Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is the youngest Senator in New York. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, he’s down to earth, and is deeply in love with his wife; Y/N Barnes. His dreams consist of having kids, helping find a cure for cancer and AIDS in his lifetime, and one day, sitting at a desk in the Oval Office. It’s good to go after your dreams, right? Not if you’ve got one hell of a secret. Word Count: 907 Warnings: Language, heavy angst, explicit sexual content, explicit descriptions of blood and gore, not for the light-hearted. Author’s Note: GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Blood. It had a tendency to get into the nooks and crannies; under his nails and cuticles, deep into the wrinkles of his knuckles. There was one time he even got some behind his ear; one lone drop of the crimson liquid. Despite all of the annoyances, he loved the way it felt on his skin; all slick and warm, like a bubble bath.
His fascination for it started at a young age, younger than most sociopaths in society; he was just four years old when he found out just how much pressure to apply to watch the family’s cat’s eyes burst out of its head. His mother had fainted, his brother had cried, and his father had screamed at him until he was red in the face.
Red. The color of blood. A color he was now completely enamored with. It was a color that he wanted to dive into head first. He wanted to take it apart, break it down to the last molecule to truly understand his newfound fascination.
Blood. It was spilling out of the gash in the orderly’s neck like a river that had broken the dam. Nothing could stop it, not even the hand that was clamped to the wound; the blood just rushed through the man’s fingers. His mouth was open, ragged gasps of protests coming out in the form of bloodied bubbles where they popped on the edge of his chapped lips.
The orderly tried to go back the way he had came, but his patient had already closed the door and was standing guard, a murderous gleam in his eyes and a paring knife gripped in his hand. How he had gotten it, the orderly didn’t know. All objects such as that were kept under lock and key, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year.
“P… ple… please,” the orderly rasped as he fell to his knees.
He didn’t move from his spot, just stared at the man whose throat he had just slashed. He had picked this orderly specifically; they were roughly the same height and weight, same color eyes, even had similar bone structure. If he hadn’t know better, he would have thought they were related.
The orderly was on his back now, all color drained from his face, his eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. Gargled gasps were the only thing that broke the eerie silence. That was, until the last drop of the orderly’s blood left his body.
Blood. It was everywhere; thick, pungent, black. Like small waves upon the shore, the pool of it spread toward the patient. He bent down, head cocked to the side, a smirk on his lips. He didn’t touch it, didn’t want to taint the scene. It needed to be perfect.
He stepped around the orderly and undressed him, careful not to disturb the blood too much. After removing his clothes, he put on the orderly’s sweat-stained uniform, dressed the orderly in the clothes he had been wearing, and swapped out the socks and shoes. Once that was done, he dropped to his knees next to the orderly, placing the blade in the orderly’s hand
“Help me,” he shouted, covering the no-longer-leaking wound. “Somebody please! Code black. We have a code black.”
When the alarms went off, he couldn’t help but smile. His plan was working, he just needed an extra touch. He covered part of his face with blood.
Multiple sets of feet pounded down the hall, bursting into the room a moment later.
“Jesus Christ.”
He looked over his shoulder with wide eyes. “Don’t just fuckin’ stand there, Rumlow,” he ordered. “Get your ass over here and help me.”
It was two hours later by the time he was free.
After telling the head of the facility that he quit, that what had just happened was too much for him to handle, he drove away from the institution in a car that wasn’t his, wearing clothes that smelled like week-old whiskey and stale cigars. The radio was playing some shitty country music, but not for long.
With a groan, he changed the station, stopping cold when he heard a familiar voice.
“Senator Barnes,” the reporter started, the smile evident in her voice. “You’ve said that you hope a cure for cancer and AIDS is found in your lifetime.”
“I have,” James confirmed. “While deaths related to HIV/AIDS has declined due to improved HIV therapies, people with AIDS remain at elevated risk for cancer and cancer deaths. Then there’s cancer. It In 2018, an estimated 1,735,350 new cases of cancer will be diagnosed in the United States and 609,640 people will die from the disease. The number of cancer deaths is 163.5 per 100,000 men and women per year, based on 2011–2015 deaths.”
“That’s terrible,” she lamented.
The driver shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Just fuckin’ terrible.”
James gave a hum of agreement. “Amazing strides have been made in the last decade alone, but there is so much more that can be done. And I want to be a part of that.”
“Jesus,” he groaned and flipped off the radio. “Self-righteous asshole.”
Blood. God, he loved the stuff. He loved the way it slicked over his skin, got under his nails and cuticles, the thick and almost overpowering smell of it. He couldn’t wait to get his revenge, to bathe in the blood of James Buchanan Barnes.
Summary: Imagine, from the time you’re born having a clock that counts down to the time you meet your soulmate. One day you meet Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and the clock stops. Now, you have to figure out which one it is. Word Count: 2,003 Warnings: Language, talk of soulmates, possible smut, trying for a long burn. Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard for your invaluable help with this. GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Never had you met two men that were as different as Steve and Bucky. While your date with Steve had been dinner, wine, a starlit walk, and a heavy makeout session, Bucky’s idea of a date was completely different.
B: Swimsuits, sandals, and sunscreen.
Y: Is that all you’re going to tell me?
B: Do you have a surfboard?
Y: No LOL.
B: A valid license?
Y: Bucky, tell me what we’re doing!
B: See you in the morning.
You emerged from your apartment to find Bucky, wearing a white tank top, red and black swim trunks, a pair of dark sunglasses, and sitting on top of a cooler. He stood and watched you approach, whistling low in appreciation.
“Stop it,” you laughed, smacking him in the chest.
Bucky pushed his glasses up into his hair. “I will not,” he exclaimed with a wink. “Where’s your suit?”
“Under my clothes,” you answered, lifting up the hem of your shirt so he could see your spandex-covered stomach. “I take it we’re going to the beach.”
With a wink, Bucky’s glasses fell into place. He grabbed your hand and started walking, dragging the cooler behind him. “You… are on a need to know basis,” he chuckled.
“And I don’t need to know, apparently,” you sassed, squeezing his hand.
“Nope,” he was quick to agree. “Besides, how much fun will it be if you already know what’s going to happen?”
You did tell him you wanted him to surprise you, so you couldn’t exactly be mad at him. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t play with him, either. Narrowing your eyes at him, you bumped his shoulder with yours.
“Not even a little clue?” you fake begged, pushing your bottom lip out and batting your eyelashes over the top of your glasses.
His voice was thick with desire when he said, “Do that one more time, and we ain’t making it to the beach, doll.”
The raw need that blossomed in your belly made you squeeze your thighs together. “Promise?” you teased before you ripped your hand out of his and tore off down the sidewalk. The beach was just around the corner, and since he was pulling the cooler, you knew you could beat him; even wearing sandals.
Bucky had wanted to take you wakeboarding, but the guy behind the counter said, “Everybody already reserved ‘em.”
“What about the jet skis?” you asked, pointing to the end of the dock.
“Good idea,” Bucky purred, his arm tight around your waist, fingers under your shirt, lips close to your ear.
The attendant clicked the mouse a couple of times. “There’s one available at four.”
“When does it need to be back?” Bucky asked as he dug for his wallet.
“We close at eight,” the attendant answered.
“Sold,” Bucky cheered as he slapped some cash into the outstretched hand.
You turned in his grip. “What should we do until then?”
“I’m sure I can come up with something,” he grinned and slapped your ass.
“Volleyball,” you deadpanned. “You want to kill time by playing volleyball.”
Bucky kicked off his sandals. “What’s wrong with volleyball?”
“Absolutely nothing,” you replied as you tied your hair into a high knot. “If you wanna get your ass kicked.”
“Me?” he chortled, hand on his chest. “Get my ass kicked?”
“I don’t see anyone else standing there.” You kicked off your sandals and started stretching; your arms first, pulling one arm across your chest, relishing in the pleasant burning in your shoulders.
Bucky stood there and watched appreciatively while you stretched. “I don’t think you know who you’re talkin’ to, Y/N. You’re lookin’ at -”
“Oh, Bucky,” you purred, strolling over to him. “I know exactly who I’m talking to.”
The man in front of you swallowed loudly, his eyes roving over your exposed skin. “You uh, you do?”
“I’m talking to the man whose ass I’m going to kick,” you mused, leaning in close and yanking the ball from his grip.
“Game on, doll,” Bucky grit out, yanking off his shirt before taking his place across from you on the volleyball court.
It was difficult not to notice the way his muscles moved under his tan skin; the sight of it made your fingers itch and your mouth water. You wanted to touch every single inch of his gloriously thick body, but that would have to wait for another time. Right then, you wanted to wipe that cocky grin off his face.
Less than two minutes later, you had accomplished just that.
He was on his ass and elbows, glaring at you. “Goddamn, woman.”
“You’re quitting already?” you teased, bouncing the ball from hand to hand. “Come on, Buck. You said you wanted to play.”
“Oh, I want to play, doll,” he purred as he pushed himself up. “You’ve got no idea just how much.”
You made sure he noticed the way your eyes raked over him, how they settled on his stomach, on the muscles in the shape of a v that disappeared beneath his swimming trunks. “I think I have an idea.”
A wicked grin lit up Bucky’s face at the implication. “No, doll. You really don’t.”
Your mouth went dry at the weight of his words. This was going to be more difficult than you thought it would be. Giving yourself a firm mental shake, you put your head back in the game, and without warning, you served the ball, sending it to the far left corner of the court.
“Two – nothing,” you sassed.
“You cheated,” he pointed out before jogging after the ball.
“All’s fair in love and war,” you mused.
The ball came flying your way. It skimmed the net on its way over, making it a lot easier to catch than Bucky intended.
“Good thing it wasn’t your play,” you teased him, getting yourself ready to serve it again. The ball spun on your palm as you swayed back and forth.
“Just serve the damn ball, Y/N,” Bucky growled playfully, taking a defensive stance.
“You got it,” you chuckled before tossing the ball into the air and launching it over the net.
Bucky watched the ball like a hawk and, to your surprise, caught the ball on his forearms. It didn’t go over the net, not until after he was directly under the ball where he set it up for a spike. Despite your best attempt, you didn’t make it in time.
He gave a bellowing cheer, his arms over his head as he fell to his knees. “What is it you were saying about kicking my ass?”
“Good of you to finally show up to the game,” you shot back with a wink. You shoved yourself up and out of the sand, wiping it from your sweaty skin. “Your ball, hot shot.”
And that’s how the game continued; both of you teasing the other, sassing back and forth. Bucky would score against you, but not as many as you. He’d get close, but you were always two or three ahead of him, and that only fueled his competitive nature.
By the time the attendant came to let you know the jetski was available, the score was an unbelievable forty-two to thirty-nine.
Bucky was practically seething, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring. “You wanna finish this game?”
“Buck, as much as I would love to finish schooling you in the game of volleyball,” you started, ducking under the net to stand in front of him. “There is a jetski with our name on it and, I don’t know about you, I’m dying to get into the water.”
His eyes flashed when you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, when you stood well within his personal space. “Let’s do this,” he gruffed and grabbed your hand.
The spray of water felt amazing against your overheated skin and Bucky, well, his tapered waist fit perfectly between your legs, the thick corded muscles of his thighs felt like heaven. Even though the pair of you were wearing life vests, you had a hand on his taut stomach, the other against his chest, the zipper shifting against your palm.
You were so lost in everything that was Bucky, that when he slowed down and pulled up to a cove, you were completely surprised.
“What is this?” you gasped.
Bucky chuckled and dismounted the ski. “This,” he said with a grand gesture of his arm, “is dinner.”
There was a blanket spread out and a basket sitting in the middle.
“When did you have time to do this? I’ve been kicking your ass for hours,” you teased lightly.
Once the life vests were removed and set on the now stable jetski, Bucky led you over to the picnic, his fingers tangled with yours.
“I have this friend -”
“You have a friend?” you deadpanned.
“Ha ha,” he mocked dryly. “Yes, I have a friend.”
You sat down with a playful scowl and, without waiting for him, opened the basket. It was full of everything you loved, including a bottle of expensive wine. You went to tell him that it was too much money for only one bottle of wine, but he shook his head.
“Nope, I don’t want to hear it,” Bucky said. He took it from you and made quick work of opening it. “Besides, it’s too late now. The bottle’s open.”
Hours later, after the sun had set and stars twinkled in the night sky, you and Bucky stood outside of your apartment building. There were a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your stomach. The numerous hours of shameless flirting and inappropriate comments only feuling the knot of desire you were barely able to contain.
Bucky had you in his arms, a hand tangled in your hair, the other on the small of your back, long fingers gripping your ass. You were pressed to his chest, arms circled around him, fingers digging into and gripping the thin cotton shirt he wore. The kiss was intense; ragged breaths sucked in desperately in an attempt to make the kiss last that much longer.
Before too long, you pulled back and sucked at the cool air. Bucky’s mouth moved along your jawline and down your neck, pulling moans of his name from you. You carded a hand through his hair and tugged on the strands.
“Bucky, please,” you huffed.
“Please what, doll?” Bucky nipped at your pulsepoint, sending a shudder down your spine.
“Just… wait.”
Bucky groaned as he pulled back, hands heavy on your waist. “Are you okay?”
The conversation with Steve played back in your head, how you said you had wanted to wait until both dates had happened, until you had some time to process everything.
“I just need a minute,” you rasped. Whatever air you had remaining in your lungs was sucked out the moment you looked into Bucky’s icy eyes.
One of his hands cupped your face. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m not just a piece of arm candy.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “I have no doubt about that.”
“Okay, so talk to me, doll,” he requested. “Something’s rattling around in that pretty brain of yours.”
Before you said anything, you pulled in several deep breaths. “I want to wait to uh, to have sex with you.”
You didn’t know what to expect, but a soft smile wasn’t it. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah? You’re not… mad or anything?”
“Doll,” he literally purred, a finger curled under your chin. “This soulmate thing, what’s between us, it isn’t about sex.”
When you rolled your eyes and scoffed, he clarified, “It’s not only about sex. Look, I’m crazy about you, Y/N.”
“I’m crazy about you, too,” you assured him. “I really am.”
“Good,” Bucky hummed against your lips.
You repeated his sentiment, unable to stop a burst of giggles when he picked you up, arms around your waist, lifting your feet from the ground.
“What are you doing?” you asked, laughter still coating your voice.
“Giving you one hell of a goodnight kiss,” was his answer.
Summary: As a senior in college, you kept your nose clean and never partied. You were at the top of your class, set to graduate with honors summa cum laude; unlike Clint Barton. In an effort to get a passing grade and graduate, he asked for your help. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 1,596 Warnings: Language, fluff, possible smut, heavy angst I’m sorry Author’s Note: I shouldn’t be this excited about how much angst there is. Something is wrong with me.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
It really wasn’t that difficult, getting the bare minimum to pass Professor Fury’s class. Yet, Clint Barton managed to do just that.
Fury said that Clint was, “Partying too much, coming to class drunk, hungover, smelling like an ashtray. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
Clint couldn’t deny it; he had done all of that, and so much more. Although, he didn’t smoke, it was his friends that enjoyed the sting of tobacco in their lungs. Clint had tried it once, but ended up coughing so hard that he threw up. He was twelve, and had gotten a hell of an ass whooping from his dad when Clint came home smelling of Marlboro Menthols.
Then at fifteen, he snuck one of his dad’s beers from the fridge in the garage. At sixteen, he tested the boundaries of his newfound freedom in the form of his freshly-acquired driver’s license. He stayed out late, got pulled over, then arrested; seemingly doing anything he could to defy his parent’s wishes.
And then, on his eighteenth birthday, his parents died. Some drunk asshole had run a red light and plowed through the car, passenger side. Edith, his mother, died on impact. His father, Harold, wasn’t so lucky. He was a twisted and bloody mess of a man that didn’t die until the firemen began peeling away the layers of the metal that surrounded him.
Understandably, Clint was a mess. He drank all the time, dropped out of high school, became that kid in the neighborhood. Whereas other people might go to the gym, or find someone’s ass to kick at a dive bar; Clint took out his rage on the targets in the backyard with his bow and arrow. The set had been a gift from his parents on his sixth birthday, and he had taken to the sport extremely well, earning himself the nickname Hawkeye.
When he was nineteen, he got sober and went back to high school. He knew that if his parents had been alive, the way he had been behaving would have sent them into a fit. He worked hard and graduated the following spring, even earning himself a scholarship from the state’s college.
He had done well for his freshman year, kept his nose in the books and had a healthy relationship with his professors. But then, he got bored, started slacking off every now and again. Those times grew closer together, until he was only making it to class once a week, and cheating off of several people. Sometimes he got a good grade, other times he didn’t, but he managed to skate his way through sophomore and junior year.
And then, at the start of senior year, he found the perfect person to cheat off of; Y/N Coulson. She was quiet, kept mostly to herself, and she was insanely smart. She’s also part of the reason Fury was red in the face, yelling at Clint as if he had been the one to poke out his eye.
“Relax, Fury,” Clint said. “It’s not that big ‘a deal.”
The woman to his right scoffed loudly as she glared at him. “Not that big of a deal? You cheated.”
“To be fair, sweetheart,” he sniggered, turning to face the drably dressed Y/N. “It isn’t the first time.”
“Why do you think I wrote all the wrong answers, jerk?” she spat out. “Now, Professor Fury, if you don’t mind, I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
Fury gave her a small smile. “Sure thing, Miss Coulson. And say hi to your old man for me, yeah?”
Y/N assured Fury that she would do exactly that before sending a scowl straight at Clint. She hurried out of the classroom, slamming the door behind her.
“What’s got her panties in a twist?” Clint joked.
“Look, Mister Barton,” Fury said after pulling in several deep and relaxing breaths. “I know you haven’t had it easy the last handful of years -”
Clint was out of his seat and glaring at his professor. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“But let me be crystal clear on this,” he stated calmly. “Due to your… repetitive cheating and your behavior in class, you are hereby put on academic probation. In order to graduate, you need to maintain an average of a 3.5 GPA.”
“But I have a 3.5,” Clint protested.
“You had a 3.5,” Fury clarified. “You have a 2.3.”
Feeling absolutely defeated before he had even begun to formulate a recovery plan, Clint rolled his eyes. “Might as well just fail me now.”
Wearing a smirk, Fury began to gather up his files. “You could always ask Miss Coulson, she’s an amazing tutor.”
“No, no fuckin’ way,” Clint argued. “First of all, she hates me.”
“With good reason.”
“Whatever,” he murmured. “Secondly, I can do this on my own.”
With the files in his bag, Fury rounded the table and came to a stop in front of his student. “Clint, there are less than four months until the end of the school year. You don’t have time to do it on your own.”
As soon as you were inside the small apartment you had been renting, you made a beeline for the couch, slipping off your shoes and setting your books on the table before dropping onto the ratted piece of furniture. God, you were so tired you could feel it in the marrow of your bones. If you could, you’d probably try and sleep for a month straight, but there was the small matter of the make-up exam the following morning.
In the twenty-two years of your life, you had somehow managed to never hate a single person. That was until you met Clint Barton. He was arrogant, boisterous, and rude, bringing it upon himself to always comment on the second-hand clothes you wore. And then, if that weren’t bad enough, he had the audacity to cheat off of you!
The first time you knew it happened, you were seeing red. You wanted to tell your professor, an old friend of your father’s, but you knew that it could be difficult to prove. After all, you weren’t the only person he sat behind, and several other students had provided the same answers.
Then it hit you; the only way to prove that Clint was cheating off of you was to give the most ridiculous and asinine answers you could think of. You hadn’t actually thought he would fall for it, but he did; hook, line, and sinker. God, what an asshole.
Rather than taking the opportunity to sleep in, to semi-recover from the hellacious week you’d experienced, you were going to spend your entire Saturday morning taking the exam. You couldn’t even have a glass of wine tonight; talk about a buzzkill.
With a protesting groan, you pushed yourself up, got a large glass of water, and went about studying the material once again. Sure, you could quote it verbatim, with your eyes closed, while twirling around in a circle, but you couldn’t be too careful, right?
Clint, the last person you wanted to see at that very moment, was leaning against the wall when you emerged from Fury’s classroom. You shook your head and stormed away.
“Y/N,” he called out as he gave chase.
Without slowing down, you looked over your shoulder and gave a heaving sigh. “What do you want, Clint?”
“I need your help to pass Fury’s class,” he explained quickly.
That got your attention. You turned around to face him. “Clint Baron’s asking me for help?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed with a shy smile.
You pretended to give it some thought before saying, “Okay, I’ll pray for you.” Without waiting for his reaction, you spun around and resumed walking across the quad.
“Y/N, no, look,” Clint called out.
“You’ve obviously never asked anybody for help before, right?” you inquired, glancing over your shoulder.
Clint was scratching the back of his neck as he muttered, “No.”
You couldn’t help but feel slightly amused at the sight of him; campus hottie – or so you had been told – all flushed and shy because he was out of his comfort zone. There were a million micro-expressions flashing across his face, sparkling in his mischievous eyes, and you were most definitely enjoying watching him squirm.
“A request like yours requires flattery and groveling. It can’t be all about you. It has to be for the common good of everybody,” you went on to explain.
“It is for the common good,” he argued. “Please, Y/N. I’m… I’m not going to graduate if you don’t help me.”
Damn it. How did he know exactly what to say to get you to give it even a second thought? You couldn’t do it, could you, help him, not only study but, graduate? Your plate was already full, threatening to spill over. So, why were finding it easy to agree?
Pulling in the cool air deep into your lungs, you turned to face Clint. “Okay. One condition though.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to promise you won’t fall in love with me.” Why you had said that, you hadn’t a clue, but once the words were out of your mouth, you couldn’t take them back.
Clint chuckled low in his throat. “That’s not a problem.”
“Okay. Meet me tomorrow morning in the library,” you instructed coolly. “Not a minute after six.”
He went to argue, but the words died on his lips the minute you arched your brow at him. “Okay, okay. Six on the nose.”
Summary: Imagine, from the time you’re born having a clock that counts down to the time you meet your soulmate. One day you meet Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and the clock stops. Now, you have to figure out which one it is. Word Count: 1,542 Warnings: Language, talk of soulmates, possible smut, trying for a long burn. Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard for your invaluable help with this. GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
For your date with Steve, you splurged a little by dipping into your savings and bought a dark blue – the sales clerk called it prussian – and shoulderless cocktail dress. It was the first dress you saw when you stepped into the store, and you knew you had to have it. There was one left in stock, and as luck would have it, it was a perfect fit; it was tight in all the right places, showcasing your curves.
With your hair pulled back and tied into a low bun, you applied a dusting of makeup. Once your desired look was achieved, a pair of earrings, rose gold strappy heels, and a small clutch completed the ensemble.
“Shit,” you mumbled, catching the time as you tucked your phone into the clutch. If you didn’t leave now and catch a cab, you were going to be late. Not exactly what you wanted to have happen on the first date with your potential soulmate.
Steve was standing outside, checking his watch, and bouncing on the balls of his feet; it was only a couple minutes after the agreed upon time.
“She’s just running behind,” he muttered under his breath.
His heart was hammering painfully in his chest, worried that Y/N had changed her mind about wanting to date him, his brain doing its best to try and convince him that she had already chosen Bucky. It was stupid to think that way, the rational part of his brain knew that, but fear had a way of taking the smallest seed of doubt and watering it until it overshadowed everything else; including logic. He had just shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from looking at his watch when a cab pulled up.
Y/N stepped out and the sight of her stole the breath from Steve’s lungs. The blue material swished around her legs as she walked toward him, the tap, tap, tap, tap of her heels on the concrete, the way her lips quirked, how she tipped her head as she said… something; Y/N was stunning.
“Steve,” she giggled, her hand on his elbow as she shook him gently. “Are you alright?”
“You look incredible,” Steve rasped. He held out the arm she still had a grip on and sighed as she slid the hand from his elbow to the inside of his forearm.
A blush colored her collarbones and chest, and she dipped her head down as she murmured, “Thank you, you too.” Y/N traced her nails over the subtle pattern of his suit absentmindedly as they walked toward the restaurant.
Once inside, Y/N looked up and gasped. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”
The restaurant was bathed in ambient light, provided mostly by the chandelier above. There were also candles on each table, flickering in their holders, reflecting off the various glasses, creating small shadows that danced over the cutlery. The tables were the perfect size for couples on a date; plenty of room for plates and glasses of wine, but small enough that it wouldn’t be impossible to reach across the table and hold your partner’s hand.
Steve couldn’t help himself. “Not as beautiful as you,” tumbled from his lips, pulling another giggle from Y/N. He wanted her, then and there, not sexually, but as a partner in life. He wanted to drop to one knee and propose, then kiss her breathless when she accepted.
The maître d’ showed them to their table, which was next to a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked a field of flowers. There was a path through the flowers that they could walk down if they chose.
Once they were seated, Y/N looked at the menu and started to shake her head. “Steve, this is all too much.”
Steve, who chose to sit next to her rather than across the table, grabbed her hand and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “It’s really not,” he argued gently.
“Are you sure? We could go someplace else,” she offered.
“Do you want to?” he wondered. He’d go wherever she wanted, all she had to do was say where.
A small smile tugged at her lips. “Not really.”
“Okay then,” Steve chuckled, his hand tangling with hers. .
The stroll through the gardens had been peaceful and beautiful; the flowers’ gentle perfume was carried on the breeze, filling your nose with their aroma.
You and Steve had been walking for over an hour; palms pressed together, fingers intertwined, thumbs caressing pulse points. At one point, you had shivered, and Steve draped his jacket around your shoulders, laughing at how long the cuffs hung past your hands. After that, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head. You looped your arm around his waist, tucking a finger in his belt loop, sighing in contentment at just how… right it felt to be with him.
You had gotten so lost in Steve, that you were surprised when you ended up at your apartment. “My feet are going to be sore tomorrow,” you chuckled, suddenly nervous for some reason.
“I could stay and massage them if you like,” Steve all but purred. He was looking down at you, his normal azure eyes were swirling with need, and it made your stomach twist lazily.
Standing in front of him, you ran your hand along the buttons of his waistcoat before settling on his hip. “You’d do that?”
“I would do whatever you wanted me to,” he admitted breathlessly. Steve caught his bottom lip between his teeth as he caressed your jaw with his thumb before snagging your chin in his thumb and forefinger.
“And if I asked you to kiss me?” you rasped, throat thick with need.
Hot breath blasted against your lips when he answered. “I would be a fool to say no.”
With your other hand resting on his chest, directly over his hammering heart, you pushed up until your lips were a whisper away. “Kiss me, Steve.”
It was the farthest thing from a question, but Steve didn’t object. Steve pressed his lips to yours and sighed at the contact. Melting into him, you answered his sigh with one of your own, sliding your hand up to grab the back of his neck, scraping your nails through the short hairs.
Steve might have been a gentleman on the date and while the pair of you walked, but he sure didn’t kiss like one. He kissed you as if he were conquering you, dominating you, stealing the breath from your lungs, swallowing your moans. Steve’s hands were on your back and ass, pulling you against him and holding you there, not leaving an inch between you. Every squeeze of his strong hands, every moan that made his chest vibrate, the way his arousal pressed and twitched against your belly… all of it only threw gasoline on the roaring fire. The ache between your legs was unbearable when you pulled back, your lungs stinging as you sucked in the crisp night air around you.
“Steve,” you choked. Your hands were lost under his waistcoat, tugging at his dress shirt. “We shouldn’t.”
Steve pressed his forehead to yours as he struggled to breathe, his chest heaving, straining the buttons. “Do you… not want to?”
You huffed thickly. “I want to, Steve,” you assured him. “My God, do I want to. I just… I don’t think it would be fair.”
Dark eyelashes fanned across his skin when his eyes fluttered closed. “Bucky,” he rasped.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
When he didn’t, you kissed him, just a press of your lips to his. “You said you’d do whatever I wanted, so… look at me.” His lust-blown irises had almost completely taken over, leaving a strip of stormy blue, and if he hadn’t been holding you up, you’d be on your ass.
“I want you,” you repeated through clenched teeth. “But if I’m going to do this, try to figure all of this out, I need to do it on my terms.”
Steve gave a lopsided smile after kissing you as sweetly as you had just kissed him. “I know, Y/N.”
You untangled yourself from Steve, groaning at the loss of contact and body heat. “I should get in,” you murmured as you shrugged out of his jacket and handed it back.
After draping his jacket over his arm, Steve grabbed you around the waist and kissed you fiercely, making you second guess your previous statement about waiting. Just when the last bit of your resolve was about to crumble, he pulled back, growled something you couldn’t understand, and strode away.
Thankfully, Bucky was asleep when Steve got home. The two might be best friends, but the last person Steve wanted to see right then was the man Y/N might choose over him. Steve wanted Y/N, and he wanted her bad. It took everything he had to walk away from her tonight. She was so soft and smooth, tasted and sounded incredible. It didn’t take much to get completely wound up again.
Growling low in his throat, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, and finished it in three swallows. This whole ‘sharing’ thing was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.
There was something about the soulmate tattoos that hadn’t really been talked about much; you could only see your own while it was counting down. Once contact with your soulmate had been made, the tattoo disappeared from your skin in the blink of an eye.
Steve was staring down at his wrist, at the spot where the tattoo had once been, his thumb stroking over the area. He had spent countless minutes and hours watching the time tick away, wondering who fate would bestow upon him. Needless to say, it felt odd not having the numbers on his skin anymore.
“What’s goin’ on in that head a’yours, Stevie?” Bucky asked after dropping down onto the sofa.
“Nothing,” he mumbled with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just never thought we would end up having the same soulmate.”
Bucky shifted on the couch. “I didn’t either,” he admitted. “Are you, uh, having second thoughts to this?”
“No, no,” Steve argued, pulling down his sleeve. “I’m just… confused and, God, I feel like I’m going crazy every second I’m not with her.”
“I know the feeling,” Bucky mused, a hand running through his hair.
“This isn’t going to be easy, Buck,” Steve said once again.
Bucky glanced down at his wrist and sighed heavily. “It sure ain’t.”
Summary: Imagine, from the time you’re born having a clock that counts down to the time you meet your soulmate. One day you meet Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and the clock stops. Now, you have to figure out which one it is. Word Count: 1,329 Warnings: Language, talk of soulmates, possible smut, trying for a long burn. Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard for your invaluable help with this. GIF Credit [X][X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Only because it was really late and each of you had to work the next day, the three of you exchanged numbers before leaving the diner. Nothing about the situation had been discussed, therefore, no decisions had been made. If anyone wanted to talk, they had your number, and you had theirs.
“What the hell am I going to do?” you asked no one but yourself as you trudged across town to your small apartment. It wasn’t like you could date both of them, figure out which one was truly your soulmate, because there was no way in hell you could have two. Right? It wasn’t how things worked.
Y: Are you up, Wanda?
W: Yeah. Are you okay?
Y: I don’t know. I met him today… my soulmate.
W: How is that a bad thing?
Y: There’s two of them, Wan.
W: Whoa! No way.
Y: Right? And Now… I don’t know what to do. I mean, I can’t date both of them. Can I?
W: Why not?
Y: Wanda, There’s one of me and two of them. It’s not… wouldn’t that be weird?
W: It wouldn’t be weird to me. Can I make a suggestion?
Y: I was hoping you would.
W: Date them both.
Y: WHAT?! No way. I couldn’t… I can’t.
W: If the possibility of having two soulmates is really bothering you, go on dates with both of them. Not TOGETHER, but one date with… what are their names?
Y: Steve and Bucky.
W: 😉 Okay then. Go on a date with Steve one night, and the next, go with Bucky.
Y: And then what?
W: And then you decide who you want to be with.
Y: I don’t know, Wanda. It’s not… weird?
W: Not one bit. Besides, dating two men at one time sounds like an adventure.
Y: I guess.
W: You can do this, YN. Send them a group text tonight, tell them you want to meet them tomorrow.
Y: What if they say no?
W: Are you kidding me?! They’d be stupid to say no.
Y: Okay… I can do this. I can date two men at once and choose who I want to spend the rest of my life with. No pressure.
W: That’s the spirit.
Y: Fake it til I make it.
Wanda was right, you could do this. You just needed to take a shower. And drink a couple bottles of beer. Feeling slightly buzzed, you dropped to the edge of your bed, phone in hand, looking at the two new entries to your contacts; Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. Behind both of their names, you had added sm?. Your thumb was hovering over the screen, their pictures staring up at you; Bucky with his cocky smirk, and Steve with his warm and comforting smile.
Before you knew what you were doing, you sent a group text:
Meet me tomorrow at the diner, 5pm.
The two friends were silent the entire cab ride home; it was the longest they had ever gone without talking. Even when they were younger and pissed off, the silent treatment never lasted for longer than an hour. They had met Y/N over nine hours ago, eight of which were spent in silence, holding hands and staring at one another.
Even in their apartment, sitting on the couch, drinking one beer, then another, then another, neither man spoke. Not until Bucky’s phone chimed. Steve’s followed suit half a second later.
Meet me tomorrow at the diner, 5pm.
“What do you think she wants to do?” Steve asked, thumb hovering over the screen, not knowing what to type back.
Bucky huffed out a breath through his nose. “We won’t know until we meet her.”
B: Be there with bells on.
Steve tucked his phone away and took a long pull of beer. “What are we gonna do?”
“Not sure what you mean.”
Chuckling wryly, Steve arched a brow at his friend. “Buck… our soulmate is the same woman. We can’t… share her.”
With a smirk, Bucky’s shoulder bobbed up and down. “Why not?”
When Steve scoffed loudly and looked like he was going to haul off and slug him, Bucky clarified things.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Steve.” He quickly finished his beer and slid it onto the table before draping his forearms over his knees. “But… stay with me here… what if we both date her, let her decide who she wants to be with.”
Steve didn’t answer for several long moments. “If we do this, and that’s a big if,” Steve said sternly. “There’s no scheming, nothing devious -”
“During and after,” Bucky interrupted.
Nodding, Steve finished the conversation. “Whoever Y/N chooses, that’s it.”
Were you really going to do this; proposition two men, date them both at the same time? Maybe you should get up and walk out before you choked on the butterflies that were clawing their way up your throat before Steve and Bucky showed up. You were about to scramble out of the booth when the small bell above the door announced their arrival.
When you looked at them, met each of their gazes, everything else went silent. It was just you and them, no one else existed, no one else mattered. Shit, if this was going to be your reaction every time the three of you met, you really needed to get a handle on it.
As if on cruise control, you stood when they arrived at the booth and pushed up to your toes to kiss the corners of their mouths. A spark of heat coursed through you, urging you to do more, to grab them by the lapels of their jackets and kiss them breathless, but you refrained, only barely.
You waited until they slid into their seats across from you before blurting out the reason you asked to meet them. “What if I dated both of you?”
Bucky laughed and shook his head. “I said the exact same thing last night.”
“Yeah?” you chuckled, the knot of nerves in your throat loosening drastically.
“We think it’s a good idea,” Steve added. “Even came up with a sort of gentleman’s agreement.”
“Sounds interesting,” you couldn’t help but note. “And what are the details of this agreement?” you posed, smiling coquettishly.
Both men shifted in their seats and cleared their throats, but it was Steve that answered first. “With no interference from the other party, we date, and it’s all up to you. Whoever you decide you want to be with, that’s it.”
While a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, a sense of unease bubbled at the back of your throat. “And you… you guys are okay with that?”
Bucky grabbed your hand first. “Absolutely,” he answered low in his throat.
There was a sparkle in his eyes that drove a blush up your neck. The warmth that spread through your veins and settled between your legs brought a question to the forefront of your mind.
“What about sex?” you blurted a little louder than you intended.
There were several chuckles from the booth connected to yours, but Bucky and Steve didn’t bat an eye. “Only when you’re ready,” they replied in unison.
With your brows furrowed, you tipped your head, and looked at Steve. “You have no issue sleeping with the same girl as your best friend.”
“I won’t let it interfere with how I treat you,” he insisted, eyes dropping to your hand that was covered by his friend’s hand.
“But it does bother you,” you pushed, wanting to hear the truth, not what he thought you wanted to hear.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “A little bit. But like I said, I won’t let it interfere with how I treat you, and I won’t do something stupid by trying to sabotage anything between you and Buck.”
Humming softly, you grabbed Steve’s hand, relishing in the zing of electricity that shot through the three of you. “As long as we all agree, let’s date.”
Summary: Imagine, from the time you’re born having a clock that counts down to the time you meet your soulmate. One day you meet Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and the clock stops. Now, you have to figure out which one it is. Word Count: 1,610 Warnings: Language, talk of soulmates, possible smut, trying for a long burn. Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard for your invaluable help with this. GIF credit [X][X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Today was the day. You were going to meet your soulmate. Part of you hated the fact that you didn’t get to choose who you were going to spend the rest of your life with, the other part, well, that part was as excited as a sixteen year old that got her dream car for her birthday. She was jumping around, screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing confetti, and Jesus Christ, was she nervous.
What if he hated you or found you annoying? What if he thought you were too short or ugly? What if he was ugly? No… that wasn’t right. A man’s humor and brain were what you noticed first. Did it hurt if he was attractive? No. But you weren’t shallow.
It was difficult to focus, to go about your daily routine as if your life weren’t about to change, as if in three hours, you weren’t going to meet the one that you’d spend the rest of your life with. Were you always on board with the idea that you didn’t get to choose who you fell in love with? Hell no. But there wasn’t anything you could do about it. Everyone had a soulmate. It was just how things were.
Your parents found each other when they were toddlers, your sister and brother-in-law when they were in high school. It wasn’t a tattoo or an obscure feeling. It was an internal clock that started ticking from the moment you were born. A clock that counted down to the day, the hour, the minute, the very second that you would meet him.
“You’re distracted today,” Clint chuckled, nudging you with his elbow.
With a forced smile, you focused on the task at hand; finishing putting away the stack of books on your cart. “I’m fine, Barton. Just trying to keep busy.”
He dropped a finger to your wrist and felt your pulse. “Nope. Not buying it, Y/N.”
You about dropped a copy of The Princess Bride, but your sweaty hand stuck to the paperback cover. “I’m meeting him today,” you admitted breathlessly. “I’m nervous, alright?”
“Of course you are,” Clint said, his hand now on your shoulder. “Should’a seen me when I met Nat,” he chuckled.
The frayed nerves instantly calmed as you let loose a rich laugh. “Oh, God, I can only imagine.”
“She ran into me, literally, a streak of red hair and black leather flying out of a club.” Clint was shaking his head as he leaned against the bookcase you were stocking.
“What did you do?” you asked as this was the first time you heard the story.
“Nothing I really could do,” he admitted. “I barely kept us on our feet. Then she kissed me.”
You sighed heavily. “Of course you two hit it off right away. You guys are perfect.”
“There’s nothing perfect about us, Y/N,” Clint pointed out. “We fight about the dumbest things.”
“But you love each other, have since the first meeting,” you pushed.
Just once, you wanted to hear how rough of a start a couple had, how they looked at each other and rolled their eyes, groaning at the prospect of being with that one person until the end of time. Because, deep down, you were convinced that was going to happen to you.
Crossing his arms, Clint watched as you finished stocking the shelf. “It will go just fine.”
With a scoff, you rolled your eyes. “You only say that because your soulmate literally fell into your arms and kissed you. I’m sure you were married the next day.”
He huffed a laugh. “We were.”
“So was my sister, my parents, my parent’s parents, their parents, and theirs. I’m just -”
“What, Y/N?” Clint interrupted gently. You knew he hated it when you talked negatively about yourself.
Catching sight of the time, you mumbled for him to, “Just forget it. I’m going to lunch.” You pushed away from your friend, shoved your hands into the pockets of your hoodie, and left the store.
You lied about wanting to get something to eat. What you really wanted to do was get away from the noise, to get rid of all the soulmate racket bouncing inside the grey matter like a ping pong ball. It was weird how fast things changed. Just a handful of hours ago you were excited about meeting your soulmate, and now… now, all you wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed.
With your head down and your hands in your pockets, you didn’t have time to catch yourself when you tripped. Swearing, you braced for the impact, but it never came.
“Shit,” a deep voice ground out. “You alright?”
You turned in a set of thick arms and looked up into ocean-blue eyes. “I uh… ye- yeah,” you stammered.
“Careful now,” someone chuckled from next to you, hand on your elbow.
The man whose arms you were in stood up, pulling you with him, unintentionally dragging you along every inch of his body. You looked to your left, dropped your hand to the other man’s forearm for support, and found another set of intense blue eyes drilling into yours. The air was sickeningly thick between the three of you, sparking with unspent electricity, pulsing, and almost painful.
“Oh, shit,” the three of you said at the same time. You knew then and there that you had met your soulmate. The only problem was, you didn’t know who it was since you were currently sandwiched between two men.
You stayed there, trapped between two rock-solid bodies, under the intense gazes of identical blue eyes, your racing hearts beating as one, until it felt like you were going to implode. With shaking legs, you pushed away and sucked in a ragged breath.
The man that had caught you in his arms looked as if someone had punched him in the gut, and the other guy, well… he didn’t look any better. They both licked their lips – lips that you found yourself wanting to kiss and suck on – and stared hard at you.
“The fuck was that?” you demanded, your vision swimming and your brain short circuiting. You’d heard various accounts of what it was like to meet your soulmate. Plain and simple, no two experiences were the same. but you’d never heard of one this extreme before.
Both men took a step towards you, hands held out, concern etched in their faces. “Take it easy,” the blonde one rasped, his large hand shaking in front of him.
You about tripped over your own feet as you backed away. “Who… who are you?”
The brunette cleared his throat, though it remained gravelly when he answered. “My name is Bu- James… James Barnes,” he introduced himself, his tongue darting out to dampen his tongue. “People call me Buck… or Bucky.”
“My name is Steve,” the one whose arms you were in moments ago said. “And you are?”
“Y/N,” you panted, heat flushing your skin. The sting of electricity had started to fade, leaving behind an aching pulse. “Y/N Y/L/N,” you said, your voice growing steadier with every bone-shuddering beat of your heart.
You watched as both men swallowed heavily, their eyes drifting closed for a moment as they composed themselves. Their eyes fluttered open at exactly the same speed, the same time… it was weird… how in sync the two men were, even in the way their shoulders twitched, in the way they walked, in just about everything they did.
Steve stopped further back from you than Bucky did. “I think we should find someplace not so… public to talk.”
It was still early enough that the diner you had suggested wasn’t overrun with the lunch crowd. You had picked a booth in the far corner, you on one side of the table, Bucky and Steve on the other. After texting Clint, saying you wouldn’t be coming back to work that afternoon, you tucked the phone into your pocket, and met the serious gazes of the men you ran into mere minutes ago.
“So,” you breathed, hands wringing together on the table. “How’s this supposed to work?”
Both men shrugged their wide shoulders and chuckled in unison, but it was Bucky that answered. “Hell if we know, doll.”
“You’re not the only one confused,” Steve murmured, eyes darting from his friend to you. “We were sorta hoping you knew what was going on.”
“Soulmate is singular,” you scoffed. “Means one. There’s two of you and one of me. I don’t… I’ve never…” you groaned and ran a hand over your face.
As if meeting your soulmate wasn’t emotionally compromising enough for you. You had barely prepared yourself to meet one of them. But two soulmates? You’d never heard of such a thing.
“There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. I mean… maybe too much static in the air.” You were grasping at straws, and deep down, you knew it.
Both men chuckled under their breath and slid a hand across the table at the same time. There it was again, that unspent electric spark passing through Bucky’s hand to yours, and yours to Steve’s. It wasn’t painful this time, rather the opposite. The pulsing heat of it was calming, silencing the chaos inside your mind. You could tell just by looking at them, that they were experiencing the same thing. All the unanswered questions, the noise and confusion, the previous anxiety; all of it melted away.
The three of you sat there, hands connected, this continuously pulsing energy surging through you, until the manager of the diner came over.
Summary: It feels like every other day you’re in Frank Adler’s garage while he looks under the hood of your beat-up vehicle, trying to diagnose the newest problem. He’s always been sweet about it; you coming in at the last second because you’re running late for work, always slashing the prices so you don’t go broke. One day, on your way into work, your radiator overheats, leaving you stranded on the side of the road. Knowing he won’t let you down, you call Frank. Ever the gentleman, he gives you a ride, but when he drops you off at work, he discovers a secret you had worked so hard to keep. You promised your boyfriend you’d never cheat, but now you’re not sure what you have could even be called love. What happens when Frank finds himself falling for you? Will he be able to keep himself from intervening in the toxic and tumultuous relationship you and your boyfriend have? Word Count: 1,801 Warnings: First and foremost, domestic violence; emotional, verbal, & physical. Language, heavy angst, insecure female reader, PTSD, no cheating, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: A huge thank you to @captain-rogers-beard for allowing me to steal some of her thunder. Your unwavering support has left me speechless. GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
SIX WEEKS LATER
Mrs. Hudson, your therapist for the past five weeks, was writing in her notebook a few moments after you took your seat. “How are you feeling today, Y/N?”
“Good, really good, actually,” you answered with a genuine smile. “I haven’t had a nightmare for several nights now.”
“That’s great,” she assured you, her pen scratching softly before her pine eyes met yours. “Did you end up going back to work like we discussed?”
Your hands were in your lap, wringing together. It didn’t matter how long you had been seeing your therapist, or how much you trusted her, you were still nervous talking about yourself in such a way to someone. Well, anyone besides Frank and Marge.
“I did. Yesterday was my first day back.”
“I bet that wasn’t easy, getting back into the swing of things,” she noted.
You gave a wry chuckle and shook your head. “It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. As badly as I wanted to go back sooner, I’m glad I waited.”
In the weeks following James’ death, doing anything more than lounging around the house, giving your body time to heal without the added stress of waitressing, was too much. You were sure you had gained another ten pounds, but at that point in time, you didn’t have anyone to impress, to keep happy; just yourself.
On the sixth day of flipping through the channels, of dwelling on the words of negativity bouncing around inside of your head, of hearing James’ raging voice, even in your dreams, Marge had suggested seeing a therapist.
“It will take some time, but it really helped me after I got out,” Marge assured you. “I worry about you, kid.” She had given you the number of Mrs. Hudson, and an appointment was made for the following day.
Clearing her throat, Mrs. Hudson asked, “Are you taking it easy on yourself?” She didn’t only mean your job.
The dark and dangerous thoughts and memories of that night, of all the nights prior to ‘the incident’ were damaging. Your self-esteem beforehand was admittedly low, but it seemed to plummet further after watching James drop to the floor, the life snuffed out of him at your hand.
“I’m trying,” you answered. “Marge has started putting up sticky notes everywhere with affirmations, and Frank, he uh…” a flash of heat crept up your neck at the mention of his name.
“Ah, yes, Frank,” Mrs. Hudson mused. “How is he doing?”
“He’s fine now, got the all clear from the doctor a couple weeks back.”
She shifted in her chair, uncrossed and crossed them the other way. “I remember you telling me about that. How have things been with him?”
Your feelings for Frank had come to light pretty early on in your sessions. Not that you had said anything directly do Mrs. Hudson about him, but as he was half of your support system, it was easy for her to see how you felt about him every time his name was mentioned. You tried to brush it off, saying that because of what happened, it wasn’t a surprise that the two of you were close. She had seen right through that.
Yeah, you were in love with Frank Adler. Head over heels, tongue-tied, sweaty palms, heart threatening to burst of your chest, unequivocally, want to spend the rest of your life with him, in love. So, what was stopping you from being with Frank? The investigation that surrounded James’ death, that’s what.
The last thing you wanted to do was to make it look like you had been cheating on James, that he had been murdered, rather than suffer at the hands of self-defense. And, it wasn’t like you didn’t know how Frank felt about you. Between all the awkward shifting on his feet and blushing whenever he looked at you, his hand carding through his hair, his azure eyes sparkling; it was pretty clear that Frank wanted to be with you.
“They haven’t, not really,” you murmured.
“Why is that?” she questioned, her brows drawn together. “I thought the investigation was completed last week.”
It was your turn to shift in your seat, though instead of crossing your legs, you crossed your ankles. “It was.”
“And?”
You hadn’t really told anyone of the outcome, that there was sufficient evidence to not have charges pressed against you, that James died because you acted in self-defense. Yet, you were surprised that she didn’t know. It was a small town, after all.
There was a glass of water next to you that you drained before answering the question. “They closed the case, no charges filed, not enough evidence to support a murder, let alone a manslaughter charge.”
“That’s wonderful news, Y/N,” Mrs. Hudson gasped, her hands clenched together happily.
“It is,” you agreed, your lips pulling into a smile. “It’s as if my whole life has been handed back to me. I can start over; clean slate.”
“You don’t sound so happy about that,” she noted.
You shook your head, silently disagreeing with her. “I’m thrilled, honestly. It’s just… James was a part of my life for so damn long, that… I just… I’m not sure how to start over. It’s helped, coming here and talking to you; you’ve taught me some some amazing ways to cope, and I’m extremely grateful. I know that the road ahead isn’t going to be an easy one. But, getting started, putting on those shoes and trudging down it; that’s the scary part.”
She was scratching down some more notes and nodding as you talked. “You’re absolutely right and, I must say, you’ve made some amazing strides since you first came here. I’m really proud of the steps you’ve taken. And, as you’ve stated previously, the support system you have in Marge and Frank is extremely important and beneficial. I’ve met them around town before, they’re good people; genuinely kind-hearted. They’re not the kind of people to hurt someone they care so deeply for.”
“I care deeply for them, as well,” you confirmed, your heart swelling at just the thought of them. “They’ve become my family.”
At that, the conversation turned. “Since you brought it up,” she started, turning the page in her notebook. “We haven’t talked about your family much.”
You shifted uneasily in your seat, that swelling feeling in your subsiding, making way for a knot of anxiety. “No, and I’m not sure I want to.”
“You know I won’t pressure you into anything you’re not comfortable doing.”
“I know, and I appreciate that,” you said, your voice tight and thin. “I also know that it’s something that needs to be talked about.”
Mrs. Hudson tipped her head in curiosity. “Is that something you’d like to talk about today?”
You wanted to talk about the nights you witnessed your dad beating up your mother through the thin sheet you had pulled over your head, hoping he hadn’t seen you. Or the nights you could hear her cries through the thin walls as he forced himself on her. Then there were the days you helped her hide the bruises that came from keeping him away from you.
However, today wasn’t that day. “Maybe next time.”
“Okay then,” she said with a warm smile. “Maybe next time, it is.”
The clock on her desk chimed, signaling the end of your session. “I’ll see you next week, okay?”
“Absolutely,” you confirmed, pushing out of the chair.
She followed suit, closing the notebook she used just for your sessions. “Do me a favor, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“Tell that boy how you feel. You deserve to be loved, really loved, Y/N, and Frank is the man to do just that,” Mrs. Hudson said as she walked you to the door. She didn’t wait for you to agree, just gave your elbow a comforting squeeze.
Frank was sitting on one end of the couch, his long legs spread out in front of him, and an arm draped over the cushion. “Dinner was amazing, thank you, Y/N.”
You handed him a bottle of beer before taking a spot next to him. “Just my way of thanking you for being there for me.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” he softly argued. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
When tears pricked your eyes, you sniffled loudly and took a long drink of beer. You didn’t say anything for a long stretch, prompted only when Frank’s hand was on your thigh.
“Can I tell you something, Frank?”
“You know you can,” he assured you, sitting up fully, setting the beer on the table.
He didn’t press you to start talking, which was one of the things you loved about him. Frank would sit there, silently waiting for you to talk whenever you felt like it, no awkward silence.
“My therapist has been pressing me… no, that’s not right,” you argued with yourself. You shook your head, letting out a frustrated huff.
Frank’s hand was on yours, his thumb sweeping back and forth, the callouses that came from manual labor oddly soothing against your skin. “Is suggesting the right word you need?”
“Yes, thank you. Mrs. Hudson has been suggesting that I tell you something.”
“Are you okay?” There was a glimmer of panic in his eyes at the mere thought of something else happening to you.
You turned your hand over in his, lacing your fingers together. “I’m fine, Frank. I promise. It’s not… bad. I don’t think. I just… I don’t want to ruin – I love you,” you blurted out, crimson coloring your face and neck. “And I know that, I mean, there’s something here,” you motioned between the two of you, “right?”
Frank’s hands were on your face and he was kissing you. You melted into him, sighing as his tongue probed into your mouth, your hands carding through his hair, gripping his wide shoulders. By the time you parted, the two of you couldn’t breathe.
“I love you, Y/N,” he panted, his forehead resting against yours. “So much. I have for a while, long before… the situation six weeks ago. I just couldn’t say anything, not then. But now that I can, I ain’t gonna stop.”
You were a sniffling mess. “I don’t… good things don’t happen to me, Frank.”
“They do now,” he assured you, his hands on both sides of your face.
He started kissing your face, smearing your tears, murmuring with each kiss about how much he loved you, every inch of you. You were crying harder, collapsing against his chest, wrapping your arms around him and holding onto him as if he were your life raft. Which, let’s face it, he had saved your life.
“I love you, Frank.”
You could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “I love you, too.”
Summary: It feels like every other day you’re in Frank Adler’s garage while he looks under the hood of your beat-up vehicle, trying to diagnose the newest problem. He’s always been sweet about it; you coming in at the last second because you’re running late for work, always slashing the prices so you don’t go broke. One day, on your way into work, your radiator overheats, leaving you stranded on the side of the road. Knowing he won’t let you down, you call Frank. Ever the gentleman, he gives you a ride, but when he drops you off at work, he discovers a secret you had worked so hard to keep. You promised your boyfriend you’d never cheat, but now you’re not sure what you have could even be called love. What happens when Frank finds himself falling for you? Will he be able to keep himself from intervening in the toxic and tumultuous relationship you and your boyfriend have? Word Count: 1,693 Warnings: First and foremost, domestic violence; emotional, verbal, & physical. Language, heavy angst, insecure female reader, PTSD, no cheating, possibly more to come.
Author’s Note: A huge thank you to @captain-rogers-beard for allowing me to steal some of her thunder. Your unwavering support has left me speechless. GIF found on Google Images with no source.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
It had been one hell of a day, and all you wanted to do was go home and take a long hot shower, followed by passing out for about four, maybe seven days. You ached everywhere, the kind of ache that settled deep into your bones, your very bruised and should-have-been-broken bones.
You had gotten lucky when James kicked you. As painful as it was, James wasn’t kicking at full-force, he had been too drunk to do that. Needless to say, you were surprised when the doctor said you had no broken bones, “But, it’s going to feel like you wish you had. Broken bones can often heal faster than a deep bone bruise, as you have.”
After getting an official all clear from the doctor, you were approached by Officer Andrews.
“How are you holding up?” she asked gently, as if you were a scared animal that would bolt if she spoke too loud.
You were staring at your hands. “I’ve been better,” you answered dryly.
“I can imagine,” Andrews mused.
“Hey, have you heard anything about Frank?” Your chest went tight. If something happened to him…
The officer nodded her head. “He’s got a pretty bad concussion, but nothing a week of rest won’t cure.”
“Oh, thank God,” you sighed heavily, your shoulders shaking, tears stinging your eyes.
Andrews’ eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “Is there something going on between you and Mister Adler?”
“What?” you gasped, your head flying up. “No! God, no. He’s a friend, that’s all. I would never, never cheat on James.” You really hoped that she believed you. You couldn’t afford for her not to. If it was suspected that there was something going on between you and Frank, they might suspect it was anything but self-defense.
“I know it’s been a long day and you’re probably itching to go home, but there are just a few more questions. Are you up to answering them right now?” she asked, pulling out her notebook and pen.
No. I am not up to answering anymore of your stupid questions.
You forced a smile and nodded. “I’m good.”
Several long hours passed before Marge found you in the waiting room. You were bent at the waist, forearms on your thighs, head hung, shoulders shaking. When she slid into the seat next to you, draping an arm around your shoulders, you broke down.
It was all too much to hold in any longer. With James dead, there was a part of you that felt relief; you were no longer wedged under his thumb, he had no control over you anymore, you wouldn’t need to hide the array of bruises any longer. However, that was buried beneath oppressive layers of guilt and shame. You were responsible for the death of James, no one else, just you. If only you could have gotten the nerve to leave sooner, or had said no the first time he asked you out; you could have done a million other things at a million different times instead of killing the man you had onced loved.
And Frank had gotten hurt in the process. Jesus, how could you have let that happen? Frank was your friend, had been there whenever you needed help, had gone above and beyond when it came to the confines of ‘doing his job.’ He was gentle and caring, funny and charming, handsome and smart, and never once spoke to you as if you were inferior, or called you names because of your round figure. Frank was a good man, and he didn’t deserve what had happened to him, what you had done to him.
“Hey, it’s okay, Y/N,” Marge said, her tone low and soothing. “Let it out. I got you, girl.”
You latched onto her, sobbing openly, not caring about how other people might react. Your life was forever changed, nothing was going to be the same and, in a way, you were okay with that. Then again, you were scared of what was to come; you were now in uncharted territory with no compass, no map to show you the right way to travel, what routes to avoid, which ones to stop at and enjoy.
Marge handed you several kleenexes after the tears had started to slow down. “You okay?”
“No,” you murmured before blowing your nose. “I’m far from okay, Marge. I killed a man.”
Her hand was on yours and her eyes drilled into yours. “Listen to me,” she urged. “James is dead, yes, but you did not kill him.”
“I did, I pushed him,” you argued, your throat going thick once again.
“He pushed you, he kicked you,” Marge bit out, her cheeks going red. “He beat you almost every damn day. What you did was self-defense if ever I’ve seen it. You didn’t push him with the intent of him dyin’. You pushed him to get him to back off. If they can’t see that, they’re dumber than they look.”
Deep down, you knew what she was saying was right, but your brain refused to accept it. She could say that all day, every day, for the rest of your life, and you weren’t sure if you would ever believe her.
“I don’t know, Marge,” you mumbled, your head shaking as it dropped.
Marge huffed out a breath through her nose before changing the subject. “I saw Frank.”
Your head flew up faster than you thought possible. “You did? How is he? I’ve been askin’, but they won’t tell me anything. I’m not family.”
“He’s hurtin’ pretty good,” she informed you, tucking some hair behind your ear. “But, the doc says he’ll be fine; it’s a concussion, a bad one.”
Guilt slithered through you like a slimy snake, wrapping itself around your spine and heart, squeezing it tight. “A concussion he wouldn’t have had if he never had met me.”
“Y/N, that’s enough of that, you hear me?” she chastised, her eyes glittering angrily. “Frank gettin’ hurt isn’t your fault either. He’s a grown ass man that did the right thing by goin’ with you. Yeah, he got hurt, but he didn’t go into the situation not knowing what might happen. Speakin’ of, why was James there?”
With a loud scoff, you scraped a hand through your hair. “Guess there was a big bust,” you started, glancing at your watch, “yesterday, and James’ offense was the least of their problems.”
“They didn’t,” Marge gasped loudly.
“They did,” you said begrudgingly.
“What else did they say?” she inquired.
You knew what she meant, she wanted to know if they were going to press charges against you. It was one of the first things you asked Officer Andrews.
One of your shoulders bobbed once. “They have to go through the whole thing, present any evidence – or lack thereof – and submit it to the district attorney’s office first.”
“And how long is that going to take?”
Another shoulder bob as you answered, “Who knows. Could be a week, or a month, maybe longer.”
“Well, that’s somethin’, I guess,” she sighed, her hand grabbing yours. “Have they cleared you to leave?”
“Yeah, I just… I didn’t know where you were,” you started to say. “I didn’t know where Frank was, and I just…” your voice trailed off as your throat, once again, went thick.
Marge gave your hand a squeeze and smiled warmly. “Do you want to see Frank before we go home?”
All you could do was nod. You pushed out of the uncomfortably narrow seat and followed her down a maze the maze of halls of the ICU, until finally, she opened a door. Frank was lying there, his eyes closed, long lashes fanned out, looking every bit like he was sleeping. You rounded the bed, to the side where you could lay your hand over his without interfering with an IV.
He stirred, groaning as his head turned toward you. “Y/N?” he gruffed, his eyes fluttering open.
“Yeah, Frank,” you rasped. “It’s me. Easy there.”
Frank was trying to sit up, but stopped and pressed a palm to his forehead. “How are… are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” you assured him, squeezing his hand.
“But, I do. I can’t help it.” Frank turned his hand over, sliding his fingers between yours.
You should have pulled away, slipped your hand from his, gotten up, and walked out, but you didn’t. You gave him a warm smile. “You shouldn’t,” you insisted weakly. “What about you, huh? How are you feeling?”
“Like I got my head slammed into a wall,” he answered with a wry chuckle.
“Frank, I… I’m sorry about what happened to you.” There were more tears filling your eyes that you tried to blink away.
“Hey, no apologies, okay?” He gave your hand a squeeze.
With a soft huff, you shook your head. “I’ll try, okay? It’s just something I’m used to doing. Everything was my fault.”
“That’s the past, honey,” Marge said as she approached Frank’s bed.
You pulled in a shuddering breath. “I know, I know. I’ll work on it, I promise.”
“That’s all we can ask,” Frank ground out, his face pinched in pain. He quickly pressed the button that controlled the morphine. “Now, why don’t you two go home and get some rest. I’m going to pass out in about five minutes.”
“You do that, darlin’,” Marge hummed before bending over to kiss Frank’s forehead.
Before releasing Frank’s hand, you gave it a squeeze, sweeping your thumb over the pulse in his wrist. “I hope you feel better in the morn… later.” It was well after five am at that point, so your already dizzy brain wasn’t functioning correctly.
“Goodnight,” he slurred, the morphine already kicking in.
You and Marge repeated his statement before turning off the lights and walking out, closing the door quietly.
Summary: When Brooklyn goes dark, you find yourself trying to find the owner of a dog that’s wandering the empty hallways. Word Count: 652 [Including translations from Google] Warnings: Language, Bucky speaking broken English Author’s Note: Written for @captain-s-rogersMarvel The One With The Challenge It was Pablo’s cat in the episode, here, it’s a dog. Bucky speaks Russian, where Pablo spoke Italian. My episode was: The One With The Blackout GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
The last thing you really wanted to do when there was no power inside the shitty apartment building was search for the owner of a dog that had whined and pawed at your door. But, there you were, wandering the dark halls, flashlight in one hand, a makeshift leash in the other; one of your belts that you knotted around the dog’s collar.
Mutt was grey, had a curved and fluffy tail, one of his ears stood straight up while the other flopped over, and he had three legs; the front left was missing, though he didn’t appear to be bothered by it. Whenever you looked down at him, he appeared to be grinning at you, his pink tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, his tail swishing back and forth. You couldn’t help but smile down at him and scratch his head.
You knocked on what felt like the hundredth door, hoping that behind it would be Mutt’s owner. Mr. Fury, a tall and grouchy man with an eye patch all but ripped it open.
“What?”
“Hi,” you greeted with a thin smile. “I found this dog after the power went out, and I’m looking for the owner.”
His dark eyes roved over the three-legged creature. “Er, yeah, it’s mine.”
Mutt started growling, the hair on his back stood straight up.
“Are.. are you sure?” you questioned. “He seems to dislike you.”
Fury gave a wry chuckle. “Yeah, it’s my dog. Give me my dog.”
“Alright, only if you tell me his name,” you shot back.
“Ehhhhhh… F- Fido,” he stammered. “His name is Fido Frank.”
“Fido Frank?” you scoffed loudly.
Mr. Fury nodded enthusiastically. “Mmm, Fido Frank. Here, Fido Frank,” he called out, bending over slightly, his hand reaching out for the dog.
Mutt gave a loud bark before tearing off down the hall, your belt scratching your palm. “Ohhh! You’re a bad man!”
“You owe me a dog,” he called out as you stomped away, slamming the door a second later.
Once you reached the end of the hallway, you went up one flight of stairs, hoping Mutt hadn’t doubled back to the floor below. You felt stupid, calling out for a dog that wasn’t yours, but there you were, shining your flashlight back and forth.
“Mutt, come on boy,” you rasped, not too loudly so you didn’t bother the other tenants. “Where did you go?”
While your attention was on the area where your flashlight shone, you didn’t notice you weren’t alone until it was too late. You slammed into the other person and landed on your ass with a pained grunt.
“Son of a bitch,” you grit out.
You took hold of the hand that was held out, your eyes travelling up their thick thighs, a slightly tapered waist, and the widest set of shoulders you’d ever seen.
“С тобой все в порядке?” Are you alright?
“Wow,” you mused happily, your heart skipping a beat at way his electric blue eyes seemed to sparkle.
The unnamed and stunning man shook his head. “Какие?” What?
You held out your hand and introduced yourself. “Do you understand English?”
“Little bit,” he gruffed, his large hand encompassing your own. “I am Bucky. Dog mine.”
Mutt was sitting next there, tongue hanging out, whining happily.
“You come,” Bucky instructed you, turning toward his apartment.
Unable to stop them, your eyes dropped to his ass, and the sight made your mouth go dry. “Uh, I don’t know.” You started following him despite the brief wave of unease that washed over you.
Bucky’s head popped out, his chestnut and caramel hair spilling out from behind his ear. “You come,” he repeated. “Have beer.”
There was something exhilarating about going into an apartment of a man you had just met, especially when he spoke in broken English, and what you were sure was Russian. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he was hot as hell.
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