mind.” He pauses, then adds with a slight edge to his tone, “Though, at least if I lost him, I’d know it.”

The silence hangs a little too long. You know that Kuroo hasn’t really moved past how things ended between you both, and neither have you. But here’s Kenma, already back on his console, looking pointedly unaffected by the tension in the room, which, of course, is his way of telling you two to work things out—without actually saying it.

“Well,” you sigh, determined to keep things light, “guess it’s settled. I’ll take Kevin today, and you can have him next week. Just—keep him out of your laundry basket.”

Kuroo’s lips twitch, caught between a grin and a frown. “Yeah, maybe you should check your car twice next time.”

A few days after the “Kevin custody confusion,” you find yourself at a small gathering hosted by the Karasuno volleyball team—Hinata’s idea of a “relaxing team bonding” that somehow ended up including you, Kenma, and, inevitably, Kuroo.

The evening is full of the usual chaos. Tanaka and Nishinoya are arguing over whose spike hit harder in the last practice, Yamaguchi’s laughing, and Tsukishima’s making sarcastic quips from the corner, clearly trying (and failing) to look uninterested. Amid the friendly noise, you notice Kuroo leaning against the kitchen counter, idly stirring a drink, his gaze following the playful banter with a faint smile.

You try to ignore the little jolt that hits you. It’s unfair, really, how seeing him in a setting like this—a few stray hairs falling out of place, that casual but slightly competitive air—still makes your heart stutter.

Kuroo catches your eye and smirks, jerking his head toward Hinata and the others. “They’re treating this like the Olympics, you know.”

You roll your eyes, feigning indifference. “Some people just have team spirit, Kuroo. Not everyone’s as calm and broody as you.”

Before he can reply, Hinata bounds over, practically glowing with excitement. “Hey, you two should join our game! It’s totally volleyball-related—sort of. It’s, uh…a spike accuracy contest, but with plastic cups!” He gestures to a pyramid of plastic cups stacked against one wall, courtesy of Nishinoya and his “training ideas.”

Kuroo raises a brow, glancing at you with a teasing glint. “I don’t know, do you think you can handle it?”

“Please. I was beating you in these games back in high school,” you scoff, hoping the heat creeping into your cheeks isn’t obvious. This was supposed to be fun, a way to forget for a few hours. But here you are, trading familiar jabs with Kuroo, half-suspecting he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“Alright then,” he grins, a competitive spark lighting up in his eyes. “Loser buys the winner’s next cat food haul?”

You can’t help but laugh, rolling your eyes as you square off. “Deal.”

You’re both lining up for a turn when Kenma appears at your side, his voice a low murmur. “You know, you could just talk to each other. Without the middle school competition part.”

You shoot him a playful glare. “Don’t act like you’re not rooting for me.”

He shrugs. “Just saying. Even Kevin’s tired of the back-and-forth.”

Before you can respond, Kuroo lands his “spike,” sending cups tumbling dramatically across the floor. He raises his hands in triumph, throwing you a smug glance. It takes all your self-control not to stick your tongue out.

“Guess that means you owe me,” he says, voice low, as the noise of everyone laughing and cheering fades into the background.

You take your turn, successfully knocking over even more cups, and smirk right back. “Guess again. Your treat.”

The words are casual, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers, something questioning and almost vulnerable. For a brief second, it’s like you’re back in high school, sharing inside jokes and trading glances that say so much without saying a word. And just as quickly as the moment comes, it’s gone, replaced by the clamor of the team celebrating your win.

Kuroo doesn’t push it; he just steps back, smile dimming a little but still there, an unspoken challenge lingering in his eyes.

ii. kevin’s plan

Kevin, it seemed, had developed a mischievous knack for engineering his own little reunions, and he was subtle, a master of feline subtlety. For starters, he had a way of "escaping" whenever he sensed you were home. One minute you'd find him snuggled up on the windowsill, eyes half-closed, as if he'd happily stay put for hours. But the instant he saw you putting down your bag, Kevin would dart to the door, yowling at the handle in a way that you knew meant, I'm not just done with Tetsuro today. And you knew—this was a game. Kevin wanted out, because that meant one thing: Tetsu needed to come pick him up.

"Hey, Kenma?" You called Kenma up one evening after a particularly trying cat-chase. You could practically hear the amusement through the phone as he listened to your woes.

"So he climbed into Tetsuro's basket…again?" Kenma's quiet laugh was the only real noise on his end, and even though he sympathized, he found the whole thing hilariously on-brand for Kevin. "Are you going to call him again, or…?"

You groaned, resting your head against the cool surface of the window as you watched Kevin curl up and blink at you innocently. "Apparently, I'm not the one with a choice."

Kenma’s voice softened. “Maybe it’s for the best, you know?”

“Kevin meddling is ‘for the best’?” You grumbled, throwing Kevin a look. "He's a cat, Kenma. I swear he’s got a playbook or something."

Kenma laughed, “Well, you could ask Kuroo to stay for dinner next time. He’d probably be less willing to ‘rescue’ Kevin if he got to see you in a normal setting for once.” There was a beat. “I just think he misses you. A lot, actually."

As you listened to him, you thought about what he’d said—about seeing Tetsuro in a setting that didn’t feel so strained or impersonal. You couldn’t deny it sounded…nice. There were moments when the banter softened, moments that reminded you of how easy everything had once felt. It was different now, of course, but maybe Kenma was right.

That weekend, you decided to take a chance.

Kevin, true to his antics, found his way into Tetsuro’s room yet again. But this time, when Tetsuro came over with the usual look of bemusement and mild exasperation, you were ready.

“Dinner’s on the stove if you want to stay," you said, sounding more casual than you felt. "It’d save Kevin from his…habit.”

For a moment, Tetsuro looked stunned, almost as if you’d suggested something outlandish. But then, a familiar, quiet smile broke across his face as he nodded, the unspoken warmth of old memories settling in between you. And for a while, it was like nothing had ever really changed at all.

As Tetsuro took off his jacket and washed his hands, you felt the unspoken tension hang thick in the air. He was careful not to look at you too closely, like he was afraid of pushing something fragile that he hadn’t quite realized he wanted to hold onto again. Kevin, meanwhile, weaved around your ankles, giving you what could only be described as a smug look before he trotted over to Tetsuro, meowing with an air of absolute satisfaction.

“So,” he started, voice light but a little uncertain as he settled at the table. “Kevin’s getting pretty good at this whole escape thing, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, gesturing toward the little troublemaker. “He’s like an escape artist at this point. Or…a schemer.”

Tetsuro smirked, glancing down at Kevin, who was rubbing his face against Tetsuro’s leg with an innocent expression. “He gets it from his favorite co-parent.”

“Oh, so it’s me now? Not you?” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you spooned some soup into his bowl. “You were the one who taught him to open doors, remember?”

“Hey, I taught him how to close them, too,” Tetsuro replied, trying not to laugh. “He just…ignores that part. Selective memory.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, he’s got selective memory alright. Probably picked that up from someone, too.”

Tetsuro’s smile faded a little, and for a second, he looked like he was about to say something serious. But then, with a rueful little shrug, he muttered, “Touché.” His gaze lingered on Kevin, who had now curled up comfortably in the spot right between the two of you, purring contentedly as if his mission had been a complete success.

For a few quiet minutes, you both ate, sharing the familiar silence that used to be filled with so much unsaid affection. Even now, there was something comforting about it, like the past was a blanket thrown over the room, warming you both without permission.

“So…have you thought any more about…?” He trailed off, his voice unexpectedly softer.

You didn’t need him to finish. You knew what he was getting at: the breakup. The distance. The plans you’d made separately that had edged each other out.

“I have,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “And…I think I’m realizing some of it didn’t have to go that way.” Your eyes met his, and for once, neither of you looked away. “I guess I just wanted to feel like I could do things on my own. And I thought…” You trailed off, taking a breath. “I thought you’d understand if I needed time, but maybe I didn’t need so much time away.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze shifting from you to the empty space between you, that chasm that had grown in the months apart. “I get it. I think we both felt like we had to prove something, but in doing that, we…kinda lost what we already had.”

The words hung there, and Kevin, in the timeless way of cats, chose that moment to yawn dramatically, pushing his face closer to yours with a nudge that felt suspiciously well-timed. You could feel the little nudge of his head against your knee, almost like he was trying to physically push the two of you closer together.

“He’s persistent,” Tetsuro murmured, amusement warming his voice. “Like he won’t stop until…well, he gets what he wants.”

You laughed, scratching Kevin behind the ears. “Sounds like a certain someone I know,” you replied, nudging Tetsuro’s foot under the table with your own.

The casual touch, the gentle press of your ankle against his, was so small yet felt monumental in that quiet moment. Neither of you pulled away, and for the first time in months, the space between you felt smaller.

“Maybe…” Tetsuro started, voice uncertain. He glanced at Kevin, who seemed completely at peace, oblivious to the storm of feelings he’d orchestrated. “Maybe we could…try again? Start with small things, I mean. Like, um—Kevin dates?”

A laugh bubbled out of you, unexpected and genuine. “Kevin dates? Seriously?”

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Hey, he’s a big fan of them, clearly. And we wouldn’t want to break his heart, right?”

You met his gaze, something familiar flickering in the warmth of his smile. It was the same look that had been there in high school when he’d confess he’d waited outside in the freezing cold just to walk you home. The same look that told you maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth holding onto.

“Alright,” you murmured, voice soft but firm. “Kevin dates it is.”

And as Kevin let out a satisfied little meow, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe he’d had the right idea all along.

Weeks had passed since that night in the kitchen, and things between you and Tetsuro had gradually shifted back into a comfortable rhythm, like slipping into an old pair of shoes. The cracks of time, once jagged and deep, had started to fill in with laughter, shared moments, and the kind of quiet affection that only came from familiarity.

Kevin, of course, continued to play the role of orchestrator, his paw prints everywhere—on the pillows, on the couch, and especially on the small, shared space between you and Tetsuro that no one could quite explain.

It was a Sunday afternoon when you found yourself at Tetsuro’s apartment, leaning against the couch, watching him and Kevin "interact" in the most absurd way possible. Kevin had somehow managed to get himself tangled in Tetsuro’s headphones, and the two of them were locked in a standoff: Kevin, half-playful and half-aggressive, tugging at the cords, and Tetsuro, trying his best to untangle the mess with the patience of a saint.

“I swear, this cat is too smart for his own good,” Tetsuro muttered, glancing up at you, clearly exasperated.

You chuckled, biting your lip to hold back a grin. “What did I tell you? He’s a schemer. You’re just his latest target.”

Tetsuro let out a breath of frustration, shaking his head as he finally freed the cat from the headphones. But Kevin only looked at him with that smug, knowing gaze that said, I’ve won.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Tetsuro grumbled, but there was no real bite to it. “I can’t believe I’m co-parenting with someone who has no shame.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Someone? Are you sure you’re not referring to yourself?”

He shot you a teasing look, but there was something different now—something more vulnerable behind the playful facade. “You know, I don’t mind this. The whole co-parenting thing. And I think…” His voice softened as he picked Kevin up gently, cradling the cat in his arms. “I think I like the idea of us being in each other’s lives again. Even if it’s just for Kevin’s sake.”

A silence settled between you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy, the kind of quiet that came from knowing each other for far longer than you’d care to admit. You sat down beside him, your fingers brushing against his lightly, just enough to feel the spark. Kevin, now settled in his lap, gave a low, contented purr.

“Well,” you started, voice gentle, “Kevin’s a pretty great reason to keep showing up. I guess we’ll just have to stick together for him. And, you know… maybe for us, too.”

Tetsuro met your gaze, his dark eyes warm. He didn’t say anything right away, but the look he gave you was enough. It was full of understanding, of patience—of someone who had learned the value of quiet moments and the unspoken things that meant more than grand gestures.

Kevin, once again, seemed to know just when to intervene, hopping from Tetsuro’s lap and nudging his way toward you, as if to say, This is how it’s supposed to be. You couldn’t help but smile as you reached out to scratch behind his ears, and Tetsuro, catching the moment, did the same.

In that little, seemingly insignificant moment—Kevin purring contentedly between the two of you—you realized the truth of it: Maybe we didn’t need grand gestures to fix what was broken. Maybe, we just needed to be here.

And as Tetsuro leaned back, letting the warmth of the afternoon sun spill through the windows, you felt the smallest but most important shift—the promise that, this time, you wouldn’t have to let go. Not again.

Maybe it was always meant to be this way—small moments, messy, imperfect, but full of love all the same. And maybe, just maybe, Kevin was the real genius for knowing it all along.

[rulerofstars]

a new year thing

oneshot: this new year’s eve, with no big plans and plenty of quiet moments, something shifts between you and chase. the playful banter gives way to a growing tension, and as midnight approaches, so does the realization that things between you might be changing.

pairing: robert chase x reader

tags: roommates to lovers, slight slowburn, fluff, holiday romance

based on this prompt by @novelbear (tysm i luv ur prompts so much) <3

It was New Year’s Eve, but neither of you had any extravagant plans. After the whirlwind of work in the hospital, you and Chase had barely noticed the date. No party, no fancy countdown, just the two of you—roommates who’d become more like something undefined, and you both were too tired to figure it out.

Instead of celebrating, you ended up on the couch, binge-watching some ridiculous show while your laundry was still piled up on the floor. The air was quiet, interrupted only by the occasional chirp of the smoke alarm that had been mocking you for days now.

You stared at the thing and groaned. “Man, I should probably change the batteries in that smoke alarm. It’s been chirping all week.”

Chase, stretched out lazily beside you, raised an eyebrow, not moving from his comfortable position. “Want me to do it? You can’t reach that thing, you know.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Excuse me? I’m perfectly capable of reaching it—on a good day, maybe with a chair.”

“Right. And then you’ll fall and break your neck,” he said, smirking as he sat up, brushing his hair back. “Come on, just let me do it.”

You sighed and handed him the batteries. “Fine, since you’re so desperate to be the hero.”

Chase chuckled and stood, dragging the step stool from the corner. He climbed up and easily reached the smoke alarm, his hands skillfully replacing the batteries. He looked down at you, that smirk still plastered on his face. “See? Easy.”

You crossed your arms, shaking your head. “You just like showing off because you’re taller.”

“Not my fault you’re vertically challenged,” he shot back with a grin as he jumped down from the stool, landing lightly on his feet.

“Sure, rub it in,” you muttered, but your lips twitched into a smile. “So, what now, hero? Want a reward?”

He flopped back down on the couch beside you, making the cushions bounce. “Maybe stop hogging the couch?”

You bumped your knee against his, shifting a little to give him space. “I wasn’t hogging anything.”

He gave you a playful nudge in return, and the two of you fell into comfortable silence, the TV filling the room with background noise as the clock ticked closer to midnight.

“Happy New Year, by the way,” Chase said softly, breaking the quiet.

You glanced at the clock—it was two minutes to midnight. “Happy New Year.”

It was a simple exchange, no fanfare, no fireworks, just the soft hum of the TV and the warmth of Chase beside you. The way you were sitting, your shoulders were pressed together, your knees bumping occasionally. The quiet felt different, heavier with the weight of something unspoken between you two.

Midnight arrived, and outside, you could hear fireworks exploding in the distance. But inside your little apartment, it was calm. Chase reached over, casually resting his arm on the back of the couch behind you. You felt the shift in the air, like something was about to happen but neither of you was quite ready to acknowledge it.

You broke the silence with a sudden, almost impulsive question. “Should we kiss?”

Chase’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide, the question catching him off guard. “What?”

“What?” you echoed, immediately regretting your boldness. “I mean, it’s New Year’s and… isn’t that a thing people do?”

He blinked, his mouth twitching into a small smile, but his eyes remained serious for a beat longer. “Only if they want to.”

A warm flush crept up your neck. You hadn’t thought this far ahead—what had you been expecting? Before you could come up with something coherent, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours softly. His touch was gentle, like he was asking for permission.

“Well, do you?” His voice was lower now, a little more serious.

You opened your mouth to answer, but then you saw it—that vulnerability behind his teasing smile. The way he looked at you wasn’t casual, it wasn’t something you could laugh off. You swallowed hard and nodded, the air between you thickening with unspoken feelings.

Chase didn’t hesitate after that. His hand cupped your jaw softly, and he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss wasn’t hurried or awkward—it was slow, like both of you had been waiting for this moment far longer than either was willing to admit. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the way he breathed against you, steady and grounding.

When he pulled away, there was no rush to speak. You both sat there for a moment, eyes locked, the gravity of what had just happened hanging between you. The TV droned on in the background, but neither of you noticed it.

“I didn’t know you felt…” you trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Yeah, well,” Chase rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar playfulness creeping back into his voice, though his eyes remained serious. “Guess it took New Year’s for me to stop being an idiot.”

The days following your accidental confession were filled with strange, unspoken moments. There were times when Chase would brush past you in the kitchen, his fingers lingering on your arm a little longer than necessary. You’d catch his eye during breakfast, and he’d give you that knowing smirk, like he was waiting for you to say something.

One evening, a few days after New Year’s, you walked into your room to find a bouquet of flowers sitting on your desk. A little card was tucked into the stems, and the handwriting was unmistakably Chase’s.

“Did you get me flowers?” you asked, holding them up as you walked into the living room where he was lounging on the couch.

Chase glanced at the flowers and then back at the TV, nonchalant. “They were for decoration.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In my room?”

He shrugged, refusing to meet your gaze. “Thought it could use a bit of color.”

“Right,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. You set the flowers back in your room, your heart doing that weird, fluttery thing it had been doing ever since New Year’s.

The shift between you and Chase wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and subtle, like two puzzle pieces finally snapping into place after spending too long figuring out where they belonged. You spent more time together, lingering in each other’s spaces, exchanging glances that carried more meaning than words.

One night, after a long shift at the hospital, you came home to find Chase trying to change the batteries in the smoke alarm again. The step stool wobbled slightly under him, and you stifled a laugh, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorway.

“You’re gonna fall,” you called out.

Chase turned, glancing down at you. “What, you don’t trust me to handle this?”

You let out a loud laugh, and you saw how his expression softened even more, as if knowing that you generally find him funny cures something in him.

“Get down, then,” he said, stepping off the stool with a grin. “I’ll let you try.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing him out of the way. “You’re hopeless.”

As you climbed up, Chase stayed close, his hands resting on your hips as if ready to catch you if you lost your balance. You could feel his breath on your neck as you fumbled with the smoke alarm, and despite your best efforts, the moment felt heavier than it should’ve.

“You’re not even doing anything,” you muttered.

“Just enjoying the view,” he teased, squeezing your hip playfully.

“God, you’re impossible,” you grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in your voice. You liked it—this new, easy intimacy between you.

---

The clock struck midnight again, marking a few weeks since that first kiss on New Year’s Eve. This time, there was no hesitation. You and Chase had settled into this new chapter, one filled with teasing, casual moments, and the quiet understanding that, somewhere along the way, your friendship had shifted into something deeper.

As you sat together on the couch, his hand resting lazily on your thigh, you couldn’t help but smile. “So, we gonna kiss again at midnight, or is that only a New Year’s thing?”

Chase looked at you, his green eyes twinkling with amusement. “Nah, I think we can make it an everyday thing.”

And just like that, he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours, the moment feeling just as new and exciting as the first time.

[rulerofstars]

red lights & revelations

oneshot: in a dimly lit club, you find yourself drawn to the enigmatic bad boy, getou suguru. as the night unfolds, a spark ignites between you two, leading to unexpected intimacy and a thrilling connection neither of you saw coming.

pairing: suguru getou x reader

tags: suggestive themes, college! fraternity! suguru getou

The city thrummed with energy as you stepped into the club, the air thick with bass and the faint scent of smoke. Your friends had insisted on a night out, a break from the relentless grind of assignments and studying. You were the studious type, always buried in books, but tonight, you found yourself swept up in the excitement of flashing lights and laughter.

In the dimly lit corner, you spotted him—Getou Suguru. He sat casually on a bar stool, a cigarette resting between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the air. He was everything you weren’t: the quintessential bad boy. His tattoos peeked out from under his sleeves, each one telling a story you could only guess at, and the way he carried himself exuded confidence. The flickering red lights illuminated his sharp features, accentuating the air of mystery that surrounded him.

You knew about him from whispers and glances shared between friends. The stories of his reckless nights and the way he danced through life without a care for the rules. It was hard to reconcile the image of the reckless bad boy with the academically gifted engineering major who somehow managed to maintain stellar grades despite his reputation.

But as you stood there, your heart raced for an entirely different reason. It wasn’t just his reputation; it was the way he looked at you sometimes—those deep, dark eyes that held secrets, as if he could see right through you. You’d catch him watching you during classes, a playful smirk dancing on his lips whenever your eyes met. It felt thrilling and terrifying. . . all at once.

“Come on, let’s dance!” Haibara nudged you, pulling you from your thoughts. You followed, albeit reluctantly, into the pulsating mass of bodies swaying to the beat. It was overwhelming, and for a moment, you felt out of place, but the music wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

Minutes later, you felt a presence behind you. You turned, and there he was—Suguru, leaning casually against the wall, cigarette in hand. He flashed you a grin that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Thought I’d find you here,” he said, his voice smooth like the smoke curling from his lips.

“Just trying to enjoy a night out,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. Inside, your heart was racing, and your cheeks felt warm.

“Yeah? You look like you’re having fun.” His gaze lingered on you, making your breath hitch.

As he leaned in closer, you couldn’t help but notice how good he looked with his hair tied up in a messy man bun, a few rebellious strands falling loose around his forehead. The contrast of the sleekness of his tattoos against his slightly tousled hair added to his allure, giving him an effortlessly cool vibe that made your heart race. It framed his face perfectly, accentuating his sharp jawline and the intensity in his eyes. You had always found that look incredibly attractive, and in that moment, it felt like he was a mix of danger and charm, embodying everything that both thrilled and terrified you.

You bit your lip, feeling shy under his intense stare. “I’m not really a club person,” you admitted. “I prefer quieter places—like the library.”

He chuckled, and it was a sound that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “Well, we can’t all be boring.” He stepped closer, the scent of cigarettes and something musky enveloping you. “But maybe I can change that.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet cautious. “And how would you do that?”

“By showing you a good time,” he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come on. Just one dance.”

Before you could protest, he took your hand, leading you away from the crowd and onto the dance floor. The music enveloped you both, the bass reverberating through your body. He moved with an ease that made your heart race, his body close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

As you swayed together, you felt the world around you fade. The chaos of the club fell away, leaving just the two of you in your own bubble. His hands found their way to your waist, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending electric jolts of sensation coursing through you. The intimacy of the moment made your heart flutter, and you could hardly breathe.

“See? Not so boring, right?” he teased, his lips close to your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You swallowed hard, fighting against the growing urge to lean into him, to close the distance that felt both thrilling and terrifying. “I guess not,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the song changed to something slower, Suguru pulled you closer, his breath warm against your neck. “You’re different from what I expected,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “You’re not like the others.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Smart, grounded. You don’t seem to get caught up in all the bullshit,” he replied, his tone serious for a moment. “I like that.”

The sincerity in his voice made you ache. You had always been drawn to him, the way he lived life on the edge, yet here he was, recognizing something deeper in you. “I don’t know if I’m as interesting as you think,” you said softly.

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, pulling you even closer. “Trust me, you are,” he said, his gaze intense. “And I want to know more about you.”

The intensity of the moment washed over you, a wave of emotions swirling inside. You felt drawn to him in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying, the kind of connection that was hard to ignore. But you were still that shy, demure girl, hesitant to take the leap into the unknown.

Suguru leaned down, his lips almost brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

Your heart raced at his suggestion, a mix of excitement and fear flooding through you. You hesitated, glancing back at your friends, but when you turned back to him, the look in his eyes made your decision for you. “Okay,” you said, barely able to contain the thrill of anticipation.

He led you outside, the cool night air hitting you like a refreshing splash of water. The streetlights cast a soft glow, illuminating the way as you walked side by side. You could feel the electric tension between you, the way his presence pulled you in like gravity.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice slightly breathless.

“Somewhere more private,” he replied with a grin, his confidence infectious. “Trust me.”

You nodded, heart racing as you followed him. He led you to a nearby park, the sounds of the club fading behind you. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery light over everything. Suguru stopped near a bench, turning to face you.

He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long drag. You watched as the smoke curled around him, his expression contemplative. There was something intimate about this moment, the way the world felt distant and small, leaving just the two of you.

“Do you always smoke?” you asked, trying to break the silence.

He chuckled softly. “Only when I want to think,” he admitted. “Helps clear my head.”

You took a step closer, emboldened by the atmosphere. “What do you think about?”

“People,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “Like you.”

Your heart raced at his admission, a rush of warmth spreading through you. “Me? Why?”

“Because you’re an enigma,” he replied, taking another drag of his cigarette. “I see you in class, always so focused, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on behind those pretty eyes.”

Your cheeks flushed at his compliment, the way he looked at you making you feel exposed and yet cherished. “I’m just trying to get through college,” you said shyly, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

He stepped closer, the smoke lingering between you as he leaned in. “But you’re doing it in your own way. You don’t let anyone else’s expectations define you.”

His words struck a chord deep within you, and for a moment, you could only stare into his eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself, Suguru,” you replied, finding the courage to tease him back.

He laughed, a low rumble that sent warmth through you. “I’m a red flag, remember?”

“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I think you’re more than that.”

His gaze turned serious, the laughter fading as he stepped even closer, the space between you practically non-existent now. “And what if I said I wanted to know you more? Not just the studious girl, but the real you?”

Your breath caught in your throat as you processed his words. You could feel the chemistry between you crackling like electricity, the intimacy of the moment pulling you closer together. “What do you want to know?” you whispered, feeling daring.

“Everything,” he replied, his voice low and husky. “Your dreams, your fears, what makes you laugh. I want to know the girl behind the books.”

The weight of his gaze made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t experienced before. You found yourself leaning in, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. “I’m not sure I’m that interesting,” you murmured.

“You’d be surprised,” he said, closing the distance even further until his lips brushed against yours. The kiss was electric, a spark igniting as you melted against him. It felt like a dance of souls, a merging of two worlds that had always seemed so far apart.

When you pulled away, breathless and wide-eyed, you could see the challenge in his gaze. “Let’s not keep this a secret,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“You and me— we could be something.”

[rulerofstars]

they both (have feelings) reached for the gun

oneshot: chase has always known how to push your buttons back in med school, he loved to get under your skin. but now, working together at princeton-plainsboro, things got a bit. . . different. the rivalry cools, and something warmer takes its place. based on the song we both reached for the gun.

pairing: robert chase x reader

tags: slowburn, enemies to lovers trope, fluff (?)

You were used to coming out on top in med school. For as long as you could remember, your academic achievements defined you, and nobody threatened that more than Robert Chase. He was just as competitive, sharp, and ambitious—always one step ahead or right beside you, depending on the day. But unlike you, Chase seemed to coast on some innate charm, always managing to make his successes seem effortless.

It irritated you to no end.

“Another perfect score, huh?” Chase’s playful voice pulled you from your thoughts as he slid his exam sheet onto the desk next to yours. He flashed that casual, smug grin that you had come to know all too well.

You clenched your jaw. “Looks like it,” you said, glancing at his score. Of course, he had aced it too. “Though, I wouldn’t call it ‘perfect’ just yet.”

“You always have to find a flaw, don’t you?” Chase leaned back in his chair, his Australian accent making his words sound more laid-back than they deserved. “Not everything’s a competition.”

“Only with you,” you shot back before collecting your things and leaving the lecture hall.

You didn’t expect to see him again years later. After graduation, you went your separate ways, and frankly, you were glad to leave him in the past. But fate had other plans.

The first day at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was already nerve-wracking, and when you saw Robert Chase’s familiar figure walking down the hall, your stomach did a flip. He looked older, sharper even, with his blond hair slightly disheveled in a way that made him look more approachable, yet just as infuriating. His eyes landed on you, a flash of surprise crossing his face before it softened into something more unreadable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Chase said, stopping in front of you with a small smirk.

“I could say the same,” you replied, trying to keep your cool. You were not going to let him fluster you. Not now.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. You shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you both waited for the other to say something. Finally, he broke the ice. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Fine. Busy,” you answered vaguely. “Looks like we’ll be working together now.”

“Looks like it,” he echoed. There was a brief pause before his eyes flickered over you. “I’d say it’ll be just like old times, but somehow, I think things might be a little different now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

Chase smiled—a softer, less smug one this time. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Working with Chase was exactly what you expected: maddening. He was still brilliant, still effortlessly charming, and still found ways to get under your skin. But this time, something was. . . different. It wasn’t just rivalry anymore. There was a strange tension between you, the kind that made your heart race when he stood too close or leaned over your shoulder to point something out during rounds.

“You’re overthinking it again,” Chase said, pulling you from your thoughts as the two of you reviewed a patient file one evening. House, has once again, left his paperworks for the both of you to finish. You glanced up, your eyes meeting his in the low light of the office. He was standing closer than usual, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, you could smell his cologne— God, you could feel him.

“I’m not overthinking,” you protested, though the slight waver in your voice betrayed you.

Chase chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate in the quiet room. “You always do. It’s one of the things I… admire about you,” he said, his voice dipping at the end, almost as if he hadn’t meant to reveal that last part.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “Admire?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the file in your hand before looking back at you. There was something unspoken between you, something that had been building for quite a while now. And in that moment, it felt like everything hung in the balance.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Admire.”

Your breath hitched slightly, and for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to fire back with a sarcastic retort. Instead, the room filled with a quiet tension, one that was as familiar as it was new.

Chase’s eyes lingered on yours a second too long before he cleared his throat and took a step back, the spell broken. “Anyway,” he said, his usual demeanor slipping back into place, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late.” He flashed you a quick smile before heading toward the door, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding in your chest.

The next day, you found yourself back in the break room, pouring a much-needed cup of coffee. You were still trying to process your feelings about Chase when he walked in, a lopsided grin on his face.

“Look who it is—Miss Perfect,” he teased, leaning against the counter. “You’re up early today.”

“Please, it’s called being responsible,” you shot back, trying to keep your tone light. “Not all of us can coast by on charm and good looks.”

Chase raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from the person who aced the last exam while I was busy trying to save a patient.”

“Are we really going to do this again?” you sighed, setting your coffee down. “Can’t you ever just let it go?”

He leaned in, his expression turning serious. “Not when you keep insisting on making everything a competition. Maybe it’s time we talk about it instead of arguing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Talk about what? Your inability to accept that I’m better than you?”

“Or your inability to admit that you actually enjoy the challenge,” he shot back, crossing his arms. “You thrive on it, just like I do.”

The tension in the room escalated as you both squared off. “You think I thrive on competition? I’ve worked hard for my grades, Chase. You think it’s just a game to me?”

“No, but you treat it like one,” he retorted, frustration creeping into his voice. “You’re so focused on beating me that you forget we’re supposed to be on the same team now.”

“Don’t act like you’re some sort of saint,” you replied, frustration bubbling over. “You’re the one who always wants to one-up me.”

“Maybe because I want you to see that I’m not just some arrogant jerk. I actually want to work with you,” he argued, his voice rising slightly.

“And what makes you think I want that?” you challenged, crossing your arms defiantly.

“Because deep down, you know it would be good for both of us,” he said, his tone softening. “And because I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t care.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with unresolved tension. You both stood there, hearts racing, the realization of unspoken feelings hanging between you. Finally, you broke the silence. “You know what? This is ridiculous. We’re colleagues now, not rivals.”

Chase stepped closer, his expression earnest. “I don’t want to be just colleagues. . .”

Your heart skipped a beat. You hesitated, the walls you had built around your feelings beginning to crumble.

You knew exactly what Chase meant.

You knew because you both were holding onto a thin thread for quite a while. And neither one of you has ever had the courage to break free and see how everything will unravel.

A smile slowly formed on your lips, Chase won in this one.

Before you could respond, House strolled in, as nonchalant as ever. “What’s this? A soap opera I didn’t get the memo about?” He glanced between you and Chase, a knowing smirk on his face. “Are you two finally admitting your feelings, or are you just going to keep throwing insults at each other like five-year-olds?”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile crept onto your face. “What do you want, House?”

“Oh, just making sure the hospital doesn’t turn into a high school drama,” he replied, clearly enjoying the moment. “I need my team to be functional.”

Chase crossed his arms, unfazed by House’s jabs. “And yet, you’re here, interrupting an important discussion.”

“Important discussion? More like a public service announcement for the clueless,” House shot back. “But fine, carry on. I’ll just be out here, waiting for the inevitable awkwardness that’s sure to follow.”

You shot Chase a glare, feeling a mix of annoyance and amusement at House’s timing. “Thanks for the support, House,” you said sarcastically.

Chase chuckled, the tension breaking as he leaned back against the counter. “Well, at least he keeps things interesting.”

“Interesting is one way to put it,” you replied, shaking your head. “But this doesn’t change the fact that we still need to talk about our work.”

“Fine,” Chase said, the playful glint in his eyes returning. “Let’s focus on that, but can I at least take you out for coffee afterward? You know, to celebrate our newfound ‘colleague’ status?”

You chuckled then considered it for a moment, the thought of sharing a casual coffee with him igniting a flutter of excitement in your chest. “Okay, but only if you promise not to let it turn into a competition.”

Chase grinned, that familiar spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “No promises. But I’ll try my best.”

As he leaned closer, a playful banter started anew, the air filled with the kind of electricity that only grew with each exchanged word. In that moment, amid the laughter and jabs, you realized you were finally allowing him in—rivalry and all.

[rulerofstars]

it’s been a while! should i try and post some of my writings on tiktok? ^__^

[rulerofstars]

aaaand i’m back :D 

[rulerofstars]

out of all the jjk daddies, i think suguru gives the most shoulder kisses.

[rulerofstars]

i was wondering if lingeries & scotch is still continued?

it will be, but now right now <3

[rulerofstars]

thank you for 1k 🥺

rock with you (18+)

headcanons + scenarios: what it’s like being fucked by suguru getou

i think we all agree that suguru has to be one of the most gentle daddies in jjk

like, he would always prefer to use the term “make love” and not “to fuck”

getou pushed you against the wall, squishing your breasts against his massive, bare chest while positioning his swollen hard cock against your throbbing entrance.

“fuck me like how you did last night,” you beg, aching to feel his girth against your velvet walls. his brows slightly furrowed at you, touching your cheek lightly with his free hand, his other supporting your ass so you would not fall.

“that wasn’t fucking, baby. i made love to you,” he says kissing the side of your neck and biting on your erogenous zone. his hot breath tickled your skin as you felt his lips against it, his light chuckle sending vibrations to the sensitive areas of your body. “but i can fuck…”

his cock slid into you without ang warnings, immediately filling you up and quenching your thirst. a wave of overwhelming pleasure took over your body, especially when he whispered so sensually, he almost made you cum.

“only if you ask nicely.”

suguru also constantly asks whether you are still okay or not

sometimes he’d get worried and think that you are moaning in pain when in reality, you’re almost screaming due to too much pleasure

“what, baby? it hur— oh, fuck you are cumming.”

he is very generous and cares more about you than him

would never hurt you unless you tell him

he was kinds hesitant to choke you when you first asked him to

would take pictures of you both, and sometimes videos, with your consent of course

loves to go down on you, sometimes he’d do it even when you’re doing tasks

“love, i’m in a meeting,” you whimpered, feeling his hot tongue gliding against your sensitive bud. suguru’s eyes looked up at you, giving you a wink and pushing his tongue deep inside your hole.

“then try to remain focused, baby.”

he has this habit of re-tying his hair while doing you and he just looks so fucking hot

he’s willing to try new stuff for you

he even allowed you to use a butt plug on him, ONCE

in conclusion, this gentleman makes love so well, but he can also fuck you up so bad. (just make sure you’d ask)

[rulerofstars]

rock with you (18+)

headcanons + scenarios: what it’s like being fucked by suguru getou

i think we all agree that suguru has to be one of the most gentle daddies in jjk

like, he would always prefer to use the term “make love” and not “to fuck”

getou pushed you against the wall, squishing your breasts against his massive, bare chest while positioning his swollen hard cock against your throbbing entrance.

“fuck me like how you did last night,” you beg, aching to feel his girth against your velvet walls. his brows slightly furrowed at you, touching your cheek lightly with his free hand, his other supporting your ass so you would not fall.

“that wasn’t fucking, baby. i made love to you,” he says kissing the side of your neck and biting on your erogenous zone. his hot breath tickled your skin as you felt his lips against it, his light chuckle sending vibrations to the sensitive areas of your body. “but i can fuck…”

his cock slid into you without ang warnings, immediately filling you up and quenching your thirst. a wave of overwhelming pleasure took over your body, especially when he whispered so sensually, he almost made you cum.

“only if you ask nicely.”

suguru also constantly asks whether you are still okay or not

sometimes he’d get worried and think that you are moaning in pain when in reality, you’re almost screaming due to too much pleasure

“what, baby? it hur— oh, fuck you are cumming.”

he is very generous and cares more about you than him

would never hurt you unless you tell him

he was kinds hesitant to choke you when you first asked him to

would take pictures of you both, and sometimes videos, with your consent of course

loves to go down on you, sometimes he’d do it even when you’re doing tasks

“love, i’m in a meeting,” you whimpered, feeling his hot tongue gliding against your sensitive bud. suguru’s eyes looked up at you, giving you a wink and pushing his tongue deep inside your hole.

“then try to remain focused, baby.”

he has this habit of re-tying his hair while doing you and he just looks so fucking hot

he’s willing to try new stuff for you

he even allowed you to use a butt plug on him, ONCE

in conclusion, this gentleman makes love so well, but he can also fuck you up so bad. (just make sure you’d ask)

[rulerofstars]

rock with you (18+)

headcanons + scenarios: what it’s like being fucked by suguru getou

i think we all agree that suguru has to be one of the most gentle daddies in jjk

like, he would always prefer to use the term “make love” and not “to fuck”

getou pushed you against the wall, squishing your breasts against his massive, bare chest while positioning his swollen hard cock against your throbbing entrance.

“fuck me like how you did last night,” you beg, aching to feel his girth against your velvet walls. his brows slightly furrowed at you, touching your cheek lightly with his free hand, his other supporting your ass so you would not fall.

“that wasn’t fucking, baby. i made love to you,” he says kissing the side of your neck and biting on your erogenous zone. his hot breath tickled your skin as you felt his lips against it, his light chuckle sending vibrations to the sensitive areas of your body. “but i can fuck…”

his cock slid into you without ang warnings, immediately filling you up and quenching your thirst. a wave of overwhelming pleasure took over your body, especially when he whispered so sensually, he almost made you cum.

“only if you ask nicely.”

suguru also constantly asks whether you are still okay or not

sometimes he’d get worried and think that you are moaning in pain when in reality, you’re almost screaming due to too much pleasure

“what, baby? it hur— oh, fuck you are cumming.”

he is very generous and cares more about you than him

would never hurt you unless you tell him

he was kinds hesitant to choke you when you first asked him to

would take pictures of you both, and sometimes videos, with your consent of course

loves to go down on you, sometimes he’d do it even when you’re doing tasks

“love, i’m in a meeting,” you whimpered, feeling his hot tongue gliding against your sensitive bud. suguru’s eyes looked up at you, giving you a wink and pushing his tongue deep inside your hole.

“then try to remain focused, baby.”

he has this habit of re-tying his hair while doing you and he just looks so fucking hot

he’s willing to try new stuff for you

he even allowed you to use a butt plug on him, ONCE

in conclusion, this gentleman makes love so well, but he can also fuck you up so bad. (just make sure you’d ask)