Hi bb i hope youâve been well <3 im just doing a lil check up cause i thought of you (the venus mcflytrap vibe themed blog) cause i wanted to do a monster high blog too soon hehe <3
đŠ
Love youu
omg hi!!!! i have been well thank you for checking in <3 PLS DO A MONSTER HIGH THEME AND LMK WHEN U DO ITTTTT
summary: natasha overhears you and bucky going at it.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut [oral f!recieving, natasha being a little perv and spying on you & bucky, f!masturbation (naatsha), mentions of recording], highkey not proofread sorry
wc: ~450
nova's notes: guys my ass was being kicked by school and i had to vanish off the face of the earth for a bit..... BUT IM BACK SO SUCK ON THAT (haha get it)(sorry ill stop)-> main masterlist + BILLIE BARNES & NOVA!
It's filthy the way he smears his cum across your thighs, and you would say something, but it canât be helped with how heâs throbbing inside of you.
âHow many is that? Three? Four?â Bucky says this absentmindedly, too focused on how your skin glistens with his release.
You donât respond. It's impossible, you deduce, because how could you speak after everything heâs done to you? One orgasm on his fingers, another with his tongue, and two, yes two, on his cock.Â
âYâwant another?âÂ
You should say no. Your body's spent. Another orgasm might kill you. But, that doesnât stop your hands from trailing up his muscular back, slowly tracing the outline of each muscle, threading into his hair, and pulling his swollen lips to yours.Â
He stops your attempt to lock your legs around him with a firm force on your inner knee, presenting you to him. âLet me lick you..â A request that is followed by the sounds of squelching as he pulls out of you.Â
Bucky sits on his haunches, pulling you by your legs to lift them over his shoulders and leans forward to wrap his lips around your sweet, glistening core.
Natasha wants nothing more than to see the two of you right now. She can only imagine the lewdness of your naked, sweaty, intertwined bodies: his lips engulfing your clit just the way you like, your hands, gripping at the sheets, twisting the fabric as your back arches in pleasure, the mix of cum, sweat, and saliva making you glow. It pains her to not see it, to not open the door and peek through the crack for just a glimpse.Â
But she makes do with ear flush against the door. Her hands are shoved down her pants, fingers quickly circling her clit as she listens to the sounds of your moans, the slurping of Buckyâs tongue laving and lapping at your cunt like she wishes she could. She dreams of making you gut your hips into her mouth the way he does.Â
The best part about the two of you is that itâs real. Not fake, nor rehearsed, nothing overly pornographic, just raw, untamed pleasure. It's clear in the way Bucky pulls your moans out of you, rough and whiney on occasion. His sounds are primalâclawing their way up his throat and reverberating onto your core. No theatrics. Just ecstasy. Something Natasha wishes she could share between the both of you.Â
She wonât do anything about her desire any time soon, though. The sounds you both make are enough to satiate her for the time being. That being saidâŠmaybe she could slip a camera in thereâor two.
Only for her eyes, of course. She would never share something that good with anybody else.
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you canât get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
word count: 5.2 k
warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.
a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clarkâs last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this đ„ I hope you guys enjoy it and Iâm sorry in advance for what youâre about to read.
read in AO3
The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.
"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."
Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."
Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."
"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."
The temple is exactly where it should beâa massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.
"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform andâ"
The explosion cuts him off.
You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.
"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.
Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"
"Yeah, goâ"
Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.
The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.
Everything slows down.
Bucky's moving toward itâhe's a super soldier, he might survive the exposureâbut you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodes⊠at least for you.
Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.
You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.
So you hold on.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.
"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'mâ"
You pass out in his arms.
You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"
"Like I touched an infinity stone."
"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.
"Where's Bucky?"
"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He was⊠he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."
You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.
"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you'reâ"
"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch themâ"
"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."
He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."
"No more infinity stones, I promise."
He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.
Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.
Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.
It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.
"This is connected to the stone," you say.
"We don't know that."
"Buckyâ"
"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could beâ"
He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.
Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.
"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."
"How long?" Bucky demands.
"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."
"So what do we do?"
Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."
The silence is deafining.
"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.
"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."
Five minutes. You only get five minutes.
After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.
You measure everything now.
Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.
Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.
You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.
Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B
Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You
I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B
By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.
You can have a meal together now⊠well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.
"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."
"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?
The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.
"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.
His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.
By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.
It's enough time to watch a movieâif you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.
It's enough time to have sexâonce, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.
When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.
"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.
"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."
"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."
"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."
That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.
"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want?"
"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."
You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.
"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could'veâ do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"
Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."
"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leavingâ"
"I didn'tâ"
"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."
The silence stretches between you.
"I wanted more time," he says finly.
"You could've died."
"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hoursâ"
"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being together⊠that's the only thing keeping meâ"
The nose bleed starts.
You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.
"I'm leaving," you whisper.
"We're not doneâ"
"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.
You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.
Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.
"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I think⊠I think this is it."
"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau beforeâ"
"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."
Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.
"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, somethingâ"
"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strange⊠There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scaleâŠ." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."
You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.
"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."
You don't answer.
That night, you sit in your room and do the math.
Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with him⊠the rest, you spend alone.
If you live by 80âoptimistic, given your line of workâ and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.
12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.
You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.
"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We couldâ we could make this work, right?"
He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.
"Buckâ"
"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it'sâ it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We couldâ I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about duringâ"
"Bucky, stop."
"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and thisâ this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make itâ"
"It's not a life."
The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.
"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. Peopleâ people do long distance, people haveâ"
"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."
"Don'tâ" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this aboutâ"
"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then oneâ"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me!"
The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see itâ the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.
Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.
"Get out," you whisper.
"No."
"Bucky, pleaseâ"
"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left legâthe serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this alone⊠you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away afterâ"
He stops and sways.
Seven minutes.
"Sit down." You grab his armâ his flesh arm, careful nowâ and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before youâ"
"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can'tâI'm not ready yet."
"You're already past your limitâ"
"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."
Your breath hitches. "You never told meâ"
"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burnsâ the only thing I need is you."
His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.
"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finallyâ"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when youâ"
"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let meâ"
"It's killing youâ"
"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes upâjerky and malfunctioningâ and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got toâŠ"
His nose starts bleeding.
It's been ten fucking minutes.
"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.
"No, please, justâ" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so justâ god, please just let me have this."
"How did youâ"
"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your face⊠you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"
He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.
"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."
"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."
"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not counting⊠where I can just pretend we have forever."
"We don't have foreverâŠ"
"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."
And he kisses you.
It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.
The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.
His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.
You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, pleaseâ"
"Bucky, you'reâ"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."
Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.
"No, no, noâŠ" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someoneâ"
Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with meâ"
But he's out.
You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.
You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.
"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.
Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe moreâŠ"
Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."
"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.
You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.
His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.
Like it was worth it.
You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.
When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.
"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okayâŠ"
You don't answer, looking down at your hands.
"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover beforeâŠ" He trails off but you already know what he means.
Before you can see each other again.
"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find meâŠ"
"He'll look."
"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this isâ this is the only way I know how to save him."
Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."
You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "âŠBut at least he'll be alive."
The next morning, you're gone.
You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.
Bucky,
I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.
I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.
I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.
Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.
I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.
So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.
I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.
I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.
Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.
I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.
You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.
You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.
Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.
Live the life I can't give you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.
But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
Always yours, even from far away.
When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.
He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.
"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, noâ"
Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."
"Where is she?!"
The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.
"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can'tâ"
Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chestâthat cold, dark thing he's spent burying.
"Move."
"You're in no conditionâ"
"I said move!"
His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting them⊠really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.
"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have toâ"
"Bucky, listen to meâ" Steve tries.
"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinksâthe letter saysâ"
He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.
"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.
"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.
"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."
"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find herâ"
He feels the needle slide into his arm.
"No, please, I have toâ she doesn't understandâI need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find herâŠ"
The darkness takes him back.
When he wakes again, it's dark outside.
He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.
Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.
The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up after⊠after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.
But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.
What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.
Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.
There were options. Leads. Possibilities.
And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.
The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.
He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.
"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."
im writing 4 bucky i promise...but i can't stop thinking about mr. jack abbott in all his glory...so....let me get this out of my system
[18+ mdni, fem!reader, smut (frottage, p in v sex, creampie, unprotected sex( do NOT.)), age gap (early/mid thirties), #notproofreadimjusthorny]
jack abbott who, in spite of it all, is a hopeless romantic. he'll never admit itâgod noâbut its his truth. he can't help but steal glances at you through the chaos of the ED. its cinematic, really. the way time seems to slow down when he looks at you, only to be interrupted by the rapid beeping of various monitors and three different voices shouting. he should probably look at you less when you're both working.
jack abbott who seems to think you hate him. its ironic; you're the sweetest person in this damn place, yet somehow, you're the only one that refuses to meet his eye, or honestly, even talk to him for that matter. but, he doesn't think this for long...
jack abbott who thought you hated him until a particularly rough shift. the break room was supposed to be quiet, but the chaos of the ED managed to seep its way in. he walks in just to be meet with the sight of your head in your hands, elbows propped on your knees, hunched over. he knows better than to disturb the little peace you have, but insists on helping anyway he can. "here, y'need to eat something." a small bag of chips from the vending machine. more importantly, your favorite chips. "thanks..." you look up at him, eyes meeting, and he swears the world outside the break room doesn't exist. "i know you've been trying to catch me for a moment, i promise i'm not avoiding you or anything. just busy." you say in between chips. "well i got you now, don't i?" the soft laugh you let out is music to his ears. "yeah, for a few minutes. what did you need?" nothing. he doesn't need anything, just to have a conversation with you to see if your voice has the same affect as your beauty.
jack abbott who starts to feel guilty for this. for you. young(er), vivacious. he feels guilty for wanting something more, like he'd be taking any hope of a happy future away from you. so, he sticks with base-level flirting. he doesn't say anything about how he's bewitched by your eyes whenever they flick his way, or how he get metaphorical tunnel vision whenever he looks at you. nothing that could give him away.
jack abbott who can't resist the invite to the bar. a night off spent with you. a date, really. he's not dressed in anything fancy: jeans, a nice shirt, generic shoes, and thank god because neither are you. he orders a beer, of course, and he tells you: "get whatever you want. i'll pay." because why would he let you pay?
jack abbott whose surprised by how different you are outside of work. witty, sarcastic, easygoing. still, you're as kind as ever, but seeing this side of you is...interesting for him. "why don't you crack these kinds of jokes at work? could probably use 'em." he asks, taking a sip of his beer. you smile behind your drink. "because, dr. abbott, i'm a professional."
jack abbott who isn't sure if you're flirting with him or not. the way you're saying things make it seems like it, but what you're saying isn't exactly flirtatious. so, he asks you: "flirting, doctor?" "maybe." "i thought we were supposed to be professional." you smack him playfully, giggling. "professionalism goes out the window when i'm drunk, jack."
jack abbott who find out how true that statement back at your apartment. the friction from you grinding on top of him is intoxicating. his hands grip at your hips, kneading your flesh as his head tips back in pleasure.
jack abbott who shivers every time you trail your fingers up his forearms, to his biceps, but doesn't expect you to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him flush into a kiss. he instinctively takes your bottom lip, swiping it with his tongue before delving deeper.
jack abbott who chastises you for being impatient as your hands move down his chest, to his pants, fumbling with his belt. "slow down, we got all night sweetheart." he says, forehead resting against your own, noses brushing, breaths intertwining. standing up, your legs wrapped around his waist, he follows your guidance and carries you to your bedroom. he gently lies you down and crawls on top of you. now, he's the impatient one, hands pawing at your panties and pulling them down as fast as he can.
jack abbott whose guilt fades away when he sinks into you. wet walls sucking him in. a warmth unable to be replicated by his hand. you take him like a champ, obviously with the help of his thumb drawing soft circles on your clit. inch by inch, he goes deeper. you can feel every vein, every ridge, and the curve of his cock as you take more in. you whine into his mouth and he swallows it without hesitation.
jack abbott who likes to start off slow, to tease you a little. deep thrusts that he prolongs by pulling out and pushing in as controlled as he can. but that doesn't last very long. his movements become rougher as he brings his body flush to yours.
jack abbott who makes you wonder why you didn't go for older guys sooner. guys your age don't bully your cervix the way he does. guys your age don't growl like this in your ear, and matter of fact, guys your age don't lick the shell of your ear, teasing your lobe with their teeth. guys your age don't circle your clit just right so that you come together. guys you age aren't jack abbot.
jack abbott who lets out an unceremonial groan as he comes. he's caging you in, and you pull him closer. your legs tighten around him as your orgasm crashes over you, snapping like a thread wound too tight. you pulse sporadically around his cock as his release spurts into you. there's nothing you can do but feel. feel the warmth of his body against yours, the slickness of his naked, sweaty chest against your own, the pleasure ebb and flow as both of your orgasms fade away.
jack abbott who decides to stay the night, letting you sleep on his shoulder. he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest. the guilt finds its way back, but he decides to ignore it. he deserves to be happy, and what makes him happiest? being your man.
it is not lost on me and it should not be lost on you either that it was a wealthy, seemingly normal man who likes to go golfing with his buddies that assaulted emma when digby, an unhoused man who society often views as inherently inhumane, has treated everyone (including emma) with kindness.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p in v, emotional sex???, porn w/ a backstory okay?), bucky's desperate/yearning (because i said so), mentions of bucky's past, reader & bucky had a past situationship w/ eachother when he was the winter solider (dont ask me about a time line), reader calls him james, ALPINE MENTION!!! (not proofread oops)
wc: ~870
nova's notes: ânova, did it take you this long to write, like, 800 words?â NO. ive been in the TRENCHES for the entirety for march. đ but its BETTER NOW. I PROMISE. -> masterlist + BILLIE BARNES & NOVA
When you imagined your reunion with Buckyâor rather the âWinter Soldierâ as you knew himâit wasnât anything like this. Time and torture has made him tender, careful, hesitant.
Sex with him used to be primal. Purely physical. Sure, emotions were let out, but only the kind shown through groans and growls that reverberated in your ear while his hands gripped your hips so tight he left bruises for the next day. Now? Itâs the complete opposite.
His hands are soft on your waist, hips slowly grinding against yours as his cock brushes against every crevice inside of you. The wet sounds of him sliding in and out devastatingly slow fill your apartment.Â
His mouth is engulfing yours, but rather than trying to devour you like he used to, he savors your flavor with his lips moving languidly across yours. He swallows any noise you make. âF-fuck, I missed you.âÂ
âMissed you too, B-â The name âBuckyâ feels weird on your lips. It's familiar, but not in the way you two are. âJames.â Not even close with the way he moans when you clench around him. in
His hips grind up; the tip of his cock nudges at your cervix. âDonâtâdonât ever leave me again. Please.â He whispers the plea against your lips. âI hated it without you.âÂ
It. The torture, the pain, the years of servitude to the people he was once fighting. You made it tolerable, but thenâŠyou disappeared. Now, after countless battles and years of healing, he found you.Â
His hands hold a little firmer now. Nothing like how he used to, but enough to let you know he wants you right where you are.Â
The steadiness of his thrusts begin to falter. They become desperate and frantic as he continues to speak. âYouâre not allowed to leave me again.â It comes off as a command, but it's not. Heâs begging. The last thing he wants is for you to slip away again.
His lips trail down to your collarbone, leaving hot, wet kisses while his fingers slip down to circle your clit. âI wonât.â You whisper back. âI promise.â
His hands lift your hips slightly up, and his cock begins to drive in at an angle that makes your back bow. The moans he lets out echo across your skin. It's been awhile since youâve felt like this.
He used to make you feel electricâthe ecstasy of it all was overwhelming. Nothingâs changed since then. Even with how gentle heâs being, the pleasure jolts through you with every thrust.Â
ââwith me? Yeah?â His breathing has become erratic; his chest pushes against your own as he heaves. Your mouth is, once again, engulfed by his lips.Â
Soft whines are swallowed by him while you nod frantically. âAnything for you, baby.â His hands come to your thighs to push your legs back into a mating press. The warmth of his body is flush against your own; he angles up as he drives into you, making his tip rub against your cervix sweetly. âJamesâŠâ You breathe out his name. Youâre close, but so is he.Â
âI know, câmon..â His words are heavy. The fact that heâs making you feel just as good as he does sends jolts throughout his body, and you can tell by the way his hands grip tighter with every noise you let out.
Your walls clench around him sporadically, something Bucky recognizes immediately, and from previous mistakes, heâs learned to keep doing exactly what heâs doing. Not to change a thing, lest you lose concentration and have a mindblowing orgasm ruined. You may or may not have smacked him once. Or twice.
You bring your arms to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. He doesnât resist and embraces the absence of space between your bodies. His slow, sensual grind stimulates your clit. His movements stutter, his groans become louder, and within seconds pleasure crashes over the both of you. Your legs shake from the overwhelming feelingâafter all, no man could ever compare to how he makes you feel.Â
His chest rises and falls against yours as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. â...thank you.â He whispers.
âDonât have to thank me, Jamie.â You tilt your head to nudge at his cheek with your nose; he turns to look at you. âShower?â
âOnly if you donât boil me alive.â
âI do not!â
Your head lays on his chest. The steady thumping of Buckyâs heartbeat echoes in your ear. âSoâŠyou mentioned a cat?âÂ
He chuckles a little bit, hand caressing your back. âYeah. Alpine. Love her to death but sheâs an agent of destruction though, keeps breaking things.âÂ
âWell we know who she gets that fromâŠâ Â
âExcuse me. I do nothing of the sort.â He feigns upset while dramatically scoffing.Â
âYou ripped the steering wheel out of a car.â
âOhâwellââ
You laugh a little too loud at his stuttering, which earns you a teasing glare. âI hate to break it to you but youâre identical.âÂ
âAre not.âÂ
âAre to.âÂ
âWhatever makes you happy.âÂ
âIt does.â
He gives you a pout, feigning upset, but his eyes tell you the truth because despite it all, the way he looks at you has never changed. Bucky is irrevocably in love with you.
me looking at my prof when she tells us we have another test:
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Buckyâs in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 12.5k
part two: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, itâs getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when youâre starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contractâŠ
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact buckyâs sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I donât think Iâve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3
Your shift is off to a very bad start.
The subway broke down â again â which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You donât care.
All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.
Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadnât let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth wouldâve made for a comical sight if you werenât already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, heâs eaten away at seven additional minutes you couldâve been paid for.
Safe to say, thereâs a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile â there was nothing you could do about your hair, and youâre putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling youâll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.
That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you donât even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what youâre seeing.
At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and itâs common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normalâŠexcept for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.
Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing â the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like itâs their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under âS. Leeâ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissaâs section. In her booth.
âThis has to be a mistake,â you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
âIâm sorry, he made me,â she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. âYou were running late and he didnât want them to wait, so he had me put them at Melâs table next to the pianoââ
You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you havenât thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages â tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. Itâs a gamble â one that risks your job if you donât play your cards right â but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.
But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.
It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didnât just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. Itâs a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it canât get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping â youâve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, youâre about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
âReplacementâ rings alarm bells in your head. âReplacementâ means reservations outside of the regularsâ time slots. âReplacementâ means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. âReplacementâ means trouble.
And trouble they are.
You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like theyâve been patrons of your table for years. You donât recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. Youâre at risk of cracking a tooth.
But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.
Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.
âWelcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?â
Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
âBetter, now that youâre here,â he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
âWell, glad I could be of service,â you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, youâll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. âWhat brings you in tonight?â
The blonde one speaks up again. âOur friend here just bought another nightclub,â he says, gesturing to a man to his right. âSo we thought weâd celebrate him adding to his empire.â
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
âHow exciting,â you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man â whose name you learned is Walker â doesnât seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think heâd still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.
As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walkerâs nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.
When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.
âHow long have you been working here, sweetie?â he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the othersâ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
âComing up on a year,â you reply. âLong enough to know when someone interesting walks in.â
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
âInteresting, huh?â he asks with a smirk thatâs probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. âSounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.â
Do not gag do not gag do not gagâ
âOh, I donât do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.â
God, you might make yourself vomitâ
âGood to know,â he drawls, âbecause Iâll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?â
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. âSo donât go running off anywhere. Wouldnât want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.â
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
âAnd give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldnât dream of it,â you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.
As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing â which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walkerâs giving all the signs that heâll be footing the bill.
So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walkerâs eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walkerâs direction.
âThat vest really does wonders for you.â
âI like it when a girl shows a little skin.â
âThat skirt looks like it was made for you.â
Your patience is wearing thin.
To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldnât mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the âshort-list,â or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Samâs efforts all the same.
And then thereâs the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walkerâs in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.
âEnough,â he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walkerâs lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesnât even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. Thereâs a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket â a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than youâll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements â and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally youâll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. Itâs not always easy to spot, but youâve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesnât fail to knock you on your ass every time.
One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.
On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. Youâre attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
Itâs him, the man at the end of the booth.
His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangeloâs private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldnât guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.
Heâs watching you like heâs waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like heâs about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.
Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. âCan I get you anything, sir?â you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.
He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. âJust the check, please.â
âOf course. Can I get the name under the membership?â
âBarnes,â he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. âJames Barnes. Thank you.â
âThank you, Mr. Barnes.â
His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.
Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walkerâs foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Samâs there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.
Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.
âLeft my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when youâre done with work.â
Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.
Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.
âThank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.â
He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, âfor what you had to put up with tonight.â
You blink. âOh, thatâs â itâs not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh â fun time.â
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. âFun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?â
âIââ your blush lights up your face. âHe didnât mean it, Iâm sureââ
âHe did.â
âItâs fine,â you rush to say. âI get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.â
His eyebrow lifts.
âA work perk,â he repeats. âSure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.â
Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.
You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. âWhat can I say? Iâm living the dream.â
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
âAre you?â
You pause. âAm I what?â
âLiving the dream.â
âIs anyone, really?â you say with a quirk of your lips.
âI donât know,â he allows, tilting his head. âMaybe not. But we keep pretending we are.â His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. âWere late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?â
You chuckle, but thereâs hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But thatâs the darker side of the club that customers arenât supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet heâs asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
Heâs looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
âUh, no,â you say slowly. âDefinitely not.â
You glance over your shoulder like youâre expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
âGood,â James murmurs, âI was starting to worry about your long-term goals.â
âIâmâŠIâm actually in school,â you admit before you can stop yourself. âGrad school. Masters in Business Analytics.â
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. âImpressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?â
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isnât uncomfortable, but itâs heavy.
âSomething with data. It kind of â I donât know â speaks to me, I guess? Iâm good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isnât that difficult when you dictate the right models andââ You stop short and shake your head quickly. âIâm sorry. Iâm boring you.â
His smile returns. âYouâre not boring me.â
âI was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,â you joke.
âOn the contrary,â he murmurs, âIâd like to hear what you have to say about data models.â
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. âIt doesnât make for very thrilling conversation.â
âWeâre at The Alpine Club â Iâm pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. Whatâs one more?â
You laugh, bright and unexpected. âYou got me there.â
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
âSo,â he says, twirling his empty glass, âwhat kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?â
You blink as his question lands. It isnât lost on you that heâs prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that havenât been touched in minutes, you have side work thatâs waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when heâs already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
âManipulating data sounds corrupt,â you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. âItâs more likeâŠmaking sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they donât even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, hereâs the story.â
âSounds like an art,â he says.
âArtists donât use spreadsheets.â
âI think it still counts.â
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. âNot sure if Iâve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.â
âMost people are missing out.â
Your smile grows. âThat sounds like a line.â
âItâs not,â he says easily, placing both hands on the table. âIâm genuinely interested.â
âIn data?â
âIn you.â
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, thatâs definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. âActually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?â
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.
âDo you think youâd be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?â he asks.
You freeze.
âIf youâre busy, I understand,â he says quietly. âI donât want to keep you from your work.â
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. Itâs died down considerably â closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
âNo, itâs â Iâm not busy,â you mumble. Youâre about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.
âWhere do you go to school?â he asks, like there wasnât a break in the conversation.
âOâMalley.â
His eyebrows lift a fraction. âThatâs a great school.â
âHa. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.â Your nose wrinkles. âI guess you could say thatâs part of the reason Iâm here.â
Youâre not sure what made you bring up your mom â you havenât weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.
âPart of the reason?â he repeats.
âItâs a long story.â
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
âI have time.â
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. âIt â well, itâs not a very good story either.â
He doesnât say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You donât tell your story very often â in fact, youâve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.
Sitting beside him, you canât deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know itâs something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
âI had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dadâs life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,â you add, when Jamesâ tilts his head questioningly. âIt wasâŠsad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the worldâŠâ
James clears his throat. âWhere did you go?â
âEurope. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the countryâs broken up by states and each one has its own cultureâŠâ You trail off, biting down on a smile. âI think itâs my favorite place in the world.â
Next to you, James shifts again, but heâs got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
âBut then my mom got sick,â you continue, your voice lowering automatically. âStage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.â
Thereâs a sound like a hushed rumble coming from Jamesâ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. Youâve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them â especially when they came from strangers. But the way heâs looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you havenât had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
âItâsâŠthank you.â
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
âShe refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didnât want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.â
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
âI tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.â
Jamesâ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
âAfter the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.â You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. âDespite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home â she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldnât think about anything but her, but now that sheâs gone, Iâm glad she made me do it.â
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesnât feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isnât sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one personâs lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
âFor what itâs worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are todayâ he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
âDonât speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.â
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
âTruthfully, Iâm â Iâm drowning,â you laugh breathlessly. âI canât study because Iâm constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that Iâll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because â well, everythingâs outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.â
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
âI ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I donât have anything against! But I canât move like that, I can barely do a push up â so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then Iâd be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment andââ
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. Heâs turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; itâs unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricityâs dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.
He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasnât looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you donât find it creepy. Yet.
âSounds like you have a lot on your plate,â James mutters.
âYeah,â you say faintly, âsorry to unload all of that on you.â
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. Youâre kicking yourself mentally, thinking youâve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
âI could help,â he says quietly.
You blink. âOh, you donât â you donât need to do that. I promise I wasnât using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anythingââ
âJust listen, please.â
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasnât there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
âIâll only say this once, and if itâs not for you, I wonât say another word about it ever again.â He tilts his head. âI believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. Iâd like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. Iâd be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeedâŠwhile also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off â financially â so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. Iâve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than Iâve had with that group of guys for years. Youâre sharp, youâre funny, youâre groundedâŠyour time and your attention is all I would want.â
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
âThis requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. Itâs not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. Itâs moreâŠintentional than that. Mutual.â
He pauses again, longer, as if heâs waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
âBeing my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,â he continues softly. âItâs about making you comfortable. Youâll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. Itâs not complicated, and itâs not about control. Itâs about being a friend. Iâd like to be your friend.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face â you suspect youâre not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
âYou donât need to give me an answer now,â James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. âAll Iâm asking is that you consider it.â
Youâre silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
âWe donât even know each other,â you whisper.
âI know,â he replies, âbut Iâd like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.â
You bite your lip. âIf youâre saying all of this because of my mom, or â or âcause you feel badââ
âNo,â he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. âThis isnât because I feel bad.â
âThen why?â you ask.
âBecause youâre beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that youâve shown me tonight. And selfishly, Iâd like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.â
Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.
James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.
âTake some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and Iâll leave you alone. But if youâre interested in what this could be, let me know.â
You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.
âI hope to hear from you soon,â he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.
With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.
âItâsâitâs on me,â you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. âDonât worry about it.â
âThank you,â James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesnât look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.
You let out a breath you didnât know you were holding. Holy shit.
Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.
James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board
Barnes Group, Inc.
The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. Theyâre well-respected and popular, from what youâve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again â he really does have real money.
Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very â thereâs no beating around that bush.
But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.
You couldnât remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But youâre still human â even if you push everyone away, that doesnât mean youâre immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesnât leave you with many options for human companionship.
His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, youâre lonely.
Maybe heâs lonely, too.
You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.
You canât believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you canât help but take Jamesâ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.
You sigh, stroking Luckyâs back. âIf this is real, Iâd be an idiot not to,â you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.
So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, youâre thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until itâs an automatic loop of noise.
Iâd like to be your friend.
Itâs distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means youâre distracted at work, youâre distracted on the subway, youâre distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. Youâll never do that again.
âŠHe could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when youâre taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.
The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?
Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you â at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of Jamesâ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or â even worse â his chest hair.
It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.
Heâs offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either heâs dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe itâs both. Either way, itâll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. âJames Barnes.â
âJames,â you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. âItâs me. From The Alpine. Hi.â
Something shifts in the background, like heâs sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. âHi,â he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
âShit,â you mutter, âIâm sorry. I didnât even think about how late it is. I can call you backâ?â
âNo,â he cuts in. âNowâs fine. How are you?â
You chew on your lip. âIâm good. Busy, butâŠIâve beenâ uh, Iâve been thinking.â
âOh, yeah?â he murmurs, soft and loose like itâs a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
âAbout what you said,â you choke out. âAbout beingâŠfriends. IâŠI have some questions.â
âI have some answers.â
âI was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more aboutâŠwhat this will be like.â
Thereâs a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.
âHow about tomorrow night? 8 oâclock at Pepperâs.â
âYeahâ uh, yes. That works,â you breathe. Thereâs a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
âWould it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless youâd like to have a lawyer look over themââ
Your mouth goes dry. âNo. Thatâs okay,â you say. âYou can bring them.â
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. âIâm glad you called,â he says, voice low and warm. âI was starting to think I wouldnât hear from you.â
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. âItâs okay. Iâm glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.â
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
âAre you working?â he asks.
âYes.â
âItâs almost midnight. Isnât The Alpine closed by now?â
âYeah, wellâŠside workâs a bitch. Iâll probably be here until one.â
He grunts. âLet me send a car to get you home.â
âJames, Iââ
âPlease. Itâll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.â
Your foot taps restlessly. âOkay,â you breathe.
âOkay, doll.â
A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.
âYeah, uh. Iâll let youâ uh, Iâll let you get back to it then. Iâll see you tomorrow, James.â
âTomorrow,â he vows. And the line goes dead.
You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. Itâs your favorite dress â or, more accurately, your only dress â and your one item of clothing thatâs acceptable enough for the five star restaurant youâre meeting James at.
Heâs sending another car â he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driverâs name. Youâd be put off if the ride last night hadnât cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.
The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.
When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that donât entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.
James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.
He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.
âHello,â he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
âHi,â you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
âYou look breathtaking,â he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
âThank you. You look very nice, too.â
His smile grows. âIâm glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say Iâve been a bit restless since our talk last night.â
âOh?â is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
âI guess you could say Iâm eager to hear your questions.â
âOh, umâŠyes. I have a fewâŠâ
He gestures to the table. âDo your worst.â
You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but whatâs there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
âFirst, IâŠI just want to say thank you,â you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. âFor listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time Iâve told that story that I didnât feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.â
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. âYouâre welcome.â
âThat being said,â you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. âIâm wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.â
He nods, his face becoming serious. âOf course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you donât want me to touch, then I wonât. You get the say in that.â
âSo, if I say I donât want any help with my student loansâŠâ
âThen thatâs that. I wonât push you about it either.â
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
âWould it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and wonât help with?â he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. âTo start, I wonât help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless theyâre direct dependents of yours, which it doesnât sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I wonât help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I wonât pay for bail, I wonât pay fines, and I wonât pay for legal counsel. If youâre charged with anything, this arrangement is void.â
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like heâs said this a few times. You gulp.
âBut I will pay for everything else, if youâll let me,â he remarks, growing softer. âYouâll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when youâre not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldnât do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails â whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.â
âOkay,â you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
âIâll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, Iâll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when youâre not with me.â
Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.
âYou donât have to, Iâm just giving you the option. Remember, youâll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.â
He scans your face â youâre sure youâre a shade paler than before.
âWhere do you live now?â he asks gently.
âQueens.â He smiles.
âThen Iâd at least argue for you to use my driver.â
âMakes sense,â you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what youâd like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand youâve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.
âI also like to give gifts,â James says, picking up where he left off. âThat could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacationsââ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. âWhatever Iâm feeling that day.â
âOh, is that all?â you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
âIt may change, depending on what I think youâd like. And what you tell me you like.â
âIâm picky,â you attempt to joke.
âI like a challenge.â
The air shifts subtly, youâd miss it if you werenât paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while youâre pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
âIdeally, youâd quit your job,â he begins slowly. âNot for me, but because you wonât need to work anymore. You donât have to if you donât want to, but youâre in school, and itâs clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.â
You huff a soft laugh because you arenât sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadnât even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seedâs been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.
James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.
âIâd like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of whatâs happened to you, but because of what youâve done since it happened,â he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. âI think youâve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say thereâs almost nothing I wouldnât help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.â
For a moment, youâre not sure what to say, but you end up on, âThank you, James. IâŠIâll think about it.â
He nods, businesslike. âWhat other questions do you have?â
You blink, looking down at your list. âWell, you answered a couple of them, actuallyâŠum, I guess my next question isââ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. âWhen you say friendship, what does thatâŠinclude, exactly?â
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
âI meant what I said about being friends,â he offers, âand I meant it in the traditional sense. This isnât a âfriends with benefitsâ situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isnât required by you â youâre welcome to do whatever youâre comfortable with, and I wonât withhold anything from you if you arenât comfortable with it. And I wonât touch you if you donât want me to, but I will say Iâm hoping to earn that right eventually.â
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
âI understand,â you say slowly. âI think those are reasonable, too.â His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. âI appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.â
âThatâs why weâre here,â he answers calmly. âAny more questions?â
âYes, um. How does thisâŠstart?â
The smile returns to Jamesâ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.
âIt starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you wonât talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. Iâm held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all Iâm worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.â
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but heâs already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
âThis is an agreement on what Iâm allowed to pay for. Like the rent â Iâll need to know where to pay to. Thereâs also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. Iâd like it wired safely and securely.â
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, âYou donât have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.â
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
âAnything else?â he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
âAre youâŠfriendsâŠwith anyone else right now? Or is it just me?â
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
âJust you. And I can promise that I wonât need any other friends as long as I have you.â
Oh.
âBut youâveâŠhad other friends before. In the past.â
His eyes go blank for a moment. âYes, Iâve had other friends before. A few.â
âTheyâre not still your friends, though?â you ask.
âNo,â he answers. âThere came a point when it was time for them to explore otherâŠfriendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.â
You hesitate. âSo, if one day I decide I want toâŠstop being friends, that would be okay with you?â
âOf course. Iâm here as long as youâll have me. Or until we both decide itâs time.â
âOkay,â you whisper, meeting his gaze. Thereâs a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. âOkay. Can I borrow your pen?â
James smiles, the biggest smile youâve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe itâs him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.
Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. âTo friendships,â he says. You clink your glass to his. âAnd, by the way, call me Bucky.â
âBucky?â you ask, eyebrows raised.
âItâs what my friends call me.â
It starts immediately.
The next morning, youâre greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. Youâre placing the last of them on the counter when thereâs a knock on your door â a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet hereâs a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but itâs worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. Itâs something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.
At first, itâs odd having someone to talk to so consistently again â the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.
But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.
Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.
It isnât long before he does.
Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that youâre stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. Youâre grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction heâs providing. Heâs waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
âYou look beautiful,â he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.
Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.
Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. Youâre licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
âHe just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and thatâs it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you donât.â
You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Buckyâs still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
âMight be because he lacks his own personal life,â he muses. âPeople are always going to project what hurts them.â
You consider this. âNow that you say it, I donât think Iâve ever seen him take a day off.â
âThat can do some fucked up things to a person.â
âTell me about it,â you whine. âI havenât taken a day off in months.â
His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.
âI know, I know. I justâŠâ You take a breath. âI need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. âTomorrowâs the first of the month,â he says. âHave you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?â
Your breath hitches.
âYes,â you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
âAnd what have you decided?â
âI thinkâŠit would be a show of good faithâŠif you helped me out.â
âGood faith,â he laughs. âSweetheart, Iâll buy you the moon if it means youâll believe me when I say Iâll take care of you.â
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. â your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like youâre floating.
It only takes you another week until youâre calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heartâs content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you canât resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
Itâs clear heâs shocked, that youâve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. Itâs strange, itâs new, but itâsâŠcomforting.
Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.
Itâs calming and oddly motivating â heâs the perfect person to work next to.
When youâre not studying, Buckyâs supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone â Inga, Buckyâs very Dutch, very cheerful assistant â because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didnât know existed to fill.
A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place youâve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.
Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.
Youâre about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. Youâve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.
âIâve got this thing tomorrow night,â he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. Youâre shocked to realize heâs being shy, and poorly hiding it. âItâs a gala. The black tie kind. Itâs for charity â Childrenâs, I think. If youâre up for it, I was wondering if youâd like to come with me.â
You smile slowly. âIâd love to. Just need something to wear.â
A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe thatâs the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something youâd never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that youâre a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.
After that, youâre dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 oâclock, Buckyâs waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.
He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.
âYou lookâŠunbelievable.â
Later, when youâre buried deep into a crowd of people you donât know, Buckyâs anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, âIâm very lucky to have you here with me.â
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgateâs been cracked open, and whatâs been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.
When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.
And thatâs when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.
You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. Heâs been doing it all night, but this time, it doesnât feel right. It feelsâŠoff. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that youâd ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship â to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you donât want to make it seem like you canât hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.
So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.
Youâre a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. Itâs a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that heâs messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.
He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You donât mind.
With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.
So you start staying over.
It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.
The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.
âMorning,â he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days â soft, grounding touches that donât linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that donât get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.
âDid I â did I crash?â you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
âDidnât even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.â
âFuck, I liked him.â
âMe too.â
You look up at him, suddenly shy. âIâm sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.â
âOnly threw out my back for it. No worries.â
You slap away his hand on your waist, but itâs teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so youâre eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
âYou know, that room can be yours, if youâd like.â
You pause mid sip of coffee. âWhat?â
âThe room. Itâs yours. For when you want to crash. Or just donât want to go home.â
âReally.â Itâs not a question.
âReally,â he repeats. âDonât ever feel like you have to stay, Iâll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, itâs there for you.â
âThatâsâŠreally sweet of you.â
He smiles a little. âNot too much?â You shake your head. âGood. âCause I like knowing youâre close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.â
The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.
But heâs watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until youâre numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, âOkay.â
And thatâs that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Buckyâs not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know heâs only human, but youâve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.
He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.
He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of âwhat now?â He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.
His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch â pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, youâd think he hates it.
âBucky,â you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. âBucky,â you try again.
âWhat?â he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. âOh, God â Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. I didnât meanââ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. âJesus. You didnât deserve that. Forgive me.â
âAlways,â you say like itâs second nature. âWhatâs going on?â
He sighs, setting down his plate. âWork,â he mutters, âis killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They arenât happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now theyâre playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.â
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
âYou think thatâs funny?â
âA little. But I canât imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.â
Something flashes in Buckyâs eyes, something darker that doesnât fit the conversation topic. Itâs quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
âNot these guys. They like to test me. And I donât like being tested.â
âI can tell,â you comment. âWant me to help?â
He side-eyes you. âHow?â
âYou can take all your anger out byâŠrubbing my feet?â Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.
âHow sweet of you,â he coos. âHowâd you know this is exactly what I needed?â
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether itâs to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and youâre feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
âAlright, doll. Youâre tired. Iâm taking you home.â
âI might stay here tonight, if thatâs okay with you.â
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and thereâs a slightly dazed look in his eye.
âSure, yeah. Whatever you want,â he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While youâre brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though heâll deny it.
He walks you to your room like heâs dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
âSleep tight,â he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
âGoodnight, Bucky.â
Heâs gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.
When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. Theyâve been quiet for a while since youâve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?
Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.
The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.
Bucky.
It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You werenât even sure that he looked at it yet.
Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.
Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and youâre sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but theyâve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesnât need the words. He knows everything that youâre saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.
The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.
sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok thatâs a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesnât like 30k word posts I guess :/ donât forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far đ€
âI like shiny things, but Iâd marry you with paper ringsâŠâ
Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Married Couple, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Slice of Life, Idiots in Love, Healthy Relationships, Flirting, Married Life, Thunderbolts!Bucky
You go to bed plotting.
Your first anniversary. 365 spent in marital bliss with the man you could have only dreamed of. 365 sunrises with him pressed against your side and 365 sunsets with him sprawled across your torso. It was only natural that you were going to want to prepare something special for such a momentous occasion.
Unfortunately, Bucky has other plans.
And by other plans, you mean the exact same plans, but before you.
Curse him and his self-discipline and his early-rising ability, because before you do much as open your eyes, you can hear the sizzling of bacon from the other room and the range hood whirring to muffle the sound. Your palm grazes over the dip in the mattress beside you and finds it empty and growing cold.
That littleâŠ
You canât help but yawn as you glance at the clock and peel back the covers, shivering at the sudden chill. You slip your housecoat from the hook on the bathroom door, wrapping it around your mismatched, rumpled pyjamas and tying the belt in a haphazard bow before padding down the hall in slipper-clad feet.
Sound travels easily under the vaulted ceilings of your New York apartment, the melting snow outside nor the exposed beams and industrial pipes no match for the coziness youâve both built beneath it. You follow the off-pitch melody of his humming to the open kitchen and pause for a moment, leaning against the edge of the kitchen island just to watch from afar.
Bucky is a marvel. Six feet of corded muscle and toned flesh softened by morning light, sweatpants slung loose and low on his hips, his shoulders and back open to the elements. His hair is a sight, sticking up in all directions in the lax kind of way that just made you want to run your fingers through it, whether it smoothed or not. He is deliciously domestic when his walls come down like this, unguarded and unafraid to make noise or take up space.
âWhatâcha up to, Buck?â you close the distance, fingers ghosting a pass over his shoulder blade. The transfer of cold sets off a shiver that ripples up his neck and makes the hairs stand on edge.
He turns under your grasp, wearing that ridiculous âKiss The Cookâ apron Alexei got him as a wedding gift as part of his curated âgrilling essentialsâ bundle, and his whole being brightens when he sets his sights on you.
âMorninâ, sunshineâŠâ He hasnât been up for long, his voice still gravelly. Bucky discards his spatula in favour of drawing you into his arms and against his lips, tasting like dark roast. âSleep well?â
âVery. Do youâŠhappen to know what happened to my alarm?â
He turns his head, but the flush on the shell of his ear gives him away. âI donât know nothinâ about thatâŠâ
âJames Buchanan Barnes! I was going to make breakfast for you!â
âCome on now, sweetheart. I couldnâ bear to let you do all that just for me when you were sleepinâ so soundly. Youâre already working yourself to the bone, and sleepinâ terribly as it is.â
How were you supposed to say no to that, when he looks down at you with such affection and tenderness? His skin is warm when you pout into his collarbone. âWouldâve done it anywayâŠâ
Bucky cards through your hair just as you had wanted to, fixing your bedhead with practised ease. âI know you would, and I love you for it, but itâs my turn. That alright?â
âItâs the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Smells amazing. What did you make?â
âFull spread. All your favourites.â
âItâs your anniversary too, yâknow. You donât just have to cater to me.â
âWanted to, doll. Besides, my favourite is watching you eat your favourites.â
ââŠand turkey bacon.â
âYes, and turkey bacon.â
âCan I help with anything?â
He shakes his head. âItâs all handled. You just sit your pretty self down,â he switches off the burner and takes you by the shoulders, herding you into the breakfast nook, âbefore it gets cold.â
And it is a spread.
Strawberries cut into rosettes, his knife skills repurposed and certainly not going to waste. Heart-shaped pancakes stacked a mile high, golden brown with crispy edges. Eggs and toast, fruits and potato hash, pastries and preserves, all plated on your fanciest dishware and set on a vintage lace tablecloth. Next to them, the pile of turkey bacon that has become Buckyâs one modern obsession. A bouquet of spring blooms so big the vase is overflowing blocks out the sun from the window to cast wispy shadows over the table.
Your heart swells. âBuck! Youâre unreal! How long have you been up doing all of this?â
âIrrelevant.â
âThis is too muchâŠâ
âSâthe perfect amount, I think. Makinâ up for all the late nights and long missions youâve put up with,âhe noses your hairline and kisses where it meets the curve of your ear. Bucky reaches around your form and pulls out the chair with the handsewn seat cushion, motioning for you to claim it before settling into the banquette across from you himself.
âAnd where did these flowers come from? How did you manage to sneak these in here?â
âMet the delivery guy downstairs while you were still dreaming,â he reaches across to snatch your plate and fill it with all the things he knows you love, down to the pancake toppings, before repeating the process for himself.
You canât help the groan that slips out as the first bite touches your tongue.
âGood?â
âIâth delithith,â you mumble, mouth full.
ââŠTranslation?â
You swallow, washing the lump down with a swig of orange juice. âItâs delicious, I said. Did you get an email from the restaurant for tonight?â
âOur reservation is confirmed and I pressed my suit.â
âThe pinstripe one that makes me want to eat you alive?â
âThatâs the one,â he winks over the lip of his coffee mug.
âMan, do I love that suitâŠâ you muse, driving your fork into one of the berries before setting the utensil down entirely and circling back. âI still canât believe this you pulled all this off under my nose! I mean, I had everything planned out, bought the ingredients and everything.â
âThat explains why there was a Costco-sized pack of bacon in the fridge,â he shovels a generous helping of it onto his plate. âAnd why the pantry was so well-stocked.â
âYou love that stuff. Youâre such a carnivore, youâre like aâŠI donât know, a T-Rex.â
âOld as one, too,â Bucky quips.
Your poorly-timed sip of juice spews as you snort in laughter, pulling the liquid up into your nasal cavity. âAck! It burns!â you sputter and hiss as your eyes start to water. You continue to cough and hack and choke as Bucky all but lunges over the table with a napkin, howling in his own laughter with such intensity he turns red as the strawberries.
âAre you okay?!â
âI can taste my thoughtsâŠâ
He gazes at you with as much concern as adoration. âI love you.â
ââŠEven when I shoot orange juice out of my nostril?â
âEspecially then. And when you drool all over my shirt in your sleep and when you put on your clothes backwards or inside out. I love it all.â
The burning subsides, leaving your vision in a sort of dreamy haze perfectly suited to the occasion.
âI love you, too. Even when I find your arm in the dishwasher or trip over your massive boots in the entryway or when I wash your stinky, marinated mission laundry. And I am going to get to surprise you one of these days! Just you watch!â
Bucky just beams. âCanât wait. Happy anniversary to us,â he toasts.
after months of dealing with hate being targeted towards me and my friends, i can no longer bite my tongue and just hope that, through remaining silent on a specific topic, it will go away and fade to dust.
i and many others were hesitant post about this on tumblr, out of a genuine desire to not bring unnecessary issues onto the platform. but, at this point, it seems everyone has something to say about us, despite knowing quite literally 5% of the story and not seeing a single ounce of proof of the claims being made against us. so, since everyone else is allowed to speak, now it's our turn.
back in november, when my friends and i began to receive hate, two writers took it upon themselves to create a groupchat with a few other people, in which they discussed agreeing with the hateful asks we were receiving. this agreement quickly turned into them drafting possible hate to send to us. as though drafting hate to send was not enough, these writers even had the audacity to comfort some of us in our DMS about the hate we were receiving.
(context for the screenshots: 1 of the members of the hate groupchat confirming it's existence to me)
(context for the screenshots: 1) the creator of the groupchat sending me comfort for the hate i had received only hours before creating the hate groupchat. 2) a portion of me confronting them about the groupchat. 3) them admiting to the existence of that groupchat. there are many more messages to this conversation, these are only brief sections.)
(context for the screenshot: and exchange between me and the member of the hate groupchat who leaked and screenshared the groupchat to someone else in bwa)
so no, bwa did not create a groupchat to send hate to anyone, someone created a groupchat to send hate to us. and no, bwa did not send death threats to other writers, death threats were sent to us. we have shared countless screenshots in the past depicting the disgusting things that were being sent to our inboxes, and were then mocked by people for âplaying the victimâ. it is downright evil that the things people have done to us has somehow been spun into this lie where we are now the perpetrators.
i understand that to most of you this doesn't matter, that this is not important. and i agree, i really do. but this whole ordeal has reached a point well beyond us being slandered by people who simply don't like us. since november, i have watched my friends be put through incredibly distressing situations. death threats, rape threats, homophobia and racism are just a few of the things that have been sent into our inboxes and/or directed towards us through anonymous blogs. some people have deactivated, some people have received hate for simply daring to interact with us, some people have abandoned tumblr as a whole, and now we have been made aware that lies are being spread... and all of this is happening over fanfiction.
i'm aware that, in posting this, it's not going to change much. those who believe the vile, baseless, receiptless claims that have been made against myself and others will continue to do so. if anything, they will feel an even stronger sense of hatred. i don't expect people to care about this matter, because it's ultimately a lot more fun to be outraged at a group of strangers than it is to feel an ounce of sympathy for them.
i am not posting this for drama. if i wanted drama, i would have posted about this and tagged those involved the moment this all began back in november. i am posting this because 5 months of constant harassment is now bordering on stalker behaviour and, quite frankly, i no longer feel it's my job to "keep the peace" for the sake of not upsetting anyone.
being quiet has done nothing: we have continued to receive hate, and other writers are comfortably twisting the truth and accusing us of doing the vile things they did to us. this situation has extended beyond just "bwa", the entire community is now riddled with other tumblr users being spoken about horrifically.
everyone needs to lock in and remember that we are all here for the same reason: fanfiction. fanfiction is not a competition, it's not a race we all need to win. it's literally just a hobby. why are we treating it like it is a matter of life and death?
i donât really know how to end this post. i have so much more to say and share, yet i do not want to bring more harm to people, even if they themselves have carelessly hurt so many others. so, iâll end it by saying this: names have been kept hidden in the screenshots out of the scarcely remaining respect i have for the people who made that groupchat and out of hope everyone can just move on, once and for all.
tw!! death/suicide threats. if you've read this and are unaware of the extent of the hate myself and others have received (and are now wrongfully being accused of doing), this is a post i made addressing it back in november. this is nothing new.
genuinely how miserable do you have to be to hate on people online for writing about a fictional character
not even to mention the threats? literally crazy for fucking FANFICTION writers and some of this shit is illegal. let me repeat:
ILLEGAL
cyberstalking
sexual harassment
digital mobbing
just based off the small number of examples given in this post.
and one of the only reasons yall are hiding behind the anon feature is because you KNOW it is. that or you're just worried about the backlash you'd get for your comments. in that case, you're a coward.
there are so many better alternatives to hating on someone if you don't like them, like, i dunno, block them?
go outside. log off of tumblr. better yet, delete the app if you can't behave.
warnings; 18+ mdni, full filth and smut. bucky has a bush
a 761 word drabble of beefy!bucky who just loves how tiny and helpless his girlfriend looks in his arms while he's fucking her.
main masterlist | read more drabbles here.
there was nothing bucky loved more than watching his girlfriend stripped completely bare and pinned against his chest, bouncing helplessly on his lap as mewls and whimpers spilled from her pretty little lips.
âb-buckââ you cried, your neck arched back, allowing your head to press against him as you batted your lashes. âiâi canâtââ
âoh, you canât?â bucky taunted, one large, rough hand sliding from your waist up to your neck, pinning you in place. âbut youâre already doing such a good job for me, sweetheart. canât stop now.â
his hand tightened slightly around your throatânot enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.
bucky always loved hearing you gasp.
every single nerve was on fire as his thick cock slid in and out of you, leaving behind a wet, vulgar squelching noise with each hard thrust. every time you and bucky fucked, he always managed to stretch you out impossibly more. the initial burn of getting split open by him was always intense, but the pleasure afterward was incredibleâso great that you were left a mewling, crying mess in his arms. and he loved seeing you like this.
âfuuuck, baby,â he grunted, long strands of dark hair framing his face as he stared at you with blown out, hungry eyes. âso fuckinâ smallâso small in my arms, but you can take it. you always do.â
your head was dizzy with desire. the way bucky was looking at you, the way he held you against his big, warm body, it could make you cum right there in his lap. you felt like you were high on drugs. the entire room reeked of sex, sweat, and a masculine scent that was purely him.
âoh my godâ!â
bucky gritted his teeth, a snarl escaping him as he felt your walls clench around him. your bouncing was uneven and your legs were shaking. you were close. so fucking close, and bucky could feel every flutter and pulse your tight body had to give him.
âbucky, baby,â you gasped, eyes rolling back, âiâm getting close!â
sweat beaded down buckyâs forehead as his grip tightened on your hips, his face contorting at your admission.
âi know, sweets,â he groaned. âfuck. i know you are. shitââ
bucky started to grumble and groan, a telltale sign that he was nearing his own peak. his handsâalready rough and demandingâsqueezed and gripped you everywhere. his mechanical left arm whirred with the effort of holding back, trying to be gentle. his hips pounded up to meet yours, letting you feel the thick bulge of his lower stomach and the unkept hair at the base of his cock.
âfuuck, mph, ahâshit, baby.â
he cursed, mumbling incoherently under his breath. the sight of your ass bouncing against him as his thick cock slid in and out was enough to drive any man mad. bucky was glad pregnancy wasnât a concern, because he couldnât resist fucking you bare.
âshit, iâm gonna cum, sweets,â he groaned as you felt him twitch and throb inside you.
your moans rose in pitch, arching your back even more as you ground yourself onto his lap. your legs shook as your release finally consumed you. âfuckâiâm cumming, buckyâŠ!â
âgood girl,â he soothed approvingly, relishing the way you spasmed and clenched around him as you came undone. you let out a high squeal, crying out his name in a way that sounded like music to his ears.
âgooood fucking girl. squeezing all over me, baby. shit. gonna pump myself deep inside, and youâre gonna take every bit of it.â
his thrusts sped up, making you feel dizzy and overstimulated, and all you could do was mewl helplessly as he used you like a personal sex toy.
âfuckâtake every last drop, baby.â
both his handsâone cool and one hotâslid down to your hips, holding you tight against his lap as his hard cock pulsed and throbbed until he finally began to spill out. it was thick and warm, making your lower stomach feel sensitive.
bucky always came so much, and it was his personal duty to make sure you were always full of it. the only time he would pull out was when he finally saw his seed seeping out of you, dampening the dark curls at his pelvis.
he leaned back, taking in the debauched sight of you with a deep exhale. perfect. this was always so perfect.
âchrist,â his hand came down, giving your ass a firm squeeze. âlook at you. so dirty and all fucking mine.â
Im so sorry it took me a while to check my notifs on tumblr, HAPPY MUTUAL DAY FOR ME AND YOU MY DEAREST NOVAA (i love that name because one of my bestieâs name is nova too!) means weâre gonna be close too.. i know it.
Thank you for reading my fic, and can i say i love your whole theme vibe!! Reminds me of venus mcflytrap! If you know who she is hehe love youu
OH MY GOSH HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HAPPY MUTUAL DAY TO U TOOOOOOOO
we ARE going to be close i feel it too...
AND THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE MONSTER HIGH. VENUS MCFLYTRAP IS ACTUALLY MY FAV STFU (might have to change my pfp......)
