Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight â„ïž
synopsis:
You are Buckyâs most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own handsâhe gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined heâd feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of âinsanity,â he would tell you âInsanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.â
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say âItâs triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinatedâtoo fixatedâon something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, Iâve noticed.â
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with âThatâs exactly what it is.â
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazyâas a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospitalâs hidden basement laboratoryâup until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
âDarling? Daddyâs here,â Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a soundâthat soft, gentle âcome in!â he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheekâsound asleep.
He couldnât help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. âI brought you dinner,â he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
âCome on, baby. Wake up. Your foodâs not getting any warmer.â
He nudged you gently, but you still didnât wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
âOpen your eyes for me,â he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didnât stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, âI told you to wake up!â
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at youâwhat had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your masterâs chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Buckyâs breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyesâsunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days agoâwere still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. âI⊠fuck,â he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. âIâm sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.â
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
âI just had a bad day,â Bucky went on with a sigh. âThese idiots at the facility⊠theyâre working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheetsâŠâ He rubbed the crease between his brows. âIâm just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.â
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefullyâotherwise, Buckyâs mood would only sour further.
âIâm sorry,â you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
âThatâs it,â Bucky cooed into your ear. âYou can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.â
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. âLook at you, your hairâs a mess.â His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. âWhat did you do all day while I was gone?â
âIâve been readingâor⊠trying to read the papers you told me to read.â
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
âYou mean the books?â
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. âI wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I havenât had much time these days.â
âI know,â you said, sounding a little more solemn than youâd like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. âTurn around for me.â
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
âTell me more,â he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
âThe words make my head hurt,â you explained, staring at the floor. âItâs all just⊠a jumbled mess of text. I donât even know what half the words mean.â Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. âMy head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.â
Buckyâs brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locksâanything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didnât know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
âSorry, darling,â he said gently. âI need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words betterâhelp you gain some of that reading memory back. Iâll find the time for it, I promise. Iâve just been soââ
ââbusy,â you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. âI know.â
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. âExcuse me?â
âI already heard how busy you were the first time,â you mumbled. âI donât need to hear it again.â
Buckyâs eyebrow twitched. He couldnât believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
âWhere the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think youâre talking to, huh?â he seethed. âDid you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?â
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
âI gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.â
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
âIâm sorry,â you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean it! IâIâm sorry, Bucky.â
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Buckyâs expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sighâthe sound of a man burdened by⊠whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
âIâm sorry, doll,â he murmured into your hair. âIâm so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.â He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. âBut I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I canât have you forgetting who takes care of you.â
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of courseâdespite everything, you still needed him.
âThereâs my girl,â he whispered. âCome here. Give Daddy a kiss.â
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, reallyâjust a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
âBeautiful,â he praised breathlessly. âAbsolutely beautiful.â
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldnât help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didnât last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
âW-where are you going?â you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. âItâs getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. Iâve got a long day tomorrowâgotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.â
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
âNo,â you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. âNo?â
You couldnât imagine another night of silence. âPlease,â you whispered with a voice crack. âPlease donât leave me yet. Itâs so quiet and lonely here.â
Buckyâs hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. âYouâre breaking my heart, darling,â he murmured. âYou know I hate leaving you, but Daddyâs got to work. I do it all for you, remember?â
When he took a step away from you, thatâs when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
âDonât go!â you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. âIâll be good. Iâll read the books. Iâll do the experiments without cryingâjust stay. Please, just stay a little longer!â
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leaveâitâd be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
âYou really donât want me to go, do you?â he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. âYou want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?â
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
âTell me then,â he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. âHow bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?â
âAnything,â you admitted desperately. âIâll do anything.â
âOh,â Buckyâs smile grew wide. âYou shouldnât have said that.â
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. âOkay, fine. You win.â
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
âIâll stay with you,â he promised, his tone as sweet as honeyâdesigned to make you feel safe, even when you shouldnât.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
âAnd before I head to the facility, Iâll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. Weâll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?â
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
âThink of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,â he murmured against your skin. âI just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.â
He wasnât leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustrationâthey were tears of relief.
âI love you, Bucky,â you whispered.
Buckyâs hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe youâthe way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
âLay down, doll.â
The light in the basement was always the sameâartificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
âEasy, doll. Easy.â
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attireâwhite sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which⊠in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
âThe experiment went perfectly,â he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. âYour reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.â
You couldnât even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the nightâeven if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
âYouâre still here,â you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didnât have to lift your head.
âI told you I would stay, didnât I? Iâm a man of my word.â He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. âI even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. Iâm going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? Itâs all worth it.â
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. âThank you for staying with me.â
âAlways,â he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. âI have to go nowâbut when Iâm gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.â
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
âIâll be back soon with your breakfast.â
You didnât care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
âHow long?â you rasped, blinking up at him.
âI donât know,â he admitted. âBut Iâll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?â
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfullyâmore painful than the throb in your head.
âI love you, baby,â Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. âBe a good girl while Iâm gone, okay?â
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospitalâs sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldnât afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
âWoah, easy there, Buck.â
Bucky didnât need to look up to recognize the voice.
âSteve,â Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. âDidnât see you there. Youâre up early.â
Steveâs gaze focused on the dark circles under Buckyâs eyes. âThe shift change was a while ago,â Steve explained quietly. âI tried to page your office, but you werenât there.â
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. âDead battery. I stayed late last nightâlost track of time in the mounting data sheetsââ
Steve extended his hand, landing on Buckyâs shoulder and forcing him to halt.
âYou smell likeâŠâ Steve scrunched his nose. âRubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? Thatâs some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.â
Buckyâs heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. âItâs a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?â
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. âYou look exhausted. Youâve been spending every spare second in the south wing,â he sighed. âYouâre my friendâand I worry about you, is all.â
Bucky averted his gaze. He didnât have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
âIf thereâs anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know Iâm always here.â Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. ââTill the end of the line, right?â
Bucky clenched his jaw. âThanks, Steve. But I donât need your help. Iâm perfectly fine working alone,â he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, âIâll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.â
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meetingâa few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture itâyour stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasnât being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very secondâand he wasnât there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His bossâs frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldnât dismiss himselfâthis was his superior, for fuckâs sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
âIs something bothering you, Barnes?â
Bucky swallowed hard. âJust⊠need to use the restroom.â
The manâs eyes rose sluggishly to meet Buckyâs. He pausedâa silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. âMake it quick.â
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didnât have the time.
âFuck, fuck!â Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
âBucky? You doing alright?â Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
âSteve,â Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. âI needâI need your help. Iâm stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and sheâs starving. She hasnât eaten before the procedure and I canât leave, but if she doesnât get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and Iâll lose all progressââ
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. âWait, what?â He shook his head. âWho are you talking about? What procedure?â
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steveâs forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
âThe south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A womanââ Bucky glanced over his friendâs shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. âIâve been⊠helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I canât get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing Iâm gone.â
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. âLocked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediatelyââ
âNo!â Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. âNo reports, and absolutely no boards. Theyâll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said âtill the end of the lineâ, didnât you?â
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
âA woman,â Steve repeated quietly. âIn the basement.â
âSheâs my everything,â Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. âJust get a tray. High proteinâsoft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. Sheâll try to talk to youâbut donât entertain her. Just⊠give her her food, make sure she didnât hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?â
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
âFine,â Steve whispered. âIâll get the food. But Bucky⊠we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.â
âThank you,â Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steveâs hand.
âThank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.â
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldnât have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promiseâbut he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knockedâthree soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out âcome in!â to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didnât care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
âBucky! Youâre back, Iââ
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasnât Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Buckyâs, but it wasnât him. He held a tray of food, but the strangerâs presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
âWho are you!â you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. âWho are you? Where is he? Whereâs Bucky?â
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of youâthe surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldnât speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldnât fight his own instincts.
âHey, hey⊠easy,â Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. âIâm not going to hurt you. I promise.â
Despite the manâs kind and gentle tone, you couldnât help the panic flaring in your heart.
âYou shouldnât be here,â you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. âHe said⊠he said Iâm not supposed to see anyone. Heâs going to be so angry.â
âBucky sent me,â Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. âMy name is Steve. Iâm Buckyâs friend. Heâs stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.â
You sniffled. â⊠Worried about me?â
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. âI know youâre scared. And I know youâre hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then Iâll be on my way.â
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasnât Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didnât move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
âNot poisoned. Trust me.â
He tried to joke, but you didnât laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didnât take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
âI know I said Iâd be on my way after you ate,â Steve explained slowly. âBut Bucky also wanted me to check on yourâŠâ
He paused. He didnât know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
âHe just wanted to make sure you were okay.â
When you didnât respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
âI know this is scary for you. You havenât seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isnât that right?â
You stayed silent.
âHave you ever been outside this room?â
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
âWell, the outside world is beautiful,â he began, speaking in a gentle tone. âThere are lots of trees, flowers⊠animals. Like squirrels. Youâd like the squirrels, theyâre just like youâalways scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.â
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friendâs trust while feeding a captive womanâBuckyâs womanâempty promises he wasnât sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices heâd honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
âMaybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,â he lied. âBut right now, your body is in no state for it. Youâre fragile.â
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
âThatâs why Iâm hereâto check on you,â he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. âI just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Buckyâs friend helps you, youâll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesnât that sound nice?â
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
âBucky wouldnât want you to touch me,â you admitted softly. âHe always calls me his perfect girlâhis good girl. He likes that Iâm untainted and untouched by anyone else.â
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friendâs wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touchâthe kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
âJust a quick look,â Steve whispered. âJust so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.â
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wantedâto be Buckyâs good girl.
âOkay,â you nodded. âYou can check me.â
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steveâs breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
âNo! No, no, no. You donât have to do that!â he stammered, wrenching his head away. âI just⊠I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keepâkeep your clothes on, please.â
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
âBucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,â you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasnât as if he hadnât seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
âFine,â Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neckânot the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
âOkay,â Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. âIâm done. The stitches look... they look clean. Iâm going to go now.â
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
âNo,â he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. âNo, we canâtâIâm his friend, Iâm not... why did you do that?â
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
âBecause the check up isnât finished,â you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. âBucky says the examination isnât over until heâs had his fill. He says thatâs how I show him I'm getting better.â
âHis fill?â Steve looked concerned.
âHe says itâs part of the treatment,â you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. âDonât you want to see if Iâm better, Steve? Donât you want your fill?â
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this timeâbut not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
âTell me,â Steve urged. âWhat is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?â
âIâI donâtââ
âDid he rape you?â
Steve expected a reactionâthe typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
âWhat does that mean?â
Steve didnât know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldnât help you now, not with the risk of Buckyâs meeting ending at any moment.
âI have to go, but Iâll be back, okay? Iâll be back to get you the professional help you need.â Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. âDonât tell Bucky what I told you. Please.â
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didnât click.
The hours following Steveâs departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky askedâto sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your booksâbut you couldnât retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didnât look like a shield protecting you from the worldâas Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldnât. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didnât know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine itârunning through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
âGoing somewhere?â
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. âBucky! Youâre back! I was looking for the courtyard, Iââ
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasnât happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
âBucky, youâre hurting me!â
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained emptyâno witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing?â he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. âWhatâs this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what Iâve been doing?â
âI just wanted to seeââ
âAfter everything Iâve done for you!â Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. âI saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And youâre choosing to run? Youâre choosing to escape me?â
âNo, Bucky, Iââ
âYouâre ungrateful!â He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. âSomeone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? Iâll have to wipe them. Iâll have to start over.â
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
âNo one saw meââ
âYou canât be certain!â he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didnât foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldnât believe Steve had forgotten to lock the doorâand now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
âI have to operate on you again,â Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. âItâs a shame, really. I didnât anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.â He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. âI should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.â
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
âYou did this to yourself, darling.â
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. âPlease! Iâm so sorryâI didnât mean to disobey you, I swear! Iââ
âIâve been gentle with you,â Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. âMaybe even too gentle.â
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
âPlease, Bucky, please!â you sobbed. âI missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didnât hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. andâand you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.â
Bucky didnât move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
âYou broke my heart,â he whispered. âYou think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?â
âI didnâtââ
âActions speak louder,â he snapped, still facing away. âWhat will you do to make up to me?â
âAnything,â you sobbed against his shirt. âAnything, Bucky. Just donât hurt me. Donât operate on meâplease. Iâll do anything.â
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
âPut your hands over the bed,â he commanded. âBend over.â
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending overâexactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Buckyâs footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
âAre you scared?â he murmured from behind you.
âYes,â you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. âYes, Bucky. Iâm scared.â
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
âGood,â he breathed. âFear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means youâre finally remembering who I am to you. It means youâre remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and thisâthis room, this bed, and my hand on youâis the only reality you have.â
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
âI didnât want to do this,â he lied, smooth and deceptive. âBut you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.â
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
âYouâre so confused now, arenât you, darling? I have a friendâmy best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think youâre free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.â
Another whack.
âOw!â
âItâs disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that youâre far too fragile for the sun. Youâd wither like a flower, my perfect girl.â
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being meanâhis words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependentâbut to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
âLook at you,â he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. âIâm punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..â
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
âYouâre soaking wet for me,â he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. âEven when Iâm hurting you, youâre begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?â
Your face warmed with embarrassment. âNo! I swear, I didnâtââ
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Buckyâs finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denialâespecially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that youâd be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
âYou could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,â he taunted. âBut you like the struggle, donât you? You like the attentionâwhether itâs good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddyâs being mean to you.â
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
âLook at how youâre leaking for me,â he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. âA little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. Youâre like a little animal, arenât you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.â
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
âYouâre right,â you whispered, face pressed against the cot. âIâm helpless. I canât⊠I canât function without you, Bucky. Please donât leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I donât feel empty.â
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didnât utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizingâthat silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helplessâexactly where he wanted you.
âFuck,â he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. âI should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floorâleave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.â
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
âBut youâre so needy, arenât you?â he whispered. âYou wouldnât let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? Youâd fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.â
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
âIs that what you are? My little pet?â He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. âMy sweet girl that only functions when Iâm inside her?â
âBucky,â you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. âPlease. I canât take this anymore.â
âSince you wanted to wander those halls so badly, Iâm going to make sure you donât have the strength to do it again. Iâm going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you wonât be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.â
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was bigâfar too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didnât want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperatelyâclinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
âGod,â Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. âSo tightâeven after last nightâŠâ
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chestâbecause, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
âLook at you,â he groaned possessively. âTaking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.â
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starvedâas if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
âOhâmy!â
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
âOne taste of my cock and youâve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, havenât you?â
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
âYouâre so pathetic, sweetheart,â he whispered affectionately and cruel. âCompletely helpless. You canât even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.â
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
âAh, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, Iâll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?â
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like thatâto have him look at you with something other than disappointmentâit was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
âThatâs it,â he growled. âGood girl. Daddy loves you, baby.â
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
âReally? IâI love you too! I love you so much!â you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaftâsqueezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. âI love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.â
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
âThatâs it,â Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harderâchasing that delicious, sweet release. âYouâre never going to walk away again.â
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
âI love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. Iâm the only thing you need. Just me and my love. Youâre never leaving me again, doll. Youâre staying right here where youâre safeâwhere youâre mine.â
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
âDonât you ever leave me,â he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. âTell me youâre staying! Tell me!â
You couldnât hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
âIâm staying! Iâm yours!â you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hotâit made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didnât let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seedâspilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
âGood girl,â he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
âMy good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.â
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
âI love you,â you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. âI love you so much.â
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
âMorning,â he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. âMy girl.â
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
âStay right there,â he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. âDonât move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.â
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each otherâs arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didnât last long.
The doorâthe one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precisionâwas suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
âBucky?â you gasped in fear, clutching his side. âWhat⊠what is that?â
âFuck! Fuck!â Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chestânot in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large bodyâas if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that youâve never seen before. âDonâtâdonât say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.â
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
âHeâs here! Target identified! Get him off her!â
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
âGet your hands off me! Get away from her!â he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
âSheâs mine! You have no rightâsheâs mine!â
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
âBuckyââ
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
âDonât look,â Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. âIâve got you. Iâve got you, sweetheart. Youâre safe now. I promise... heâs never going to touch you again.â
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Buckyâs screams of your name.
âGet your fucking hands off of her!â Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
âYou traitor!â he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. âYou fucking traitor!â
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steveâs arm to let you goâto go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldnât bring yourself to look away.
âDonât listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!â Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. âHe doesnât know you! He doesnât love you like I do! Heâs just trying to tear us apartââ
Even with a dozen people there to âprotectâ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
âYou belong to meâonly me!â Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. âStop ignoring meâsay something!â
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steveâs chest that Bucky couldnât even hear over everything else that was going on.
âIâll come back for you,â Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. âI swear itâIâll find you!â
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything youâve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing thisâbut he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didnât know what was realâwhat was right or wrong, and you donât think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt⊠lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
âHeâs gone,â Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldnât quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
âHeâs gone, sweetheart. Heâs never going to hurt you again.â
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Buckyâs face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
âJames Barnes.â The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Buckyâs previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
âThe woman was dead before you found her,â the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. âYou robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on herâsomehow managing to bring her back to life.â
Bucky stayed quiet.
âWhere did you expect this experiment to go?â the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. âWould you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?â
Bucky hadnât blinked in three minutes, and hadnât spoken for longer.
âWhat made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?â
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
âWhat was she to you?â
Buckyâs eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
âDid you love her?â
Buckyâs head tiltedâjust slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogatorâs.
âMore than anything,â Bucky replied.
He didnât look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didnât feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearlyâthe precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
Heâd find you.
It wasnât a question of if, only a matter of when. Heâd knock on the door of your new homeâthree times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, youâd reply with âcome in!â
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
âJames,â he called for him, bringing his attention back. âWould you classify yourself as âinsaneâ?â
For the first time in years, Buckyâs lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
âNo.â
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Hooked - Dr. Brendon âThe Sharkâ Park x Reader
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: Â that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case youâve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, whoâs been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. âFuck, our consultâs the Shark.â
âOf course it is.â Shen, whoâs been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, âThis kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Sharkâs never gonna let someone else-â
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, âWho?â
âDr. Brendon Park,â Shen explains like heâs telling you about an upcoming horror movie. âHeâs the head orthopedic surgeon.â
âHavenât met him yet,â you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you donât know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your dayâs meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, âI thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.â
âNo, sheâs the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls âthe butcher shopâ for juicy cases.â Shen shakes his head and says, âIâm gonna dip before he gets down here. Iâll grab Robby to supervise.â
âYouâre leaving? Why?â
âPark can actually stand Robby.â Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. âI made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Sharkâs always down my throat when we work together now.â
âHow long ago was that?â
âThree years.â Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, âThat thing youâve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMCâs Shark never forgets. Donât fuck up your first impression.â
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. âWell, that was comforting.â
Jesse, whoâs been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitakerâs, tries to offer, âParkâs not so bad.â
âYeah, because youâre a nurse,â Whitaker replies. âHe likes nurses. Respects them. Itâs other doctors he thinks are stupid.â
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. âThen I wonât be stupid.â
âGood luck with that,â a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. Heâs easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. Itâs not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here arenât soâŠbiteable. Youâre fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. âYouâre new.â
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than youâve seen. He doesnât look scared the way Whitaker does, but thereâs a clear expectation about what the interactionâs going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, âNew fellow. Recent relocation.â
Parkâs eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. âWe havenât met.â
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself thereâs no reason to be scared. You donât play hospital politics like the residents. Youâre a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. Youâve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, âI started here last month. Just havenât had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.â
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, âWelcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and weâll get along fine.â
âNo problem.â You bounce slightly on your feet. âShall we get started here?â
His chin cocks slightly to one side. Youâre not shrinking. Not bashful. Youâre smiling. Thatâs rare. He doesnât mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, âTell me what weâve got.â
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, âMr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case â thatâs me; Iâve been point for Mr. Westman all day â chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I donât necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-â Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, âVitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, âSo essentially, the approach is-â
âHold on.â Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. âWhat did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?â
You glance over at Robby, whoâs shaking his head with pleading eyes. But itâs your case. Youâre the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Parkâs and tell him firmly, âYour radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westmanâs paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.â
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. AlmostâŠamused. Like heâs watching a puppy try a new trick. âWhatâs your opinion, doctor?â
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like youâve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
âI suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patientâs ability to walk.â Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly âbleeding heart baby doctorâ voice come out. âMr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work thatâs absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.â You swallow hard and pinch back tears. Itâs something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, âI know that the kind of procedure Iâm suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that itâs not at all my place to-â
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, âShow me the scans.â
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Parkâs eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all theyâre thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, âI donât care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an âinoperableâ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomyâŠfuck, âjust-about-everything-ectomy.â Plus nerve transfer. Now thatâs sexy. I like it.â Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down â just a little slow to be completely professional â and asks, âPipsqueak, you wanna assist?â
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a âsure, why not?â type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, âYeah, that would be awesome. Iâve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.â
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, âFreak.â
âGo to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,â Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, âCongrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.â
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, âAh, thanks.â
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, youâre glowing like you havenât been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, youâre practically skipping as you beam, âDr. Park, that was so amazing. I canât thank you enough for the opportunity.â
âYouâre good,â he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. âGreat calls like that deserve great rewards. Wouldâve given you a gold star sticker, but Iâm not as soft as Robinavitch.â
âI wish Robby gave out stickers,â you reply wistfully. âThat might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.â
Youâre about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. âUnless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.â
You startle backwards as you realize heâs pushing into the menâs room. âOh my god. Iâm so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when Iâm excited.â
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, âBy the way, itâs technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.â
Parkâs amused, loud voice hollers back, âGo home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.â
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after youâre done putting your things away. She says, âThereâs something in your mailbox, if youâd believe it.â
âReally?â You worry a hangnail on your thumb. âDonât tell me Iâm getting served or something.â
âYou? Come on, youâre Miss Bedside Manner USA.â She nods over to the doctorâs lounge and explains, âItâs from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.â
âHuh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.â
You scurry off to your mailbox, which youâve only even looked at once, the day you started. Theyâre a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, thereâs a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt youâd been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldnât find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy youâre here.
Underneath, heâs drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt â just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, itâs kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. Youâre really not supposed to be doing this. Itâs a total violation of protocol â not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Parkâs door after checking with the ortho receptionist that heâs in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as âyes, what?â Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, âHi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-â When Park doesnât even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. âSorry; thatâs silly. Iâll get back downstairs and send a page like I shouldâve to stop annoying you.â
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. âYouâre not annoying me.â
âOh. Thanks.â You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. âSo, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. Iâm working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know youâre really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-â
âIâll do it,â he interrupts urgently. âDonât ask Torres. Or anyone else. Iâve got it.â Then he adds, hasty, âPatient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. Youâre right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.â
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupidâs bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, âOkay, perfect, I will. Thank you.â
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasnât returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
âI also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.â You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star youâd picked out to grace it among your collection. âI really like them.â
âGood.â Heâs tempted to lie, say it was someone elseâs idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he canât when heâs looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. âSaw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone soâŠcompetent.â You swear thereâs a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, âIâll come down to see you- for Mr. Westmanâs follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexiaâs fucking killing me today.â
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, âI could type it up for you, if you want.â
âI didnât mean to tell you that,â he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. âYou have this disarming thing about you. Itâs jarring.â
âUm, thanks?â You tilt your head like a puppy. âAre you not supposed to talk about it or something?â
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, âPeople hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you donât mind, keep that to yourself.â
âNo problem, Dr. Park, Iâm the picture of discretion,â you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, âBut, yâknow, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability â not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand Iâm word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. Itâs- itâs chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.â
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. âDo you now?â
âYup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.â You swallow hard and tell him gently, âUm, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology â pre-med â but he didnât think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. Iâm not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.â
âPeople with photographic memories freak me out,â he says with a chuckle. You wonder if youâre the only person in the ED whoâs heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: âIâd love the help, if you have time.â
âYay!â You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. âIâm still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.â
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, âDid you eat?â
âYeah, of course. But I get bored if I donât have anything to do after my leftovers.â You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, âAlright, big man, what are we writing?â
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, âWhy donât you take my spot? Youâll be more comfortable.â
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. âWhatever you say, Shark.â
The next time Parkâs in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. Itâs horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. Itâs not a feeling thatâs ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
Itâs because youâve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. Heâs a head taller than you, even slouching, but youâre dwarfing him with your energy. Parkâs never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvieâs hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. âI didnât do anything wrong! All I did was-â
âOh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?â With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, âI get that Iâm a woman. I get that Iâm short and cute and girly. I get that you think youâre godâs gift to medicine.â
âI donât think Iâm-â
âI wasnât done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so youâre less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.â While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice heâs ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, âIf you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?â
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, âYes, doctor. I- I understand.â
You nod tightly and add, âIâd like an apology now.â
âIâm sorry,â he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but thatâll get the job done. âI shouldnât have spoken to you the way I did.â
âGood. I forgive you.â Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. âNow letâs get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?â
Ogilvie manages to get out, âThanks,â before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as youâre sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdonâs voice from the other side of the ED. âSharkbait, get over here!â
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. âMe?â
His eyes are big and begging. âYeah, câmon, I need you.â
âI have work to do, Frank.â
âPlease?â He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. âParkâs going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.â
Exasperated, you cut back, âWhat the hell does that have to do with me?â
âYouâre Sharkbait,â he replies, mimicking your expression. âWhen youâre in the room, heâs less of a dick.â
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, âIâll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.â
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
âJesus Christ,â you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. âLUCAS?â
âOn an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.â He shakes his head and mutters, âItâs basically a bag of bone soup in there.â
âSounds promising,â Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, âPipsqueak, thank god youâre on this, too. I donât have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.â
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, âWhy hasnât he ripped her head off? Sheâs brand new; she doesnât know how to placate him.â
âHer aura powers are unknown to us,â Whitaker mutters back. âShe has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.â
âI mean, she has nice tits,â Trinity reasons. âSheâs smart. Made some good calls in front of him.â
Whitaker argues, âBaranâs brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.â
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. âYou think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?â
âNot the point.â A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, âWhatâs the deal with you and the Shark?â
Humming gently, you ask him absently, âWhat do you mean?â
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, âWell, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?â
Your eyes startle wide at the idea â tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. âWhat? No! Of course not. Brendonâs not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.â
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, âI didnât realize that was a possibility.â
You chuckle and tease, âMaybe try being a better doctor next time?â
âBrutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.â
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Danaâs been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff whoâd gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. âKid, do you wanna trade spots with me?â
Your brows furrow. âWhat? Why?â
âLook.â
Your eyes follow Robbyâs pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Parkâs perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. Heâs wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. Youâve never seen him outside of scrubs and itâs becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, âI donât mind.â
âYou sure?â
âWe get along great, actually.â
âThat explains the new nickname,â he chuckles under his breath. âI figured it was because youâre a sacrificial lamb.â
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He canât bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but heâd looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionistâs computer and basically threatened Ogilvieâs life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. âHi, Bren, I didnât think you came to things like this.â
Bren. Nobodyâs used a nickname besides âSharkâ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isnât picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. âItâs hockey.â
âItâs team bonding,â you tease. âYou hate bonding. And teams that arenât sports.â
âBut I like free Pens tickets,â he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. Youâre wearing pants, at least â leggings, because fuck him, he figures â but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, âDid you bring a jacket or something? Youâre gonna freeze to death in here.â
You shake your head. âItâs not that cold; Iâll be okay.â
âGive it a period.â
âIâm not on my- Oh. Theyâre called periods in hockey?â
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, âYeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
âYouâre gonna have to explain everything to me,â you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. âIâm not from a hockey town.â
âI donât mind,â he admits after a second. He adds carefully, âI never get to talk hockey outside of work.â
âNo gym buddies to gab with?â
âNo gym buddies,â he confirms.
âThatâs shocking, considering the biceps of it all.â And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you donât have a dick to give away your thoughts. âAre you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-â
âOkay, okay, thatâs enough,â he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. âYouâve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and donât want to get hurt.â
âSo no time for gym buddies.â You lilt, sweet and easy, âMaybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-â
âNo, you definitely donât need âlessâ anything,â he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; heâd burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, âLifting isnât about losing weight or visible muscle. Itâs about building practical strength.â
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, heâd drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldnât change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. âIâm gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?â
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, âDo they have cheese fries?â
âThey have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,â he confirms. âIâll be right back with some goodies.â
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you havenât had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. âPut this on. I wonât be able to focus on the game if youâre shivering next to me the whole time.â
âAw, Bren, thank you.â Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. âJust let me know how much I owe you for it â at least for half.â
He rolls his eyes. âShut up; itâs a gift.â
âOkay, thank you so much, thatâs so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,â you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, âI apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.â
âI forgive you because of the cheese fries.â You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, âCrosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?â
Park smirks (itâs the most expensive sweater) and replies, âSid the Kid. Best player Pittsburghâs ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it heâs retiring soon; I think thatâll be my first true heartbreak.â
You balk at the idea. âYouâve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.â
He raises his eyebrows. âYou go on that many dates?â
âNo, no, no, no dates,â you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. âBut it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was justâŠgone. I couldnât look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-â
âTeam introductionâs starting, then the national anthem,â he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like heâs actually invested in your rambling. âPut a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and Iâm all yours for a full sock eulogy.â
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. âYes, sir.â
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesnât go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He canât even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. Itâs agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand whatâs going on. âThatâs Ovechkin. Youâre gonna see one hell of a game. Heâs Crosbyâs biggest rival.â
âSo we hate him,â you reply obediently. âGot it.â
He smiles at you and confirms, âYeah, we hate him. Mostly because heâs really fucking good.â
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, âThatâs why people hate you, so itâs good company.â
He barks out a laugh. âIs that why?â
âThat or because you never show off that handsome smile.â
With a pout, he counters, âI smile plenty.â
âHe said, frowning.â
âIâll smile when the Pens win,â he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon canât rip his eyes away from you. Itâs too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You donât notice heâs staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. Youâre so shocked that you donât process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming âgod, sheâs beautiful, isnât she?â Itâs the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that itâs you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly â innocently, even â in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, âYou got lipgloss on my face.â
âWhat was I supposed to do?â You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. âLeave my adoring fans hanging?â
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, âI think youâve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.â
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, âYou didnât have to blush.â
âInvoluntary response to relevant stimulus.â
âWhatever you say, big guy.â
If heâs honest with himself, his smile isnât half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. Heâd kiss you for real if you werenât surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he canât resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, âItâs been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?â
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, thereâs a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. Itâs more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesnât have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that itâs hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when youâve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Parkâs office. The doorâs cracked and youâd come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, âAre you sure you canât do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know youâre not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-â
âI told you, man, Iâm surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. Iâve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I donât do shit like that,â Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. âYouâre in good hands with Torres; sheâs as good as me any day â maybe better since people actually like her.â
You donât wait for Robbyâs response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy youâre surprised you canât hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Parkâs just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who donât care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who donât mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably donât even realize youâre flirting because theyâre so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what sheâs doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. Itâs hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. Youâre still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendonâs insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes youâve never seen before, âWhatâs wrong? Did someone make you cry?â
âNo, no, Iâm fine.â You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. âJust, um, Iâm on my period and Iâm emotional.â
Which isnât not true. Itâs the last day or two and you are emotional. Itâs definitely not helping the situation. Parkâs a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but heâs a doctor, dammit, so he doesnât let it faze him. Instead he offers, âOkay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-â
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice heâs being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. âOkay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?â
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest youâre gonna get to having him, youâre gonna milk it for all itâs worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, âYou smell really good.â
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, âItâs Dior. My mom bought it for me.â
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you canât get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. Youâre only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know heâs coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time youâre clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, thatâs a lie. You actually donât feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you donât have your best friend to hang out with anymore. Youâre going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you donât find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendonâs standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. Heâs not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, âWhat are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.â
âYeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when youâre ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.â His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. âCan we talk now?â
Weakly, you mutter back, âMy bus is in five minutes.â
âYouâre not taking the bus. Iâm driving you.â The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. âWeâre talking. Come on.â
Then he takes your hand â you want to throw up â and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesnât wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, âWhatâs going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and Iâll fix it. I know Iâm a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but Iâm not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.â
âYou havenât done anything wrong,â you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, âI came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who youâre surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think Iâd ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since youâre this sexy strong surgeon and Iâm so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-â
âWoah, pipsqueak, hey.â Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers â the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize â and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, âI just- I donât think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. Itâs great that sheâs so cool about you having female friends, but Iâm just so sensitive and I know thatâs not your fault but-â
âHold on.â Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like youâre an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, âYouâre my girlfriend.â
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, âHuh?â
âMy girlfriend. Who Iâm surprising on Sunday. That would be you.â
Now itâs your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. âWhat are you talking about?â
âI asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,â he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way youâve ever seen. Like youâre dumb but like maybe heâs also dumb. âI paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I donât just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.â
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, âI donât know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friendsâ coffees!â
â$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,â he replies as though you wouldnât drop your panties right here in the park. âMore importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.â He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, âI kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldnât be dating.â
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldnât trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, youâre an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: âYouâve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You couldâve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that wouldâve made things pretty clear to me!â
âJumping your bones?â He suppresses a laugh since youâre still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, âI guess Iâm still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasnât picking up signals that you wanted me to, yâknow, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, youâre new to Pittsburgh, youâve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didnât want to mess that up with you.â
âThatâs actually really sweet, Bren,â you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, âOkay, well, then we never did, like, a âwhat are we?â talk.â
âThatâs because Iâm 38 years old,â he replies bluntly. âWhen Iâm with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I donât need to have that talk.â
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, âClearly you do, dummy!â
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. âOkay, Iâll have that talk if you want it.â Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, âWould you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?â
You let out an absolute squeal. Itâs delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesnât care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, âYes, of course, obviously.â You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, âThis is my favorite night ever.â
âYouâve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,â he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. âNo, no, no, I canât have our first kiss be when Iâm all puffy and snotty from crying.â
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, âFair enough. Whatever you want. Câmon, letâs get you home.â
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, âHow about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday â by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job â but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?â
âYeah, of course,â he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. âIâll go anywhere you ask me.â
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. Heâd agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Parkâs pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. Heâs a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like youâre pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesnât even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, âYup, this is the singular sexiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: âWell, yâknow, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since heâs planning on surprising me tomorrow.â Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that heâs carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. âBrenny, did you get me flowers?â
âBrennyâ might be too far, but he canât bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and heâd accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. âUm, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?â
âStill romantic,â you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any heâs been on the receiving side of. âThis is the sweetest thing any manâs ever done for me.â
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, âBaby, youâre about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.â When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, âCan I kiss you now?â
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendonâs gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when youâre gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendonâs arms loop around your back. Before you know it, heâs lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing heâll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, âBaby, you canât make all those little sounds or youâre gonna kill me.â
Breathless, you tease back, âThen you definitely canât call me baby.â
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, âWhereâs your bedroom, baby?â
âItâs right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-â
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. âNo point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.â
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that youâre turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, âAre you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?â
âIf thatâs what you want,â he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which youâve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, âIâll give you everything you want, kitten.â
At the tender pet name, you canât help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like heâs become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasnât experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell heâs being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear â that heâll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesnât do more, doesnât grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, âYouâre not gonna break me, Bren.â
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what youâre asking, even if heâs tentative to give it to you. âWhat are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.â
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, âWhatâs the point in having those muscles if you donât throw your girl around a little? Câmon, Shark, I know youâre not a shy lover.â You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, youâve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and itâs absolutely sinful. âTouch me like you mean it.â
âJesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,â he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and heâs hunting for blood in the water. âI didnât know you owned anything black.â
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, âItâs a special occasion.â
âYeah?â His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. âWhatâs so special?â
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. Youâve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, âOut of words now, pretty girl?â
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, âTake your clothes off.â
He throws his head back and grins. âGood choice of words.â
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, yâknow, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. âJesus fucking Christ.â
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. âWhat? Something wrong?â
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because heâs your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, âAre you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?â
âMy hot bod?â His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once heâs stepped out of his jeans and youâre blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, âYeah, I always am.â
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, âYou should be.â
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. âLike what you see, princess?â
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole âbeer-can-sized-dickâ thing youâve read in way too much erotica because you canât close your hand around his girth. âOh.â
âWhat? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?â
âHoney, I think everyone youâve ever met knows you have a big dick.â Your eyes flick up to his playfully. âAnd Iâm definitely not intimidated.â
âReally?â
âYouâve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.â
âYeah, thatâs why Iâm so into you.â As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression â which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, âWant a taste?â
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like youâre thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. âFuck, baby, thatâs- thatâs perfect.â Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. âJesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? Iâve never been this obsessed with someone.â
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. âReally?â
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your headâs back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, âItâs actually become a huge problem for me. Youâre all I can think about.â
You giggle breathlessly and ask, âIs that a complaint?â
âMmm. Thereâs that little laugh of yours. Thatâs how you got me,â he groans before kissing you again. âI made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.â
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, âThen I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.â
âAnd I thought that was funny,â he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. âYouâre so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You donât even realize how deep youâve got your hooks in me, baby.â
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until youâre squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, âCan I leave marks?â
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, âPlease.â
âYeah?â Heâs grinning, now, but he canât bear to let you see. âWant the whole world to know youâre mine now?â You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, âGood girl.â
Fuck, youâre soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. âAll this for me? Youâre easy to work up.â
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. âAre you surprised?â
âNot even a little,â he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, âIâve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. Youâre so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.â
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. âJust like that.â
âWhatever you need, sweet girl,â he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
âBrendon,â you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, âI really need you to fuck me.â
âI love the enthusiasm, kitten, but Iâm not gonna hurt you,â he replies simply. Reluctantly. Thereâs a tenderness to his voice that shouldnât fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. Itâs him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, âIf Iâm gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I canât leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before Iâm inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?â
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, âIâll try.â
âThatâs all I ask,â he tells you. Itâs insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo youâve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you canât come up with any response besides your bodyâs natural reactions, he teases lightly, âCareful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.â
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, âSorry about that.â
Brendonâs thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesnât tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what heâd found before, and doesnât rest until heâs right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and heâs addicted to your every sound and twitch.
âThere you go,â he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. âThatâs right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendonâs there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until youâve had as much as you can take.
When youâre finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, âHow do you want me, sweetheart?â
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, âCan I ride you? Whenever Iâve fantasized about us having sex, thatâs what Iâm doing.â
âYou can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,â he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. âWhat exactly do you fantasize about?â
âWell, I donât know if youâve noticed,â you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, âbut you have these giant fucking tits Iâd like to fondle.â Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. âI wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.â
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, âWow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.â
âShut up; yes, you did.â
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, âYeah, youâre right.â
Youâre completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything youâd imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you arenât gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing youâve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Sharkâs huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, âToo much? We can slow down and-â
âShut up,â you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. âFeels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.â
âWell, they do say he was hung.â
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. âYouâre so awful.â
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, âAnd youâre sooooo into it.â
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, âYeah.â
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows heâs not exactly an easy man to take in this position â beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees donât even reach the mattress on either side of his hips â so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell youâre getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, âHow about you touch yourself?â
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, âAlready so much, Bren.â
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, âI guess I can do it for you, princess.â
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you canât stop yourself â and he doesnât mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing thatâs somehow more intense than the last. Heâs grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. Youâre so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. Heâs going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. Itâs impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and youâre not sure youâve ever been this soaked from how much a partnerâs turned you on and worked you up.
âAw, my sweet baby,â he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, âtrying so hard to keep up.â
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, âLetâs see what we have here.â Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. âHot, young, single doctor â knew Iâd find some goodies in here.â
Youâre totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. Itâs his favorite thing in the world. When he says, âget on your knees for me,â your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed â which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, âTell me if you want more.â
All you can do is nod. Usually heâd press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that thereâs no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
âDonât worry that sweet little head of yours,â he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than heâd been able to get without being in total control, âIâm gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.â
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, âThank you, Bren.â
âThere she is,â he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. âThatâs my sensitive girl. Love that about you.â
âThat Iâm a crybaby?â
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. Youâre never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. âYou know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?â
âReally?â
âYeah, princess, I fucking love it.â Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. Itâs completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendonâs thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, âLet it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good Iâm making you feel.â
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. Youâve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendonâs sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
âCâmon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,â Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didnât think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, heâs not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendonâs drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendonâs hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And youâre not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. Youâre so thoughtless that youâre just going for whateverâs been put in front of your mouth; itâs irrelevant that itâs your boyfriendâs flesh.
âThere it is,â Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. âI can feel it coming on. Donât you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and Iâll fill you up. I know whatâs what you want, isnât it?â
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and youâre hurtling into the orgasm more than itâs welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isnât Brendonâs encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. Itâs the idea that Brendonâs going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, itâs a sign that heâs claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, âIâm gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?â
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. Heâd do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. Heâs absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, âGo pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.â
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldnât be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But youâre so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that heâs correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, âNow, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.â
You give a hazy smile and nod. âThatâs so nice, Brenny.â
âWeâre gonna have to talk about that nickname,â he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. âIâm gonna call you whatever I want.â
âYeah, alright, tough guy.â
âMmm.â You lean up to kiss him. âGood boy.â
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until heâs happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. Youâre glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. âYouâre gonna turn me into such a softie.â
You giggle, âOr youâre gonna make me a big mean gym bro.â
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. âMaybe we stick to our current roles.â
âI think they suit us,â you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once youâre sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, âYou fucked my brains out. I didnât know that was actually a thing.â
âI did set a high bar for myself,â he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, âbut Iâm guessing itâs only gonna get better from here.â
You stand on your toes and kiss him. âDoes this mean weâre doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?â
âI love paperwork,â he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, âMy first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.â
âBig bad scary Park the Shark,â you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, âMy softie.â
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, heâs scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldnât even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, âJesus, now I know why they call you Shark.â
âYeah?â Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that theyâre bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, âTheyâre gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.â
the pitt x reader | dr brendon "the shark" park x black! fem! reader
after snapping your leg while defending a friend in a bar fight, you are rushed to the pitt against your will. you refuse to tell the night shift your name in hopes of saving yourself from your husband's wrath, but it isn't long before he discovers what happened. and all hell breaks loose.
cw - wc: 4.2k, fluff, angst if you squint, protective brendon, jealous brendon, abbott is funny, reader is tough, brendon's a bit of an ass but justified.
a/n - send more requests if you want more pitt stuff i'm losing steam.
Years of loving an orthopedic surgeon had, quite naturally, turned a large part of ordinary life into forbidden territory.
Power tools were out.
Motorcycles, absolutely not.
Seat belts were nonnegotiable, lawn mowers were "death traps," and trampolines might as well have been medieval siege weapons.
Dogs with too much enthusiasmâevery one of them had been blacklisted by a man who had seen too many fractures, too many mangled hands, too many limbs that couldn't be saved.
Even jogging too much had earned a suspicious side-eye from him, Brendon muttering darkly about cumulative joint damage and cartilage wear as if the use of your legs was a personal betrayal.
He had known long before marriage that you possessed a surplus of common sense the rest of the population seemed to mysteriously lackâespecially in the realm of mundane, everyday tasksâand part of what had first drawn him to you was the cutting sharpness of your mind.
You were the first woman he had ever met who could truly keep pace with him, match his wit stride for stride, keep him honest, keep him guessing.
You never once allowed him to disappear too far into the polished arrogance of a surgeon's ego without neatly taking him down a peg and planting him back on earth where he belonged.
And yet, somehow, the sight of a mandolin slicer anywhere near your hands still sent his pulse into a frenzy, the same way he used to go visibly pale if you so much as reached for a meat cleaver.
It had always annoyed youâthat suffocating, almost absurd protectivenessâbecause Brendon knew exactly who you were.
He knew you were careful.
Capable.
Sensible.
So for him to look at something as harmless as jogging and act as if your knees were one careless mile from catastrophe, it had always felt, if you were honest, just a little belittling.
But now, given your current situation, you had the creeping feeling that once he found out, he would never let you leave the house again.
"Thirty-two year old female involved in an altercation at a bar!" one of the EMTs piloting your gurney barked, breathless but practiced as the trauma team converged at the threshold of PTMC's emergency department. "Exchanged blows with an adult male, was knocked to the floor during the crowd surge, then sustained a compound tib-fib injury after being stepped on."
Jack Abbot was already at your bedside, gloved hands moving with cool efficiency over your face and splinted leg while Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen flanked the gurney
"Active bleeding from the right temple, three-centimeter scalp lac. Split lower lip. Bilateral abrasions to the knuckles consistent with closed-fist strikes. Open fracture to the left tibiaâvisible bone protrusion lateral shin, splinted in field, distal pulse present before and after splint placement, foot warm, cap refill under two seconds."
You groaned, voice slurred but sharp with irritation as you pressed the blood-soaked pad tighter to your temple, "I told you guys to take me to Presby."
One of the EMTs exhaled through gritted teeth, exhausted. "Ma'am, please, this was the closest hospital."
John Shen's brows shot up as he glanced at the shredded knuckles and the blood on your lip, "You got into a fight with a man?"
Despite the temple blood trailing warm down the side of your face, you turned your head just enough to flash a crooked, drunken smirk. "You should see the other guy."
Your friend, Nicole, breathless and disheveled beside the gurney rail, immediately jumped in, "He pushed me off the bar while I was dancing. I was fineâshe really didn't have toâ"
"Shut up, Nic," you muttered, eyes half-lidded but fierce. "The bastard had it coming."
Jack's mouth twitched into a smirk as he palpated carefully around the temple wound, gaze laser-focused, "I like her."
Ellis leaned in, penlight already out as she held your cheek steady, guiding the light over your pupils, "What about the head lac? Did you fall into glass?"
You huffed a humorless laugh, "No. He clipped me with one of those ugly rings he was wearing."
You shifted, trying to lift the bloody gauze pad from your temple.
"I'm not concussed," you assured. "I just need some water."
"Keep that dressing on, ma'am," the second EMT said firmly, pushing the gauze back against your head.
The first nodded to the physician team.
"Intoxicated but alert and responsive, GCS 15. Oriented to questions. Respiration's normal, O2 sats 99, blood pressure 128 over 82, pulse 112 sinus tach, likely secondary to ethanol, stress response, and blood loss. Pupils equal and reactive. Denies loss of consciousness."
"Open fracture site dressed with sterile wet gauze, leg immobilized with vacuum splint, bleeding at temple controlled with direct pressure," the second EMT added. "No narcotics administered en route because patient repeatedly stated she doesn't feel any pain and remained hemodynamically stable."
That made Dr. Shen glance up sharply."No pain?"
The EMT gave a grim look, "None. Not even when we aligned the leg."
You shrugged, "I got a high tolerance."
"Yeah, adrenaline and alcohol'll do that to you," Dr. Abbott confirmed.
Ellis's eyes flicked up, "Name?"
Your gaze immediately shot to the ceiling.
The EMT gave a helpless shrug, "She's refusing to state. Friend won't provide it either."
Nicole pressed her lips together apologetically and stayed silent.
You let out a sigh, muttering, "My husband'll kill me if he finds out."
John gave a short incredulous scoff, partly joking, "What, does he work here or something?"
"Yes."
Ellis deadpanned, already reaching for the side rail as they turned toward Trauma One, "That is the least of your worries right now. We need your name."
A drunken chuckle escaped your split lip, "Jane Doe."
Jack huffed a laugh of his own, then his voice snapped back into crisp command. "Let's stabilize the leg, pressure bag fluids, trauma labs, type and cross. Head strike plus temple lac buys her a one-way ticket to CT soon as she's secure."
The team surged forward, gurney rattling down the corridor at top speed.
As they whipped past the central desk, Dana stopped dead in her tracks, expression twisting into one of concern.
"(y/n)? The hell you doin' here, kid?"
At the sound of your name, you groaned, allowing your head to fall back against the gurney as it disappeared into Trauma One.
"Looks like we got a name," Jack smirked, quickly lowering the rail on his side.
"Goddamnit, Dana..."Â you huffed.
.
.
.
Up at Orthopedics, the air still carried that sterile, metallic chill unique to post-op corridorsâchlorhexidine, cautery smoke ghosts, and the faint rubber scent of fresh gloves.
Dr. Brendon Park strode out of the OR like a storm front in navy scrubs, mask already long gone, hair still slick despite the cap he'd just stripped off.
Behind him trailed a small cluster of medical students, all of them bright-eyed in the way only the deeply sleep-deprived and painfully ambitious could be.
Brendon, meanwhile, looked about as thrilled as a man walking behind his own casket.
"Post-op for BKA," he said flatly, voice clipped and fast enough that pens nearly scratched through notebook paper, "is not complicated unless you make it complicated. Serial neurovascular checks of the residual limb. Monitor flap perfusion, capillary refill at the skin edges, temperature, color changes, any duskiness that suggests ischemia."
He calmly turned the corner, gait smooth and to-the-point like that of a dormant predator.
"Dressing stays clean, dry, and intact unless there's strike-through. Rigid removable dressing or immediate postoperative prosthesis if PM&R clears it. Elevation for edema control in the first twenty-four hours, but don't leave the knee in flexion unless you enjoy flexion contractures."
He cut a look over his shoulder so sharp it could have opened skin.
"And if you forget early prone positioning and aggressive hip and knee extension exercises, congratulations, you just bought your patient a future revision."
The residents murmured frantic notes.
Brendon hated this part of the job.
Not the surgeryânever the surgery.
The amputation had been clean, efficient, textbook: posterior flap preserved, tibial cut beveled, fibula transected proximal to the tibia, myodesis secure, hemostasis immaculate.
No, what he hated was this.
The teaching.
The hand-holding.
The dead-eyed terror in learners who somehow survived anatomy and clinicals only to stand here blinking like livestock.
Teaching hospital, he reminded himself bitterly. Comes with the territory.
Without warning, he pivoted mid-stride, nearly causing the MS3 closest to him to trip over her own clogs.
"You,"Â he snapped, fixing her with a stare. "Hypothetical. POD one, BKA patient spikes tachycardia, increasing pain out of proportion, tense posterior flap, drainage darkening under the dressing. Next step."
The student froze.
Actually froze.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Her pupils went wide.
Brendon stared at her for one beat, then another, jaw flexing.
"Well?" he said curtly. "Go on. Quit wasting my time."
"IâI'd probably increase the opioid dose and maybe loosen the ace wrap to reduceâ"
He cut her off with a sharp exhale through his nose.
"No," His tone was dry enough to desiccate tissue. "The next step is immediate dressing takedown to inspect the stump. Assess compartment tension, evacuate hematoma if present, and get the patient back to the OR for emergent decompression or hemostasis if there's any question of vascular compromise. Pain out of proportion after amputation is not treated by loosening bandages."
The student went pink with humiliation.
Brendon had already turned away, uninterested.
They rounded the corner into the Orthopedics charge station, the fluorescent buzz louder here over the drone of printers and distant telemetry alarms.
Charge nurse Sally was just hanging up the phone, expression pinched.
"Park," she called, "ED just called up a gnarly open tibial fracture. Sounds like a grade III, stepped on in some kind of bar fight. They're asking if you want to come take a look."
Brendon scoffed, already snagging the chart from the BKA he'd just finished.
He uncapped his pen and scribbled quick postoperative orders across the margin.
"Tell them to irrigate, start cefazolin and gent, tetanus if needed, splint, and wait." His tone was dismissive, eyes never lifting from the page. "I've got better things to do."
Then the elevator chimed.
A soft, ordinary ding.
But it sliced clean through the station noise.
The doors slid apart.
Nicole stepped out.
Brendon's pen stopped moving.
His head snapped up so fast the residents actually flinched.
His brows drew together instantly, dark and severe, eyes narrowing with a speed that telegraphed something far rarer than annoyance.
Recognition.
And then something colder.
Nicole.
Your best friend.
The two of you were supposed to be downtown right now, out celebrating her birthday.
For one suspended, electric second, the entire floor seemed to go still around him.
What the fuck was she doing here?
The instant Brendon's eyes locked with Nicole's, every trace of color drained out of her face.
Her mouth dropped open.
"Oh, shit."
The curse came out in a frantic hiss, far louder than she probably intended, and then she lunged for the elevator panel, jabbing the close door button with panicked, repeated stabs of her thumb.
Brendon moved before the doors even started to slide.
"Nicole!"
His voice cracked through the Orthopedics floor like a rifle shot.
Every resident at the charge station went rigid.
Sally's brows shot nearly to her hairline.
No oneâno oneâhad heard that much raw emotion in Brendon Park's voice in years.
Not anger, exactly. Something sharper. Hotter.
Something terrifyingly close to fear.
He abandoned the chart in his hand without a second thought, pages fluttering against the counter as he crossed the distance in three furious strides.
His palm slammed between the narrowing doors with enough force to trigger the sensor, metal panels shuddering back open.
Nicole winced.
Brendon's face was taut.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The words came rapid-fire, clipped with fury. "Where the hell is (y/n)?"
Nicole's eyes darted left, then right, like she could physically outrun the question.
"IâI was just looking for the cafeteria," she blurted. "I got turned around."
Brendon's expression somehow got darker.
He leaned in, voice low and dangerous, every syllable razor precise.
"You know damn well that's not what I'm asking." His jaw flexed. "Why are you in a hospital, Nicole? Why aren't you out with my wife like you're supposed to be?"
She clammed up so fast it was almost audible.
Her eyes dropped.
Dodged.
Brendon barked her name again, louder this time. "Nicole."
Her chin lifted in stubborn apology, "I was sworn to secrecy."
Brendon's eyes widened.
"What do you mean sworn to secrecy?! What the hell happened?!" he snapped. "Is she hurt?!"
He stepped closer, voice dropping into something so cold it made even Sally flinch from across the desk.
"Nicole, so help me God..."
But she held.
Not a word.
Not a single word.
Brendon stared at her for one searing, vibrating beat, chest rising once, sharply.
Then he let the doors close.
The second the elevator sealed shut, he pivoted on his heel and stormed for the stairwell so fast the residents had to flatten themselves against the wall to avoid getting clipped by his shoulder.
Sally watched him go, wide-eyed.
The med students stood frozen in his wake, mouths parted.
Now that wasn't new.
This was Dr. Park the brilliant, merciless orthopedic shark who shredded residents for sport.
This was blood in the water.
And he was already hunting the source.
.
.
.
He hit the ED level in a blur of motion that made the elevator look lazy.
Fifteen flights should have left any normal person winded.
Brendon barely seemed to notice.
The stairwell door slammed open hard enough to ricochet off the wall as he strode into the chaos of PTMC's emergency department, eyes cutting through the movement with ruthless efficiency.
He scanned for one thing only:
Dana's blonde hair.
He didn't see it.
As Princess swept past carrying a stack of warm blankets, he turned sharply enough to stop her in her tracks.
"Where's your charge nurse?"
Princess blinked, eyes going wide.
He had never once, in the handful of ortho consults that dragged him down here, acknowledged her existence beyond the patient in question.
The sheer fact that he was speaking directly to her left her momentarily stunned.
Three seconds.
That was all the patience he gave her.
When she still hadn't answered, Brendon scoffed under his breath and moved on.
Across the pod, a cluster of male nurses and a couple of security guards stood in a loose knot, voices low and animated.
The second Brendon's expression came into view, the older nurses instantly read the room and scattered like prey.
Everyone except Ahmad.
New enough not to know better.
He looked up, grin easy. "Hey, man, you want in on the pool?"
Brendon ignored him, using the slightly raised vantage point near the desk to keep scanning the room.
Ahmad kept going anyway.
"Female in Trauma One. Bar fight, won't give her name but says her husband works here." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Abbott's the favorite since he admitted her, but weirdly enough Robby's pulling as a dark horse."
And then Brendon saw Dana.
He was moving before Ahmad finished the sentence.
Dana barely had time to look up before Brendon was in front of her, looming, eyes dark with something far more dangerous than his usual surgical arrogance.
She blinked once, surprised, then smirked, "Sally just called. Said you denied the tib-fib consult."
"I've got something more important," he bit out.
Dana folded her arms. "What can I do for ya, Shark?"
His response was curt, immediate.
"Park."
The smirk slipped.
"Did you admit a woman with the last name Park? Brown skin, brown eyes, curly hair." His throat bobbed once. "About this tall."
He gestured roughly to his own shoulder.
Dana frowned, already mentally running the board.
"No Parks."
His brows drew together so hard it almost looked painful, "Double check."
She held his stare, then shook her head once, firm, "No Parks in the ED today with that description."
For one second, pure frustration flashed across his face.
Then Dana's expression shifted.
"...Though," she said slowly, realization dawning, "there is that woman in Trauma One. Same description. The tib-fib from the bar fight."
The words hit him like blunt force trauma.
Brendon went still.
His heart dropped so violently it felt like it hit somewhere near his knees.
Shit.
You were the tib-fib.
Without another word, he turned and strode hard toward Trauma One, every step faster than the one before, fury and fear now fully braided into something lethal.
Dana watched him go, then slowly turned her head toward Ahmad across the room.
A grin spread across her face.
"Ahmad," she called.
He looked up.
She jerked her chin toward the retreating orthopedic surgeon. "Put fifty on Park the Shark for me."
.
.
.
The doors to Trauma One slammed inward so hard they rebounded off the stopper.
Both you and Jack Abbott jumped.
"For fuck's sake!"Â you yelped, your hand flying to your chest hard enough to jostle the blood-pressure cuff around your arm.
Abbott looked up from where he'd been checking the gauze at your temple, blatant displeasure flattening his mouth.
"Well," he drawled dryly, "look who finally came down from his ivory tower to join the rest of us."
Brendon didn't so much as glance at him.
His eyes found you.
Then your leg.
And every trace of color seemed to drain out of his face as his gaze landed on the mangled reality of your grade III open tibial fractureâthe splint peeled back enough for the jagged cortical edge of tibia to protrude through torn skin and soaked dressings.
"Jesus Christ, (y/n)..."
His stomach visibly dropped.
He was at your bedside in two strides, all sharp motion and barely restrained panic, hands hovering before settling into practiced purpose as he took in the injury.
The second you realized it was him, your eyes screwed shut.
"Nicole,"Â you hissed under your breath, "I'm going to kill her."
Brendon's voice came fast, rougher than you'd heard in a while, "Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Any dizziness, nausea? Can you move your toes? What the fuck happened?"
At the sheer informality of the exchange, Abbott's brows drew together.
Then it clicked.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"No shit,"Â he said, looking between the two of you with delighted disbelief. "This is him?"
Brendon's head snapped around so sharply his curls shifted over his forehead. "What do you mean, this is him?"
And then, against his better judgment, something hot and ugly curled low in his chest.
Jealousy.
You... alone in a room with Jack Abbott for God knew how long, while you were hurt and vulnerable and half-drunk.
Not that he thought you'd do anything.
But Abbott?
He was a psych case with a stethoscope.
You turned to Jack with a pleading look, silently begging him not to say a word.
His grin only widened.
"The ED's been runnin' a betting pool on who her husband is," he said, enjoying every syllable. "Ever since she let it slip he works here and refused to give us her last name."
Slowly, Brendon's stare slid back to you, laser-sharp.
You visibly deflated.
Your glare cut to Abbott, "This is coming out of your patient satisfaction score."
He shrugged with an amused huff, "Worth it."
At the door, he paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "I'll take it we've secured that ortho consult."
Brendon answered with nothing more than a grunt.
The door shut behind Abbott.
Silence.
And then Brendon erupted.
"You deliberately omitted your name so I couldn't find you?!"
You scoffed right back, temper flashing despite the throbbing in your temple, "Because I knew this is how you'd react! Brendon, I am not made of glass!"
He took in one short, incredulous breath, anger still sharp but fraying at the edges with fear.
"I have every goddamn right to react like this when I find out from someone else that my wife nearly snapped her leg in half!"
His eyes dropped to the injury again, horror freshening as if seeing it for the first time.
"What the hell happened?!"
You exhaled through your nose, "It was just an incident at a bar."
That somehow made him look more alarmed.
"(y/n),"Â he started, voice low and serious. "Tell me what happened. Did someone do this to you?"
You held his stare for a beat.
Then sighed.
"Nicole and I were out celebrating. She was dancing on the bartop, we were having a good time, and this random asshole shoved her off."
Brendon's jaw tightened.
"She fell hard," you continued. "Really hard. So I punched him in the face."
His eyes widened a fraction.
"Then we got into it. Fist fight, cops got called, crowd rushed, people started pushing, I got knocked down..."
You gestured vaguely toward the leg.
"Yada yada, here we are."
For a moment Brendon just stared at you.
Then he almost stammered, disbelief cracking through the anger, "You got into a fight... with a man?!"
Your bandaged knuckles and split lip suddenly made awful, perfect sense.
You blinked at him, "Why is everyone so surprised by that?"
"What the hell were you thinking?!"
"I was thinking about my friend!"Â you snapped. "She could've cracked her skull open because of that guy. You of all people have told me enough stories to know people get seriously hurt from way less."
He shot back immediately, "Nicole isn't the one with the broken leg!"
You folded your arms over your chest and turned your face away.
"I'm not arguing with you about this," you said curtly. "It's already done. So you can either be my husband and leave until I find another doctor, or you can be Dr. Park and do the damn consult."
That hit.
It showed only in the brief tightening around his eyes, the smallest fracture in his expression, but it hit.
He wasn't trying to be that guy.
He'd spent the last ten minutes wondering if his wife was visiting a friend... or lying unidentified in the morgue.
And all because you'd hidden your name so he wouldn't get upset.
He exhaled once, slow and controlled, and forcibly redirected every ounce of emotion into the place he trusted most:
The medicine.
His gaze returned to your leg.
"Alright," he said, tone leveling into pure surgeon.
He snapped on gloves.
"I need you to answer everything honestly. Any numbness in the foot before EMS splinted it?"
"They already askedâ"
"Humor me."
At his curt tone, you scoffed, but complied, "...No."
He palpated gently along the exposed margins of the wound, assessing the soft tissue and contamination. "Pain when you stretch your big toe?"
"A little."
He checked distal pulse at the dorsalis pedis, then capillary refill in your toes.
"Good distal perfusion. Toes are warm."
His fingers moved with meticulous care over the deformity.
"Obvious displaced open tibial shaft fracture, likely with associated fibular fracture. Significant periosteal stripping but the posterior soft-tissue hinge looks partially intact. No gross vascular compromise on exam, but I still need to rule out occult injury."
None of that sounded remotely reassuring.
He continued, snatching up the chart Abbott left and glancing it over.
"This needs urgent irrigation and debridement in the OR. Looks like broad-spectrum IV antibiotics were already started, but we'll need repeat tetanus verification, then likely external fixation. We'll also monitor closely for evolving compartment syndrome given the crush component."
You blinked at him.
Half of that might as well have been another language.
He finished the exam, stripped off his gloves with a sharp snap, and let out a breath.
Then his whole posture softened.
"Look,"Â he said quietly.
Your arms loosened a little.
"I'm sorry for how I came in," he said first. "I'm sorry for how I spoke. And I'm sorry that you felt like you had to hide from me to keep the peace."
The anger had burned off, leaving only the truth beneath it.
"You scared the hell out of me," he admitted, voice lower now. "For ten minutes I didn't know if you were in the ED, visiting someone, or downstairs in the morgue. I was furious because I was terrified, and no one was telling me anything."
He rounded the gurney and gently took your hand, his thumb gliding carefully over the bandage wrapped around your raw knuckles.
"You are a strong woman, (y/n). You wouldn't be married to me if you weren't," he murmured. "But strong doesn't mean invincible."
His eyes lifted to yours, steady and sincere.
"And as your husband, it is my job to worry. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you when I could've done something to prevent it."
Guilt curled warm and uncomfortable in your stomach.
Your arms fully uncrossed.
He reached up, cupping your cheek with a careful hand, thumb brushing beneath the uninjured side of your lip.
"But I'll try to be... softer about it," he said, the word sounding begrudging but genuine. "But you can't avoid me. Not in an emergency, and especially not when you're hurt."
You caved.
Slowly, you nodded.
For Brendon, the faint curve that touched his mouth was practically a beaming grin.
"Thank you," he muttered.
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
Soft.
Tender.
A world apart from the fury he'd entered with.
You hummed in pleasant surprise against his lips, the corner of your mouth quirking when he pulled back.
"Trying to bring up your patient satisfaction scores, Dr. Park?"
A quiet chuckle escaped him, forehead touching yours.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
wordcount: 12.2k
a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
main masterlist
synopsis:
A maidservantâs only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princessâs sole protectorâJames Barnes.
Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservantsâ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
âJames,â you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
âYou knowâwhen itâs just me and you, you donât have to call me James.â
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. âLong day?â
âMhm,â you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Buckyâs nose. His right handâflesh and humanâcame up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdomâs greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
âSleepy girl,â he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. âYouâve been working so hard, havenât you?â
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
âI should let you retreat to your bedchambers,â he spoke quietly. âBut I donât want to let you go. I havenât seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?â
âVery selfish of you, James.â
âI told you not to call me that.â
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. âOhâI apologize, Bucky.â You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to himâthe prize heâd been seeking all day.
âThatâs my girl,â he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation heâd been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
âEw,â she dragged out childishly. âIs this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservantâs throat?â
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelenaâs direction.
He clicked his tongue. âUnassuming,â he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
âI shall let you rest.â Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. âGoodnight, maiden.â
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
âYelena,â you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, âstop.â
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. âDid you have fun with soldier boy out there?â
You gasped softly at her direct question. âN-Natâ!â
âYou know, soldier boy didnât even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,â Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. âItâs as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.â
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
âYou ladies are unbelievableââ
âAm I the only one who doesnât find this funny in the slightest?â Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. âIf word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knightâno, the Sergeant himselfâweâre all ruined!â
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
âI wouldnât call it an affair,â you explained. âWe havenât put a title onâŠâ You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, ââŠthis arrangement.â
Yelena ran a hand down her face. âThatâs even worse!â
âYelena, calm down,â Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. âBut as harsh as she's being, she is right.â
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were rightâthat being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdomâs knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnesâthe very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
âYou are in love,â Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. âWe can see that. But you have to believe usâweâre only looking out for you.â She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. âFalling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.â
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wantedâbut it was Wandaâs voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
âYou could get us all in trouble.â
âYouâre only thinking for yourself.â
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldnât even attend his funeral, and her name couldnât be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
âI know,â you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okayâthat this was okay. âAnd I understand. I wonât let it come between us.â
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphneâs dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
âIs it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?â
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didnât look out of placeâmaybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
âThe roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,â you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. âThe gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?â
âI believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,â you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. âWhatever for?â
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princessâs eyes. âHis wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.â
âI see,â she sighed softly. âThatâs a shame.â
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princessâs back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
âAll finishedââ
âI would like for you to tend the gardens today.â
You blinked at the sudden request. âI⊠the gardens?â
âYou fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,â she said with a guileless smile. âSo, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.â
You truly didnât know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds beforeâsure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldnât tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
âI⊠yes,â you bowed your head. âIt will be done, Your Royal Highness.â
âWonderful!â Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. âI expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!â
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening glovesâlikely Alexeiâsâin a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldnât budge.
âCome on,â you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queenâs favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your⊠toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didnât offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
âDonât tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.â
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
âBucky,â you greeted with a breathless smile. âDonât tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.â
Buckyâs grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
âIf the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,â you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
âNo, actually,â he said. âThe princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.â
âOh,â your smile faded slightly. âI see.â
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. âIs there something troubling you?â
I donât want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
âNothing,â you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. âItâs a lovely day outside for a promenadeâIâm sure itâll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.â
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
âThe promenade wonât last forever,â he promised, his eyes searching yours. âAnd once youâve finished tucking the Princess into bed, Iâll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.â
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
âMeet me there,â he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. âBehind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.â
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasnât the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each otherâs arms.
Buckyâs gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
âTonight, after the moon hits its peak,â he murmured, quiet and low. âDonât make me wait for you, sweetheart.â
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Buckyâs arms againâa thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
âTonight,â you repeated with a genuine smile. âI shall be there.â
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. âGoodââ
âSergeant Barnes!â the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Buckyâs body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
âYour Majesty,â Buckyâs voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didnât even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at youâthe dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
âSergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,â the King lectured with authority. âWhy are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?â
âMy apologies, Sire,â Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. âI was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.â
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didnât look pleased. âSee that you are. In these times, the Princessâs safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.â
The Kingâs gaze flickered momentarily toward youâa cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furnitureâbefore he turned back to Bucky.
âMove along, Sergeant.â
âAt once, Your Majesty,â Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the Kingâs attention was turned away, Buckyâs gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Buckyâs heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldnât be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped youâa welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
âLook what the cat dragged in!â Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. âYou look like youâve been rolling in the trenches.â
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. âAnd it looks like you didnât have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.â
âThatâs because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,â John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. âHours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.â
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
âIâm starving,â you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. âWhat are you all feasting on?â You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. âBob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focacciaââ she lifted a piece of the bread, âapparently, itâs all the rage in the southern kingdoms.â
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
âHeâs even made a special companion for it,â John called over his shoulder, âa savory onion and fig jam.â
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
âTry it,â Wanda encouraged. âItâs much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.â
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
âMmm!â You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. âBobâthis is delicious! If youâve been cooking like this all this time, how havenât I had a taste until now?â
âItâs because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,â Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bobâs ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
âThank you,â he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. âIâve been trying something new⊠so Iâm glad you like it.â
âAw, look at that,â Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. âYouâve got Bob all flustered now.â
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
âCareful with that one, Bob,â he warned, pointing his whisk at you. âGetting too close to her will only get the kingdomâs mightiest soldierâs blade pressed against your throat.â
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at Johnâs comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
âHey now,â you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. âDonât tease the guy. Heâs the only one keeping you all fed.â
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutesâaway from the pressure of your choresâyou were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyoneâs head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
âThe promenade is over,â Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. âBack upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.â
âI didnât even finish my loaf!â Yelenaâs complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. âThe Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go onâIâll change her sheets so theyâre ready for her to lie down.â
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. âRight. Iâm going.â
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasnât alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
âMy knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,â Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knightâs gaze.
âPlease, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,â she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. âJust as I shall call you Bucky.â
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
âThank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,â Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
âOf course,â Bucky nodded politely. âWith the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.â
âYou always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,â she smiled.
âI am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,â Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. âShall I take my leave, then?â
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. âI told you to call me Daphne.â She looked around with a sigh. âAnd no needâit seems my maidservant has yet to arriveââ
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadnât been eavesdropping the entire time.
âI apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,â you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. âI made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if youâre ready.â
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
âOh,â Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. âI would like that very much.â
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didnât.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Buckyâs eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. âYou are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.â
He didnât reply immediatelyânot until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. âSergeant?â
âI⊠my apologies,â Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. âYour Royal Highness.â
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasnât customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
âThe bath, then?â Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
âYesâof course, Your Royal Highness,â you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didnât wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
âHe truly is a marvel, isnât he?â she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. âThe way the villagers part for himâhe has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.â
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
âHe is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,â you managed to say.
âItâs more than duty,â she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. âWhen we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.â
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his jobâjust as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
âDo you think he finds me charming?â
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word âIââ dying on your lips.
âItâs so hard to tell with men like him,â she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. âSo stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!â
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fallâthe silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlierâher slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of himâthe version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
âIt is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.â
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was rightâno guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worseâwas everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
âBob?â you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. âWhat are you doing out here?â
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. âI stayed behind in the kitchen,â he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. âI wanted to perfect the focaccia.â He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
âWhat are you doing out here?â Bob returned the question.
âIâm⊠umâwaiting for someone,â you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
â⊠For how long?â
âI havenât been out here long,â you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. âI was just starting to head back, actually.â
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you werenât telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
âI think this is the best loaf Iâve made,â he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. âWant to share it with me?â
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early youâd have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didnât sound bad at all.
âJust for a moment,â you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
âHere,â he said softly, handing you the larger piece. âItâs still warm.â
You took the piece in your hands and bit into itâno jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didnât even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didnât push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each otherâs company under the stars.
âYouâre an incredible cook, Bob,â you said, gazing up at the dark sky. âI wish people outside of the palace could taste thisâitâs exquisite.â
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
âI told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.â He looked up at the sky with you. âItâs always been my dream.â
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businessesâwreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
âWell, when you do open up your shop,â you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, âIâll be the first one in line.â
Bob smiled at you. âWhat about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?â
âDoes anyone actually want to stay at the palace?â you joked, and he chuckled softly.
âNo. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own familyââ Your smile faded slightly at the thought. âMaybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.â
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Buckyâand he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didnât press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered.
You forced a smile. âItâs okay.â
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
âI know you hear this plenty of times,â he started gently, âbut you deserve so much better thanââ
âHey!â
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadnât slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left handâthe cold metal of his prostheticârested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
âJamesââ
âWhat the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?â Bucky seethed. He didnât even look at youâhis icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
âIâI was just about to head to bed, sir,â Bob stammered, his hands still raised. âI was just finishing up some work in the kitchen andââ
âBullshit,â Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. âAll I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his placeâa foolish boy who thinks heâs entitled to roam the grounds after dark. Youâre a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.â
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be roughâit was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didnât deserve this.
âJames, calm downââ
âYou will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,â Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
âI meant no disrespect, sir,â Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
âThen get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,â Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. âBack to your hole, baker. Now.â
âY-yes, sir!â
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servantâand that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
âYou broke bread with the boy?â
You didnât dare to speak.
âAnswer me,â Bucky commanded.
âI waited for you,â you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
âI waited for over an hour,â you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. âI have to rise in merely four hoursâyou know that. And yet...â Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. âYou stood me up.â
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
âNot only thatâbut you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! Heâs my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!â
Buckyâs eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. âI didnât realize that kid was of such importance to you.â
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. âDonât tell me,â you scoffed lightly in disbelief. âAre you jealous?â
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
âI am many things,â he said stiffly. âBut jealous? I am not.â
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. âOh, Iâm sure.â
âAnd even if I was,â Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. âIs that so wrong?â
Your brows furrowed. âFunny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.â
Buckyâs face became a mask of confusion. âWhat?â
âAbout how charming you were,â you said with bitterness. âShe said you held her parasol and that you looked at her⊠differently.â
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
âLooking at her differently? Thatâs unbelievable,â he scoffed. âAnd you know it is my job to do as I am told.â He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. âAnd charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?â
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
âYouâre ridiculous, James,â you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
âWaitââ he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. âIâm sorry. It was never my intention to stand you upâI swear it.â
He squeezed your arm gentlyâa silent plea for you to hear him out.
âI was with the General,â he spoke, his voice getting quieter. âThe meeting⊠it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. Itâs Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.â
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. âThe Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. Itâs getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routesâI⊠I couldnât just walk out.â
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
âI was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldnât have even had time to find you to say goodbye.â
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
âBut⊠youâre still here,â you whispered, your eyes searching his.
âI am,â he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. âRogers and Wilson⊠they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. Theyâre out there right now, just so I could be hereâwith you.â
Buckyâs hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
âThere is never a moment where Iâm not thinking of you, and Godâthe thought of you waiting for me this entire time⊠I canât even fathom it,â his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. âI swear to youâI would never leave you alone.â
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
âAnd as for that outburst earlierâŠâ He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. âIâm sorry. Iâve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.â
Bucky didnât wait for verbal forgivenessâhe took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
âYou are a sight for sore eyes,â he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. âA beautiful, beautiful sight.â
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touchâto crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
âNo,â Bucky cut you off coldly. âKeep it on. I want to tear through it myself.â
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
âIâve missed you,â he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. âGod, Iâve missed you so much it hurts.â
âIâve missed you so much too, Bucky,â you moaned softly. âSo much.â
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasnât any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. âYou smell so good.â âYouâre so soft.â âSo pretty.â
Buckyâs hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped against your ear. âIâm so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. Iâm going to make it up to you. I promise.â
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of himâhis cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
âBucky,â you sighed softly against his mouth. âI need you.â
âI know, my dear,â Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. âYou donât know how badly I needed you today.â
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
âMissed your legs wrapped tight around me,â he breathed. âMissed you moaning my name.â
Bucky couldnât wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
âFuck,â he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cuntâalready puffy and begging for him, and he hadnât even put it in yet.
âShe missed me, hasnât she?â he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. âBet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldnât even put up a fight.â
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
âChrist,â you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. âWhen was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?â
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. âI⊠I donât know. Nine⊠ten days ago?â
Bucky hummed. âHavenât fucked you for a little over a week and youâre already seeking attention from other men, arenât you?â
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldnât help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealousâand that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
âGotta claim you again,â he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. âGotta remind you who you belong to.â
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
âWhat an eager little thing,â he taunted.
âBucky,â you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. âPl-please...â
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this momentâbut with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
âGoddamn,â he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. âJust as I thoughtâso fucking wet⊠can just⊠slide right in.â
You hissed, your hands finding Buckyâs broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside youâsearingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
âMine,â Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
âTen days,â he breathed against your ear. âTen fucking daysâdonât think Iâm gonna last long inside you, baby.â
âDonât care,â you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. âI just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.â
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helplessâcompletely and devastingly stuffed.
âOh myâBuck, too⊠too much.â
âToo much?â he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. âBut sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. Youâve taken harder.â
âI know,â you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. âItâs just been⊠ten daysââ
âTen days and youâve already gotten so tight for me again,â he murmured, his pace increasing. âMeans you haven't been fucking anyone else.â
Your face burned as you stammered, âOf course notââ
The words that left your lips made Buckyâs heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
âJesus,â he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
âYou look so good like this,â he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. âSprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.â
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
âSeeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,â he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. âMakes me want to do things to make sure you stay.â
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldnât even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Buckyâs grip on you tighten.
âI want to breed you,â Bucky confessed shamelessly. âWanna give you a piece of meâso when Iâm out there fighting, or when youâre away from me, youâll still have me. I want to pump you so full that youâll always be carrying a part of me.â
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
âNeed toâŠâ Bucky thrust deep, âpump you fullâŠâ He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. âGoing to have to make you my girl for good.â
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
âYou like that?â Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. âYou like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?â
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
âYes!â you cried out. âYes, Buckyâplease! Iâm yours⊠all yoursâI want to be full of you!â
âFuck,â Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Buckyâs arms wrapped tight around your bodyâthe scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
âBounce on it, baby,â he muttered roughly. âFuckâbounce on me âtil I cum.â
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
âThatâs it, sweetheart,â he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. âJust like that.â
âBucky⊠IâmâIâm going toââ
âI know, baby,â he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. âIâve got you. Iâm not going anywhere.â
Iâm not going anywhere.
âD-donât go,â you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
âGood girl,â he praised with a gravelly rasp. âMy sweet, precious girl.â
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
âSo perfect,â he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this foreverâwith Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldnât want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasnât going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
âI donât want you to go,â you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. âPlease, just stay with me.â
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didnât pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
âI know, sweetheart,â he whispered. âI know.â
He began to press soft kisses all over your faceâ your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
âRight now, letâs just enjoy the moment,â Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. âMe and youâweâre together now, and thatâs all we can ask for, right?â
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
âRight,â you whimpered.
âDonât cry,â Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. âIâm right here, baby. Right here.â
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
âWhen the war is over,â you brought up carefully and quietly. âDo you think weâll have a chance to be together?â
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lipsâhe didnât have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
âIn a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, Iâll always choose you.â
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
âWhatâs she smiling about over there?â Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
âWhat do you think?â Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
âSheâd usually be complaining about her back by now,â Yelena chimed in. âBut sheâs just singing to herself like some mentally derangedââ
âI can hear you all, you know,â you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
âIâm going to dump this outside,â you announced to the rest of the group. âMaybe bask in the sun for a bitâwho knows. Itâs a pretty day.â
âOkay, but donât be long,â Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. âWe have a lot to do today.â
âI wonât,â you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdomâs strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldnât help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadnât made any announcements for a drill todayâunless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
âSokovian flags on the horizon!â
âSoldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!â
âAlert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!â
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
âAre you trying to get killed?â she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
âOh my god,â you breathed. âHowââ
âTheyâre saying theyâve already made it inside,â Natasha yelled over the noise. âSokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterdayâsoldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.â
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdomâs strongest soldier wasnât there to protect it.
âWhere are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bobââ
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. âTheyâre already insideââ
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. âClear the room!â one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
âDown!â Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
âTo the back doors,â you hissed at her, pointing behind her. âQuick!â
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
âThe grapevines,â you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. âWe can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us coverââ
Natasha didnât let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. âLetâs go, then!â
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
âNat!â
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen youâa force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
âGet the Princess to safety!â the kingdomâs soldiers shouted over the noise. âGo, Sergeant!â
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Buckyâhis armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low â the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldnât even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdomâs ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to moveâaway from the Princess, and toward you.
âSergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!â
âBarnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!â
âThe Princess is exposed! Cover!â
âBarnes!â
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didnât look back. He didnât care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
âNo, no, no,â it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. âHey⊠hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. Itâs meâstay with me. Come on, stay with me.â
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
âBuckyâŠâ you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
âIâve got you,â he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. âIâm right here. Iâm not going anywhereâyou have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.â
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
âI canâtâI canât move my legs,â you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didnât know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
âJust stay awake, okay? Promise me youâll stay awake.â
âBuckyââ
âWeâll get you somewhere safeâI swear itââ
âBucky,â you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
âI love you,â you whispered suddenly.
Buckyâs stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tightenâforced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
âNo,â he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. âDonât say that. Not yet. You donât get to say goodbye.â
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
âYou save that,â he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. âYou save those words for when weâre back at the gazeboâyou save them for when the sun is up and there isnât a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?â
He looked down at you again, anticipating a responseâanything to show that you were still aliveâbut your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
âIâm not letting you go,â he promised. âYou hold on to me, and donât you dare close those eyes.â
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promiseâand more.
Even in a world that wasnât perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesnât lose control. He doesnât blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesnât feel so important.
WORD COUNT. 17.8k (sheâs biiiig, iâm sorry)
WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n.
Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person â you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person â he/him.
Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. Itâs mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesnât have a metal arm, thereâs a scar instead.
Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this â executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. âPassâ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up.
NOTES. Babyâs first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Buckyâs dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. Iâll always adore you. Also thank you for the âscar on Buckyâs armâ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm â€ïž
READ ON AO3
BUCKYâS DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST
Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.
Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.
Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.
Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.
He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.
It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.
5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Steve:Â You up?
Bucky: Yeah
Steve:Â Coffee in 10
Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.
Everything else is downstairs.
True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"
Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.
Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.
"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."
"I know."
"Interviews are today, right?"
"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."
"Try not to scare them off this time."
"I don't scare people off."
Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'
They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.
Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'
Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.
"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.
Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"
"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."
"Fuck off."
"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"
Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.
Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.
"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.
"You mean you won't make time."
"Same thing."
"It's really â"
"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."
"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."
"I have Alpine."
"Your cat doesn't count."
Alpine meows, like she's offended.
They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.
The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.
The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.
Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.
"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.
Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."
"You'd be miserable."
"Probably."
"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like â you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."
Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.
Steve's right.
The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.
Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'
And he has.
The three Michelin stars prove it.
The first two interviews are disasters.
One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.
The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.
By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.
He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve:Â we're fucked, none of them can do it.
There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.
The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.
"Give me a second," he mutters.
"Sure."
Something about your voice makes him look up.
Oh.
Oh.
You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.
Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.
"For a year."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."
Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"
"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."
That does make him laugh.
You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"
"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."
Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.
"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."
"I know."
"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."
"I'm not most people."
Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.
"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often⊠Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.
Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on â
"What happened to your arm?"
That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."
Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.
"Does it hurt?" you ask.
"Sometimes."
"When you're stressed?"
Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you â
"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."
There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.
"You start Monday," he hears himself say.
"What?"
"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."
A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."
Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch.Â
"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.
Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.
If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.
He checks his phone â 8:47 AM, fuck â and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.
The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.
Instead, it's... fine?
Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?
Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."
"What â"
"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."
"It's your second day."
"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't.Â
"How did you â"
"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."
Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.
Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say.Â
"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality.Â
"What?"
"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."
He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."
You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain.Â
"Sugar?"
"Black's fine."
"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again.Â
"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.
Bucky eyes go from you â your face â, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"
You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.
The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.
"I can â" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.
"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just â"
The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just⊠feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.
But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.
"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.
The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.
Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.
"Well?"
"It's good⊠really good. What'd you put in it?"
You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."
Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful â not to mention inappropriate â thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."
"Really?"
"Really."
You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.
"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever.Â
"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.
You turn to look at him.Â
"Don't â" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"
Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."
"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter?Â
You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."
Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.
"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.
"Fine."
"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."
Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."
"About onions?"
"About the menu."
"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.
"Fuck off."
"Just saying, she's good."
"I know she's good. I hired her."
"That's not what I â" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."
Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.
He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind.Â
The second thing he notices â and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't â is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.
Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.
You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."
"Yeah. Goodnight."Â Â
You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose.Â
The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.
Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."
This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.
You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.
But no.
Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that.Â
Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.
She doesn't look at him at all.
Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.
But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.
Fuck it.
He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.
His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."
In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.
Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?
His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.
Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.
Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.
The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps â
Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.
Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."
The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is â this desperate want, this intense need â it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.
Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.
The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.
You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though.Â
Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.
Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"
Everyone looks around. Blank faces.
"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.
"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."
"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.
"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."
Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.
The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.
You missed the debrief to stand outside?
"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"
When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.
There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She â She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."
Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.
"I â Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't â I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.
You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."
"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."
"You didn't scream."
"I raised my voice."
"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."
"Not more important than â" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."
A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef."Â There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.
"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."
"Yeah. Five years now."
"What's her name?"
"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.
"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed â"
"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."
"Oh. You're terrible."
"Sorry."
"Nope. You're not."
Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if â
Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.
"I'm okay," you say.
"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."
"I've survived worse."
Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her⊠If she's getting heavy."
You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."
"What?"
"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.
"I didn't â"
"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."
"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.
Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."
"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.
The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"
"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.
Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."
"Yeah, just â give me a sec."
Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."
"Yeah⊠here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."
Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.
The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.
Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.
Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room.Â
Steve:Â You're in trouble
Bucky:Â Fuck off
Steve:Â She's pretty
Steve:Â And she saved alpine
Steve:Â And you looked at her like she hung the moon
Bucky:Â I said fuck off
Steve:Â Good luck buddy
He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. ButâŠ
You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe â you think â, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing.Â
You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.
But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.
But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet.Â
Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.
He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.
"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.
"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.
"You sure? You look a little flustered."
"It's hot in here."
He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."
"Must be coming down with something."
"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."
"I wasn't â"
"You were definitely staring."
Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."
Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"
"Veins. On your arms. They're very â I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are â" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important â"
Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."
Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.
Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.
That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.
By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.
Like jump your boss.
You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.
"Hey."
When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."
"You rushing off?"
"Just â long day."
"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So â uh â Alpine misses you."
If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"
"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."
"That so?" You can't help but smile.
"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."
This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure."Â
Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."
"Right. For Alpine."
"For Alpine," you repeat.
There's a beat where you both just stand there.
"C'mon⊠She's upstairs."
You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.
Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.
"It's â"
Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.
"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."
Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."
"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."
"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."
"Well, I am very likable."
"So you've mentioned."
"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"
"Found her outside a restaurant."
"And she just â came home with you?"
"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."
"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"
When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."
"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.
Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."
"Does what?"
"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."
"Maybe she has good taste."
"That she does."
Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.
"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.
"I'm okay with that."
You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more.Â
"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.
"Mhmm."
"Earlier. In the kitchen⊠What were you looking at?"
"I â"Â
"Because you were definitely looking at something."
"I wasn't â okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's â you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."
"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Sound so smug about it."
"I'm not smug."
"You're absolutely smug right now."
Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes. Â
"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.
"What is?"
"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."
"I wasn't rambling."
"You were definitely rambling."
"I was making valid points about water intake â"
Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.
When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I â" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.
One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.
Oh god, he's kissing you.
His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."
"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"
"Something like that."
"That's very unprofessional, Chef."
"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.
"Bucky â I â "
"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall.Â
He sets you down on the bed â his bed â and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."
You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.
Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.
"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.
Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."
"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.
The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit.Â
Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.
He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.
"I can't â Buck â It's too much â"
"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."
Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.
When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.
When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."
Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now.Â
He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.
"Oh my god."
"What?" He's smirking.
"That's â you're â" Your brain's stopped working again.
Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"
If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"
"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I really â oh â"
He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.
"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip. Â
"Y-yeah."
"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."
He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please â"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me. Please fuck me."
"Well â Since you asked so nicely."
He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.
"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel â fuck."
You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move.Â
The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."
Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck â Do that again."
Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours.Â
"Fuck â you feel incredible, sweetheart."
Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.
"There â fuck, right there â"
He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm â"
"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."
The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.
"Where?" he grits out.
It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control â inside, please â"
Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."
You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.
He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.
You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.
Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.
"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.
It's stupidly endearing.
Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.
The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.
It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.
Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.
"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.
"Your cat's very demanding," you say.
"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.
This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.
"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.
"I should go home. Need to change before work."
"You could keep clothes here."
The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.
"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.
"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.
"That so?"
He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."
"Everything looks good on me."
"Can't argue with that."
You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.
The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you.Â
"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots â" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.
A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.
"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."
His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."
There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.
"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."
You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.
Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.
His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat.Â
"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.
"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"
Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.
"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."
"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky â"
"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"
Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please â"
Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open.Â
"Hey Buck, we need you on the â Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.
Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.
Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm â fuck âI didn'tâ" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."
The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know.Â
"Oh my god. Steve just â he saw us â" you gasp.Â
"Yep."
You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."
"You are corrupting me."
"Shut up."
The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.
You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce.Â
Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself.Â
Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs.Â
His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."
"It's â It's the same honey," you reply dumbly.Â
"No. It's not."Â
"Bucky â"
"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."
There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter.Â
The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.
"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."
Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."
"Bucky â "
"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.
"This is not an experiment."
"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."
Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please â"
"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."
"More. I want â" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.
"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.
"Yes â" you whimper.
"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive.Â
"That's â" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck â"
The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.
"Bucky â" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please â"
Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god â"
Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."
"We're supposed to be working â"
"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."
Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."
The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.
Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky â"
"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.
"Oh god â"
"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone.Â
"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.
"You â You know what I mean â"
He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh â you think â but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now â"
"But, I'm not done â"
"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."
His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."
While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.
"Yes. God, yes â"
"How bad?"
"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds â"
Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.
Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck â You feel â Jesus fucking Christ â"
He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.
"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.
"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce â wanted to â fuck â wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad â"
You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fuckingâ"
Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.
"Don't stop â please â"
When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck â I'm so close â"
"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.
There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.
When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."
"Your fault."
"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you."Â
"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."
"You're the one who spilled it."
"Accidentally."
"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue.Â
You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.
"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."
"Bucky â"
"Just one more taste."
"Alpine, no â that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.
It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.
"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."
"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"
She meows like she's arguing with you.
Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.
The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.
"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."
"We always prep early."
"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"
The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.
"If that's okay."
"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.
You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.
"I like being here," you admit.
He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.
"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."
"Five more minutes."
"Bucky â"
"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."
Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.
"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.
"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.
"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.
"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."
"Maybe she is good."
Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.
"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."
"Barnes seems smarter than that."
"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."
You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.
But you can't move, can't breathe.
"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."
They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.
Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.
Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.
And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.
You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you â whatever it is, whatever it was becoming â has to stop.
Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'
All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.
You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.
But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.
Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"
"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."
"What's wrong? Do you need â"
"Just tired. Long week."
It's Wednesday.
Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.
"Okay⊠feel better, okay?"
You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you.Â
Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.
But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.
But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant â his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.
So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.
It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts â headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.
Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"
You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.
"Nothing's going on."
"You haven't stayed over in a week."
"I've been tired."
"You're avoiding me."
"I'm not â"
"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."
You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.
He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.
But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.
"You didn't do anything. I just need space."
You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.
When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.
Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."
Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky â"
His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute⊠please."
You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."
When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.
"I miss you⊠Alpine's not the only one."
"Buck â"
"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just â I hate that you're not there."
The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
"That's not an answer."
Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.
"Something's wrong," he says.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration.Â
Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."
"Wait â"
"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.
Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."
Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.
He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.
You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.
You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."
You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."
"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."
"Everything's fine."
"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit."
"Steve â"
"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable â"
"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's â it's nothing like that."
"Then what?"
"It's personal."
"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."
Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"
"No."
"Steve â"
"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."
Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."
"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."
"You don't understand â"
"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's complicated."
"Try me."
You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"
Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Who the hell would think that?"
"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous.Â
"That's â no one here would â"
"They already are."
Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"
You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.
"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you knowâŠ" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.
"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.
He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."
"And you didn't tell anyone?"
"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"
"Their point is bullshit â"
"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."
Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"
"We weren't together."
"Bullshit."
"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."
"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"
"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."
"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"
You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter â"
"The hell it doesn't."
"Steve â"
"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"
You don't have an answer for that.
His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."
"Better miserable than â"
"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."
Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve â"
"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."
"I'm trying to protect him."
"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."
"Not if there's nothing to talk about."
"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"
"I don't know. I â I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing is being honest with him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."
"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"
"I don't know what else to do."
Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."
"I do trust him â"
"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."
"If I tell him â"
"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."
You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.
Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.
"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.
"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."
"I'm working â"
"Now, Buck."
Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"
"No. But I just talked to her."
Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt.Â
"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues.Â
"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word.Â
Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she⊠slept her way into your kitchen."
The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"
"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."
"That's â" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's â that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever â we weren't even â"
"I know."
"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She â" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"
"Assholes. But that's not the point â"
"They're talking about her like she's â like she â" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."
"That's exactly what she said you'd do."
"Good. Then she knows me."
"Buck â"
"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't â" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"
"She's trying to protect your reputation."
"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what â me?"
"Yeah."
"That's â Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.
"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."
"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"
"Like someone who's in love with her."
Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve â"
"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you â"
"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.
Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."
"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks â what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"
"No. She thinks she's protecting you."
"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally â for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"
Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But itâs never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day.Â
"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."
"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she â" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just â it was just us."
"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."
"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."
"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."
Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"
"Talk to her."
"I've tried. She won't â every time I try, she shuts down."
"Try harder."
"Steve â"
"You love her, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."
Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"
"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."
"I'm firing them."
"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing would be talking to me."
"Yeah. But she's scared⊠and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."
When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.
Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.
He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.
Because he would. He will.
He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.
He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.
And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.
Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.
When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.
Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."
The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.
You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.
He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"
Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.
"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone â multiple someones, apparently â have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."
More uncomfortable shifting.Â
"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."
"Chef â" Jason starts.
"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."
Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."
No one seems to move. Â
"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."
He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."
Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't â"
"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."
"Chef, I â"
"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."
Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't â"
"I can. I just did. Out. Now."
"This is bullshit â"
"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."
The new line cook â Miller, Bucky thinks his name is â raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."
"Smart choice."
Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.
"I said out," Bucky repeats.
Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.
"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."
The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.
Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.
He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.
But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.
Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.
When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.
You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.
The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.
Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again.Â
Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."
Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."
"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.
He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.
"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.
"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."
"I had a reason â"
"A stupid reason."
You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."
"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason â all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."
The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just â I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."
"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.
"Sweetheart, no â" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have â I should've just read your mind or something â"
That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."
"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."
"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."
His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"
"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.
"You're in love with me?"
You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for â I don't know. A while."
"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."
The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"
"Yeah. I am. Have been for â I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not. I'm â" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."
Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've â"
"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."
Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."
"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"
"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."
A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."
"Haven't been sleeping."Â
You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."
"At what?"
"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."
"I don't want to do it again either."Â Â
Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his.Â
The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.
Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."
Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.
You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.
His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."
"I'm sorry I left."
"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"
The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.
It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.
"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.
"Mhmm, dangerous."
He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."
"What?"
"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."
"That's very romantic."
"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"
You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."
"Is that a yes?"
You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this â Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."
The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space â you know, before all this."
Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.
"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.
His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.
Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.
COLLAB MASTERLIST â§ MY MASTERLIST
EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab!
Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
summary: you're very clingy with your boyfriend, and he's happy to return the favor. until teeth get involved. OR the three times you bite frank langdon and the one time he bites you back.
pairing: frank langdon x girlfriend!reader
tags: afab reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, objectification & destruction of frank langdon's limbs, playfulbf!frank langdon unlocked, nonsexual & childlike wrestling between adults, frank refers to reader as a dog [affectionately], seduction in the form of nipping
word count: 3.2k
notes: this is for everyone that gets something similar to cuteness aggression and just wants to bite people [<- me!] all of these end in dialouge on purpose, i swear...
please reblog if you enjoy!
1. UNCONTROLLABLE URGES
The sunset stretches through the blinds of your apartment, spilling over the harwood floor like liquid gold. Your fingers unfurl to brush through the rays from where youâre sprawled out on your back, eyes watching the shadow that breaks up the light. Thereâs a slight ache in the small of your back from lying on the floor for so long, but you make no attempt to move.
âYou own a couch.â
Your head tilts back to look at the doorway, an almost goofy smile stretching across your mouth at the upside-down view of Frank. He looks the exact same as he does everyday, and you had seen him only a few minutes ago when you had abandoned him in the kitchen to finish making his meal prep, but the sight of him still makes your heart thud a bit harder against your rib cage.
âIf I get on the couch, I wonât get anything done.â Your bottom lip pushes out in a pout, hands folding on your stomach.Â
One bushy eyebrow raises as his gaze trails over you, prowling closer slowly. âAnd youâre getting things done by laying on the floor?â he asks.
He leans over you, devishly charming with his hair falling onto his forehead. Youâre not sure how you got a Disney prince as a boyfriend, but you thank whoever, or whatever, is above you that you did. Now, you get the pleasure of staring at his handsome face whenever you want.
Admittedly, Frank wasnât incorrect. Originally, you had disappeared into the living room in order to at least begin to organize your vast array of bookshelves, however the task had become larger and more overwhelming the longer you had debated where to start. You had sat down to get a look at the big picture, somehow ending up on your back and distracted by the rays of sunlight coming through the windows.
Thereâs a huff as you take his outstretched hand, letting him drag you up onto your feet. You take the opportunity to slide your palm along his abdomen, appreciating the soft twitch of muscle that happens in response. As much as you love all of his reactions to your touches, you love the unintentional ones the most.Â
Noticing your lack of response and the forlorn gaze you have trained on the bookshelves, Frank presses his face into your hair, breath brushing against your hairline. âDo you want some help?â he mumbles gently. The question comes out almost hesitant, aware that you didnât like to ask for help much.
You stay silent for a breath, eyes glancing over the books youâve hoarded over the last few years. You debate just giving up on the project completely, leaving the literature to spill wherever itâd like, spine showing or not.
Finally, rationality wins out and you groan, turning to bury your face into his sweater. âYes, please.â
He holds you for just a moment, thumb brushing along your shoulder from where his arm has curled around your body, before you finally separate to get to work.
The plan is simple at first. Frank grabs the books from the higher shelves while you start on the lower, pulling them out so that they can stack on the floor and await their sentencing. Color-coded or alphabetically by author or separated by just genre - the possibilities are endless.
That is, until your boyfriend pulls off his sweater, revealing the curve of muscles that are his biceps.
Youâre quickly distracted by the sight, staring up at him with parted lips. Poor, sweet Frank just continues working, surprisingly focused on the task at hand despite being so blatantly ogled.Â
Perhaps heâs used to being stared at by you. Perhaps heâs just happy to be allowed to help you out, for once.
Now, youâre on the same bookshelf in the middle of your array, your elbow pressed into his abdomen with every reach forward. His arm is right there, muscles tensing every time he reaches up for another book to place it in the growing stack in his free hand.
You try to push back the urge. You really do. You press your tongue between your teeth, biting down on it just enough to feel the pressure. Remind yourself that itâs not normal to want to consume your partner whole, to cause them pain out of pure love and lust for them.
But then he reaches up again, that dip of muscle stretching from just beneath his elbow all the way to his wrist, and your brain shortcircuits.Â
It happens quickly. Your chin tilts forward slowly and your lips part, the top set of your teeth finding the juiciest part of his muscle and pressing down. For a moment, you donât even worry about if youâre causing him pain. The squish of his arm beneath your teeth is satisfying enough to dull out everything else.
Frank yelps in surprise, dropping the book in his hand to press the heel of it into your forehead with just enough force to push your head away. âHey!â
You give him a sheepish smile as his hand moves to rub at the teeth-shaped indents in his skin. His face is an array of emotions, although amusement and confusion ring out above them all. The only thing missing seems to be anger, or anything similar, which only makes you fall more in love, if possible.
His hand darts out to slide over your head, fingers curling around your skull to bring your head into his chest. His fingertips press into your scalp as he scrunches at the roots of your hair, chest rumbling with a laugh as you wiggle in protest. âThat was mean! Iâm trying to help you and you bite me!â
âYou were the one slutting yourself out, this is not my fault!â Your palm presses into his abdomen, whether out of your struggle or a need to objectify him more, trying to pry out of his hold on your head. âWaving it in my face like a dog with a bone!â
Frank laughs as he finally lets you go, playfully shoving at your shoulder to get you away. âStart organizing your books, puppy. Stay far away from me until you learn how to control yourself.â
2. GAINING THE UPPER HAND
âThe fact that you are a doctor and save lives every day never fails to astonish me.â You deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as you look down at your boyfriend.
It had been Frankâs idea to build a fort. Something about how his parents had never let him make one out of blankets and pillows, too afraid of the mess heâd make, and how he thought itâd be fun to eat dinner.Â
You had been ecstatic. That is, until you realize that your boyfriend was completely incapable of doing anything that didnât require too-complicated words and needles.
His brow is furrowed in slight irritation, a lot of confusion, as he stands up, kicking off a throw blanket that had snagged around his ankle. His elbow brushes against your arm as he crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursing as he stares down at the mess he made. âItâs just not staying,â he mumbles beneath his breath.
âBecause youâre not anchoring down the blankets. You canât use pillows to hold up a blanket, babe, theyâre not stable enough.â Your fingers point at the decorative pillow he had placed atop the corner of the blanket, glancing up at him through the corner of your eye. âYou gotta go find some heavy books or something.â
Frankâs head turns to look at you, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows. âBooks? In our fort? That doesnât sound too comfortable.â Then, he steps to the side, curling his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.Â
âWell, youâre not laying on them, are you?â You tease back, tilting your head to touch your temple to his.
He huffs, breath brushing over your collarbone, before his fingertips are pressing into your ribs. âOh, yeah? Youâre the fort expert now, huh?â He locks one arm around your waist while the other continues poking and prodding, ignoring your squeals and wriggling. âA little fort architect, arenât you?â
âFrank!â You squeak, laughing as you crouch down to attempt to slide out of his hold. âLet me go!â
Your boyfriend crouches with you until both of your knees are on the ground, his arm loosely locked around your neck now while fingertips dance on the most ticklish parts of your body. Your hands grab at his forearm, attempting to pull him off, but he simply just wrestles you onto the heap of blankets that was his attempt at a fort.Â
The two of you roll on the floor together in a mess of limbs, Frank curling both of his arms around you at every chance that he could get. The blankets curl around your legs and waist as you twist and wriggle, laughing until your lungs hurt and youâre begging him to let you go.
The wrestling only ends whenever he moves to wrap his forearm around you again. Willing to try to get anything to get out of your predicament, your teeth find his skin easily, sinking in just enough to leave a bitemark.
As any grown man would, Frank squeals, removing his injured arm away from you while his other one just tightens around your waist. âWhat have we said about biting me?â He scolds playfully, pulling you closer to the curve of his body, until your hips are flush to his.Â
âYou wouldnât let me go!â You retort, although you make no attempt to pull away from him. Instead, you roll over to face him, passing him an innocent smile.
He softens when your fingers wrap around the forearm you had bitten, your thumb brushing against the indents in his skin. Leaning down, he presses his lips to your mouth, kissing you sweetly for a brief moment before pulling away just enough to mumble. âCan we give up on the fort?â
You laugh, then shake your head. âNope. But I will finish it for you.â
âDeal.â
3. RUIN THE MOMENT
Frank had to stay late at work. And while you didnât mind, you had to admit to yourself that you missed your boyfriend more than probably healthy.
Rather than be dramatic about it or just sit wallowing until he somehow managed to find his way home, you decided to do something nice for Frank. He did sweet gestures for you like it was as easy as breathing, and now was the perfect time to do something for him.
In the couple hours it took him to finally get off of work, you had made the relaxation spot of his dreams. The comfiest throw blankets on the couch, greasy boxes of his favorite takeout on the coffee table, the big lights off and only a small orange lamp illuminating your cozy living room.
When Frank gets home, youâre tucked into yourself on the couch, scrolling through something on your phone aimlessly. Your head perks up like a dog at the sound of the front door opening, hanging off the back of the couch to grin at him as soon as heâs stepped through the doorframe.
âHi, baby.â You greet him, voice quiet. The hospital was always overstimulating, therefore you always made sure to keep calm and gentle when he got home. Like a dog coming home from a shelter.
Frank drops his bag onto the ground to pick up later, hand raising to rub at his face. He shuffles over to the couch at the sound of your voice, plopping down beside you and placing a hand on your thigh to remind you that heâs present. âHi.â
After a moment of just staring at him, you slowly move to crawl behind him, propped up between the back of the couch and his back. Your fingers find his shoulders, pressing into the tight muscles there and letting yourself smile at the soft hum of relief it draws from him.
âExhausting day?â you murmur. Your thumbs find a particularly large knot, rubbing firm circles to try and loosen it.
He nods slowly, head dropping forward with a quiet groan. âJust a lot happening. Didnât have a chance to sit down all shift.â His eyelashes flutter closed as he lets himself relax, sinking further into your touch.
After the knots are nonexistent, you curl your arms around his neck, leaning over his shoulder. Your lips press into the hinge of his jaw first, sweet and chaste. A rush of air leaves his mouth as he sighs, back pressing into your chest.
âIâm sorry you had a long day.â You mumble the words into his skin, pressing a kiss to the space beneath his jaw before along his carotid. You reach the juncture of where his neck meets his collarbone, the rest of his shoulder covered by his scrub top, huffing in playful petulance at the lack of skin.
Frank tilts his head to the side just a smidge, the muscle in his neck tensing at the movement. Thereâs a small grin dancing across his lips when you spare a glance up at him, causing you to smile against his skin. âFeelinâ better now,â he muses.
A giggle bubbles out of you, moving your arms to wrap them around his waist. Now, youâre fully curled around him from behind, palms pressing into his abdomen and lips traveling along his neck. His bodyâs a heavy weight pressed into your front, welcomed in the quiet serene of your dimly lit apartment.
Now, one would say that your priority was ensuring that Frank stayed calm and lax, especially with the lengths you have gone to ensure that your home was a place of relaxation. Unfortunately, you love your boyfriend to the point of wanting to consume him, and the way his neck is flexing is way too tempting.
One look up at him and a distracting slow kiss to his neck reveals that his eyes have closed, lost in a trance of your hold and the feel of your mouth against his skin.
Itâs your time.
You place a few more kisses along his neck before you nip at his carotid, giggling softly at the surprised gasp that it elicits. Frank groans in mock exasperation, one hand reaching up to cup the side of your face. He turns to look at you, sleepy blue eyes narrowing at your beaming expression.
âThis fuckinâ mouth is going to get you in trouble.â He grumbles tiredly, hand sliding down until his pinky hooks beneath your mandible.Â
His thumb presses at the seam of your lips until you part them, sliding inside your mouth to slide against your top teeth, pushing up gently against the pointed end of your canine. Your jaw raises at the push, lips widening in a grin at the touch. Your bottom teeth move to press up against the skin of his fingertip, laughing when he finally takes his finger out of your mouth.
âBad dog.â He playfully remarks, fingers patting against your cheek.
âWoof,â you respond.
4. CANâT BEAT âEM, JOIN âEM
The best thing about having Frank Langdon as a boyfriend is that whatever clingy level you were at, he would match. If you chose to have your own space, heâd respect it and find something else to do somewhere else. If you wanted to cling to him like a koala, heâd ensure to have two hands back on you at all times. If you wanted a happy middle, heâd be glad to just sit with one hand on your knee while you watched television.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten all forms of boundaries today. The worst part about Frankâs off days is that he tended to get bored and understimulated without the buzz of the Pitt, and therefore he loved to bother you while you were trying to take much needed alone time.
âHoney.â The pet name drips off of his tongue in a purr as he hangs his body around the threshold of the kitchen, pretty face poking in as he grins. âYou almost done with lunch?â
You look up from where youâre pushing vegetables around in a pan, eyebrow quirking. It was never very good when he started off any question with a pet name, much less said like that. âNo,â you respond, drawing out the word. âWhat do you want?â
Frank huffs as he steps into the kitchen, almost immediately crawling into your personal space. One arm curls around your waist while he leans on your other side, peeking at the stove like a curious child. Boredom practically radiates off of him, especially with the way his finger taps against the counter.
âNothinâ. Canât I just ask my girl a question?â He presses a brisk kiss to your cheek, arm tightening around your waist slightly. His palm flattens on your abdomen, pinky brushing the waistband of your shorts. Devilish.
You keep your spine straight, attempting to brush him off. The last thing you need is to get distracted from filling your grumbling stomach, no matter how good your boyfriend smells or how warm he feels behind you. âI know when you want something, Frank.â
His chin tucks into the crook between your neck and shoulder, a hum reverberating from his chest into your neck. âJust to be with you,â he cheekily responds. His thumb brushes along your sternum from where his fingers have splayed further.
âFrank.â You warn, although thereâs no irritation in your tone. âLet me finish lunch.â
He whines like a petulant child, pulling you closer with a tighter grib on your stomach. âIâm bored,â he complains.Â
You choose to ignore him, instead focusing on turning the heat down on the stove. In retaliation at being ignored, his lips find your shoulder, exposed by the thin strap of your tank top.Â
A sudden pinch spreads across your shoulder as he nips at the skin covering your collarbone not once, but twice, closer to your neck on the second one. Despite the shiver that crawls up your spine at the cool feeling of his teeth against you, you manage to stay strong.Â
Unfortunately, your boyfriend is stubborn and very attention-seeking.
His next bite is a bit harder, directly on your neck. He soothes the slight sting with an open-mouthed kiss just above where your skin reddens, tongue lathing as an apology. âToo hard?â He mumbles teasingly.
âDonât be an ass.â Itâs meant to be a tough remark, something to show that he isnât affecting you as much as he thinks he is, but it comes off as more of a whine.
He continues to kiss along your neck, laughing slightly at your remark. When your head tilts and your grip tightens on the spatula in your hand, his hand moves from your abdomen to the knob on the front of the stove, turning it until he clicks. Then, he gently grabs your jaw, tilting your head to kiss your lips.
Despite the fact that he finally has your direct attention, he still nips at your bottom lip, grinning victoriously as he pulls away.
dirtbag roomie!college bucky barnes x academic!roomie reader
summary. â you steal your unfathomable secret roommate's t-shirt & expect a week's worth of blackmailing, but to your surprise he cares less about what you're wearing & more about what you're not. he's not the one complaining when he's taking what he can getâeven if it risks blowing your cover.
word count.â6k.
warnings. â pervy bucky (duh, we love). not proof read <3 built up tension turned to a fuck session. pepper appearance! (love my girl) non-established mutual pining. this basically happens frequently but shhh we don't know that. 18+ MDNI. teasing, fingering, overstimulation, oral (f. recieving), tit worship, improper use of honey, unprotected p in v (use protection), handjob, reader is on the pill, makeout sesh, reader puppy sits (wink-wink).
margo's notes. âoh my god i can't even express how much i adore bucky as a band member. like as a nerd, as a dirtbag, as a roommate, as anything, he would def rock the drums rather than a guitar. i also think he'd be a really interesting (to say the least) roommate. i'm making a longer fic series based off of this, with an original character, and this is kind of like a headcannon for them i guess, but with a reader.
đđđ đđđđđđđđ of your apartment quietly hissed with steam as you turned the knob of the shower off. you shuddered quietly at the contrast of the cold metal amidst your skin you'd worked hard to warm up beneath the scalding water.
it was two in the afternoon, and as far as you knew, you'd had the apartment to yourself.
three months of living with your loud, obnoxious roommate it seemed. it almost felt like a reward when he wasn't home, and to you it didn't matter if he was busy banging drums with his band, or screwing some girl on the third floorâyou were just content with having the place to yourself.
see after a lease scandal that had happened during your desperate hunt for an apartment, you'd decided to invest in the small apartment just south of your university's campus that you'd seen up on craigslist.
it was small, an alright view, and two bedrooms that you'd figure you'd keep to yourself. one as an office, and the other as a bedroom.
now the first mistake was craigslist. how desperate can one be to look for an apartment, so soon to the beginning of the first semester in college, that you actually bought the apartment off of craigslist.
the secondâquite obviouslyâwas thinking it was true.
i mean c'mon, a two bedroom, one bath apartment for the price of 2.8k? any other place in brooklyn would've costed five-thousand or more on your own.
now unbeknownst to you, you weren't the only college student looking for an apartment to yourself, close to the campus.
funny enough, the other student happened to attend your college. which meant it was likely that the two of you had met before. which hopefully insinuated that perhaps the two of you would get along.
but moving along to the night where you were sat on the counter, stirring some peppermint tea for yourself. you were almost curious upon hearing the knock on your door that echoed through your quiet matchbox of an apartment.
it was nearing midnight, who would want you at this hour?
well, you soon found out when you opened the door just an inch to see none other than the james buchanan barnes himself.
freshman dirtbag surrounded by almost all the losers who'd just made it onto campus. drum sticks tucked into his back pocket, a duffel bag and a backpack strung on each shoulder, he chewed on his gum menacingly, staring right back at you as if you were supposed to fix a problem of his.
"hey, i know it's late," he sighed, checking down the hall again, "but i'm here for apartment number nine." he muttered as your brows furrowed, "you're uh.. you're that girl from the campus aren't you?" he mumbled under his breath, stormy eyes scanning you down.
and that's when you remembered you were standing in a small lacey nightgown, topped with a sheer little robe that barely covered anything. you tucked the robe over your chest, crossing your arms for good measure as the messy bun atop your head shook with your confusion.
"yeahâyou, um," you mumbled, eyes raking over his.. messy state. "you must have the wrong place. i live here." you explained briefly, as he pulled the key out of his back pocket, staring at the little scribbled tag.
as brought it up to your face, the jingling echoed through the hall, "nope." the brunette shrugged cheeks tinging pink as his eyes landed back on the cut of your dress where a hint of your cleavage teased him. as he dropped his duffel right beside the door, you stepped back a pace, literally taken aback.
"bought this place like two weeks ago, just beenâhopping around since." he mumbled, as his arm flexed the door futher open into your bubble.
"whaâno!" you cried, "you can't just barge in here! this is my apartment, loser." you yelled as he stared back with the same look, avoiding your pissed eye contact.
"where the hell am i supposed to go then?" he asked, as you paused, "i don't know!" you argued as he sighed, "you better have a plan princess. 'cause i've got a key, and i paid for this place, fair and square."
"i don't care!" you scoffed, arms crossing tighter over your chest as his scuffed converse inched into the polished hardwood floor. "i justâi just mopped there." you whispered as he looked down, rolling his eyes and stepping back out.
and it did take some time. almost a week to sit down with greg, the brokerâwho did nothing as to convince you that this was a mixup, but much rather smiled at the angry confusion and two foot barrier between where you two sat, across from him at the coffee shop.
"look, i don't blame you two for falling for this. but the paid difference is paid. there aren't any refunds on apartments kiddos." he mumbled, thick fingers comming up to smooth down the lightly balded top of his head.
"the full price for the place was five-thousand. with both of your costs put together, it comes out to about the same price. so like it or not, either one of you pays the price and lives elsewhere, or you two suck it up and live together."
cue present tenseâwhere things are moving along.
between sharing an apartment with bucky, and being on opposite ends of a social circle, the two of you are managing quite.. reasonably.
from ushering the other one out of the house when one has plans and booked the apartment for the day, or distributing chores and meal preps, the two of you have worked out well enough, and somehow this past month hasn't been too unkind to either of you.
well you could suppose that'd be until today; where you step out of the shower, pedicured feel flush against the fluffy carpet you picked out, and pushing the lightning bolt shower curtain he picked out.
your eyes rolled hard at the stupid curtain, reminding yourself that you were going to have friends over for a study session before a party you were going to afterwards, that you had to change it back to your pink striped one before they came over.
as you wrapped the towel around yourself, you looked around, sighing at the fact that you'd forgotten clothes to wear after the shower.
head peeking out into the hallway, your eyes met with the whicker basket filled with fresh laundry, as the other loads were still in, and you'd tossed almost three weeks worth into the machine earlier.
it was your turn to do laundry, so since you'd done bucky's clothes earlier, you'd figured he wouldn't mind if you'd just borrowed something.
so as you lathered up with lotion, and pulled his smithsonians t-shirt over your freshly washed hair, you paused for a moment, catching the scent of his cologne and a small scent of something metallic.
you hummed to yourself, walking out with nothing but that and a lacy set you'd picked out earlier in your room and brought over before showering.
the apartment was quiet. and you liked it that way. no drums boosting, meaning no noise complaints from neighbors. no dirty shoes scattered against your clean floor, meaning no reminding the asshole, or kicking his shoes in a closet.
you felt at peace.
and you were.
until you closed the door to the bathroom quietly, and turned around to be faced with the agonizing sound of creaking from the bedroom door that neighbored your own.
you watched him, pajama pants strung low enough you could see his boxers peeking up from just below his hip bones, a john lennon t-shirt crumpled over his chest and a hand running through his hair as he stared down at the glass he'd probably just finished drinking orange juice in.
your lips pursed almost immediately, was it too late to crawl back into the bathroom? shower for another two hours until you'd cried every tear out of yourself? you were sure you'd been home alone, so why was he standing right in front of you?
it was bad enough that he was here, three feet away, but it was worse that he was quiet.
because james was never quiet.
his eyes raked over you, from your damp hair, down to your chest, where his eyebrows raised quietly at his band's print, and then down to your smooth legs, and pedicured feet.
"that's... new." he mumbled, as your cheeks flamed. "i-i justâneeded something to wear." you countered as he smiled, "imagine if anyone at school saw this, 'girl swears she'd be caught dead wearing a grunge band t-shirt, walks out after showering and looks just fine'." he headlined, as you spun on your heels, rolling you eyes hard after remembering you didn't have to be a part of this embarrassment ritual.
"look my laundry was in the washer, asshole." you sighed, walking into the kitchen and grabbing your white mug, with the print of a black cat with a crown between its ears. sorry alpine.
"yeah? well you said you'd only wear something of mine 'over your dead body'." bucky trailed behind you, the smile inevitable in his voice.
"fuck off, barnes." you hissed, filling the cup with heated water from the kettle. "never," he grinned, as you felt his chest bump into your shoulders, his voice was rough, and laced with something you'd heard only on desperate nights, "you look.. good."
you fingers reached for the box of green tea as your cheeks burned hotter than the water in your cup. "almost illegal," he purred, fingers carefully finding your waist as he watched you make your tea.
"hm," you hummed, going about your business as his nose poked the damp hair just behind your ears.
"james," you warned, as he sighed into your hair, fingers tightening their grasp on your waist, "no, no, it's fine. it looks great on you. keep it." he whispers, as you roll your eyes, "don't be ridiculous, i wouldn'tâ"
"be caught dead wearing my stuff, i'm well aware, pretty." bucky hummed, eyes closing as he tips his head against yours.
"but you're wearing it now," he smiled, lowering his nose onto your shoulder as he pulls you flush against his front, and that's when you feel it.
"are you fucking serious, james?" you asked, heat blooming down your neck, on your hands and between your legs. "what is it, baby?" he mumbled, careless to the fact that your fuming.
"you're hard over me wearing your fucking shirt, that's what." scoffing, "pathetic." stirring the honey into your tea as you mumbled. "s' not pathetic," he murmured in response, euphoric as his right hand left your waist, trailing down to the hem of the shirt, lifting it up gingerly.
"y'barely got anything on under here, doll." he mumbled, darkened eyes raking over the lace of your cheeky underwear as you gasped. you turned around instantly in shock, smacking his hand away. "bucky!" you choked as he chuckled, eyes remaining glued to your thighs.
"seen you in less than that, angel. m' surprised you're shocked." bucky whispered, leaning in close to you, "you're gonna... ruin my tea." you mumbled, voice just above a whisper as you nudged the cup back, behind you.
"not the only thing m'gonna ruin," he grinned a near sinful glint in his eyes that made your fingers grip the counterâas if that's supposed to ground you.
"something wrong, pretty girl?" bucky murmured, nose brushing your cheek as he pressed a kiss to your skin, "hm, cat got your tongue?" he whispered as your hands planted themselves on his chest, knowing what'll follow.
"n-no, don't be stupid." you huffed, as his lips trail further south, nipping at your supple skin as you let out an involuntary noise at the contact of his two-day old stubble against your skin.
"buckyâ" you whisper, fingers curling into his shoulders as he hums against your jaw, breath ghosting over your skin, tickling you as your neck cranes to keep him out, "god, you owe me for this," he smiles against your skin as you pause, eyes widening.
"look thisâshirt, thingâbetter not become someâ" you sigh defeatedly, "james!" you finally whine as he groans, "hmmm, what?" he whispers, pulling away.
but not for long, his eyes quickly circle back to your chest beneath his t-shirt, where the shirt pulls up and falls back down over the rest of your body as you breathe.
your manicured fingers quickly find his jaw, pulling it back up to face you, "eyes on me," you mumble as a wicked smile paints its way back onto his flushed, pink, lips. "oh they're on you don't worâ"
"i'm serious, bucky." you grit through your teeth. his free hand squeezes your waist, reminding you it's still there as his thumb brushes over you. "this t-shirt better not be some excuse for me to give you seconds of dinner i order, o-or the remote thirty-minutes earlierâ"
"oh?" he hums, cutting you off, "so what you're saying is, i should just let you take my things, and walk around all pretty in 'em?" he whispers, his other hand trailing down to your thigh, fingers resting pertly just beneath the cleft of your ass.
"bucâ"
"c'mon, answer me, princess." he whispers, nose brushing back against your cheek as he closes back in on the crook of your neck, wafting in the intoxicating scent of your bodywash.
"fuck, you always smell so good, baby." he mumbled into your skin, and your eyes close as your fingers subconsciously trail up to the nape of his neck. he hums and moans at the feeling of your fingers running through his shaggy hair.
"lookây-you want an answer?" you muttered, pushing him off you. bucky stumbled back just an inch as he watched you pull the shirt over your head, slamming it into his chest. "there's, your answer." you mutter, crossing your arms over your lacey bra.
but your arms do nothing, because bucky's eyes have zeroed on the bounce and push up of your cleavage, the shine of the light above the kitchen and the overcast weather outside glowing in from the window.
"shit." he whispersâalmost painfullyâand your eyes trail down to the straining bulge in his pants. "shit. that must hurt, huh? freak." you mumble, lips curling as your eyes bat up at him, "cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" you whisper with a click of your tongue as you step past him.
before you could walk even a foot further, two arms wrapped around your waist, coaxing an immediate shriek from your lips as your bare back is met with the cold sting of the fridge. just as quickly as your lips had opened to protest with a whimperâthey were sealed shut with his, clashing against you.
"you'reâ" he muttered, lips sliding off of yours as a string of spit dissolving between them, "gonna help me," he whispered, before lunging back, lips and teeth clashing as you groaned again.
his tongue danced with yours, and unable to get a word in, you quickly became a mess.
words stuck in your throat, turned to moans as he tilted your neck with care, deepening the kiss as your fingers found his his neck again, one hand tugged gently on his hair, the other curled into his shirt.
his lips left yours and peppered your lips once more with a kiss before he rested his forehead on your shoulder. hand wrapping around the smaller hand of yours that lazily gripped the fabric of his t-shirt. his eyes fluttered shut as he brought it up to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he guided it back down the the growing hard-on in his pants.
your lips parted at the touch of him, you almost wanted to wriggle your fingers from his grasp and push him on the couch and help him.
the right wayâthey do say, 'if you want it done right, do it yourself'.
but what were you? crazy?
"fix, this." bucky whispered against your ear, teeth pressing against your collarbone as he left marks on your freshly washed skin.
"you're so perfect. i wanna ruin you right on this shiny fucking counter. you'd hate that, wouldn't you princess?" he whispered, his hand left yours, grabbing your waist before he hauled your legs into his arms.
in one motion, he pulled you onto the counter, pushing your legs apart as his fingers pressed against your pulsing core. "hmm, she's been ready for me, hasn't she?" he whispered, lowering himself to kiss just beneath your bra, trailing all the way down to the strap of your panties.
"fuck, bucky." you whispered, nearly a whine whil your fingers tangled in his hair as you watched him lift your legs over his shoulders. he rose up just enough to bury his nose between your tits.
his fingers danced down to the lacy underwear you wore, his lips were busy elsewhere, sucking and planting kisses and marks all over the jelly smooth skin of your breasts.
a whine left your lips as your hand found his neck, pulling him closer greedily as he groaned into your plush tits.
just as you were about to speak, the landline rung, and you felt the man between your legs freeze.
"shit," you muttered beneath your breath, you laid your back down on the counter, arm above your head as you reached for the phone.
bucky watched you carefully, stretched out on the counter. the same one you argued daily about keeping clean.
your hair was messily splayed all over the smooth surface, torso heaving up and down breathlessly as you arched to reach the phone off the receiver.
you paused as a female voice could be heard across the other end, "yeah?" you hummed as bucky licked his lips, pulling his t-shirt off and throwing it on your face before lowering himself to pull your panties down slowly.
he smiled as the gasp that left your lips echoed throughout the room, pressing kisses all over your thighs as he pushed your legs apart, you, stubbornly trying to keep them close.
"i-i can't," he heard you mumble on the phone, unconcerned as he kissed your mound delicately, fingers parting your wet folds quietly as he smiled against your clit, tongue covering it with just the right amount of pressure.
all this with him.
the man you made sure to exhibit your hatred for constantly.
"fuck, you're so wet for me, baby." he mumbled into your wetness, muffled by your thighs as you propped yourself up on your elbows, eyebrows crinkled together as you gave him a look that only guaranteed a lecture later.
"no, not right now." you spoke back into the phone, eyeing your manicure as bucky worked through your cunt, fingers circling your clit as you shuddered beneath his touch, his lips coated in your arousal.
"n-no," you huffed as he gazed up just enough to catch your painfully aroused look, "you look so pretty like this, angel." he muttered as you nudged his torso with your heel, ushering him to quiet down.
"i can't come over, i-i'mâ" you hummed, covering the receiver with your hand as you laid back down, your back burned against the cool counter, arching as you bit down on your lip to refrain from making too much noise.
as bucky's fingers messed with your clit and your hole, you fumbled with the phone, looking for the mute button and pressing it sloppily before pepper on the other end could hear the mess going on in your apartment.
you'd be ruined if anyone knew you lived with bucky barnes let alone fucked him.
"b-buckyâ" you gasped, your free hand searched the flat counter for somethingâanythingâto grab onto to keep yourself from coiling all over the counter.
"fuck!" you whined loud, upon feeling his lips latch onto your clit and tongue lapping through your arousal. your legs pressed instinctively against his soft hair and you not only heard, but felt him groan against your core, a shiver surging straight through your body as your hand found his locks.
"bucky iâ" you twisted, eyes squeezing shut as his tongue dipped into you while curling into a soft spot that had you shaking.
on the other end, pepper was sighing something incoherent to you about an essay deadline for tomorrow morning, as well as the journalism article's mock interview.
"are you there?" you heard her ask as bucky fit a second finger into you, "so tight, fuck." he whispered, kissing your bud before rubbing it with his free fingers. his arms hooked around you, pulling you close enough to him in hopes his mouth could easily access your cunt.
"gotta fuck youâwarm you up, honey, my cock's aching for you, y'know these things take time." bucky hummed against your thigh, "fuck offâahâwise guy," you let out softly.
his breath ghosted over your skin as his fingers fucked you at a steady pace, the kisses he pressed across your inner thigh had you gasping and mewling senselessly.
and bucky loved it.
"so responsive, you're always so sensitive." you felt his lips smiling against you, stubble scraping against your soft skin as you kicked his shoulder, "shut up." you huffed as he curled his fingers with a soft smile, eyes darkening as you whined.
"pep, i-i can't, i knowâiâi know," you muttered, unmuting, he watched, scissoring his fingers inside of you as you clenched around them. "i'll come over, laâter," you quieted down, as his thumb circling your clit as his tongue replaced his two fingers. "âi'm puppy sitting," you mumbled.
and that did it.
his head perked up, blue eyes all that you could see while the rest of his face was buried to the hilt in your pussy.
"puppy sitting?" pepper's voice cut through the silence, as you smiled, head thudding back down on the counter, "hmmâvery, good puppy actually." you muttered, back arching against the counter as his mouth sucked your cunt off with a small, wet, pop.
your eyes fluttered shut as you held your hand over your lips, biting back any hum you were close to making, you could feel his saliva and your slick dripping down through you and onto the counter.
"h-he does everythingâi tell him to," you continued, as he pulled his pants lower, leaving you staring at your ceiling with a small smile, still covered by your hand.
as you craned your head to the side, you watched him grab the honey, pulling his pants down and stepping out of them as he walked over you. your eyes forever stuck on the painfully hard cock you knew you'd been the culprit of.
"get off the phone, sweetheart." you heard him mutter, voice gravelly as he pulled your legs half off the counter quickly, a noise somewhere between a laugh and shriek leaving your plush lips.
"pepper, i'm serious." you exhaled, as his fingers worked at your bra. it was a front clasp, you thought smiling. how would he get out of this one?
bucky pulled you up carefully by your back, hands traveling against your torso as his fingers searched gently for the clasp. his tongue swiped across the inside of his cheek as his fingers caressed the soft, frilly, lace of your bra.
without a single word, his brows crinkled, and not once did his eyes find at you for help. instead, they landed back on the front of your bra, looking at the small, metallic clasp of the flimsy fabric.
he snapped it open eagerly, working your hands out of the straps delicately as he bent forward, peppering the valley between you tits and cupping both of them, thumbs brushing over your perky nipples.
"he's s-such, a good bo-y!" you gasped, free hand grabbing his head to steady yourself as you watched his lips attach at one nipple. you held the phone away from you, humming unevenly to hide the lewd sighs and moans the two of you were letting out.
as he detached his lips from yours, you turned back to the phone, "m-mhm," you hummed, dazed. when you looked back at him, his boxers were gone, and in it's place, was his hand, wrapped around a long, hard cock that made your lips part and your thighs press together.
his eyes found yours, watching as your eyes zoned out on the flushed, pink tip. "hungry, sweetheart?" he asked as your eyes flickered back up to his, lips sealing shut immediately.
"mm-mm." you shook your head, biting down on your lip to hide your stupid grin, one that you knew would piss him right off.
"yeah, well i'll call you back, pep." you hummed, kicking your feet. as he walked over, leaning you back, you stared at him. he was so focused on your tits, opening the bottle of honey and still focused on them.
honey?
as fast as you'd noticed he'd opened the honey and brought it up to your tits, you'd instantly forgotten you were on the phone, "noâno! you can't be serious, jamie!" you scolded, holding his wrist as his eyes widened on the phone in your hand.
"whaâ" you paused, realizing.
"who's jamie?" pepper's voice muttered through the phone, as your ears dusted pink, "i-iâthe dog, my puppy." you quickly covered, as he rolled his eyes, letting the honey drizzle right over your hardened nipples.
you gasped quietly, "what's he doing?" he heard pepper ask, a malicious smile forming on his lips as he set the honey down, wiping a bit off your stomach and licking it off his finger.
"heâhe'sâ" you stammered, and before you could finish your sentence, his lips were on you yet again.
he suckled on the sweetness of your tits, loudly lapping up the stickiness of it and swirling his tongue around the head of your nipple, fingers coating the other one softly in the substance.
"he'sâmaking a mess," you divulged, fingers running through his hair as his tongue flicked all around you, "all over myâah!" you hummed, "i-i gotta go, he's chewing meâmy uh, bag."
"mhm, bye, mhây-yeah, talk to you later." as you quickly gasped, beeping the phone off. he cleaned the sweet-sticky attack on one side of your chest, moving on to the other side briskly.
"so hungry, aren't you, baby?" you hummed, hand running through his hair as you watched his hand work himself, "c'mere, i'll help you, honey."
he split your legs apart, moving himself easily between them as your hand replaced his, running up and down the length of his slick, hardened cock. "so focused, aren't you? if only you'd be this focused on keeping the floors clean." you mumble, watching his head tip up, pretty blue eyes gazing up at you.
you smiled, quickening your pace on his cock, rubbing him up and down and smearing the pre-cum on the tip with your thumb. his moan so pretty your legs squeezed against each side of him.
"fuck, good boy, jamie." you breathed with a soft smile.
and just like that, his hands tugged at you, pulling you feverishly close, an arm hooking around your waist as his free hand held your legs apart, finger rubbing your clit again.
bucky messed with you everywhere.
you gasped, craning neck giving him access as he bit down on your velvety skin. you felt his lips attach to the small space just below your ear, hearing him hum as he sucked a dark spot you'd have to blame on your straightener tomorrow.
"buckyâ"
"i want you on my cock," he whispered, breath sending goosebumps down your skin as he pulled you up against him. your hand immediately flailed to grasp onto his broad shoulders as he walked the two of you over, adjusting himself on the couch. his hands were large, a bit calloused due to the drumsticks he was constantly gripping along with the wrenches used to fix the plumbing.
they held your ass pertly, leaving marks of his fingers digging into the plush of your skin. your fingers flexed against his shoulders at the feeling.
bucky held you on his lap perfectly, "you're so easy to carry," he whispered, burying his face back in your tits, fingers finding your ass as he squeezed the curve of your cheeks apart, "fuck, imagine if i just threw you over my shoulder every time you argue about my shoes 'nd shit on the fucking floor."
you laughed, completely unintentional, throwing him of guard from your usual scowl-like reaction to him.
"you're such an idiot, barnes." you whispered, lips pursed to hide your fond smile as your fingers smoothed his hair out of his face as he pulled away to fix his cock to your wet slit, "hold still for me, pretty."
"you're tooâ" you paused, pursing your lips as he tipped his head back up to you, "too what, baby?" he smiled, knowing what was just on the tip of your tongue. wishing it was him.
"nothing," you whispered, avoiding his gaze as he turned back to his cock, running the tip softly against your folds, fixating especially on your pulsing clit.
"ahâhmm!" you hissed, eyes shut as he pressed a kiss to your sternum, "too what, princess, tell me. i wanna know." he hummed as your fingers dug into his shoulders.
"just shut up and get over with it, asshole!" you groaned, "nuh-uh, am i too.. big for you?" he hummed. you could sense the smile in his voice for the hundredth time today, "n-no."
"i see you're trying not to smile." he murmured as you shook your head, hair falling in your face to hide your face, "ah-ah," bucky laughed, brushing your hair out of your face, "too late."
"shut up. jerk." you panted, tossing the hair in front of your face with a soft smile. you didn't wait for him before adjusting yourself and sinking yourself onto him.
the stretch felt eternal, he was big. you'd hated to admit it him. his ego would be blasting through the walls your room and drumming down the floor for weeks.
"at least you think there's something good about me," he whispered, resting his head on your shoulder as his hands trailed further, spreading your ass apart as you moaned at the feeling.
"i thinkât-there's plenty good aboutâyou." you whispered, fingers sliding through his locks as your second hand came up to hold his face.
"you're a good cook, for someone who wastes his talent on grilled cheese and scrambled eggs six days a week." you whispered as he laughed against your shoulder, pulling you close and kissing you there.
"and y-you clean the shower well, i hate doing dishes and you do those. you fix theâhmâpipes." you whispered, his fingers pressed into your hips as he refrained from letting out a noise at every twitch of your hips.
your breath hitched as you felt his cock bury itself in your cervix, "i-i can'tâ" you huffed, "it hurts?" he asked, eyes pooled with concern you didn't think he'd have. you paused immediately, you could take him.
right..?
"s'âfine, i'm fine, it feels good." you hummed, moving meticulously as you adjusted to the heat of him. his voice seemed to collect in the heat that bloomed in your gut, humming, hissing and groaning at every roll of your hips. as the two of you picked up your pace, skin slapping was the only sound that could be heard beside the hum of the dryer the hall.
"you're so tight, iâ" bucky panted, holding his breath as he adjusted to your gummy walls, tightening every time you moved to adjust yourself, "i can't do thisâi'm gonna cum and you justâsat down."
"agh!" you groaned, fingers digging marks into his skin, "so wet, you're warm," his breath tickling your collar, as he trailed his fingers down your torso, back to your clit like a safe house.
bucky's free hand dug deeper into your ass. he watched in awe as it bounced in sync with your tits every time you dropped back onto his cock, your core meeting his base with a wet shlick.
"w-we're not using a condom," he whispered, you nodded, "you still on the pill?" he asked, moving your hair off your shoulders, putting your perked up tits on full display, you nodded again.
just as your core bloomed with a sensation burning you with pleasure, your eyes squeezed shut, fingers trembling as they held tight onto his biceps. a whine bubbled in the back of your throat as bucky smiled in satisfaction. you leaned forward against him for support as the arousal built up into you.
"i-i'm gonna cum, buckyâ" you whined, head burying itself in his neck as he rubbed your back, slapping your ass as you gasped, pushing yourself off his chest, "what the hell?!"
"you're so pretty, princess." he smiled, winking before he fluttered his eyes shut, "everywhere, i could fuck you, anywhere. ruin you all over this stupid apartment, anywhere i want to." you hummed at his words, kissing just below his jaw, leaving small wet kisses trailing down his neck.
"fuck, angelâi-i'm close," he breathed, eyes closing as his head tipped back against the arm rest. "sssso close," you nodded quickly in agreement, whining against neck softly as he smiled, exhaling.
"jaâjamie," you gasped, back arching as his hands held you steady, your fingers tugged on his hair, and he groaned, the euphoric sounds overtaking the walls of your living room.
your walls clenched around his cock for the last time, milking him as a guttural moan escaped you, pink lips forming an 'o' as he circled your clit once more with his thumb, your stomach coiled.
the pleasure overtook every one of your senses. your fingers dug into his biceps hard, lungs unable to catch up to your breathing, and your eyes squeezing themselves open to stare at the boy in front of you.
"oh fuck," bucky whispered, head tossing back as he bottomed out, his seed filling you satisfaction. you felt the warmth of him coating his cock and your walls as quickly as it was gone.
"that was amazing," you sighed, head falling against his collarbone as his hand ran up and down your side soothingly. "oh, was it?" he perked up, smiling smartly.
"yes, it was, james." you sighed, eyes closed as you nestled into him further. "yeah, s'what i thought." his eyesâdazedâclosed, "nobody's ever gonna fill you up and fuck you as good as i did, that right baby?" he whispered, eyes fluttering back open as he pressed a kiss to your hairline. you smiled, hiding it in the crook of his neck.
"shut up." you mumbled, muffled by his chest as he laughed, "better get cleaned up, got food coming in ten."
"ten?!" you shrieked, "when the fuck did you order food? and don't tell me it's some take out, i just had a salad this morning, i'd like to keep that streak. i've got a yoga class tomorrow."
"relax, princess," he whispered, hauling you up close, kissing your neck as you scoffed, "what are we eating, james?"
"soft tacos."
"you're kidding me." you sighed as he smiled against your neck, "you'll be glad i'm not."
"what kind?" you asked, crossing your arms as he pulled you even closer, "don't worry about that. you'll love 'em, me and the band get these ones all the time after gigs."
"they've got avocado in them." he hummed, shrugging, pulling away as you paused, letting out a sigh. "fine, shower first."
"yay," he watched you get up, wincing softly. "awh, looks like you're gonna need some help in that shower, huh, pretty girl?" he taunted, just as you turned around.
before you can retort back, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you up into his arms as you erupted into a fit of gasps and laughter.
"oh, and don't forget to change the shower curtain back to my pink one, it's in the laundry cabinet. i've got company tonight so you might have to camp out with your friends." you whispered, staring at him as he nodded, head dipping low enough to whisper in your ear, "don't worry your pretty little head about it."
he smiled, turning the tap on as you held onto his hand, "next weekend i'm eating you out, with honey."
"in your dreams, jackass." you rolled your eyes, stepping into the bathtub. he trailed right behind you like a puppy, grinning boyishly, "or maybe i'll just eat you out in here."
"yeah? then you'll be too full for a meal." you rolled your eyes, stepping under the water for the second time today.
he huffed, smiling as his hands wrapped around your waist, nudging your head beneath his chin, "you should steal my shirts more often."
hihi!!! hope everyone enjoyed, this was partially based on this:
i'm loving this shit man, eating it the fuck up. also, preferences, should i write my fics in the subscript (this smaller) font, or do you guys like this bigger one? lmk! i really feel like writing a full fic like this, i've already published an intro on wattpad, (the matchbox) but i'll likely write it on here or ao3, i'm very new to that so it's gonna take me a bit, and i'm also trying to take a break so everythings tbd as of now. hope you enjoyed ! happy house tour!!
oc ( rhea, who the reader's based off) playlist, the matchbox / house tour playlist, bucky's playlist.
earlier i was reading a bucky fic about bucky being the IT guy but also a stalker but my feed refreshed and Iâve spent all day looking for it, does anyone know which one it is send it to me pleeease send it to me rachel
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Buckyâs in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 8.6k
part one - part three: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, itâs getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when youâre starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contractâŠ
sammy speaks: part two is here!! I donât think Iâve written this many words since my 1D fanfic days lol. good news is Iâm on vacation now so the writing will be flowing! I wouldnât mind an ask or prompt about these two either đ 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. Itâs lazy, self-serving and irresponsible, but itâs healing something childlike within you that hasnât gotten attention since your mom passed.
Bucky understands this, but it doesnât mean he likes it.
âIâm giving my brain a break,â 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.
âYouâre becoming nocturnal,â Bucky replies sternly on the other end.
âWhatâs wrong with that?â
âSunlightâs good for a person.â
âIâm looking at sunlight right now.â
âSunset,â he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.
âOh, whatever,â you dismiss. âItâs not like itâs forever â I promise Iâll go back to a normal personâs sleep schedule after the new year.â
âI donât like waiting around all day to hear from you.â
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. âIâm sorry,â you say, gentler. âI donât mean to keep you waiting.â
âI know,â he sighs, resigned. âItâs just boring without you.â
You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. âYou know whatâs not boring?â
âWhat?â
âMalibu.â
He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.
âAlright,â he relents. âFine. But when we get back, youâre gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. Iâm tired of eating lunch alone.â
âOk, grandpa. I promise.â
He picks you up an hour later when youâre 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, youâre buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, youâre touching down at Santa Monica Airport.
Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Buckyâs 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.
Thatâs a difficult ask when youâre 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 heâs made. Youâre flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Buckyâs 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 sunâs fully up, claiming you âneed the practiceâ and muttering that itâs already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When youâre 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 oceanâs 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.
Itâs 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 itâs never heard of winter. Youâre 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, heâs ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.
âBuckyââ
Youâre tossed overboard, the sound of Buckyâs laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. Heâs 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.
âDonât start something you canât finish, sweetheart.â
You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.
You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but heâs got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.
Youâre sputtering when you come up, but itâs game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but heâs 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 headâs 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 youâre thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but heâs 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, youâre airborne.
Until you smack the water in the deep end.
You gasp for air when you come up. âYouâre a fucking bully,â you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. âYou win.â
âYou started it,â 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 youâve 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 isnât 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. Theyâre large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you canât 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 displayâ the chest hairâ
He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision â like lick the water from his chest.
Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. Heâs placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Buckyâs 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 heâs not looking.
His posture is more relaxed than youâve ever seen it, and his phone â his usual stressor â is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesnât bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says heâs 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. Buckyâs 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 youâre in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. Youâre out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.
But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, youâre missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. Itâs not exhaustion that brought the tears â itâs 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. Itâs vintage, itâs supposedly priceless, and itâs everything you never knew you wanted but now canât live without. Youâre 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.
âBeautiful,â he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. Thatâs all you need to hear. You canât help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.
Heâs over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collectorâs album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And itâs something you purchased with your own meager savings â you know you didnât have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what heâs given you.
Later that night, when youâre 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 canât help but sink.
You donât know what you were expecting â Buckyâs 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 itâs defined as.
You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through whatâs real and whatâs imagined.
Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. Itâs an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you donât have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.
Buckyâs unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. Itâs a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. Youâre not sure where he is, or if heâs with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you havenât asked, and he hasnât volunteered that information yet.
But as the day goes on and you still havenât heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.
Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoeverâs taking up all his time, time thatâs normally dedicated solely to you?
Youâre probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and itâs 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 itâs just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. Youâre ringing him before you know it.
He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. âHey,â he answers, voice hushed.
âHi,â you say. âMerry Christmas.â
âMerry Christmas, sweetheart. Howâs your aunt?â
âSheâs good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.â
He chuckles. âSounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.â
âI know. Sheâs trying, at least. She just left, actuallyâŠhowâs your Christmas?â
âItâs good.â
Thereâs a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesnât.
âGood,â you croak. âI-Iâm glad. I was afraid youâd spend it in the office.â
âEven I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.â
Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. âHey, some of us didnât have a choice.â
âI know,â his chest rumbles, âbut now you do.â
âI donât have a job, Bucky.â
âSo you can take as many days off as you want.â
You giggle. âI donât think it works like that.â
âIt works whatever way you want it to, dollââ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A womanâs voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like youâve been dropped into the Hudson. âHey, listen, I gotta go,â Bucky says, low and rushed. âBut Iâll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? Weâll do something. Donât sleep in.â
Your mouthâs open to reply but heâs 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.
âHey, doll,â he says cheerfully.
âHey,â you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.
âFeel like ice skating today?â
Famous last words.
Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and youâve 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. Itâs peaceful and serene.
Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.
âWhatcha thinking about?â
Your mind conjures up the phone call, the womanâs voice on Buckyâs end.
You smile. âThat I missed my calling as a figure skater.â
Buckyâs laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.
âI was thinking the same thing. You couldâve had a gold medal by now.â
âA dream deferred.â
Itâs 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.
âI had fun today,â he tells you. âSkating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldnât tell you the last time I went.â
You hum and look up at him. âWhat made you think of it, then?â
âI donât know,â Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. âI guess I was feeling nostalgic.â He meets your eyes. âThank you for coming with me.â
âThank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.â
He scoffs. âYou were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.â
âSure. But letâs save that for next year when thereâs a better chance that people donât remember me.â
âWhatever you say, doll.â He pauses. âWhat are you doing for New Years?â
You blink. âOh, uh â nothing, I guess.â
His head tilts. âUp for another fancy party?â
Five days later, youâre draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Buckyâs hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board memberâs hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word heâs saying.
When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. âHaving a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.â
âThe nerve of him,â 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 HRâs office after tonight.
Heâs charming, heâs magnetic, heâs 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, youâre 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.
âHappy New Year, honey.â
You exhale softly. âHappy New Year, Bucky.â
It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.
After the partyâs ended, you agree to go back to Buckyâs. Heâs rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; youâre bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.
âThank you for coming with me tonight,â he says.
âOf course. It was a really beautiful party.â
âAgreed. Iâm looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.â
You laugh. âYou know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.â
Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. âTheyâre good people.â
âI think youâre good people.â
âYouâre not so bad yourself,â he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.
âI also think you donât give yourself enough credit,â you continue softly, voice lowering. âYou work hard, you fight for things thatâll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. Theyâre lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.â
His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, theyâre wide, vulnerable. âThank you,â he whispers.
You shoot him a shy smile. âYouâre welcome.â
Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Buckyâs gaze is drawn to the time.
âChrist,â he swears, âitâs already three. Think itâs time for bed.â
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. âGoodnight, sweetheart,â he murmurs, turning the handle.
A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.
âBucky?â you blurt out.
He turns.
âYeah?â
âCan I, uh â can I sleepâŠin your bed? With you?â
Buckyâs silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. Youâre looking everywhere but at him.
âJust for tonight, I â um, I just mean, itâs a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with peopleâŠYou totally donât have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a lineââ
âSweetheart.â
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 youâve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.
Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the otherâs features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; thereâs only a few inches of space between you â it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.
âThank you,â 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.
âSleep tight, sweetheart.â
You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, youâre 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 isnât lust, it isnât want âitâs something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.
Youâre 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 youâre too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Buckyâs there to drag you out the door.
With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Buckyâs 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 doesnât push â heâs your number one champion for you getting your degree â but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and youâve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the womanâs voice on Buckyâs phone. Itâs 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. Youâre too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. Itâs 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 heâs 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 youâve 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 heâs faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that heâs 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 youâve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so â naturally â you decide to show up at his home.
Itâs 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.
âWhat the fuck?â
Heâs wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like heâs seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part â your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.
âH-hey,â 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.
âWhatâs wrong?â he demands. âAre you okay?â He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.
âN-no, Iâm f-fine. Just c-c-cold.â
He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.
âWhat are you doing here?â he breathes against your hair. âI thought you were asleep.â
Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. âI t-tried, butâŠI m-missed you.â
Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.
âI missed you, too.â
âIâm sorry I woke you up,â you whisper.
âDonât apologize. Iâm glad youâre here.â He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. âDid you â did you walk here?â
You have the grace to look guilty.
âFuck,â he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, âdonât ever do that again. I donât want you walking around the city alone at this time of night â either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You donât walk. Do you hear me?â
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.
âIâm sorry,â he says, softer. âI shouldnât have said it like that. You justâŠscared me.â
âIâm fine,â you repeat, sniffling.
âSays the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.â His eyes search your face. âWhatâs going on?â
Your lip trembles. âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
âShhh. Tell me whatâs wrong,â he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.
âIt â itâs stupidâŠâ
âIt canât be if you came all this way. Just tell me.â
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.
ââŠI guess I wasâŠafraid,â you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.
âAfraid of what, sweetheart?â His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.
âOfâŠlosing you.â
He frowns. âWhat do you mean?â
You take a sharp, rattling breath. âI keep saying no to doing things with you because Iâm so worried about school, and I â I havenât made any effort at all to make up for it. Weâve barely seen each other in weeks â I didnât realize until now how much Iâve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that youâd see that I was choosing school over you andâŠy-youâd get tired of me, or want someone elseâŠâ
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.
âSweetheart, youâre not losing me.â He speaks softly, melodically. âI told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. Iâm so damn proud of what youâre doing, it makes every second Iâm not with you worth it.â
He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. Itâs warm, tender, almost pleading.
âAnd 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?â
In the back of your mind, you know youâre sobbing, but you donât care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you werenât wrapped up in Buckyâs arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Buckyâs hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.
âThank you,â 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 donât fight it â you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after theyâve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but itâs a good kind of hurt. Especially when Buckyâs holding you through it.
He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. âCome on,â he says gently, âletâs get you warmed up.â
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, heâs 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. Youâve never been this close to him before â it feels like coming home after a long time away.
Youâre drifting off in minutes, Buckyâs arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, âIâm all yours, sweetheart.â
When you receive the email that late April morning, youâre lying in Buckyâs 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 Masterâs 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 studyâŠ
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.
âYour ears mustâve been burning âcause Iâve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arouââ
âBucky. I did it. I got the email.â
Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, âThatâs my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew youâd do it.â
âThank you, Bucky â I-I couldnât have done it without you.â
âNah, that was all you, smarty pants.â
You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.
âIt doesnât feel real,â you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. âIâm not sure if Iâm supposed to feel different or what.â
âThatâs because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isnât out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. Thatâs when it will sink in.â
Your smile grows. âI like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?â
Thereâs a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.
âActually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.â
You know that tone. You sit up straight.
âBucky. What are you planning?â
Youâve 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 heâs real, that all of this is real.
âWelcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. Weâre so happy you could join us here.â
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 Buckyâs villa, prattling off the agenda Buckyâs already set with the staff. You just barely register the words âsnorkelingâ and âprivate dinnerâ while you wander. Itâs 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.
âWhat do you think?â
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. âIâve never heard that sound from you before. Iâm guessing you like it?â
âBucky â I love it. This place is a dream!â
âGlad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Masterâs, huh?â
You laugh. âWay better than Minetta.â
The celebrations start with â of all things â 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 youâve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hairâs 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 youâll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.
The sunâs 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 youâve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.
At the end of the meal, after you canât 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 heâs 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 otherâs backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasnât touched before, you canât think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.
Bucky looks like Godâs gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesnât bother to button, like itâs his birthright, like he was made to do it. Youâre 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, youâre melting further and further into him.
You know youâre not being as subtle as youâd like â 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 heâs caught, but he doesnât look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you donât know the name of.
That night, youâre facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. Youâre 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 didnât just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face â 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 youâre snorkeling, the next, Buckyâs undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute youâre 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 nothingâs 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.
Itâs enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.
Youâre getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Buckyâs already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while youâve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesnât 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 heâs directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.
âHey, Buck?â
âYeah?â
âRemind me what weâre doing for dinner again.â Thereâs a brief pause.
âWeâre heading inland,â Bucky says. You think he sounds like heâs directly behind you.
Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose â they crumple to the floor.
âDo you know what theyâre serving?â
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 â you really, really want to look â but you know you canât. You canât risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if heâs not looking? What if heâs done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? Youâre not sure how youâd be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when youâre bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.
You realize that Bucky hasnât said anything.
âBucky?â 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.
âYeah,â you hear. Low, rough, distracted.
Donât fucking lookâ
âThe food,â you reply, forcing an amused smile. âDo you know what it is? I donât think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.â
Thereâs a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. âYouâll be fine.â
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.
âFucking idiotâ 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. Itâs the first time youâve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and itâs right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.
âŠbut are you?
Your mind replays every crooked smile heâs sent you, every dirty joke heâs laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. Youâre analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.
Because you sure as hell do.
Itâs no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. Youâre fucking head over heels for him.
But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You canât tell him. Not without risking everything â and youâd 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.
Buckyâs out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.
âHey,â you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. âYou ready?â
He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.
âWhat?â you canât help but ask as the silence stretches. âShould I change?â
He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. âPlease donât. You lookâŠyou look like an angel.â
The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. âThanks, BuckâŠso, are we going or what?â
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. Thereâs 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, Buckyâs 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 serverâs 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. Youâre 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 youâre on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Buckyâs pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.
âBudge over, doll,â 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 itâs just the two of you and the moonâs reflection on the ocean.
âItâs so pretty,â you whisper. âI donât think I could ever get tired of this.â
âMe neither,â he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.
âWhatâs been your favorite part?â
A faint smile flickers across his face. âThe eel.â
You laugh. âOh, Iâm so glad you found my fear so entertaining.â
âIâve never seen anyone swim that fast.â
âA moray eel crossed right in front of us and youâre saying you didnât almost shit yourself?â
He shrugs before flipping onto his side. âThey donât bother you if you donât bother them.â
âIâll be sure to remember that for next time.â
âAnd maybe next time you wonât push me toward it while youâre trying to get away.â
You cover your face with your hand. âOkay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.â
âJust shitty?â he repeats. âYou were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.â
Your jaw drops open. âThatâs not fair! Iâd love to see what youâd do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.â Bucky shudders for effect. âAnd what happened to âthey donât bother you if you donât bother themâ?â
âTheyâre territorial, doll â you pushed me into his reef.â
âAnd he didnât do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ârespect the ocean, it respects you backâ manifesto. Point is, youâre fine.â
âYeah, physically. Emotionally? Iâll never recover.â
âDrama queen.â 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 canât 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; Buckyâs eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.
âAlright, thatâs enough,â 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.
âWhatâs wrong?â you ask.
He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. âBucky.â
He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like heâs come to a decision but hates the choice he made.
âI need you to stay there, sweetheart.â
You gape at him. âWhat? Did I â did I hurt you?â
âNo, you didnât hurt me.â
âBuckyââ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.
âPlease.â
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 canât meet your gaze, and thereâs a flush to his neck that wasnât 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 canât look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when heâs the most vulnerable heâs ever been in front of you.
âItâs okay,â you whisper.
He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesnât move.
Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours â you hadnât 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 isnât embarrassed, like you expected â heâs disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided itâs 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 canât 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.
âSleep tight, sweetheart,â he whispers.
Your lips part. Your eyes open. Heâs staring at you.
âYou too, Buck.â
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. itâs a privilege just to be able to share my silly little stories with others đ€ last part coming soon!
# FRANK LANGDON â YOUâRE HOT, IâM BOTHERED !
MASTERLIST !
001. SUMMARY !
â¶ when a patient points out how hot your boyfriend is, you canât help but have some mixed feelings.
002. WARNINGS !
â¶ brief mention of rehab (not langdon, just patient), langdon calls reader âsweetheartâ, jealousy.
word count : 1,8k
gif by @langdonfranks
You roll into the ED with a girl in a wheelchair and her friend hovering at her side.
Jackieâwhose name youâve come to know through her friend, Jacquieâhas bitten her tongue halfway through.
Theyâre both thoroughly plastered; the sharp, unmistakable stench of alcohol follows them. Thankfully, it means Jackie isnât completely panicking, even if she knows she did some serious damage.
Jacquie does her best to translate her friendâs words since Jackieâs attempts are muffled by the wad of epinephrine soaked gauze pressed firmly against her tongue to control the bleeding.
âPrincess, whatâs open?â You ask as you reach the Hub.
âSouth 15âs clean,â she says, her eyes widening as she takes in the blood.
Joyâwho, despite her deadpan delivery and monotone voice, is actually a joy to work withâspots Langdon, whoâs already noticed the situation.
âDeep tongue laceration,â she tells him.
âOh, I can jump on this.â
âSure, join in,â you say with a small smile.
âHello, Iâm Dr. Langdon,â he says, stooping so heâs at eye level with Jackie in the wheelchair. âIâll be supervising your care.â
Jacquie grins widely, leaning down toward Jackieâs ear. âJesus, CK, your doctorâs fucking hot.â
The smile on your face faltersâjust for a second. Itâs not like itâs a lie. Langdon is hot. In your completely unbiased opinion, one of the hottest men alive. But no one enjoys watching someone else openly admire their boyfriend. Still, you swallow it down and keep moving, guiding the wheelchair toward South 15.
Jackie manages a muffled noise that sounds vaguely like a âreally?â.
Beside you, Joy catches the flicker of irritation on your face and lets out a quiet huff of laughter as she walks along.
When you reach the room, you help Jackie onto the gurney.Â
âSo, how exactly did this happen?â Langdon asks.
âWe were in between pubs taking a selfie.â Jacquie pulls up a photo of the both of them grinning seconds before disaster.
âUntil she jerked her head up,â Jackie adds, her voice thick and slurred.
âOof,â he says, wincing.
âOkay, topical epi did the trick. No more bleeding,â you say, inspecting her tongue with a penlight.
âSweet,â she replies. âI can go home now?â
âYeah, I donât think so,â you tell her, offering your politest smile while pointedly ignoring the way Jacquie only seems capable of looking up from her phone when Langdon speaks.
âYou have a pretty deep wound on your tongue, so weâll need to put in some stitches.â
Jackieâs expression drops instantly, any relief evaporating.
âI donât want stitches.â
âOh, listen to the doctor,â Jacquie says, flashing Langdon another flirtatious smile.
âDonât tell me what to do. This is all your fault,â Jackie snaps.
âNo, itâs not.â
âUh, yes, it is.â
âNo, itâs not!â
The tension spikes fast. You exhale sharply and call out, already done with this dynamic.
âPrincess, why donât you show Jacquie where she can wait while we patch up her friend?â
âOf course,â Princess says, immediately picking up on your tone and also the irritation behind it. So, she quickly ushers Jacquie out of the room.
You grab the syringe and step closer to Jackie. âOkay, this is a numbing shot for the tip.â
âThe tip?â Jackie asks. âThatâs not where I bit.â
âOne step at a time,â Langdon tells her, glancing at you with a flicker of confusion at the shift in your mood once Jacquie leaves the room.
Jackie lets out a small whimper when she sees the syringe nearing her tongue, and a louder one when you actually inject it.
When youâre done, Langdon takes over again.
âSo, Jackie, in order to fix your tongue, we need to move it forward to access the laceration. Youâre just gonna feel some pulling, okay?â
âI guess so,â she says.
He grips her tongue gently but firmly, pulling it forward. âGo for it.â
You meet his eyes for half a second before inserting the needle.
âWhat size suture is that?â Joy asks.
âO-silk, the biggest one we got,â Langdon replies.
âAs soon as I cut the needle, youâre on traction, Joy.â
She nods, taking over as you finish. âOh, that is pretty deep.â
âAnd now we can numb up the cut,â Langdon says.
You work carefully, stitching the laceration with steady hands, blocking out everything else until itâs done.
Once you finish, you try to rouse Jackie, whoâs apparently drifted off thanks to the alcohol.
âAll done,â Langdon tells her as soon as her eyes flutter open.
âAll done with what?â She asks, her words edged with irritation at being woken up,
âSewing up your tongue,â Joy says flatly.
âWhat happened to my tongue?â
âYou bit it,â Joy replies incredulously.
Jackie lets out a short laugh, like sheâs just heard a joke. âNo I didn't.â
You roll your eyes. âThat is called a blackout.â
âHow much did you drink?â Joy asks.
âA couple bloody maryâs,â
âOnly a couple?â You echo, tilting your head.
âI don't know⊠Maybe more. Itâs a holiday, a pub crawl.â
Langdon continues asking about her drinking habits, to which Joy casually suggests rehab, since itâs clear this isnât a one-off situation.
Once everythingâs wrapped up, you reluctantly ask Princess to bring Jacquie back in.
You also noticeâof course you doâthat Jackie seems to have suddenly remembered she has, in fact, a âfucking hot doctorâ and is now twirling her hair as Langdon stands beside her.
âYouâre gonna want to be on a soft diet,â he tells her. âSo things like mashed potatoes, soup, mac and cheese are good.â
She nods, staring at him in what she probably thinks is a seductive manner.
Jacquie lingers by the door, watching as you help Jackie to her feet, now cleared for discharge.
Langdon moves ahead of them, leading the way out, while you follow just behind.
âI was gonna make your favourite three-bean dip tonight,â Jacquie says.
âBitch, that is so nice,â Jackie replies, still twirling her hair.
âSee, I am nice.â Then, lowering her voice into something syrupy, she adds, âCan she have that?â
Langdon turns back to answer, and you catch the brief, unmistakable face he makes before he schools his expression.
âUh, yeah. If you eat it with a spoon rather than anything crunchy that could work its way through the laceration.â
Youâre close enough now to see the exact look Jacquie gives him.
âSo, sheâll need to be spoon-fed?â
There it is again. And this time, Langdon definitely noticesâboth the tone and the way your expression tightens beside him.
âAntibiotics three times a day. Come back here in two days for a wound check.â He curtly says.
He gestures subtly for you to follow him, already moving away from them, but before you can step away, Jackie calls out after him.
âSee you then, Doctor.â
Her smile lingers a little too long and for a brief, irrational second, you consider grabbing Langdon and kissing him right there in the hallway, just to make a point.
You shake the thought off, stepping forward to move past him, but before you can, his hand closes gently around your arm, pulling you aside.
âHey, whatâs going on?â He asks with a concerned face.
âHm?â
âYouâve been acting weird ever since those two girls showed up,â he says. âDid something happen?â
âApart from the obvious?â You ask, rolling your eyes.
âWhat obvious?â
âThat my boyfriend is incredibly hot and I have to deal with girls leering at him like a piece of fresh meat.â
He lets out a quiet laugh, clearly amused. âYouâre mad at that?â
âItâs not funny!â You scowl, swatting his arm. He brings a hand up to his mouth, tryingâand failingâto hide his smile.
âSorry, sorry,â he says, though the grin tugging at his lips doesnât quite fade. Then, a little smugly, âYouâre jealous, arent you?â
You narrow your eyes at him, ready to deny it but you realize you canât. âI just⊠I donât like people perceiving you.â
âPerceiving me?â
âLike, I know youâre hot, but why do other women have to know it too, you know?â
âIâm afraid I don't know, sweetheart.â He says with a wide smile, clearly enjoying your words.
You glance around quickly as a nurse walks past, lowering your voice.
âI wish I could hide your attractiveness,â you whisper.
âWell, that would be a waste of a pretty face, wouldn't it?â
âFrank,â you say, a playful warning threading through your tone.
âLook,â he murmurs, gently taking both your arms and pulling you a step closer, grounding you in place. âI love you and only you.â
âI love you too,â you mumble, softer now.
âWhich means,â he continues, his hands sliding lightly over your arms in a soothing motion, âI donât care if other women look at me. I only care about one woman looking at me⊠and I only want to look at her, too.â
âI know,â you say with a resigned sigh. âI guess it just annoyed me that she could be so obvious about it, while I have to hold back so we donât get HR on our case.â
âHR can fuck off,â he mutters under his breath, pulling a surprised laugh out of you.
You shake your head, smiling as you rest your forehead against his chest, letting yourself have the moment for just a second. âWe should get back to work.â
âYeah,â he agrees but doesnât move.
You tilt your head up and press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. âI love you.â
âI love you more.â
âYou literally say that every time.â
âAnd Iâm right every time.â
You huff out a quiet laugh, giving his chest a gentle push, finally stepping back but not before he brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, like heâs reluctant to let go completely.
You roll your eyes, though the warmth lingering in your chest betrays you. âGo, Dr. Langdon. You have patients to supervise.â
He starts to turn, then pauses just long enough to glance back at you, something softerâand a little more mischievousâslipping into his expression.
âHey,â he says quietly.
âWhat?â
âNext time you get jealous,just tell meâ he adds, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips.Â
You narrow your eyes slightly, suspicious. âWhy?â
âSo I can loudly inform everyone in a ten-foot radius that Iâm taken,â he says, completely serious. âVery taken.â
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. âOh my god, you would not.â
âTry me,â he shoots back, already half-turning away. âIâll make it a whole thing.â
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. As you watch him for a second longer, warmth settles back into your chest. âIdiot,â you mutter, but thereâs no bite to it.
This time, when he walks away, he actually goes and you force yourself to do the same, slipping back into the rhythm of the ED.
Still, the rest of your shift feels noticeably lighter.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Buckyâs in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 12.5k
part two: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, itâs getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when youâre starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contractâŠ
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact buckyâs sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I donât think Iâve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3
Your shift is off to a very bad start.
The subway broke down â again â which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You donât care.
All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.
Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadnât let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth wouldâve made for a comical sight if you werenât already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, heâs eaten away at seven additional minutes you couldâve been paid for.
Safe to say, thereâs a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile â there was nothing you could do about your hair, and youâre putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling youâll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.
That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you donât even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what youâre seeing.
At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and itâs common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normalâŠexcept for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.
Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing â the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like itâs their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under âS. Leeâ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissaâs section. In her booth.
âThis has to be a mistake,â you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
âIâm sorry, he made me,â she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. âYou were running late and he didnât want them to wait, so he had me put them at Melâs table next to the pianoââ
You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you havenât thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages â tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. Itâs a gamble â one that risks your job if you donât play your cards right â but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.
But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.
It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didnât just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. Itâs a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it canât get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping â youâve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, youâre about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
âReplacementâ rings alarm bells in your head. âReplacementâ means reservations outside of the regularsâ time slots. âReplacementâ means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. âReplacementâ means trouble.
And trouble they are.
You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like theyâve been patrons of your table for years. You donât recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. Youâre at risk of cracking a tooth.
But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.
Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.
âWelcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?â
Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
âBetter, now that youâre here,â he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
âWell, glad I could be of service,â you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, youâll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. âWhat brings you in tonight?â
The blonde one speaks up again. âOur friend here just bought another nightclub,â he says, gesturing to a man to his right. âSo we thought weâd celebrate him adding to his empire.â
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
âHow exciting,â you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man â whose name you learned is Walker â doesnât seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think heâd still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.
As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walkerâs nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.
When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.
âHow long have you been working here, sweetie?â he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the othersâ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
âComing up on a year,â you reply. âLong enough to know when someone interesting walks in.â
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
âInteresting, huh?â he asks with a smirk thatâs probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. âSounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.â
Do not gag do not gag do not gagâ
âOh, I donât do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.â
God, you might make yourself vomitâ
âGood to know,â he drawls, âbecause Iâll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?â
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. âSo donât go running off anywhere. Wouldnât want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.â
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
âAnd give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldnât dream of it,â you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.
As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing â which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walkerâs giving all the signs that heâll be footing the bill.
So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walkerâs eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walkerâs direction.
âThat vest really does wonders for you.â
âI like it when a girl shows a little skin.â
âThat skirt looks like it was made for you.â
Your patience is wearing thin.
To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldnât mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the âshort-list,â or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Samâs efforts all the same.
And then thereâs the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walkerâs in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.
âEnough,â he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walkerâs lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesnât even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. Thereâs a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket â a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than youâll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements â and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally youâll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. Itâs not always easy to spot, but youâve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesnât fail to knock you on your ass every time.
One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.
On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. Youâre attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
Itâs him, the man at the end of the booth.
His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangeloâs private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldnât guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.
Heâs watching you like heâs waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like heâs about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.
Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. âCan I get you anything, sir?â you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.
He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. âJust the check, please.â
âOf course. Can I get the name under the membership?â
âBarnes,â he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. âJames Barnes. Thank you.â
âThank you, Mr. Barnes.â
His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.
Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walkerâs foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Samâs there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.
Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.
âLeft my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when youâre done with work.â
Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.
Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.
âThank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.â
He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, âfor what you had to put up with tonight.â
You blink. âOh, thatâs â itâs not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh â fun time.â
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. âFun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?â
âIââ your blush lights up your face. âHe didnât mean it, Iâm sureââ
âHe did.â
âItâs fine,â you rush to say. âI get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.â
His eyebrow lifts.
âA work perk,â he repeats. âSure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.â
Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.
You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. âWhat can I say? Iâm living the dream.â
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
âAre you?â
You pause. âAm I what?â
âLiving the dream.â
âIs anyone, really?â you say with a quirk of your lips.
âI donât know,â he allows, tilting his head. âMaybe not. But we keep pretending we are.â His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. âWere late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?â
You chuckle, but thereâs hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But thatâs the darker side of the club that customers arenât supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet heâs asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
Heâs looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
âUh, no,â you say slowly. âDefinitely not.â
You glance over your shoulder like youâre expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
âGood,â James murmurs, âI was starting to worry about your long-term goals.â
âIâmâŠIâm actually in school,â you admit before you can stop yourself. âGrad school. Masters in Business Analytics.â
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. âImpressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?â
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isnât uncomfortable, but itâs heavy.
âSomething with data. It kind of â I donât know â speaks to me, I guess? Iâm good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isnât that difficult when you dictate the right models andââ You stop short and shake your head quickly. âIâm sorry. Iâm boring you.â
His smile returns. âYouâre not boring me.â
âI was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,â you joke.
âOn the contrary,â he murmurs, âIâd like to hear what you have to say about data models.â
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. âIt doesnât make for very thrilling conversation.â
âWeâre at The Alpine Club â Iâm pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. Whatâs one more?â
You laugh, bright and unexpected. âYou got me there.â
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
âSo,â he says, twirling his empty glass, âwhat kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?â
You blink as his question lands. It isnât lost on you that heâs prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that havenât been touched in minutes, you have side work thatâs waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when heâs already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
âManipulating data sounds corrupt,â you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. âItâs more likeâŠmaking sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they donât even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, hereâs the story.â
âSounds like an art,â he says.
âArtists donât use spreadsheets.â
âI think it still counts.â
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. âNot sure if Iâve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.â
âMost people are missing out.â
Your smile grows. âThat sounds like a line.â
âItâs not,â he says easily, placing both hands on the table. âIâm genuinely interested.â
âIn data?â
âIn you.â
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, thatâs definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. âActually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?â
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.
âDo you think youâd be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?â he asks.
You freeze.
âIf youâre busy, I understand,â he says quietly. âI donât want to keep you from your work.â
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. Itâs died down considerably â closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
âNo, itâs â Iâm not busy,â you mumble. Youâre about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.
âWhere do you go to school?â he asks, like there wasnât a break in the conversation.
âOâMalley.â
His eyebrows lift a fraction. âThatâs a great school.â
âHa. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.â Your nose wrinkles. âI guess you could say thatâs part of the reason Iâm here.â
Youâre not sure what made you bring up your mom â you havenât weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.
âPart of the reason?â he repeats.
âItâs a long story.â
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
âI have time.â
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. âIt â well, itâs not a very good story either.â
He doesnât say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You donât tell your story very often â in fact, youâve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.
Sitting beside him, you canât deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know itâs something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
âI had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dadâs life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,â you add, when Jamesâ tilts his head questioningly. âIt wasâŠsad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the worldâŠâ
James clears his throat. âWhere did you go?â
âEurope. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the countryâs broken up by states and each one has its own cultureâŠâ You trail off, biting down on a smile. âI think itâs my favorite place in the world.â
Next to you, James shifts again, but heâs got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
âBut then my mom got sick,â you continue, your voice lowering automatically. âStage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.â
Thereâs a sound like a hushed rumble coming from Jamesâ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. Youâve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them â especially when they came from strangers. But the way heâs looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you havenât had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
âItâsâŠthank you.â
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
âShe refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didnât want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.â
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
âI tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.â
Jamesâ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
âAfter the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.â You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. âDespite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home â she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldnât think about anything but her, but now that sheâs gone, Iâm glad she made me do it.â
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesnât feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isnât sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one personâs lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
âFor what itâs worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are todayâ he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
âDonât speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.â
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
âTruthfully, Iâm â Iâm drowning,â you laugh breathlessly. âI canât study because Iâm constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that Iâll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because â well, everythingâs outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.â
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
âI ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I donât have anything against! But I canât move like that, I can barely do a push up â so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then Iâd be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment andââ
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. Heâs turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; itâs unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricityâs dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.
He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasnât looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you donât find it creepy. Yet.
âSounds like you have a lot on your plate,â James mutters.
âYeah,â you say faintly, âsorry to unload all of that on you.â
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. Youâre kicking yourself mentally, thinking youâve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
âI could help,â he says quietly.
You blink. âOh, you donât â you donât need to do that. I promise I wasnât using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anythingââ
âJust listen, please.â
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasnât there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
âIâll only say this once, and if itâs not for you, I wonât say another word about it ever again.â He tilts his head. âI believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. Iâd like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. Iâd be someone you can rely on, who values your company and wants to see you succeedâŠwhile also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off â financially â so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. Iâve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than Iâve had with that group of guys for years. Youâre sharp, youâre funny, youâre groundedâŠYour time and your attention is all I would want.â
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
âThis requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. Itâs not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. Itâs moreâŠintentional than that. Mutual.â
He pauses again, longer, as if heâs waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
âBeing my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,â he continues softly. âItâs about making you comfortable. Youâll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. Itâs not complicated, and itâs not about control. Itâs about being a friend. Iâd like to be your friend.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face â you suspect youâre not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
âYou donât need to give me an answer now,â James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. âAll Iâm asking is that you consider it.â
Youâre silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
âWe donât even know each other,â you whisper.
âI know,â he replies, âbut Iâd like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.â
You bite your lip. âIf youâre saying all of this because of my mom, or â or âcause you feel badââ
âNo,â he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. âThis isnât because I feel bad.â
âThen why?â you ask.
âBecause youâre beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that youâve shown me tonight. And selfishly, Iâd like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.â
Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.
James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.
âTake some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and Iâll leave you alone. But if youâre interested in what this could be, let me know.â
You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.
âI hope to hear from you soon,â he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.
With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.
âItâsâitâs on me,â you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. âDonât worry about it.â
âThank you,â James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesnât look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room
You let out a breath you didnât know you were holding. Holy shit.
Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.
James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board
Barnes Group, Inc.
The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. was a quiet but major asset management firm that dominated the Financial District. They held their weight with the other big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They were well-respected and popular, from what youâve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again â he really did have real money.
Your mind whirled. How cliche was it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very â thereâs no beating around that bush.
But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.
You couldnât remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But youâre still human â even if you push everyone away, that doesnât mean youâre immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesnât leave you with many options for human companionship.
His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, youâre lonely.
Maybe heâs lonely, too.
You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.
You canât believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you canât help but take Jamesâ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.
You sigh, stroking Luckyâs back. âIf this is real, Iâd be an idiot not to,â you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.
So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, youâre thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until itâs an automatic loop of noise.
Iâd like to be your friend.
Itâs distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means youâre distracted at work, youâre distracted on the subway, youâre distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. Youâll never do that again.
âŠHe could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when youâre taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.
The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?
Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you â at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of Jamesâ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or â even worse â his chest hair.
It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.
Heâs offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either heâs dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe itâs both. Either way, itâll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. âHello?â
âJames,â you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. âItâs me. From The Alpine. Hi.â
Something shifts in the background, like heâs sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. âHi,â he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
âShit,â you mutter, âIâm sorry. I didnât even think about how late it is. I can call you backâ?â
âNo,â he cuts in. âNowâs fine. How are you?â
You chew on your lip. âIâm good. Busy, but.. Iâve beenâ uh, Iâve been thinking.â
âOh, yeah?â he murmurs, soft and loose like itâs a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
âAbout what you said,â you choke out. âAbout beingâŠfriends. IâŠI have some questions.â
âI have some answers.â
âI was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more aboutâŠwhat this will be like.â
Thereâs a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.
âHow about tomorrow night? 8 oâclock at Pepperâs.â
âYeahâ uh, yes. That works,â you breathe. Thereâs a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
âWould it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless youâd like to have a lawyer look over themââ
Your mouth goes dry. âNo. Thatâs okay,â you say. âYou can bring them.â
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. âIâm glad you called,â he says, voice low and warm. âI was starting to think I wouldnât hear from you.â
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. âItâs okay. Iâm glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.â
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
âAre you working?â he asks.
âYes.â
âItâs almost midnight. Isnât The Alpine closed by now?â
âYeah, wellâŠside workâs a bitch. Iâll probably be here until one.â
He grunts. âLet me send a car to get you home.â
âJames, Iââ
âPlease. Itâll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.â
Your foot taps restlessly. âOkay,â you breathe.
âOkay, doll.â
A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.
âYeah, uh. Iâll let youâ uh, Iâll let you get back to it then. Iâll see you tomorrow, James.â
âTomorrow,â he vows. And the line goes dead.
You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. Itâs your favorite dress â or, more accurately, your only dress â and your one item of clothing thatâs acceptable enough for the five star restaurant youâre meeting James at.
Heâs sending another car â he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driverâs name. Youâd be put off if the ride last night hadnât cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.
The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.
When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that donât entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.
James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.
He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.
âHello,â he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
âHi,â you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
âYou look breathtaking,â he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
âThank you. You look very nice, too.â
His smile grows. âIâm glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say Iâve been a bit restless since our talk last night.â
âOh?â is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
âI guess you could say Iâm eager to hear your questions.â
âOh, umâŠyes. I have a fewâŠâ
He gestures to the table. âDo your worst.â
You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but whatâs there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
âFirst, IâŠI just want to say thank you,â you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. âFor listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time Iâve told that story that I didnât feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.â
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. âYouâre welcome.â
âThat being said,â you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. âIâm wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.â
He nods, his face becoming serious. âOf course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you donât want me to touch, then I wonât. You get the say in that.â
âSo, if I say I donât want any help with my student loansâŠâ
âThen thatâs that. I wonât push you about it either.â
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
âWould it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and wonât help with?â he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. âTo start, I wonât help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless theyâre direct dependents of yours, which it doesnât sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I wonât help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I wonât pay for bail, I wonât pay fines, and I wonât pay for legal counsel. If youâre charged with anything, this arrangement is void.â
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like heâs said this a few times. You gulp.
âBut I will pay for everything else, if youâll let me,â he remarks, growing softer. âYouâll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when youâre not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldnât do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails â whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.â
âOkay,â you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
âIâll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, Iâll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when youâre not with me.â
Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.
âYou donât have to, Iâm just giving you the option. Remember, youâll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.â
He scans your face â youâre sure youâre a shade paler than before.
âWhere do you live now?â he asks gently.
âQueens.â He smiles.
âThen Iâd at least argue for you to use my driver.â
âMakes sense,â you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what youâd like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand youâve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.
âI also like to give gifts,â James says, picking up where he left off. âThat could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacationsââ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. âWhatever Iâm feeling that day.â
âOh, is that all?â you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
âIt may change, depending on what I think youâd like. And what you tell me you like.â
âIâm picky,â you attempt to joke.
âI like a challenge.â
The air shifts subtly, youâd miss it if you werenât paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while youâre pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
âIdeally, youâd quit your job,â he begins slowly. âNot for me, but because you wonât need to work anymore. You donât have to if you donât want to, but youâre in school, and itâs clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.â
You huff a soft laugh because you arenât sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadnât even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seedâs been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.
James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.
âIâd like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of whatâs happened to you, but because of what youâve done since it happened,â he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. âI think youâve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say thereâs almost nothing I wouldnât help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.â
For a moment, youâre not sure what to say, but you end up on, âThank you, James. IâŠIâll think about it.â
He nods, businesslike. âWhat other questions do you have?â
You blink, looking down at your list. âWell, you answered a couple of them, actuallyâŠum, I guess my next question isââ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. âWhen you say friendship, what does thatâŠinclude, exactly?â
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
âI meant what I said about being friends,â he offers, âand I meant it in the traditional sense. This isnât a âfriends with benefitsâ situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isnât required by you â youâre welcome to do whatever youâre comfortable with, and I wonât withhold anything from you if you arenât comfortable with it. And I wonât touch you if you donât want me to, but I will say Iâm hoping to earn that right eventually.â
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
âI understand,â you say slowly. âI think those are reasonable, too.â His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. âI appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.â
âThatâs why weâre here,â he answers calmly. âAny more questions?â
âYes, um. How does thisâŠstart?â
The smile returns to Jamesâ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.
âIt starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you wonât talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. Iâm held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all Iâm worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.â
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but heâs already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
âThis is an agreement on what Iâm allowed to pay for. Like the rent â Iâll need to know where to pay to. Thereâs also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. Iâd like it wired safely and securely.â
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, âYou donât have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.â
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
âAnything else?â he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
âAre youâŠfriendsâŠwith anyone else right now? Or is it just me?â
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
âJust you. And I can promise that I wonât need any other friends as long as I have you.â
Oh.
âBut youâveâŠhad other friends before. In the past.â
His eyes go blank for a moment. âYes, Iâve had other friends before. A few.â
âTheyâre not still your friends, though?â you ask.
âNo,â he answers. âThere came a point when it was time for them to explore otherâŠfriendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.â
You hesitate. âSo, if one day I decide I want toâŠstop being friends, that would be okay with you?â
âOf course. Iâm here as long as youâll have me. Or until we both decide itâs time.â
âOkay,â you whisper, meeting his gaze. Thereâs a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. âOkay. Can I borrow your pen?â
James smiles, the biggest smile youâve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe itâs him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.
Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. âTo friendships,â he says. You clink your glass to his. âAnd, by the way, call me Bucky.â
âBucky?â you ask, eyebrows raised.
âItâs what my friends call me.â
It starts immediately.
The next morning, youâre greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. Youâre placing the last of them on the counter when thereâs a knock on your door â a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet hereâs a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but itâs worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. Itâs something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.
At first, itâs odd having someone to talk to so consistently again â the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.
But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.
Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.
It isnât long before he does.
Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that youâre stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. Youâre grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction heâs providing. Heâs waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
âYou look beautiful,â he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.
Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.
Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. Youâre licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
âHe just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and thatâs it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you donât.â
You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Buckyâs still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
âMight be because he lacks his own personal life,â he muses. âPeople are always going to project what hurts them.â
You consider this. âNow that you say it, I donât think Iâve ever seen him take a day off.â
âThat can do some fucked up things to a person.â
âTell me about it,â you whine. âI havenât taken a day off in months.â
His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.
âI know, I know. I justâŠâ You take a breath. âI need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. âTomorrowâs the first of the month,â he says. âHave you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?â
Your breath hitches.
âYes,â you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
âAnd what have you decided?â
âI thinkâŠit would be a show of good faithâŠif you helped me out.â
âGood faith,â he laughs. âSweetheart, Iâll buy you the moon if it means youâll believe me when I say Iâll take care of you.â
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. â your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like youâre floating.
It only takes you another week until youâre calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heartâs content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you canât resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
Itâs clear heâs shocked, that youâve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. Itâs strange, itâs new, but itâsâŠcomforting.
Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.
Itâs calming and oddly motivating â heâs the perfect person to work next to.
When youâre not studying, Buckyâs supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone â Inga, Buckyâs very Dutch, very cheerful assistant â because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didnât know existed to fill.
A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place youâve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.
Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.
Youâre about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. Youâve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.
âIâve got this thing tomorrow night,â he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. Youâre shocked to realize heâs being shy, and poorly hiding it. âItâs a gala. The black tie kind. Itâs for charity â Childrenâs, I think. If youâre up for it, I was wondering if youâd like to come with me.â
You smile slowly. âIâd love to. Just need something to wear.â
A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe thatâs the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something youâd never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that youâre a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.
After that, youâre dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 oâclock, Buckyâs waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.
He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.
âYou lookâŠunbelievable.â
Later, when youâre buried deep into a crowd of people you donât know, Buckyâs anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, âIâm very lucky to have you here with me.â
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgateâs been cracked open, and whatâs been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.
When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.
And thatâs when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.
You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. Heâs been doing it all night, but this time, it doesnât feel right. It feelsâŠoff. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that youâd ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship â to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you donât want to make it seem like you canât hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.
So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.
Youâre a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. Itâs a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that heâs messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.
He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You donât mind.
With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.
So you start staying over.
It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.
The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.
âMorning,â he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days â soft, grounding touches that donât linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that donât get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.
âDid I â did I crash?â you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
âDidnât even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.â
âFuck, I liked him.â
âMe too.â
You look up at him, suddenly shy. âIâm sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.â
âOnly threw out my back for it. No worries.â
You slap away his hand on your waist, but itâs teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so youâre eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
âYou know, that room can be yours, if youâd like.â
You pause mid sip of coffee. âWhat?â
âThe room. Itâs yours. For when you want to crash. Or just donât want to go home.â
âReally.â Itâs not a question.
âReally,â he repeats. âDonât ever feel like you have to stay, Iâll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, itâs there for you.â
âThatâsâŠreally sweet of you.â
He smiles a little. âNot too much?â You shake your head. âGood. âCause I like knowing youâre close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.â
The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.
But heâs watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until youâre numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, âOkay.â
And thatâs that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Buckyâs not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know heâs only human, but youâve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.
He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.
He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of âwhat now?â He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.
His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch â pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, youâd think he hates it.
âBucky,â you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. âBucky,â you try again.
âWhat?â he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. âOh, God â Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. I didnât meanââ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. âJesus. You didnât deserve that. Forgive me.â
âAlways,â you say like itâs second nature. âWhatâs going on?â
He sighs, setting down his plate. âWork,â he mutters, âis killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They arenât happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now theyâre playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.â
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
âYou think thatâs funny?â
âA little. But I canât imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.â
Something flashes in Buckyâs eyes, something darker that doesnât fit the conversation topic. Itâs quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
âNot these guys. They like to test me. And I donât like being tested.â
âI can tell,â you comment. âWant me to help?â
He side-eyes you. âHow?â
âYou can take all your anger out byâŠrubbing my feet?â Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.
âHow sweet of you,â he coos. âHowâd you know this is exactly what I needed?â
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether itâs to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and youâre feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
âAlright, doll. Youâre tired. Iâm taking you home.â
âI might stay here tonight, if thatâs okay with you.â
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and thereâs a slightly dazed look in his eye.
âSure, yeah. Whatever you want,â he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While youâre brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though heâll deny it.
He walks you to your room like heâs dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
âSleep tight,â he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
âGoodnight, Bucky.â
Heâs gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.
When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. Theyâve been quiet for a while since youâve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?
Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.
The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.
Bucky.
It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You werenât even sure that he looked at it yet.
Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.
Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and youâre sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but theyâve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesnât need the words. He knows everything that youâre saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.
The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.
sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok thatâs a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesnât like 30k word posts I guess :/ donât forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far đ€