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gojosoath · 2 years

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the world underneath your skin — toji fic

MINORS DON'T INTERACT // 18+ ONLY!!

pairing: toji fushiguro x fem!reader (uses she/her pronouns)

tags: romance x ANGST x like a SHIT TON OF ANGST x AU (no sorcerer stuff in this au) x action x some smut x f!oral receiving x pussy!drunk toji x titty sucking

warnings: alcoholism x self harm (Y/N self harms, i do NOT mean this in any way implying that the reader (you) do this. and that if you have struggled/or are struggling with self harm, this is a major trigger warning. as someone who personally has struggled with self harm, i know how sensitive the topic is) x death (only characters' death from manga is toji's wife and megumi) x toji is uncomfortable having sex in this chapter

summary: After spending most of his life as an underground hitman for desperate means to support himself financially — Toji Fushiguro gets recruited to work as an assassin for the government due to his his mastered skills. Through his new occupation, Toji struggles with muscle pains and is recommended to see a massage therapist. Toji meets Y/N, who becomes Toji’s massage therapist, and the two realize they both have toxic addictions they hide from daylight; Toji’s alcoholism and Y/N’s self-harm. Along the way, Toji and Y/N can’t seem to stay away from each other despite the darkness that threatens to keep them apart.

Table of Contents // my ao3

taglist: @sakinotfound ; @nanamingojo ; a/n: i just KNOW toji eats pussy like it's his last meal, whoo! i had a lotta fun writing this chapter, please give me feedback as that motivates me to keep writing and helps me get better too! enjoy

Part 3: Pain and Pleasure (wc: 5.2k)

Not even an hour after opening your massage clinic, your desk phone rang, making you run over to behind the desk and use your professional slogan, having a deep, husky voice purr through the line, “Miss L/N, hearing your voice this early in the morning has already made my day.” You hold the phone with both of your hands, still in surprise. Toji follows by saying, “You alright, kitten?”

The pet name being said over the phone still had the full effect on you, “Y-yes, I’m okay!” You stutter, followed by clearing your throat, “How can I help you, Mr. Fushiguro?”

Toji chuckles deeply, “You can call me Toji, Miss L/N. I know I’m calling last minute, I was calling to see if you had any availability today.”

“It’s okay,” You noted, opening up your chart on your monitor, “I can work something out today.” That was a lie, you were completely booked out, but you were willing to stay an extra hour to give Toji a massage. The fact that he called you so early in the morning on Monday made you feel hopeful and much less embarrassed about how you felt back on Friday night.

“I can see you tonight at seven,” You tell Toji and he agrees.

“See you tonight then, Miss L/N,” He chimes, making heat rush to your cheeks. You can’t even fathom a goodbye to him due to feeling like a little girl who was given flowers by their crush. Toji ends the call and you’re left standing there, bringing your hands to your cheeks where you rub them. Your mind is flooded with images from Friday night, the way the tip of his cock felt against your lips. You think back to how defined his arms are, the way his body scars make him alluring…you slightly slap your cheeks with your palms and shake your head ‚— as if the physical movement would help get rid of the way you’re wet between your legs.

┅

“Boss wants to speak with you,” Shiu tells Toji as the two of them drive up to the office skyscraper, “he said something about a special task.”

“He’s always saying that,” Toji grumbles, followed by, “fucking pain in the ass.”

Shiu pulls up to the entrance of the office building where one of the chauffeurs immediately comes up to the door, opening the doors both for Shiu and Toji. Shiu tosses the car keys to the chauffeur and the two of them walk into the building. The two of them part ways, Shiu going to the left and Toji to the right, where he enters the elevator and presses the button for the top floor.

Toji puts his hand into the pockets of his jacket, his fingers playing with the box of cigarettes he has in one and the other pocket holding his apartment keys. Once Toji reaches the floor, he steps out and greets the secretary stationed at the desk with a wink. The secretary sheepishly responds by lowering her gaze and tucking her hair behind her ear. Toji walks past her and heads straight for the large doors where he knocks and doesn’t wait for his boss to allow him to enter.

“Fushiguro!” Naoya greets Toji with open arms, “It’s always nice to see you,” He comes over and gives Toji’s shoulders a rough pat with his hand.

Toji ignores the gesture and takes a seat on Naoya’s leather couches which are always cold and uncomfortable. Toji man spreads by leaning back, one arm over the edge of the couch with his hand in between his legs.

“What do you want me to do?” Toji retorts.

Naoya laughs while shaking his head, “You’re always impatient, aren’t you, Fushiguro?”

Toji hums, “Mmh…”

Naoya takes a seat on the other couch alongside Toji and leans forward, clasping his hands together, “Fushiguro, you’re a man of many occupations which means you’re versatile.” He’s sneering at Toji, but Toji continues to give him a straight, bored expression. “Toji, I need you to tap back into your past career,” He jeers, eyes glistening with mischievousness.

“Be specific,” Toji spits out.

“I need you to sleep with the target’s wife tonight.”

Now it’s Toji’s turn to sneer, “Jesus Christ,” He cocks his head to the side, “do I need to kill her too?” He adds sarcastically.

Naoya leans back, crossing his legs, “Oh no, don’t worry about that.”

Toji feels a knot form in his stomach but he doesn’t let it show in his physical appearance. He narrows his eyes at Naoya, “What the fuck are you trying to do?”

Naoya’s smirk deepens, “You follow the orders that are given, Fushiguro. These were specifically given to me by my dad. He told me to simply pass along the message. Don’t worry about the target for tonight. You’ll do it another night. Besides,” He lets out a deriding chuckle, “we all know it’s not hard for you to go around sleeping with women. You have made yourself to be one of the top performers in that field.”

Toji clenches his jaw, “How much extra pay will I be getting?”

“A total of a hundred thousand.”

Toji stands up and before heading out, says, “I’ll get it done.”

┅

For the rest of the day, Toji’s mind was occupied with the new task of his mission. He replayed it in his mind by breaking it down in simplified terms; sleep with the target’s wife and get out of there as soon as the hour is up. Toji can feel it in his bones, this mission is going to come back to haunt him in some way. But he’s too far down this path to back out, to even retire (despite having the finances to do so). It felt like it was out of his control, he had to keep crawling through this tainted path until it bled him dry. It’s what he deserved for the life he had lived up until his point.

Toji got ready for the occasion by dressing up in a white button-up and black slacks. He hadn’t done this in almost a decade; sleeping with someone for money in return. He left that profession once he got recruited to work as an assassin for higher-ups such as CEOs, mayors, presidents, and so on.

The past crawled its way into his body, tampering with sensations of what his life used to consist of as a sex worker; the blurred nights, hot breaths, moaning, and sound of skin slapping against one another. Toji’s fingers instinctively went to his lip scar, rubbing it as he stared at the ghost in the mirror he was looking at. He was determined to get this done as fast as he could because he couldn’t waste time missing his appointment with you.

Toji headed out of his apartment and drove to the designated hotel where the event would take place. Toji checked into the room, the hotel atmosphere was what could be described as Toji’s tainted lover; he knew it from the inside out. The smell was always the same, with it being fresh laundry detergent and expensive perfume in the lobby. The hotel rooms were always too cold when you walked in them, and the walls always felt rather empty.

It had to be the ghost in him, because the next thing Toji knew, he was facing the hotel door to the assigned room. Toji knocked and a few moments later, the door cracked open with a woman’s face appearing in it, followed by the door closing. Toji heard the woman working at the lock and the door opened again, for Toji to be greeted by a woman who looked around his age. She wore a silk robe that was loosely tied, exposing her bare legs, he spotted the lace lingerie immediately.

“So you’re Toji,” The woman eyes him with her bottom lip between her teeth. She steps to the side, “Come in.”

Toji taps right back into his charisma, by stepping in and closing the door behind him, followed by planting a kiss on the woman’s lips. The woman kisses him back, with her arms going around his neck, her scent invading Toji’s senses. The perfume she wears is too heavy for Toji’s liking mixed with a hint of red wine.

The woman pulls back and whispers, “Call me Jess for tonight.”

Toji leans in to kiss her again, this time, more sloppy where he has to lean his head to the side. His arms wrap around her waist and he pulls her in until their bodies are pressed together. Toji tells Jess to get onto the bed for him, and Jess does so, taking off her robe during the process. The next moments for Toji are a blur that consists of kissing, undressing, and heated breaths. Toji’s trying to focus on Jess – despite the session being part of the mission – Toji always found importance in keeping his focus on all his clients to give them satisfaction. Jess’ hands work at Toji’s pants, unzipping and pulling them down, along with his underwear. She wraps her fingers around his hard length, giving it teasing squeezes. His mind is split with his past, and going through with an escort session after years makes Toji remember just how much his past occupation drained him. For the first time, Toji truly was set on what he felt; he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to do this.

Jess breaks the kiss, “You okay…?” She asks with raised eyebrows, his gaze flickering down to his waist. It’s then that Toji realizes he had lost his erection. Before Toji can object, Jess is scooting down the bed so she’s leveled with his dick, her fingers beginning to pump him again. Toji stings with discomfort, throwing his head back against the bedrest and closing his eyes.

He feels Jess’ tongue against his head, “Just let go for tonight, daddy.”

Toji internally flinches, and on the outside, his fingers lace through Jess’ hair. She inserts his hard length into her mouth, sucking, gagging, and spitting on it. Toji closes his eyes, trying to keep his focus on the way her mouth feels around his penis. But he doesn’t want to be here, he wants to continue what you two had started together at the club. Toji recalls the way your eyes shined with eagerness as you begged for his cock. The way the cat ear headband gave you a promiscuous vibe, how you knew exactly how to kiss, how your breasts had to be sculpted by the goddess of love.

As Toji is inside of Jess, going in and out at an erratic speed, he pictures no one else but you. He thinks about how he wants to give you what you deserve — despite not knowing really anything about you. There are just some things you know, and Toji knows you’ve been a good girl who deserves to get her brains fucked out.

┅

You were restless. You went back and forth between your small lobby and client room, triple-checking that everything was in its place and ready for Toji’s arrival. You couldn’t help but feel like you were meeting him for the first time. To pass time, you organized your calendar and in between did breathing practices that your therapist had taught you.

The sound of the bell ringing indicates your infatuation has arrived. You perk up, straightening out your shirt and smoothing down your hair (despite having checked your physical appearance numerous times in your bathroom mirror). Toji enters the lobby with a white button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and buttons were undone where you see his defined chest. He gives you a boyish smirk, followed by raising his hand where something else jingles; he holds your cat ear headband.

“Good evening, Miss L/N,” He greets you.

“Hi,” You breathe out, feeling immediate embarrassment for your casual remark. You take the cat ear headband from him but he doesn’t let go, making you budge.

Toji leans his elbow onto the front desk surface, he smells like expensive cologne that makes your head flood with erotic images of you two. It’s then that you realize that his black raven hair is slightly wet, he must have taken a shower before arriving here.

“Well, do you?”

“Huh?” You blurt out.

Toji chuckles, “Do you want this back?” He nods his head at the hand that both of you hold onto.

“Yes,” You answer, and he lets go, holding the headband to your chest. You don’t look at him as you say in a whisper, “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by giving my back some relief,” Toji says as he walks into the client's room. You set the headband underneath the table and go into the room. Toji is already sitting on the bed, his fingers working at the rest of his buttons. You take out the lotions and oils, your back facing Toji. When you turn to face Toji, he is taking off his shirt, the whole time, holding eye contact with you. You notice the scar on his lip twitch as he smirks, and as if you had imagined it, his shirt is off, back muscles flex as he lays himself on the table face down.

“Would you like the lights dimmed down?” You ask, quickly adding, “Some clients like it darker, it helps them relax.”

“Yes please,” Toji responds.

You dim down the lights and begin working your hands on Toji’s body. At first, you two are silent, and it’s surprisingly not uncomfortable. You find your hands moving smoothly and skillfully across Toji’s broad shoulders, you hear him let out a sigh of relief. It takes you some time until you notice something running down Toji’s shoulders, reaching down to the middle of his back. You blame the dim lights for not spotting it earlier. You cock your head to get a better look; scratch marks. They look fresh, too. Your hand tense up, a fiery pit being lit up in the depth of your stomach, igniting your entire body.

You break the silence, “You’re quiet today.”

Toji chortles, “I could say the same for you.”

“What have you been up to today?” Your hands move to his arms but your eyes remain on his back.

“The usual, work. How about you?”

“Same here,” You reply curtly, “did you do anything after work?”

“I thought about our little date at the club.”

You let out a snort, “Really? How romantic,” you roll your eyes, not realizing the way that at this point, you’ve lost your rhythm in your hands, you’re squeezing his arms aimlessly.

“You don’t sound so happy,” Toji points out the obvious, “do you…” he shifts, and puts both of his hands underneath his cheek so his head is to the side. He makes eye contact with you, “Do you regret it?”

You were expecting teasing in his tone or expression, but instead, it’s the complete opposite. Nothing is teasing in the way he’s looking at you, the way his dark hair falls over his eyes makes you feel flustered.

You look away from him and focus on his body instead, but that doesn’t help either. You can’t escape his question or him at the moment, “No,” You say quietly, “I’m sorry for walking off like that…” You bite your bottom lip in anticipation to hear his response.

“If you want, we can continue where we left off.”

Your hands stop, and the world stops along with it. Again, you have to look at him to see if there’s any mockery behind his expression since you didn’t hear it in his voice, and you’re met with the same, intense look.

You let out a laugh, continuing massaging his body, “I’m assuming that’s why you made an appointment,” You’re even more bitter than before, purposely pressing down hard against Toji’s shoulder blade, making his body stiffen and hiss through clenched teeth.

Toji looks at you between strands of his dark hair, your hand still holding down the pressure, “I wanted to see you,” He expresses. You want to keep pushing him, so you apply more pressure, making him flinch and eyes close tightly, “Good for you,” He strains, a lop-sided grin at his lips, “I don’t mind pain.”

“There we go,” Your hand slides over his shoulder blade, a satisfied smile planted on your lips, “there was a pretty bad muscle knot.”

“You’re charming,” Toji hisses.

“You need to stop flirting with me,” You want to sound stern, but instead, you can’t stop smiling.

“But I like you,” Toji returns smoothly, “don’t you like me?”

Your fingers work for circles around his spine, and you decide to keep edging him on, “I think so.”

“Right there,” Toji perks up when your hands get to his lower back, “it’s really bad there.”

“Here?” You press your thumbs right above the hem of his pants, you can feel the tightness.

Toji hums, “Right there,” He says in a low tone.

“So,” You rub circles with your thumbs, “about your offer…” your voice trails off, heat adorning your cheeks.

You can hear the smile in his voice, “What about it, kitten?”

“Well,” You dabble on, “if you want to, we can continue where we left off.” Toji pushes himself up, making you draw your hands back, “I’m not done yet—”

Toji sits up, getting off the table, “Has anyone ever given you a massage, Miss L/N?”

You don’t know what it is about this man that makes you feel as if you’re standing before your judgment in your afterlife; yet, at the same time, you feel the right thing to do is to simply submit. Toji is close to you now, his hand on your face, his thumb and pointer finger holding your chin. His green eyes scan your face, lingering on your lips.

He leans in close until your noses bump, his breath smells like he had been chewing cinnamon gum. “Have you?” He inquires again.

Your eyelids flutter, and answer truthfully, “No, I haven’t.”

Toji leans in closer so that his lips brush against yours but he doesn’t kiss you just yet, “Well, you certainly deserve one, L/N.”

You nod your head dumbly, “Okay,” You can only manage to say.

“Get on the bed,” Toji instructs you, and you nod your head again, following his orders. You go sit on the bed, and Toji follows after you where he kneels on the floor before you, his hands on your knees. He looks up at you, your hand instinctively going to his hair, like this is your guys’ hundredth time doing this, like you two have been together for years.

“Be a good kitty for daddy, hmm?” Toji conceits before he’s running his hands up your thighs, making your body shiver. His fingers come up to the waistband of your leggings but that’s where you stop him.

“Wait,” Your voice trembles, not being able to make eye contact with him, “just letting you know that…my legs…”

“Not a problem for me, princess,” You hear Toji reassure you, “look at me,” his tone shifted from softness to sternness. You look at him, “Don’t look away,” and he pushes down your pants. You hold in your breath in anticipation to see his reaction to your bare legs, your grip on his hair tightening. But Toji doesn’t seem bothered at all, instead, he pulls your leggings completely off, throwing them to the side. He places the flat of his tongue onto your knee and glides it up, over your old scars from razors.

It feels stupid, but tears sting the corner of your eyes. When he reaches your underwear, he presses his thumb against the fabric that is already soaked with your excitement. The sensation makes you hiss, back arching as Toji presses harder with his thumb against your swollen clit.

“What do you want, baby?” Toji poses with his eyes shimmering up at you. He looks like he’s at the gates of God’s throne, ready to put his life on the line to do whatever it takes to please you.

“Eat me out,” You tell him in a whisper, like a lover confessing their feelings to someone after holding them back for years. You add with a plea, “Please.”

Toji plants a kiss on your clothed pussy, but he doesn’t stop there, he licks stripes with his tongue against it while looking up at you the whole time. Your breath hitches in your throat, and for the first time in your life, you have witnessed what a man looks like when he’s starving. His hot breath fans against your clothed pussy, his hands squeezing your thighs.

He plants a chaste kiss on your pussy and then moves up, scattering kisses to your lower abdomen, his hands raising your work shirt. His kisses are erratic and euphoric, his fingers pulling at your shirt so the buttons pop open and your chest is exposed to him. You’re wearing a sports bra, and Toji’s fingers pull it down, your bare breasts on display for him. His hands under cup your breasts, eyes hooded with lust. Your chest is rising up and down with your hasty heartbeat.

“I’ve missed them,” Toji squeezes your breasts, “been thinking of sucking these beauties all weekend,” and he delves in, mouth latching to your nipple while his other hand works your free nipple. Your arch into him, your hand cupping the back of his head as he swirls his tongue around your hardened nipple. His other hand squeezes your breast and his skilled fingers pinch the nipple.

He lets go of your breast with a ‘pop’ sound of his mouth and looks up at you, “Perfect,” He whispers up at you and then leans up to kiss you on the mouth. The kiss is eager, both of your guys’ arms wrapping around one another; your arms around his neck and his around your waist. Your bodies collide, ragged breaths weaving together, tongues meeting one another. You tug at his hair, he squeezes your hips, and you can feel his hard cock between your legs. You both turn your heads to the side to give one another more access, his hands move up to your face, angling it upwards so his tongue goes in even further, feeling it in the back of your mouth. You let out a muffled moan against him, your legs wrapping around his waist. You want this man inside you, you want him to fuck you until you’ve reached God.

Both of you pull back to catch a breath, foreheads against one another as you two cling onto one another. Have you two made love in some past lifetime? Possibly. His fingers go on either side of your cheeks, squeezing them so that your lips are puckered at him.

“I’m not really in the mood to punish you tonight,” He rasps, looking down at you, “so just be a good girl and watch as I eat you out, yeah?”

You nod your head and Toji kneels between your legs, his hands spreading your legs even further apart. His fingers pull down your underwear, the cool air hitting your pussy making goosebumps form on your thighs. One of your hands is palmed against the table while the other goes back to Toji’s hair. This time, he doesn’t waste time, he indulges in your pussy, his mouth latching around your already swollen bud that makes a sharp gasp erupt from your lips.

“Oh my God!” You can’t help but exclaim as he suctions his lips around your clit, sucking and using his tongue at times to run it over up and down. His arms wrap underneath your thighs so that they’re placed over his shoulders, his hands over on top of them. He shakes his head to the side, tongue flat against you, making your toes curl and head get thrown back from the pleasure. Toji pulls back to catch his breath, and a smirk is at his lips, his nose, lips, and chin glistening with your wetness. He rests his cheek against the inside of your thigh, while two of his fingers press against the opening of your lips.

“Oh!” You cry out from the surprising and pleasurable sensation, “Toji!”

Toji breathes out a chuckle, his fingers sliding in with ease, “Yes, princess?” He presses an innocent kiss to your thigh.

Your bottom lip quivers as his two fingers rub up against your plush wall, “So good,” Your voice trembles, “keep going…”

Toji plunges in again, smearing his tongue from the top of your clit and going down to your entrance, replacing his fingers with his tongue, and inserting it inside you. He uses his fingers against your clit as his tongue swirls inside you. You lean your cheek against your shoulder, watching as Toji’s eyes are heavily lidded with the intoxication of your pussy in his mouth. He looks beautiful like this; completely drunk on your essence. Toji pulls back, his fingers pinching your clit, watching your expression. You hiss, your fingers pulling at Toji’s hair.

He smiles, his tongue running over his bottom lip, praising you, “You taste so fucking good. Perfect pussy, you know that? You taste like heaven.”

You practically whine, tugging at his hair, “I want you to fuck me, too.”

Toji coos, “Oh, you’re needy, huh?”

“Please,” You implore with a pout, “Toji, inside…please.”

“Why’s that?” He goads at you, his fingers pinching your clit even harder.

“Because!” You cry out, “Because I know you’ll fuck me so good!”

Toji’s fingers work at your clit, rubbing tight circles at your clit while he turns his head to the side to lightly bite the skin at your thigh, laughing at the way it tickles.

“First, you need to cum in my mouth like a good girl,” Toji’s demeanor is suddenly different, his tone gravely and demanding, “can you do that for me?”

“Yes! Yes!” You mewl, “I will, I promise!”

Toji puts his tongue against your clit once more, his fingers gripping your thighs so hard that you see his knuckles turning white. He shows you no mercy, his tongue lapping at your clit, swirling his tongue, making sure to get every part of your clit covered by his saliva. You push your pussy further and harder against Toji’s face, even grinding against his mouth. His nose is against your pelvic bone, his growling sending vibrations against your body. The orgasm takes over you like nectar being poured over your head; your body shakes, eyes flutter close and your body lunges even further towards Toji’s face. He allows you to ride your high, grinding your hips against his mouth until your body feels limp from coming down. Toji pulls his mouth off with a ‘pop,’ a dazed look on his face as well. Both of you are practically gasping for air, still holding onto one another for dear life.

Toji gets up on his feet and he kisses you on the mouth, you taste yourself embedded on his lips and tongue. Between kisses, he asks you, “You still want my cock inside you, kitten?”

You pull him in even closer, arms around his neck, “Yes,” You say against his lips, “I want you inside, daddy.”

You hear Toji undoing the buckle of his belt, followed by the zipper. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom. Just as he’s about to tear it open, you hear knocking at the front of your clinic. Both of you freeze, racking your head for who it could be at the front door.

“Stay here,” You whisper to him, “I’m going to check who it is.”

“Do you have another client for tonight?”

You scramble your surroundings, trying to locate your underwear and with a smirk, Toji holds them up for you; the underwear dangling from his fingers. You take them sheepishly and slip them on. “No,” You finally tell him, “you were my last scheduled client.”

You put your finger up to your lips at Toji after getting dressed. You put your hair up into a ponytail as well, hoping that hides the fact that you just had your brains fucked out by Toji’s mouth. You close the door behind you and spot your dad. You rush over to the door, open it and you immediately smell the alcohol on him.

“Dad, what are you—”

Your dad cuts you off by a loud slap coming across your face, making your head turn to the side sharply. Your hands go over your cheek, tears brimming your eyes, and a broken gasp falls from your lips.

“Why didn’t you show up?!” Your dad bellows, taking a chug out from the bottle in his hand. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “You never showed up that day!”

You choke out, “Dad, you’re drunk. Please go home.”

“Is there an issue out here, L/N?” Both you and your dad turn toward the voice that comes from the client's room. Toji stands at the doorway, his fingers finishing buttoning his shirt up.

“Who is this?” Your dad breathes hard through his nostrils, “Y/N, WHO IS THIS?!” He screams into your face.

“One of my clients,” You say weakly, “I was just finishing up with my last appointment, dad.”

Toji walks over to your side “I can call you a cab, sir,” He suggests.

Your dad stumbles backwards, “I can handle myself!” He exclaims.

You can’t even look at Toji out of embarrassment, “I’m so sorry about this.”

Toji doesn’t look bothered in the slightest, “Miss L/N, there’s no need to apologize.”

“Dad, I’ll take you home,” You propose, remaining in your place, “please, dad, let me take you home.”

Your dad wanders around in the parking lot and Toji suggests this time to you, “I can take him home.”

You shake your head, “I’ve got it…” You look at your dad, who now sits on the curbside, shoulders slumped and the bottle placed between his legs. “I appreciate it, though.”

Toji brings his knuckles to your cheek, surprising you, the same cheek your dad had just slapped you on moments ago. Considering your dad’s drunken state, you know he wouldn’t notice the two of you in your world. Toji leans in, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he whispers, “Do you have availability next week for an appointment?”

You blush, “I do…can you do the same time and day next week?”

Toji presses a chaste kiss underneath your jaw, making you shiver, “Of course. You’ve got my card on file, you can charge the same one.”

“Sounds good,” You tell him with a sheepish smile.

Toji’s knuckles linger on your cheek, “Take care of yourself until then,” His voice is soft and genuine, and it almost makes you gasp. “And don’t forget to bring the kitty headband, yeah?”

You say breathlessly, “Yeah…see you then.”

You watch as Toji goes to his car and you’re left standing there, dumbfounded that you had your pussy eaten out for the first time in your life and it was the best orgasm you had experienced so far.

#gojosoath<3 #toji fushiguro #toji #fushiguro #toji x y/n #toji smut #toji fanfic #jujustu kaisen au #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk #jjk fanfic #toji angst #toji fluff #toji fic #jjk fic

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krattgirl124 · 2 years

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Fun facts on the New Generation AU:

Dagur and Eret babysit the Hicstrid kids the most out of all of their other allies.

Gobber is the village therapist and is the one everyone can come to for advice on certain topics (coming out of the closet being the most common one)

Because Grimmel doesn’t exist in this AU, there are more Night/Light Furies in the world, most of them now living on Berk ever since Toothless became the alpha.

Fang, Ethan’s Whispering Death, HATES it whenever anyone who isn’t Ethan tries to ride her solo. She will throw the biggest tantrums ever and do anything to get them off. The only two exceptions are Tuffnut and Puffnut.

Salva loves to bite her brothers, she’s the most feral one of the Hicstrid kids.

Viggo has also befriended a Zippleback, which is how he’s able to get the gas for his sword. The Zippleback was already friends with Savior the Monstrous Nightmare, and their names are Crackle and Zap.

Ethan can’t swim.

Hiccup constantly teaches his kids how to build and invent stuff and is very proud of all their achievements.

Snotlout is very proud of his daughters and will constantly let them know because he never got that treatment from his father and wants to break the cycle of abuse.

Ruffnut will never have kids of her own in the future, but was more than willing to be the surrogate to Fluffnut and Puffnut so her brother and Snotlout could have their own family.

Fluffnut and Ethan have a one week age difference. Puffnut is nine months younger than the both of them.

Runa is non-binary

Fluffnut is trans MTF and has a very supportive family.

The “Troll” that would constantly steal Gobber’s socks was a titanwing terrible terror.

Viggo crafted an entire armor set made out of shed Skrill scales to protect himself whenever he flew on Shockwave, he has been zapped a couple times on accident, which makes his dragon panic.

Shockwave has severe separation anxiety.

Savior is clingy.

Fang is not the smartest Whispering Death out there.

Dante has started building newer and more advanced prosthetics for both himself and his family.

Puffnut has a Typhoomerang named Blaze, he’s an asshole.

Fluffnut has a Thunderdrum named Boomer, who is also quite stupid.

Hookfang spoils the Thorston-Jorgenson kids as much as he can in Monstrous Nightmare ways

Ethan loses a foot from a Changewing’s acid

Windshear has become very protective over Cory and Runa that she has occasionally attacked Fishlegs

Fishlegs is poly and Heather is okay with it as long as he tells her about every partner.

Asdis and Halvor are twins, with Asdis being the eldest and already destined to be the new DotW queen and Berserker Chieftess, yet Halvor desperately wants to be the berserker chief.

Speer is known as Speer the Psychotic because if he really hates you, he throws his shit at you…literally.

Salva will always name her dragons the most human names possible (Chloe the Deathsong, Pierce the Grim Gnasher, Jared the Scauldron)

Ethan trash talks whenever he plays Maces and Talons, which is probably why he rarely wins.

Ethan was conceived on Defenders of the Wing, and Speer was conceived on Berk.

Gustav and Gruffnut are both evil and work for Ryker (yes he’s still alive in this AU)

Ryker is ace

Asdis has a Triple Stryke named Blister

Speer had a Terrible Terror named Skrill

Halvor has no dragon of his own so far

Ethan will be 4’11 at the tallest, mention how short he is and he will start yelling.

Mala will listen to Dagur rant about his interests for hours on end, she loves listening to him rant.

Ethan and Puffnut got trapped and forced to participate in dragon fights, it’s where Ethan met the Changewing that took his foot.

Astrid beats the ever living hell out of the Hunter that had captured Ethan and put him in the dragon fights, making sure that his body became so mangled and bloodied that no one would be able to recognize it again.

Valka technically tamed the Screaming Death, and he and the other Whispering Deaths now live on Dark Deep after their island was attacked.

All of the Hicstrid kids use some of Valka’s tactic to help tame more wild dragons.

Ethan and Salva have tiny scars on their faces from Cloudjumper (they were all accidental). Ethan has a scar on his lip, Salva has a scar on her cheek.

Ethan has a scar on his neck from Fang, they were both young and stupid.

Dante took a Skrill from a Hunter when he was 5 and named it Zappy.

Dagur adopts a baby Skrill.

Dante has a scar on his cheek from Drago Bludvist (yeah, he’s alive too)

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ctrophyduo · 2 years

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c!dapduo are absolute excellence. And for reasons a bit more complicated than may you think.

they are one of my all time favorite friendships and dynamics to come out of this server. i mean considering I’m gonna have to tell my therapist about the numerous dreams iv had about them that has to mean something right. Maybe it’s just the autism. I’ll get back to you on that.

More importantly: you’re probably thinking right now “but cherry! c!dapduo arnt that complicated! Why are you here about to write some extensively long meta about them when you could devote that time to more meta about the Deep, complex, Intricate, Muddled, (insert more neutral but negative leaning adjectives here), probably unhealthy dynamics on the server instead!!” And to the imaginary person iv just made up I say: maybe I want to talk about a nice friendship.

In a borderline grim dark world like the dream smp, there’s something very refreshing about two people who love and care about each other, bring out the best in one another, have a genuine desire to protect one another they express Honestly and Openly.

I like thinking so much about these two because it makes me Happy. Shocking for this server I know.

Also quackity and Charlie are damn good writers!!! I wanna talk about it. People have this idea that only ‘sad’ things can be deep and it makes me really upset. And hey maybe I’m proven wrong in a few days when Quackity’s final lore stream comes out and c!Charlie was evil all along or some shit but until then I’ll happily die on the hill that Things don’t need to be sad and negative to be complex and thought out. Just because c!Dapduo have a healthy friendship doesn’t mean it rules them out of being well written, meaningful and overall complex. And I think it’s a silly sentiment to have regarding the two both individually and in regards to their friendship.

I think truly what I love about these two comes down to what their friendship does for c!Quackity. I remember discussing them recently with someone and made a comment about how important it is c!quackity sees his past self in c!charlie- and they had replied that ‘c!quackity also sees his past self in c!tommy and c!tubbo as well and it’s reflected in the advice he gives the two of them’.

The important distinguisher, and what makes c!dapduo so important is that their dynamic isn’t just c!quackity giving advice he would to his past self- such as what he does with c!clingyduo. It is him learning to accept and love his past self all the same.

Something important about c!quackity is his hatred of his past self. His regret and bitterness is present in his distrust for others yes, but a portion of his distrust comes from hating his past self.

He views past him as being weak, pathetic and he hates him so much for putting up with hurt. For rolling with the punches and being willing to come back for more. He hates his big heart, he hates how trusting he was with it, he hates how he has to hurt so much now because he was a ‘coward’ back then. Why is he suffering consequences from a coward who’d stick by someone for a bit of validation and feeling of importance?

These are all common thoughts abuse victims have. (Especially ones who are coded with BPD, this isn’t a ‘c!Quackity has BPD’ dissertation so I won’t get too into that for now). To be angry and upset regarding how they didn’t leave when they could.

His last straw wasn’t even about himself and his mistreatment; was about the thing he made.

And This isn’t even factoring in the abandonment that happened later.

Long in short of it is that c!Quackity hates his past self. His advice to c!Tommy and c!Tubbo comes from a place of hating what he was and wanting to ensure these two don’t have to deal with those repercussions in the future. His advice is rooted in exactly what he’d say to his younger self: Don’t trust anyone. You only have yourself.

And that’s where c!Charlie comes in.

c!Quackity extensively spends his time with c!charlie drilling the lessons he’d give his past self into c!charlies head. He tells him to not trust people, don’t form attachments, bind your self worth to the nations and power you achieve from them, etc. But the problem is everytime c!Charlie questions them; he grows guiltier of doing it.

It starts to feel *wrong* to imply c!Charlie should be punished for his kindness, for his trust, for his heart. He feels almost guilty about it, it reads in his tone.

And that’s what makes c!Charlie different. Their friendship is not just c!Quackity giving advice he’d give his past self to c!Charlie. This is reconciliation with the past self.

c!Charlie’s whole journey with c!Quackity is not just reopening his heart to friendship or reminding him what Las Nevadas was built on (c!Qs love and care for his loved ones). It is a gateway for c!Quackity to reconcile with the past him he hates so much.

to look himself in the eyes and say “It isn’t your fault. You should’nt blame your heart and your care for others as the reason people took advantage of you. It’s not bad to trust others, it’s not bad to love, it’s not *your fault* you were taken advantage of.”

That is one of the biggest pieces of development c!Charlie brings out in him: forgiveness of the past self. And it’s reflective in their journey together.

c!Quackity wants to protect c!Charlie just as he wished someone would protect him too; without having to shun c!Charlies kindness or make him feel inferior for his trust.

But unfortunately he fails.

He fails and there is no denying it is In part his fault. Sure. He’s grown and learned to move past vengeance but you can’t op out of the cycle of revenge you started. And c!Charlie pays to prove that.

But he doesn’t let his anger fester. Or grow Bitter. And Hateful towards himself because he grew attached and someone punished him for it. He wouldn’t throw away his friendship with c!Charlie for the world. Even if it hurts now. It’s the happiest he’s ever been. So whenever c!Charlie may be, in life or in death. c!Quackity will work to placing them together in history. As a final statement to how caring about things and loving other people is always worth it. That casino is to say to the world, and maybe to the guy who hates his own heart, and who hates the love he holds for others: it really was all worthwhile to love in the first place.

You can see this reflecting into what he tells c!Tommy. His initial advice of ‘don’t trust anyone’ turns into:

“If there's one thing I found out, it’s that it doesn’t hurt to have a person who has your back. I'll be that person for you, Tommy.”

It’s good to trust. It’s good to love. Yes, be wary of who you trust and value yourself first but to love and trust others is a great thing. And I’ll be here for you if you need someone to Trust.

That’s what his past self would have wanted to hear. That’s what his past self should have heard. Someone say

“I will be here for you. I will protect you with everything I have, be it my sword or my words or the people I know.”

Just as he told c!Charlie just a bit ago.

Ah this got me a bit teary to write. c!Dapduo’s friendship really is so beautiful and important. This theme of an abuse victim reconciling with their past self and coming to learn a lesson that can heal a heart as bitter as it is full.

I like it a lot. And no matter what happens on Saturday, their friendship will always be so important to me. It makes me happy. It makes me smile. It makes me cry. And anything that can do that will always hold a special place in my heart.

No TL;DR;im not reading all that; congratulations; or I’m sorry that happened; this time. You are legally obligated to get the full c!dapduo realness. But I hope you enjoy

#c!dapduo #c!quackity #c!charlie #dream smp #dream smp meta #god this made me tear up #went loser mode here. hate when this servers good #c!calamityduo #c!slime #man I love these two so much #if you tag this as shipping get in your car tomorrow at exactly 3:44pm I have a surprise for you (there’s a pipe bomb in your engine)#they are also chuu and kimlip coded #if any of you are into Loona #like watch any chuu kimlip comp or clips and you’ll get it #anyway #i Hope lore saturday holds this up #if not I just blow my brains out #and then live in delusion. amen!#also yeah seriously don’t tag this as shipping or romantic or anything btw. thanks.

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staticscreenwriting · 3 years

Text

LOVE LIKE THE MOVIES // BUCKY BARNES // 3

THREE - Little Shop Of Horrors

Masterlist

Summary: This is a story of boy meets girl. The boy, Bucky Barnes, finds himself thrown into a world that seems so different from everything he’s ever known. The girl, (Y/N) knows entirely too much about rom-coms and is quite particular about the way she eats her popcorn. Bucky meets (Y/N) a few months after returning to NYC. He knows almost immediately that becoming her friend is inevitable. This is a story of boy meets girl. This is a story about love. (Bucky Barnes x female!Reader // a few spoilers for TFATWS)

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

Bucky vividly remembers being about 10 years old and sitting on the living room floor watching his father assemble a heavy cabinet made from dark, massive wood. It had intricate gold ornaments along the sides and around the edges and even at that young age, he knew that it must’ve been expensive.

He likes thinking back to that memory, mostly because it’s one of the few that he can still tightly hold onto and recount the exact way he’s felt then, and partly because it’s so seemingly insignificant. It’s nice to know that some of the memories he regained after having his mind wiped clean, are tiny unimportant ones. It’s not just the big moments and grand gestures that make life worth living. Sometimes it’s the little things, the small details you look back on and fondly remember with a smile on your face.

Looking at the furniture before him, Bucky can’t imagine what his mother would think of these cabinets. Everything is white or beige or grey and there’s a lot of shiny black fronts and glass doors. The place is huge, so huge they have to tape arrows on the floor so people don’t get lost, and it smells of artificial vanilla and sawdust.

It’s not like he hates the furniture here, it’s just a lot and quite honestly, he’s not sure what really matches his personal style. Hell, he hasn’t had a personal style since before he went to fight in the war.

“ Ooooh, this one is very you! “ (Y/N) exclaims as she lets herself fall onto a fluffy brown 2-seat sofa.

If it wasn’t for her, Bucky wouldn’t be here. Not only because he wants her to come around more often and actually be able to sit on a couch, but also because she was literally the one driving them both here.

“Watcha doin? “

That was the text that started it, and before he knew she had pulled up to his apartment building, arm hanging from her open car window, and yelled “Get in loser, we’re going furniture shopping! “

Bucky assumes that is another movie reference though he doesn’t dare ask her about it.

“Nope, that’s a two-seater. Too small. I want to be able to sleep on it. “

“ Or, and hear me out on this one, you could get a new bed to sleep in. “

He doesn’t have any reply to that. It’s not like he doesn’t want to sleep in his bed, it’s just — it’s too soft. It’s too comfortable. It makes it easy to fall asleep and dream. And it’s never pleasant dreams. It’s nightmares. It’s faces that haunt him. Innocent faces. Eyes filled with terror. Fear. Fear of him. It’s nightmares. It’s memories.

When he doesn’t answer, (Y/N) pulls herself back up from the sofa and wanders on “or we’ll just have to find a bigger couch, that’s fine too. “

And at that moment he’s entirely grateful that she doesn’t push him any further.

They wander around the store for a while longer, slalom in between sofas and recliners, swerve in and out of mock-up rooms, all the while (Y/N) keeps throwing puns at him incorporating the Swedish names of the furniture.

Hanging out with her kind of reminds him of the times he hung out with Steve when both of them were so much younger. Of course, it’s nothing alike. He’s not even close to the person he was then, the boy he was then. The thing is, back then everything was easy and light. Being here with her and listening to her horrible puns, that’s easy too. For right now, he doesn’t even notice the weight that’s constantly resting on his heart or the perpetual shadow that seems to rest above him. This is easy and it feels so nice.

They step into yet another room, this one painted a dark forest green. Against the wall, there’s a dark wooden cabinet holding books and a fake tv and in the middle is a corner sofa made from dark brown leather. It’s big enough to fit both him and (Y/N) and maybe even Lady if she’s okay with cuddling up a little to either of them.

“ I like that one,” Bucky says and lets himself plop down on the couch. It’s comfortable but not too soft. It’s just right. Is this what Goldilocks felt like?

(Y/N) sits down next to him, rests her feet on top of the couch table and for a second it’s just them and the black screen of the fake tv and the intercom system calling out for little Kyle to be picked up at the Småland play area.

“ Honey, “ (Y/N) speaks up after a moment, “ I think the tv is broken? “ her voice ringing through the mock-up in a thick Transatlantic accent, making her sound like the women in the movies he grew up with.

“ Huh. Ain’t that something ?”

“ Well didn’t you fix it like I told you? “

“ Guess I must’ve forgotten,” Bucky plays along, trying to suppress the smirk pulling the corner of his lips upwards.

“ Ugh, remind me again why I married you? “

Bucky shrugs his shoulders casually “ my good looks? “

“ Oh, don’t flatter yourself. It’s very unbecoming. Good thing is — “ she announces as jumps up, pulling Bucky up with her and right over into the next mock-up living room. “ We have another tv.”

As Kyle’s parents are called out again, (Y/N) and Bucky tumble from one room into the next. From kitchen to bathroom to fake little balcony. All setting the stage for another chapter from their made-up marriage. Scenes from a movie never made, a book never written. A beautiful kaleidoscope of could-be and never-was. A nice fantasy to get lost in.

If this was a rom-com, (Y/N) thinks, this would be the falling in love montage. Some killer indie track would play in the background and it would be featured in at least one Buzzfeed article about romantic gestures.

But it’s not a movie, it’s real life and she isn’t the romantic lead and Bucky is — well he would make a great leading man now that she thinks about it.

They make their way back to the green living room with the brown couch and the ‘broken’ tv and fall back against the leather, laughter shaking their bodies, tears of joy stinging at the corners of their eyes. As she catches her breath, (Y/N) taps Bucky softly on the right shoulder and drops her voice to a whisper.

“Honey,” she says “I don’t know how to tell you this but uh — there’s a family on our balcony.”

Bucky’s eyes follow her outstretched hand and sure enough on the adjacent fake balcony is a family of 4 staring back at them. And just like that, they fall back into a beautiful harmony of laughter.

“So explain to me again what this movie is about?” Bucky asks as (Y/N) takes another sip from her coke can.

“Dude buys a plant, it starts eating people.”

“And this is gonna show me what women want these days?”

A joyful chuckle falls from (Y/N)’s lips. “I mean … there is a love story and a moral about how far you’re willing to go for the people you love even if it might be morally questionable, but maybe — maybe we should consider this one the Halloween special.”

Bucky shrugs his shoulder as if to say “okay fine with me” and leans back against the car seat. The massive screen of the drive-in is currently playing some kind of ice cream commercial that has (Y/N) softly humming along to the jingle.

This trip wasn’t planned, in fact, they’d been on their way back home when a billboard at the side of the road caught (Y/N)’s attention and put a huge grin on her face, so wide it could’ve split her face in two.

That’s how he ended up parked neatly in a row of cars, Coca-Cola in hand, popcorn resting in between him and (Y/N) waiting for the commercials to end and the movie to begin.

“You’re gonna love this one,” she’s told him beforehand. He’s a little skeptical about it but he’s not gonna tell her. Bucky is just so appreciative of the fact that she bothers trying to introduce him to these things. They might not end up being for him but it’s a good feeling to have someone care this much. Someone who hasn’t been with him through all the shit. Someone who doesn’t feel responsible because they pity him. Someone who doesn’t owe it to Steve to look after Bucky…

“So … I still have some homework to do.” He chimes in thinking back to their conversation on his living room floor.

“Homework that involves me?”

“Mmh. Doc thinks I should learn some more things about you. Apparently, it’s not enough to know that you’re crazy about movies and talk a lot.”

“I do talk a lot.” (Y/N) agrees and pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “I don’t know what to tell you. What you want to know?”

“Anything.”

Since coming back from oblivion, Bucky hasn’t really made an effort to get to know anyone. Growing closer to people only means there’s more for you to lose. More people you can potentially hurt. He doesn’t usually learn new things about people because he doesn’t ask. Because he doesn’t want to know. It’s a lonely life but it’s safe. It’s comfortable.

But this is different. He’s in too deep now to stop. And yeah, maybe this is his homework. Maybe he asks because his therapist told him too but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He wants to know about (Y/N). Even the little things. The insignificant details.

“Well as I said before, I’ve studied literature and creative writing. I want to be an author. That’s uh — that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. The thing is it’s very hard to actually get people to give your writing a chance. Especially now. The world is in such a weird limbo after everyone came back. There’s no room for my art right now. So I work as a waitress to make ends meet. “

“What would you write about?” Bucky asks and in her eyes, in the surprise that’s so clearly written on her face, he can see that people don’t ask her that all too often.

“I don’t know, life? “

“Love stories?”

She lets out a mix between a scoff and a snort “what do I know about romance? I can tell you all about the love the movies and the songs and the books want to sell us, and don’t get me wrong, I love that. But I don’t think I’ve ever really experienced true and honest romantic love. So how could I ever write about it ?”

For a moment silence falls upon them. It’s neither comfortable nor awkward. It just is. Sometimes that’s enough.

“Look, I might not know a lot about love either, but I do know that dreams are worth holding on to, no matter how out of reach they seem. If it’s something you believe in and that you’re passionate about, it’s worth fighting for it.”

“Huh, didn’t put you for such a motivational speaker. Where’ve you got that from”

“Didn’t think the skinny boy from Brooklyn was ever gonna save a whole bunch of lives and fight in a war. Steve was the walking proof that you can do anything. “

“You miss him, huh?”

People don’t usually ask about Steve. They either don’t care how Bucky feels about the whole situation or they know it’s a tough topic and avoid it altogether. The worst part is he doesn’t even know how to respond. Yes of course he misses Steve, more than anything really, but there’s also a little bit of resentment swinging along. With Steve here by his side, it always felt like there was someone there who understood exactly what Bucky was going through. Someone who also had to figure out how to navigate this new life. But now with Steve gone, he feels so utterly alone.

“Every day.”

“Look I’m not going to ask what happened because quite honestly I’m still trying to grasp the fact that there are aliens and superheroes and wizards — “

“Wizards are not a thing.”

“You sure?”

Bucky lets out a slightly annoyed sigh “Yup. 100%”

“What’s the Strange guy?”

“Sorcerer.”

“That’s not the same?”

“No.”

(Y/N) considers for a moment, eyes screwed up in uncertainty before she shrugs her shoulder “ alright if you say so. Anyway, my point is, I don’t know if you have that many people to talk to and I don’t know if you even want to talk about Steve but if you do … well you can talk to me. I know I talk a lot but I’m also a really good listener. “

There’s no doubt in his mind that she is. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to talk about Steve yet though. Not when his heart is still at war whether or not to be angry. Not when he’s still so uncertain about his own complicated emotions.

“Thanks, I uh — I appreciate it.”

Loud music starts to play and (Y/N)’s head snaps towards the screen just in time for the title card to pop up in big colorful letters as three women shimmy across the street and start singing.

Bucky can’t help but let his gaze travel back towards (Y/N) every once in a while. There’s something about her he can’t quite figure out, but the way her eyes light up as she watches the movie and the smile on her face, it gives him a warm feeling. Like bad things don’t exist for the 90 minutes they sit together and watch a film.

“Sooooo?” (Y/N) asks as she parks the car in front of Bucky’s place. Her eyes still hold a sparkle that’s both mischievous and excited.

“I actually liked this one a little.”

“A little?”

“Look it’s not gonna be my favorite movie but I had fun. But uh — maybe that’s just because I’ve watched it with you.”

(Y/N) grants him a beautiful smile. It’s full of warmth and care and honesty. And he’s glad he told her, even if it makes him vulnerable.

“You telling me I’m a good friend?”

“Guess so.”

“Well, you’re a good friend too, Bucky.”

He hopes she’s right though he has a hard time believing it. He’s never seen himself as the greatest friend. Everything he did for Steve he did because he knew Steve would do the same. It came so naturally from both of them that it never felt like he was doing anything special or exceptional. It was as easy as breathing.

“Do you wanna come up? We could order some food.”

“Oh, I can’t. Gotta pick up Lady from Robin’s place. But as soon as your couch is delivered count me in as the first sleepover guest. “

“Will do. Hey, you think I should name the plant we bought (Y/N) 2?”

“Depends, you wanna feed the neighborhood Dentist to it”

“Maybe.”

They fall into another fit of laughter and even though it’s not that funny, and even though it’s really dumb and silly actually, Bucky enjoys it so much. He can’t remember a day when he laughed this much, felt this light.

“Oh, by the way, I’m throwing a pre-Halloween-party next weekend. If you’re free you should totally drop by.”

“I um — A friend is coming around that weekend.”

“Then bring your friend! The more the merrier, right ?”

Sam is gonna be down, there’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind about it. Sam isn't the problem, he never is. It’s Bucky. Going to a party is terrifying for someone who’s never known anything but the 1940s. This can only end up in disasters.

And yet …

“Okay, I’ll let him know.”

“Cool. Awesome. Just uh — Just text me when you know. Also, there’s no special theme so you can dress up as whatever.”

“I’m not dressing up.”

(Y/N) blows a raspberry against her arm “lame! But whatever, you do you.”

He guesses that means as much as “suit yourself”.

They bid each other goodbye with a hug and a promise from (Y/N) to Bucky to text him once she’s home just so he knows she’s safe.

To her, that’s a gesture so sweet and endearing it sends a jolt through her heart. To him, it’s as natural as breathing. You do what you can to keep those safe that you care about, even if it’s just a simple little text.

“You dressed up!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Man, You’re wearing a costume. I’m looking at you right now. I can see it. You dressed up.”

“These are just my clothes.”

“These are just your clothes? Your normal clothes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wearing Converse now?”

“ mmh.”

“Your Jeans are cuffed, man. I’ve never seen you cuff your jeans.”

“It’s something I do now.”

Bucky isn’t a very religious person. He doesn’t pray very often. At that moment though, he prays to god and every higher spirit one might choose to believe in, to open up the earth and let it swallow him whole.

“Look,” Sam says and gives Bucks a friendly pat on the back “you don’t gotta be embarrassed by it. I dressed up!”

“Yeah, what even are you, by the way? An exterminator?”

“I — what? No! I’m a ghostbuster.”

“Okay. Whatever that is.”

“Whatev— Bucky, Man you really gotta go with the times a little. I know you’re practically ancient but the Ghostbusters? Catch up!”

“Whatever. I'm not dressing up. Can we go?” Bucky sighs in exasperation, making Sam’s grin grow even bigger. Bucky knows that he’s just playing into his game, that Sam loves riling him up. That doesn’t mean it’s any easier to not let it get to him.

“Alright alright. Hold your horses. I’m ready. Let’s go … Danny Zuko.”

Bucky wants to punch him then but Sam is out the door faster than Bucky can even react, his loud laughter sounding through the hallway.

There are people everywhere. Sitting on the kitchen counter, lounging on the couches, leaning against the wall by the open windows. Everywhere. The apartment is small and with so many people inside, it looks absolutely packed. Like sardines in a tin.

Music echos through the place, a song Bucky faintly recognizes from the radio but can’t name. Sam seems to enjoy it though, his body already swaying along to the tune.

“Hey Buck, where’s your girl?” He asks as both of them let their eyes travel across the room and over the crowd.

“She’s not my girl and I don’t —“

In the middle of the room is a fish tank. It separates the living room area from the dining room and kitchen. Blue and green hues radiate from it as colorful fish circle around and swerve in and out of the plants.

But Bucky hardly noticedsthe fish, as his eyes fall onto the girl at the other side of the tank. The water sends a blue shimmer across her skin but her smile doesn’t lose any of the warmth it always holds. She looks beautiful. She always does but there’s something about her tonight that’s different from all the times he’s seen her before. Something ethereal.

At that moment, Bucky feels a fluttery feeling in his heart, in his bones, in his blood. He knows this feeling, has felt it before, a long time ago. Maybe, he thinks, maybe there could be more than friendship there.

And that thought absolutely terrifies him. Because falling for someone makes you foolish and dumb and vulnerable. And that’s awfully scary.

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bisexualdaemon · 3 years

Text

mad woman: iii (nessian)

a/n: *taps mic* does this thing still work? OH hey! hello! yes, this fic is properly old now and probably everyone thought I abandoned it but joke is on everyone including myself lmao...turns out I love these two..and after acosf well I would 10/10 die for them. so here we go! a ride to be sure! people do be getting naked!

warnings: 4.8k of smut (like woah). language. guilt.

Nesta wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing.

It had seemed like a good idea. Everyone in certain social circles knew the truth about Hewn City. Knew the dance club for the front it was for the shadowy bowels beneath. Here, she had thought yesterday morning, here she could be on even ground with him.

Him.

Cassian's hand was still in hers as she led them both down the long hallway toward room 3B. His words before hadn’t completely hidden his reactions to her clothes, her face, her body. She smiled to herself remembering the slight widening of his eyes. He probably thought he hadn’t reacted, but she knew. All men are weak. Just put on a dress and show some thigh and she knew she’d get his attention. Even if it was probably all for show. Cassian was a fine actor.

She thought back to four days ago. Or was it five, she thought. They had started to bleed together after the bender she’d gone on after wishing Cassian death on the phone with Amren.

Feyre was in her apartment for the second time in a week. An unprecedented occurrence. If the judgment in her eyes was any indication, she had come to check on things. Baby sister coming to her rescue. How rich. She stood on the carpet again, with her perfect heeled sandals and her tidy camel trench coat. Thankfully, she’d left the hat at home this time. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest as she surveyed the room.

“I see you’ve already made yourself at home again,” she observed, picking up a half-empty bottle of gin, “I’ll send Alis this afternoon.”

“I don’t want anyone else in my fucking apartment, Feyre,” Nesta cringed at the lingering slur in her voice.

“So you can drown yourself in this shit alone?” She held up an empty bottle of vodka in her other hand. “Nesta, it’s only been a few days since I was here the last time. Can you even stand right now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Nesta sneered, settling back into the couch cushions. She couldn’t, but Feyre was a bitch for even asking, so she spat back, “At least I cope with my problems legally, High Lady.” In a fantasy world, smoke would have curled from her lips when she exhaled those last words.

Feyre stilled, breathing evenly. Nesta wasn’t sure if she was containing her rage or accepting the shame she had to be feeling.

“I see you gave Amren a call.”

“She didn’t tell you?” Nesta was surprised. Amren had seemed like one of Feyre’s inner circle, no matter how much money the High Lord and Lady may have given her.

“No, I told Amren that what you did with her number was your business,” she wrung her hands. She was….nervous. How odd. Feyre Archeron was a lot of things, but nervous was rarely one of them.

“Well,” Nesta exhaled, the anger fleeting like wind taken out of her sails, “yes, I called. Everything was very cryptic until someone showed up here who was not a therapist and started taking his clothes off. Honestly, what were you thinking, Feyre?!”

“I…” she hesitated, sinking down on the other end of the couch with Nesta, bracing her elbows on her knees, “I don’t know. I was desperate. I just want you to feel something again, Nes.” She hadn’t called her that since they were children. Nesta felt a little pang in her chest. I need another drink. “I know it’s...unconventional, but it really does help. Rhys and I...well, you know there’s a lot of stress involved in our lives.”

“So you fuck it out with strangers that you pay to keep silent??” Nesta asked incredulously.

“When you put it like that it sounds a lot seedier than it actually is, but,” she huffed, swallowing back some kind of emotion, “yes. There’s a lot of….relief, if you just give into it. Amren knows what she’s doing.”

“Are you and Rhys having problems?” It was the only explanation Nesta could understand for this. I mean it was one thing to hire a hooker if you weren’t getting any, but from the forced lunches and “sister dates” that Elain made the three of them go on, Feyre had always seemed to have a very active sex life.

“Oh, God, no,” Feyre visibly relaxed, caught off guard by even the implication. That made Nesta’s stomach relax. She hadn’t even realized she cared. “Rhys and I are fine, stronger even. There is power in giving up power, especially when you grapple with it on a daily basis. But this isn’t about me or Rhys.” Feyre leaned over and reached out to take Nesta’s hands, but stopped when Nesta visibly tensed at the mere idea of contact. “I’m really not lying when I say I think a little relief would help you.”

“Why do you insist I need help?” Nesta ground out through her teeth.

Feyre sighed and stood. There was something settling over her face, deep in her eyes. Sadness. “Suit yourself, sister.” She stood and, to Nesta’s surprise, took a swig from the half-empty gin bottle she’d pushed in Nesta’s face earlier. Her face screwed up in a grimace, “Jesus, how do you drink that shit?”

“I don’t even taste it anymore.” Nesta looked off, toward the window. Toward the empty corner where the wedding dress had hung for months. She’d taken it down that night after he had left.

That bone-deep sadness returned to Feyre’s eyes, “Alis will be here this afternoon.”

She left without another word.

Nesta sighed, catching Cassian’s attention, but she said nothing. She kept a steady flow of booze in her veins after Feyre left for three more days, sometimes just laying in bed for hours while the world spun. She saw Tomas, saw Elain, but most often she saw hazel eyes and bold, dark lines inked across a broad, tanned chest. Those were the torturous hours, when the desire would rise in her, when she would feel something just like Feyre said. Even if it made her soul burn. He was haunting her. He’d left her alone, angry and wet, for what? Because she refused to accept his “help”? Wasn’t this all just fucking anyway? What difference did it make how she responded?

The frustration had overwhelmed her until she finally realized that it didn’t matter how much she drank, he wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t chase him into a whiskey-soaked oblivion like she could the memories of her fiancé and her sister. He was real. He was still breathing. He was making her life a living hell.

He was going to pay for it.

So, she’d called Amren back. Had made him meet her here of all places. Had put on a dress and a pair of heels and more makeup than she’d been planning to wear at her own wedding. A costume. A mask. If he was going to “help” her, at least it wouldn’t seem like her that he was helping. She’d fuck him out of her life on her terms. Just once wouldn’t damn her to hell, right?

Nesta had never been to Hewn City before. Clubbing had never been her style. She was more of a library, bookworm kind of girl. But now that she was here, she kind of liked the secrecy of it all, the discretion everyone had whispered about. It made her feel like a character in one of her books, a different kind of escape than booze offered, with the rouge-tinted lights and shadowy, padded hallways. She could be anyone here. She would be anyone here. Anyone but herself.

“I think this is it,” Cassian’s deep rumble sounded behind her. They stopped in front of a painted black door, the marker flickering “3B” in the light of the candle sconce behind them. Nesta fit the key into the lock and turned it.

The room was cooler than the hall, but she wasn’t sure the temperature was what made her break out in gooseflesh. There was a massive four-poster bed in the center of the room covered in black satin sheets drawn back against a deep crimson comforter. Only a handful of hanging exposed bulbs lit the space, giving the boudoir decoration some industrial finishes. It was like a scene out of some vampire film noir. The light reflecting off heavy restraint cuffs at each corner of the bed only heightened the effect. A dark armoire loomed in the corner. Nesta was sure that if she opened it, she would find any number of instruments with which to tease and taunt Cassian with. This place was a sex dungeon and she had paid to be a mistress tonight.

Cassian’s mistress.

Nesta took a deep breath and settled into this new character, some confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly how to take it from a willing participant. She sauntered over to the foot of the bed and leaned back against it to look at him. He was so quiet tonight, looking around the room like she had, taking it all in.

“Cat got your tongue?” Nesta proded.

“No,” he hesitated, stuffing his hands into his front pockets like an embarrassed school boy rocking forward on his toes. It only lasted for a second before he hid it behind a smirk, “no, just a little….confused?”

“About what?” She crossed her feet at the ankle and let the deep slit on her dress fall open, revealing almost every inch of her long legs. His eyes widened momentarily before he cleared his throat. Was he….nervous?

“Well, uhh,” he was stammering now, the false bravado unable to keep up with the situation unfolding in front of him, “if I’m being honest, I’m not sure what to do.”

“You mean, Cassian, self-proclaimed sex therapist, doesn’t know what to do?” The teasing in her voice blushed his cheeks pink, “well, color me surprised. I thought it would have been clear by now.”

“It’s not that it’s...you’re…” he cocked his head, “different.” His eyes followed every inch of bare skin from her painted toe to the top of the slit an inch below her hip. “Something changed.”

Why does he make this so damn difficult?

“Yes, well,” she replied, biting her bottom lip for effect, “I decided that I want you to help me.” His head straightened.

“Do you?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, emphasizing the size of his biceps. His nervous energy cooled in seconds, giving way to something else, something that had been simmering beneath the ice.

“I do,” she slipped back a little farther onto her palms, tilting her head back. She was a predator, setting a pretty, needy trap for him. If he got off on a savior complex, she’d play the part until she got what she wanted. “I just want to feel normal again.” She smiled internally as she watched her words wash over him. Watched him take a few deep breaths, watched him move for the first time since they walked in the room.

He kept his body closed, his arms a barrier between the two of them, as he stalked forward. Nesta stopped breathing, feeling his gaze shift from confusion and questions to calculated assessment. He paused in front of her and bent down, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of her slim waist. The space between them was thinner than the air atop the mountains in Illyria.

“I think…” he looked her in the eye, no blinking, no touching, just a wisp of mint from his mouth, “that’s a load of bullshit.”

A rush of fury, so white hot it blinded her, licked down her arm. She raised her open hand and ripped it through the air.

Only to be caught in an iron grip.

“Ah, ah, dear Nesta,” his lips curled up on one side, “I like a little pain with my pleasure, but not without my consent.”

All she could do was stare him down as she huffed, imagining the breath leaving her nostrils in puffs of hot smoke. A caged dragon in pretty clothes begging to get out. But hell would freeze over before she moved first. She could feel the tension between them, feel the electricity pulsing through him where his fist gripped her wrist. Maybe it was her pheromone-laced delusion but she thought he might want this as much as she did. He wanted her challenge, her adamant wall. He wanted to break her, remake her. Little did he know that you can’t break what’s already broken.

Just a character, just a role to play...

“Oh, come on, Cassian,” she tried to free her hand but he remained hard as stone around her wrist. He hadn’t pinned her legs though. She slid one bare leg up the inside seam of his jeans. The muscles flexed and contracted underneath the well-fit fabric, higher and higher, until she reached the apex. He hissed. A feline smile spread across her face when she felt it, felt him, hard and begging for her. “I think you want this a little more than you’re willing to admit, more than you’re allowed to admit.”

His nostrils flared, barely imperceptible, but even the smallest changes in him drew her notice. Why? It was a question she didn’t want to even ask herself, but it kept coming, night and day. Why did this night feel like the edge of a dangerous cliff? Why did his agreement to come tonight feel like more than just a business arrangement? Why did the tension between them feel like her only anchor to this life? She pressed harder into him, needing to move, to get this over with, to fuck him right out of her head.

“Nesta.” His voice brought her back from those questions that haunted her like the inked lines hidden underneath his t-shirt. So close now, so close to her fingers, her mouth. She looked up at him, aware of her knee still cradled between his legs.

“Cassian.” Her voice practically sang. The song of his own personal siren.

He was so still. If he hadn’t said her name she wouldn’t have been sure he was even breathing. He placed his hand between his groin and her knee and stepped backward. His pupils were wide, endless pools, black as tar and eating at the hazel surrounding them. He was drunk on the lust, drowning in it just like she was.

“Take off that dress before I rip it off.”

A bone-deep shiver ran from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes at the command, reaching back up to settle between her thighs. She flushed from the heat of his gaze on her skin as she stood, reaching behind her neck to loose the three pearl buttons between her pride and her desire. Fuck it. The dress pooled at her feet.

The corner of her lip tugged upward when she heard his breath catch. She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. Lingerie had felt like too much and her regular cotton cheekies would have been too conspicuous beneath her close-fitting dress, so nothing had been the only choice. The right choice if Cassian’s jeans had anything to say about it, clearly growing tighter by the second.

Nesta backed herself onto the bed again, digging in with her heels to push herself toward the headboard as gracefully as she could while burning alive. And she was burning under his gaze. Every flick of his dilated pupils, from her bare legs, to her full breasts, to her smooth stomach, to her glistening cunt, she burned. When her head thudded against the carved cherry wood headboard, his eyes finally met hers. A low growl sounded in the back of his throat.

“See something you want, Cassian?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone innocent, indifferent.

“Depends, Nes.” She ignored the heat that pooled at the nickname, especially when he said, “what are you offering?”

She bit her lip at his words. And spread her knees open for him. Now, come and take it.

He went wholly still as pink creeped into his tan cheeks. He was fucking blushing at her cunt on display for him. A filthy thought entered her head and before she could shut it down, she reached between her legs and traced a finger over her slit. The low lights flickered in the reflection off the wetness laced there before her finger disappeared….

Right between Nesta’s wine-colored lips.

His eyes tracked that finger in and out of her mouth as she sucked and swirled her tongue around it, moaning at the taste of her arousal, the eroticism of the gesture. She released her finger with a pop and smiled wickedly at him.

“Want to taste?”

Cassian moved swift as a thunderclap, as if her words were paddles jumpstarting his heart into quick, heavy beats. He pulled off his shirt. Those thick, black lines of ink that haunted her dreams were on full display, curling around his biceps and across his broad shoulders. She wanted to trace them with her tongue, taste the salt on his skin. He didn’t bother with some cliché striptease. His fingers fumbled with his belt, fumbled with the top button and zipper of those tight jeans. He tripped out of them, splaying his hands across the rumpled comforter as he kicked his pants somewhere across the room, losing his shoes and socks at some point between.

She would have smirked at the clumsiness, questioned his self-proclaimed prowess as a sex therapist, if her throat hadn’t gone completely dry at the size of him. Even through his underwear there was no mistaking it—massive, just like every inch of the rest of his body. Of course, he had a cock to match.

He grinned, following her eyes, guessing her train of thought. The bed dipped as he crawled toward her, full prince of cats on display again. A man who knew what people saw when they looked at him and enjoyed that power, that raw sexual energy dripping from his every pore. With that glint in his eye, she was happy to play along—for now.

Every thread in the expensive duvet cover beneath her set a thousand sparks rocketing across her skin. His movements were measured, purposefully kept from touching her skin. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off of him with every inch forward, every inch toward where she wanted him. All of him. His fingers, his mouth, his cock. Nesta started to fidget with anticipation, ready for him to spread her open and take, take, take, but she wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t reach or claw or whimper, no matter how much she wanted to.

Feyre might be paying, but she would own him before the end. Even if she had to sacrifice her soul to do it.

When his mouth finally made contact with her skin, a whisper of a kiss along the inside of her thigh, it was a struggle not to moan. Loud. She was strung tighter than a bowstring and he knew. Her traitor body was going to beg for him with or without words, so she opened her mouth instead.

“Gonna fuck me senseless, Cassian?”

His head jerked up from between her thighs, that feline smile turning her molten. “You know, Nesta. I think I’ll shut you up instead.”

Someone as big as he was shouldn’t have been able to move that fast. Shouldn’t have been able to cover her entire body with his and claim her mouth between one second and the next. His hands curled behind her neck to pull her firmly to him and devoured her. Their tongues clashed, dancing together, as she moaned into his mouth. Whether it was surprise or pleasure or both that pulled it from her, she wasn’t sure. The mint and adrenaline still laced his tongue, this time with a natural smokiness that she hadn’t noticed before. He licked at her, sucked at her lower lip. She nipped at him, teeth as much a weapon as her words, her hands. She dragged her nails down his naked back and drew a hiss from him, maybe some blood too if the tang of iron was any indication.

It only spurred him.

“You know these lips taste better when they’re not liquor-stained,” he panted. He studied her face, she knew it must be flushed from his kiss, and slowly ground his hips into hers, with the same bruising intensity he claimed her mouth, drenching himself in her through the thin fabric of his underwear. Those really need to disappear. Her fingers continued their violent path down his back to the waistband of his boxer briefs, the only barrier left between everything she wanted. Wanted, never needed. They danced around to the front of him and sought purchase.

Another moan, loud and throaty filled the space between them.

My God.

“Off, off, off, off,” she was chanting when he finally released her mouth to move down to her neck, surely to mark her like she’d marked his back. It was going to be tit for tat with him. “OFF,” she clawed at his hips. He raised up and smirked at her.

“You just have to ask, Nes.” His lips curled to the side, “maybe say please.”

She held his gaze. Please. It was a chant in her head but she couldn’t say it. He saw it there, the challenge, the struggle, but this was a battle of wills. And Cassian was a seasoned general.

He ducked his head and nosed at her jaw, along her throat, peppering her skin with close-mouthed kisses. “Just say the word,” he ground into her again, not nearly the friction she wanted. His hands found her peaked breasts and traced her nipples, slow circles at first, then quick pinches accented by his teeth at her throat. There was no pattern, no guessing, no preparation. Every nerve ending was a live wire, screaming for his touch.

Nesta Archeron was going to die here. The flames in her belly were going to consume her and she was going to die at a high-priced sex club. And maybe she should. It might be worth it. Rhysand would never live it down. She wouldn’t sacrifice her pride for an orgasm. But, as his hips did another slow roll against hers and he scraped at her neck with his teeth, her resolve imploded.

“Please,” she croaked. She felt his smile against her skin.

“What was that?”

“Please,” she said a little louder, still barely a whisper.

“That’s awfully quiet, Nesta,” he licked at her collarbone and made her eyes roll back into her head. “Makes me think you don’t really want it.”

“Please,” she repeated, her head thrashing, “please, PLEASE.”

“Okay, okay,” he pushed up to lean back on his heels above her. “No need to shout.” The tease in his voice forced an impatient growl from her. He cocked an eyebrow as he toyed with the elastic waistband on his underwear, slowly pulling it down below the defined V set low on his abdomen, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tanned skin, until finally they were gone and there was nothing left between them but sexual tension and a promise of release.

Her eyes raked down his muscled body, unable to keep her hand from reaching to touch the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, reaching lower. His fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Uh, uh, princess,” her cheeks flamed as he lifted her hand to his lips and left a tender kiss on her palm, “it’s my turn.”

She blinked and his mouth was on her. His hair, tufted at the back of his head, bobbed between her legs as he lapped up the wetness that had been pooling since they started their games tonight. Since he first leaned against her door frame, if she was being honest with herself. His lips wrapped around her clit and when he moaned around her, she saw stars. Her toes curled. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair. Her knees bent to capture his head forever between her thighs but he caught them before she could crush him with the force of her pleasure.

It might have been hours, days. He held her spread open and licked and suckled and fucked her entrance with his tongue. Careful, slow strokes to stoke the fire ripping through her veins but not enough to send her to her peak. Her thighs began shaking; her fingers knotted into his hair and held his mouth against her. His name was a holy chant in this unholy place.

“Cassian,” she sobbed as a tear rolled down her temple and into her sweat-soaked hair.

He groaned and release ripped through her. Waves of pleasure locked her body in a silent scream, her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. He kept stroking her through it, his tongue undulating against her clit over and over as her body jerked involuntarily once, twice before relaxing completely, melting into a warm, soft puddle of flesh.

There were no words. No thoughts. Nothing inside her head except for the truth of it. No one has ever made her feel like that, forced that kind of pleasure from her. Her harsh breaths were the only sound in the room as Cassian traced patterns on her inner thigh. She blinked furiously, clearing her eyes of any emotions that might betray her. Looking down, she caught his eye and his answering smile made her forget her own name.

He was looking up at her, his cheeks pink from the heat and pressure between her thighs. His hair was a fucked out mess. He looked...content. As if her orgasm was all he wanted, like he could do it again and again and not care if she ever touched his cock even though she’d never wanted anything more in her life.

But...what if he doesn't want that?

She tensed suddenly. He was an escort after all. This wasn’t his choice. What if all of this is just an act? She knew she shouldn’t care. She was a paying customer and shouldn’t care what he wanted. What his desires were. She should just take her pleasure, satiate her own desire, and leave. That had been the plan when she came here. Hell, she had just been acting when this all started.

Until he gave her the best orgasm of her entire fucking life. Until he called her on her bullshit, got naked, and got on his knees for her. Until he made her gasp his name and fucking cry for the privilege.

This was wrong. She shouldn’t—couldn’t—

I don’t deserve this.

Her breath caught in her throat. I need to get out of here.

She sat up so quickly her head spun. Her fingers caught on the restraints attached to the headboard and she recoiled. What am I doing? Why did I think this was a good idea? Cassian jerked up from between her legs at the motion, the perfect window for her to rip her legs from his vicinity and swing them to the floor.

“Nesta, what’s wrong?”

She heard him, confused, still panting, but she couldn’t find the words to answer him. The panic was bitter, the taste in stark relief to Cassian’s tongue. Stop! Where is my fucking dress? Her head swiveled frantically. A slip of navy stuck out from under the armoire in the corner. She lurched forward, grabbing and pulling on the dress that barely covered her ass, left nothing to the imagination. What have I done?

“Nesta, what is happening?” Cassian was louder this time. Loud enough to draw her eyes. He was leaning on one elbow, wide-eyed and still painfully hard. At this angle, she could see the angry red marks across his shoulder, darkening with dried blood in some places. A damning souvenir for what she had done. A claiming.

She couldn’t ignore the voice in her head. A betrayal.

“Was—” he sat up and leaned on his knees, “was it not good?” Some unfamiliar emotion danced across his eyes as he waited. She stared and stared and stared. “Did I—“ he kept hesitating, “did I not make you feel good?”

It was the doubt, thick and traitorous, in his voice that made her silently turn around and walk out the door.

------ *runs away*

tags: @sleeping-and-books @greerlunna @sjmships @cupcakey00 @queenestarcheron @awesomelena555 @mysticalunicole @lordof-bloodshed @courtofjurdan

#acotar #acosf #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #sjm #sarah j maas #nessian #nessian fic #nessian au #acotar au #acotar smut #my writing

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fakeloveaskblog · 3 years

Note

Janus, did you follow up with Remus on that invitation? Or are you too giddy with your new boyfriend?👀👀

(Words: 2578)

Janus: “Oh yes Remus....I had totally not forgotten because I have been too busy being giddy about Logan. Totally not. I am afraid if I meet up with Remus right now I will simply be so giddy with so much love I will actually explode and die on the spot. But that is a risk I am willing to take!

Janus took a deep breathe. This was the third deep breathe he’d taken in a row and yet he kept being just as nervous. He’d hung out with Remus twice already, simply knocking on his door shouldn’t be making him this anxious. It was stupid. He was stupid.

He gave up on trying to calm down and knocked on the door.

The door opened. His breath hitched and he subconsciously straightened his back to look more alright.

To his surprise it wasn’t Remus that opened. At first glance he could have mistaken it for him. The person- the woman opening looked nearly identical to him after all. Same dark brown hair color, same brown nearly red eyes seeming to pierce into his soul, even the same birthmark above their lip.

Only difference being that her hair was longer, reaching her waist, and she wasn’t as skinny, in turn making her figure more full.

“Who are you?” She asked in a cold tone, it sounded more like a snarl.

“Janus” He reached out his hand “I’m Janus”

She slammed the door shut.

Janus let out a sigh. He’d spent the entire bus ride worrying about how badly Remus would react to seeing him but wow this was even worse. He was just about to go home and sulk when the door swung open again.

“Okay come in” The woman said while dragging him into the living room.

“t-thank you” Janus stammered out.

His cheeks heated up when he locked eyes with Remus who was sitting on the sofa. His friend quickly glanced away and crossed his arms over his chest.

The sofa had been made into a makeshift bed and suitcases laid littered over the floor. The lady sat him down on the couch before slumping over in a newly bought fainting cough. She had on a red robe while Remus had on a pyjamas with an octopus pattern on.

“So my dear eh demented Remus I am here to inform you that there is a giant seamonster in my bathtub so I had to go somewhere else...And I happened to choose this place...for tactical battle reasons!” Janus blurted out.

A weight lifted off his shoulders when Remus shone up into a smile at his made up story. Janus couldn’t help but stare at his sharp teeth. He knew him being obsessed with vampires as a teenager would bite him in the neck one day.

“Want me to kill it?”

Janus looked up from his mouth “What? The uh monster?” He put on his usual charming smile “Well of course darling. You only have to be ready to be eaten to death”

“OH I am ALways ready to be eaten to death. Trust me!”

“He got voted most likely to have a cannibalism kink in 10th grade” The woman added on. She was extravagantly fanning herself with a deliciously decorated fan.

“I was!” Remus exclaimed with a proud smile.

“Who- Who are you?” Janus tried to say in the nicest tone possible.

“She’s my frankenstein monster which I created just to bitch around and annoy me” “Life saw what kind of fuck up he was and made me out of diamonds and a lion’s pride to be the better version of him!” They said at the same time.

They glanced at each other before looking back at Janus.

“She’s my twin” “He’s my twin” They continued on at the same time again.

The lightbulb inside Janus’ brain finally lit up “Oh you’re Rowan aren’t you? I have heard many atrocious tales about you”

“The one and only” She moved her arms into some sort of regal pose while saying it “I’ve heard stories of you too you pitiful Janus. Re-re has told me he hates you and finds you awfully boring but you seems so lonely and sad he doesn’t want to tell you!”

Remus’ eyes widened into panic as he shook his head “I never said that!! Lies!!! Defimation!!!!”

“Re-Re I was joking”

“Oh............ok”

He kept fiddling with his oversized shirt. He looked over at his sister while moving further away from Janus. Rowan nodded back at him.

“Sibling meeting!” She exclaimed as she abruptly stood up while dropping the fan. She grabbed onto Remus and dragged him into the bedroom.

Janus stayed with his hands awkwardly clasped between his thighs. He hadn’t known he would walk into his greatest weakness: Meeting new peopel!!!

He looked around the room and slowly realized that the suitcases weren’t even unpacked. Meaning Rowan must have just arrived. Meaning Janus had inserted himself into a sibling reunion.

Holy shit. He was a piece of shit.

He slumped down on the green covers of the makeshift sofa bed....wait....Remus’ stuffed octopus laid on the pillow. Meaning it was his bed.....so Rowan was using the bedroom.

It all clicked at once. The cheerful disney posters. The white fluffy pillows everywhere. The walls being painted gold and red. THE LESBIAN FLAG HANGING ON THE WALL.

This wasn’t Remus’ apartement. This was Rowan’s apartement which Remus had weasled himself into.

Holy shit. Janus wasn’t just a piece of shit. He was a stupid piece of shit. Remus was never going to love him back!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH-

Meanwhile Remus was looking around in the heaps of dirty clothes and trash that had piled up in the bedroom while Rowan had been away. His sister was standing over him with her hands clasped in front of her chest.

“Soooo Re-Re do you have a cruuush on him?” She had an extremly smug smile on her face.

“I would rather eat a burning stone than have a crush” He muttered back.

“He’s not even pretty”

“Ro-Ro you don’t think any guy is pretty”

“That’s not true!” She disagreed. She began to count on her fingers. “Tarzan” That was it.

“He’s animated!”

“He still counts!”

Remus took a deep breathe “We shall savor this battle for another day and it shall be glorious”

“It sure will brother!” Rowan tightened her fist.

They made angry grimaces at each other for a few seconds before going back to being normal. Remus tried looking under the bed.

“He’s a total dork you realize that right? He isn’t good at hiding it either” She stated “So I guess he isn’t the worst guy to have a crush on”

“I don’t have a crush on him!”

She sent him another smug look “Oh really? I’m not so sure about that!”

“I’M NOT INTERESTED IN HIM!”

She held up her hands “Alright. Alright. I hear you”

Rowan patted him on the shoulder. He took a shaky breathe to calm down. He held up a binder. The reason he had been searching the bedroom in the first place.

“Could you help-”

“Yep”

“I don’t want him seeing me without it”

“Got it”

He took off his shirt and forced the binder down around his shoulders. Rowan made sure to only touch the binder as she pulled it down so it sat properly.

“I saw that my money has been getting sent to a therapist” Rowan said while leaning her chin on his shoulder “Proud of you”

“OHOHO It is not at all what you think it is. It’s as much therapy as you having that spiritual guide living here for a while was actually spiritual in any way and not you just your girlfriend”

She sighed “Still an idiot I see................ANd we did burn candles when we shared baths so it was really spiritual actually!!!”

Remus shrugged “I don’t need therapy anyway” She did a facepalm “Hey it’s true!! You let me live all on my own and look! I’m not dead in a ditch or addicted to ketamine or whatever you thought was gonna happen the moment you turned your back”

Rowan rolled her eyes “Sure dukey”

She went back out into the living room while he stayed to put on his shirt again. Janus sat still in nearly the exact same place they’d left him. As if he was afraid doing anything would ruin everything.

He looked at her with almost fear. It turned into definitive fear when Rowan walked up to him and grabbed onto him to shove his back against the couch. She towered over him and pierced her eyes right into his.

“Listen here you swept together ball of dirt” She snarled out “If you ever hurt my brother, in any way, I will make sure you have nightmares from what I did to you every single night for the rest of your miserable life! You’ll never feel peace ever again!”

Janus gulped “Yes ma’am”

Rowan let go of him and shone up into a smile “Good! If you need me I’ll be in my room putting on a face mask!”

She walked off at the same time Remus came back. Janus sat even stiller on the couch. His crush slumped down next to him and rolled his thumbs.

“So whatcha wanna do?” Rem asked.

Janus shook his head to relax “Whatever you want to do dear”

Remus shone up into a grin and dashed to pick something up “UNO!”

“Ah yes. I am of course a feared master of...uno”

He snorted while sorting the cards between his fingers “Please say that again”

“Uno?”

The snort turned into a laugh “It’s just cute to hear non spanish speakers saying uno. That’s your whole vibe. Cute. Dorky. Smart dumbass. You’re like...the decaying corpse of a chipmunk!”

Janus took a moment “.....thanks. Best compliment I’ve ever gotten”

“No problem! Now I’ll make up for it by beating you in uno!”

It was a heated battle. Remus apparently had incredibly luck in all card games. Janus used the technique of distraction (!) and started talking about obscure conspiracy theories. It failed as his crush already knew the conspiracies. Which then started an even more heated debate about which conspiracy was the best all while the battle of cards continued.

Finally it came down to Janus having 1 card and Remus having 2. The snake let out a villanous laugh. After his crush’s turn the victory would be his!

But then Remus laid the card equivalent of slapping him across the face with both a sword And a dick. He laid a skip card! Janus fell back on the couch in exasperated horror as his crush laid his last card.

“WOOHOO FUCKER! GET KICKED IN THE BALLS BITCHASS!!” Remus yelled while getting up and running a few victory laps around the couch.

Janus laid in stunned silence. few times had he been beated this good.

“I’ll destroy you in the next round” Jan shook his fist to be extra extra.

“Oh really now. You dare challenge the great Buttmaster420!? IN uNO? Truly brave” Remus replied with a cocky grin.

Another fierce match began. As did their conspiracy theory debate. 1 win for Janus. 1 for Remus. Somewhere along the line they made popcorn. A second win for the snake boy.

2 wins vs 2 wins. This was it. Remus looked his friend up and down like he was a comboy about to shoot him in the heart as he laid a pick up 4 cards card. Janus gasped. The tension in the air could be cut with a butter knife.

The final card landed. Remus won. Janus pretended to faint.

They shook hands and exchanged looks of respect before bursting out into laughter.

“Alright alright” Remus chuckled out “Snakey since I won I get to decide what we do next!”

“Please not a satanic ritual. I already have that planned for Monday”

“Oh nonono! Much better! Y’know those ghost hunting videos on youtube??? Yeah I love finding really badly made ones and laughing at them!”

“Ah yes, because if there is one thing I am known to do it is laugh at others”

They sat on opposite ends of the couch while Rem searched deeply after the best trash. He found a 15 minute one where they were apparently being chased by slenderman.

They exhanged jokes and giggles over it but to be honest most of what Janus focused on was just being in his crush’ apartement. He tried to sneakily look around to aww at the drawings and storyboards pinned onto the walls. The small sculptures made out of trash laying in droves on the floor. It all made his heart flutter. His entire body yearned to make out until his lips hurt.

Meanwhile Remus was sneaking looks at Janus. His eyes was filled with the ace equivalent of lust.

“...Can...Are...Can I use you as a pillow?” He quietly asked. “You look soft”

Janus’ cheeks went red from blushing in an instant “...sure”

Remus moved closer and carefully leaned his head onto his friend’s stomach. He hadn’t cuddled a person who wasn’t his sister for over a year. Holy shit. This was comfy!

“You’re very doughy!....THAt’s a compliment!” Remus said.

“You really are pulling out your A game compliments today huh”

“Better than pulling out my massive dick!! No but seriously this” He pointed at them both in their cuddly positions “fucks!”

“Oh trust me darling the last thing I am doing right now is fucking”

Remus burst out into a cackle and flapped his hands “You’re gold snakey!!”

“I try my best”

While they continued to watch videos Janus gently moved his hand down to stroke his fingers through his crush’s hair. At first Remus flinched but then he relaxed into it and told him to keep going.

The popcorn bowl got emptied. They laughed at the videos until their stomaches hurt. Remus playfully moved his hands up to cover his friend’s eyes every time a jumpscare happened. Jan pretended to try and bite his’ fingers every time.

Eventually Remus let out a yawn. For a moment he relaxed and cuddled closer. He even let his eyes close. Before he suddenly flinched. His eyes were wide open as he sat straight up.

“I’m tired. You should go” He choked out.

Janus thought before deciding to not question his strange reaction. He sent him a warm smile “You’re right. It’s late. I can text you about meeting up later”

“For sure!”

A silence hung around them as they went over to the entrance door. Remus leaned against the door frame. Janus took a step outside the apartement as he put his jacket on.

They glanced at each other. Neither said goodbye. Remus picked at his skin.

“...I....Janny...I...Okay this might seem weird with me wanting you to leave and most of the time not wanting you to touch me....But I...I kind of trust you... More than most people. I mean it’s rare for me to trust anyone in any way....so yeah...I just wanted you to know that”

Janus fumbled after what to say “Thank you. That’s- I’m flattered....I trust you too....I wouldn’t let you see me when I wasn’t perfect if I didn’t”

Remus smiled at him. A small but genuine smile. “I’ll see you then”

“Yeah” Janus’ chest warmed “Don’t die when I’m not looking!”

“Oh nonono. If I die I’ll make it so dramatic you won’t be able to miss it!” His voice softened “Stay safe..please”

#dukeceit #demus #janus sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #mini fic

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leviackermanscleaningbuddy · 3 years

Text

BTS DRABBLE-Taehyung

You’ve always been a flight risk. Your therapist has always told you that you self sabotage-destroy anything in your life that becomes just a little too perfect. And shit, maybe she was right. Because having Kim Taehyung love you feels too good to be true. You’re just waiting for everything to fall apart-or maybe to gain the courage to ruin it all over again on your own. Whatever the reason, Kim Taehyung is perfection, and perfection has never had a place in your life.

Warnings: Mentions of self sabotage, past self harm, depression and anxiety

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Soundtrack: I think I’m Okay by Machine Gun Kelley ft. Yungblud

Title: Okay

“I think I’m in a crisis.”

You drop down into the all too familiar chair opposite your therapist’s desk as the all too familiar words choke out past your lips.

She looks up at you over the rim of her glasses, pursing her lips, as she slides aside the paperwork she had been working on, and steeples her hands on the desk in front of her. “What’s going on?”

“I think I’m-” You stutter to a halt, swallowing hard, knowing she’s here to help you, to work you through situations exactly like this one, but suddenly feeling embarrassed and hot with shame for some shitty reason. You try again. “I think I’m self sabotaging again.”

“All right.” Dr. Yang takes off her glasses and carefully studies you, dark eyes unreadable, but voice gentle. “And what do you think is triggering that, (Y/N)?”

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip, as without thinking, your fingers start to pick at the old scars that run up and down your arms, like silvery snakes that twine around your skin, reminding you of your darkest days.

“(Y/N).”

Your head jerks up as Dr. Yang says your name once more, softly, firmly, from across the room. She nods down at your fingers, still playing with the edges of one of the long scars, the skin red with irritation from your picking motions.

“You’re hyper fixating. Pull yourself out of that part of your mind for me.”

********

“What goes on in your mind, (Y/N)?”

You glance up in surprise, where you are sitting cross legged on the couch in your small apartment, to the boy who sits beside you, head tilted slightly, looking at you with a curiosity glowing in his warm brown eyes.

“I don’t know.” You shake your head, a little harder than you had anticipated, and you can feel a slight burning in your throat. “Sometimes I just think-”

There is a moment of silence as you fight to control your emotions, and in that moment, he places his hand over yours, lacing your fingers together where they lie in your lap.

It is comforting.

“What?” Taehyung asks, a sudden hint of worry crossing his beautiful features, his lips pulling into a thin, serious line. “What do you think?”

You take in a deep breath, reminding yourself that Taehyung makes you feel safe, telling yourself that he won’t run away if you tell him how dark your thoughts are sometimes, promising yourself that when the time comes, you will leave first, because he would never do that to you.

“I hurt myself sometimes.” You admit, fingers unwittingly searching the raised lines of the scars beneath the sleeves of your sweater as you avoid his gaze. “Is that too scary for you?”

There is a heavy moment of quiet between the two of you, and you can feel every breath you take in that moment of waiting, feel the scars that cover your arms as if they are fresh and welted and throbbing.

And then Taehyung places a finger beneath your chin, and when you look up at him, he doesn’t look scared. He looks determined.

“No.” He offers you the hint of a warm smile, and his fingers squeeze yours with reassurance. “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to scare me, love.”

*******

“Now, tell me,” Dr. Yang comes around the desk and sits down in the chair opposite you, leaning back into the red velvet cushions as she watches you carefully. You have stopped your movements on the scars that streak your arms, and are staring at the carpet beneath her black shoes. “Why do you feel like you’re falling back into self sabotage?”

You sigh, a heavy and morose sound, and lean your head back against the chair, staring up now at the white ceiling above your heads. “I don’t know.”

You do know. But you don’t want to say it.

“(Y/N).” Your therapist leans forward, fixing you with a hard, firm stare. She knows you well enough by this point to know when to push you, and when she can get away with it. This is one of those times. “You do know. What’s the trigger right now?”

You sigh again, and you swallow hard, feeling the threat of tears start to clog the back of your throat once more. And when his name comes out, it is nothing more than a hoarse whisper from between your lips. “Taehyung.”

“All right.” Dr. Yang sits back once more, and tilts her head, studying you with hands now clasped in her lap. “Taehyung is triggering your sabotage response. And why is that?”

You’ve answered this question dozens of times, over weeks of therapy, but here you are, once more, back to where you started.

But once again, you hesitate to say it out loud. Because the reason sounds ridiculous, even to yourself.

He’s just too damn perfect.

*******

The phone in your pocket rings and you hesitate to answer it, but resigning yourself, you let out a long sigh, breath frosting in the cold air, and flick open the call.

“(Y/N)? Where are you?” Taehyung’s voice comes through the speaker and though it could just be your imagination, he sounds frantic.

You swallow, glancing up at the streetlights that have begun to blink on over your head, distorted by the cold rain, which continues to fall heavily, your already soaked clothing growing heavier by the passing moment.

“I-” You start to say, and then stop, because you don’t know where you are, and honestly, you can’t explain your actions to him, because they don’t make sense, even to you.

A car speeds past the sidewalk you stand on-sheltered slightly by the tall apartment buildings-and its headlights blind you momentarily, making you trip over your feet and land hard on your knees on the concrete.

“Shit.” You swear beneath your breath, scrabbling to keep the phone to your ear, as you sit down and lean back against the building behind you, pulling your knees to your chest to inspect the damage. Your jeans are ripped and the torn skin is starting to bleed, mixing with the rain that is still running down your body.

“(Y/N).” Taehyung says again, his voice firmer this time, and you hear the sound of a car door slam shut in the background, and then an engine start. “Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know.” You say honestly, and your voice falls flat in your own ears. You glance across the street to the road sign. “I think I’m close to Cleary Park.”

You hear the car roar to life as Taehyung prepares to leave, and suddenly, tears are mixing with the raindrops still dripping down the skin of your cheeks and face.

“Taehyung.” You choke out, and you can barely hear your voice above the sound of the car in the background of the phone call. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“No.” Taehyung says sternly into the phone, and his voice is louder now, and you can almost picture him shaking his head violently at your words. “Nothing is wrong with you, love.” And then, “I’ll be there soon.”

******

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” You say thickly, tears now threatening to spill from the corners of your ears, as you reach up to wipe at your nose with the back of your hand. “Taehyung is literally perfect-he’s sweet, and beautiful, and patient-he loves me.”

Dr. Yang is silent, listening to you, as she leans across to hand you a tissue. You have cried in her office far too many times.

“And I-I just-” You fumble over your words, your thoughts loud in the silence of your head. “I feel the need to destroy it. Destroy what we have. Because I feel like it’s better to get hurt on my own terms than be blindsided when it finally ends one day.”

“But what if it doesn’t end, (Y/N)?” Dr. Yang questions quietly when you have fallen silent, and you don’t dare look at her, worried she’ll see the skepticism flash across your features. “What if this is it? And if you listen to your impulse to destroy it, then you’ll just hurt yourself for no damn reason?”

You glance up at her then, your features reflecting all that you’re feeling, fingers clenched tightly around the dampened tissue in your lap, and you feel like what she’s suggesting is impossible.

Taehyung deserves so much better. And it won’t be long before he sees that. And then he’ll leave.

So it’s better to destroy it now. Less risk of getting your heart torn to shreds if you make the opening move.

“Sounds shitty, right?” Dr. Yang pushes on, offering you the hint of a slightly exasperated smile. “So why don’t you tell yourself that you’re not going to destroy this? Just this once, (Y/N), trust the process, and don’t worry about getting hurt.”

“I can’t.” You shake your head, not willing to give her notion even an inch of space in your head.

But she is not giving up so easily.

“This is what we’ve been working toward.” Dr. Yang postures toward you, her motions excited now, as if she is sensing a breakthrough. “(Y/N), I’ve been seeing you for a long time. And you trust me, yes?”

She waits for you to nod, and then pushes onward determinedly. “Then don’t ruin this. Because I promise you, it’s going to work out.”

“How do you know?” You cry out, the tears flowing again, as she hands you another tissue. “I don’t want to feel the pain, Dr. Yang! I don’t want to have to be the one who relies on someone else to break my heart.”

“So don’t.” She says simply, and offers you a shrug when you look over at her with shock. “Don’t rely on Taehyung to break your heart. Don’t rely on yourself to break your heart. Don’t let anyone break your heart. Not this time-not your self sabotaging tendencies, not your past, not your sadness, not your worries-don’t let them have any say. And actually, let Taehyung do all the talking. Because I promise you, he’s been talking to you this entire time-silencing those thoughts, those doubts-and you just have to let yourself open your mind and hear him, (Y/N).”

Your mouth has fallen open after her impassioned speech, and there is fire in your therapist’s eyes, as she leans forward and takes your hands into her own, giving your fingers a confident squeeze.

“Kim Taehyung-in the past-has been the trigger for your self sabotage. Now, I want you to trust him, and let him be the only thing that quiets your self sabotage.”

******

“I’m scared, Tae.”

Your voice is a whimper, pathetic and shaky, and you hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop the turmoil that’s in your head, the trembling that has started in your fingers and moved to the rest of your body.

“You don’t have to be scared, love.” Taehyung’s low timber is gentle and soft, and you register the feel of his hands running down the bare skin of your arms, palms warm and soothing as they brush down to take your fingers into his own. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.” You snap back, biting hard onto your bottom lip, your voice sharper than you had intended. “I’m a mess. Watch.” You finally look up at him then, the warm spray of the shower dripping into your eyes and making him seem hazy. You point a finger into his chest, as if accusing him of something. “I’ll take a good thing and screw it up in one night.”

He shakes his head, and a chuckle leaves his lips, which surprises you, given the heavy conversation of the moment.

“What?” You ask defensively, backing into the corner of the shower, arms folding over your bare chest in a safety motion.

You shoot him a glare, as he cocks his head, wet, dark curls covering his eyes, the tips of his teeth showing as he starts to give you a boxy grin.

“Is tonight that night?” Taehyung asks, and there is a slight lilt of teasing to his tone, as he closes the distance between you once more, his fingers sliding into the damp tendrils of your hair, playing with the locks at the base of your neck as he stares down at you.

“I don’t know.” You huff out, feeling slightly put out, but struggling to maintain any sort of anger in the face of his adorable grin and the feel of his hands trailing across your naked skin. “But I’m telling you. I’ll mess it up somehow.”

“No, you won’t.” Taehyung murmurs, leaning down toward you, before he carefully places a gentle, quick kiss onto your wet, upturned lips. He offers you another smile, and this one is less teasing and more affectionate, his dark, honeyed eyes glowing with something akin to love. “I won’t let you.”

******

You’re pulled from the latest memory, and back to your therapist’s office, meeting her knowing gaze, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, drowning out-for just a moment-all the thoughts that whirl around in your head.

“Holy shit.” You manage to breathe out, blood still pounding in your ears, making it hard for you to focus on what you had just grasped.

Is this what it was like to have a breakthrough?

“See?” Dr. Yang offers you a smile, her voice gentle, as she leans back into her chair and crosses her legs, black pencil skirt bunching around her knees. “You understand now, don’t you?”

You can’t bring yourself to nod or acknowledge her statement.

It feels, in that moment, that you have suddenly lost all the breath in your body, and as your thoughts quiet, the only thing you can think, over and over, is how blind you were not to see it sooner.

You were your own biggest enemy. You knew that. You always had been.

And you had thought that Kim Taehyung-with his perfect smile and ethereal features and unending love-had been your biggest trigger.

But maybe-as you thought back to all of the times he had stayed when any sane person would have run, all of the times he had reassured and comforted you, all the times he had been there, when he didn’t have to be-just maybe-

He was the biggest part of the solution.

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the-hopeless-haze · 3 years

Text

Somebody Hurt Me Too Deep (Being Alive Ch 14)

Previous Chapter

A/N: I AM BACK omg ok like I’ve been through it in the last month..... yeah. This was of course based on “Being Alive” but also “champagne problems”... thank Taylor Swift for any emotional distress I cause :)

CW: talks of mental illness, brief mentions of past trauma and car accidents

Taglist (thank u all for reading ily): @caked-crusader @thatesqcrush @law-nerd105 @blackeyedangel9805 @moon-river-drifter @the-baby-bookworm @dianilaws @xecq @lv7867 @arabellathorne @teddybluesclues @averyhotchner @houseofthirst

“Carino? I’m home,” Rafael says as he steps through the apartment door, placing his briefcase down on the recliner. It was only 3pm, early for him to be finished with work for the day, but he had been getting out earlier recently to accompany you to physical therapy appointments. You were doing well, at least physically. It had been a long six weeks, but today might be the appointment that cleared you to go back to work full-time and maybe get out from behind the desk a little.

Mentally, though, it was a mixed bag. Some days were easier than others, and that was to be expected, but it was hard to tell the squad you were doing better when you couldn’t even bring yourself to text them back. Still, he pleaded otherwise, said every day was a new day and carried on even if they didn’t believe him.

Today, though, today was the turning point, he could feel it. You were doing so well, and eventually, your brain would have to catch up with your body. So tonight, he booked a reservation at a restaurant… not any restaurant, but the Cuban restaurant he took you to the night you asked him out and he barely used your first name and he swore he hated you with nearly every fiber of his being.

Right. As if he hated you even then.

You’re in a good mood, albeit not as elated as he hoped, but the physical therapist approves you for work but to “take it easy” and you’re laughing at his wry remarks and squeezing his hand in the back of the taxi on the way to the restaurant. His nerves almost dissipate, but they don’t. And maybe that should’ve been his first sign that tonight was not going to go as planned.

Rafael was never a superstitious man, but you order the same dish you ordered the first time he took you out, and he can’t help but think this is a sign to push forward.

“Oh, fuck it,” Rafael murmurs, a surge of anxiety overcoming him. “I was going to wait until after dinner… but…. I have something I want to ask you.”

And just like that, your face falls, but Rafael can barely take that in, he just keeps talking, his mouth moving faster than the neurons in his brain that tell him to stop, now isn’t a good time.

“I love you so much, (y/n), and I know these past few months have been so hard, and this isn’t the way either of us have wanted this year to start, but… we got through it together. I never thought I’d be in a position in my life, with someone who I love… that I’d be willing to do this, but… (Y/n)... will you marry me?”

You don’t say anything for a few seconds, but it feels like hours, days, months. “Can you get up off the floor, Rafael? You’re embarrassing us,” you finally say hollowly, and it’s true, the whole restaurant is stopped in their tracks staring at the two of you. Rafael couldn’t possibly care less, though, he couldn’t comprehend anything that was going on - he was just thinking “well, she hasn’t said no…” and then you’re getting up, throwing your napkin on the table, shaking your head, saying “I can’t do this.”

Rafael gains some of his senses back, enough to follow you outside into the tempering late February air. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Rafael, I don't,” you say stiffly without turning around to face him. “I’ll get my stuff in the morning. I need to be alone right now.”

“I just… I didn’t know you weren’t happy,” Rafael says, his voice breaking, and that gives you enough impetus to turn around.

“You didn’t know I wasn’t happy? Goddamn, Rafael, do you even live with me? I’ve been unhappy for months.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you know?”

“Jesus, (y/n), maybe because I’m not a fucking mind reader?”

“Right. You honestly thought we were in a good enough place to propose tonight?”

“Obviously! Or I wouldn’t have done it!” he snaps. “You honestly think we’re in a bad enough place that you couldn’t say yes?”

“Obviously! Or I would have done it!” you throw his words back at him, and god do they sting.

“You never told me anything. You just withdrew.”

“Yeah. Maybe that should’ve been a sign. Look. I’m moving back home. I was going to tell you tonight.”

“What? Is that all it was? (Y/n), if you want to move back, I could work something out--”

“No. No, you can’t, Rafael. You’ve never been able to work anything out in your life because you’re too scared to! You just operate on fear - and this is no exception. You thought I was going to die six weeks ago and that’s the only reason you’ve been acting this way, and I’ve been slipping away recently and you’ve just been trying to consistently deny it so you just get on one knee and think that’s going to solve everything, think that’s going to make me stay. That’s not how it works! I’m not happy. I need to go home.”

“Oh no. You know what it is? You’re afraid. Don’t try to put this on me. You’re the one who’s walking away. You’re the one who’s running back home.”

“Fuck you, Rafael. Your family is all here. Mine isn’t. My brother’s getting a job for the first time, my mom just got on disability, I miss my dad… I’ve spent too long here. I’ve spent too long with you.”

“What happened? What the fuck happened?”

“What the fuck happened every other time, Rafael? You’ve gone through this plenty of times before.”

Rafael scoffs, shakes his head, leans against the outside of the restaurant. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m fucking sick, Rafael!” you’re screaming now, your cheeks turning red, your eyes leaking angry tears. “All this time, since the accident, I’ve been fucking drowning and you didn’t even notice!”

“Sick?”

“Depressed, Rafael. Anxious. Liv wanted me screened before I came back and the therapist said so. AGain. For the fucking umpteenth time in my life. But this time, I thought I had someone who cared--”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know if you didn’t tell me?”

“Couldn’t you see?”

Rafael shakes his head slowly, but now it comes back to him, all these subtle signs, the days you wouldn’t make it out of bed until 3 pm, all the days and nights you spent staring listlessly at the walls, the inability of anything he said or did to make you feel better. But it came and went, and Rafael just took it as you being upset sometimes at the limitations placed on you by your injured leg. Never did he think there was something more serious going on. Or maybe he just didn’t want to think that, and he ignored every signal.

“I’m sorry, (y/n),” he whispers, but he knows that’s too little, too late. Both of you were at fault - that was clear to him now - but was it clear to you? “I really didn’t know.”

“Evidently,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“But you can get help. We can work this out.”

“I just… Rafael. I’m not ready. You of all people should have some sympathy for that.”

Ouch. You were going for the jugular now, hurting him where only you could, rejecting his proposal, leaving him crestfallen on one knee in the middle of a restaurant, but somehow your words hurt worse. Anyone could reject a proposal. Only you could psychoanalyze him and hurl the worst remarks his way, things no one else would be able to come up with.

“Then okay,” he sighs. “We won’t get married yet, or ever, if that’s what you want. But you really want to throw this away entirely?”

“I don’t know, Rafael. I don’t. Look, I’m sorry too. I just… I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Do you think… do you think maybe--”

“I don’t know,” you say firmly. “I don’t even know if I really want to go back home. I just know I don’t want to live like this anymore, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“But it isn’t going to drop. I just fucking proposed. I’m in this for the long haul. And fuck it, if you want to go back home, I’ll work it out.”

“This fake optimism isn’t you.”

“This lack of optimism entirely isn’t you! What happened to the woman who got through some of the worst shit imaginable and landed on her own two feet? You got into a car accident, (y/n). You lived! You should be thankful, not sitting here sulking like your world’s gone to shit.” Again, his mouth moves too fast to register the look on your face as it falls, and tears start to stream down your face. He can’t stop but push it further, hurt you in retaliation.

“Seriously, Rafael, how insensitive can you be? I tell you I’m struggling and you invalidate my feelings? Fuck off.”

“I didn’t mean--”

“Why’d you say it then? You know what, I’m done. Goodbye, Rafael.”

“But--”

“No. Give me space. You owe me that.”

He does. And god, it hurts to watch you walk away, his abuelita’s ring burning a hole in his pocket when it should be on your finger. But maybe.... maybe this isn't the end. Maybe all you need is space.

Maybe Rafael's wishing on a pipe dream. He doesn't know anymore. All he knows is the sting of this pain.

-----

You walk alone in the dark, your leg still aching slightly, and you just feel like utter shit. You can’t remember ever feeling quite this low, but you can’t remember feeling rage like this, either. No one’s hurt you like Rafael.

But that’s because you loved him enough to let him.

You still love him even now, but spending day in and day out with him coddling you, you couldn’t handle it. And maybe you should’ve acted like an adult and told him and stopped pretending everything was fine when you knew it wasn’t. If only you weren’t so fucked in the head, right? Just how it always went, your life, cycles of feeling fine and cycles of feeling like you’re scraping at the bottom of a barrel for a will to go on. And yeah, sometimes even you would question why you were taking this so hard - so what, it’s a car accident, you were lucky to have lived - but Rafael didn’t understand and you didn’t know how to make him. How were you going to get in a passengers seat again without having a panic attack? Would your leg ever fully heal? You’d wasted six weeks staring at the walls of Rafael’s apartment, doing menial paperwork for Olivia that anyone could have done. How could you not feel entirely worthless? And then for Rafael to make it seem like you were overexaggerating like you should just get over this… you hated him.

But you didn’t, really. You know deep down he’s just angry the night didn’t go the way he wanted it to, with you promising to be his for the rest of your life. Still, rage is a truth serum of sorts, like cheap wine, and it makes you wonder how deep that resentment runs. How could he not notice you were upset, though? That’s a hell of a blind eye to turn.

At least back home you had Ben if nothing else.

But here, you had everything else. The squad, your career, Rafael… You couldn’t even begin to think about marriage right now - Lord knows Rafael isn’t ready either - but did you really want to throw in the towel? How do couples move past a rejected proposal, though? Hadn’t you hurt him deeper than anyone else could have? And would he ever figure out how to propose again?

Maybe to someone else, you think, someone who didn’t have all these fucking issues.

Before you know it, you have a cigarette in your mouth and a lighter in hand and you’re leaning against the side of a convenience store, watching girls walk by in stilettos hanging on to their men or giggling with their group of friends, the taxis blurring past. Then you realize you broke the first promise you made to Rafael: you bought cigarettes in New York.

Had he really wanted to collect on that promise? It wasn’t like you were addicted, it was just a stupid habit you started in high school to take the edge off, but you supposed some people had the inclination to start and never stop, but you always could when you wanted to.

Your vice wasn’t cigarettes, no, it was love. You gave all you could to whoever would take it because you were so used to people wanting nothing to do with you since you isolated yourself due to your past trauma. Once you got to college, you refused to hide in the background, and you took chances you weren’t used to taking and loved in color, you loved until it made you blue when the boys would cheat or your so-called friends would find different cliques.

You were still like that, albeit in so much a desperate way, and you had been loved in return, now, not just by Rafael but by the squad too - even if you had your squabbles. You loved them to death and back.

But friends were easier to keep than lovers.

Maybe it is scary to think Rafael was going to be the end. That he’d be the last man you ever kissed in love or passion. That you’d be the last woman standing in his long list of ex-lovers - the only one who didn’t get crossed off.

How do you love someone that much? You always said you wanted that, but the thought always terrified you anyway, and maybe it’s why you did push people away when they felt too close because you felt like you didn’t deserve it, like you were still atoning for some sin you didn’t remember committing but you still feel guilty for all the same. You wonder if Rafael feels just as guilty.

You inhale the smoke, feeling the familiar, carcinogenic burn in your throat, causing yourself pain to cause Rafael pain only to cause you pain in return; an endless cycle of hurt.

With ambivalence, you put your cigarette out and hail a cab, and tell him to drive you to your apartment which you haven’t seen in weeks. There’s dust on every surface, it’s freezing as hell, and you don’t know how you’re going to sleep tonight, alone, so you light up another cigarette, sitting solitary with your nerves running haywire underneath your skin. What the hell were you going to do now?

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x you #rafael barba

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drinkurkombucha · 3 years

Note

yes yes yes tell us about mfc matty 🌈

“Pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.”

The phone rings four times and then the line hitches. Sounds filter though. He’s holding his breath as he waits. He fidgets, pulls up his hood. Starts to chew on the zipper of his hoodie, frowning at the bitterness. Cheap. Metallic. Like blood. Sounds of rustling, a barely-audible sigh. Then a voice, tired, deep, clogged with sleep:

“You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“I know.”

He glances up at the sky. It’s dark and heavy - it’s been threatening to rain all night long. He wishes he wasn’t so far from his apartment.

Apartment. It still stings.

“It’s 3am.”

“I know.”

Long sigh and even though it’s been six months since he last saw him, Matty knows exactly how George looks right now: disappointed. Upset. Exhausted.

“Where are you?”

Matty stops biting the zip on his hoodie and his eyes track from the moody sky to the neon sign above him. It’s broken - the neon only illuminating one letter, an ominous N.

“Some bar,” he murmurs. “Somewhere.”

Another sigh from George and the exhausted sound builds up behind Matty’s heart and pushes it forward in a really horrible surge, sort of like a dam breaking, a tsunami hitting land. His clumsy heart trips over itself and his breath catches in his throat and he knows that he’s not supposed to do this, he knows that it’s “not cool” and that Adam will be pissed off and Ross will probably smack him for being “twat of the year” but he’s not in control anymore:

“I miss you.”

Silence. A low rumble in the distance that he thinks is thunder but is actually just a lorry. Eyes (now shining) return to the sky. He wills it to rain now, hoping that it will cleanse him, wake him up, stop him from continually doing this… whatever this is. He hates how weak he has become.

The silence stretches for another few moments and then a response:

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

And it is true because in the past six months Matty has learned more about longing than he ever thought he would. He has learned that as humans we are flawed and we cling to the things that are bad for us and sometimes we are willing to die for our unhealthy habits because they feel safe. Because sometimes kindness from others feels like a threat. Sometimes love from others feels like a threat. And sometimes longing feels a lot like dying.

He hates that he knows exactly what led to the implosion. The kicker is that things had been good, great actually, and then he had got scared and he had started going out more, becoming a vacant body in their relationship, building walls, disengaging. He had started doing exactly what his therapist told him not to - he started shutting George out because vulnerability, even with George, was a terrifying prospect. Anxious avoidant attachment or some bullshit like that said his therapist, and this well worn coping mechanism was alright until it wasn’t and George in his infinite patience had finally had enough.

Things had ended… horribly. Not because it had been a huge bust up, but because it had been quiet. He had come home one night and found George stony-faced in the living room and he had said: “I can’t do this. I can’t love someone who is a ghost.” And that had been it. He had moved out the following day and, unable to cope with being in their shared home, Matty had left and moved in to a tiny apartment in a shit part of the city. His new living situation was, he knew, a way of punishing himself for spectacularly cocking everything up. As usual.

“Even if it’s true, you shouldn’t say that,” George sighs and his voice brings Matty back to the street.

“But what am I supposed to do?” he asks, hoping George might have some kind of answer.

“I don’t know.”

Pause. A crowd of people swell past him in a cacophony of late night laughter, the kind that’s all slicked up with booze: theatrical. Obnoxious. He turns to face the wall and he has to ask the question that’s been on his mind:

“Do you ever think about me?”

The answer comes immediately:

“All the time.”

And his eyes properly well up now and his voice breaks as he responds:

“I think about you too.”

His voice breaks then and he feels that sickening surge of longing pulse through him. He has royally fucked things up and he hates himself for the way he is. He hates that it took him so fucking long to see George, really see him and it hurts. It just… hurts.

“Look, it’s late,” George says then and his heart sinks.

“I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called,” he says, wiping at his eyes.

“That’s alright just… take care of yourself okay?”

He says it even though he shouldn’t:

“I love you George.”

There’s a small silence and then the line goes dead.

And Matty understands that sometimes you can love someone so much it physically hurts and you can still make shitty decisions despite that. And love is beautiful and noble and all the things people say it is, but sometimes that’s just not enough.

It starts to rain.

#music for cars #the 1975 fanfic

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

Text

like father, like son

Spoilers for 911 Lone Star below!

A fic no one asked for: TK winds up sick because he’s not sleeping well since learning about his dad’s diagnosis and because he’s pushing himself too hard to be a better son. (Also, Carlos doesn’t really vibe with fever sex.)

The dreams don’t actually start until a few days after his talk with his dad, after a moment of pure, unfiltered vulnerability spanning from one to the other, but when they do finally start to plague his sleep, they’re terrifying, encompassing his every fear into twisted images of dirty hospitals, blood splashing against walls from violent coughs, two large, decaying organs pressing against him, suffocating him, and his father, withering away before his eyes.

After jerking awake in a cold sweat two nights in a row, TK forgoes sleep because he would much rather take fatigue any day over the spoiled visuals that seem to stain his thoughts, even when he’s awake. He, instead, takes to the internet when he should be resting, researching the side effects of chemo, what to look out for, what dialogue could cause potential triggers, and the most important, the one he’s most determined to achieve by any means necessary, how to care for a cancer patient.

He sleeps only a little, catching one to three hours a day but subconsciously not allowing his body to slip into REM, and his growing exhaustion goes relatively unnoticed until he wakes at three am after nodding off in a chair in his room with a medical book on his lap to a scratchy throat and a slight hint of pressure pushing behind his eyes.

He slips to his feet, quietly resting the book on the chair, and he pads softly across his room to the bathroom, flicking the lights on with a wide yawn. His reflection leaves much to be desired, a pale, drawn man with deep purple bags under his eyes staring back at him.

“Shit,” he mutters, a low whistle, almost impressed with how terrible he’s managed to look, but then he’s turning to cough lightly into the crook of his arm until he’s wincing from the uncomfortable tingle that almost burns against his throat. He hunches over the sink, splashing cool water on his face, and then he’s reaching for the ibuprofen, but when he can hear gagging from his dad’s bedroom, he drops the pill bottle, the loud clattering and rolling fading in the distance as he races out his room.

“Dad?” He shoves his dad’s bathroom door open to see him curled around the toilet, shoulders shaking slightly. The panic in his eyes fades to sympathetic concern, a look he’s been sporting far too much over the last few days, and he crouches beside his dad, dropping a hand to his back to feel his muscles convulsing under his palm. Wincing, he smooths his palm up and down his dad’s back, repeating the action, just as his dad would do for him, until Owen’s finally reaching up to flush the toilet with a groan.

“Sorry I woke you,” Owen rasps out, and TK’s eyes fall just a little.

“You didn’t,” he reassures, spitting out a quick lie when Owen frowns at him. “I was already up. Had to piss.”

“Creepy timing,” Owen says around a weak laugh. “Didn’t realize my stomach and your bladder were in sync.”

Rolling his eyes, TK gets to his feet, reaching a hand out toward Owen. “You’re so weird,” he mutters when Owen’s hand finds his. He pulls him to his feet, a frown threatening to pull at his lips at the ease. His dad’s been dropping weight, and for just a moment, he’s almost pulled back to too-vivid images, but he shakes his head, willing the fear away.

“You done?”

He keeps close to his dad when he sidesteps around him to the sink to rinse his mouth out, eyes trained to the slight tremor in his dad’s steps.

“Yeah,” Owen groans, frowning at his reflection, and TK meets his eyes through the mirror. They share a silent conversation. They’ve been doing that a lot since they talked, neither knowing how to verbally convey what their eyes are practically screaming.

“Are you alright?” Owen finally asks, turning from TK’s pale reflection to see if it’s merely a trick of the light or if his son truly looks ill. His frown deepens, concern taking over his forehead in deep worry lines, when TK’s poor image appears to not be just a trick of the mirror. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” TK says easily, and he doesn’t fight it when Owen reaches the back of his hand to his forehead, only watching with a gaze that’s almost struggling to be patient.

“You don’t feel feverish,” Owen mutters, stepping back to asses his son with a long, studious gaze, taking in the dark circles colored under his eyes, his slumped posture, and his almost sunken face. “Have you been sleeping?”

TK makes to answer, to reassure his dad that he’s completely fine, but Owen continues, not letting him sneak a word in.

“I know it can be hard to shut your mind off, especially after learning about all of this.” He gestures weakly toward himself. “But, we can tell your therapist--”

“Dad,” TK groans, turning toward the door. “I said I’m fine.” ‘I’m not the one with cancer’ is what he wants to follow with, but the mere thought stabs at his chest like a dagger that’s on fire, so, instead, he looks over his shoulder, smiling softly. “Stop worrying about me and go get more rest, old man.”

The smile grows wide and genuine at Owen’s mock dismay, the latter even going so far as to slap a hand to his chest. “Tyler Kennedy Strand, you take that back right this second!”

“The number doesn’t lie,” TK laughs out, running when Owen shoots after him, and he takes the light punches to his back, stopping only when Owen turns away to cough harshly. Tension flicks across TK’s muscles, and he spins around, frowning. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Owen breathes out, catching his breath. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re going to wrinkle.”

“You are unbelievable,” TK spits out around a huff of a laugh as he turns to leave the room, calling out his goodnight as he shuffles back into his room. It’s almost 3:30 now, and his alarm is set for 6. His muscles are aching for his bed, but his heart’s been the only one allowed to make decisions as of late. He bypasses his bed and slips his sneakers on, waiting until he hears Owen’s soft snores before he slips out of the house for a run.

*****

“Not to be an asshole or anything, but you look like shit.”

TK’s hand freezes mid rub at his helmet, and he drags a narrow gaze up to Judd. “Good morning to you, too.” He frowns a little, the crack in his voice betraying him, and he pulls his gaze back to his helmet, ignoring Judd when the latter takes a seat beside him.

“TK, man, what’s going on? You’ve been looking like a zombie for a week now, and you’re starting to sound like one, too.”

“I’m fine,” TK grumbles, but the few coughs that slip past his pursed lips say otherwise, and he can see Judd tense slightly beside him through his peripherals.

“It’s your dad, isn’t it?” Judd leans toward TK, keeping his voice low, and TK twists his gaze over until he’s meeting Judd’s surprisingly soft eyes. The look alone has his shoulders slumping, and he sighs lowly.

“It’s just a lot to take in, and I’m trying to do better.” If he’s not dissecting each google page or medical book, he’s catering to his dad’s every need, cooking for him, supporting him as much as possible while out on the line, and being at his side through the nightly coughing fits and bouts of nausea. “I’m trying to take care of him,” he adds, voice almost a whisper, and Judd claps a hand to his shoulder.

“You aren’t going to be any good to him if you drive yourself into the ground. You need a little break.”

“I can’t--”

“--sorry to interrupt this little pow-wow, boys,” Owen cuts in, talking loud enough to gather the attention of his entire team. “But I’ve just received an invitation to the bar tonight, so make sure you bring your dancing shoes!”

TK doesn’t miss the way Michelle stops to roll her eyes before she hoists herself up into the back of an ambulance, but then his dad’s talking directly to him, voice carrying over the hollers from the others.

“You’ll come, right?” He leans forward, whispering. “Michelle said Carlos will be there--”

“--Dad!” TK hisses out sharply, and the heat that creeps to his cheeks is evident, enough so to have Judd bellowing out a laugh beside him.

*****

TK excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving his mineral water with Carlos as he maneuvers around bar-goers until he’s shoving the bathroom door open just as his lungs burst. He buries his face into the crook of his arm, coughing harshly. He’s been getting worse as the day’s dragged on, and it’s been getting harder to keep it to himself. He started spiking a low-grade fever toward the end of his shift, and if the chill clinging to him is anything to go by, he’d say it’s definitely spiking.

He feels like shit, point blank utter shit. His muscles are aching, but not like they do after a particularly hard shift. They’re almost throbbing, feeling oddly restless, and his head’s pounding, behind his eyes, across his forehead, all the way to drum at his temples. Worse, though, he can’t seem to shut his mind off, not even with Carlos and his unfair muscles by his side.

He takes just a few moments to splash cold water over his burning face, sniffling lightly when he dries his face, and then he leaves, coughing weakly into his fist as he moves back around drunks and dancing until he’s bumping Carlos’ shoulder.

“Your dad just yee-hawed half the people off the dance floor,” Carlos shouts over the music, and TK shoots a gaze to see his dad moving through some weirdly graceful mock lasso toss.

“Marjan got the entire thing on video,” Carlos adds, nodding across the room, and TK follows his gaze with a half-hearted laugh.

“Hey,” Carlos’ voice is softer this time, almost gentle, and TK pulls his eyes to his, frowning slightly as he tilts his head.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He leans in close to TK’s ear, and TK shudders against his hot breath.

“I don’t know about you, but this place is kind of blowing my vibe, and my couch is really lonely--”

A quick distraction that TK smiles at, lips curling up almost deviously, and he nods quickly, allowing Carlos to pull him toward the exit. He spares a glance over his shoulder, fear suddenly gripping at his heart, but then he sees Michelle laughing as Owen spins her around the dance floor. It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s with the EMT Captain.

He doesn’t mean to catch Judd’s eyes, but he does, and Judd nods once, an almost silent reassurance that TK clings to as Carlos all but drags him out of the bar.

*****

TK’s melting against Carlos’ forceful touch, his body moving in sync with Carlos’ smooth movements. Their lips are molding to each other, their tongues battling, and when Carlos pulls away, dragging his bottom lip with him in a gentle bite for just a moment, he groans, back arching when Carlos drags sharp kisses down his neck. He’s almost lost completely to Carlos, but then Carlos is mumbling against his neck.

“God, you’re on fire.” He nips at TK’s neck, almost drinking in the heat pouring off of him, and TK huffs around a small shiver, still feeling oddly cold despite being swallowed by the heat of Carlos’ muscles.

“Weird,” he grunts, a light moan slipping past his lips when Carlos’ hand trails down his stomach. “I’m actually freezing.” It’s a small slip-up, lost briefly in a moment of pure honesty, and then Carlos is pulling away quickly, a frown plastered to his lips.

He’s hovering just above TK, hands pressed to the couch beside TK’s head, and his eyes are working over TK’s face. “You’re cold?”

TK doesn’t really see the big deal because it’s probably just cold in Carlos’ apartment with the AC purring quietly in the background, so he nods, and then Carlos is rolling off of him and starting out of the room.

“Carlos, what the fuck?” He shouts, his throat burning with each word until he turns to cough into the crook of his arm harshly. When he catches his breath, he turns his gaze to see Carlos walking toward him with a digital thermometer in his hand.

“Doctor kink?” he starts, both brows raised, “I mean, if that’s your thing, I can get behind that--”

“TK, shut the fuck up and put this under your tongue.”

TK opens his mouth to argue, but Carlos shoves the tip of the thermometer into his mouth, and he can’t do anything but oblige, slipping it under his tongue as he keeps a steady gaze to Carlos’ almost angry one. When the thermometer beeps, he moves to grab it, but Carlos is faster by a long shot, more so against TK’s sore muscles, and he frowns at the 102.2 degree reading, dropping it to TK’s hand as he presses a palm to TK’s forehead.

“Woah,” TK breathes out at the reading, frowning deeply. He knew he had been running a low-grade, but this is way higher than he expected. “Shit,” he curses, eyes flying from the device to Carlos. “I’m sorry,” he spits out, but then his lungs quake with a need to cough, and he turns away from Carlos, coughing harshly into the crook of his arm.

When he can suck in a deep breath without the burning need to cough more, he spares a hesitant glance back to see pure, dripping worry coloring Carlos’ eyes.

“In the SUV earlier,” Carlos mutters, almost more to himself, “when you were coughing and said you accidentally inhaled some smoke on a call earlier. I should have known then.” He reaches over TK’s shoulder for a blanket folded on the back of his couch and drapes it over TK’s slightly trembling shoulders, and TK watches his every move.

“Why didn’t you say earlier? I wouldn’t have pushed you--”

“--I wanted the distraction,” TK admits, surprising even himself. With the gig up, with Carlos staring at him with such consuming worry, he sinks back against the couch, allowing his illness to fully sweep over his body. He shivers, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and he tilts his head against the back of the couch, eyes finding the ceiling.

“A distraction from what?” Carlos pushes gently, careful to not tiptoe over into boyfriend territory.

“Everything,” TK mutters around a weak cough, and he rolls his head to the side when Carlos lays a gentle hand to his covered knee, a small sign of encouragement that he’s listening but not forcing.

“If I say I’m not ready to talk about it right now, will you not ask about it?”

Carlos considers this, and while the urge to push past TK’s wall is as hot as the latter’s fever, he nods slowly. “You can stay the night,” he says instead, moving with the need to see TK through what he’s sure is either a really bad cold or maybe the flu.

“I can’t,” TK starts, and he pushes the blanket away, making to stand, but his vision wavers, gray dots dancing across his eyes, and Carlos is quick on his feet, snaking a strong arm around TK’s waist and guiding him back down to the couch.

“Why not? You can’t even walk.”

“My dad,” TK mutters, leaning heavily against Carlos. “I need to be with him... He needs someone with him to make sure he’s okay.” The panic from before, from leaving his father alone, hits him like a bucket of ice water being tossed over his head, and he’s shaking hard in Carlos’ grip, both from fever and fear, but Carlos’ only tightens his hold, a beacon of steady warmth he’s almost afraid to get too close to.

Carlos really wants to ask about this because Owen seems fine, but the desperation clinging to TK’s tone has him considering his words. “I can call Michelle--”

“--no,” TK mutters, coughing against Carlos’ shoulder. “Judd. He’s the only other one who knows.”

Carlos eases TK back against the couch, worry pulling at his heart as TK coughs and shivers and curls in on himself. “I’ll call Judd,” he starts, gaze drifting to the door for a moment. “Promise you won’t run?”

“Couldn’t even if I tried,” TK chatters out, teeth clacking together, and Carlos makes quick work of calling Judd, rattling off what he knows.

Judd’s worry on the other line of the phone apparently stretches back to a few days prior, and when he mentions he’s not sure that TK’s been sleeping, a pit grows in Carlos’ stomach, uncomfortable against the heavy weight of concern.

Their conversation isn’t long, ending when Judd reassures him that he’ll keep an eye on Owen and will even make an excuse for TK’s absence. After, Carlos makes quick work of guiding TK to his bedroom. TK’s frighteningly compliant, only fighting him when he tries to pull an “Austin Police Department” hoodie over his head, snagging it from the back of a chair in his bedroom.

“You’ll overheat,” Carlos tries, but TK somehow manages to pull the hoodie over his bare torso, and Carlos can’t say no when TK looks at him, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up at different ends, the sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his shaking hands, and the hem just covering a small part of TK’s bare thighs.

“Fine,” he mutters, breathing through a few curses as he helps TK into bed. He turns to get medicine for the fever, but TK’s hand is suddenly latching onto his wrist, surprisingly strong, and when he turns around, TK’s eyes, though glassy, are bright and aware.

“Don’t.”

“I’m just going to get some medicine--”

“--I can’t sleep,” TK admits, fingers digging into Carlos wrists as he coughs harshly. “I haven’t slept in a week.”

“Jesus, TK,” Carlos breathes out. He’s getting more and more pieces of the puzzle that is Tyler Kennedy Strand, but the borders, the ones that support the picture, are still missing, as well as some middle chunks. “Why--”

“--you said you wouldn’t ask.”

“Sorry,” Carlos mutters. “I’m just going to get medicine, and then I’ll come right back.” TK’s hand drops to the bed, eyes momentarily flicking to a color of fear that has Carlos rushing to the bathroom for ibuprofen and water.

TK takes the medicine without question, wanting to rid his body of this shitty feeling just as much as Carlos does, and then Carlos slips some pants on and climbs into the bed, resting his back against the headboard, and TK watches him, eyes impossibly tired.

“Do you think you can try to sleep? I’ll stay awake if you need me.”

“Judd’s with my dad?” TK asks, and when Carlos nods, he nods back, curling around Carlos’ hips, head resting against his thigh. He’s a little afraid to let his eyes slip closed, aware that he won’t have the control to not slip into REM, but when Carlos drops a careful hand to his hair, fingers carding softly through it, the fear eases a little, and he hums softly.

“Is this okay? Have I gone too far into boyfriend territory?”

“You have,” TK mutters around a yawn that’s followed by a few weak coughs. “But it’s okay for tonight.”

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floatingpetals · 4 years

Text

What Have I Done? || Epilogue

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of past traumas, fluff(Is that really a warning tho?)

Word Count: 3900+

Summary: A bad break up between Bucky and his ex leads to a new friendship with the quiet tech he never had the chance to get to know. Relationships grow, feelings are caught, and boundaries are explored. Bucky thought he found his happy ending, but old memories haunt his future. He knows what he’s doing wrong, dangerous even, but he can’t help it. Can he fix the wrongs he’s done? -a requested story for @iheartsebastianstan

**THIS IS AN 18+ STORY, SO PLEASE NO MINORS!

A/N: And I oop-. This has been a long time coming, huh? Thank you for everyone being so incredibly patient with me. I hated how long I’ve been fighting this, don’t know why it was so hard to finish either. I hope you all enjoy the last bit of their story! Let me know what you think and enjoy!!

Gif is not mine, credit to the creator. text dividers credit: @writeyourmindaway

Chapter 12 | Epilogue | Series Masterlist

Six months later:

“Come on Wolf!”

Bucky chuckled at the shout from outside the little oasis he’d been living in the past six months and zipped up his bag with the last of his things. Even though he was excited, there was the bubbling apprehension that was festering in the pit of his stomach. Today was the day. The day he was given clearance from his therapists to go back to the compound and restart his life.

“The jets not going to wait forever for you!”

Bucky fondly rolled his eyes and threw the bag over his shoulder before he shot one last look over the room. Sighing softly, he headed towards the door.

“I’m coming. Chill.” He shouted back.

Shuri leaned against a fence post outside, flipping through her holographic messages. When Bucky opened the door, she glanced up and swiped the message clear. She beamed and pushed off the post.

“Finally. I thought I was going to have drag you out by your ear.” She smirked.

“Hey, the only person who can do that is my mother or sister, and I’m pretty sure you’re neither.” Bucky shook his head and brushed passed her. Shuri giggled and skipped alongside him, her arms clasped behind her back with her trademark smirk.

“I would say I’m a little offended you don’t see me as your little sister after all we’ve been through. You keep coming back no matter how many times I scare you off.” Shuri teased, nudging Bucky’s side with her elbow.

Bucky laughed and shook his head. Over the past six months, Bucky had grown closer to Shuri than he had been before. He’d spend hours at her lab, letting her tinker on his arm between his trips to therapy sessions and helping the farmers in the fields. Her cheer and sarcastic attitude was something he didn’t know he needed. She helped make things easier dealing with the separation from the people he loved back home and dealing with the trauma he’d gone through. It was like she was his own personal cheerleader who was willing to smack him in the back of the head when he’d go too deep in his dark thoughts. She didn’t let him get away with much. Anything, really.

Therapy itself was exhausting but also life-altering. There wasn’t one second where he doubted his decision to come here. He needed this. If he hadn’t gotten help when he did, Bucky feared to know where he would have been. There was no doubt in his mind things would have gotten worse and everything he loved, even the woman he cherished, would have abandoned him without a backward glance.

Now though, he knew what went wrong. He knew he wasn’t anything Vivian said to him. He was important, he did mean something to several people. And he still tangled occasionally with this, he acknowledged he isn’t a monster. He never was and now he could finally breathe easier. The little voices in the back of his head weren’t gone, of course, the therapist told him they’d never truly be gone, but now he knew how to separate them from the truth.

Their only goal was to bring him down, to tear him and all his hard work to pieces. And now he had the tools to fight back. He’d still have therapy once a week, Bucky wasn’t completely ready to give that up yet, but they could easily be done over the phone or by video call now. He no longer needed to be here.

“Are you excited about going back?” Shuri asked, pulling Bucky back to the present. He hummed and nodded, despite the butterflies in his stomach. Shuri narrowed her eyes at him, catching the hesitancy in his lackluster reply. “That’s not a very convincing answer, Sargent.”

Bucky exhaled loudly and ran his metal hand through his hair. He knew what she really meant; he just didn’t want to answer it. Truthfully, he was terrified. A long time had passed since he left. Things have changed, and he hadn’t left on a positive note. There was a high chance Y/N took his words to heart and moved on. Bucky wouldn’t blame her. He treated her like she was nothing more than a possession. Y/N deserved better than that. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop him from hoping she might give him another chance.

“Bucky.” Shuri stopped in front of him, her face serious. Bucky blinked. “You don’t have to go so soon if you need more time. You were just cleared today. We would understand if you needed to stay and you’re always welcomed here.”

Warmth bubbled in Bucky’s chest, a tiny smile spreading on his lips. It felt nice to be welcomed somewhere. Everyone here greeted him with open arms. This was his second home and as much as he would love to stay, he needed to go home to his first. He couldn’t hide forever.

Inhaling deeply, Bucky let out a steady breath and smiled widely. For the first time in forever, Bucky felt light and free. Yes, he was ready and optimistic about whatever the future held.

“Yeah.” Bucky beamed, his happiness shining in his eyes. “I’m ready to go home.”

“Requesting clearance for landing.”

Bucky buckled in his seat, inhaling nervously through his nose as Okoye made her decent. There was a frustrated grumble on the intercom that brought an amused smirk to his face.

“Oh for the- Just land the damn jet.” Tony huffed through the speaker. Bucky shot a curious glance over to where Okoye sat at the helm. She had an amused smirk on her face and winked at Bucky when she caught him staring. Bucky laughed, realizing it wasn’t because she was going by the book, not in the slightest. Apparently, not even she was above riling up Tony.

As the jet began its descent, Bucky felt the nerves in the pit of his stomach increase with each passing second. There was no turning back now, he couldn’t run away if he wanted to. Besides, Okoye wouldn’t hesitate to drag him by the back of his neck if he tried to bolt. Not that he would.

After a smooth landing, Bucky shakily stood to go to his bag. He’s been on missions where he might never return home from, faced villains that would turn anyone’s blood cold, but this- seeing everyone after how he left things. This was terrifying. He tried to tamp down his nerves and push aside the bubble of uncertainty that rose in his throat.

“I hope you don’t mind. Peter and his friends have invited me out to go see a movie.” He heard Shuri say to her brother. T’challa hummed and walked to the ramp as it lowered.

“I expected you to leave. Take Okoye.” He replied. Bucky slung his bag over his shoulder, grinning wide at the whine from Shuri and the frustrated scoff that came Okoye.

“I’m sorry. Would I be a buzzkill, your majesty?” Okoye asked tartly. Bucky walked up behind them to follow down the ramp, his grip tight on the handles to his bag. Shuri rolled her eyes and sent the older woman an annoyed glare.

“I’m not a child.” Shuri argued. “I don’t need a baby sister.”

“And yet, you were the one that filled the throne room with the chickens that took half the staff and me the entire day collecting.” T’challa replied simply, completely unfazed. Bucky snickered. He might have helped with a few chickens. “Consider this payback for the chicken shit we were covered in.”

Bucky turned to the laugh at the bottom of the ramp, spotting three faces he worried seeing and quickly looked at his feet. Tony stood at the bottom of the ramp, hearing the argument and smirked at the two siblings. Beside him stood Steve and Natasha, both looking excited and happy to see everyone. Bucky couldn’t meet any of their eyes, still too nervous that they harbored some resentment from him.

He hadn’t spoken to any of them since he left, both he and the others agreeing that contact would be nonexistent until he was given the okay. T’challa would occasionally let them know how Bucky was doing, but it wasn’t often. He was supposed to tell them he was coming home, but he couldn’t even find the courage to pick up the phone. Instead, he sent a short email of the news and left it at that. An email, he scoffed to himself. I couldn’t even send them a text.

T’challa stepped away from his sister and greeted Tony with a wide smile and clasped the man’s offered hand in a shake. Bucky heard them say their hellos, a few snips between siblings thrown in here and there. Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to look them over and noticed there wasn’t the one person he hoped would be there. His heart dropped. Y/N was nowhere to be found. T’challa walked off with Tony and Natasha, his sister and Okoye following close behind, leaving Bucky alone with Steve.

Steve waited for Bucky, his hands tucked in his pocket and a gentle smile on his face. Bucky stopped at the bottom of the ramp, his feet refusing to take the last step off.

“How ya doin’ pal?” Steve asked, his voice void of malice and resentment. In fact, he sounded happy to see him. It surprised Bucky. Of all people he expected to hold the grudge, he expected Steve to keep a firm grip on that. Blinking, Bucky swallowed and nodded.

“I’m doing better.” He mumbled. “A lot, actually.”

Steve didn’t say anything. His eyes traced over Bucky, searching for something in his friend. He must have liked what he saw, his smile stretched across his face. Wordlessly, Steve opened his arms and closed the distance, pulling Bucky into a tight hug. All the fear and anxiety left Bucky in an instant, his shoulder sagging in relief. He returned the hug full-heartedly, squeezing Steve in a way to convey his relief.

“We missed you, Buck.” Steve said genuinely as he pulled away. Bucky’s breath hitched and he stared in disbelief at Steve with wide eyes. Steve chuckled and jerked his chin to the hangers' door. “Come on.”

Steve led Bucky through the familiar halls, asking any and all questions pertaining to his time away. Bucky found it easy to slip back into joking with his friend, and the realization that in the last few months before going to Wakanda, Bucky had shut himself away from Steve. From everyone for that matter. He missed his friend.

Bucky knew what Steve meant when he missed him. It was a big topic the therapists worked on in their sessions Steve didn’t mean he just missed him while he was gone, he meant he missed him period. Bucky might have found a lot in Y/N, but he quickly understood he lost a lot of himself along the way by listening to the voices that told him otherwise. Now, he was going to do everything he could to keep from falling on old habits. He had to. There was no way he could put anyone else through this again.

Steve stopped outside the living room, standing off to the side a wide crooked smile.

“We figured you’d want some time to yourselves. Everyone’s going to the lake house Tony bought a few weeks ago for the afternoon. We’ll be back around seven for dinner.” Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder and took the bag Bucky still held. “I’ll go put this in your room. And good luck.”

Bucky frowned at how obscure his friend was being. He watched Steve disappear around the corner before shaking his head. Stepping into the living room, Bucky froze when he saw who was sitting on the couch.

Y/N looked up when she heard him walk in, her heart in her throat. She sucked in air sharply at the sight of Bucky standing in front of her. Her eyes raked over his form, taking in his appearance. He looked good. His skin was bronzed from no doubt being out in the African sun, his hair was pulled back into his signature bun. But his eyes, his eyes were what made her heart soar. No longer did he have the dark bags under his eyes, or the glossed over appearance in his blues. They were crystal clear and staring right back at her with an expression of longing. Y/N’s face burned, and she willed herself to shake off the astonishment and smile.

“Hi.” She said.

“Hi.”

The two didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know where to start. There was a lot that needed to be said, a lot of pain that was between them. Bucky counted to three before inhaling deeply. He waved to the empty spot beside her on the couch.

“Is it oaky for me to sit?” He asked. Y/N nodded and moved over to make more room, tucking her leg to her side and angled to face him. Bucky settled onto the familiar couch, his own matching smile on his face. Y/N knew she missed him when he was gone, but she never realized just how much until he was right there, within reaching distance. She could count his eyelashes, could see the health pink in his cheeks. She missed him so much.

Bucky rubbed a sweaty palm on his jeans and exhaled loudly.

“I uh… I missed you.” He winced at the lame start of a conversation. Thankfully, Y/N didn’t mind. She tilted her head to the side and giggled softly.

“I missed you too.”

Bucky forgot how much he loved her voice. His heart did a funny flip in his chest and it took him all his willpower not to melt into the couch.

“I guess it’s time to address the elephant in the room.” Bucky began. Y/N sat a little straighter, her face dropping to a serious expression. There was no beating around the bush for this one. “There’s nothing I can say to ever express how sorry I am for the horrible way I treated you.”

“Bucky-.”

“No,” Bucky shook his head, his tone firm but gentle. “We can sit here and argue till we’re blue in the face, but I did. I treated you like an object that was mine to keep and hold. I didn’t give you the respect you needed or deserved. I let my fears and insecurities rule my emotions. I thought if I beat them to punch before they could be proven right that I’d win somehow. In the end all it did was hurt the woman I love. And God, I’m so sorry I ever did. You were my rock. You helped me bring me out of my lowest point and I essentially spat in your face.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She glanced down at her hands, listening intently at what Bucky was saying. Bucky, however, was trying to keep his voice from breaking. No amount of therapy could have ever prepared him for difficult this conversation was. It needed to be done, but god if it didn’t sting.

“I don’t know if you could ever forgive me, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided you never wanted to speak with me again.” Bucky finally said after a moment of silence. Y/N’s head snapped up and her eyes went wide. “I just want you to know, I will never, ever allow myself to become what I was ever again. I can’t say I’m fully healed, don’t think I ever will be, but I can damn well promise you that I will do everything I can to keep from going back. I can’t go back. Not to what I had become.”

Y/N couldn’t stop the tears that swelled to her eyes, the conviction and determination he spoke with shook her to the core. She hadn’t seen him in months, seeing him was overwhelming as it was, but this brought the flood of emotions she’d been keeping inside since the day he left.

He wasn’t the only one who went to therapy. Tony and Steve both agreed, that while Bucky might not have been intentionally abusive, he had toed the line rather closely. Of course, both agreed after a day or two to cool their heads that Bucky never meant her any harm. At least not knowingly. Nevertheless, they wanted to make sure Y/N was okay, that she could talk with someone who knew what they were doing about what she went through. Much like Bucky, Y/N found a little bit of determination to not let things go back to the way they were when he would come back home.

She knew her limits and had control of the voice she was finding in herself when she was with him. Her therapist helped her realized that yes, Bucky did hurt her, but he wasn’t bad. This wasn’t him. He was sick and was getting help. Help he willingly went for. She talked through whatever hidden resentment she had and it helped her see things in a new light. She wasn’t the shy quiet woman from six months ago who was too scared to speak up. Now she found a strength she didn’t know she had and Bucky inadvertently helped her find it.

Even at the end of the day, after talking through everything and working past the hurt, Y/N knew one thing. She still loved him. Fully and completely, she was head over heels in love with the man. If anything, this made her realize just how much she missed and cared about it. How seeing him in pain brought her more agony than she could have ever described. Having him here, in front of her pouring out his heart only made that awareness even stronger.

Reaching to take his hand in hers, Y/N scooted closer so that her side was against his. Bucky held his breath, stunned at how easily she moved against him. He expected her to recoil, to tell him she heard enough and had already decided that this, what they had was history. Yet, when she tilted her head back to stare at him, her eyes shown with love and understanding that Bucky never thought he’d ever deserved. He took in a deep breath, his eyelashes fluttering shut when he took her smell. Warm as honey and sweet with a hint of citrus. She smelt like what home was to him.

“Bucky,” Y/N whispered, leaned forward to press her forehead against his. Bucky hummed and opened his eyes. “You weren’t in your right state of mind, the trauma you went through in your past was still fresh and then when you threw in Vivian and her treatment to you? It was only a matter of time before you snapped. I know that deep down you never would have hurt me, but we didn’t have the tools you need- that we needed to get you through this.”

“I still hurt you though.” Bucky interjected. Y/N sighed softly and nodded, sitting back to see Bucky’s face better.

“You did.” She didn’t argue. Bucky’s shoulders dropped and he turned away. Y/N cupped his cheek, bringing his face back to hers with a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “And I forgave you a long time ago. I could never hold something like this against you. We’ve all had those demons in our heads that do nothing but tell us lies and lead us to become worse than what we really are. I only wish we could have helped you sooner before it turned into what it had.”

“How can you just forgive me so easily?” Bucky asked astonished. Y/N tilted her head to the side the smile stretching across her lips at the shocked look on his face. He really didn’t know.

“It’s simple.” She shrugged. “Because I love you.”

Bucky swore his heart exploded in his chest. The hope he had suppressed sparked to life and began to spread. His therapists told him he was still too hard on himself. It’s not that he didn’t believe them, but he wasn’t going to get his hopes up only for them to crash and burn when she’d tell him to leave and never talk to him again. He knew his girl was different, but he really hadn’t thought she was ready to forgive him so soon. The shock hit him, and it was written across his forehead in big bold letters.

“You-.” He stammered, swallowing thickly. “You do?”

“Of course I do.” Y/N laughed and snuggled closer against him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and tugged at his neck so she could press her forehead against his. Bucky’s melted in her hold; his eyes fluttering shut on instinct. No matter how long they’ve been apart, his body never forgot how safe he felt when he was around her. When she started to scratch the spot on his neck behind his ear with her nails, Bucky felt a rumble build in his chest and a blissful grin spreading across his lips.

“I’m not saying I’m willing to just jump back into where we were.” Y/N began softly. Bucky tensed, his eyes fluttering open. “Things have to be different if you want us to stay together. And I’m more than willing to work out anything we need to work out to make that happen. I do love you, and I’m sorry if this sounds a little selfish, but I’m not willing to let you go.”

Bucky let out a breathless laugh, gobsmacked. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her to his sit on his lap. Y/N’s laugh echoed his, a sound he missed hearing the most, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He stared up at her, a light in his eyes that Y/N hadn’t seen in months. She was right of course; this wasn’t going to be swept under the rug and ignored. They had done that for too long before and look where they ended up. He would do whatever he could to show her that there was no going back to six months ago. That Bucky was a thing of the past. Things were going to be different and for the better.

“To be completely honest, I wasn’t willing to let you go either,” Bucky whispered softly. “But I sure as hell wasn’t going to force you to stay with me if you decided you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Oh really?” Y/N smirked. “Just like that? You’d walk away and that be that?”

“Yeah.” Bucky answered truthfully. “If you told me right now you wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, that you wanted me to get out of your life, I’d leave. No questions asked.”

“What? Really?” Y/N inhaled sharply.

“Yeah. I mean, it would hurt like hell, but I wouldn’t want to be the reason for your discomfort. Not anymore.”

Y/N stared down at him, the tears starting to well in her eyes for the second time that night. Bucky frowned, cupping her cheek and brushing the stray tear with his thumb.

“I mean it.” Bucky murmured softly. “You mean everything to me. If you give me another chance, I swear, I will make up for all the shit I put you through and then some.”

Y/N’s stared intently, a little crease starting to form between her brows. Slowly, a smile stretched on her face and she chuckled softly. Leaning forward, Y/N brushed her nose against him and tightened her arms around his neck. Bucky’s breath hitched and his grip around her waist tightened while his smile grew to match her own.

“Then I guess you better start making up Barnes. Cause I’m not letting you go.” Y/N whispered breathlessly against his lips before closing the gap. Fireworks exploded and a rush of euphoria swept over Bucky. He returned the kiss with equal vigor, savoring the taste and feel of his girl against him.

He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this, a woman who loved him despite all his faults and sins, but he wasn’t going to mess this up. Not ever again.

What Have I Done Tag List: (CLOSED)

@slender–spirit / @lilypalmer1987 / @dennnnny-just-wants-friends / @barricade15 / @sarahblueheaven / @aveatquevale- / @starkxpotts / @runnyperson / @neireav / @sgtbookybarnes / @swtwtrgin / @wearemightyghosts / @blushybryan / @alex–awesome–22 / @rebelfleur22 / @joannie95 / @sarcasmoverlordxo / @consumedbyfanfics / @huburtle / @farfromjustordinary / @badassbaker / @shynara51 / @imagine–trash / @robfangirl / @buckywhoops / @sonarsyndor / @ughofcourse / @heartssick / @itsmysticalmystery / @meowchickameow / @ambivalence-is-me / @marvelellie / @lkcarts / @littlephoenix-fire / @heartssick / @xxkimmilyxx / @crist1216 / @sideeffectsofyou / @slender–spirit / @phoenixwintersolo / @misplacedorphan / @diinofayce / @anamcg317 / @kimpun / @darkangeldesignstudio / @misplacedorphan / @otaku-dess / @sarcasmoverlordxo / @thegothicdancer / @withinthewallsofmybrain / @polar-bear-pjs / @scarletsoldierrr / @awesome-hoch-3 / @catsandbooksinafarawayplace / @wishingforahome / @lokissoul / @xxkimmilyxx / @shirukitsune / @hennessy0274-blog /

Let me know if I missed you, the strike means I can’t tag you for some reason.)

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #reader insert #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #marvel fic #marvel #fanfic #winter soldier #What have i done epilogue #ya'll this has been a long time coming #lord have mercy

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redhawtriot · 4 years

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Valentines 💕Weekend 💕(BNHA x Reader)

Part 1: TYPE

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

I was just thinking about this as I was pumping out the matchups and I really wanted to jot them down lol

This is just the first things that came to mind when I thought of what people they probably would gravitate towards during Valentines Day!

Comment whose type you are! I am curious lol

HnM💕

🐒Ojirou: Deep Thinker

I can see him with someone who is really sweet and considerate.

If you say, “remember when…” and then continue to bring up a fond memory between the two of you, he would probably like that a lot. You remembered!

I feel like the poor guy just wants to make a bigger impact.

Their s/o would be the type to remind them of their worth a lot

He would really appreciate a person that would try really hard to get to know him on a different level,

“Would you rather eat 50 tiny spiders or a one big fat juicy tarantula?” He would just look at you with so much confusion but so much LOVE bc Like wtf who asks that?? but he would simultaneously get hit in the feels because you are taking time out of your day to get to know little ol him.

If you’re the type that isn’t very doting, then you’re probably not the best for him.

🎤Jirou: I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T

Wants someone independent, but also who doesn’t have a problem on depending on her.

Like do your thing and live your life, but if she sees you struggling and wants to help you, don’t you fucking dare turn her down.

She would most definitely love it if you were a musician, however If you are not but are interested in music, I could see the two of you having dates with each other where she would teach you how to play guitar.

She needs someone who isn’t too sexual. I feel like she would get annoyed with someone who wanted to have sex every day.

She would much rather spend her time just chilling out with you—existing within each other’s spaces.

If you’re the type that needs constant attention from your s/o when you’re with them, then she prolly isn’t for you.

🥦Midoriya: “I ain’t got no Type”

He is literally a walking, talking puppy dog. He would pretty much like anyone who has well-meaning motives and admirable goals.

You’re loud? Okay you must just be passionate.

You’re quiet? Okay you’re prolly just very pensive

I feel like he is the type that can fall in love with multiple types of people, but they would all have to be the kind of person that makes the first move because woo, chile… he is a nervous wreck. He would probably have an aneurysm in the midst of trying to ask you out, so just take the pressure off of the poor cinnamon roll and do it yourself.

If you’re not the type that likes chasing and would rather be chased, he isn’t for you.

Also get ready to talk about your problems because he is a Cancer and most definitely is willing to deal with emotions.

🐸Tsuyu: Logical

She would certainly like someone who is calm. Bakugou gets on her fucking nerves I can just tell lol.

You can have passion and determination for sure, but she would rather be with someone who carries those attributes quietly, with purpose, rather than boastful.

Like with Jirou, she would probably need someone who would just be okay with existing around each other.

You gotta be okay with her blunt nature.

If you are very sensitive to how people word things to you, and would rather have someone sugarcoat, then she ain’t the one for you, dawg.

💥Bakugou: Ballsy/Not a waste of space

You would have to be persistent as hell to wear down his walls, but not too overbearing or needy. Little things you would do here and there would add up

You would have to solidify yourself as an equal to him as well.

He probably would get annoyed as fuck if you were shy or timid or anything else that he would associate with weakness.

You would have be a person who has their shit together enough to have drive. You gotta have goals in mind and actually be working toward them. He don’t want no scrubs.

I think he would be the type of person to be protective over you, but that certainly doesn’t mean he wants a damsel in distress. You have to be able to hold your own, academically, physically and all.

(Literally just Kirishima whoops)

If you are the type of person who cant speak their mind and is overall nervous or timid you ain’t the one for him.

🏃🏻 Iida: Horse Girl/Guy

He would want someone who is on the same wavelength as him (Lets keep in mind that the wavelength is very hard to come by so he would eventually change his expectations)

He would love if his s/o was as driven as him and held very strong morals.

If you are the kind of person that works out everyday and has a strict diet or color codes your notes and make your own yearly planner or get on Pinterest for room ideas and have a bulletin board in your room with your schedule HAVE I GOT SOME NEWS FOR YOU.

I also feel like he would like horse girls/guys (horse people???) for some reason…

If you’re unnecessarily brash or overconfident or rude you are not the one for him.

😷Shoji: Plain Jane

He probably would want someone who isn’t very chatty, however if you talk a lot, that isn’t a total turn off. He would just want every conversation to have a deeper meaning behind it.

He is also a minimalist so if you are the kind of person who hoards things, you might have to change your lifestyle a bit to be with him.

If you ask questions like, “what is your plan for the zombie apocalypse,” he would certainly entertain this idea and go along with it, trying his best to give you a full, thoughtful answer, but don’t try to make meaningless small talk with him

Also be okay with just existing with each other rather than going out on dates.

If you are extravagant and extra tm then he aint the one for you chief.

😈Tokoyami: Edge Lord

You have to be the kind of person that is okay with his self-deprecation.

You two would make very dark jokes together probably.

If you have ever threatened to gouge your own eyes out or jump off a McDonalds sign to your death Im lookin at you.

Obviously its all jokes—a release to your perpetual state of existentialism.

You would also have to be the person that makes the first move. He would probably get a hint and close the space in between the two of you unlike Midoriya but he would most definitely still need you to make the first move.

He would love it if the two of you could just existent near one another, but would also be understanding if you needed more attention. He would find a happy medium by reading some poetry books aloud to you while you're cuddled up.

👀 Koda: A Soft Boss

You would have to be patient—he has a lot of reservations over pretty much everything.

So he needs someone to be more in charge in the relationship to pull him out of his comfort zone a little.

You have to be okay with being the one in the relationship to kill all of the house spiders (actually probably not kill—more like catch and release)

👣Hagakure: Preppy

You would have to be on pretty much the same vibe as her—energetic, upbeat and unafraid to speak your mind.

She likes people who are overall positive (girl, honestly, idk what else to put for her ass)

🦈Kirishima: One of the Dudes

Manly

You would have to make it very obvious that you were into him. He has a lot of things going on in the little brain of his, so a crush would probably fly over his head. He would just think that he admires you because you're so awesome.

The fact that he wants to hold you would translate into “I wanna arm wrestle them”

The fact that he wants to take you out on dates would turn into, “I want to hang out with my bro.”

You would practically have to scream at him that you wanted him to be more than friends. The friend zone is pretty much an inescapable abyss with this one, so you would have to try extra hard.

If you are the type of person that can sit through hours of action movies and still get pumped during the twelfth high speed chase scene, this might just be your mans.

If you don’t mind him being completely ignorant to your romantic needs at times and you basically just being best friends in your relationship then this might be the man for you.

If you have a habit of lying or a vindictive nature then he isn’t the one for you.

❄️🔥Todoroki: A Therapist

I could see him being with multiple different personalities since he is overall confused with human interaction. I feel like he would be willing to get to know anyone.

You gotta be patient with him though since he takes everything so literal (If you live off sarcasm then it will be super difficult for you)

He would like someone who is very understanding

A good listener, but also can give good feedback.

If you're the kind of person that gets uncomfortable with oversharing or can’t handle when people come to you with their problems all the time he ain’t the one for you.

🎹Yaoyorozu: Cheer-leading Captain

Someone to hype her up, but also lead.

She would certainly certainly be attracted to someone that is of a type A personality. She admires people who are driven and successful, so as long as she sees that you are putting in effort and have a strong sense of determination you're good!

This girl doubts herself so much, so you have to be willing to spend your time hyping her up.

Be willing to try 50 different types of tea.

She would certainly want to go out on dates all of the time, so if you are more of a home body she aint the one.

⚡️Kaminari: Mean Girl/guy

Literally anyone who will give him the time of day, but this boy loves a challenge.

If you are the standoffish, sarcastic, vindictive type then this might be your mans.

He loves rough banter and would totally be the type to pick on you just to see your adorable angry face. He thinks that it ‘spices things up’.

Probably into the more sensual typee of person as well (if you consider yourself a man-eater he would literally fall in love so quickly so be gentle okay? Don’t hurt our pikachu)

I feel like he’s the type of person that would ask you to “Yaaas! Please stomp on my face, kween”

Bonus points if your last name ends in an ‘o’ sound (shinsou, bakugou, jirou, ashido)

He is the type to want to show you off to everyone so if you’re the bashful or timid type then he might not be the one for you.

Mineta: Ew

Moving on… Nothing to see here folks.

🐷Ashido: Two halfs of a Whole Idiot

Needs someone who will hype her up.

You would certainly have to be the one to sweep her off of her feet because I feel like she is so friendly that she just might accidentally friend-zone you without even knowing it.

If you quote vine/tiktoc daily then I am looking at you.

You would probably also live on social media so I could see the two of you being that cute couple on YouTube or Instagram that does silly/sweet things with one another.

If you have a problem with a very loud, obvious relationship then she prolly isn't the one for you.

😴Shinsou: The Mom Friend

He probably wouldn't enjoy someone who was constantly in his face (although if he did end up with someone like this it would be hella slow-burn-- an acquired taste if you will)

He would probably gravitate toward someone who calmly checks up on him and who he could lean on to give him motivational speeches.

This boy is low-key emotional and has low self esteem, so if you are good at reaching through to him then he would certainly fall for you.

I think that he would be the type to eventually become very affectionate and want to take you out on hella dates to (passively) show you off to the world.

If you are hyperactive and loud that might make him close himself off before you can break his emotional wall, so he might not be the one for you.

✨Aoyama: Ego Booster/Ballerina

someone who will believe in him and compliment him (or even just acknowledge his existence actually)

I could totally see him dating a ballerina, because he would be so enamored by their majesty.

Like he finally found someone as magnifique as him, wow.

You would have to be the type of person that is okay with very forward advances.

Like get prepared for “will you go out with me?” spelled in cheese by your front door.

If you cant handle people who chase this hard, then he might not be the one for you.

🎞Sero: Not the Sharpest Tool in the Shed

He is idiot sexual and no one can change my mind

If you find yourself searching your kitchen every five minutes to check if there is new food, walking into a room of your friends to annoy them for five minutes before leaving, or have a album in your phone with over 1,000 reaction pics, I am lookin at youuuuu!

He would most definitely be the person to chase, but he would do it very carefully to test the waters.

He wouldn't chase too hard, so if his advancements would go over your head the first time you're in trouble!

☁️Uraraka: Girl/Boy Next Door

She would fall for a sweet guy/girl.

they would have to be an overall, kind spirit, but still have great goals.

If you're the type of person that can goes “Oh look at the moon!” and then ends up talking about a random topic like Bigfoot or aliens while looking at the stars, I could see her falling for you.

More than anything I feel like she admires driven people, so if you have shaky or unsure morals or goals, she probably isnt the one for you.

#bnha #mha #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha x reader #izuku x reader #todoroki x reader #midoriya x reader #bakugou x reader #kirishima x reader #kaminari x reader #uraraka x reader #iida x reader #shinsou x reader #katsuki bakugou #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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bloodfromthethorn · 3 years

Text

The Weight of Legacy

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

Tag to 1x03 Power Broker, written pre-episode 4. Also on AO3.

Sam knew he should leave it alone. He really, really should. It wasn’t like he and Bucky were on the best of terms and he certainly wouldn’t consider them friends, not the kind who trusted each other with their fault lines. Worse, they were both exhausted, Zemo was still sitting barely three feet away like some ghoulish spectre, and ‘trapped in a tiny tin can several miles above the ground’ was not on Sam’s top ten list of ideal situations to start a conversation that could turn violent but-

But.

Bucky hadn’t said a word in over two hours.

More telling was that since taking himself off to the back of the plane, as far away from all of them as he could get, he hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d tucked himself low to the ground in a tense crouch like he was willing himself to take up less space. Sam wasn’t even sure he’d blinked in the last ten minutes - at first glance, it was as if he’d simply turned to stone while they sat and watched. Stillness and silence were hardly outside of the man’s usual MO, but there was something dark in Bucky’s eyes that went well beyond his normal stoicism and Sam couldn’t deny that it had gotten under his skin.

It could be anything, really. There were a thousand things from just the last few days that could be bothering him: his return to being the Winter Soldier, being poked and prodded like cattle at a market, any number of fights, the way a man had been violently executed two feet in front of his face, the explosion that had followed seconds later… The list went on and on. It had been a shitty few days for them both, but even Sam could admit that Bucky seemed to have got the raw end of the deal during their stint in Madripoor.

And maybe it was none of that either. Nearly a century’s worth of horrifying memories slowly trickling back into his consciousness no doubt gave Bucky plenty of things to keep him up at night, things that would put that blank, desperate despair in his eyes.

But Sam didn’t know and Bucky wasn’t talking. Whatever else Sam might be - whatever else Bucky might be - Sam had worked with a lot of veterans who had shit to deal with and he might be perhaps the only person in the world currently in any position to help the man in front of him. It was the same reasoning that had led to him trying to keep in touch with Bucky when he was settling down in New York - not that it had amounted to anything in the end. The man had never once replied to his texts, no matter how directly he was asked a question. Maybe Sam should have taken the hint.

He had enough sense to wait until Zemo had absorbed himself with whatever it was he was reading - Sam thought he should probably care, but he was about 12 hours past exhausted and honestly the details were just going to have to wait a while - before he climbed achingly to his feet and wandered over to sit opposite his silent companion.

“You doing okay?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to him, not quite meeting his gaze. He gave a sharp nod and said nothing.

Sam should really leave it alone. He sucked in a deep breath and reached for calm. “Any injuries I need to know about?”

A head shake. He couldn’t more obviously be looking to be left alone, and in any other circumstance, Sam would listen to his instincts telling him to back off and leave the highly dangerous predator to his business. As it was, he scrambled for a topic that seemed like it might be safe ground. “That book of yours. That was Steve’s right?”

They both knew that it was, even though Sam had barely caught half a glimpse of it when Bucky had snatched it back from Zemo, never to be seen again. Wherever the man had squirrelled it away on his person, it seemed pretty clear that no one else was going to be able to get anywhere near it again for some time.

This time the look Bucky shot him was measured, assessing, and his nod more curious.

“Steve gave it to you?”

“He thought I might need it,” Bucky said eventually, his voice much too quiet to carry over to Zemo.

“To help you integrate with the 21st Century?”

Bucky’s gaze dropped, his expression souring. “Maybe.”

Honestly, Sam had only asked about the book because he’d thought it might act as a decent stepping stone into a conversation on what was really going on, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d managed to somehow hit upon the problem with his first shot. “You think it was something else?”

Bucky twitched, then his expression went blank like a veil had been drawn across his face. “What is this? I said I was fine.”

“Yeah, that was a thing that you said. What, you want me to pretend I believed you?”

For a tense moment, it looked very much like Sam was about to either get yelled at or hit, but Bucky’s therapist must have been doing something right because he backed himself down less than a heartbeat after the irritation had risen in his eyes. He took a measured, slow breath and fixed his eyes on Sam’s chest instead. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I was just talking.”

“Then, if it’s all the same, I was hoping for some peace, okay?”

It was likely hopeless. Sam had been good at helping the folks at the VA, but those were people who had wanted to be helped; Bucky- he looked like he didn’t have the first idea what he wanted.

He still had to try.

“C’mon man, what’s eating at you? I don’t need superpowers to know something’s up, and we both need to be on our game for this one.”

Playing the duty card was a low blow, but it had the intended effect: Bucky didn’t soften at all, but he didn’t get any angrier either. “I’m just tired Sam. Drop it.”

He sighed. “Alright then. Tell me about that book of yours.”

“It’s just a book.”

“It was Steve’s, you carry it with you, and you nearly crushed Zemo’s throat when he got his hands on it. It’s something more than just a book.” There wasn’t an immediate response, so he pressed. “He said there were names in there?”

Bucky didn’t look as though he had any intention of replying, but despite himself his mouth twisted. “My sins,” he murmured.

“People you hurt when you were the Winter Soldier.”

“Yes.”

“People you’re looking to make amends to?”

Bucky twitched again, looking deeply unhappy for a split second before he smoothed out his expression. “Or for.”

That was- a lot, honestly, and it was far too much to try to get into when they were on Zemo’s plane, of all places. So instead, Sam went for the path of least resistance. “Does it help?”

He shook his head very slowly, eyes far away. “I don’t know.”

“So why do you do it?”

“Part of my court-ordered therapy.”

It was clear he wasn’t lying, exactly, but Sam had an idea it wasn’t nearly as simple as he wanted to make it sound. No doubt whatever it was was something tangled up with Steve and even if Sam had any idea how to even begin to help him work through that, he could not have more obviously been the wrong person to try. From the moment they’d set out Steve’s legacy had been lying between them like a field of broken glass, and Sam had exactly zero intention of tearing himself to pieces trying to cross it just to help a man who didn’t want him around to begin with.

Maybe this conversation really had been a bad idea after all.

“I meant to say,” Bucky said suddenly into the uneasy quiet that had descended upon them, his eyes finally landing on Sam’s face and sticking there. “Thank you, for before. I know how much you hate this.” He gestured vaguely towards where Zemo appeared to still be enraptured by his book.

It would have been easy to use the admission to hurt him, to make a dig at his rusty personability, the way Bucky was very obviously expecting him to, but even in his worst moments Sam hoped that he wouldn’t ever be that cruel. Instead, he blinked in surprise and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Well, you weren’t wrong. We did need him. And his help has been invaluable, even if I don’t want to admit it.”

Bucky dipped his head in acknowledgement of the indirect praise. He didn’t look better than he had before Sam had approached him precisely, but his shoulders had at least relaxed back down from around his ears and he was no longer trying to press himself into non-existence in the corner. In the face of it, Sam felt himself softening.

“How are you holding up?” He asked quietly, tilting his head in Zemo’s direction. “Having him around sucks for me but I’ve gotta assume it’s worse for you.”

Bucky shrugged. “He’s a means to an end.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

“I don’t. But that’s the job.”

Sam hesitated for a split second, trying to weigh up his options. A large, loud part of him wanted to grip Bucky by the shoulders and shake him, remind him that it didn’t have to be any part of his life if he didn’t want it - in fact, there was a not insignificant number of people all around the world who had been desperately hoping that when James Barnes shook off the mantle of the Winter Soldier, he’d get out of the game altogether and retire to civilian life. If he’d had to bet, Sam would have guessed that was the very reason Steve had given him that book.

But Bucky had already spent far, far too long living in a way that other people wanted him to.

“Maybe it is. But if we’re doing this, it’s gonna be our way, alright? Walker, Zemo, Morgenthau, all of it.”

Bucky’s mouth curled up in an unamused smirk, his eyes cold. “Like Madripoor was?”

He leaned back, out of Sam’s space, to pillow his head against the wall behind him. The dismissal was obvious, but Sam wasn’t about to let the defeated belligerence of his tone stand without comment.

“Okay, yes, we made mistakes. A lot of them. But we also found out what we needed to know and because of it, we’re a step closer to keeping people safe. That’s not nothing.”

Bucky didn’t reply, just watching Sam as he considered what he’d said. Unreadable as he was, it was impossible to know if he was swayed by the argument, but either way it was obvious that he was done talking. Convenient, really, since Sam was pretty sure his own patience was just about to run dry.

“Good talk, man,” he said, clapping a hand against the immovable curve of his metal shoulder as he pushed himself as upright as he could get in the cramped space and headed back towards his seat. He’d tried; if Bucky wanted to spend the rest of the flight uncomfortable on the floor then that was his decision. “Get some rest.”

Still and silent, Bucky just watched him leave.

#tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier #my fanfic #fanfiction #my fics #bucky #james bucky barnes #sam wilson #the falcon #winter soldier #1x03 power broker #episode tag

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elizabear · 3 years

Text

body language will do the trick

OK, so I know this is going to be fully AU in about five seconds when The Falcon and the Winter Soldier airs, but those couples counseling scenes in the trailer got me WAY TOO EXCITED and I really couldn't help myself.

Title: body language will do the trick

Rating: Explicit

Category: M/M

Relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes (background Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff)

Additional tags: frenemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, couples counseling, because sam and bucky can’t stop flirting at work, post-avengers endgame, but it’s au because, steve rogers isn’t old, and natasha romanoff lives, captain america sam wilson, shield agent bucky barnes, past steve rogers/bucky barnes, but it’s minor, bucky and sam fall in love, but COMPETITIVELY, oral sex, anal sex, tender railing, idiots in love, praise kink

Words: 12,598

Link to AO3: here

Summary:

“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”

Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”

Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.

“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.

Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.

Bucky Barnes is pretty sure that these counseling sessions—supposedly for Bucky and Sam’s “interpersonal issues”—are Director Fury’s revenge for that whole fake assassination situation. Which, to be fair to Fury, came about as the result of Bucky’s very real assassination attempt, even if the subsequent “assassination” was fake, so Bucky can’t exactly blame Fury there. What Bucky doesn’t understand is why their possibly-fake counselor—is she a real counselor, or just another one of Fury’s spies?—chooses to conduct her “therapy” sessions in the unlikely and frankly suspicious location of an underground bunker.

Dr. Carson’s therapy bunker is probably just a temporary location, since usable office facilities with running water and electricity are still pretty limited after the Blip, but Bucky was definitely under the impression that modern American therapists’ offices were supposed to be more soothing than this. He’d expected a bland but tasteful space filled with a cushy sofa and watercolor paintings and the calming sounds of nature recordings. Instead, Bucky and Sam are sitting in uncomfortable chairs in a dim room with bare cement walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting. Is Fury even trying to sell this fake counseling op?

Bucky and Sam’s counselor/interrogator is most definitely hostile. Although Dr. Carson looks lovely in her delicate green silk blouse and expensive silk scarf, her expression is stern and sour. She’s styled her glossy dark hair neatly, in gentle waves that summon a distant memory of the way women used to wear their hair in the 1940s, and Bucky wonders if this is Dr. Carson’s authentic style or if it’s just part of another SHIELD spy game, meant to trick or manipulate Bucky into confiding in Dr. Carson because she looks familiar and nonthreatening.

Bucky considers it an insult to the memory of Peggy Carter if Fury thinks he could’ve worked with Carter for two years in the SSR and still underestimate a woman just because she has nice hair and a pretty outfit.

Also, if Dr. Carson’s trying to lull Bucky into a false sense of security, why is she doing it in this weird basement?

Honestly this whole counseling thing really does seem like it’s secretly just a poorly planned interrogation.

Like right now. Dr. Carson asks, “Are you having a staring contest?” and Bucky isn’t going to disclose valuable intel by admitting that while Sam is definitely having a staring contest with him, Bucky is just using this as an excuse to look into Sam’s eyes, which are warm and brown and make Bucky feel all sorts of confusing things. Bucky is trained to resist interrogation, and that piece of information definitely falls under the category of “unexpected and alarming potential weaknesses.”

Also Bucky’s still sort of figuring out how he feels about Sam’s whole eye and face and shoulder situation, so the staring contest is actually a pretty great cover for whatever the fuck is really going on with him. Half of successfully surviving an interrogation is letting your captors fill in the blanks themselves and then pretending like their waterboarding is the worst thing you’ve ever endured.

Unfortunately, while Bucky is congratulating himself on successfully maintaining operations security—and winning their staring contest, no reason he can’t do both at once—Dr. Carson seems to reach her limit for the amount of shit she’s willing to endure from them today.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” Dr. Carson shoots them with a hard glare. “I’m giving you a five minute break, and if you’re not ready to open up and work on your communication and compatibility issues, I’m going to have to advise Fury to put you both on leave.”

Bucky’s fine with being put on leave, and he’s fully prepared to wait out SHIELD, Fury, and Dr. Carson. It took HYDRA fifteen years to break him down enough to send him out on missions, and no matter how much they tortured him Bucky didn’t shed so much as a single tear until they showed him newspaper headlines about what a bad pilot Steve turned out to be.

Also, Bucky’s not entirely sure that he’s not actually immortal, so he figures his patience will probably far outlast Fury’s determination to punish him for shooting him a few times when he didn’t even die. Actually, now that Bucky thinks about it, Fury’s probably less mad about the whole fake assassination thing than he is about Steve forcing him to offer Bucky a job and then grit out the most begrudging apology Bucky has ever heard in his life for SHIELDRA holding Bucky hostage as a brainwashed assassin while Fury was the Director of SHIELD. Right in front of Captain Marvel, too, Fury’s favorite Avenger, who had looked very disappointed in him. Apparently Danvers had her own history as a superpowered amnesiac brainwashed into working for the bad guys? Bucky’s unclear on the details, but when Danvers’s mouth tightened and her head shook in dismay, Nick Fury’s shoulders had slumped like a chastened schoolboy.

God, Steve is such a dick sometimes. Bucky loves him so much.

Dr. Carson’s high heels make clipped little clicking noises that speak volumes about her frustration with them as she strides purposefully out of the room. As soon as she closes the door, so firmly that Bucky can just tell that she had to have put conscious, controlled effort into not slamming it behind her, Bucky turns to Sam with a satisfied grin.

“Well, I think we’re doing great,” Bucky says. “SHIELD’s going to have to work a lot harder to get any real intel out of us, and I was definitely promised that they wouldn’t be using any drugs or brainwashing techniques this time so I think we’re going to nail this whole interrogation.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “This is therapy, man, not an interrogation. We’re supposed to be, like, opening up and becoming a better team.”

“Yeah, well, if this is real therapy then where are the goats?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow toward the most likely location of the nearest camera as if to say gotcha, Fury, your goatless fake therapy interrogation tactic isn’t fooling me.

“I’m sorry, goats? Why would there be goats?”

Bucky leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. “I’m just saying, in Wakanda I always got to hang out with animals when I did therapy. And look how great that turned out! I hardly ever kill anyone anymore, and when I do it’s on purpose because I decided to. Anyway, I really feel like this is all just a plot by SHIELD to find out why we—”

Bucky and Sam bicker for a while about whether or not this is real therapy until they’re interrupted by Dr. Carson’s return, her face looking a little damp now, like maybe she spent her time away from them splashing water on it and doing some deep breathing exercises in the bathroom.

“OK,” says Dr. Carson, visibly relaxing her spine. “We’re going to take a new approach. Have you heard of the five love languages?”

Sam’s eyes widen in horror. “No, we are not doing the five love languages.”

Bucky hasn’t heard of the five love languages, but he can tell from the look on Sam’s face that they definitely don’t want to do this, and Bucky’s pretty good at improvising when he needs to. “Oh, you know, I think HYDRA already implanted the five love languages in my brain when they were doing the rest of the Romance languages. So we can just skip those, I already know them.”

Bucky offers Dr. Carson his blandest and most innocent smile, the same one that sometimes worked on Sister Mary Angela back at old St. Charles Borromeo, but Dr. Carson’s face remains as stony and unmoved as the church itself, still standing in Brooklyn Heights in the year of our Lord 2023. Instead she says, “I think we need to take a couples therapy approach.”

“Couples therapy,” Sam repeats, sinking lower in his chair. Bucky winces as Sam’s knee starts to crush his balls.

“According to this file,” Dr. Carson says, opening it up to read aloud, “the two of you are here because your colleagues have complained about your, quote, romantically-charged bickering, your constant flirting, and your unnecessarily sexual sparring.”

Dr. Carson punctuates these damning statements with some truly savage air quotes.

“Listen, when I slap Sam’s bare ass in the locker room after a good sparring session it’s with purely collegial respect for a worthy opponent,” Bucky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I only ever treat Sam with the same level of professional respect I give Steve and Natasha.”

Sam nods in support. “Steve and Natasha never have a problem getting sweaty and physical with us, and I’ve personally witnessed Steve and Natasha slap Bucky’s ass dozens of times.”

Dr. Carson raises a single judgmental eyebrow. “Don’t you think there might be a reason why Fury’s banned the four of you from using the gym at the same time?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “The other SHIELD agents get intimidated by Sam’s shredded abs and Steve’s and my super strength. Plus everyone’s scared of Natasha.”

Dr. Carson closes her eyes and visibly counts to ten. Bucky can see her mouth forming the words.

“All right, we’re just going to move on here, because I’m really only able to deal with just the one dysfunctional relationship at a time.” Dr. Carson passes them some worksheets and pencils. “I want you to fill these out, honestly, and then hand them back to me when you’re done.”

Bucky reads over the worksheets, which are filled with questions like, “Do you like it more when your partner reacts positively to something you’ve accomplished or when they do something for you that you know they don’t particularly enjoy?” There are a lot of questions about hugging, and holding hands, and Bucky gets distracted trying to picture holding hands with Sam, who has big hands, strong and capable and—

“Stop trying to copy my answers,” Sam says, when he notices Bucky glancing over at the way Sam grips his pen as he fills out his worksheet. Sam shoves his knee harder into Bucky’s crotch and Bucky stifles a gasp.

“I’m not!”

“Bucky, stop cheating.” Dr. Carson presses her lips together in a severe frown.

Bucky scowls and scooches his chair back several inches. It makes a loud scraping sound as it drags against the cement floor. But before going back to filling out his form, Bucky gives Sam’s ankle a sharp kick for getting him in trouble with Dr. Carson, and the two of them engage in a brief but brutal silent kicking war below the front of the desk where Dr. Carson can’t see.

When Bucky and Sam finish their kicking war and their quizzes, they hand their worksheets back to Dr. Carson for grading and rub their shins as they wait.

“Bucky, your primary love language is words of affirmation, and your secondary love language is physical touch,” Dr. Carson announces. “And Sam, your primary love language is acts of service, while your secondary love language is quality time.”

Bucky frowns. On the one hand, he feels like he’s received some pretty valuable intel about Sam that he could use to his benefit. But on the other hand, he’s probably given up some valuable intel of his own. He wishes there hadn’t been so many questions that made him think about hugging and touching Sam—somehow those made him so distracted that he forgot to respond with lies.

Bucky’s stomach knots up a bit at the thought of Sam learning his potential weaknesses, but really, how much of a psyop could Sam possibly launch with the results from a couples counseling questionnaire? (Natasha could probably execute a successful psyop based on the information from a Buzzfeed quiz meant to reveal your “celebrity mom,” so Bucky really hopes Sam doesn’t talk to Natasha about this.)

“Your homework is to try to learn to speak each other’s language.” Dr. Carson stands up and walks around the desk to touch Bucky’s shoulder. “Good job today, Bucky.”

Bucky smiles, and the knot in his stomach releases a bit. He is so nailing this therapy thing, he knew he’d be better at it than Sam.

Dr. Carson helps Sam back into his coat as she ushers them toward the door, and Bucky’s pretty sure she’s meant to be modeling an act of service except that mostly it seems like she’s just trying to rush them out of the office.

“See you next week.” Dr. Carson smiles stiffly, like she is not at all looking forward to seeing them next week. Her expression is full of determined professionalism right up until the click of the door latch, and then Bucky hears a dull thudding noise that is pretty unmistakably the sound of Dr. Carson hitting her head against the doorframe.

“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”

Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”

Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.

“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.

Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.

***

They’re on a mission together the next day, battling some Doombots in New Jersey, and wow is Sam committed to this whole words of affirmation thing.

When Bucky deflects a punch aimed straight for Sam’s head with his vibranium arm, Sam whistles and says, “Nice save, man, you’re killing it today.” Warmth rises up in Bucky’s chest at Sam’s praise, and Bucky is filled with panic and dismay when he realizes that the fight to squash it back down is honestly more taxing than their battle against Doombots. There’s absolutely no reason Bucky should be having such a physical reaction to basic battle camaraderie.

When Bucky stretches his leg up above his head to nail one of the bots with a vicious kick, Sam smirks and gives him a distinct how-you-doing sort of nod. “That was—seriously hot, man. Have you been doing yoga or something?”

So apparently Sam is choosing to interpret words of affirmation as “wild flirtation,” and Bucky’s cheeks are choosing to betray him by radiating at Sam’s attention. Bucky knows there’s a flush spreading down his neck, and he’s hoping Sam will attribute it to exertion from the fight, because there’s no way Bucky can let Sam know that Sam’s sort of winning at their therapy homework—not when Bucky’s entire mental health journey and, like, the honor of the Wakandan animal-assisted therapy program is at stake.

But after they board the Quinjet and set the autopilot on a course back to New York, Sam gives Bucky a slow up-and-down perusal with his eyes, and Bucky feels Sam’s gaze like a physical touch. “You look really good after a fight, Buck. That messed up hair and pretty pink blush are giving me all kinds of ideas.”

Bucky’s cock twitches at that, and huh. Bucky blinks and looks down at his crotch.

So that’s working again.

A dirty smirk spreads across Sam’s face, like maybe Sam knows exactly what just happened inside Bucky’s pants, and fuck, this whole situation is spiraling rapidly out of Bucky’s control. Like, yeah, Bucky kept Sam from getting a pretty gnarly concussion, and that was probably an act of service, right? But it’s pretty clear, to both of them, that Sam is winning this competition, and Bucky is not about to go down without a fight.

Which is—an idea.

Bucky drops to his knees in front of Sam and bites his lip in a way that he knows, instinctively, will make him look hot. Sam inhales sharply in response, and Bucky reaches up to grasp Sam by the hips before he can take a step backwards. The material of Sam’s uniform bunches up and shifts under Bucky’s hands, and fuck, Bucky’s cock is aching now, throbbing and filling up in his tight uniform pants. Bucky forgot he could feel so good.

“What are you doing,” Sam protests in a half-assed sort of way.

“Servicing you,” Bucky replies with a wicked grin, sliding Sam’s zipper down slowly over his thickening cock. Bucky can’t remember if he’s done this before, but the way his mouth waters and his throat aches in anticipation makes him feel pretty fucking confident about how this is going to go down.

But before Bucky can pull Sam’s cock out of his briefs, Sam slides his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tips his head gently backward, using his other hand to tilt Bucky’s chin up to look into Sam’s face. Sam’s pretty brown eyes are already darkening with arousal, but his expression is serious.

“You don’t have to suck my dick for therapy, man.”

Bucky huffs. “Sam, this is the first time my dick’s been hard since 1945. Do you know how many times Steve’s let me watch him jerk off trying to heIp me get hard again? I am definitely not doing this only to win at therapy, pal.”

Sam’s hands freeze in Bucky’s hair and his cock swells visibly in his briefs. “I’m sorry, Steve let you do what now? Dude, I thought Steve was straight.”

“Oh, he’s definitely, like, straight-ish,” Bucky assures Sam, with a little so-so wave of his hand that hopefully conveys the correct amount of ambiguity there. “He’s mostly just a really great friend.”

Sam’s eyes close for a long moment, and then Bucky’s scalp stings when Sam clenches his fist in Bucky’s hair and pulls. “Jesus,” mutters Sam, his voice gruff and husky. “Yeah, OK, baby. Go ahead and suck my dick.”

Bucky’s heart pounds as he pulls Sam’s cock out of his briefs and licks a wet stripe up the length of it, groaning at the feel of Sam’s skin under his tongue. Sam tastes salty with sweat, and his scent is musky and thick after their fight with the Doombots. Bucky teases him for a while, the way he’s seen people do in porn, trailing wet kisses along the shaft and mouthing at the head, and Sam lets out a ragged moan when Bucky’s mouth finally engulfs him. Bucky’s feeling pretty cocky about this, loves the rush of power he feels as Sam’s hips twitch and jerk to keep from thrusting into Bucky’s mouth—but then Sam fucking escalates shit, because Sam is an asshole.

“Christ, you feel good,” Sam murmurs, reaching down to rub his thumb against Bucky’s mouth, stretched wide around Sam’s cock. “You look so pretty with my dick in your mouth.”

And then Bucky’s the one moaning, eyelids fluttering shut and heat coursing down his spine at the sound of Sam’s husky voice. Bucky should have expected Sam to counter his act of service with more words of affirmation, but somehow he wasn’t prepared for the unbearable ache he’d feel at Sam’s dirty talk. Bucky feels inexperienced, outclassed at this sort of sexual warfare, and the only way he can retaliate is by sinking as far down on Sam’s cock as his throat will allow him. He reaches up to grab Sam’s hips, urging him to fuck his mouth, and then he hums a little inside his head to try to tune out the sound of Sam’s praise.

“Fuck,” says Sam. “God, that’s it, baby. You take it so well, Buck. So fucking good for me.”

Bucky whines, his jaw aching, eyes filling with tears as Sam’s cock stretches his mouth open. Sam keeps offering him filthy praise as he slides his mouth up and down Sam’s thick cock, and Bucky doesn’t know why this is doing it for him when all of Steve’s pale skin and strong thighs and big dick couldn’t, but maybe seventy years of torture and captivity have left Bucky with a few new kinks. Or maybe Bucky’s just healing or whatever. Bucky honestly doesn’t care, as long as Sam keeps letting him fill his throat with Sam’s dick.

Sam’s voice is rough when he says, “God, you fucking love it, don’t you,” and Bucky pulls off Sam’s cock just long enough to nod eagerly and gasp for air before diving back in. “Take your dick out, baby. I want you to come sucking my cock.”

Bucky’s rhythm stutters at that, his hand reaching down to pull his cock out of his uniform pants. He wants to be so fucking good for Sam, wants to come just how Sam says, wants Sam to keep telling him how good he looks, how much he loves fucking Bucky’s mouth, how much he likes giving it to him.

Sam’s praise grows hotter and filthier as he gets closer, and Bucky whimpers as he feels his own orgasm approaching. God, he hasn’t come in so long, hasn’t felt that hot rush and that familiar ache in his balls in forever and he wants it, wants to come, he just needs—

“Come on, baby, come for me, I know you can do it, just keep sucking my cock, God, you look so good, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

And Bucky spirals over the edge, cock pulsing and spilling over his fist. He lets out a choked moan around Sam’s dick before his mouth is flooded with bitter, salty fluid. And then Bucky feels so fucking full, like he could drown happily in Sam’s smell and his taste and his fucking words of affirmation.

Fuck.

Bucky definitely did not win that round.

***

The whole blow job thing was an outstanding idea, really, one of Bucky’s best. But fuck, he did not anticipate Sam using that as an opportunity to completely turn the tables and affirm the shit out of him. Bucky can’t help but privately acknowledge to himself that Sam is completely winning at love languages so far.

They’re in counseling the next week, still in Dr. Carson’s depressing therapy bunker, and honestly, Bucky can’t imagine that this setting is good for, like, anybody’s mental health. His therapy in Wakanda always took place outdoors, under the warm African sun, surrounded by the wild, earthy smells of mud and animals and Lake Turkana. It made him feel open and free and connected to nature or whatever. It was peaceful.

Therapy at SHIELD is not very peaceful, especially because Dr. Carson clearly hates them, and she isn’t at all impressed by what Bucky considers some very impressive progress by them. Bucky and Sam are getting along.

“So,” Dr. Carson begins, apparently deciding to just start right off with more hurtful accusations from their colleagues, “according to Carl from the gun range, the two of you have been subjecting your coworkers to your, quote, uncomfortable bickering-slash-foreplay, and Maria Hill reports that you’re still, quote, cluttering up comms during missions with the most embarrassing flirting I have ever heard, I hate it so much.”

Dr. Carson’s air quotes are fucking vicious.

Despite the fact that they’ve only just started their session, Dr. Carson looks tense and aggravated already. She’s wearing another pretty silk blouse today, but her earrings don’t seem to match and it looks like she didn’t bother to curl her hair today. Maybe she just realized that Bucky wasn’t fooled by those forties waves?

Also, even though it’s Friday, Dr. Carson’s giving off a very Monday sort of vibe.

“Sam and I are working on it, OK?” Bucky says, with a mulish set to his jaw. “Obviously I’m doing my best here, but it’s hard to do therapy in a cement basement that gives me flashbacks to 1970s HYDRA facilities where I was tortured. And there aren’t even any pets at all to comfort me. Didn’t you receive the note from my Wakandan therapist stating that I require animals during therapy?”

A blood vessel in Dr. Carson’s forehead throbs, and she raises her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I’ll see if I can get us a room upstairs for our next session, but I’m telling you for the last time that we don’t have any therapy goats.”

“Well, I don’t have any issues doing therapy without goats,” Sam says, like the worst sort of teacher’s pet. God, Sam’s teachers probably loved his charming smile and his quick wit and his stupid handsome face. “Maybe Bucky is using the goats as an emotional crutch.”

“Listen, goat therapy works, OK?” Bucky counts out on his fingers as he lists the many examples of real progress he’s made since his time as a goat farmer in Wakanda. “I started off as an amnesiac brainwashed assassin, and now I have a steady job, a haircut, an apartment leased under my own shell companies, and I only kill people when I want to kill people now. And I wash my hair regularly. And if I don’t wash my hair, I use dry shampoo. And I don’t turn into a mindless killing machine when people speak Russian at me.”

“Dude,” Sam says.

“Anyway, it’s fine if you’re not as good at therapy as me.”

“Not as—not as good at therapy as you? Man, I am a certified peer specialist. I was so good at my own therapy that they let me give other people therapy,” Sam says, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Yeah, in America, where they’re not even familiar with things like advanced goat therapy.” Bucky clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Did you even keep up with your continuing education requirements while you were fugitives with Steve?”

Sam sinks lower in his seat and frowns. “No. But speaking of Steve,” Sam says, perking up a bit as he follows a new thread of argument. “Whose PTSD recovery was so complete and inspirational that Steve Rogers trusted them with the responsibility of carrying the Captain America shield, hm?”

“Listen, Steve is reckless as shit and he’s so irresponsible with that shield that he’s constantly losing it in rivers and getting it broken by alien supervillains,” Bucky points out. “I’m so recovered that the king of an entire country, a man so responsible that they put him in charge of running literally everything in the most advanced nation on the planet, trusted me with a prosthetic arm powerful enough to crush the skull of an ordinary man with a single blow. Probably even his skull, and he’s been enhanced by some weird plant that makes him even stronger than Steve.”

“Yeah, well, I’m so recovered that—”

Dr. Carson interrupts them here, pinching the bridge of her nose. “OK, listen, I think there’s actually something pretty interesting here in how you each relate your recovery to your ability to wield weapons. Why don’t we stop bickering and discuss that a little further?”

“Yeah, OK,” Bucky mumbles.

Sam sighs heavily. “Fine.”

***

So the blow job thing is working perfectly—like, so perfectly, God, Sam’s dick is amazing—except for the fact that Sam is able to talk the entire time. Words of affirmation spill from Sam’s pretty lips every time Bucky swallows his cock, and Bucky is still fucking losing the love languages competition.

It’s time to create a Pinterest strategy board to figure this thing out.

Bucky is a visual planner, and he believes in tactical flexibility. He might not remember a lot about sex, but there’s tons of porn on the Internet. He just needs to find a couple of ways to service Sam while Sam’s mouth is otherwise occupied. How hard could that be?

After a lot of research and the creation of several Pinterest mood boards, Bucky calls Steve down the hall to his apartment to help him out. They all live in the same building since it has the best security in the city—and Bucky and Natasha are very particular about security—and it makes sense for the four of them to basically live together when they already spend all their time together. When Steve arrives, they head right to Bucky’s bedroom, get undressed, and survey the porn board on Bucky’s laptop.

“OK, so what about sixty-nine,” Steve suggests. “Let’s try that.”

They get themselves into position, mouths hovering over each other’s flaccid dicks like totally normal best friends.

“See, I feel like this works, but is it really servicing Sam if he’s, like, servicing me at the same time?” Bucky flops over onto his back in frustration and worries at his lower lip with his teeth.

Steve nods and tilts his head in thought. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Depending on the grading rubric, the two acts might cancel each other out. How about rimming?”

“I feel like rimming is a great idea, and I definitely want to do that, but how do I shut him up while I do it?”

Steve frowns. “Can you reach up and cover his mouth with your hand? Hold on, let me bend over and we’ll see.” Steve gets on his hands and knees, tilting his ass up for Bucky to simulate a rim job.

“You know, your ass really is kind of amazing.” Bucky takes a moment to admire the jewel of Howard Stark’s empire. “I mean, it was cute as hell when you were little too, but Scott Lang definitely wasn’t wrong in that podcast episode about which superhero has America’s ass. Don’t tell Sam I said that, by the way.”

“Thanks, pal,” Steve says, flashing Bucky a quick grin. “Your ass is great too, Sam’s a lucky guy. Now bend over and pretend to rim me.”

Bucky leans down and uses his hand to cover Steve’s exposed hole, then presses his mouth against the back of his hand to simulate a rim job. He reaches forward with his other arm to see if he can put his vibranium hand over Steve’s mouth. He could—maybe? If he releases the catch on his shoulder?

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Bucky says with a frown. “Here, maybe try getting on your back and holding onto your legs?”

“Like this?” Steve asks, shifting gamely into position. Bucky folds him over and pretends to rim him while covering Steve’s mouth, which—works, actually. And this is probably the most erotic scene Bucky’s ever been a part of—Steve really does look incredible like this—so it’s kind of a shame that it does absolutely nothing whatsoever for Bucky’s dick.

Except then Bucky pictures Sam in Steve’s position, bent over and whining under Bucky’s vibranium hand, and Bucky’s cock gives a little twitch. Fuck.

Bucky sighs and releases Steve with a short nod. “Not bad, pal. I think this one’s gonna work. Let’s write it down.”

They test out a few more positions, taking careful notes on the comfort and degree of mouth coverage of each one. Bucky finds a few more pictures to add to his Pinterest board, and they sort through every image and assign them to the correct position number. Then Bucky and Steve print off their pictures and tape them to Bucky’s wall for inspiration, mapping out a sequence of actions that will lead to orgasms for both Sam and Bucky with a minimum amount of talking on Sam’s part.

Which is a shame, really. Sam’s dirty talk really does it for Bucky.

Still nude, Bucky and Steve stand in front of the vision board and assess the plan.

“I think position two is really going to work,” Steve says, stroking his chin, and Bucky’s brain flashes back to an image of Steve in pretty much this exact pose, assessing a map of HYDRA facilities in Western Europe with no less gravity and passion. God, Steve Rogers is a great fucking friend. “And if you really want to service the guy, I mean, you’ve already got him all loose and open. You might as well give him your dick too, right?”

Bucky nods in agreement. “Yeah, I mean, as long as I keep kissing him, he won’t be able to affirm me too much. I think this really is the winning scenario.”

“Great teamwork, pal,” Steve says, slapping Bucky’s bare ass. “This was fun! Just like the old days.”

Bucky smiles wistfully. “Yeah, there’s nothing like planning an op with The Man With the Plan. Hey, you want to grab dinner after this?”

“Nah,” Steve says, too-casually, angling his pelvis away from Bucky as he pulls his pants back on. “I think I’m gonna go see if Natasha’s busy.”

Bucky grins. “Give her my best.”

“Will do. Love you, pal,” Steve says, giving Bucky a quick kiss before he leaves.

Steve doesn’t bother putting a shirt on before he goes, and Bucky can hear him whistling cheerfully all the way down to Nat’s apartment.

***

Steve and Bucky’s plan was great, so naturally it goes to shit as soon as Sam gets involved.

Bucky’s sucking Sam’s dick, which OK, yeah, wasn’t technically in the plan, but God, Sam’s got such a great dick. How far behind can Bucky really fall in the standings from just one blow job?

“Your mouth feels so fucking good, baby,” Sam says, sliding his long fingers through Bucky’s hair—which Bucky washed before he came over, because he is killing it as a recovered assassin and also because this afternoon Sam grabbed his hips and leaned in, breath hot against Bucky’s ear, and murmured how much he wants to smell Bucky’s shampoo on his pillows tomorrow morning.

Which was both smooth as hell and very convincing. Bucky immediately bought like three more bottles of that shit and accepted Sam’s invitation over to his apartment that night.

So now they’re in Sam’s apartment, and Bucky’s sliding his mouth along Sam’s cock, and Sam’s telling him how much he loves the way Bucky sucks him, loves the way Bucky’s pretty face looks with Sam’s cock in his mouth, lips slick with spit and tears leaking out of his eyes. And then Sam says—

“Are you gonna let me fuck you tonight, baby? Gonna let me see how well you take it?”

And before Bucky knows it, he’s moaning around Sam’s cock and nodding his head, and Sam’s pulling a condom and lube out of the side drawer, and then Bucky’s face down on Sam’s bed, gasping and clenching around Sam’s long fingers.

When Sam finally turns him over and pushes inside him, Bucky feels his brain just—fully vacate his skull. Pleasure buzzes up and down Bucky’s spine like an electric current, and he’s only barely conscious of the wet-sounding gasp that comes out of his mouth when Sam finally slides all the way home.

Sam gives it to him slow and sweet, fucking into him at a dreamy, leisurely pace as Bucky grabs fistfuls of Sam’s sheets and scrabbles at any leverage he can get to try and push back against Sam’s cock. Bucky wants Sam to grab his hips and pound him hard, overwhelm him with stimulation and keep him from sinking under the gentle wave of that languid rhythm. It’s too intimate, too vulnerable, and Bucky’s chest is cracking wide open for Sam to look inside. He’s a little afraid of what Sam might see within him, but instead Sam’s expression is full of awe, his face open and tender as he runs a thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, so fucking sweet for me.”

There’s a lot of eye contact after that, and romantic face touching, and Sam telling Bucky how much he loves the way he feels, loves the way he looks and smells and tastes. Warmth pools deep in Bucky’s gut, spreading through his veins like the burn of whiskey, until Bucky feels like he’s going to burst into flames around Sam’s cock. Instead he comes, long and hard and messy, all over his stomach.

Sam’s eyes are hot as he looks down at the sight of Bucky’s abs covered in pearly fluid, and then he slams his hips into Bucky three more times, hard, before groaning and collapsing on top of him.

Fuck, Bucky thinks.

He takes a few minutes to catch his breath, and then suppresses a half-hearted sigh when he realizes that he completely blew the plan. Like, yes, that was some fucking amazing sex, Sam gave him the dicking of a lifetime, but somehow Bucky ended up even further behind in the love language competition. How does Sam keep winning?

It’s too late now to offer another act of service. Even if Bucky could get it up again, Sam definitely couldn’t.

Shit.

But wait, what was Sam’s secondary love language? Quality time? Perfect.

Bucky rolls over to give Sam a few open-mouthed kisses on his shoulder. Sam is sweaty from exertion, and he tastes salty and amazing. God, Sam is the best.

“You mind if I stay the night, sweetheart?” Bucky murmurs.

Sam’s lips curve up in a soft and pleased smile. “Yeah, baby, I was hoping you would.”

“C’mere, you can be the little spoon,” Bucky says, reaching around Sam’s waist to reel him in, and Sam huffs out a surprised grunt and then a happy sigh when Bucky wraps his arms and leg around him.

They fall asleep within minutes, and it turns out Sam really was into the smell of Bucky on his pillows because they fuck again in the morning, and this time Bucky forgets to keep track of who’s winning at therapy homework.

***

They fuck constantly after that, which is amazing, but unfortunately Bucky is still staying in this game only by the skin of his teeth. Like, yes, Bucky is performing acts of service for Sam on the regular, but somehow Bucky finds his self-control dissolving like sugar melting into caramel when Sam spreads him out under his dirty mouth and his clever hands.

So now when Sam collapses on top of him at night, fucked out and shaking, Bucky nuzzles his face into the back of Sam’s neck and wraps his arm around him to pull him close. Bucky stays the night, every night, and at work he sticks to Sam more tightly than one of Steve Rogers’s t-shirts. But the more quality time Bucky offers Sam, the more acts of service Bucky ends up performing—which, sure, sounds like a plan that would put Bucky pretty solidly in the lead, except for how Bucky always ends up a sobbing, needy mess dripping onto Sam’s sheets while Sam smirks and tells him how good Bucky is for him.

They fight together even better now, in sync in a way that Bucky hasn’t felt since he worked with the Howling Commandos, and when they finish a skirmish they turn to each other, flushed and grinning, flying high on adrenaline and oxytocin and arousal. They kiss savagely, mouths wet and open, and they don’t care who hears them pant and groan over the comms.

“God, you were so fucking hot—”

“Sam, yes, god, please—”

Bucky and Sam have died and come back to life already this year and somehow they’re still bringing each other back to life. Bucky swaggers through SHIELD headquarters with champagne flowing through his veins, bright and bubbly, and Fury yells at them twice for passing dirty notes to each other during briefings. They’re obnoxious about it, obvious and messy and shameless, and Bucky’s pretty sure that Maria Hill is going to resign in protest if she has to work surveillance for even one more of their ops.

Somehow they’re generating even more complaints to HR than before.

***

Dr. Carson has finally managed to find them a room with a window for their counseling sessions. They’re on the fifth floor, and there’s not much of a view—just the brick wall of the building next to them—but sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains and highlights the cut ridges of Sam’s frankly incredible cheekbones. God, Sam’s so fucking handsome.

Bucky and Sam are grinning broadly, but Dr. Carson looks stressed out and irritated today, even though they just started the appointment. Her hair is stringy and a little greasy at the roots, and Bucky wonders if Dr. Carson knows about dry shampoo. He isn’t sure how to ask, or if it would be rude to offer her a few sprays from the travel bottle he keeps in one of the pockets of his tactical pants? She’s still wearing a nice silk blouse, but it looks like she’s buttoned it incorrectly, and the tail is hanging out of the top of her slacks.

Are those even slacks? They kind of look like yoga pants.

Privately, Bucky thinks that an outsider might be hard pressed to figure out which of them was supposed to be the mental patient here. Are Bucky and Sam actually driving this woman insane?

“So you’re sleeping together.” Dr. Carson’s tone is flat and dismayed. “You know this is against SHIELD employee regulations, don’t you?”

She taps her pen against their folders in agitation, and Bucky wonders if those folders are their actual permanent records. Does Bucky’s folder still have all of the notes from Sister Mary Angela about his “distracting” and “unnaturally close” relationship with Steve? God, Sister Mary Angela hated Steve.

Sam waves a careless hand and props his ankle up on his other knee. “We’re independent contractors, and Steve and Natasha made sure that our contracts didn’t include any kind of anti-fraternization policies. They were extremely thorough about it.”

Dr. Carson sighs heavily, and it looks like she’s doing literally everything in her power not to roll her eyes. Instead, she tips her head back and looks at the ceiling, probably hoping to roll her eyes where Bucky and Sam can’t see them. “Nevertheless, the two of you are still required to be discreet and professional when you’re at work. We’ve received complaints from several of your coworkers about your behavior in the last week. According to Carl, you’ve been bringing, quote, unwanted and uncomfortable sexual energy to the workplace.”

Bucky scoffs. He knows how to handle this sort of situation. “Listen, I didn’t lose my life fighting Nazis so that a little homoerotic banter and ass grabbing would get me in trouble at work. And anyway, this is how Captain America and I behaved at work back when we were fighting fascism and defending the free world—in the 1940s, even!—so I can’t imagine that somehow you’re just not allowed to give each other friendly hand jobs in closets in 2023. If anything, I should be able to give Sam a friendly hand job outside of a closet. Those are exactly the kinds of freedoms I fought and died for.”

Sam nods in support and says, “That’s a great point, Buck,” and Bucky feels warmth curling in his belly before he realizes, fuck, Sam’s doing it again, and right in front of Dr. Carson too. Jesus, Sam is so good at therapy. “And it sounds like Carl might be just a tad bit homophobic. Maybe we should be complaining to HR about him. You know, I didn’t serve during the long years of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell just to hear—”

“Carl is happily married to his male partner of thirty-seven years,” Dr. Carson states, clenching her jaw. Bucky has literally fought people to the death who look less bothered by his general existence. “Also, you didn’t actually die fighting Nazis, Agent Barnes.”

“It was a metaphorical death,” Bucky defends, because this is important to him. “The old Bucky Barnes died in that ravine. We went over it all in my therapy in Wakanda, the most scientifically advanced country in the world. What even are your credentials and where are your goats?”

“I have a Bachelor’s degree in psychology from Harvard and doctorates in clinical psychology and neuroscience from Oxford. I was a Rhodes scholar, I’ve received a MacArthur Fellowship for my work in PTSD and polytrauma in returning veterans, and I literally wrote the textbook for most Introduction to Psychology courses.”

Bucky waves his dismissive hand at this. “Yeah, well, Sam did eighty hours of coursework and an eighty hour practicum to become a certified peer counselor. Plus he has experiential knowledge, which is more important than book learning. Also, Sam isn’t HYDRA. Are you HYDRA?”

The wood in Dr. Carson’s pencil cracks a bit under her hand. “I’m not HYDRA.”

“But, like, would Nick Fury know if you were HYDRA?” Bucky presses.

“That’s an excellent point, baby, you’re killing it in therapy today.” Sam pats Bucky on the thigh and then leaves his hand there, bare inches away from Bucky’s cock, and Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from moving his hips or making any noises. “Nick Fury would definitely not know if Dr. Carson were HYDRA, his Nazi-finding track record is, like, dismal at best. I vote that we suspend therapy until there’s been an independent investigation into whether or not Dr. Carson is HYDRA.”

“You can’t suspend therapy,” Dr. Carson says, her expression pinched. “These counseling sessions are mandatory.”

“Look, we’ll keep doing the love languages thing as a show of good faith, and once the investigation’s concluded we’ll come back so you can decide which one of us is winning at therapy,” Bucky says. “In the meantime just, like, prepare to have all of your secrets uncovered and all of your loved ones and ex-boyfriends questioned extensively about your most private and intimate memories.”

Dr. Carson covers her face with her hands. Is she trying to muffle a scream?

“For the last time, no one wins at therapy,” she grits out.

“I mean, I think I’m pretty obviously winning,” Sam says. Bucky tips his head in reluctant agreement. “Anyway, we’ll talk to Natasha and Steve about the HYDRA thing since they actually know how to find Nazis. If Steve and Nat clear you, then Bucky and I will agree to let you judge which one of us is winning the love languages competition. In the meantime, it would be nice if you could get some therapy pets for Bucky. He likes animals. Goats might be a bit unreasonable for downtown D.C., but I’m sure you could rustle up some cats or something, right?”

Bucky hums. “I like dogs better.’

“All right, cool. Dr. C, get us some dogs.” Sam raps two knuckles against the desk. “Bucky and I are going to go to the gym to work out a bit. Bucky’s shoulders are looking really good lately.”

“Sam!” Bucky hisses, squirming a bit in his seat. “Not in front of Dr. Carson!”

“Sorry, baby,” Sam says, holding out a hand to pull Bucky up out of his chair. “See you next week, Dr. C!”

***

It hasn’t exactly escaped Bucky’s notice that Natasha has been avoiding him ever since Bucky and Sam started their love languages competition, so when Bucky sees Steve walking alone down the hallway toward his office, he reaches out from the broom closet where he’s hiding and yanks Steve inside.

“Is Natasha helping Sam win the love languages competition?” Bucky hisses.

There’s no real reason that they need to have this conversation in a broom closet instead of Steve’s office, but Bucky’s feeling nostalgic today, and Steve doesn’t seem at all bothered to suddenly find himself in a broom closet with Bucky.

“I mean, probably?” Steve says with a shrug. “It seems only fair, since I’m helping you. Also her dirty talk has really leveled up lately, and that’s probably not a coincidence. Why, what’s Sam doing?”

“He’s, like, constantly flirting with me. And the touching! God, Steve, I’m horny all the time now. And you wouldn’t believe the things he says to me in bed! Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on all the sex routines you and I’ve choreographed when Sam’s telling me how pretty I look with his cock in my mouth?”

“Natasha is definitely helping him then—she says that to me all the time when she’s using her strap on,” Steve says, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Are you sure you can’t keep it together enough to service him without getting distracted by his words of affirmation?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, his cheeks growing hot. “You have no idea, Steve, like Sam just gets so filthy. I know my brain’s been fried like an egg and I don’t actually remember a lot about sex, but I don’t think people talked like this in the ‘40s, right?”

“I mean, you and I shared a bedroom in an apartment with paper thin walls and then spent a few years in a warzone. There’s not much opportunity for dirty talk when you’re just doing your best to get off without waking anybody up,” Steve says. “But that does give me an idea. Sam’s secondary love language is quality time, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“So date him! You may not have the sexual repertoire of someone who’s watched hundreds of hours of modern porn or even someone who remembers much about having sex before like three weeks ago, but you do know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing.”

Bucky’s forehead wrinkles. “Do I, though? Do I still know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing?”

“I believe in you, pal.” Steve claps him on the shoulder and then looks around the broom closet thoughtfully, taking in the dirty mop and the shelves of cleaning supplies and filthy rags. “You’re honestly not even doing a bad job of wooing me right now. Want to trade hand jobs for old time’s sake?”

Bucky shoots Steve a withering look. “I’m not wooing you right now, Steve, you’re just easy. Go find Natasha if you’re horny.”

Steve shrugs. “Eh, it was worth a shot.”

***

Two months later, once Steve and Natasha have completed Dr. Carson’s background check and confirmed that she isn’t HYDRA, Sam and Bucky return to therapy. Even though Dr. Carson hasn’t seen them in months, she looks pinched and irritated, and the deep wrinkles in her forehead and the sudden explosion of gray in her hair make her look as though she’s aged five years since she started giving them therapy.

Bucky frowns and squints in suspicion. “We haven’t gotten Blipped again, have we?”

“What?”

“You just look—” Bucky gestures toward her hair and the bags under her eyes.

Dr. Carson’s expression shifts from exhausted indifference to polite fury, and Bucky’s just about to apologize when Sam gestures toward the floor under the window and says, “Hey, look at that! It’s about time you got Bucky a therapy puppy, you know that his doctors in Wakanda strongly encouraged it.”

When Bucky follows the line of Sam’s arm, he sees the cutest puppy in the world sitting in a fuzzy little dog bed with pictures of bones on it. Bucky gasps in delight. “He’s so cute, Sam, look at his little face!”

The puppy’s face is perfect, with big brown eyes and a short little snout with a tiny black nose. When he wags his tail, his little butt wiggles and Bucky wants to die about it. He loves this puppy so much.

“I’m naming him Paddington after my favorite movie,” Bucky declares.

“I love it,” Sam says immediately, pulling out his phone. “Put him in your lap so I can get some pictures for Steve and Natasha. They’re going to be so jealous when they find out that we got to have a dog in our therapy.”

Sam and Bucky spend the next ten minutes playing with Paddington and taking photos of the two of them with their adorable new therapy dog while Dr. Carson rubs her forehead like she just fucking knew this puppy would be a distraction.

“I think we should get started,” Dr. Carson interrupts, glancing pointedly at her watch.

“Yes, perfect!” Bucky pulls a small notebook out of his back pocket. “OK, so let me catch you up on everything we’ve done to each other since our last meeting, and I especially want your input on the scoring system that Sam and I have developed—”

Bucky and Sam spend the next half hour recounting their every interaction over the past couple of months in explicit, pornographic detail while Dr. Carson repeatedly clenches and unclenches her fists. When they spend ten full minutes alone on the rim job Bucky gave Sam last Saturday, Dr. Carson’s eyes go distant and glassy like a shell shocked veteran of the Great War or something. Bucky has literally seen torture victims make less of an effort to dissociate from their surroundings than Dr. Carson right now.

Honestly, who would have expected a therapist with thirty years’ experience to be so faint of heart? It’s absolutely critical to Bucky and Sam’s scoring system to determine whether Sam let out a “choked moan” or a “strangled gasp” while Bucky ate him out, and Bucky doesn’t appreciate Dr. Carson’s frankly lackluster participation when they stage a reenactment of events to try and settle the matter. She doesn’t even seem very decisive when she finally renders her judgment, like maybe she just doesn’t care what kind of sound Sam made, even though it was the most erotic noise Bucky’s ever heard in a hundred years.

When Sam concludes his argument for why words of affirmation during sex should count for more points than praise at work, Dr. Carson sighs heavily, looks off into the distance for exactly ten seconds, and then states, “I think we should discuss how you two can erect boundaries between your work relationship and your sexual relationship.”

Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow at Dr. Carson’s audacity. “Do you really feel like you’re qualified to counsel us on that particular issue?”

Dr. Carson’s jaw clenches. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, after everything that went down between you and Dr. Fitzgerald back in Philadelphia, I hardly think—”

Dr. Carson’s face whitens like curdled milk. “How did you find out about that?”

“Remember Natasha’s background check? Anyway, I’m just saying that it’s a tad bit hypocritical of you to suggest that Bucky and I shouldn’t be fucking during work hours, I mean, Bucky isn’t even married—”

Dr. Carson bites her lip so ferociously that she draws blood. “Bucky may not be married, but he is technically your subordinate, and that means there’s an uneven power dynamic to consider here—”

Sam smirks like he’s fucking Benjamin Matlock and he knows he’s just one pointed question away from making the guilty party break down and confess right there on the witness stand. (Bucky makes a mental note to ask Sam later why he and Natasha always snicker when Bucky and Steve get together to play cribbage and watch Matlock on Sunday afternoons.) “You mean like the uneven power dynamic at play between you and that doctoral student whose dissertation committee you chaired at UPenn?”

Dr. Carson gasps, and her face turns as red and furious as Sister Mary Angela’s that time she caught Steve’s skinny arms nailing a copy of Martin Luther’s Ninety-five Theses to the heavy wooden door of St. Charles Borromeo.

Bucky’s mind wanders a bit at that memory. God, Steve Rogers really was such a bad influence—maybe Sister Mary Angela was right about their distracting and unnaturally close relationship. Because of course Bucky couldn’t leave that stubborn asshole to face Sister Mary Angela’s wrath alone, so Bucky had ended up confessing to abusing his powers as editor of the student newspaper to let Steve use the school’s small printing press. Bucky emerged from the experience with an ass that burned for a week and a few uncomfortable new kinks.

Now, Bucky looks speculatively over at Sam’s strong hands and shifts in his chair.

“I just remembered, Sam and I have something really important to do,” Bucky announces. “So we’ll see you next week, right? OK, cool. C’mon, Paddington!”

Bucky grabs Paddington’s cute little dog bed and Paddington hops down from Sam’s lap to follow them out of the office, his tail wagging happily as he trots along beside them. God, Paddington is so fucking cute, Bucky cannot believe what a great dog he is.

Dr. Carson calls out after them through gritted teeth. “You’re not supposed to take the therapy dog with you!”

“Sorry, what?” Sam shouts back, cupping his hand around his ear. “I can’t hear you!”

“Bucky, I know you have super hearing!”.

“Sorry, I’m a hundred and six years old and I left my ear trumpet at home!” Bucky raises his hands in an exaggerated shrug to convey the hopelessness of trying to communicate at this great distance of about forty feet.

“God, I need a fucking vacation forever,” Dr. Carson mutters.

***

Later, after Bucky and Sam collapse against Sam’s sheets in sweaty exhaustion, Bucky mentally tallies their points and comes to the frustrating conclusion that Sam is still absolutely wiping the floor with him in this love languages competition. God, how is Sam so good at everything? He’s so fucking handsome and charming and athletic and just, like, absolute dynamite in the sack—

God, no wonder Bucky’s losing. There’s no way he can win this competition with his dick alone. Time to channel Tommy Dorsey and play it from the heart.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky murmurs, leaning up to nuzzle his nose against Sam’s jaw. “Let me cook you dinner tonight, doll. Wanna treat you right.”

“‘M not your doll,” Sam grumbles. “But yeah, OK.”

Bucky kisses Sam’s shoulder and plots.

Three hours later, Bucky and Steve survey Bucky’s dining room with the smug satisfaction of Scarlett O’Hara stealing her sister’s fiancé to get her greedy hands on his general store and sawmill.

“I think we nailed it, pal,” Steve boasts. “This looks just like your date night mood board.”

“I mean, I feel like half the credit should go to Pinterest user donkeydick2004—who would’ve guessed that he’d have such a sensitive soul.”

Bucky’s dining room table is covered with rose petals sprinkled over Bucky’s mother’s best lace tablecloth, liberated from the archives of the Smithsonian along with the rest of the contents of Steve and Bucky’s old Brooklyn Heights apartment. Two lit candles rise proudly from the gleaming silver of Sarah Rogers’s candleholders—the only wedding gift she’d managed to save from the pawnbroker during those lean years of Steve’s childhood—and the Victrola crackles with the smooth tenor of Enrico Caruso singing an aria so romantic it once brought a tear to the clear, flinty eye of Bucky’s father. Bucky’s grateful now that the Barneses were a Victor Talking Machine Company family—those Edison wax cylinders decayed faster than American democracy after the invention of Facebook.

The first time Bucky saw the familiar red logo of that Caruso record again—faithful Nipper the dog, his head tipped toward the horn of a gramophone playing the sound of his dead master’s voice—Bucky drove straight out into the desert and screamed until he was hoarse.

And now tonight Bucky’s using that very record to romance the shit out of Sam Wilson, so Nick Fury and Dr. Carson can fuck off with their so-called “therapy” because Bucky Barnes is doing great.

Steve clears his throat and gives Bucky a meaningful look. “You know, if this is all just some competition between you and Sam, you didn’t have to drive out to Maryland to dig all of our most personal and intimate memories out of storage for this dinner.”

Flustered, Bucky replies, “You have no idea what a canny opponent Sam is! Every time that man talks, my heart flutters and my stomach’s all full of butterflies. Besides,” Bucky says, “my grandfather paid fifty extra dollars to get the Circassian walnut veneer put on that old Victrola—he would haunt me if I didn’t ever use it, Steve.”

“You know your Aunt Margaret spit on her own father’s grave when your grandfather left that Victrola to your dad instead of her?”

Bucky laughs. “Is that why they had that big falling out? I couldn’t remember.”

“Peggy said that your Aunt Margaret wrote Howard Stark a letter every month until the day she died demanding the return of that Victrola.”

“Well, I hope that greedy old hag is looking down at me right now,” Bucky says, shaking his head in disbelief. “She deserves to watch me seduce my gay lover with that Victrola, it serves her right. You know she called you a fairy once?”

Steve gestures toward the intimate tableau featuring all of Bucky’s most precious memories and dryly states, “Well, as long as you’re clear on spite as your motivation for all of this.”

Bucky bites his lip as a sudden fear strikes him. “Do you think Sam’s going to like the chicken? People still roast chicken, right? It’s not just, like, sushi and gluten free vegan desserts nowadays?”

Steve opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Paddington dives off the sofa like he’s responding to an Avengers Assemble alarm—which, oh my god, could Paddington wear a little outfit and come with the Avengers on ops? Bucky needs to look into this immediately—and dances around in elation when Bucky opens the door to reveal Sam, who is looking fine as hell in a lavender button-down and navy trousers.

And Bucky’s heart is—honestly not reacting much differently than Paddington right now.

“Aw, hi, baby!” Sam says, leaning down to pet Paddington and scratch him behind the ears. When Sam’s finished giving Paddington the attention he so richly deserves, Bucky’s pulled in for a long, heartbreakingly tender kiss that sends a shiver of want down the entire length of his spine. Sam and Steve exchange their own greetings while Bucky surreptitiously reaches up to rub at the goosebumps prickling at the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.

“Steve, you’re going to be OK watching Paddington tonight, right?” Bucky’s voice is threaded with the justifiable suspicion of someone who has known Steve Rogers for a lifetime.

Steve’s mouth drops open in offense. “Yes! Bucky, I know how to watch a dog.”

Bucky lifts Paddington’s tiny body and curls his arms protectively around him. “OK, well, Paddington is the most important thing in the world to me, and you are literally the least responsible person I know, so.”

“What? Bucky, I’m—that’s—I’m Captain America. I’m famously responsible.”

“Sam is Captain America, Steve. I feel like you’re not moving on. Also my brain might be a giant lump of small curd cottage cheese now, but I still remember that you’re a reckless idiot.”

Sam gives Steve a sharp look of his own and says, “Steve, Paddington is very important to Bucky’s therapy and also to our therapy as a couple—” Sam pauses, then adds, “of coworkers. So make sure you give him his favorite treats, but don’t give him too many treats, and make sure he doesn’t pull the squeaker out of his stuffed alligator—”

Bucky and Sam lead Steve to the door while Sam continues to debrief Steve on all of Paddington’s most important feelings and preferences. “You should really be writing all of this down, Steve,” Sam says with a frown.

Steve sighs. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“All right, well, if we pick him up in the morning and he has an upset tummy, I will literally kill you, and Sam—the trustworthy Captain America—will be my alibi,” Bucky says.

Sam nods in solemn agreement.

Bucky and Sam part from Paddington with identical expressions of worry as Steve walks him down the hall to his apartment.

As soon as Steve’s door closes, Bucky is all over Sam, pressing him against the wall and skimming his lips over the warm skin of Sam’s neck. God, Sam smells incredible, like tobacco and vanilla and oiled leather, and somehow the masculine scent of him travels down Bucky’s windpipe and directly to his cock.

“Hi,” Bucky breathes.

“Hey, baby,” Sam murmurs, tipping his head back to let Bucky’s lips trail along his throat to his jawline. Bucky’s just getting really into it, his hips pressing insistently against Sam’s, when the timer for the oven goes off.

Over dinner, Bucky and Sam talk and laugh about their coworkers as the candlelight does frankly amazing things for Sam’s bone structure. Bucky squirms in his chair and tries to will away the flush he can feel spreading up his neck when Sam compliments Bucky on the romantic lighting and the beautiful place settings. Fuck, he’s supposed to be giving Sam quality time here, and instead Sam’s using that quality time to offer Bucky more words of affirmation. Bucky’s not really ready to concede this battle just yet, but he’s definitely starting to craft a defeat narrative for himself about the lack of shame in being beaten by the best.

And Sam is definitely the best.

“That chicken was incredible.” Sam pats his stomach and groans in satisfaction. “You know that’s just how my mama always makes it?”

Bucky wonders if it would be weird to divulge that he actually broke into Sam’s mother’s house to sneak a look at her recipe cards. That’s normal intelligence gathering, right? Bucky made sure Sam’s mom was out of the house when he entered, and afterward he sent a team of security specialists to give her a better alarm system setup—”compliments of SHIELD, ma’am”—when he realized that her house was way too easy to break into. And Bucky’s dad always said to leave things better than you found them, so if anything Sam’s mom is probably safer now than she was before the world’s most legendary assassin crept into her house to rifle through her personal belongings.

He feels like Natasha would agree with him but he also feels like Natasha is probably just as batshit insane as Bucky and Steve are. Bucky has literally no normal friends and he should probably start spending more time with Sharon Carter.

After dinner, Sam looks relaxed and sated, his eyes warm and heavy-lidded as he watches Bucky shiver under his praise. “You know you have a praise kink, right?”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky says, and tries to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Steve and I did a ton of research and watched, like, hours of porn together. We figured it out.”

“You and Steve have some serious boundary issues.” Sam shakes his head and grins in amusement. “But seriously, though, you’re not just hooking up with me because you imprinted on me after I made your dick hard or something, right? I mean, I remember the first time I got a boner after being deployed. I cried like a baby, so I get it, man, but—”

“Actually, I sort of wanted to talk to you about that,” Bucky says, his stomach swimming with nerves. This is the moment he’s been anticipating and dreading since he planned this whole date night op. “I was thinking—how would you feel about taking this competition to the next level?”

Sam’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I just think we’d both have more time and energy to devote to this competition if we were competing, you know, exclusively.”

“Ah.” Sam’s expression clears and a slow smile spreads across his handsome face. “You want to be boyfriends.”

“I want to be boyfriends,” Bucky confirms with a decisive nod.

He may be losing this love language competition by about a hundred and fifty points, but Bucky still has some fight in him yet. And between work and sex and co-ownership of Paddington, Bucky’s already spending so much time with Sam that there’s no real way to increase the amount of time in “quality time”—but he can improve the quality of that time. If Bucky and Sam are boyfriends, Bucky figures, all that quality time should automatically count for more points than the quality time they spend together as coworkers with confusing feelings for each other, right?

Bucky’s lungs burn as he holds his breath held in anticipation of Sam’s response.

“Yeah, let’s be boyfriends,” Sam says, with a grin tugging at his lips.

Bucky’s heart soars in victory.

***

Bucky and Sam have decided not to bring Paddington with them to any future therapy appointments just in case Dr. Carson tries to take him away like Cruella de Vil.

This week, however, Dr. Carson shows up their session with a whole new vibe. Instead of striding imperiously into her office in her usual stern fashion, Dr. Carson blows in fifteen minutes late with the casual energy of a high school senior during the last week of school. She walks over to her desk, flip-flops slapping against her feet, and reclines back in her chair to prop her feet up onto the polished surface of her solid oak desk. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie like a suburban mom in an airport waiting to fly down to Miami for a Caribbean cruise.

“So how’s it going this week, boys?” Dr. Carson asks, slurping from the straw of her Big Gulp soda.

“Um, great.” Sam eyes her cautiously. “Bucky and I are boyfriends now.”

“No shit!” Dr. Carson says, and tilts her head back to squint down at them. “Huh. What do you know about that.” Then she shrugs. “Tell me how it happened.”

So Bucky and Sam tell her every detail of the last week, including the way they tenderly made love after Sam agreed to be Bucky’s boyfriend. Dr. Carson is clear-eyed and engaged the entire time, even during the five full minutes Sam devotes to the ripple of Bucky’s abdominal muscles as he strains toward orgasm, and Bucky’s just starting to think that maybe they can get some real therapy out of Dr. Carson when she says—

“So Fury’s transferring me to Hawaii.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. “What?”

“Yup.” Dr. Carson burrows deeper into her chair and lets out a relaxed sigh before taking another loud sip of her soda. “This is our last session!”

“So do we have a new therapist after this, or?” Sam waves his hand uncertainly.

“Nah, I’m just gonna go ahead and tell Fury that you guys are doing great. You’ve officially graduated therapy.”

Bucky chokes on air. “Excuse me, what? We graduated therapy?”

“Sure, why not?” Dr. Carson says with a lazy shrug. “Despite literally all of my expectations to the contrary, it seems like you guys have actually formed a stable partnership. Just, you know, maybe stop fucking so much at work.”

Bucky scoffs. “Listen, I didn’t give my life fighting Nazis in World War II—” he begins.

***

After Bucky and Sam’s appointment with Dr. Carson, Sam receives a text asking him to meet Fury in his executive suite.

Bucky heads back to his own office—his real one, buried deep within the bowels of SHIELD in a secret interrogation room someone bricked up the entrance to and then forgot about years ago. Bucky discovered it while crawling through the air ducts to place surveillance equipment in the offices of Nick Fury and the major SHIELD department heads. Once Bucky disposed of the mummified body he found inside—which, wow, super gross—it made the perfect private office space and server room.

Bucky opens his surveillance software just in time to hear Fury tell Sam that Bucky broke his best therapist.

“Dr. Carson is a highly trained professional at the top of her field,” Fury says, his voice stern. “I had to offer her a fifty percent raise to lure her away from private practice, and now I’m sending her away from D.C., where all of my elite agents reside, to Honolulu, which is where I send all the useless nepotism agents I’m forced to hire by the World Security Council. I don’t know what Barnes did to that woman but he just cost me a very experienced and expensive mental health professional.”

“And what makes you think Agent Barnes is at fault?”

“Dr. Carson is obviously not at liberty to divulge any specifics about what was said during your therapy sessions, but she did note that your bickering was ‘maddening’ and that she, quote, hadn’t even realized it was possible to overshare during therapy. She also indicated that Barnes instigated an invasive and traumatizing background check that caused her a great deal of personal distress.’”

“Given Agent Barnes’s history with SHIELD, I think it’s perfectly understandable that he may have sought reassurance that Dr. Carson wasn’t an agent of HYDRA.” Sam’s voice is bland and pleasant. “It’s hardly Agent Barnes’s fault that Dr. Carson turned out to have a surprisingly messy personal life.”

“Be that as it may, I’m suspending Barnes from active duty until he passes a second psych eval from another therapist.”

“With all due respect, sir, Agent Barnes has been nothing but cooperative in this retaliatory investigation into his mental state. He’s a skilled and creative fighter, a selfless and generous partner, and a brilliant tactician. He deserves to be treated with the same respect as any other SHIELD agent who hasn’t shot you.”

Jesus Christ, is Sam offering Bucky words of affirmation even when he’s not there to hear them? What kind of love language master is Sam? God, how can Bucky possibly compete with this?

Fury’s voice is strangled. “Retaliatory?”

“Yes,” Sam says firmly. “As far as I’m aware, Agent Barnes has cleared all mandatory psychological evaluations and then some. If you have a problem with his—or my—behavior in the workplace, I suggest you carefully review our employment contracts and initiate the appropriate disciplinary proceedings. In the meantime, I will be continuing with Agent Barnes as my partner. There will be no suspension.”

The sound of Fury’s office door slamming shut is unexpectedly erotic.

By the time Sam slides through the secret passageway into Bucky’s office, Sam looks calm and collected, like he hasn’t just returned from facing down a man with the power and authority to send him to one of a half-dozen black sites so secret they probably exist on other planets.

“So how’d the meeting go?” Bucky asks, suppressing a grin.

“Oh, it was fine,” Sam says with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “We don’t have to do therapy anymore.”

Bucky lets his smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah? No more retaliatory investigations into my mental state?”

When Sam realizes how Bucky must have overheard that remark, his eyes widen in delight. “I’m sorry, did you bug Fury’s office? Bucky Barnes, you crazy asshole, I love you so fucking much.”

Bucky freezes. Sam loves him? Adrenaline and exhilaration race through Bucky’s veins, spreading through his entire circulatory system until he feels like he’s going to buzz right out of his skin. For the second time in Bucky’s life, he’s been flung straight over the side of a cliff, except this time Sam has wings to catch him. God, this is why they call it falling, isn’t it?

Bucky is feeling so fucking affirmed right now. He has never felt so affirmed in his entire life.

And Bucky’s lost that stupid competition now, hasn’t he. There’s no way Bucky can compete with that declaration, no way he can pull off a victory after Sam just earned himself, like, fifty million points—but when Bucky looks at Sam’s gap-toothed grin, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s secretly won after all.

And he does have one last, best card to play.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky says, with a wide grin, “how do you feel about moving in together?”

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