twenty two. black. loves pink, kdramas, gaming, (fictional) rich men, sewing, reading, fine dining and travel. tech girl by day, multi fandom fangirl by night.
moodboards. ୨୧ requests.
i only create moodboards, little to no writing here. i mainly reblog smut so eighteen plus only.
Simon Ghost Riley’s interests were a bit… different.
Not weird. Maybe nerdy? This is besides the rock collection he’s been building up since he was a kid, and besides the plethora of Lego sets he still loves to build (he doesn’t have shit else to blow cash on, why not?) and besides the knife collection—
Simon Riley has played this extremely adorable yet addicting puzzle game that has a very well known and loved mascots. He doesn’t even remember how he got into the game, but it’s been 3 years playing the game now and perhaps the collection of cute stuffed animals and stickers on his home laptop has— accumulated. Maybe too much
So when there’s a collab with his favorite video game at his favorite cafe, and with a strike of luck wins the raffle for players over level 100— of course Simon Ghost Riley is at the event!
And early at that.
Well— maybe he was sitting at the cafe near by. So stand off ish, in all black, mask on with a cap, no one could see the three collector item kitty cat keychains he had on. Too nervous to wait in line and look out of place, his knee bouncing up and down, phone clutched tight in his hand. Eyes stuck on the growing line, the cute pink, purple and blue’s of the decorations— he loved it. But could he really go in? By himself?
And he’s lucky you walk by, a little ditzy and absentminded, if you hadn’t so loudly gasped and asked if he was going to the cafe next door— someone probably would’ve asked him to leave the premises.
You slap your hand over your mouth, “Sorry, that was loud. But I saw the purple ticket on the table! You have to get in line to get a good seat like… now! Or all the influencers will take your spot.”
His ears burn red, scratching his hair, “Yeah, But… it’s a little-“
“—You like it, don’t you?”
Simon eyes widen a little, “Well, yeah.”
“Then you should enjoy it to the fullest! Dont worry about what other people think!”
And Simon doesn’t even fully register it all, you’re taking his hand and helping him up, “We can sit together! Double the fun when it’s two people, it’s true!” You give him that jaw dropping smile that has his stomach feel like it’s about to flip. A new reason to be nervous taking over.
But he’s thankful for how headstrong you are nonetheless, got a perfect seat by the window with you, got to try to new sweet treats and drinks while thankful the mask he had covering his face his mask to hide the amounts of times he gushed at the cute items and how cute you looked across from him, giggling and taking pictures with and for him. Got a bag full of new merch, a long with a friend to finally talk about his hidden hobby with.
a/n: alt ending where they… “get to know each other” in the car after the event, your face all pressed into his hoodie that smells like him and licking and biting up his neck while he helps you grind your hips against his hard on through his pants . Your panties creating a stain the more your roll your hips, can feel his chub poking you through your sticky folds, don’t even remember how he got that Jean skirt that went to your ankles off of you, but Simon likes how good you look a little disheveled, biting your lip as you say his name that’s still fresh to you in barley a whisper. And Simon can’t help but let out low groan after low groan, the way your ass feels in his calloused hands, how hot you look in that shirt of his favorite mobile game practically squeezing your tits, the way you keep pulling away from kisses to look into his dark brown eyes that match yours— you’ve got the man hooked.
dead dove do not eat, noncon, breaking in, frank is kinda mean, this is super short
Imagine neighbor!frank getting onto you about leaving your window unlocked and opened in the middle of the night. He puts your safety at top priority. Well, all you ever say is yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll close it.
And hes had fucking enough of it.
The next time you leave your window unlocked or opened, he climbs through and teaches you an important lesson about it.
His hand has a fistful of your hair with your hips raised high. You're crying and clawing at your sheets as he gives you, deep, painful thrusts.
Y'Dont ever listen to me. Stupid fucking girl. Bet you'll listen to me, now, huh?
TW: age gap, oral (male receiving), bodily fluids, mentions of w33d
Frank was always so helpful when you moved in down the road.
Making sure your lawn was manicured. Fixing up your car. Carries groceries into the house for you. Rolling joints for you because, "pretty hands like that aint meant for gardenin'."
What better way to thank him than inviting him inside for some iced sweet tea. He couldnt reisst when you look up at him with those doe eyes. So sweet and expectant.
"Have a seat! Make yourself comfortable. I'll be just a minute," you disappear into the kitchen with a sway of your hips.
He feels so out of place with all of this pink everywhere. But he cant help the slight stir in his belly when he smells your perfume.
He clears his throat and clenches his hands in fists as they sit on his thigh. "Hey umm sweetheart? You get lost in there?" He tries to make light of his own rapidly increasing anxiety. A part of him feels like youre doing it on purpose. Making him sit in a room surrounded by you. Your stuffed animals, throw pillows, fancy lamps, it was all too much. Suffocating him in what would possibly be the best way to go.
You emerge from the kitchen with tea, snack, and a cold bear for frank. "Figured you'd like this. Its my dad's favorite. Youre very...similar."
He swallows thickly and reluctantly accepts the beer. But you stand in between his spread legs and cup his bearded face, "youre so nice to me, frankie."
The nickname sent a jolt through him. "Just uhh, bein' neighborly."
You nod at him and tilt your head, "a huh. Young girl cant do it all on her own, right?"
Dont talk like that. Please dont make him sound so filthy. He knows how it sounds. But that doesnt stop it from being true.
That doesnt stop him from grabbing a handful of hair as your pretty lips wrap around his girthy cock.
"Sh-shit. Christ. Sweetheart."
The sight of you smearing your spit and his precum on your lips like lipgloss makes him accidentally cum on your face. He didnt even have time to warn you. :((
He scrambles to find something to clean your face off with. "Im sorry. Here. Let me-" he takes the bottom of his shirt and cleans your face with it. Hes taken aback when you just let out a cute giggle.
𝑺𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ─── after leaving chicago with mob money, smoke and stack open up their own juke joint in the mississippi delta. when cash starts running low, they call on a favor from an old friend. that same favor came with a price, and now smoke’s new job is to protect one thing mr. laveau loves most, his daughter.
꒰ bodyguard elijah “smoke” moore x spoiled!black female reader. time setting can be interpreted by you, profanity used, sexual tension, suggestive content, criminal themes, power dynamic, older!smoke, younger!reader — very much legal 21 and above, dominant!smoke, brat!reader, light possessiveness. ꒱
the summer heat was evident in the backroom of the juke joint, the air heavy with the remainder of last night’s activities. smoke and stack sat at a small table, peeling apart stacks of crumpled bills from the register. business was decent, couldn’t complain, but not nearly enough to keep up with the promises they made after skipping town with pockets full of mob money.
after hitting both the irish and italian mobs in chicago, they hightailed back down south with blood on their hands and a vision of owning something that was theirs. the juke joint was supposed to be that vision. but when the profits didn’t match the heat they were under, they reached out to an old acquaintance, mr. laveau.
mr. laveau was cut from the same cloth as any other black man, but he made a name for himself in the mississippi delta. people didn’t go to him unless they really needed to. still even with all the power he possessed. he couldn’t protect his daughter from everything, so he fronted smoke and stack a loan with one simple string attached — one of them would serve as his daughter’s personal bodyguard and that duty fell onto smoke.
“ain’t you supposed to be picking up lil miss right now?” stack asked, raising an eyebrow as he skimmed through the cash. smoke sucked his teeth and let out a low hiss, already irritated. “damn,” he muttered, pushing back from the table. “finish countin this for me, and don’t fuck up. you know damn well yo ass can’t count past ten without usin your fingers.” he pointed a serious finger in stack’s direction.
stack looked up, insulted. “nigga i can count the hell.” smoke didn’t bother arguing. he was already on his feet, grabbing his keys off the hook near the door. “be safe,” stack called after him. smoke nodded once, “always.”
by the time smoke made it across town to [ꪆৎ]’s house, the sun had started to set. his mind was tangled in thoughts of how to make it up to the girl, how to soften her disappointment, how to explain without sounding like he was making excuses.
he hated being late, especially with her. she wasn’t just some job or favor owed anymore. no, she was something else entirely. something that gnawed at him in his quiet moments and pulled at him more than he cared to admit.
the tires crunched over gravel as he pulled up to the laveau residence. the house stood tall and proud, just like the man who built it — gated, guarded, protected. he adjusted the collar of his shirt, wiped the sweat from his brow, and approached the front door like he had serious debt to pay.
the door swung open before he could knock, and there she was. standing there in dim lighting, arms crossed, lips pursed in a pout that could get her anything she wanted. the dress she wore was the color of warm strawberry cream, soft pink with a delicate texture. it hugged her body with purpose, the corset bodice sculpting her waist and lifting her chest just right, while the skirt flared out.
smoke leaned against the doorway, his eyes trailing down the length of her legs. those soft, thick thighs he remembered tracing with his eyes, countless of times, distracted.
he remembered when she first tried that dress on in the boutique, standing barefoot on the carpet, indecisive, per usual, with two different options in hand. she had walked out the dressing room twirling, asking him, “this one… or the other one with the slit?” and his only response was to toss both on the counter and pull out his wallet.
now, here she was standing in front on him. wearing the one she’d picked for the day, looking too fine and too proud for her own good. “you’re late,” [ꪆৎ] said, voice soft, but the pout on her lips and the disappointment laced in her tone cut deeper than anything loud ever could. smoke blinked, shoulders tightening as he looked at her. “i know,” he sighed, eyes softening with guilt. “i’m sorry, miss.”
[ꪆৎ] didn’t move. she just stared at him, slow-blinking like she was deciding whether or not to slam the door in his face. she wouldn’t. he knew that, but the possibility was still there.
“pa already left,” she said, finally stepping aside to let him in. “told me not to wait, but i did anyway.” smoke stepped inside, letting the cool air hit him, but it didn’t do much to ease the warmth crawling up his neck.
“i appreciate you waitin”, he said, glancing down at her again, the way her thighs brushed together as she turned, her scent lingering in the air — a hint of vanilla and something fruity he couldn’t put his finger on. “you look… real beautiful.”
[ꪆৎ] scoffed, soft but pointed, her back to him now as she reached for her small purse on the foyer table. “you only sayin that cause you late.” “i’m sayin it cause it’s true,” he replied, voice low, watching her from the corner of his eye. “and i apologize, should of been here earlier.”
she waved her hand, dismissing his apology. “you ain’t never been late before,” she said, stopping at the mirror near the door to check her makeup. she shook her head, “not this late.” smoke sighed, “we had a long night at the joint. stack was draggin his feet countin.” she turned toward him, giving him that look. the one that made his chest tighten and his mouth go quiet. “you should’ve left earlier. you know how my daddy feels about being on time.”
smoke nodded, taking the weight of her words. he stepped forward, just a little closer than polite. “i ain’t worried about what your daddy thinks,” he said. “i’m worried bout how you lookin at me right now.”
she tilted her head, arms folding once more across her chest — drawing the dress tight across her bust, the top straining dangerously close to slipping down the soft swell of her breasts. the motion was unintentional, but it still left an affect on him.
“and how’s that?” she asked, one brow raised, her voice laced with challenge. “like you wanna be mad,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to her chest before meeting hers again. “but you miss me just a little.”
her lips twitched, the pout threatening to soften. “i don’t miss you,” she said, turning to open the front door, but her voice had gone soft again, stinkingly sweet. “i just hate waiting.” smoke followed her out, his hand brushing the small of her back, lingering longer than he should’ve. the fabric was soft, but her skin beneath it was softer. “then i’ll make sure you don’t have to wait next time,” he said.
[ꪆৎ] glanced at him from the corner of her eye, “you better mean that, smoke.” he opened the passenger door for her, holding it with that quiet kind of care that said everything he couldn’t. “i do,” he said simply. and he meant it.
she sat into the passenger seat without a word, her legs crossing slow, deliberate. smoke rounded the hood, settling behind the wheel and starting the engine, but he didn’t pull off just yet. silence settled for a beat too long before she spoke.
“you know you don’t have to call me ‘miss,’ right?” her voice was soft but direct, eyes fixed ahead through the windshield, hands resting in her lap.
smoke glanced at her, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “and you don’t have to call me smoke.” that made her turn. just a little. enough to look at him from under her lashes, a faint smile threatening the edge of her lips. “well… i don’t know what else to call you,” she said, half teasing, half serious.
he shrugged, shifting the car into gear. “you’ll figure it out. i’m sure you got all kinds of names for me in that pretty little head.” she let out a quiet laugh, turning back toward the window, but the tension eased, for now.
“you were supposed to take me shopping,” she reminded him. “i had half the boutiques in town holding things”, a frown showed on her face. “i know,” he nodded, making the first turn onto the road. “and we still are. just got a little sidetracked.”
“you always got an excuse,” she huffed, crossing her legs slow like she wanted to be seen. knowing good and well her dress was sliding higher with every movement, showing more of those soft thighs he could never ignore.
smoke glanced at her, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. he knew her game. she wanted a reaction out of him, but he wasn’t the type to let her get her way just yet.
he cut his glance from her to focus on the rode. “you gon keep actin like that, or you gon let me make it up to you?”, he asked, voice low, laced with warning to check her attitude. she didn’t answer right away, just smirked to herself, fingers toying with the strap of her purse. “you lucky i’m still in the mood to let you spend money on me,” she said sweetly, like she hadn’t just tested his patience on purpose.
“not doin it cause i’m lucky,” he muttered, giving her another look, longer this time, letting his gaze linger on the fat of her thighs. “i’m doin it cause you deserve it. even when you sitting in my car with this fake pissy attitude.”
she didn’t say anything to that, just pressed her lips together, fighting a knowing smile, and turned to look out the window. that told smoke everything he needed to know. the rest of the ride hummed with quiet tension. not awkward, just thick. like both of them had more to say but neither one wanted to be the first to cave.
they pulled up to a boutique tucked between a flower shop and a record store, one of those high-end spots with blacked-out windows and gold-painted lettering that barely needed to advertise. everyone already knew who it catered to.
smoke killed the engine and turned to look at her, but she was already unbuckling her seatbelt, hand poised on the handle like she didn’t need him. still, he got out first and came around, opening her door like he always did. a gentleman, no matter her mood.
she hesitated for a second, just enough to make a point, then placed her hand in his. her fingers slid into his palm like they belonged there, soft and warm, with that quiet kind of confidence that always knocked him a little off balance.
smoke steadied her as she stepped out of the car, slow and smooth like she knew he was watching. the second she rose to her full height, her perfume hit him again. it wrapped around him thick, curling low in his gut and settling somewhere behind his zipper.
he clenched his jaw, eyes flicking away too late. the soft bounce of her body, the way her dress clung when she moved. every step she took made his self-control slip just a little more. his pants had already begun to tighten, his bulge pressing uncomfortable and obvious against his slacks, the effect of just being near her. and the worst part? she knew.
the way her gaze dropped for a second, and the slow curve of her smirk afterward? she didn’t need to say a damn thing.
no cars were in sight. the boutique was empty, just like it always was when she came. the owner knew better than to have customers hanging around when [ꪆৎ] laveau was in. she liked to browse in peace, and with her last name, peace was something folks were quick to make space for.
just as they crossed the threshold, smoke held the door open for her. “you gon behave in here?” [ꪆৎ] scoffed, brushing past him with a toss of her curls, hips swaying with purpose. “that depends. you gon show up on time next time?” her tone laced with sharpness. then she paused, just long enough to glance back at him.
“i ain’t no child,” she added, eyes narrowing slightly. “and i damn sure ain’t stack, so don’t talk to me like i am.” he just stood there for a second, watching her sway farther into the store.
he should've been annoyed. he should've put her in her place. but truthfully? he liked the way she said it, low, firm, with that little bite in her tone — damn near made him grin. he stepped up behind her, close enough for her to feel his presence. “you right,” he said, voice low and steady in her ear. “you ain’t no child.”
she froze for half a second, then kept walking like she hadn’t heard the change in his tone. as if just his tone didn’t make her wet. “and if i wanted to be round stack,” he added, following her with calm, measured steps, “i’d be back at the juke joint listenin to him count ones like they fives.”
[ꪆৎ] tried to hide her reaction. “i’m here with you,” he continued, watching the way her fingers skimmed over fabric. “so act like you know the difference.” she turned to face him then, dress she picked up in her hand. “is that you checkin me, smoke?” he tilted his head, eyes dragging from her face down to the hem of her dress. “nah. that’s me remindin you who you talkin to.” a beat of silence passed between them, hot and heavy like the mississippi air.
their moment of silence was interrupted as quick as it came. “miss laveau,” the girl behind the counter called, perking up. “everything you requested is in the back. i’ll set up your fitting room now.”
“thank you, baby,” [ꪆৎ] replied, her tone softening just enough to let her charm peek through. she turned back to smoke, gaze flicking down the aisle of mannequins and dresses. “make yourself useful.”
he didn’t say a word. just followed her as she moved from rack to rack, holding every dress she picked out. she held a champagne-colored dress up to her frame, studying herself in the mirror near the end of the row. “you gon stand there lookin, or help me pick?” she said smartly over her shoulder, not even glancing at him.
smoke stepped up behind her. he reached past her slowly, his hand brushing lightly against her shoulder as he plucked a deep red slip from the rack. it was cut low, short, made of silk, and left nothing for the imagination. something she could wear only for him.
“this one,” he said, holding it out. “fits that smart ass mouth.”[ꪆৎ] turned her head a knowing gleam in her eye. “you sure you can handle my mouth?” smoke met her gaze, unbothered, that lazy smirk working its way across his face. “i been doin just fine so far, ain’t i?” she rolled her eyes with a small huff, snatching the dress from his hand, but not before their fingers brushed. [ꪆৎ] grabbed two more pieces on her way to the fitting room.
smoke watched her go, brown eyes trailing her figure the whole way down until the velvet curtain swished behind her. “you need anything, miss laveau, just holler,” the shopgirl called after her. “i’ll be alright,” [ꪆৎ] yelled back.
smoke exhaled slow, dragging a hand down his face as he leaned against the nearest wall. the boutique was still and quiet again, except for the hum of the AC and the faint rustle of fabric behind that curtain.
she hadn’t even been in there thirty minutes. and already, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to keep playing it cool.
sevyn’s note: i didn’t feel like writing a smut scene, just know the poor girl that works at the boutique would of been traumatized 🤭. expect more smoke fics and i hope yall enjoyed, feedback is welcome <3.
Thinking bout Simon's truck being so big he has to lift you up by the waist to get you inside every time. The thing is, you can't even reach the fucking handle, so you don't bother trying to get in anymore after failing miserably a couple of times. His Ford's just impossible to get into gracefully.
So, you simply wait by the door, standing there pretty and patient until he's towering behind you, and you feel the warmth of his tattooed arms effortlessly scooping you up to sit your ass on the seat.
It's actually funny because you're perfectly capable of getting in yourself, but over time you started doing it on purpose. He'd never tell you that, but he knows it too. The way your face lights up every damn time you wait for him gives you away immediately. Still, he'd never dare ruin your little game.
"Si, come pick me up, please?"
You stood in front of the monster he drove until you heard the door to your house click shut and his heavy boots against the driveway.
You didn't even bother to turn around. The low, amused huff that left Simon told you everything you needed to know.
The car unlocked with a click.
"Y'know," he drawled, coming to a stop behind you, "for someone who runs their mouth as much as you do, you're awful helpless, love."
A grin tugged at your lips as you felt his hands settle on your hips, giving them a light squeeze.
"Mhm."
He snorted.
"Such a fuckin' brat."
One second your feet were planted firmly on the ground; the next, they were kicking in the air as he hauled you up against his warm chest. A squeal escaped you before you could stop it.
"Simon!" You grabbed onto his forearms.
"What?" His voice was full of that stupid satisfaction he got whenever he managed to get a reaction out of you. "Thought you wanted me to help." He murmured close to your ear, sending shivers through your body.
You loved how easy he made it look and hated how your stomach flipped every time.
But fuck, what you loved most was being manhandled by him.
By the time he set you down on the passenger seat, your face was all warm.
His hand lingered on your thigh for a second longer before he stepped back.
You narrowed your eyes. Simon looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"Creep."
"Got in the truck, didn't ya?"
You pouted.
"Buckle your seatbelt!" Simon barked out a laugh and shut the door.
"You fuckin' buckle my ass," you huffed under your breath.
"You're gonna be so good for me aren't you, baby?" You cooed as you cupped Simon's cheeks. Thumb rubbing over the scarred flesh while his eyes glazed over. Going over your instructions in his head. Only snapping out of his daze when you lightly slapped his cheek.
"Won't you."
Simon quickly nodded. Red in the face. Blushing in the adorable way that made you grin.
"My good boy... see you in a few weeks. Don't forget."
He wouldn't. He never did.
It was only a few days before you were sent the video. Phone pinging right as you were about to get into bed. Snuggling beneath your blankets as you opened the message.
Your beautiful big man. Fumbling nervously as he set his phone up. Glancing around the room as he did. Your challenge for him this time was to leave the door open.
Simon was so cute as he prepared. Large fingers struggling with the tape. Cursing quietly when he accidentally drizzled lube onto his nice gloves. Still looking at the doorway as he undressed.
By now he was clearly a little desperate. Discarding only half his gear before hurrying to the table. Groaning low and horribly needy as he slid his already hard cock into the fleshlight taped to the table. The silicone stretching to its limits around him. Poor thing, it must be so tight. By the way his eyes rolled back he must struggling to hold back. You had even let him cum the night before he left, the pup was so needy all the time.
Simon gasped into the mask. Lube coating his cock as he rutted into the toy. Getting more frantic before quickly pulling out and stepping away. Pacing across the room as he panted. Cock bouncing between his legs. Such a good boy. That was a close one.
He did this a handful of times. Hands shaking, moving from his hips, to his cock, to the table. Unsure where best to place them to steady himself.
"Fuck... please." He begged and your heart warmed. Watching the puppy beg for you even across the world made you miss him even more. "I wanna... 'm so close, Ma."
He only called you that when he was really gone. Completely out of it and still following the rules. You'd definitely reward him plenty when he got home.
By the time he was done he was trembling. Thick thighs barely able to keep him up. Leaning on the table as his throbbing cock hung heavy between them. Dripping with lube and precum.
Simon may have forgotten to take to mask off, but you could still tell he had been crying. Pretty dark eyes wet and desperate in the grainy video. Mask soaked down his cheeks. Probably had been drooling as well.
Then he diligently got to work cleaning up. Removing the toy and wiping down the table. Letting you get a good look as his flushed cock before tucking it into the waistband of his pants. Hissing through his teeth at how sensitive he was. Those eyes you loved so much the last thing you saw as the video ended.
You gave it a minute, knowing he was sitting there staring at his phone. Leg bouncing while he waited for your approval. Your praise. Then finally you texted back.
"Such a good boy. I miss you, and I love you. Stay safe, puppy. <3"
Few times in your life have you truly fought with your husband, simon riley.
Tonight is one of those nights.
"Simon, you fucking crossed a line! That is unacceptable!" You had told him two days ago after finding out he's put a tracker on you and has been sharing your location with his work buddies. That was your first big fight since the wedding.
Which leads you to now, fluffy comforter and favorite pillow in hand while you glare at the couch.
You didn't want it to come to this. You had hoped refusing cuddles and referring to him solely as "simon." Instead of your usual pet names would get the point across how serious this is. But ghost refused to budge.
So, you're sleeping on the couch. Because as pissed off as you are at simon and as much as you want to tear his face off, some silly part of you aches at the thought of him hurting his back sleeping on the couch.
So, you go tuck in and try to ignore how weird it feels not to have a warm body next to you.
When you wake up, you nearly trip over your husband sleeping on the floor by the couch.
"What— simon! What the hell—" all anger you'd initially feel is destroyed when you look closer at the wet lines down the scars on his face, the red tint around his eyes.
Oh. You've....You've never actually seen ghost cry.... not since the wedding.
"Please don't leave me love–" are the first choked words out of his mouth, not even awake for a minute and already shifting closer to you "ahm' sorry. I'm sorry, I just— i can't lose you. If— if something happens to me I—"
"Woah. Woah, hey, slow down si" You attempt to soothe, because pulling him up onto the bed. "I'm pissed off. You know that. But I'm not leaving you. What's going on?"
Ghost breathes for a second, looks at the window instead of you. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and raw "if I get captured. If I'm— compromised. The team needs to be able to find you. Keep you safe. I can't always be here."
Oh....oh.
The conversation that followed was long, painstaking, but necessary. You and simon struck a tentatively compromise, both mentally exhausted from it all. You could tell he was struggling not to shut down.
"....come to bed with me? I missed your cuddles last night." You smile, only to gasp and laugh when simon bodily hauled you over his shoulder to drag you to bed.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s 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: 8.6k
part one - part three - masterlist
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, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: part two is here!! I don’t think I’ve written this many words since my 1D fanfic days lol. good news is I’m on vacation now so the writing will be flowing! I wouldn’t mind an ask or prompt about these two either 😏 hope you enjoy lovelies
December arrives suddenly. With it comes your winter break.
You spend most of it staying up late, indulging in mindless scrolls and shitty TV, and sleeping in until the afternoon. It’s lazy, self-serving and irresponsible, but it’s healing something childlike within you that hasn’t gotten attention since your mom passed.
Bucky understands this, but it doesn’t mean he likes it.
“I’m giving my brain a break,” you tell him for the third time, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you make a fresh cup of coffee at four in the afternoon.
“You’re becoming nocturnal,” Bucky replies sternly on the other end.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Sunlight’s good for a person.”
‘I’m looking at sunlight right now.”
“Sunset,” he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.
“Oh, whatever,” you dismiss. “It’s not like it’s forever — I promise I’ll go back to a normal person’s sleep schedule after the new year.”
“I don’t like waiting around all day to hear from you.”
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you say, gentler. “I don’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“I know,” he sighs, resigned. “It’s just boring without you.”
You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. “You know what’s not boring?”
“What?”
“Malibu.”
He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.
“Alright,” he relents. “Fine. But when we get back, you’re gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. I’m tired of eating lunch alone.”
“Ok, grandpa. I promise.”
He picks you up an hour later when you’re still zipping up your suitcase, dressed like a Tom Ford ad with a cashmere scarf and designer pea coat draped over him, face appropriately disgruntled but eyes bright with adventure as he holds the car door open for you. By six, you’re buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, you’re touching down at Santa Monica Airport.
Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Bucky’s house in Malibu boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Pacific, a waterfall pool set to the perfect temperature, and a large back deck to soak in the sun while eating breakfast. Bucky scrolls the morning news on his phone, shades on and shirt unbuttoned to his naval, while you sip mimosas and try not to stare.
That’s a difficult ask when you’re finally getting an unobstructed view of the chest hair that teased you so long ago.
The first day, you hop in his vintage convertible and drive up the coast to his sprawling vineyard. He gives you a tour of the grounds while you catch a buzz taste testing all the wines he’s made. You’re flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Bucky’s smile seems like a permanent fixture on his face. Dinner is a seafood feast at a small restaurant right off the beach, where the owner welcomes Bucky like a son and calls you stunning at least five times. The night ends with a glass of wine in front of the moonlit ocean, curled up on a blanket with oversized sweatshirts to block the wind. Whispers back and forth about childhood dreams and failed first kisses; favorite books and most embarrassing moments. You feel light as a feather by the time you float off to bed, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine settling deep in your chest.
The next day, Bucky rouses you from your sleep before the sun’s fully up, claiming you “need the practice” and muttering that it’s already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When you’re finally up, the two of you walk the beach with the rest of the early risers, sipping travel mugs of extra strong coffee and making fun of runners who stumble through the sand.
The ocean’s coming alive at this time of day, and for a few minutes, the two of you stop to watch it do its thing. Waves crash, shells tumble. Not far from the coast, dolphins jump through the air, chasing fish and playing.
It’s the calmest your mind and heart have been in ages, and the feeling makes you smile, face tipped up toward the sun. When Bucky reaches for your hand, you thread your fingers through his and squeeze.
Later, you take a dip in the pool while Bucky makes a work call. The sun beats down on your skin relentlessly like it’s never heard of winter. You’re starting to doze on your floating lounge chair when you hear a small splash, and waves lap at your skin. You push your sunglasses up and look around.
Bucky breaks through the water at the other end of the pool. You blink at him.
When he spots you, a wicked smile crosses his face. Before you can say a word, he’s ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.
“Bucky—“
You’re tossed overboard, the sound of Bucky’s laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. He’s still laughing when you emerge, drenched and in disbelief. You answer his laugh with a sharp splash right to the face, scowling. His smile turns evil after he shakes the water from his eyes.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.”
You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.
You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but he’s got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.
You’re sputtering when you come up, but it’s game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but he’s immovable to your touch. Wasting no time, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you several feet across the water. You launch another attack when his head’s turned, coming up from behind and wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down with you. He goes willingly this time, but his hands maneuver you easily so that you’re thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but he’s got an unbreakable grip across your legs; he carries you through the shallow end while you whine about unfairness, fists beating at his back. He crosses the deck quickly and suddenly, you’re airborne.
Until you smack the water in the deep end.
You gasp for air when you come up. “You’re a fucking bully,” you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. “You win.”
“You started it,” Bucky lifts his hands helplessly. Then, without warning, he gives you his best smile before cannonballing directly next to you. You scream as another wave of water brings you under.
You have half a mind to shove him back down when he reemerges, but his unbridled laughter is possibly one of the greatest sounds you’ve ever heard in your entire life. You greedily take in the arch of his neck as he throws his head back, and the way his nose scrunches in delight.
After he accepts your white flag, he helps you to the wall, a hand on your back pushing you gently. He hoists himself out first, and suddenly the water in your nose isn’t the only thing making it difficult for you to breathe.
Rivulets trail down his broad back, emphasizing the isolated muscles used to push himself up. They’re large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you can’t look him in the eye. The front of him is downright obscene, a replica of any Greek sculpture you can think of. And with his hair slicked back, swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, and the chest hair on full display— the chest hair—
He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision — like lick the water from his chest.
Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. He’s placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Bucky’s chatty tonight, talking about work, talking about the vineyard, talking about old friends from college. You only absorb every other word, too busy sneaking lingering glances when he’s not looking.
His posture is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it, and his phone — his usual stressor — is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesn’t bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says he’s right where he wants to be. Like he could do this for the rest of his life.
But all good things must come to an end eventually.
New York is a tundra wasteland when you return. Your timing was impeccable because you just missed the biggest snowstorm of the season. Bucky’s grumbling about the cold the minute you step onto the tarmac, drawing the collar of his coat around his ears despite the car idling thirty feet away.
The drive into the city goes by too quickly. Malibu fades more into a memory with each mile you put between you and the plane.
You think you must be sleep-deprived and jet lagged, because when Bucky presses a parting kiss to your forehead once you’re in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. You’re out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.
But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, you’re missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. It’s not exhaustion that brought the tears — it’s longing. Heavy, irrational, unfiltered longing.
You force yourself to take a nap anyway.
Eventually, the holidays are here, and Bucky gets into the spirit by sparing no expense.
Two days before Christmas, he rents out the entire top floor restaurant of a skyscraper and presents you with a solid gold, heart-shaped locket in the middle of the quiet, candlelit room. It’s vintage, it’s supposedly priceless, and it’s everything you never knew you wanted but now can’t live without. You’re stumbling over your thank yous as he helps you put it on. His fingers are warm and confident as he hooks the clasp, and trail down your neck unintentionally as you turn, giving you goosebumps.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. That’s all you need to hear. You can’t help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.
He’s over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collector’s album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And it’s something you purchased with your own meager savings — you know you didn’t have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what he’s given you.
Later that night, when you’re getting ready for bed at your own apartment, you take the locket off and unclasp it.
It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.
Despite the incredible night, your heart can’t help but sink.
You don’t know what you were expecting — Bucky’s hardly the type to put a photo of himself in a locket, he barely looks in the mirror in the morning. But something inside of you was obviously hoping for it. A small sign of possession. Of claiming this relationship, no matter how it started or what it’s defined as.
You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through what’s real and what’s imagined.
Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. It’s an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you don’t have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.
Bucky’s unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. It’s a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. You’re not sure where he is, or if he’s with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you haven’t asked, and he hasn’t volunteered that information yet.
But as the day goes on and you still haven’t heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.
Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoever’s taking up all his time, time that’s normally dedicated solely to you?
You’re probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and it’s turning you inside out. Your usual detachment tendencies are nowhere to be found, instead making room for a frantic need to confirm his existence. You have to battle with the urge to call him three different times before your aunt gives you a stiff hug and heads out.
Once it’s just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. You’re ringing him before you know it.
He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he answers, voice hushed.
“Hi,” you say. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart. How’s your aunt?”
“She’s good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.”
He chuckles. “Sounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.”
“I know. She’s trying, at least. She just left, actually…how’s your Christmas?”
“It’s good.”
There’s a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
“Good,” you croak. “I-I’m glad. I was afraid you’d spend it in the office.”
“Even I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.”
Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. “Hey, some of us didn’t have a choice.”
“I know,” his chest rumbles, “but now you do.”
“I don’t have a job, Bucky.”
“So you can take as many days off as you want.”
You giggle. “I don’t think it works like that.”
“It works whatever way you want it to, doll—“ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A woman’s voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like you’ve been dropped into the Hudson. “Hey, listen, I gotta go,” Bucky says, low and rushed. “But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? We’ll do something. Don’t sleep in.”
Your mouth’s open to reply but he’s already hung up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes black. Lucky jumps off the couch next to you, disappearing into the other room and leaving you to deal with your new fears alone.
Bucky makes good on his promise to call you the next morning. In a strange twist of events, you wake up early, probably because you were tossing and turning all night after the abrupt end to your call.
“Hey, doll,” he says cheerfully.
“Hey,” you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.
“Feel like ice skating today?”
Famous last words.
Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and you’ve tired of grumbling at Bucky about how effortless he is at skating, you stare down over the city from his penthouse windows. He has the fireplace lit, Christmas tree lights on, a Bing Crosby carol playing on the vinyl; your hands are wrapped around a hot tea, its steam warming your face. It’s peaceful and serene.
Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.
“Whatcha thinking about?”
Your mind conjures up the phone call, the woman’s voice on Bucky’s end.
You smile. “That I missed my calling as a figure skater.”
Bucky’s laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.
“I was thinking the same thing. You could’ve had a gold medal by now.”
“A dream deferred.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Bucky reaches for you, pulling you closer by the hip. You can smell his cologne again, and it momentarily deprives you of all other senses.
“I had fun today,” he tells you. “Skating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldn’t tell you the last time I went.”
You hum and look up at him. “What made you think of it, then?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. “I guess I was feeling nostalgic.” He meets your eyes. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Thank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.”
He scoffs. “You were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.”
“Sure. But let’s save that for next year when there’s a better chance that people don’t remember me.”
“Whatever you say, doll.” He pauses. “What are you doing for New Years?”
You blink. “Oh, uh — nothing, I guess.”
His head tilts. “Up for another fancy party?”
Five days later, you’re draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Bucky’s hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board member’s hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word he’s saying.
When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. “Having a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.“
“The nerve of him,” you whisper back. He sends you a wink before leading you to the other side of the room.
Before the end of the night, Bucky gives a speech to the partygoers. He thanks everyone for coming before humbly acknowledging the company having another record-breaking year. Cheers erupt all around; everywhere you look, people are smiling at him with respect and admiration. Bucky calls out a few people in particular for exemplary performance, then reminds everyone to arrange for rides home before cracking a joke about who will be the first one in HR’s office after tonight.
He’s charming, he’s magnetic, he’s impossible to look away from. And when he steps off stage and heads directly for you, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest.
During the countdown to midnight, Bucky has you pressed against his side, eyes twinkling as they take in the room. Meanwhile, you’re barely breathing, desperately wondering if Bucky will respect the age-old tradition of a kiss to ring in the new year. Just as the clock hits twelve, and you turn your face to his, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips to your forehead. Gentle, steady.
And not at all what you wanted.
“Happy New Year, honey.”
You exhale softly. “Happy New Year, Bucky.”
It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.
After the party’s ended, you agree to go back to Bucky’s. He’s rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; you’re bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he says.
“Of course. It was a really beautiful party.”
“Agreed. I’m looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.”
You laugh. “You know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.”
Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. “They’re good people.”
“I think you’re good people.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I also think you don’t give yourself enough credit,” you continue softly, voice lowering. “You work hard, you fight for things that’ll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. They’re lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.”
His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, they’re wide, vulnerable. “Thank you,” he whispers.
You shoot him a shy smile. “You’re welcome.”
Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Bucky’s gaze is drawn to the time.
“Christ,” he swears, “it’s already three. Think it’s time for bed.”
You follow him toward the bedrooms, fighting off yawns; he turns to you in front of his door, sleepy smile already stretched across his face. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning the handle.
A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.
“Bucky?” you blurt out.
He turns.
“Yeah?”
“Can I, uh — can I sleep…in your bed? With you?”
Bucky’s silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. You’re looking everywhere but at him.
“Just for tonight, I — um, I just mean, it’s a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with people…You totally don’t have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a line—“
“Sweetheart.”
Bucky holds the door to his room open, standing aside to allow you to pass. Your mouth opens and closes without a sound, but you scamper by him when he raises an eyebrow. The lights are off, the bed made; you unfold it together, like you’ve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.
Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the other’s features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; there’s only a few inches of space between you — it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.
“Thank you,” you whisper to him. A soft smile flits across his face. Wordlessly, he reaches out and curls two fingers around yours, then his eyes flutter shut.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”
You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, you’re free to stare. You drink him in, every inch you can see, from the strands of hair falling in his face to the outlines of his legs underneath the sheets. You wish you could see all of him, every freckle, every line, every angle, so you can greedily commit it to memory. So you can be one of the lucky few to have known Bucky Barnes so intimately.
It isn’t lust, it isn’t want —it’s something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.
You’re eventually lulled to sleep by the pulse in his wrist beating against yours.
January is cold and brutal. February is no better. March finally brings a taste of the sun, but you’re too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Bucky’s there to drag you out the door.
With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Bucky’s invites to dinner, or a show, or another charity gala. The guilt and pressure cut so deep after you say no that you burst into tears as soon as you get off the phone with him.
To his credit, Bucky doesn’t push — he’s your number one champion for you getting your degree — but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and you’ve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the woman’s voice on Bucky’s phone. It’s like your brain is punishing you for overworking it day in and day out, pushing nasty propaganda about losing him to a faceless woman as you try to fall asleep.
Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You live off of electrolytes, coffee and takeout that Bucky has delivered to your apartment. You’re too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. It’s a very isolated existence.
Bucky comes by when he can, bearing groceries and ibuprofen and looking larger than life in your little one bedroom flat.
When he’s with you, he shows absolutely no signs of there being another woman in his life, patiently listening to your complaints about thesis formatting and unproved data formulas, gently making you eat after you’ve paced a ditch into your floorboards, holding you close on the couch until your body finally relaxes.
But your brain is a vengeful motherfucker. It torments you for choosing school over Bucky in between writing papers and compiling research. It convinces you that he’s faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that he’s cozied up at dinner with someone new, working his effortless charm on your replacement while you sit at home in the dark with your textbooks.
Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.
Now, a sane person would pick up the phone and talk to him about it. But you’ve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so — naturally — you decide to show up at his home.
It’s half past midnight when you stumble out of the elevator into his dark penthouse. You bump into a side table as you struggle to find the light switch, sending it to the floor with a crash that could wake the dead, i.e., Bucky. Sure enough, you hear his bedroom door open and the sound of feet rounding the corner. The light flips on.
“What the fuck?”
He’s wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part — your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.
“H-hey,” you say weakly.
He says nothing, a tense moment passing between the two of you, before he crosses the room and pulls you into his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Are you okay?” He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.
“N-no, I’m f-fine. Just c-c-cold.”
He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” he breathes against your hair. “I thought you were asleep.”
Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. “I t-tried, but…I m-missed you.”
Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.
“I missed you, too.”
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whisper.
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re here.” He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. “Did you — did you walk here?”
You have the grace to look guilty.
“Fuck,” he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, “don’t ever do that again. I don’t want you walking around the city alone at this time of night — either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You don’t walk. Do you hear me?”
The tone of his voice is new and startling to your already-vulnerable psyche. Tears spill over before you can stop them. He exhales deeply, hands coming up to cup your face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. You just…scared me.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, sniffling.
“Says the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.” His eyes search your face. “What’s going on?”
Your lip trembles. ”I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Shhh. Tell me what’s wrong,” he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.
“It — it’s stupid…”
“It can’t be if you came all this way. Just tell me.”
He waits in silence for you to answer. You struggle to find the words, sifting through scraps of explanations while your head and your heart duke it out.
“…I guess I was…afraid,” you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.
“Afraid of what, sweetheart?” His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.
“Of…losing you.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
You take a sharp, rattling breath. “I keep saying no to doing things with you because I’m so worried about school, and I — I haven’t made any effort at all to make up for it. We’ve barely seen each other in weeks — I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that you’d see that I was choosing school over you and…y-you’d get tired of me, or want someone else…”
For the longest minute of your life, he says nothing. You watch as a thousand different emotions cross his face, from anger to sadness to relief. He settles on a blend of happy and pained, jaw clenching but eyes calm as ever. Bucky brings you closer, leaning his forehead against yours.
“Sweetheart, you’re not losing me.” He speaks softly, melodically. “I told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. I’m so damn proud of what you’re doing, it makes every second I’m not with you worth it.”
He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. It’s warm, tender, almost pleading.
“And I could never get tired of you, even if we go days, or weeks, or months without seeing each other. You bring so much joy to my life just by being in it. Just by being you. Why would I ever want anyone else?”
In the back of your mind, you know you’re sobbing, but you don’t care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you weren’t wrapped up in Bucky’s arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Bucky’s hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. His lips brush your hair in a soft kiss.
The other floodgate cracks open, as inevitable as the sun rises. This time, you don’t fight it — you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after they’ve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Especially when Bucky’s holding you through it.
He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. “Come on,” he says gently, “let’s get you warmed up.”
He steers you into his bathroom, turning on the shower and placing a hoodie and boxers next to the sink. He leaves you to it, and you spend a good amount of time scrubbing at your face and regaining feeling in your limbs.
When you open the bathroom door, drowning in his clothes and smelling like his soap, he’s waiting for you, dressed in a hoodie of his own. A tiny part of you mourns the loss of seeing his skin. He helps you climb into his bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you settle against the pillows. He flicks the light off before sliding in beside you, shuffling over until his cold toes touch yours, and his hand slides down your wrist and grabs your arm, pulling you in to close the distance between you.
A faint noise escapes you as you tuck your head against his shoulder. You’ve never been this close to him before — it feels like coming home after a long time away.
You’re drifting off in minutes, Bucky’s arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”
When you receive the email that late April morning, you’re lying in Bucky’s bed scrolling on your phone. Even though Bucky left for work hours ago, you have a habit of drawing out your mornings from the comfort of his king mattress. As soon as you get the notification, your heart stops. You shoot up quickly, opening the email with shaky fingers, and read.
On behalf of the faculty and administration, we extend our sincere congratulations on the successful completion of your Master’s degree in Business Analytics.
This message serves as official confirmation that your degree has been conferred. Your academic achievement reflects a high level of dedication, discipline, and commitment to your field of study…
You scream before erupting into a fit of laughter, scrambling out from under the covers to jump on the bed until your legs give out. You fucking did it.
Breathless, you collapse onto the bed, immediately dialing Bucky. He picks up in one ring.
“Your ears must’ve been burning ‘cause I’ve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arou—”
“Bucky. I did it. I got the email.”
Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, “That’s my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew you’d do it.”
“Thank you, Bucky — I-I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nah, that was all you, smarty pants.”
You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.
“It doesn’t feel real,” you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel different or what.”
“That’s because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isn’t out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. That’s when it will sink in.”
Your smile grows. “I like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?”
There’s a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.
“Actually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.”
You know that tone. You sit up straight.
“Bucky. What are you planning?”
You’ve never seen water so blue in your entire life. Not even the beaches of Positano hold a candle to the sea surrounding the Maldives.
Bucky offers you a hand as you step out of the car. You take it gratefully, squeezing tightly just to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real.
“Welcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. We’re so happy you could join us here.”
Bucky pulls you close, an arm slung over your shoulders, as the guide takes you across the grounds and to the docks where several large huts are built over the turquoise water. He shows you to the door of yours and Bucky’s villa, prattling off the agenda Bucky’s already set with the staff. You just barely register the words “snorkeling” and “private dinner” while you wander. It’s a long structure with an open concept, you can just see the end of the bed past the dining table; all of the walls are windows that are open to let in the breeze; on the far end, a large sundeck faces the ocean.
Bucky speaks with the guide while you weave in and out of the rooms. Two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a pool, and one bed. A small smile stretches across your face as your fingers brush over the comforter.
“What do you think?”
You turn, finding Bucky leaning against the wall across from you. Your smile grows and you let out a squeal, scrambling up and over the bed in your hurry to wrap your arms around him.
He smiles back, crushing you to him. “I’ve never heard that sound from you before. I’m guessing you like it?”
“Bucky — I love it. This place is a dream!”
“Glad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Master’s, huh?”
You laugh. “Way better than Minetta.”
The celebrations start with — of all things — a nap, because the twenty-four hours of traveling catch up to you once the adrenaline wears off. You stretch out on the bed next to Bucky, his hand carding through your hair, feet dangling over the edge, the sound of the ocean lulling you to sleep.
You feel like you’ve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hair’s all over the place in the most endearing way possible, so you reach up and muss it up even more; he grabs your wrist and holds it tight, warning you that you’ll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.
The sun’s just kissing the horizon when you head toward the beach, where another member of the resort staff escorts you to a private table set up for dinner. You sit through six courses of the freshest seafood and sweetest fruit you’ve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.
At the end of the meal, after you can’t eat another bite of the desert, he pulls out a small black velvet box. Inside is a pair of earrings of your birthstone, shined till they gleam. You give him an earful for buying these when he’s already brought you here, but he smiles through it until your chastising turns into an endless stream of gratitude.
The next morning begins with a huge breakfast spread out on the sundeck, where Bucky insists on sunscreen first thing. You laugh at him for his responsible antics, but when you take turns putting it on each other’s backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasn’t touched before, you can’t think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.
Bucky looks like God’s gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesn’t bother to button, like it’s his birthright, like he was made to do it. You’re thankful for the heavy tint on your sunglasses concealing your wandering gaze.
Later, the two of you set off on a private yacht tour of the islands. You sit leaning against him on the front of the ship, pointing out dolphins that flip through the air and waving at passing boaters. With the roar of the wind and the motor, Bucky has to lean down and speak directly into your ear so you can hear him, and every time his lips brush your skin, you’re melting further and further into him.
You know you’re not being as subtle as you’d like — a small voice in your head wonders if he notices.
Dinner is back at the villa, where a private chef prepares choice cuts of steak and lobsters the size of your arm. The chef is entertaining, cracking jokes and flipping knives, and as you laugh through his horrible impression of Gordon Ramsay, you catch Bucky watching you from the corner of your eye.
He smiles shyly when he sees he’s caught, but he doesn’t look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you don’t know the name of.
That night, you’re facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. You’re raving about the miles of rainbow coral you saw when Bucky reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger longer than necessary, much longer than appropriate, and it takes everything you have to keep going like his touch didn’t just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face — it could be from exhaustion, or it could be from something else.
You try not to let your mind spiral into the possibilities.
But when he has you cuddled close to his chest, just like every other night, you can hear his heart pounding through his thin t-shirt.
The rest of your week in paradise is a balance of dream-like activities and tension-filled moments. One minute you’re snorkeling, the next, Bucky’s undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute you’re learning how to sail, the next, Bucky has you laid out on his chest, every inch of you on him as you take a nap in the sun.
You tell yourself that this is just Vacation Bucky, that nothing’s changed for him when it comes to what this arrangement is.
But his eyes follow you everywhere, he follows you everywhere, a hand lingering near your skin at all times.
It’s enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.
You’re getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Bucky’s already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while you’ve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesn’t quite connect with the frame; instead, a sliver of space is left open, just enough that, when you reach to close it all the way, you can see Bucky moving about the room.
The idea arrives unbidden, and it makes your stomach swoop low. Do it, the devil on your shoulder urges. The angel on the other shoulder stays silent.
You wait until he’s directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“Remind me what we’re doing for dinner again.” There’s a brief pause.
“We’re heading inland,” Bucky says. You think he sounds like he’s directly behind you.
Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose — they crumple to the floor.
“Do you know what they’re serving?”
Then you turn to the side, reaching up to untie the knot at the back of your neck; slowly, your bikini top slinks down your torso, exposing your breasts to the warm, night air.
You want to look — you really, really want to look — but you know you can’t. You can’t risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if he’s not looking? What if he’s done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? You’re not sure how you’d be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when you’re bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.
You realize that Bucky hasn’t said anything.
“Bucky?” you call out, reaching to undo the last of the ties, and the bikini top lands on the bottoms, leaving you completely naked before the crack in the door.
“Yeah,” you hear. Low, rough, distracted.
Don’t fucking look—
“The food,” you reply, forcing an amused smile. “Do you know what it is? I don’t think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.”
There’s a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. “You’ll be fine.”
His words sound final; you think you hear the slide of the door leading out to the water. You bite your lip before turning for the shower. The boldness you were feeling before is quickly shrinking into nothing, leaving you with an empty feeling in your stomach and a knot of guilt in your chest.
Back in the room, Bucky nowhere in sight, you sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your chest, damp hair clinging to your skin.
“Fucking idiot” you whisper to yourself. You think you might actually be insane. Or tremendously stupid. Or both. Who tries to seduce their best friend, their supportive, respectful, gorgeous best friend, with a fucking strip tease?
The words are like a knife to your chest as you sit with them. It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and it’s right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.
…but are you?
Your mind replays every crooked smile he’s sent you, every dirty joke he’s laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. You’re analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.
Because you sure as hell do.
It’s no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. You’re fucking head over heels for him.
But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You can’t tell him. Not without risking everything — and you’d rather die with your love a secret than destroy what you have with him now by saying it out loud. Yet another tragedy to add on to your already pitiful life.
Bucky’s out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.
“Hey,” you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. “You ready?”
He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.
“What?” you can’t help but ask as the silence stretches. “Should I change?”
He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. “Please don’t. You look…you look like an angel.”
The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. “Thanks, Buck…so, are we going or what?”
You watch as Bucky’s shoulders move up and down in a deep breath; beyond him, the dark ocean cradles a strip of silver in its endless surface, the moon’s mirror image. It lights up the side of his face, exposing the soft look he’s wearing as he drinks you in. You’re hit with a sudden wave of what you can only describe as reverse déjà vu, like you’ve just come across a moment you never want to forget, a moment you want to come back to, time and time again.
You reach out your hand.
Bucky takes it.
The dinner is beautiful, no surprise there; you, Bucky, and a few other guests sit in a treehouse-like structure while aproned servers bring around plates of local dishes that melt on your tongue and introduce you to flavors you could only dream of. There’s live music in the corner of the room, a light breeze that cools your skin, and the ambiance is the perfect mix of cozy and seductive.
Meanwhile, Bucky’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance of everything being perfectly fine and normal. He smiles at you over his drink and lets his hand wander over your back. He laughs at the server’s joke and encourages you to get a second desert. He seems calm. Content. Happy.
But his eyes are dark and distracted. You catch him staring off into the distance more than once. And when you say his name to brink him back, his gaze burns into yours like a brand.
Back in the villa, the two of you get ready for bed quickly, the day getting the better of you both. You’re fighting through a fifth yawn when you finally collapse on top of the bed, spreading out over the covers in a small tank top and matching shorts to fight off the heat of the night. Behind you, Bucky emerges from the bathroom; the sound of his footsteps stop suddenly near the end of the bed, where you’re on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Bucky’s pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.
“Budge over, doll,” he murmurs, stretching out his legs beneath the sheets. You sigh and roll over and off the bed so you can join him. He reaches over to turn off the light, and then it’s just the two of you and the moon’s reflection on the ocean.
“It’s so pretty,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this.”
“Me neither,” he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.
“What’s been your favorite part?”
A faint smile flickers across his face. “The eel.”
You laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad you found my fear so entertaining.”
“I’ve never seen anyone swim that fast.”
“A moray eel crossed right in front of us and you’re saying you didn’t almost shit yourself?”
He shrugs before flipping onto his side. “They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”
“And maybe next time you won’t push me toward it while you’re trying to get away.”
You cover your face with your hand. “Okay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.”
“Just shitty?” he repeats. “You were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.”
Your jaw drops open. “That’s not fair! I’d love to see what you’d do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.” Bucky shudders for effect. “And what happened to ‘they don’t bother you if you don’t bother them’?”
“They’re territorial, doll — you pushed me into his reef.”
“And he didn’t do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ‘respect the ocean, it respects you back’ manifesto. Point is, you’re fine.”
“Yeah, physically. Emotionally? I’ll never recover.”
“Drama queen.” You shove at his shoulder to push him out of the bed.
Quick as a whip, he seizes your wrist and pushes you back. You can’t help but laugh as your plan backfires, his strength overtaking yours by a long shot. He rolls you closer to the edge of the bed, restraining your other wrist easily. You push back with all your might, slipping one wrist from his grasp and pushing at his chest, locking your leg around his to keep you anchored. Your giggles and his huffs of laughter fill the room as you struggle to push each other out of the bed.
And then something shifts, like a light switch turning off; Bucky’s eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs, voice rough. With no effort at all, he grabs both wrists in one hand. His other hand grips your bare knee, unhooking it from around his thigh and placing it on the mattress.
Shocked, you slide your leg down beside the other, your skin burning where his hand touched. He keeps your wrists.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. “Bucky.”
He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like he’s come to a decision but hates the choice he made.
“I need you to stay there, sweetheart.”
You gape at him. “What? Did I — did I hurt you?”
“No, you didn’t hurt me.”
“Bucky—“ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.
“Please.”
You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns from his side to his stomach, resettling into the mattress with a fleeting wince.
Is he…?
He can’t meet your gaze, and there’s a flush to his neck that wasn’t there before, that you suspect is not from the heat. His hand over your wrists tightens imperceptibly. You stay silent until he has no choice but to look at you, and all you see is blown pupils.
He is.
You nod and he releases you, but you can’t look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when he’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you.
“It’s okay,” you whisper.
He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move.
Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours — you hadn’t realized it had picked up when he held your hands down. The waves crash again and again, a tropical white noise to chip away at the tension.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screams at you that this is it, this is your moment to let him know exactly how you feel.
You think about crossing that symbolic six inches of space between you and kissing him. You think about touching him softly until he relaxes for you, until he welcomes you over to him. You think about forcing him over and straddling him before he can say a word.
What stops you is the look on his face. He isn’t embarrassed, like you expected — he’s disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided it’s unforgivable.
It makes your gut sink, remembering the bait you dangled before him earlier. A conflicting mix of emotions crowd your heart, vying for priority, the biggest battle between sweet satisfaction, and crushing guilt.
You can’t do it. Not like this. Not when he looks so broken over it. You take a deep breath, strands of hair floating into your face.
Without a word, and giving you all the time in the world to stop him, Bucky reaches over and tucks the pieces carefully behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.
Your lips part. Your eyes open. He’s staring at you.
“You too, Buck.”
sammy speaks again: thank you for reading! I appreciate all the love I got from part one so much, it meant the absolute world to me. it’s a privilege just to be able to share my silly little stories with others 🤍 last part coming soon!
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s 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 - part three - masterlist
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, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact bucky’s sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I don’t think I’ve 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 — again — 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 don’t 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 hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.
Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re 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 you’ll 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 don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re 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 it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except 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 — 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 it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.
“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“
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 haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — 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 didn’t 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. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve 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, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” 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 they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re 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.
“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”
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.
“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”
The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
“How exciting,” you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d 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 Walker’s 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.
“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”
Do not gag do not gag do not gag—
“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”
God, you might make yourself vomit—
“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” 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 — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll 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 Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.
“That vest really does wonders for you.”
“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”
“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”
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 wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.
And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walker’s 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.
“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesn’t 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. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll 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 — and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t 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. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
It’s 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 Michelangelo’s 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 wouldn’t 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.
He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s 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. “Can I get you anything, sir?” 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. “Just the check, please.”
“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”
“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
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. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s 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.
“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”
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.
“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”
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.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”
You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”
“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“
“He did.”
“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”
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. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
“Are you?”
You pause. “Am I what?”
“Living the dream.”
“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.
“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”
You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t 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 he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”
You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”
“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.
“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”
“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.
“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”
“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”
You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”
You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s 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 he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t 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, here’s the story.”
“Sounds like an art,” he says.
“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”
“I think it still counts.”
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”
“Most people are missing out.”
Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”
“In data?”
“In you.”
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”
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.
“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.
You freeze.
“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re 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.
“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.
“O’Malley.”
His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”
“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”
You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t 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.
“Part of the reason?” he repeats.
“It’s a long story.”
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
“I have time.”
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”
He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve 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 can’t 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 it’s something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, 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 world…”
James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”
“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”
Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 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.”
There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
“It’s…thank you.”
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t 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.”
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
“I 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.”
James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
“After 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.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — 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 couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll 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 — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
“I 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 don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s 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; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s 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 hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.
“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.
“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
“I could help,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“
“Just listen, please.”
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…your time and your attention is all I would want.”
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”
He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”
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 — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” 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. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”
You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.
“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”
You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“
“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”
“Then why?” you ask.
“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”
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.
“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”
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.
“I hope to hear from you soon,” 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.
“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” 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 doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.
You let out a breath you didn’t 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. They’re well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — 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 — there’s 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 couldn’t 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 you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t 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, you’re lonely.
Maybe he’s 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 can’t 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 can’t help but take James’ 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 Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” 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, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.
I’d like to be your friend.
It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.
…He could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when you’re 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 — 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 James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — 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.
He’s 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 he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. “James Barnes.”
“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”
Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”
“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”
You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but…I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”
“I have some answers.”
“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”
There’s 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.
“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”
“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”
Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m 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.”
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
“Are you working?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”
“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”
He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”
“James, I—“
“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”
Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.
“Okay, doll.”
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.
“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”
“Tomorrow,” 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. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.
He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t 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 don’t 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.
“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”
His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”
“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”
“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”
He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”
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 what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”
“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”
He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”
“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”
“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.
“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”
“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”
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.
“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”
He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.
“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.
“Queens.” He smiles.
“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”
“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d 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 you’ve 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.
“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”
“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”
“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.
“I like a challenge.”
The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s 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.”
You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s 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.
“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”
For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”
He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”
You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”
“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”
“Yes, um. How does this…start?”
The smile returns to James’ 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.
“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m 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 I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”
Oh.
“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”
His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”
“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.
“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”
You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”
“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”
“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s 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. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”
James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve 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 it’s 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. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”
“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.
“It’s what my friends call me.”
It starts immediately.
The next morning, you’re 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. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s 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, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — 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 isn’t 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 you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
“You look beautiful,” 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. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
“He 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 that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”
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. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”
You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”
“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”
“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”
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.
“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”
Your breath hitches.
“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
“And what have you decided?”
“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”
“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — 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 you’re floating.
It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s 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 can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.
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.
It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.
When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t 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 you’ve 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.
You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve 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.
“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”
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 that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re 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, you’re 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 o’clock, Bucky’s 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.
“You look…unbelievable.”
Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s 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, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s 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 that’s 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. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t 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.
You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s 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 he’s 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 don’t 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.
“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t 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.
“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”
“Fuck, I liked him.”
“Me too.”
You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”
“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”
You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”
You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”
“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”
“Really.” It’s not a question.
“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”
“That’s…really sweet of you.”
He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”
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 he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”
And that’s that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve 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 “what now?” 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 — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.
“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.
“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”
“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”
He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
“You think that’s funny?”
“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”
Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”
“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”
He side-eyes you. “How?”
“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” 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.
“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s 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 you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”
“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.
“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re 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 he’ll deny it.
He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
He’s 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. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve 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 weren’t 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 you’re 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 they’ve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re 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 that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍
I just read your frank fic with spoiled reader and I loved it!
Can I request Frank with spoiled reader but instead she’s really sweet? Like the whole “spoiled but never rotten” thing?
grrrr i love him!! i love writing 4 this fine ass man so much i truly am still single cuz i just look at a man and go….but he’s not jon bernthal!!
Frank Castle who spoils his sweet girl to no end
Frank takes offense when people call you spoiled. You aren’t, he’ll argue, it’s what a good woman like yourself deserves. He hates it even more when you’re the one to say so.
He’ll bring you flowers home, smiling to himself just at the thought of your face brightening from such a small thing before he can round the corner to where you eat a snack in the kitchen.
“Frank?” You call out, hearing the door shut and the sound of his big boots being torn off. He puts them on the rack, because you asked once after he accidentally left them on the floor, and you’ve never had to ask him the same thing twice. The loose hinged cabinet? Tightened right up. The painting you wanted hung up? On the wall when you come back home from work. The laundry needs to be switched over and you have to leave? He’s got a timer on his phone.
But you aren’t spoiled, he claims, while he ties your shoes because you asked so nicely gleaming up at him with those sweet eyes. You didn’t want to bend over, how could he say no to his sweet baby? He just knows how to treat a woman right, and you say please and thank you all nice. He gets kisses on the cheek, too, often accompanied by a drawn out hug where you wrap yourself around him as tightly as possible.
“Yeah, s’me, baby,” He finally turns into the kitchen with a grin over his face, finding you sitting on the counter attempting to peel an orange. You see the flowers in his hand and your head falls back against the cabinet he fixed last week.
“Frank,” You scold softly, like there isn’t a grin growing on your face to match his. You take the flowers from him when he’s close enough, tilting forward into him. “Thank you.”
See. Not spoiled. A spoiled girl wouldn’t say thank you, especially not like that. Like it’s the nicest thing in the world, a fifteen buck bouquet of flowers from the grocery store.
“S’nothing,” Frank kisses your head, smiling down at you before letting his hand tangle over yours at the stems of the flowers. “Here, lemme see,”
You let him take them with no hesitation and then watch as he ducks to get one of the vases you keep under the counter.
“Frank,” You try again when he starts to fill it with water.
“What, sweetheart?” It’s always sweetheart from Frank. Always. Since the first day you met him, blushing all pretty and apologizing so sweetly for bumping into the booth he sat in. He’d grinned up at you, placing his mug full of black coffee back down on the diners table. Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetheart, he’d said, little thing like you not hurtin’ nothin’, and you’d only gotten more bashful.
“I can do that, y’know,” Your legs kick against the counter. Frank scoffs, like the idea is unimaginable while he places the filled vase next to you.
“You want me to bring my girl flowers home and make her do the work with ‘em? Kinda man you think I am?” He cuts the stems, sprinkles the weird powder stuff into the water and places them in the pretty vase, the one he brought home with the first bunch of flowers he’d ever gotten you. What if you didn’t have one already? He couldn’t bear the thought of you having to go buy something because of him, even if it’s because of a gift.
“Thank you, Frankie,” Your swinging legs reach out to tap his thighs. He grabs your feet, hands trailing from the pedicured toes he paid for (like he does every month) up to your thighs. “They’re beautiful.”
“Always, sweetheart.” Frank cups your face, kissing your forehead. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones before he lets go and takes the orange from your hands. “Lemme see that,”
“Frank!”
“What?” He’s peeling your fucking orange for you, and is offended that you think it’s ridiculous.
“This—“ You cut yourself off with a stammer. “You spoil me too much.”
Franks eyebrows furrow, head jerking back like you’d tried to reach out and slap him, and he’s immediately pouting at your words.
“Kinda nonsense you talking about? No I don’t.” He holds a slice up to your mouth. It had all of the gross stringy bits peeled away, because of course Frank knows you hate that part.
Your eyebrows raise as you give him your best oh-really-now look. Says the man who buys you flowers just because and fixes your appliances after one ask and feeds you oranges he already peeled and will be making you dinner in an hour. Says the man who lets you sleep in everyday and fills your gas tank and pays for your nails and hair appointments and the groceries and every dinner date. Says the man who ties your shoes and hangs your wall decor. Says the man who kisses the ground you walk on and draws a minimum of two orgasms from you daily.
“You ain’t spoiled,” He reiterates, raising his eyebrows right back until you take the slice into your mouth. “You’re loved.”
── is always soft with his girl no matter how hard she is on him.
♱ Frank acts like your anger is something precious because it means you still care enough to fight for him. You can be pacing the motel room at two in the morning, whisper-yelling about the bruises blooming along his ribs, and he’ll just sit there on the edge of the bed watching you with that tired, softened look in his eyes.
♱ Every single time you patch him up, he goes quiet. Not because he dislikes it — because he doesn’t know what to do with gentleness anymore. Your fingers pressing antiseptic to a cut, your brows furrowed in concentration, your frustrated little “hold still, Frank” makes something in his chest ache.
♱ He never argues when you’re scared. If you snap at him for disappearing without a word or getting himself hurt again, he doesn’t bite back. He just lets you feel it. Lets you get the fear out however you need to because he knows your anger is tangled up with worry.
“You done yellin’ at me?”
“No.”
“…A’right.”
♱ Frank pretends your lectures annoy him, but secretly they ground him. They remind him there’s still someone waiting for him to come home. Someone who notices when he’s limping worse than usual or when he’s gone too long without sleeping.
♱ He’s incredibly gentle after arguments. Not dramatic about it — just quieter. He’ll slide a cup of coffee toward you without a word. Pull your blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep sitting up. Rest his hand on the back of your neck while passing by.
♱ You’re one of the only people who can get away with bossing him around. Other people get growled at. You tell him to sit down before he tears his stitches and suddenly this terrifying man is grumbling under his breath while doing exactly what you said.
♱ Frank memorizes your comfort habits. If you’re anxious while hiding out somewhere unfamiliar, he’ll leave the TV running low because he knows silence makes you overthink. He’ll check the locks twice without being asked. He always gives you the side of the bed furthest from the door.
♱ Sometimes you catch him staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re still there. Especially after rough nights. Especially when he wakes from nightmares and finds your hand tangled with his beneath the blankets.
♱ He’s terrible at apologizing directly, so his version sounds more like: “Didn’t mean to scare you.” or “I came back, didn’t I?”
♱ Frank absolutely melts when you fuss over him despite being mad. You’ll be muttering about how reckless he is while dabbing ointment on a cut and he’s sitting there thinking about how nobody’s taken care of him this softly in years.
♱ When you’re on the run together, he becomes fiercely protective of your small comforts. He’ll steal extra pillows from motels for you, keep your favorite snacks tucked in his duffel, make sure you have one clean hoodie left even if he’s wearing bloodied clothes himself.
♱ He trusts you with parts of himself he doesn’t show anyone else. The exhaustion. The grief. The ugly thoughts. And when you hold his face and tell him to stop acting like he has to carry everything alone, he actually listens — at least a little.
♱ Frank’s favorite thing is when you calm down enough to finally let him hold you after a fight. Your head tucked against his chest, his rough hand rubbing slow circles against your back while he presses a kiss to your hair like a silent apology.
♱ No matter how hard you are on him, he never mistakes it for rejection. Deep down, Frank thinks someone loving him enough to worry is the closest thing to peace he’s ever gonna get.
── guess who started watching daredevil + punisher and ISNT okay! youve guessed it! not only that but all my socials are flooded with jon bernthal and his broadway debut..... save me
surviving cold winter cabin days with your husband frank!!
ᯓ tags │fluffy, established relationship, kissing│word count: 2.4k
a/n: I know summer JUST started but I already miss colder weather:(
rain taps softly against the cabin roof, against the windows, against the world outside, creating that peaceful sort of white noise that makes it impossible to know what time it is. the room is dim and gray, wrapped in the kind of soft rainy light that makes staying in bed feel less like laziness and more like a perfectly reasonable life decision.
under the blankets, everything is warm. your feet are tucked beneath the comforter, your head resting against frank's chest, one of his arms around your waist while the other is trapped somewhere beneath the pillow. at some point during the night you'd apparently stolen most of the blanket, because it's wrapped around you like a cocoon while only half covers him. somehow he doesn't seem to care.
you stir first, pressing your face deeper against his shirt for a moment before opening your eyes. frank is still asleep, or at least he looks asleep. his breathing is slow and even, his jaw relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake. outside, rain continues falling through the forest surrounding the cabin. the trees sway gently in the wind, their dark silhouettes visible through a gap in the curtains.
it's cold enough outside that the windows have started to fog slightly around the edges. meanwhile inside the bed feels impossibly warm. you shift your legs, searching for a more comfortable position, and accidentally brush against a colder spot in the sheets. immediately you pull back with a small shiver. the reaction is tiny, barely noticeable. unfortunately, frank notices everything. his eyes open immediately.
"cold?" he asks, voice rough from sleep.
you smile. "good morning to you too."
"you cold?"
"maybe a little."
his arm tightens around your waist before you've even finished speaking. then he shifts, pulling you closer until you're practically draped across him. one large hand slides slowly up and down your back through the fabric of your shirt, sharing warmth without even thinking about it. you feel his chin settle lightly on top of your head.
"c'mere," he murmurs. "lemme warm you up." there's something so simple and automatic about the way he says it that your chest immediately feels lighter. you tuck yourself closer against him and feel his arm tighten a little more.
"better?" he asks after a minute.
"a little," you admit.
"little?" he repeats skeptically. "a little aint enough."
"frank, i'm fine." you smile up at him and hide your face in his neck.
the rain continues outside while the room remains perfectly still. frank's fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm beneath the blanket, absentminded and comforting. eventually you glance up and discover he's looking at you. he kind of look that says he's checking whether you're comfortable. checking whether you're happy. checking whether you're still cold.
"what?" you ask.
"nothin'."
"you're staring."
"so what? can't stare at my girl anymore?" he lets out a sleepy huff that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. then his gaze drifts toward the rain-covered windows. "don' wanna get up," he mutters.
you blink. "what?" he doesn't answer. "did frank castle just admit he doesn't want to get out of bed?"
now he looks annoyed. "don't start." frank simply pulls you back down onto his chest before you can continue arguing. "discussion over."
the rain grows heavier as the morning continues. every now and then water slides down the windows in long silver streaks. the cabin feels smaller in the best possible way. cozy. sheltered. hidden from the rest of the world. neither of you has checked your phone in hours. there's nowhere to be. nobody expecting anything.
just the two of you wrapped beneath warm blankets while the weather does whatever it wants outside. frank's hand remains settled against your back the entire time. whenever you shift away even slightly, he unconsciously follows.
when your feet brush against his legs, he immediately moves closer. at one point you try creating a little distance just to test something. less than thirty seconds later his arm automatically pulls you back.
"you know you're clingy, right?" you tell him.
he looks genuinely offended. "says the person usin' me as a pillow."
another long silence followed, the comfortable kind. the kind married couples have after years together where neither person feels pressure to fill every second with conversation. rain taps against the roof. the blankets are warm. frank's fingers lazily trace circles against your shoulder while your eyes drift toward closing again.
every so often one of you says something random. comments on the weather. wonders whether there's enough coffee downstairs. debates whether breakfast counts as brunch if neither of you gets out of bed before ten. the conversation goes nowhere and somehow that makes it perfect.
you leaned in for a kiss slowly, hesitantly, like you weren’t sure if frank would even allow it. but the second your lips touched his - soft and chaste, the air between you shifted.
frank didn’t hesitate for long. within a breath, he deepened it, tilting his head just slightly to angle better and pressing back. his large hands slid from your cheeks down to cradle the sides of your neck.
his lips moved against yours with tenderness. each press was deliberate, a soft parting of mouths before meeting again deeper this time, testing how far you’d let him go.
the kiss lingered - long, peaceful and unhurried. frank’s mouth stayed warm and patient against yours. frank shifted carefully beneath you, not pushing you down or pulling you closer too fast, but simply adjusting so he could hold your body better.
his right arm slid around your shoulders while his left hand came up to rest low on your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades, cradling every curve gently as if afraid of breaking something precious.
eventually you tilt your head up and find frank already looking at you again. this time neither of you says anything. he simply brushes a strand of hair away from your face before pulling the blanket a little higher around your shoulders.
"there," he mutters.
"frank, I'm not cold anymore."
his expression softens slightly. just enough for you to notice.
eventually, despite neither of you wanting to move, the promise of coffee becomes impossible to ignore. it starts with frank glancing toward the bedroom door, then toward the window, then back at you as though calculating whether staying in bed is worth the caffeine deprivation.
judging by the reluctant look on his face, the answer is very nearly yes. unfortunately, you know him well enough to recognize the exact moment he gives in.
"okay, let's go, c'mon" he lets out a long sigh, the kind that sounds personally offended by the existence of responsibilities, and carefully shifts upright.
cold air immediately slips beneath the blankets, making you pull the comforter tighter around yourself. before standing, frank pauses long enough to tug the blanket around your shoulders, making sure it's wrapped securely despite the fact that you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself.
when you point this out, he simply ignores you. his hand briefly squeezes your shoulder as he climbs out of bed, and for a moment you find yourself watching him move around the room while snow continues drifting outside the window.
the cabin feels warm and cozy, the kind of place that encourages people to move slowly. sunlight filters through the clouds in pale silver beams, catching on the snow-covered branches outside. everything feels peaceful in a way that seems increasingly rare.
downstairs, the cabin is even cozier than the bedroom. the fireplace has long since burned down to embers, but the lingering warmth remains, mixing with the scent of cedarwood and old pine.
the kitchen sits beside a large window overlooking the forest, and through the glass you can see snow piled high on the porch railing and scattered across the surrounding trees. while frank starts the coffee maker, you begin gathering ingredients for breakfast.
neither of you is particularly talkative yet. it's the comfortable quiet of two people who don't feel the need to perform wakefulness for each other. mugs are set on the counter.
drawers open and close. somewhere outside, a bird lands briefly on a branch before disappearing again. by the time you begin mixing ingredients, the smell of fresh coffee has started filling the entire cabin.
frank appears behind you before you even realize he's left the coffee maker. one moment you're focused on cooking, and the next two familiar arms are wrapping around your waist from behind.
"clingy frankie"
"shush" his chest settles against your back, warm even through both layers of clothing, and his chin comes to rest lightly on your shoulder.
he simply stands there holding you while you continue trying to work around him. it would be easier if he moved. significantly easier. unfortunately, frank seems perfectly content where he is.
every time you shift to reach something, he shifts with you. every time you step sideways, he follows. at one point you attempt to open a cabinet and discover that doing so while dragging an attached six-foot-tall man around the kitchen is surprisingly difficult.
still, you can't really find it in yourself to complain. there is something deeply comforting about the quiet weight of him against your back. one of his hands remains loosely clasped over your stomach while the other occasionally rubs slow circles against your side.
he doesn't seem to need conversation this morning. just proximity. every now and then you glance over your shoulder and find him watching you with that soft, sleepy expression he only ever wears in private. his eyes follow your movements around the kitchen.
when you smile, something faint and almost invisible tugs at the corner of his mouth. it isn't quite a smile. more the beginning of one. the possibility of one.
by the time everything is finished, steam curls from both mugs of coffee and the entire kitchen smells warm and inviting. outside, snow continues falling in lazy drifts, transforming the forest into something that looks almost unreal.
the two of you settle at the small wooden table near the window, and for a while the only sounds are the clink of silverware and the occasional creak of the cabin settling around you. sunlight briefly breaks through the clouds, scattering diamonds of light across the snow outside.
"your hands are cold." frank mentions.
"they're fine."
he reaches over and grabs one anyway. "cold." frank rubs his thumb across your knuckles.
you find yourself staring out the window, mesmerized by the view. when you look back, you catch frank watching you rather than the scenery. his gaze shifts away almost immediately when he realizes he's been caught, but not before you see the softness there.
there is something about winter mornings that seems to make time slower. breakfast stretches comfortably into late morning. coffee is refilled. conversation drifts lazily from one topic to another without any urgency. plans for the day are mentioned and then abandoned.
"you're smiling." you point out. he looks away toward the trees. which only proves your point. "frank."
"what."
"you like me."
he groans immediately. "married you, didn't I."
"that doesn't answer the question."
"pretty sure it does." he lets out a breathy chuckle as he kisses your temple.
neither of you seems particularly interested in doing much beyond existing in the same space. eventually you push your chair back and start gathering dishes, only for frank to stand at the exact same moment and quietly take the plates from your hands. there isn't any discussion about it. there rarely is.
he simply takes over with the calm certainty of someone who has already made up his mind. while he carries dishes to the sink, you lean against the counter watching him for a moment.
there is something oddly domestic about the sight. sleeves rolled up. shoulders relaxed. warm winter light filtering through the kitchen window while snow falls outside. frank standing at the sink washing dishes should not affect you as much as it does, and yet it always seems to. perhaps because it is such a normal thing.
he catches you watching and lifts an eyebrow in silent question. you shake your head with a smile he narrows his eyes slightly, unconvinced, but returns to cleaning anyway.
when the dishes are finally done, you carry your coffee onto the front porch. the cold greets you immediately, crisp and clean without being unpleasant. the wooden boards creak softly beneath your feet as you settle into one of the large chairs facing the forest.
from here, the view is breathtaking. endless trees draped in white. snowflakes drifting lazily through the air. distant hills softened by winter haze. the world looks untouched. peaceful. as though someone has pressed pause on everything beyond the cabin.
you wrap both hands around your mug and breathe in the scent of coffee while watching the snowfall. for several minutes you're alone, listening to the gentle hush of winter. then the front door opens behind you. you don't need to turn around to know it's frank.
his footsteps are instantly familiar. slow and steady across the porch boards. a second later he appears beside you carrying his own mug, and rather than choosing the empty chair farther away, he drags the closest one directly beside yours before sitting down.
the legs scrape softly across the wood. close enough that your shoulders touch. close enough that you can feel his warmth even through your coat.
for a long time neither of you says much. the silence isn't empty. it's shared. the kind of silence built through years of knowing each other. frank leans back in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, his gaze fixed on the snowy landscape stretching beyond the porch.
the cold has painted a faint flush across his cheeks. his expression is calm in a way few people ever get to witness. there are no sharp edges here. no tension. only quiet contentment. every now and then he takes a sip of coffee, and each time he lowers the mug his shoulder brushes lightly against yours again.
"if a bear showed up right now, what would you do?"
frank looks at you over his mug.
"why."
"just answer."
"depends."
"on what?"
"whether he's bothering us."
you immediately start laughing. "you're gonna evaluate the bear first?"
"maybe he's minding his own business."
"frank."
"what."
"that's insane."
eventually you shift closer, resting your head against him as you smile. immediately frank adjusts without looking away from the scenery. his arm drapes across the back of your chair. his shoulder angles slightly toward you.
somehow he manages to make the space between you disappear entirely. you watch snowflakes tumble through the trees while warm coffee heats your hands and winter air nips gently at your face. behind you, the cabin glows with warmth. ahead of you, the forest stretches endlessly beneath fresh snow.
and sitting there together, wrapped in winter silence and the comfort of familiar company, it becomes impossible to imagine a place you'd rather be. some mornings aren't memorable for anything extraordinary. just coffee, snowfall, a quiet cabin in the woods, and the simple comfort of sharing it with the person who feels most like home.
