#and she was also the best experience I have EVER had in a therapy session in my life and I’ve been to a lot of therapists | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

its-time-to-write · 9 months

Note

hi i love your work.

can i get touch deprived reader with jamie or roy

you totally can! It just comes at the low, low cost of way more words than you bargained for. Fair warning, Jamie isn’t even introduced for a good solid chunk of the first half. I also have been touch deprived so this is based on personal experience lol.

I feel like I let this get away from me in the same way the Vienna fic got away from me😂

sinking into your worn out mattress

It’s the same routine every day.

Wake up, get dressed, go to work, come home, make dinner, fall asleep, repeat.

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. You’re nothing if not efficient, maximizing your time to the best of your abilities. It’s not the most glamorous thing in the world, but you enjoy it. You’re lucky enough to be working on your supervision hours under a renowned psychologist, Dr. Fieldstone in London, and it’s paid. Over half the people in your cohort are struggling through unpaid internships and juggling a second job just so they can make ends meet. You’re all propelled forward by the promise of better pay as soon as it’s all over, dreaming of the days you can own your own practice.

You’re not even sure how you landed this internship, as Dr. Fieldstone rarely ever takes on interns. (She’d tell you later it’s because she saw the same potential her supervisor saw in her.) But you have it, and you’re now assisting her in her on-location therapy to various sports teams. You’d been at a rugby club for a few months, but now it’s time to move on. Dr. Fieldstone was asked to come back to a previous club and although she’d never admit it, you know it was her favorite group to work with. It’s the only club who’s picture is on her desk. It makes you smile every time you see her surrounded by a rowdy-looking group of footballers and two very American coaches. She had said that the one with the mustache was no longer at the club, but the bearded one still was along with the angry looking man to the side and the short, grey-haired man.

You’ve seen the photo so many times that you have everyone’s faces memorized. You’re secretly excited to meet the team that made Dr. Sharon (in her colleagues’ words,) loosen up.

You weren’t friends, with Dr. Sharon, never once dropping the “doctor,” that preceded her name, but she would occasionally swing by your standard housing with a bottle of wine after a particularly difficult day.

“This job can be emotionally draining,” she’d say. “I always wished I had someone there for me at the beginning.”

She rarely smiled or showed outward affection, but you understood that this was her way of saying she cared.

But now you’re packing up your flat into your car, and headed to your new quarters in Richmond, London.

—

It’s apparent that Dr. Sharon has a strong connection with the players. There are a small few who allow you to run each session, most preferring to stick with who they know. Your days are mostly filled with analyses and treatment plans, with about two real session a week, one with Rojas, D and Maas, J. You don’t even sit in with Dr. Sharon much anymore, as the thought of an observer makes some of the players uncomfortable.

It’s stressing you out.

How are you supposed to fulfill your hours when you can’t even get consistent sessions?

Dr. Sharon, in her limited kindness, refers you to a friend of hers in town.

“She runs a small practice and works mostly with women. You’ll be able to keep your housing and fulfill your hours. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

You look at her. “Right,” you reply, “because you’re going to have so much time to help me out between all the things you’ve got going on.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Listen. Since you’re not my intern, I can become your therapist. I’ll even give you a discounted rate since you’re still interning. We’ll set up weekly sessions. You’ll be fine.”

You’re still not sure. Dr. Sharon can see the apprehension in your face. “Alright,” she says. “If you schedule our sessions in the evening and cook dinner, I’ll do it for free. It’ll be informal, one therapist to another.”

That’s big. She rarely does anything for free. In a moment of boldness, you say that to her face.

She cracks the tiniest smile. “It’s possible that I’ve grown fond of you. And even more possible that I’m addicted to your cooking.”

Huh. You suppose miracles do still happen.

—

Sharon is over for dinner for the third time in a week, and you’re suspicious that she might actually enjoy spending time with you. You’re laughing about some stupid story that happened during a natural environment observation (it involved a slip n slide, an obscene amount of shaving cream, and footballs being thrown at players heads) when out of nowhere you feel tears slipping down your face.

“Oh my gosh” you say while maybe laughing, maybe crying, “I think I’m broken.”

Sharon (she insisted you drop the “doctor,”) asks, “Are you alright?” and you shrug while you begin full-on sobbing.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you say between gasps. “What the actual heck.”

At that, Sharon grins. You’re retaining some element of your humor, despite actually crying.

“Just go on and fucking swear already,” she says. “I think we’re past a truly professional relationship.”

You shake your head. “No!” you say. “No, my mum wouldn’t like it.” Fresh tears start to fall at the mention of your mum. Sharon is actually concerned now.

“I’m not sure you’re alright,” she says, and you shoot her a no duh look. “Let’s discuss what might be the root of your issue. Have you been feeling differently lately?”

You’re wiping your eyes and trying so hard to get it together. You’re not even sure what your problem is. You were pretty sure you were doing fine, but you think back to your week. It had been pretty standard, nothing out of the ordinary. You shake your head.

“There is nothing too small to mention. Anything out of your usual routine? Physical discomfort, emotionally-draining sessions?” Sharon asks.

“No,” you reply, tears almost under control. “Wait. Yes.”

Sharon looks at you expectantly. “God, this is going to sound dumb.”

She reaches out to pat your hand. “There’s no such thing as too dumb,” she says in her therapist voice.

The gesture is so much like something a sister would do.

“Right,” you say. “Ok. My, um, the insides of my elbows like, hurt? They just feel weird, I don’t know. It started two weeks ago I think and usually I can just pinch them and it’s fine, but that’s the only thing I can think of, I guess.”

Sharon has gone full therapist, and is giving you an analytical look. “Hm,” she says. “Tell me more.”

You shrug. “There’s not much to tell. It’s not like painful, it just feels weird. I hug my pillow when I sleep and that also helps. Um, I push up my sleeves so they go around my elbows and the pressure helps.”

She asks, “When was the last time you saw a friend?” and you can’t think why this is relevant. But you also can’t remember.

“Probably since before I moved,” you say.

“And when was the last time you saw your family?”

You begin to see where she’s going.

“God,” you groan. “I’m an idiot.”

Sharon laughs. “Do you see why it’s so difficult for therapists to self-diagnose? We’re so busy trying to save the world that we forget to save ourselves.”

“But it’s so stupid,” you say. “It’s like, one of the most basic forms of self-care.”

Sharon shrugs. “Touch-starvation is a real thing. It manifests itself in different ways and apparently yours manifests itself in your elbows.”

It’s so ridiculous that you laugh. She does too, and reaches out to squeeze your arm. “I’ll be more mindful of it,” she says. “In the meantime, you need to find yourself some friends. Some people your own age. I’m prescribing you at least two nights out a week.”

You knit your eyebrows together. “I don’t even know where I would go. Or how to meet people. Or what to say!”

“That’s the problem with us therapists,” Sharon says. “We’re really best in a clinical setting. Shouldn’t be let out of the house, really. How about this; next time Richmond has some group event, you come. They’re a rowdy bunch, around your age, too. It’s an incredibly healthy environment, and you’ll be easily accepted. It will be a nice gateway to having a social life. There’s a match this weekend and they’re almost guaranteed a win, so keep your calendar open.”

You open your mouth to protest but Sharon holds up a hand. “I’m prescribing this as your mentor, not as your friend. It will be a healthy change of pace, I promise.”

—

Seeing AFC Richmond in person and off the pitch is like an out-of-body experience.

You’re putting names to familiar faces, and getting a crash course on their personalities.

You know Dani and Jan Maas from your short stint as their counselor, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to introduce you to everyone else. Dani is holding your elbow to guide you around to all sorts of people, and you can physically feel the serotonin production in your brain.

You meet Higgins and his wife, the hosts of this barbecue as well as some of their children. It’s hard to miss them because they keep coming up to shoot Dani and Jan with nerf guns. They’re weirdly prepared, pulling out their own from thin air.

“Don’t worry,” Jan says, “We’ll defend you.”

It’s very much like a large family gathering. You meet Richard, who kisses your hand and comments on your beauty. Zoreaux, who smiles and asks if you want anything to drink. Bumbercatch, who asks if you can read minds. And finally, Roy and Keeley who are standing in the kitchen and definitely were not kissing right before you walked in.

“This is one of our coaches,” Dani beams. “He and Keeley are very much in love, but they will not admit to each other, least of all themselves.”

Roy says, “Oi!” while Keeley blushes. Jan shrugs.

“It’s true,” he says. “There is no point in dancing around it.”

“Fuck off!” says Roy, and Jan and Dani are saved from certain death by head-butt as Keeley steps between them and says, “It’s nice to meet you! We’re so glad you could come,” and wraps you in a tight hug.

She’s small, but she’s strong. You have trouble breathing for a moment in the best possible way.

“Heard you work for Dr. Sharon,” she says. “That’s got to be fucking difficult.”

You laugh. “Yeah, but not in the way you’d think,” you say. “I’d already sold my soul to my education long before I met her. She’s actually trying to help me get it back.”

Keeley grins. “Is that why you’re here then? To reinstate your soul?”

You’re cut off from replying by the appearance of someone new. This one is in Sharon’s picture too, standing in the middle slightly to the left and smiling with the tip of his tongue sticking out. You always thought he seemed like one who looked so happy and carefree because he actively chose to be that way.

“Who’s reinstatin’ their soul?” he asks, squeezing in between Dani and Keeley.

“This one here,” Keeley replies. “You met her yet? She’s Dr. Fieldstone’s protégé.”

“Oh,” you say. “No. Not really. I was just doing my internship with her, but I had to move because…” you hesitate.

“Because no one wanted to talk to her except me and Jan,” Dani helpfully fills in.

Jan adds, “They were all intimidated by the fact that she is close to their age and so beautiful, as well stuck in their ways of having Dr. Sharon. Only Dani and I were willing to give her a chance, and she actually helped me through some important life decisions.”

You had? It hadn’t seemed that way at the time. You feel less crappy about your time at Nelson Road, though. It wasn’t like they didn’t like you, they just preferred to stick with what they know. That, you can understand.

“Mint,” Jamie says. “So you ain’t the team’s shrink anymore?”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Fucking observant, you are. She hasn’t been around in fucking ages.”

Jamie shrugs. “I was just checking!” he says defensively.

You smile. “It’s alright,” you say. “I’m sure you’re busy, and there’s always a lot of people coming and going.”

That seems to surprise Jamie. Almost as if he isn’t used to people defending him. You file his reaction away in your brain, adding it to your collection of knowledge about the football team that made Sharon zip across England for.

—

It’s been two and a half hours, and you’ve have more food and laughter than you’ve had in ages. Dani and Jan Maas had left your circle in the kitchen a while ago, fulfilling their promise to chase around the youngest Higgins boys as well as Roy’s niece Phoebe, and another girl who’s name you didn’t catch. Sam has joined your group now, and he and Jamie are funny together in a way that reminds you of your brothers. They’re constantly ragging on each other, teasing Roy, and throwing things.

Jamie, it seems, is the comedian of the group. You can tell he’s showing off, presumably because there’s a new face. When it’s time to eat, he says, “Stick with me, love, that way you don’t get stuck next to some uncultured animal,” even though Sharon is there and you’d be fine to sit with any of the boys.

But, he’s already grabbed your hand and is pulling you to a spot near Roy and Keeley as Sharon looks on with an amused expression. You send her a single pleading glance (although you’re not sure what you’re pleading for) and she just gives you a shooing motion. She’s happy to sit with Rebecca and her boyfriend. And someone who’s name you’re pretty sure is Coach Beard.

Ever the gentleman, Jamie pulls out your chair for you before settling into his own. There are tables all throughout the house and a few in the front yard, and you’re glad he picked one outside. It’s a little cloudy, but nice weather.

And god, there are people. People who are talking to you, hugging you, tapping you on the arm and holding your hand, even if it is just to make sure you don’t get separated in the stampede to find seating. Your arms aren’t even a little sore, and you can feel Sharon’s observing eyes on you. You know for a fact she’s going to have a lot to say next time you have dinner, but for now all you can think about is the way Jamie’s arm is pressed against yours, as he leans in to explain a football term that Roy just used to threaten Jamie with.

—

You’re not sure how long this party is supposed to last, but it’s three hours later and there is no sign of stopping. The sun is just barely starting to dip, and time has lost all meaning. You don’t know if the meal you ate was supposed to be lunch or dinner but it doesn’t matter because you’re so full that you can barely make room for the pile of desserts that Mrs. Higgins has pulled out.

You’ve moved inside now, since Jamie pulled you through the dessert line saying, “You have to come with me, so I can put my dessert on your plate. That way grandad can’t have a fit.” You understand that “grandad” is Roy.

You’re smart enough to notice that Jamie’s hand is in yours at every opportunity he can find, and that he’s still holding it even though you’ve finished your dessert and are flopped on a couch inside. He’s absentmindedly rubbing circles with his thumb as you chatter on about nothing.

“Oi,” he says, when you’ve lapsed into silence, “is this alright?”

You’re not sure what he means until he holds up your still-intertwined hands.

“Keeley says I’m more touchy than most. Don’t want to fuckin’ weird you out or some shit.”

You smile. “You’re fine. It’s actually really nice.” You decide to leave it at that. No point in explaining touch-deprivation to the cute footballer you just met. Talk about oversharing.

Jamie smiles back, a real one that lights up his whole face.

“Mint,” he says.

—

“Jamie’s romantically interested in you,” says Sharon’s voice through the phone.

“How do you know that?” you ask. It’s the morning after the Higgins party and you only have a 2pm session. Sharon texted you to call her as soon as you woke up, so you do and she drops a bombshell on the first ring. You doubt Jamie would have told her this himself, as Dr. Fieldstone isn’t one to break a confidence.

“Basic body language,” she replies. “Repeated physical contact, the way his body was angled toward yours all day, the fact that he went out of his way to make you smile. All classic markers of romantic attraction. Any trained therapist should be able to pick up on it.”

What she means is, you’re a trained therapist. You should be picking up on it.

“There’s no way,” you say, but it comes out more doubtful than you’d hoped.

“Right,” says Sharon, “there’s no way. In the same way that there’s no way I’m only mentoring you because I see myself in you.”

“Oh,” you reply weakly, because that’s a lot to unpack.

“Oh,” she mimics. “Right. Well. I’ve got to go. Make sure you remember the mental exercises I gave you. Therapists need to take care of their minds too.”

You say thanks and hang up.

Oh.

—

You’re home again from your session, and you are tired. It was mentally exhausting and all you can think about are the pair of sweatpants in the drawer by your bed and the box of pizza that should be at your flat in fifteen-to-twenty minutes. That was about thirteen minutes ago, and you’ve just been puttering about since placing the call and changing out of work clothes.

There’s a knock on the door and you say a quiet yes, before hurrying to answer. You open the door to two people on your doorstep instead of one.

“This your pizza?” the delivery boy asks. You nod, thank him, and hand him the money. He’s gone so you acknowledge the other person in front of you.

“How’d you know where I live?”

Jamie shrugs. “Asked Dr. Fieldstone. She isn’t as scary as she looks.”

“And why are you here?”

You place the pizza down on the small table in your entryway. It hasn’t escaped your notice that Jamie is practically standing in your doorframe now, inches away from you.

He wraps his hands in the front of his shirt. “Isaac was telling me about body science,” he says. “Been teaching me how to read people and shit based on how they move.”

You nod. Body language. Yeah, you know a thing or two about that.

“Anyway, he said you thought I was proper fit. Which is good, because I think you’re proper fit. But, just in case he were wrong, I thought I’d come over and give you a chance to tell me.”

His left hand is on the doorframe now, and you can see the top of his tattoo peeking out from under his bright orange hoodie. There is exactly one inch between you two as he slants his body toward yours.

“You can tell me to bugger off, if you want,” he murmurs. “Won’t hurt my feelings.”

You don’t say anything, just stand on your toes the tiniest bit so he has better access to your mouth.

You can feel his breath when he pulls away.

“Oh,” he says, “I didn’t come here for sex. Me mum raised a gentleman. I’d buy you a coupla dinners first.”

“Shut up and kiss me already, Tartt,” you say, and he’s grinning, free hand cupping the back of your head.

—

You think that’s probably the fastest you’ve ever gotten into a relationship.

“Labels are important, babe,” Jamie had said that night. “How else will you know if food is poisonous?”

You’re pretty sure he’s talking about checking for allergens, but you don’t correct him. You’re on your couch watching a movie with his arm around your shoulders. He’s playing with strands of your hair and it’s strange that you’re this comfortable with a boy you just met yesterday.

Because he is a boy. You’re the same age, but you feel impossibly, inadequately young. He plays it off as youthful exuberance, and you’re sure it’s an advantage on the pitch. Your age doesn’t feel like an advantage to you, but you can’t change it so you might as well just deal with what you’ve got.

You can be professional in the morning, but right now you’ve got a cute, fit boy who thinks you’re cute and fit and so far has not given off red flags. You’re extra alert ever since your call with Sharon, trying to pick up on every subtlety, but you stop trying as soon as Jamie rolls up a piece of pizza like a burrito and tries to fit it all in his mouth. You know that Sharon would have been the first to tell you if this was a bad idea, and the fact that she even told you Jamie was interested is basically like her giving her blessing.

Jamie leaves too soon, but he does so with your number in his phone and the promise of “a proper date,” as soon as you both can manage.

—

“A proper date,” turned into two proper dates, then three, then four, then seeing each other steadily throughout the weeks, then your first sleepover after the third week. Your skin was all tingly when Jamie invited you over to his for dinner, telling you he was going to cook for you. You knew exactly what was going to happen that night and made sure you were prepared.

You dressed nice, in clothes that gave him easy access to your skin underneath.

“Am I rushing this?” you had asked Sharon the day before. “I’m asking you as my mentor. Am I being an idiot?”

Sharon had taken a moment to consider before answering. “You’re smart for your age. And wise beyond your years. I don’t think you’re being an idiot. We can’t let our work consume us, no matter how important it is. You’re a brilliant therapist. You’re always giving yourself away to those around you. You deserve something for yourself, and you know how to pick a good one.”

You hugged her for those words. She seemed startled, but accepted it. You didn’t think life could get much better.

You were wrong. You discovered life could be so much better the moment Jamie’s hand slid under your skirt and you were kicking off your shoes on the way up the stairs.

“Stay,” he whispered when you were done. “It’s fuckin’ late anyway. You can use my shower and wear one of my shirts. I have an extra toothbrush. I fucking hate sleeping alone.”

So you’re in one of his t-shirts and your underwear, arms wrapped around Jamie’s waist.

You think what am I doing? but Jamie presses a soft, sleepy kiss to your temple and you think maybe you’re doing something right.

—

It’s been a hell of a week. You’re swamped, Jamie’s always at training, and neither of you have been able to make the time to see the other in days. Your inner arms are sore again, and your dinners with Sharon have been short and extremely clinical in a way you desperately need. However, once-a-week therapy is not enough to get rid of the feeling you have, and you wake up throughout the night holding your pillow as if it were Jamie.

You’ve gotten used to having his hand in yours, your head on his shoulder, knees touching and arms wrapped tight around your body. Having it taken away is worse than before, because at least then you didn’t really know what you were missing. Now, you feel as if you’re going to die unless someone does something, even if it’s just a high-five.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest as you review case notes. Your food has gone cold because all you can do is cry. You’re so tired and so lonely and it shouldn’t be this way, but it is and you’re just over it. There’s a knock at the door so you wipe your eyes and answer it, hoping you look normal.

It’s Jamie.

The moment you register who it is, you’re launching yourself into his arms, wrapping around him like a spider monkey. He laughs. “Hello to you too,” he says, spinning you around. He stops when he feels you shaking in his arms.

“Oi,” he says, frowning a little, “you alright, love?”

He can feel tears on his neck.

“Babe,” he says, “did something happen at work?”

You shake your head, face still buried into the crook of his neck. “I just missed you,” you croak, voice muffled.

Jamie chuckles at that. You’re lucky he’s strong, because he’s able to carry you to the couch like it’s nothing, kicking the door shut behind him without losing his balance. He settles with you in his arms, rubbing a pattern on your back.

“It’s alright, love, I’m here,” he says, and you’ve never been more grateful for the fact that he calls you love more than your actual name. It’s like he’s always reminding you how he feels about you.

You just hold him tighter, letting the terrible feeling you had all week fade away. When it’s mostly gone, you pull away so you can look him in the face.

“I- I have this thing,” you say. Jamie looks concerned.

“Are you dyin’?” he asks.

“No!” you reply. “No, I’m not dying. I have- I’m touch-deprived. I let it get really bad sometimes and then I can physically feel it. You can look it up, it’s a real thing.” You don’t know why you feel the need to defend yourself. Jamie’s just looking at you, all quiet seriousness.

“That what it’s called?” he asks. “I know what you mean. Fucking had it two years ago. Used to egg Roy on just so he’d push me around and the lads’d have to hold me back. Wasn’t near me mum anymore, so I didn’t have anyone to hug me or anything. Sounds dumb, but… I just needed someone to touch me. Like if they didn’t, it meant I didn’t exist. Fucking mental.”

“Mental,” you agree.

Jamie smiles. “You’re the fucking best, you know that?” he asks. “I’m never bored when I’m with you. Came over to see if you wanted to watch a movie or play video games.”

He’s stroking your cheek with one hand, other still wrapped around your back.

You smile back. “I really, really love you Jamie Tartt. I’ll play video games, I just don’t want to play FIFA.”

Jamie’s smile drops. “Shit,” he says, and you think it’s because you don’t want to play his favorite video game. “You weren’t supposed to say it first, I was. I was gonna tell you tonight anyway.”

“It’s not a big deal, babe,” you say.

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s a big fuckin’ deal. Now I’ve got to make it up to you.”

“No you don’t,” you say.

“Yes I do,” he replies. “I’m gonna tell you every fucking day how much I love you. I’ll drive home early from away games just to hug you. I want you to always feel like you have the love you deserve.”

You’re at a loss for words.

“Cat got your tongue, don’t it?” Jamie asks cheekily. “Not a problem, babe. I know how to get it back.”

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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crash-and-cure · 1 year

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If I Were You Part 5 (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Love is the only rational act. Call him crazy or unhinged all you want, that sounds just about right to Elvis.

A/N: Well... it’s been a minute. Sorry y’all I’ve been having to deal with a move recently which set me back alot in terms of finding free time to write but I’d rather it be late and good than early and rushed. This chapter is going to be from Elvis POV so if it feels like there is a bit of a heel turn from reader know that that is why. We’ll also be getting insight as to how reader has been feeling these last few months and how she handles what happened in this chapter in the next.

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and heavily delusional behavior as well as references to previous blackmail, emotional and otherwise, here too. Dubious consent in some areas. Inappropriate relationship with a Therapist (Though she is no longer one at the moment). Depictions of a therapy session. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), Daddy Kink, Praise kink, a bit of somnophilia (she does not stay asleep), vaginal fingering, and a tiny bit of anal play. Also mentions of Elvis' mommy issues, though he’ll never call them that and reader’s daddy issues because parallels. Period typical misogyny depicted and reflected by POV character’s attitude towards women in the orkplace. Finally depictions of a toxic relationship that include power imbalances, emotional manipulation, heavy use of coercion, grabbing that leads to bruising and deception. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Word count: 14K

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Masterlist

Humility is something Elvis always tries to work towards. Even as his star grew to new heights he could never have dreamed of before, he always in the back of his head felt as though he was just a step away from losing it all. And he almost did, not in the sense of losing the fame or the money, but he did lose sight of what he loved, in who he loved and

But people didn’t stop loving him.

He’s been honest with you that this was a heavy burden he had to bear, that need to fix himself not for his own sake but for others. The idea that him running himself ragged into an early grave felt less like a fear, and more like an inevitability.

And yet he beat the odds, and now he looks forward to all that life has to offer now.

Elvis tries to be humble, but it’s hard to do so when every morning he gets to wake up next to the most beautiful, most intelligent, and most caring woman in the world, with the full knowledge that you’re his alone.

He never thought it was possible to love someone so deeply like this.

Sure at first you yourself used to see an issue in this kind of love, but he eventually brought you around. Sure it can be an awful thing when someone is vile, and taking advantage of the other, but he knows he never has to worry about that from you.

You take care of each other, and ain’t that what it’s all about?

Those other people don’t know what the two of you got, and have never experienced a love like yours. If they could even experience a fraction of the love he felt for you, they would understand why nothing could keep him away from you. How cruel it would in fact be to keep either of you apart.

Now as he holds you in his arms he’s content in the knowledge that no one has any right to do so.

Those first few months of your relationship, there would be times when he woke up and even seeing you he couldn’t entirely trust it was truly you. His mind had played tricks on him before with all those other women he had had right before you, and he would have to feel the devastating grief that these women weren’t you.

He doesn’t even remember most of their names, considering how many of them left because of how often he would say your name when he wasn’t being careful, it was probably for the best. Part of him wonders if any of them ever figured out they were stand-ins for you, the other part worries that he doesn't feel particularly guilty even if they did.

But these worries quickly die as he looks down on your beautiful face.

He liked seeing you so sleepy, those early months, it’s when you were most honest he thinks. Too tired to think too hard about anything save for the feelings he knows he brings out in you. Just awake enough to know what you’re doing and more importantly to know how to enjoy yourself. When you’re soft and pliable just the way he likes you, but just as ravenous and willful as any wildcat to really make him work up an appetite.

He lifts the covers off of the both of you and he gets to see how the hem of your baby doll had ridden up well past your hips, and he licks his lips seeing his breakfast.

He knows that your body wanted him before your mind did. That on some deeper level you wanted him, long before you could think so, let alone admit it. And he sees it in these moments as you’re still dead asleep but you squirm under his touch. Breathy sighs fall from your plush lips as he lazily brushes his fingers along your inner thighs

He wonders what you dream about these days. You once told him how dreams can have any meaning you assign them to have, and it’s within his power to decide.

He once told Priscilla that he was “all outta dreams,” and he could safely say he feels the same way with you. Before those words meant how he felt hopeless in such a bleak situation, but now they mean the utter contentment he feels everyday when he’s with you.

Something you gave him, and in spite of all that he’s done to get you here, he will happily spend the rest of his days paying you back. You’ve helped him in ways you probably couldn’t imagine, as now, he wants for nothing but you anymore.

And when his hand finally reaches into that warm piece of heaven between your legs, there is no hiding the way he makes you feel. You squirm under his touch, not having even been anywhere close to waking up. He hopes that he now occupies your dream world now as you have done since he’s met you.

Your eyes don’t immediately shoot open, but you jump a little as he starts to drag you back to the waking world. With a half-lidded unfocused stare, you’re all lazy smiles and breathy moans as you buck your hips against his hand all the while your ass rocks against him, stirring up little Elvis from his slumber. He wonders if you believe you’re still dreaming, after all in his mind everyday with you feels like one.

You’ve become so compliant since you left your job for him. You don’t gotta worry about no office to be at or other patients you need to see. You don’t mind being seen with him out and about anymore. You especially don’t mind the marks he leaves on you, which is a good thing especially now as he’s in a mood to mark you where he can today.

But you, in your half-asleep state, apparently have other plans. He feels as you blindly reach between your legs to grab a hold of him, catching him off-guard slightly as he starts to feels his cock part your folds. Then without a word of warning you close your thighs, and it’s like a punch to the gut it feels so good. You’re warm as all get out, and your thighs are still slick from last night, but the major difference between this and your little love cavern is your teasing fingers that gently bring the very tip of him up to continuously nudge at your clit.

It’s enough to drive any man insane.

It truly takes everything within him to pull away from you, and from the needy little whine you give, you feel the same. He turns you around and puts you right to straddle his lap. Your head lolls a bit at the swift motion, not entirely awake, but you practically jolt awake when he grabs your behind.

“Now why you gotta go teasin’ like that Mama,” he growls relishing in the feel of your ass beneath his fingers. He wonders how hard he would need to squeeze to leave a couple marks down there.

“‘M sorry daddy,” you mewl unconvincingly, lowering yourself to kiss him, something you’re no longer scared to initiate. A sharp slap on your ass has you realizing he meant business right now. But still you wait for him to tell you what to do.

He’s taught you well.

“Well now you gotta fix it Sweetheart,” he purrs, and you shudder as his thumbs glide up your inner thighs, . “Can’t have your daddy goin’ out there lookin’ like this now can we?”

You shake your head no and the desire to just bend you over and take you like an animal grew but he wanted you to finish what you started. Granted you may not have started this specifically this morning but there ain’t no getting around the fact that this all started with you.

He bites his lip to really focus on you in that moment; that little contented sigh that would fall from your lips feeling the fat head of his cock brush up against your eager clit, before turning into a lazy smile, as you slowly but surely guide him to that place he loves so much. That filthy moan that falls from your lips as he finally begins the descent into your entrance, before it turns into a needy little whine as he slowly retracts his hips and before he suddenly slams them back into you full force.

That little wiggle your ass does as you give a breathy “daddy” is all the encouragement he needs before he presses upward. One hand threads through his own right on your hip, while the other . The whiny little noises you make each time he even nudges that precious little spot you bashfully admitted only he was ever able to reach.

The material of your nightie by now has fully slipped off your shoulders, now leaving it only as a useless ring of fabric around your waist. You don’t seem to mind a single bit as you eagerly bounce up and down his cock, your gorgeous tits on full display and, to his chagrin, offensively clear of any bruises. In fact a quick once over of your body shows that the marks he’s left on you before were already healing up.

He’s really gotta do something about that soon. Afterall for as smart as you can be, you’re often liable to forgetting who you belong to.

But for as tempting as your nipples can be, he actively has to stave off his own desires, just to fully appreciate the image before him. That of the good doctor fucking herself stupid on his cock as she shamelessly licks her own juices right off his fingers, and begs for more from her daddy while the early morning rays give an almost angelic appearance. But that image of purity is swiftly done away with as he reaches around you and with his still wet fingers he lightly presses on that tight ring of muscle you’re far too demure to ever ask him about but he knew you loved when he did this. And with tears in your eyes and unrestrained cries flying from your lips, you seemingly fall apart and your walls clamp down on him like a vice.

Truly there ain’t ever gonna be a more perfect woman, he thinks as feels euphoria rocket through him and he proceeds to paint your inner walls white. Your hips stutter as you try to catch your breath, still quivering through some aftershocks, and you try to catch yourself on your hand from fully collapsing into him. Well he ain’t having none of that, and he wraps his arms around you to bring you as close as possible to him, never wanting to let you go.

Though the absolute best part for him is that you no longer get that left over guilty look afterward. The shy act was cute the first few months but as time went on it lost its appeal and he wished you would stop treating him like something you had to feel ashamed of. But now when you open your eyes to look at him all he sees are equal parts adoration and hunger. And it’s all for him.

Thanks to you he’s gotten far better in terms of communicating what he wants from people and it’s probably the worst kept secret in all of Graceland how much he wants and needs you at any given moment. You're able to ignite him in ways no girl has ever been able to do, and he doubts there will ever be another like you.

Though he thinks he most especially loves mornings like these because it’s all the proof he needs that that old job of yours wasn’t worth all the trouble it was causing in your head. After all, how can anything that doesn’t hurt no one and makes you feel this good be bad?

He ain’t one to talk though, he remembers those early months when he did try to fight off his feelings for you.

It’s wild to think he ever had doubts about therapy. Dr. Wilson was fine so far in that he was able to help him through his addiction without making him feel awful about it while also helping him realize that there was a lot more going on in his need for the drugs that he wasn’t even aware of. He was always able to remain coolly neutral no matter what ever fucked up thing the rockstar had told him. Elvis got the sense that he had been at this so long and with so many different celebrities that hardly anything phased him at this point. Which was good in a way, didn’t make him feel so outta place there but it also felt so…impersonal. As though the person that came right before him or right after him would get the same advice and insights as he did.

Overall he was fine in terms of easing him into therapy and being able to express his thoughts and feelings with someone without having to be afraid of being judged. But he will admit that Wilson did do right by him by recommending you in the first place.

He still remembers that day, there was an odd sense of euphoria to not only have a name for what he had but also that there were specialists who could handle this sort of thing professionally. But at the same time it clashed with his hope of his life going back to the way it was any time soon.

“Co-dependency is a relatively new term within the psychology community, so there aren’t many who are equipped to handle this condition.” Wilson says, eyes firmly on his notes. “But you’re in luck as I believe there is a specialist located in the Memphis area last I checked.”

“Doc, you sure I even need this?” he would question, as he fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe, the material having become a tad bit scratchier than when he had arrived. “I mean I don’t, even get cravin’s for them pills no more.”

“Yes Elvis, we’ve treated the more overt and life-threatening symptoms of your addiction, but we’ve yet to truly tap into the underlying cause. Without doing that you would be liable to fall right back into old habits all over again. Maybe not with the pills, but some other vice.” he says calmly. “It’s why we enforce rules as to moderation within the facility as oftentimes getting rid of one addiction will lead to seeking solace in another. You’ve done better than most in abstaining from the more overt addictions and in order to keep up with this, I think it would be best if you continue treatment with Dr. Y/L/N.”

Elvis has a long sigh at this but he does genuinely want to get better, yet he still holds doubt as to whether more of this is necessary. He thinks at best you will be able to show him what to look out for in people that could take advantage of him again and you could go your separate ways after a few sessions. After all he did at least want to show Priscilla that he was actually making an effort to get better, and what better way than to keep going to therapy.

He hesitated a bit during that first call, when he found out you were a woman. He knows it’s a whole new era and women can work outside the home if they want and all that, but he still wasn’t too sure about it. And he ain’t never met a woman who called herself a doctor, so there was that.

But he also knew himself well enough to know that any excuse he could get to get out of going he would take, and having to drive all the way from Memphis to Nashville was a pretty good one. Besides women are naturally good with talking and feelings and shit, so it kinda makes sense in a way to see a woman about this kind of stuff. So it was worth a shot.

That all changed when he met you in person for the first time. What he almost immediately noticed about you was how warm your eyes were. Not necessarily in color, but how you looked genuinely happy to see him. And not just in the way he’s used to from women who want him, but more… something he can’t quite put his finger on. But when you looked at him for the first time he felt as though he was being seen as Elvis, not just as The Elvis Presely.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Presley, it’s nice to meet you.” You said to him with a friendly smile on your face and a firm handshake.

“Same here, Dr. Y/L/N,” he would say, as all of his doubts seemed to melt away. You were beautiful in a way he wasn’t used to, all professional and button-upped like a secretary yet also comforting and very approachable like a librarian. It was an odd combination no doubt but you pulled it off well.

There’s something about you that just puts his mind at ease, not only as you talk but as you listen. He felt like he was being heard instead of just listened to, which isn’t something he ever realized was lacking in his life. When you sat there you looked as though you could listen to him talk for hours, not the slightest bit of impatience to be seen. And the way you looked at him as he talked, as much as you may have been trying to hide it, he saw that you felt what he felt when talking about these things, his joy in performing, his sadness over the state of his family, his anger at Colonel.

That was another thing, the little tidbits of advice you gave, that in retrospect seem so obvious, but hearing it from you that Parker didn't have any control over him anymore and he didn’t have to call him something that made it look like that. It’s hard to believe you're younger than him and yet so much wiser.

There was one thing you said to him toward the end of that first session and you were talking about his goals overall.

“There’s a lotta things I want Doc,” he says. “I want my family back. I want to get back with ‘Cilla. I want to get back into music and perform again. I… want to know what to look out for so I don’t make the same mistake again.”

That last one apparently peaks your interest, as you say with a gentle smile on your lips, “Mr. Presley, many people when they walk into my office expect to be given answers as to their conditions or the issues ongoing in their lives. But the reality is that I don’t have the answers but what I can do is act as a guide so that you may be able to find what you may be looking for in a healthy and effective manner.”

”I-I think I see what you’re sayin’ Doc,” he says. “A-and you can call me Elvis,” he states, ifa bit shyer this time around.

“Of course Elvis,” you say with a smile radiating warmth. “Now, as we’re getting towards the end of our session, I would like to express my goals for you.”

He’s very curious as to what you have to say, so he leans forward eager to listen.

“Elvis, contrary to what it may sound like, my goal is not to espouse total self-reliance and to never trust anyone again. Nor is it for you to simply find ‘better’ people to rely on totally,” you say. “My goal for you, as it is for all of my patients, is to trust yourself most of all to know what’s best for you. Good or bad, regardless of another's opinions, these are your choices to make.”

Those are simple words but they have a monumental impact on his perspective of things. And for the first time in a long time he looks at you and sees someone he can trust to do right by him.

And now the first thing he’s gonna trust himself about, it’s that you’re gonna be good for him overall.

It was a bit difficult to get into the whole routine of seeing you, especially as he didn’t want certain people in his circle knowing that he was even still going to therapy. Not even necessarily because he feared it would somehow get back to the papers but because most of them were all under the same belief that therapy was just a crock of shit and all he needed to do was man up. So he just simply didn’t bring it up to them specifically and let only a few people really know what he was doing. And only they know just so they can sufficiently cover his ass when he’s out with you.

None of them seemed to mind his scheduled “alone times” too much since he always came back and nothing newsworthy would happen so they let him be.

Over the next few weeks he found himself looking forward to sessions with you. He’s taking his health seriously, he’s getting to see Lisa more and more, he’s sleeping better, everything in his life is slowly but surely improving thanks to you. Though the better sleep had its flaws as he had been having some weird dreams for awhile. Not so much nightmares, but they definitely left him with some odd feelings in the morning.

They almost always started off the same way, he was back on that couch in Dr. Wilson’s office and the way he was being spoken to, it felt less like therapy and more like an interrogation. He would never remember what he was being asked, but the longer it went on the worse he would feel.

And then you walk into the office and Wilson disappears. In the beginning you would simply take Wilson’s seat, and he feels himself start to relax. Something about you just made it easy to do so. You could even be asking the same questions Wilson was asking, but you’re far gentler in your delivery, and it helps ease the answers out.

A lot of his dreams have been going this way but recently you’ve been getting closer and closer, and now you sit beside him on the sofa. You would rub his back, play with his hair and even sometimes hold his hand all the while listening to what he had to say. Which then progressed to him even laying his head in your lap.

He vividly remembers how he would nuzzle into your chest as you continuously ran your nails through his hair. Neither of you speak but he can’t recall ever feeling so at peace than in those imaginary moments with you.

Of course there were also less than wholesome dreams where he the ones where you ride him right into the couch or he takes you on your desk. Though arguably the most memorable had to be when he rested his head on your lap as he’d done in his dreams a million times before and you would slowly unbutton your blouse.

Undoubtedly one of the most fucked up things he’s ever dreamt as you proceeded to jerk him off as he sucked on those gorgeous tits of yours. But still he couldn’t get out of his head that look of utter adoration in your eyes as you threaded your fingers in his hair and whispered how he was a good boy.

He woke up that morning needing to literally peel his pants off of him.

He’s not an idiot. He has a daughter and so he knows what that could only look like from the outside. He has a pretty good idea what it may mean, seeing you in such a motherly role, but he’s also seen Psycho and knows he’s far from dressing up as his Mama to stab women in the shower. So really it doesn’t mean anything.

“Doc?” he asks, and you look up from your notes. He knows he should probably bring up the dreams, as you’ll definitely have something to say about it. But seeing you in that Turtleneck that made your tits look phenomenal made his brain short circuit a bit, and he worries even hinting at anything like this may scare you off and have you believing he’s a Norman Bates type. So instead he asks, “Why don’t you got one a them couches?”

Your brow furrows at that. “A… fainting couch?” You ask tentatively.

“That’s the one,” he snaps his fingers. “Why don’tcha got one of those?”

“Oh, well…” you say, pausing to bite your lip, looking for the right words. This simple act causes him to swallow hard, and he prays you don’t notice as you continue. “Given the patients I work with, I find that keeping us on the same level is far more beneficial than the alternative. It acts as a good reminder that we’re equals in this environment,” you explain with a gentle smile.

“Same level huh?” he questions. “So if I sat down on the floor you would follow?”

“If that’s where you feel most comfortable,” you say amused.

He doesn’t exactly know why, but part of his brain took that as a challenge, while the other part wanted to really test as to whether or not you would follow through. In either case he gets off his chair only to lie flat on his back on the shag carpet of your office. He looks back up and sees you raise an eyebrow at his antics, with a look of “seriously?” on your face. There is a bit of a stare down before you let out a small defeated sigh before you make motions to follow suit.

“Don’t say I’m not a woman of my word,” you would explain as you lay down on the floor parallel to him, though the table kept a good distance between the two of you. Not an easy feat for you considering you were wearing a skirt that day, but in spite of that you were somehow able to make the act look as dignified as possible. Though that doesn’t prevent a brief but very dangerous image of you hiking up your skirt and taking a seat over his face.

Woah… Where did that come from? he would ask himself as he ripped his eyes away from you and looked up at the ceiling.

“Comfortable?” Both real and fantasy you would question.

“Very,” he would answer, lying only slightly.

You give a mirthful smile before you get right back to business. “Now that we’re down here, I would like to discuss some of your risk-taking behavior upon your return from Germany,”

“I wouldn’t say layin’ down on the floor is risky,” he quips. He’s trying hard to not focus on the gap that’s appeared between the buttons of your shirt nor the way that your notebook keeps your skirt from sliding down further. But at the same time focusing on your face right now feels dangerous for some reason he can’t quite place.

Something blooms in his chest when he hears you huff in amusement at him. “I’ll admit not my most graceful of transitions, but my point still stands. When you look back on your time after your return stateside, do you believe you were doing things that were considered far more risky?”

“I mean… I guess,” he would admit. “Aside from the drugs, nothin’ too wild, really. Just pushin’ each other down… and drivin’ around real fast… and shootin’ fireworks at each other… I see what your sayin’.” It’s funny that he only now realizes just by talking to you about them.

“And nobody ever protested to you doing these things?”

“Well my daddy did at first, but then stopped once he figured I wouldn’t stop. Most times it was The Colo-shit! Parker… he was the one who always made big stink ‘bout what I was doin’ if it was dangerous or made me look bad.”

You bring your pen to your mouth, simply resting it on your lips, mulling over his words before you say, “Elvis correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds to me that Parker occupied a very… parental role in your life?”

“I guess,” he says, unsure of it until a long dormant memory comes barreling to mind as he recalls his own words to that man from what felt a lifetime ago. “I even said as much to him at my own Mama’s funeral.” He says covering his eyes, and taking a deep breath, willing no tears to fall right in front of you. “I feel like such a fool.”

And then he feels something on his palm. He looks to his side to see that your hand now holds his. It’s such a simple gesture, one that anybody could have done, but coming from you it feels like everything.

“Elvis…” you start off slowly, your thumb rubbing soothing lines onto the back of his hand. “Grief is a terrible thing to experience. It can knock out your knees and snatch the breath right out of your lungs. And it’s certainly not uncommon for people like that to take advantage of those in such a vulnerable position.” you say in your most soothing voice.

“Don’t think less of yourself for staying as long as you did. Instead I ask you to think of it as you left when you were ready to do so.”

He has to pause to contemplate your words for a second there, because it’s such a simple twist of perspective but it seems to make all the difference as he feels a long present weight of guilt lift. “Yeah… yeah you’re right,” he says, his chest filling with a sense of warmth he hadn’t realized he’s been missing for a while now. “I-I took all of the rat bastards shit for years, because I could take it… a-and I left when I didn’t want to do that no more.”

“Exactly,” you say, slipping out of his grasp and giving a friendly pat on his hands as you return to your side of the table.

The rest of the session is pretty light, all things considered, talking about Music, something he can do at literally any given moment and he left your office that day with a newfound appreciation for women’s office wear. He gets the sense that it’s very intentional on your part. The way you can steer a conversation is so fucking impressive and it served you well when you were dodging something.

But he eventually learned your ways. And he was able to get you to open up about yourself like when you learned his favorite hero growing up was Captain Marvel Jr. and you confided in him your favorite was Wonder Woman, and how you learned to appreciate her even more when you learned she was created by a Psychologist. Or when he told you about his sleep troubles and you taught him your trick to falling asleep was to eat Pancakes, something that came as a bit of a routine from your waitressing days since that was your usual order at the end of your shift. Little things that made you more than just his shrink to him.

He swears he didn’t realize what he was doing at first, and it wasn’t until Jerry pointed it out to him that same night. He and the rest were at some show that he doesn’t really remember, and he sees you walk past the table he was at. He’s so caught off guard that he even turns his head fully around as you walk away.

Jerry knows about his therapy and tends to cover for him when he goes to see you, but has never actually met you, so it surprised him when Jerry asked if he wanted him to go get you for him.

He’s glad for the low lighting of this place as he doubts he would otherwise be able to hide his inflamed face right now. “What? No… No. Wh-why’d ya’ think I want her?”

“Well she’s your type ain’t she?” he asks, glancing at the bar behind Elvis’ shoulder where you’re standing. Elvis is trying hard not to look back because the dress you’re wearing is far more revealing than he’s ever seen you wear, and he doubts if he keeps looking he’ll be able to stop, still that question eats at him.

“The hell are you on Jer?”

“EP, you’re a lot a things,” Jerry says as he gets up, patting him on the back. “Subtle ain’t one a them.”

He knows one more word and Jerry will stop and not approach you, but something stops him from doing so. He figures you’re going to say no anyway, as you made it clear in your first session that you were never going to approach a patient in public, and that’ll be the end of that. Still the thought of you saying no does leave a sour taste in his mouth that the whiskey can’t quite chase away. He steals a glance over his shoulder and with the better lighting at the bar he realizes that that girl ain’t you. Her nose is a different shape, hair color is not quite right in the new light, and this girl doesn’t have quite the same dignified posture that you’ve got.

He shakes his head at these thoughts. It’s ridiculous that he even thought that was you for even a second. You work everyday and he doubts this would be your scene on a Thursday night. He imagines you would be in bed by now or at least settling by this time. You have the look of a good girl who reads at night to fall asleep and he can just about picture the way you would look lounging against a headboard that looks suspiciously familiar. This line of thought leads to him idly wondering what you wear to bed at night, which is quickly broken when Jerry approaches with the girl.

The girl has a face-splitting grin and in her eyes, he finds that star-struck look he’s seen in hundreds of other women's eyes before her. Despite her eyes being similar in color he can’t help but be reminded of the stark difference in your eyes when he met you for the first time. She’s seeing a god where you saw a man.

Still he tries to give the girl, Jackie, a fair shake, but the longer the night goes on the more he has to pick apart. Her voice is a little too high-pitched to be yours. Her make-up, not as pristine as yours usually is. Even her nails seem to annoy him as they are a little longer than how you usually keep them, and they only really drew his attention while she was drumming them along the table as he spoke. The girl is practically shaking in her seat, itching to get out of here with him.

Well at least this one knows what she wants, he thinks to himself as he asks if she would mind a more quiet place to talk.

It’s wrong on so many levels what he’s doing, and he recognizes that as he puts his arm around her shoulders and leads her out of the place. Jane gushes about how big of a fan she’s been since she was a kid and how this is a dream come true. All Elvis could really focus on is if he squints just hard enough he can almost see you saying that to him, and that’s just enough to get him going, as he buries his face into the girl's neck, and he hears sweet moans he wishes came from you.

Jenna was gone come morning, and Elvis is glad for that small mercy. And in the early morning rays, Elvis is left alone with his thoughts, and he gets to truly think about the women he’s been with recently. He thinks of Shannon who drew his eye when he got a whiff of her perfume, and it happened to be the same one he knows you’ve worn before, and he would bury his face in her neck as he pounded into her. Amy whose hair was almost the exact same color as yours and whom he really only liked taking from the behind without truly looking at her face. Carol whose voice sounded eerily close to yours and in the dark he was able to imagine someone else entirely as she moaned his name over and over again. And finally there was Jamie who was almost the spitting image of you save for a few things here and there.

It’s nothing, he tries to lie to himself.

It doesn’t matter.

They don’t matter.

They shouldn’t matter really, they were all gone before the morning came, so obviously none of them weren’t interested in anything serious. Which is good…

…Right?

It fucks with his head something fierce, that he ends up bringing it up the next time he sees you. “I think I lost my way with women.” he would say as soon as he sat down, before you even got a chance to crack open your little notebook.

You quickly put the pen between your lips, in that cute way he likes, to hold while you open your notebook, and ask “in what regard Elvis?” This has got to be a sign as to how comfortable he’s gotten with you. He would never have dared to talk about something like this with anyone else, not so much because he feared that he would be laughed at, but because more than likely he would be plastered with denials and reassurances as to how much of a ladies man he still is, without ever even getting into detail why he felt like that.

Still he finds himself clamming up, wishing to take the words back, shame burning in his belly over these thoughts. You were having none of it, as you put down your notebook and pen on the table between the two of you and lean forward. “Elvis you can talk about this with me,” you coax in your softest voice, something he’s come to expect look forward to.

He smiles at this as he’s come to appreciate this about you. You get right to work and listen as he expresses his fears about his romantic life. You’re a great listener, though he supposes that comes with the job, but in the way you move and watch him, he never doubts that you are. You’re always watching him, you rarely if ever glance at the clock, and nothing about your body language ever says that you’re getting tired of hearing him talk. Even Wilson had that annoying leg bounce thing toward the end of sessions with him.

The only thing he could really complain about was how often you touched your lips while listening. Whether it was simply resting a fist to your mouth or pinching your bottom lip, you’re almost always doing something of the like when you’re concentrating he’s noticed. He doubts you’re doing it on purpose, but he still finds it very distracting. That being said he was never about to tell you to stop.

“Elvis as I understand this dilemma you’re having,” you say. “You’re worried that the only type of women you attract these days are women who are not seeking long-term relationships.”

“I don’t know Doc, it might be nothin’,” he says, still trying to downplay how uncomfortable the concept makes him. “

“If it bothers you Elvis, then it’s not nothing,” you gently encourage. “People thrive on connections to one another, and I’m glad to see that you’re taking steps to establish new connections after all that you’ve faced before. Perhaps these women aren’t all opposed to a romantic relationship, but they may perhaps be under the impression that you are, given your fame.”

“So my reputations workin’ against me on this,” he asks solemnly.

“In a sense, yes. Reputation is a bit of a funny thing like that,” you say. “It’s not so much your actions that make it up, but other’s perceptions of said actions. And if you feel you’re ready to embark on a new long-term relationship, then I would encourage you to start on a solid foundation of honesty.”

“What do you mean? Tell them I’m lookin’ to get married again?”

This gets a small huff of laughter out of you, “Perhaps not that strong in the beginning,” you say. “But something along the lines of… ‘when can we meet up again?’ just a little something like that to establish that you are at the very least interested in a long-term relationship.”

“Doc, would you wanna be with me,” he says, and he would be lying if he says he didn’t enjoy the way your eyes practically bugged out of your head before he recovered with a “or someone with a reputation like me?”

You try to pass off your sigh of relief as simply a deep breath before you answer with, “I personally try not to let others' perceptions of potential partners affect my own feelings toward them. And I reassure you that there are others of the same mind and should you signal that you want something more… permanent, you’ll find someone.” you say with a reassuring smile on your face. “While we’re still on this topic as to your romantic life…” you trail off slightly. “You stated one of your goals in therapy was to rekindle your relationship with your Ex-Wife. Is she the one you’re talking about trying to have a relationship with?”

“... no,” he sighs, as he eyes you sitting directly across from him. “I-I love her and all but… I-I don’t know if I want her in the same way I did before. And… I-I think I want someone else.” He thinks this is the first time he’s been able to say this out loud, but it admittedly does feel like a weight lifted off his shoulders as he admits to it. You give a soft, reassuring smile at his words, and while he knows that it’s probably because you’re happy to see him moving forward with his life, a small part of him wants to believe it’s because you want him to be available.

“I understand, Elvis,” you reassure him. “And rest assured that should you at any point choose otherwise you’re, of course, free to do so.”

He leaves later on reassured in his worth as a partner, but the thought that you had been approached by men before leaves an otherwise good meeting with a sour note. That’s the first time he realizes that you have a life outside of your office and somehow worse, you have other patients you talk to. It’s like seeing a teacher at a grocery store and realizing they don’t live at school.

He knows it ain’t right to feel this way, that you’re a person too, who has more to offer than just what you do for your job. But he can’t help the way he feels. Saddest part is the person he would go to talk about these feelings with is the person he has to talk about.

And so rather than actually dealing with it, head on he tried to satisfy these feelings for you in other ways, but he promised himself he would never act on them.

At least… not yet.

It was working for a time, he would see you twice a week, he would bear his soul to you alone, and slowly but surely you also opened up to him as well. There were small comments here and there about simple preferences which eventually gave way to you talking a bit about your time and school and your friends, and to his relief you never brought up any sort of boyfriend. But outside of your office he accepted that he did in fact have a “type” and most of his boys made it their mission to find girls that look even a little bit like you.

And yet the more he saw you, the more he fell for you.

After the wine incident he knew he couldn’t deny himself what he wanted anymore and he gradually started to lay the groundwork in order to make that happen.

When he would casually slip in pet names for you, kiss the back of your hand, or even when he would linger a little too long after a session you never said anything about it. And he always took that as an opportunity to go further and further each time.

He even started reading up on Psychology, and to his surprise some of it was down right fascinating, especially learning how it stems from Physiology meeting Philosophy. Sure the dog studies and the Milgram experiment ended up being very useful to him later on, but he does believe Freud was onto something there. But he can’t wrap his head around why you tend to get very skittish when you do on occasion bring up his Mama.

He likes to think she would’ve liked you very much for how smart and responsible you are. She maybe wouldn’t have loved the whole working outside of home thing, but he eventually fixed that.

The same way he taught himself to play music was the same way he got you to fall in love with him: laser-sharp focus and unwavering persistence.

But then you had to go and almost throw that all away. You spat in the face of his gift and tried to reprimand him for doing a nice thing for you. So he had to play it cool for a while after that. You seemed to retreat a bit from him, but you were no less warm and caring for him. You even stopped really remarking when he would “accidentally” bump into you when you’re out and about.

But no dice the next time he tried. It was only as Jerry returned with a guilty look on his face did he realize his mistake in A. sending someone else and B. not framing it as a part of his therapy, which he knows you wouldn’t have refused.

“EP…” Jerry says lightly. “Y-your shrink…”

“What ‘bout her Jerry,” Elvis asks in no mood after your refusal.

“I-I noticed that she-she kinda looks like some a the girls you been seein’,” he swallows a bit. Seemingly praying to god he’s wrong about this.

“No,” the rockstar says simply, not really caring to beat around the bush anymore, and Jerry seems almost relieved until he continues. “They look like her,” and for as callous as it sounds he can’t even muster an ounce of sympathy for them, as though it’s their fault that they’re not you. But the reality is, none of them could hold a candle to you, and they only matter so far in preventing him from getting too frustrated with how slow you're taking things.

“Elvis… I-I don’t think it-it’s such a good idea to get so… involved with your doctor again,” Jerry would say tentatively, unsure how he would react.

“Jerry,” he says, trying to control his temper, and remembering those breathing exercises you went over with him. “I think my business is my business.”

“I-I know but-”

“But nothin’ Jerry!” he yells. “Y’all had fuck all to say when I was runnin’ myself in the grave! And now that I’m gettin back on track, now you wanna step in?!” Jerry gaped at him, before quickly shutting his mouth, a guilty look taking over his face as he looked down at the ground, having nothing to say. “Get the fuck outta my face Jerry.”

Jerry and the rest that knew about you since the beginning would eventually come around on you, seeing hat you did for him and how much he needed you. It served him all the better later on. Though now that all feels like ancient history now, especially now that you’re together in private, in public, and pretty soon under the eyes of the lord.

As far as you know Elvis didn’t want to acknowledge the “blackmail” and simply announced your engagement. He didn’t even want to acknowledge Parker, as that would imply there’s anything wrong with your relationship that he could have exploited.

The way he tells the story is that a couple months after rehab, he was out and about in Memphis when you caught his eye from across the room. He described it as nothing short of love at first sight, but the problem was he had no idea how to approach a woman as sophisticated as you. It was made all the worse when he did approach and you introduced yourself as Dr. Y/L/N, you weren’t so awestruck by him, and in fact talked to him like a normal person. He was so caught off guard that when you had revealed that you were a therapist he jumped at the chance and said he had been looking for one in the area after rehab and you had given him your business card.

How the next few months were about how you became his therapist, and how he was more or less scheming to sweep you off your feet the moment he could. How you tried your best to keep things professional until you could no longer deny your feelings nor could he deny his. None of which was a lie, but he did have to clean up the story for the reporters (didn’t stop Penthouse from begging for the dirtier details).

The story was simple, almost the ideal story of the recovery of a troubled man and how it was the love of a good woman that helped him heal from all of it (Say what you will, he knows you’ve loved him longer than you’re willing to admit). And the people ate it up.

Everybody could see how good you were for him, how he’s back and better than ever because of your efforts.

He wishes you wouldn’t focus so much on the others who want to make this out as a bad thing for either of you. They don’t know you and they especially don't know him, so how can they judge what either of you do. That board of therapists may say that the two of you being together is wrong, and for a time you may even have believed that but he knows in his heart of hearts that this was meant to be.

Afterall you yourself showed him how other people’s perceptions of you shouldn’t affect your own perception of yourself.

As far as days in Graceland it’s a pretty typical and quiet one, Mary makes the two of you breakfast, you both practice tai chi while it’s still early, you sit with him at the piano as he worked on music, and later he would bend you over the piano so you could make some music for him, you have lunch. It’s looking to be a perfect day.

You’re never too far from him anymore but he doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of you. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sometime after lunch, Jerry comes around with those books you ordered. As much as you tried to hide it at first, he could see you were excited for the world tour. Studying up on the history of practically every city he was going to be performing in, trying to learn a couple languages, sharing almost everything with him.

You look so in your element when you’re reading, and he can’t help but intrude and make his dreams into a reality. You're startled at first as he rests his head in your lap, but you quickly adjust and ease into the new position.

He’s close to purring with the way you run your nails along his scalp, so familiar and comforting a gesture that it’s not long before his eyelids go heavy and he finds himself drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.

With you around, sleep is coming easier and easier these days. You worry about this, fearing that he would become too dependent on you for sleep.

He can’t help it that you’re such a dependable person.

He would wake up later, only the slightest bit distressed that you were gone, but he knows that you wouldn’t have gone too far. And he didn’t have to look too hard to find you, as you stepped out of your dressing room, and sees you wearing something very familiar.

He doesn’t think he'll ever forget that night.

He thought at the time that nothing could happen between you two. He had accepted that at first, tried to content himself to having you in his life in whatever way he could, even if only platonically. He admits he may have stalled some days, especially the sessions after you would remark how far he’s come in therapy, all in order to drag out his time with you.

It truly felt like the stars had aligned for the both of you that night. He wasn’t really one for fancy places like this, any other day he would have taken a cheap little diner, but he had been craving a real good steak for a while and figured some fancy place like this would be his best bet. Imagine his surprise when he just idly glanced down at the reservation book and saw your name.

He had been hoping to build something between the two of you outside of your office for a while by that point, but that day you just so happened to have ended up at the same restaurant as him. This just solidified in his head that the two of you were meant to be, because it couldn’t be just a coincidence that the two of you ended up at the same place that night. He gathered up the nerve to approach you that night, thinking about what you said as to how you would like to be approached by a man, ready to put himself out there.

His breath hitches as he sees the little white dress you’re wearing and his palms sweat a bit when he approaches. Overall he feels like a kid trying to ask the prettiest girl for a dance, terrifying yet exhilarating all the same.

“Dr. Y/L/N, funny meeting you here,” Elvis would say in his best attempt to sound casual.

“Mr. Presley, how are you?” you would say, surprise evident in your eyes but the small smile on your face genuine as any.

“I’m doin’ just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad.”

“Are you here alone?” he gently probes, trying to figure out a way to get the rest to leave the table if he can get you to join him.

“No, my date is just in the restroom.” you say pointing in the general direction of the bathroom.

Something almost akin to betrayal flashes through him in that moment, but he quickly tries to stamp it down as even he realizes that he had no right to feel that way. “Well, have a good night.” he says, trying to be as amiable as possible.

“You too,” you say with an uneasy look in your eyes.

Gorgeous girl like her, it’d be crazy for her not to have a date, he thinks, sitting back down with his buddies. Not a single one of them acknowledges what just happened and somehow it feels all the worse. Still it doesn’t sit right with him, the idea of you being out of your office and looking so beautiful and only to waste it on some undeserving mook.

But… in all the months he’s been seeing you, he ain’t ever seen a ring on your finger, so he doubts it’s that serious. He can’t see your table, which he’s thankful for, because it at least removes the temptation to keep looking your way. But with how sparsely populated the restaurant is at this point he can just barely make out your voice, and he can clearly hear your laugh. It’s such a beautiful thing to hear, and it takes him fully out of the conversation he’s having with Sonny, which pretty much makes all of them take notice of how weird he’s acting but they won’t say anything about it.

But quickly bitterness takes over in his mouth when he hears the accompanying chuckle from your faceless companion. Especially when he’s only ever awarded small huffs of amusement in your office while that motherfucker can get you to laugh like that.

… He really shouldn’t be thinking like this…

It practically spits in the face of all you’ve been doing for him to go back to his old jealous ways. He drinks some of the wine to calm himself down and earnestly tries to go back to the talk he was having.

He does try, but by the third glass in, he becomes a bit distracted by the wine. He’s not usually much of a fan of the stuff, but even he can appreciate a good bottle when he has it. Not too sweet but just enough to mask the burn of alcohol, while pairing well with his steak.

All he’s really thinking at that moment is how much you would probably appreciate it too. So he flags down the stuffy waiter and insists that a similar bottle be brought to your table, on him of course.

He doesn’t really think too much of it, and later as Charlie’s doing his best impression of Parker to a host of hoots and hollers from the rest, does the waiter return. “Your friends send their thanks for the wine,” he says simply walking away.

So you took it… he finds it very interesting.

If there was nothing there, you could have said no and he would’ve put it behind him. But you accepted the wine… there had to be something more to it. Especially since you were on a “date” with another man, and what woman accepts a drink from another man if she wasn’t at the very least interested.

As he leaves, there is a part of him that aches leaving you behind, especially with another man, and the only solace he takes is that you accepting that bottle of wine had to mean something.

His home feels achingly empty as he walks in, even as he’s surrounded by his buddies. He’s trying to follow your advice with the whole set sleep schedule thing so it’s only midnight by the time he walks through his front door.

Even if come Monday you flat out reject him, he tries to content himself to have you just be his therapist. How maybe even after you graduate him out you can still continue being friends outside of your office and he won’t have to lose you as well.

Still all of that rings hollow that night as he recalls furiously jerking himself off in his bed, tears streaming down his face and your name on his lips, as he thought of you in that dress. What’s worse is that the fantasy he has of you is not even necessarily erotic, and by most standards, it’s practically mundane. But it’s precisely because of how normal it is that it feels so foreign yet nonetheless attractive to him, and thus far more dangerous than any wet dream he’s had of you before.

He imagines bringing you to Graceland from the restaurant. How you would strip yourself of that dress, effortlessly seductive as you swap it for a nightie, and how you would get a little bashful as you notice him staring before crawling into bed beside him. But unlike other dreams he has of you, you simply lay back and allow him to bury his face in your chest. “What’s on your mind Elvis?” you would ask him.

He can almost feel the scrape of your nails on his scalp, as you listen to his woes. The slight rise and fall of your chest as he rests his head on it. How all of your ministrations are comforting and relaxing rather than teasing or playful, like your content to simply sit and be with him alone rather than doing anything else. Like you’re there for him, not for Elvis Presley.

He wanted that. He wanted you.

And now he has you.

And nothing will ever take you away.

“Mmm, I remember this,” he hums to you while wrapping his arms around your waist as you put the finishing touches to your face. You preen under his attention, and wriggle a little as his fingers brush the hem of your skirt, both of you practically itching for a repeat of that first concert.

While in general he would have preferred you wore something he gave you, he has no doubt that the dress is not gonna survive the night once you get home.

“Where you headin’ lookin’ this good?” he asks, trying not to sound too sore about it.

You sigh as you put down your brush, squaring your shoulders as though you’re about to step into a battlefield. “Ma’s throwing me a Bridal shower remember,” you answer.

Yeah he does remember, but he honestly wishes you hadn’t. Though he can hardly begrudge you for being less than ecstatic about your party, as he also doesn’t want you to go but for very different reasons. Try as he might, he couldn’t justify going with you, and just the idea of you being out of reach made his stomach uneasy. His only solace in the situation was that he was able to convince your Mama to not invite any of your old college girlfriends, as the last thing he needs is for any of them to be putting ideas in your head again.

Besides, it marks the first time in awhile since he’s gotten all of his buddies together at once, so he’s determined to enjoy the night as much as he can without you. He thinks he’s had his fill of the bachelor life, so his party ain’t nothing too crazy all things considered.

For as much as he did clean house once he booted Parker out, there were still those in his circle he could do without personally but still served their purposes well.

He’s made it clear he won’t stand for any of them talking any kind of nonsense about you, but that doesn’t stop them from bemoaning the “life” he’s giving up all in order to get hitched yet again. The partying, the girls, the drugs he would give up ten times over for you.

By midnight he’s even close to calling it for the night hoping that you’ll be home soon.

For as much as they rag on him for becoming so domesticated he’s well aware of the fact that they are nonetheless happy for your presence in his life. He knows that while some of them are genuinely glad that he’s now better for his own sake, he’s all too aware that some of them only “care” because their very livelihoods depend on him.

Not you though. What you gave up when you thought you were protecting him, you proved yourself to be far more caring and loyal than anyone he’s ever met. And he rests easier knowing you’re watching out for him, even at a great cost to yourself.

It almost makes him feel guilty for what he had to do.

Almost.

And, as though summoned, you make your way through the front door. The second you walk in, he loses interest in just about everything else in the room. You look like you just got through twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali.

He already knows you don’t got the best relationship with your folks but understands you couldn’t get out of going without raising questions. But if it went bad it saves him the trouble from having to talk you out of visiting them too often.

Truly it makes his heart soar the way you light up a bit upon seeing him and he hopes

And then it goes to shit.

He sees you lazily look around the room, probably trying to figure out a tactful way to get rid of them all. But then your brow furrows, and you give the entire room a once over again, and then you seem to look intently at every single person in the room as though you’re tallying them up. And once you finish that, it only seems to distress you more.

You’ve got that same look in your eye when you’re reading your mysteries, with your brow furrowed and your hands to your lips. He’s confused as to what may be going on in that pretty little head of yours, until he looks around and remembers that ALL of his buddies are here now.

Something that shouldn’t be if he had really handled the ones that had apparently squealed the two of you out to Parker.

Huh… you figured it out just like that, he thinks. This is honestly what he gets for choosing a smart one like you, but he can't say he’s not a little proud that you were able to do so. Besides it’s not much of a choice when it’s meant to be.

He takes one last puff off his cigar before stamping it out into the accompanying ashtray, after all no use in trying to pretend anymore. You're cracking a case wide open in your head and he figures there ain’t no point in drawing it out for much longer.

“Hey Charlie,” he draws out, and your eyes snap back to him, apparently terrified to be proven right.

“Yeah EP?” he answers, always the good friend who would go along with any plan regardless of how he personally felt about it if it meant getting him back on track.

“Why don’tcha do that voice,” he says smiling a bit as his friends goes a bit ashen at the request. “Always gets a good laugh.”

Charlie thinks he’s subtle when he steals a glance your way. He is not.

“You sure ‘bout that EP,” he asks, nervously swallowing, his eyes begging to not have to do this. Which gets the attention of all of them, and some of them shift uncomfortably at what’s about to go down, downing the last of their drinks and nervously gathering their things hoping to make a quick getaway. The ones who don’t know are looking at Charlie anticipating a good laugh but they quickly pick up on how worried he looks and quickly follow suit, figuring nothing good would come of this.

Elvis only has eyes for you though, morbidly curious as to how you’re going to react, the same way your eyes are firmly fixed on him, no doubt fearing that you’re right. He almost calls it off at that point, but call it what you want he believes that once this secret is over and done with, the two of you will be all the stronger for it and there will be absolutely nothing to hold you back.

“Who am I talkin’ to?” Elvis asks Charlie all the while making full eye contact with you. Contrary to what you may believe he doesn’t in fact enjoy hurting you with these hard truths, he’s just not as skilled as you in breaking them to you in a more delicate manner.

Charlie lets out a deep, tired sigh before, without any more preamble, he says, “You’re talking to the man that gave the world Elvis Presley,” in his most perfect Parker impression.

Your face fully falls.

Once upon a time you had told him how sometimes people need to be guided by another to get what they wanted. And he knows for a fact that you wanted him, it was only your damn job and it’s rules that held you back. That’s where his head was at after that fucking anniversary party.

You are the only woman alive who can proudly say she’s broken his heart not once, not twice, but three times. The first time being when you threatened to switch him to another therapist, but luckily he saw right through that ploy.

The next time when you had the gall to lie to his face about where you were going. When you started speaking about Saturday, he could feel his heart flutter a bit, truly believing you were gonna invite him to meet your folks. Even now he could imagine how it would have felt to be offered such a thing, to be brought home and be introduced as your boyfriend proper. Even after you brought up your friends he could have dealed with that if only it would bring him much more into your life. Only for you to bring him back down to Earth with your refusal to bring him.

The last time was when you couldn’t say you loved him back. God was that a kick to the chest because he may not be the smartest man, but even he knew that it meant one of two things. Either you wanted to say it and you couldn’t for whatever reason… or you didn’t love him and you were just feeling particularly guilty about it that day. ‘

He couldn’t accept that though. Something in your life was preventing you from saying it back and really he knew there could only be one thing. Was it really so monstrous to remove it if it left you feeling like this?

You love him, he knows that you do and you only need a push in the right direction in order to admit it.

And if you didn’t… he couldn’t afford to think like that.

So he had to push through. Had to do what was necessary. Had to believe you love him.

Had to believe he was still worth loving.

He knew words meant nothing at the end of the day (you taught him as much) he had to find a way to prove you did love him and that you weren’t in it for yourself.

The only question was how.

After he sees you leave that place, looking devastated, it takes everything within him to not take you in his arms. But he has a goal in mind and he has to figure out where exactly you're at mentally in order to push through.

For all he knows you’re on your way to pack up your office right now, but he has to be sure.

Red tries to stop him before he gets out of the car, but ends up backing off, with a single glare his way. He waits for a bit before approaching the modest looking house after you had left, and knocks on the door, and once it opens he has to remind himself who he’s doing this for, and knock that fucker’s lights out.

Even when he has never met them before, people weirdly enough have a lot of trust in him. And Mark Whatever his last name is, proves to be no different. Elvis greets him with his first name and a quick hug as though they were old friends and lets himself into the house as Mark still gapes at the doorway.

He finds a den with two identical mugs on a coffee table, and he finds a very familiar lipstick color on one of them (how could he not there’s still a ring of it around his cock). Mark shuffles his way into the sitting room, absolutely struck dumb by Elvis' presence, and Elvis finds it hard to believe that he ever saw him as a rival for your love.

Mark notices the mugs still on the coffee table and makes a motion to grab them, stammering out an apology about the mess. Before he could do so, Elvis notices the light color from your mug and hides a self satisfied smirk at that. Where once you only took your coffee black, your tastes have now become closer aligned to his own.

Elvis puts a hand down on the mug as he says, “Why dontcha take a seat right down there Mark?” It’s kind of pathetic really seeing a man take orders from a stranger in his own house, but it serves Elvis’ purposes all the better. And with the way Mark awkwardly takes a seat it’s apparent that he is still flustered at Elvis’ presence in his den.

Good, he thinks. Should keep him honest.

“Wh-what’s this about?” Mark asks, uneasily.

“It’s about our good friend, Y/N of course,” he says as though it were so obvious.

“O-Oh, uh, she was over here not too long ago,” he stammered out, before his brows furrowed even more confused. “How do you know her?”

“Through her daddy,” Elvis lies coolly. “I don’t know if you noticed but she’s been a bit outta sorts recently. And I’m hopin’ you could help me figure out what’s been botherin’ her.”

“I-I don’t think it’s my place to say,” Mark sputters out.

“C’mon Matt,” he says, leaning forward just a little bit to really sell the concern. “You can talk to me ‘bout this,” echoing your own words from way back when.

If he noticed the wrong name he didn’t say anything as he nervously looks down at his own hands, before muttering out a soft “she’s been having some trouble with a patient of hers.”

“Huh…” he says, raising his brows a bit at this. “She tell you who?”

“She would never tell me anything like that,” he quickly defends and Elvis relaxes a bit. “But ummm… she-she just needed some advice as to how to handle this patient. And I-I let her know that whatever consequences she imagines would happen, are not as bad as the reality. So it would be better to act now as opposed to later.”

“Hmmm…” he hums, and just like that he can already feel you slipping through his fingers. But he holds on to that look you had leaving. How distressed you looked at the idea of having to drop him all together, but he also knows you’re a tough one that can make the right decisions, even when they’re hard, and that’s why he loves you so. “Tell me Max, what would you do if you were in her situation?” he asks even though he already figures the answer.

“Personally… I would’ve dropped the patient a long time ago,” he says without any remorse. He says this next part so coldly that he finds it hard to imagine that you have ever had anything in common with him save for your chosen field. “Not just because it is the right thing to do, but because, for as little information as I have about the situation, this patient is simply not worth all the grief they’re causing her.”

But it’s not me, Elvis wanted to defend. It’s her work, if it weren’t for that gettin’ in the way she wouldn’t have to be so goddamn worried all the time.

“And did you tell her that?” Elvis asks, worried as to what may be brewing in that little head of yours if this son of a bitch has been whispering in your ear.

“God no,” the professor says. “I told her to do what she can live with. But I know her,” he says leaning back, sure in his opinion, though unaware that these words perhaps just saved his life. “She’s gonna make the right choice on her own or it won’t mean much.”

For all his degrees, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, is all Elvis can really think in that moment. He can’t possibly even begin to understand the kind of relationship you have with him, and how in fact he is the right choice for you, as you’re his.

If a baby was about to walk into a pool, would he just let it happen because it was it’s choice? That’s downright evil in his book. Sometimes you need to make the decision for others and step in when they’re about to make the wrong ones. And if that’s what he has to do to for you then goddamnit he will.

“Well, I think I best get going,” Elvis would say after contemplating this man's words. He knew how impressionable you can be, so he needs to act fast to undo whatever poison this asshole put in your head.

“O-oh of course,” he stutters. “Umm.. thank you for stopping by today.”

“Now Mark, that fancy title you got, tells me you’re a smart man, right?” Elvis says a hand on his shoulder as he makes his way to the door.

“...yes?” he answers tentatively.

“Now this story, I think it best you keep it to yourself.” he says, and he watches the man's brow furrowed in confusion. “Afterall I don’t think you wanna be known in your field for blabbin’ anything to anyone who just walks in your door.”

“Of course not,” he says uneasily. “Thank you for your concern for Y/N, Elvis. Hopefully she’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Course,” Elvis would reply, holding out his hand for the professor, which Mark takes. “And please, call me Mr. Presley,” and on that confusing note he turns around and heads back to the car.

He stews on that asshole’s words the whole way home, no one daring to talk about it until he did. He wants to trust

But he knows if he lets this stand and doesn’t interfere, you’re going to make the wrong choice. Ultimately he decides to make the choice for you for your own good. He’s let chance rule his life for far too long, so he’s gotta make his own luck.

He cycles through just about everything he knows about you and tries to figure out how it could possibly help him.

And then he remembers how you once told him how your worst fear is seeing your patients fall back to their old ways, especially with those who abused them.

Just the thought of going back to Parker makes him sick to his stomach. For as much as he loves you, he’s not willing to do anything that will bring that bastard back into the fold, and he doubts you would want that either. But he almost resolves himself to do it until he’s pulling into the driveway and sees Charlie’s car.

And then he’s reminded that Charlie always did do a pretty spot on Parker impression. Especially if you ain’t ever heard that old toad talk before. And finally an awful plan began to form in his head.

It’s sneaky and underhanded, and it literally leaves a bad taste in his mouth that could only be chased away by that Wine. That sweet taste on his tongue reminds him of that first night in your office. He remembers how you cried so sweetly for him. How you pushed him away so overwhelmed with what you felt for him. How excited you got when he called you by your name. How you called him daddy for the first time.

What he remembers most of all is how he had to apply some pressure to you in order to break through that tough professional wall you’ve set between the two of you. But it was worth that sweet sweet outcome.

And if he gets the answer he wants from you, it would be worth it yet again.

You wanted him to take charge then, and you want him to take charge now.

So this is something he has to do and this is his cross to bear.

Ideally you never had to know.

Once the call was over Charlie could hardly look him in the eye, and practically scrambles to get the hell out of there once given the signal. He feels a twinge of guilt and hopes that this be the last morally bad thing he asks of the man. But with the way you’ve been able to keep him on the straight and narrow since you’ve met him, he thinks it will be.

Still he welcomes the solitude, knowing that this is undoubtedly going to be the worst minutes of his life, and the only one he could even fathom spending them with is the one he’s currently waiting on. He knows you well enough that you wouldn’t be one to sit on this for too long, so tonight he’s going to learn one of two things about you: either you tell him about “Parker” and try to help save him from the rat bastard… or you say yes to “Parker” and you prove yourself to be like the rest.

He tries to chase that nasty feeling out of his head with the wine, and the sweet taste of it reminds him of that first night with you. How for all of your fighting and protesting you still gave in, how you kept coming back even as he knowingly put you through the wringer. How you would settle just as easily in his arms as he did in yours.

If that ain't love, then I guess I don’t know what the hell is, he remembers thinking. You’re the last hope he has to believe that he can be loved for him, not for Elvis Presley. To love him through his fears, his hopes, his anxiousness, his temper, his jealousy, his dreams, all of it.

And his faith in you is rewarded as you as his phone rings within minutes.

Where most people would blow up in a rage and scream and curse till their hoarse about something like this, you’re not like most people. No you’re far too composed to ever do that. Growing up in a house where your wants and feelings were second to everything will do that to you he guesses.

You’re like that with everyone… except for him. You freely express all your thoughts and opinions with him, never afraid to give him the business when necessary but always honest in a way few people in his life are these days.

You’re at your most vulnerable with him. You’re so used to hiding how you feel for others' benefits, and he’s glad you don’t have to do that with him. It was a long hard road to get to this point but goddamn if it wasn't worth every moment.

He’s almost… giddy knowing that you’re going to be mad and he’s gonna be the only witness to it.

But for all your anger and fury, righteous or not. Ain’t none of it will change the fact that at the end of the day you still chose him.

And even as you wordlessly turn and walk almost robotically up the stairs he’s confident that you’re going to choose him again.

He barely has time to get the words out before the rest of them are in a frenzy to get out of the house, apparently unwilling to stick around for the fireworks. He doesn’t know what they're so squeamish about, he knows for a fact that they would’ve done worse if he asked them to.

He trots up the stairs, maybe going a little slower, wanting to really rile you up. When he gets to your shared bedroom, you’re packing up a storm.

It’s honestly cute that you think you’re going anywhere.

A part of him knows he should feel more guilty about it. He does feel some guilt of course he’s not a monster, but it does feel roughly the same amount of guilt if he had broken a vase or something. It felt bad in the moment, and he tried his damndest to hide it, but ultimately it didn’t mean much.

Sure you had been upset those first few weeks after the story dropped but eventually you did get over it and finally learned to enjoy your newfound life as his girl. Yes it cost you your job, but in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter much.

And if he’s being honest it only really mattered in getting you to meet him.

Most people would be either on their knees begging for forgiveness from you or continuing to feign ignorance to all of it.

But he’s not most people. He knows what he did and he knows he ain’t got nothing to be sorry over.

“Can you believe them Hollywood producers ain’t never wanted me in no serious movies?” he says casually, now that there are no more secrets between either of you.

You throw a bottle of wine at him.

-------------------------

Ending Note: As Battie as my witness I’ve had this twist planned since the beginning. It’s up to you if I did enough to justify this choice but I am happy with the results.

Taglist

@venus-haze @djsjs13949 @ilovehobi101 @butlerslut @richardslady121 @giabelia @sydneyyyya @meetme0614 @tacozebra051 @myradiaz @thelifes-world @maythesunshineagain @rakitirakiti @lostteenagetale @j-v-9-2 @eliseinmemphis @dkayfixates @immi547 @thatbanditqueen @marriedtoeddie @cuteejeno @itlover8000 @isthlsfate @mgparker @thatbanditqueen @softsatnin @literally-just-elvis-fics @adaydreamaway08 @airyx0x0 @domoron @angelborn-1998

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hairstevington · 1 year

Text

Stranger Therapy - part 2!

Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington

Summary: Based on this text post, Steve and Eddie match on Tinder and decide to go to couple's counseling on a first date to see how long it takes the therapist (Murray) to figure them out. Chapter 1, Link to Ao3

Word Count: 3k again!

Warnings: This one has a moment of actual therapy lmao, nothing TOO serious but Eddie has low self-esteem and Steve is closed off, modern day AU, aged up, brief Robin cameo, Matchmaker Murray.

A/N: OMG I was NOT expecting such a big reaction to part 1!! Here is the much requested part two, and I plan to continue for probably another two or three chapters. Thanks to all who have read so far!! PS I really did look into the counselor code of ethics for this one lmao

“So, how’d it go?” Robin asked once Steve got home.

He had no idea how to answer that question.

“It was…” He wandered to the fridge to grab a drink, wondering how much of the experience he should share with Robin. Generally, they told each other everything, but wasn’t therapy usually a private thing? So it wouldn’t be too terribly weird to not tell her, right? “Did you know he went to Hawkins High with us?”

“He did?” she asked, just as confused as Steve had been. “Like, at the same time we were there?”

“Yup. Eddie Munson ring a bell?” Robin thought about the name for a second before her eyes widened.

“Oh my god! Yes I remember him!” She laughed, then continued once she’d settled down. “Okay, yeah. He’s definitely the kind of person who would want to do the first date fake couple’s counseling thing. He was always a little…outside of the box.”

“Come on,” Steve replied. “You say the meanest shit to me, and the best you can come up with for Eddie is that he’s ‘outside of the box?’ Robin, he’s never even seen the box.” She laughed again.

“Okay, sure,” she agreed. “I’m guessing it didn’t turn out to be a good match?”

Steve hesitated again, because no, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t sure if they were a good match, honestly. He ran through the events of the day in his head, then realized just how batshit insane it all was. And Steve had agreed to it.

And he didn’t even regret it.

He imagined telling Robin, and her relentlessly teasing him about it like she always did. This would give her enough ammunition to last a lifetime. It probably would be even worse than the fateful day at the mall when Steve had accidentally ripped his pants while attempting to hit on a girl. Robin had a front row seat for that one, and she still brought it up.

Steve agreeing to go to therapy with an actual stranger, pretending to date said stranger, and working on actual personal issues together? Yeah, no. Steve was gonna take this shit to the grave.

Except, he wouldn’t, would he? Because he had an accomplice. They also weren’t strangers, not really, but they were still acquaintances, at best. An acquaintance that Steve had intermittently thought about kissing ever since Eddie mentioned it with Dr. Bauman.

Ohhh, this is bad I think.

“Earth to Steve,” Robin said, interrupting his thought spiral. “Are you going to see him again or not?”

“We’re gonna get coffee next week,” Steve lied. He never lied to Robin, and he felt immediately horrible about it, but he couldn’t tell her, right?

He almost broke and told her the honest truth, because sitting with the lie was so uncomfortable. Instead, he told himself that if he actually got coffee with Eddie next week, then he wouldn’t be lying. Loophole!

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I really didn’t expect anything to come from this.”

“Yeah, well he’s -” Steve tried to think of what exactly it was about Eddie that was so enticing. He was hot, obviously. Charismatic. He was able to take Steve off guard, and they rolled with each other’s bullshit pretty smoothly. It was strange how connected he felt to Eddie in the session. Like they really were in tune with each other. Like they were an actual couple. “He’s cool. We had fun.”

“I know you’re not telling me something,” Robin said, eyeing him suspiciously. “But I guess it’s not my business. Plus, confidentiality and all that.”

Unlike Steve, Robin had been to therapy before. She had always told Steve he should go, too, but he never had.

Until now, of course. But first, he had to cover his bases.

Steve: Do you wanna get coffee before our appointment?

Eddie: Sure, gives us a chance to get our stories straight

Eddie: Hold on let me make the joke before you do

Steve: ?

Eddie: About our stories being gay and not straight!!

Steve: I wasn’t gonna make that lame-ass joke

Eddie: Sure you weren’t

Steve: And if I was, my delivery would have been way better

Eddie: oh shit

Eddie: Steve’s biting back today ;)

Steve: Well I gotta keep up with you, don’t I?

Eddie: Mmm i see how it is. Noon work for coffee?

Steve: I’ll be there

Eddie had recently been told by a close friend that he needed to get his shit together. The couple’s counseling wasn’t a whole master plan on Eddie’s part - he really did think it sounded fun, and it was - but the thought of talking out some of his issues was appealing, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

This close friend of Eddie’s - the one who suggested Eddie had an attitude problem and low self-esteem - had mentioned Dr. Bauman a few times in the past. He apparently worked wonders on couples, even the ones who argued all the time. His success rate was remarkable.

Thinking back on it, maybe Eddie did kind of want to do couple’s counseling with Steve and Dr. Bauman for a reason.

Like, come on. There was a spark there, right? There was something, at least. Who else would have gone along with Eddie’s crazy this much? Steve understood Eddie, and while he kept calling this whole thing ‘insane,’ it didn’t stop him from agreeing to it. Because there was something there between them.

But mainly, Eddie just wanted to see a therapist, he didn’t really want to do it alone, and for whatever reason Steve seemed like the right person to be there.

Okay, yeah. Steve’s right. This is insane.

The cafe down the street from Murray’s office was small and cozy, and had fancy syrups for the coffee that Steve secretly loved. He came here sometimes, under the guise that he was getting a strawberries and cream oat milk latte for Robin, even though literally none of the workers cared.

“Your usual?” the barista asked when Steve and Eddie got in line. Steve tried not to notice Eddie’s amused expression and the way his eyebrows were raised expectantly, desperate to know what Steve ordered so often the workers had it memorized.

“Uhhhh…” Steve wasn’t sure why he was blushing. He never cared much about being seen as masculine, and he was literally going to therapy with this guy, so things were about to get a lot more embarrassing than a coffee order. He looked at Eddie. “Don’t judge me, it’s delicious.” Eddie laughed.

“I don’t give a shit,” he said. “Whatever it is, own it.” Steve turned to the barista.

“Yes, the usual,” he told her.

“I’ll get the same thing,” Eddie chimed in. Steve felt a flutter of something in his chest, somewhere between anxiety and flattery.

They got their drinks and sat down. Steve took a sip and tried not to show on his face how happy this stupid beverage made him. It was a simple joy, you know?

“Okay, so you wanted to come up with some kind of game plan, right?” Steve asked as he waited for the caffeine to hit.

“Yeah, I mean -” Eddie shifted in his seat uncomfortably. What the hell is he nervous about, Steve wondered. “If Murray figures us out now, he’ll drop us. So we have to be a bit more convincing.”

“How are we supposed to be more convincing? Do you want us to start making out on the couch or something?” Steve suggested it as if he wouldn’t be extremely happy to do so.

“If it comes down to it,” Eddie teased back. Steve blushed once again. He was so much better at flirting than he was being flirted with. “My favorite color is black or red, depending on the day. I still mostly eat canned foods and TV dinners because I never figured out the whole meal prep thing, but it works out fine because my favorite food is mac and cheese. I play a lot of video games and I have a Dungeons and Dragons group. I’m kind of amazing at the guitar -”

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, not getting it. Eddie sighed.

“I’m telling you about myself, what do you think I’m doing?” He shook his head and chuckled. “So you have context, or whatever. So we’re not just making shit up.”

“Oh, okay,” Steve responded. “What about your family?”

“Yeah, we’re not gonna touch that subject with a ten foot pole,” Eddie muttered. “Your turn.”

“Fair enough. Okay, well my favorite color is blue, I guess. I live with my best friend Robin. I…I’m not really good at this.” Steve took another sip of his drink and wondered why he couldn’t come up with more facts about himself.

“College?” Eddie asked. Steve shook his head. “Me neither. Do you like music?”

“Yeah,” Steve answered. “I took piano lessons for a while and then I taught myself the rest.”

“Impressive,” Eddie noted. “Do we ever play music together?”

“I guess we could,” Steve said with a shrug. It was fun, coming up with a backstory like that. “Aren’t you going to drink your coffee?”

“Oh Jesus, no. It’s got way too much sugar for my taste.”

“Then why did you get one?” Eddie smiled.

“Because now -” Eddie slid his cup across the table until it was directly next to Steve’s. “-you have one for later.” Steve stared down at both cups, perplexed.

“That is…like, incredibly sweet,” he said.

“Just like that abomination you call coffee,” Eddie replied.

After intake, Dr. Murray Bauman examined the counseling code of ethics, and unsurprisingly there was nothing in there saying it was unethical to continue treating a couple who were lying about being a couple. He didn’t have proof they were pretending, of course, but clients lied to therapists all the time. If they showed up for their appointment, Murray was going to counsel them. That was his job. Truly, it would have been unethical not to work with them.

They did show up, and they were right on time. Immediately, Murray noticed something was different. They were more comfortable with each other, and Steve in particular looked much less terrified.

“So,” Murray began, “tell me how your week has been.”

“It’s been good,” Eddie answered. “You really helped us out a lot.”

For a fleeting moment, Murray believed him. He thought that maybe his instinct had been wrong, and they actually were a couple, and they’d somehow managed to get over Steve’s affair in a matter of forty minutes.

But it was only a moment. Murray was a great counselor, but nobody was that good. His suspicions were confirmed when Steve opened his mouth.

“We actually think our relationship is solid, and we kinda just want to focus on our own individual issues,” he said.

It was far too polished of a statement for it to have not been planned. Which meant one thing - Steve and Eddie were just looking for individual therapy, and were going at the same time for…emotional support? Cost-effectiveness?

Murray nodded. This was all a first for him, and he loved uncharted waters.

“Okay, what would you like to focus on first?” he asked.

“I’ll go,” Eddie offered. “So, I have this friend that says I have self-esteem issues, but it doesn’t really make sense to me because I feel like I’m pretty confident. Like, I haven’t really mastered how to be a grown-up or anything, and I’m kind of a mess sometimes, but it’s all part of my charm, you know? I’ve always been a little crazy, but I also think I’m awesome, so…”

“If you think you’re awesome, why does someone else’s opinion matter?” Murray asked.

“I dunno, aren’t you the one who has the answers?” Eddie asked. “Just skip to the part where you tell me what’s wrong with me.”

“Well, that’s not usually how this works,” Murray began, “but I think I do see what’s going on.”

“Enlighten me,” Eddie said.

“You just said you were confident but called yourself a mess and a little crazy in the same breath,” Murray replied. “You can exude confidence all you want, but it doesn’t mean you actually believe those things about yourself. Steve, what do you think about this?”

“Uhhh -” Steve looked absolutely unequipped to answer the proposed question. “I think Eddie knows how hot and charming he is, actually. I don’t think it’s bullshit.”

“I didn’t say it was bullshit,” Murray countered, noticing that this time Eddie was the one to blush. “But there is a difference between ego and self-esteem. It’s not just about confidence, it’s about self-respect and worth. Eddie, do you feel valuable?”

“Like, in this relationship?” Eddie asked.

“No, in this world.”

This question stopped Eddie dead in his tracks. His face went pale, and he became visibly nervous at the prospect of being so vulnerable.

“Fuck,” Eddie said at last. “I mean, uh - not really, but it's not personal, I don't think. Just feels like we're all specks of dust on a rock, you know?"

There was another shift in the room, but Murray couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.

“Can you tell me a bit about how you grew up?” he wondered. Family history was a standard line of questioning in these early sessions. Eddie froze.

“Actually, I really wanna focus on my thing now, if that’s okay,” Steve interrupted. Eddie seemed relieved to pass the torch, so Murray went with it.

“Of course. What’s going on with you, Steve?”

“Uhh, well, I - um -” he sputtered, his leg bouncing rapidly. “I keep having this nightmare - like, every night - where there’s a monster in my closet. What do you think that means?”

“Well,” Murray said, leaning back in his chair. “Dream psychology isn’t really my specialty -”

“Okay, but I reeeeally wanna talk about it,” Steve persisted. "Like, is the monster a metaphor about my sexuality or is it supposed to be my dad? Help me out here."

While Steve babbled about his obviously made up dream, Murray caught Eddie staring at the man beside him. There was a completely unmistakable twinkle in Eddie's eye that told Murray everything he needed to know. Whether these boys knew it or not, they cared about each other.

“As you wish,” Murray conceded. They used the rest of their time focusing on much less heavy subjects, and it was pretty clear that was intentional. He understood, though, that it was important not to take these things too fast. Before long, the color returned to Eddie’s face, and the boys were riffing off each other again flawlessly.

This was getting more and more interesting by the minute.

“Things were intense for a bit in there,” Eddie said as they walked back to the parking lot.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “You okay?”

“M’good,” Eddie replied. “Your dream thing. Was that real?”

“Uh, no. I just thought you needed a break.”

“Oh,” he said. “Normally I’d give you a spirited monologue about how you don’t know me and therefore shouldn’t make my decisions for me.”

“What are you gonna say instead?” Steve asked.

“Well, considering you’re technically paying for this, I don’t really have a leg to stand on,” Eddie chuckled. “And also, as weird as this whole thing is, I’m glad you were in there with me.” He tried to play it off as a lot more casual of a statement than it was.

Being in therapy together and actually taking it seriously was an incredibly intimate thing. Steve wasn’t sure he could actually be as open as Eddie had been.

“I think we’re skipping a whole lot of steps, here,” Steve said, attempting to return Eddie’s light tone.

“Yeah, well I’ve always hated steps,” Eddie replied. “I tend to trip over ‘em.”

“Right.” Steve chuckled. “So…same time next week?” Eddie flashed a genuine smile and nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Oh, but next time - you’re in the hot seat. No fake dreams, I’m talking real shit, okay?”

“Oh, you’re making demands, now?” Steve asked, amused. “What happened to you not having a leg to stand on?”

“Huh,” Eddie responded, pondering this for a moment. He shrugged. “I guess I can fly.”

Steve had no intention of actually diving into real shit, especially after he’d seen the way Murray dug into Eddie during the session. Steve wasn’t ready to confront anything. He refused to admit there was anything to confront in the first place. But he would go - of course he’d go, because something deep within him told him he’d regret it if he didn’t.

Steve and Eddie weren’t a couple. They weren’t strangers. They weren’t friends. But damn, they were something.

(next chapter)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@escapingthereality @imfinereallyy @raisedbylibrarians @samthemissfit @chaoticvictorianspirit @elizbaehth @despoenaandpyromania @cr0w-culture @bagofgreentea @f1ct1onwh0re @novelnovella @thing-a-ling @bisexualdisastersworld @practicallybegging @soldiers00 @beckkthewreck @fandomz-brainrot @shrimply-a-menace @justanothergirlwithobsessions @freshflowers-and-dryingherbs

@paintballkid711 @abraca-fxckyou @allbimyself26 @jellybabiesforall @allbymyselfexceptformycactus @justaloadofgarbage-blog @alliemunsonsstuff @undreamingscatworld @thefruityfours @hobbitnarwhal @calivanus @wreckmyplans-thatsmyman @antheia @goodolefashionedloverboi @lillemilly @missmagillicuddy @steviesbicrisis @gamerdano @menamesniall @eyeslikewildflowers111 @callmesirkay @stringischeese @eds-trashmouth

#steddie #steddie fic #eddie and steve #eddie munson x steve harrington #st fanfic #writing #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction

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ikamigami · 6 days

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Oh boy, i would love to, if Everyone in show would go see an professianal Thearpist for once.

Like, i love Earth, she is an amazing person. She is trying her best and It makes it even more Sad. However, Earth´s Theapy session from her not helping and i will explain to you guys my reasson alright? So Earth is very kind and she is polite and open to lisstening to the diffrentent kind of issues, which is fine and already been heard can be enough. The after effect is been how everyone who have doing thearpy session with her, refuse to see other Therapy and completly reliance on her. Earth never been trained to be a thearpist and she can help like a very good friend, but people that been having seriousely issues, for example Monty being abusive at times to Foxy is been overlooked. Sure Monty is doing a bit better, but he can´t doing thearpy with his girlfriend. Monty would never admit beeing awfull. (also even if he would, Earth loves Monty, so she blindly ignore it)

If you even analyse every person in the show who been doing the thearpy session with her, let me ask you something real quick, DOES anyone get better from it? No,... really not a single person.

-Solar? right, he have some seriously issues with his Moon, he killed him and he abandoned his Dimention. He replace his people by moveing on to life in another Dimention, but if i take a guss, he surely just want to fix his place and whatever. He is ignoreing his feelings and be nice to others. It only takes a,...(sun death)... moment and he leaveing everyone behind, cause he have trauma and not talk about himself.

-Lunar thearpy session was also less about him, it was more about Lunar and Earth talking things out. When Lunar had the chance to talk about his problem, he switch back to beening worried over Earth, which is bad, it´s not about her, it was supposted to be over him. They should haveing another thearpy session, The whole Lunar is going to die is ignored with leaving Lunar in the dark. With what is he even suppose to do.

-Moon been worried over Sun drinking problem and Earth overlocked this and claim Sun been alright, is also weard. She is not even concidere it that there is a chance of Sun having more going on. I think Moon been afrait to be Old Moon is also wild. People might should be suggest it, Old Moon IS a part of New Moon. They are the same person and they should try to understand themself more. Even if New Moon would go on with his life without Old moon ever be in it, he should TAKE responsiablty with his old self. If he would try that, Then he would understand his BROTHER way better. (SO yea, it just a way of Moon running away from his issues, cause he did it with 1th Moon too who he rip him a part and claim to be so much diffrent, only to come to the point where he believe he is just as bad as him.) The point is, Moon will allways hurt Sun, because he never learned from his past mistakes, he will even with a 99 prozent possiablity kill himself again and give Sun a new Moon (or leave him and give him Old Moon cause he isn´t as smart as his other self) This is not a question of do you want Old Moon or do you want New Moon? You would want the whole Picture and not half of it.

-Sun is suicide and heave mental issues and experience his Brother been dying and think it was his fault. He have now New Moon, but he surely want that New Moon would remember the past times, the times when Sun and Moon bond,.. the times when they getting clouser and build trust. If you would ask eveyone else like Earth if she would be alright to have a NEW Solar then the answer is NO. So how is she not understanding Sun problem with New Moon? Like not even a little bit. Sun also never got the chance to get in himself and be honnest about Moons abusive behaviour. He can´t tell his Sister of how MUCH he suffer from Moon. Sun is just to much of a Good heart person and don´t want anyone to worried over him. So Sun dig his feelings aside till he one day can´t handle it anymore.

To not makeing it any longer, i leave it to be. What Earth is doing, is not principle wrong, she helped her Family, but she isn´t even going to see herself professional Thearpy. Every Thearpist have to see Thearpy too. People that any of thouse people could see is for Example Golden Freddy, but also some Mother/Father figure yk actuall Parents from Pizzaplex is also a good choice.

You're absolutely right! With everything!

I don't have anything to add to that.. I just simply agree with you.

They all have issues so big to resolve them by talking to their sister who even if has good intentions and wants to help simply can't because she's their sister..

They should go to professional therapist and that's it.

But I think that they won't realize that they need serious help till something really bad happen - Sun's death probably by suicide..

That's what I think that all of this is heading towards.. they all need a wake up call..

Thank you for pointing out all of those things, there are even things that I forgot to mention such as the fact that Earth wouldn't want to have new Solar and yet can't understand that Sun had a hard time to accept New Moon and move on from Old Moon's death..

Thank you so much for this input. This is really important and I hope that many people will see this ^^

#sun and moon show #sams #sams sun #sams moon #sams solar #laes #laes lunar #laes earth #mgafs #mgafs monty #mgafs foxy #tw trauma #tw suicide #tw abuse

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frenchgremlim1808 · 1 year

Text

WHAT YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTERS SAYS ABOUT YOU: YTTD EDITION

PART 1) THE PARTICIPANTS

SARA CHIDOUIN:

You can’t stop praising her about how amazing of a protagonist she is compared to other protags in similar games such as danganronpa. You would and WILL fight anyone that says anything bad about your homegirl an you DEFINITELY need therapy

JOE TAZUNA:

You have the terrible habit of falling immediately in love with the best friend archetype that we met in the beginning who’s clearly gonna die. When they die you keep telling yourself you won’t be fooled again and then you do. Anyway you are in denial

KEIJI SHINOGI:

You keep justifying you love for him by using the “he’s a complex character, he’s deep and shit” but that’s just an excuse to not say “i want him to carnally fuck me and treat my little bitch with his huge arms and tits”. Whatever sexuality you were before, his deep look probably turned you gay. Anyhow you are horny as fuck and you definitely need therapy, you little whor-

REKO YABUSAME:

Either you are the the most gay motherfucker on the planet or you’re veeeeeeeeeeery straight. you’re favorite ship is naoreko. NEVERTHELESS you want her to step on you.

Q-TARO BURGERBERG:

there is exactly two type of q-taro fans, The meme lord or the 20 page Reddit post defending his character from any criticism. We allllll know which ever type of fan you are, you cried like a baby in his final moments.

KAZUMI MISHIMA:

You definitely made every possible outcome in ytts, an replayed it multiple times. You probably follow “ mishima-in-places-he-shouldnt-be” and is still sad that this gentle loving dude had to die first why it is. always. the. cool. dudes. who. dies. first., WHY, WHY NANKIDAI ?

KANNA KIZUCHI:

You are awesome, smart, and just the perfect person to be around, you’re aura smells pure awesomeness, no, NO i am not biased.at.all it’s not like she’s my profile picture.

In all seriousness, you probably crave any green bling content and also loves shin too but kanna passion and pure kindness made you make the choice to kill shin. It seemed to difficult to vote for a kid so you voted shin. You relate to kanna struggles And ADORES her character development in 3b. Also you definitely need many therapy session (not projecting at all) .

NAO EGOKORO:

If being a joe fan is sadness, a greenbling fan depression, well being a nao fan is literal despair and anger with anguish. Bro what the fuck did she do to have such an horrible end like that, her entire experience in the death game was a pure nightmare. Homegirl did nothing wrong, she shouldn’t literally even be here dude😭😭. You have only one consolation is that now she’s in heaven with her girlfriend, also obviously you ship naoreko

GIN IBUSHI:

You are right in fact you are 99.99 percent of the fandom. And i know that if one day you see anyone put gin below S tier or say anything relatively negative about him, you WILL find them, you WILL track them , and you’re gonna BOIL THEM ALIVE. And i will probably cheer you so go on, pop off, girlboss or mansplain bestie !

KAI SATOU:

You are mesmerized by his beautiful aura and luscious long mane. Every time the characters talk about him you feel so much happiness that his sacrifice was in the end really worth it, but still you cry that the cutest malewife had to go first.

ALICE YABUSAME:

His atrocious hair made you burn your eyes, his cringe fail personality made you laugh but his death destroyed you entirely. In the end you fell for this transmasc king. If you played logic rote you probably died a second time lol.

S H I N T S U K I M I:

Shin tsukimi, oh, Shin Tsukimi the character of all time. So from what i understand he’s your favorite character. Were you the weird kid in your class when you were in high school or that one queer kid that tried to hide your identity but everyone knew just by a single look? Just by looking at you i can see a lot of self loathing and unaddressed personal issues that you try hiding under a rug instead of actually addressing them. Do you take time to eat, to drink, don’t forget to take a break from negativity when you are at your lowest, okay ? Diagnosing you is pretty hard you probably have a thousand problems but at least, i hope, not as much as this little dumbass. There is two type of shin fans:

-the one who want to punch him, shove him into a locker and bully him

-the one who want to give him a warm hug, a nice soup and a good night of sleep. In both cases, you are exactly like him and projecting so hard onto him. Also you are supeeeeeer gay like extra gay. Like your aura smells GAY you know. No cis het allo kinnie of shins exist actually, it’s as possible as dividing 0 by 0.

So conclusion go to therapy

KUGIE KIZUCHI:

Ao3 is your god, your lord and everything that you need to live. Every time ao3 get down you die inside. You crave any content of her and wish that we can know more in the future about her (i do too) and you probably feel in love with her trough fanfic.

MEGUMI SASAHARA:

You guys exists? Well you like evil boss woman, i guess.

This shit full of errors and mistakes also this is a joke don’t get offended, remember as a greenbling fan i am probably the least respected type of yttd fan, well above the keiji simps you guys are wild.

#yttd #kimi ga shine #your turn to die #sara chidouin #joe tazuna #keiji shinogi #reko yabusame #alice yabusame #kazumi mishima #gin ibushi #kai satou #q-taro burgerberg #nao egokoro #kanna kizuchi #shin tsukimi #kugie kizuchi #megumi sasahara

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addictedtostorytelling · 6 months

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Still loving the newest addition to the Happy Accidents series & your last chapter got me thinking about a potential scene I would love to hear from your perspective (or maybe you’ve already written it & I’ve just got to be patient…)

In the last chapter you mentioned Sara’s PTSD & Grissom was so sweet. Particularly this part “She knows why he is worried: Over the years, he has learned to associate nerviness in her with periods when her mental health is poor. She isn’t usually quick to startle, but during the times when her PTSD is bad—around anniversaries—she can be. She gets so in her own head that anything happening outside has the potential to shock.”

It got me thinking about how in this alternate universe, Sara would be about 6-7 months pregnant when the anniversary of her abduction came & I would love to read her thoughts on that & how Grissom helps her deal with it. Does it cause her to reflect on how different her life looks now than a year ago? Does she think about all the reasons she didn’t give up in the desert? Does she feel the baby kick & is brought out of her thoughts, grateful for how her life looks?

And if you’ve already written a scene like this…I’ll sit over here (im)patiently waiting.

hi, @chelsshearman!

good to hear from you again! i'm so glad to know you're enjoying the story so far.

i've taken a while to come up with an answer to your (very thoughtful) question, and though i can't show any prose from that part of the story just yet without revealing some major accidentsverse spoilers, i can offer you a more pared down answer after the "keep reading," if you're interested.

note: in order to avoid major accidentsverse spoilers, i purposefully use ambiguous language surrounding sara's pregnancy in this answer.

sara knows from experience: trauma doesn't adhere to a strict calendar.

sometimes exact anniversaries are bad, but other times the days and weeks surrounding are when the cptsd symptoms really hit.

november has historically been a crapshoot for her, any day—not just the exact anniversary of her father's murder—liable to be a bad one, the whole month something of a slog.

though she is hopeful: now that her wedding anniversary falls mid-month, maybe she'll have better associations going forward.

she is well-aware of this temporal idiosyncrasy in her brain, and so is her therapist, which is why he starts counseling with her in mid-april about what to anticipate come may, for what will be the first anniversary of her abduction by natalie davis.

admittedly, she is, at this point, distracted. not only is there a lot going on in her life pregnancy-wise, but things are busier than ever at work. by now, she is no longer in the field and has instead become the de facto "point person" for her teammates at the lab, which, contrary to what she had expected, has somehow upped her caseload. still, she tries her best to complete her therapy assignments with what few spare hours she has. is diligent about going in for sessions. practices all of the self-care techniques her therapist recommends. stays on top of taking her meds. makes sure to look after herself as well as she can.

—and especially because grissom is so obviously worried about her.

not only does he admit as much outright, sans prompting, but he also is so careful with her. he had already been wonderfully attentive, but now she hardly even has to think she might want something before he appears to offer it. she swears to god: the man is telepathic. also, far too sweet.

thankfully, as the calendar turns over into may, there are some fun, new pregnancy developments to help to take her mind off the impending anniversary: grissom is finally able to feel kicking. (for a long time, she had felt fetal movements internally, but they hadn't been detectable in any external way.) also, a first instance of fetal hiccups, which is just about the weirdest, coolest sensation she has ever experienced.

that said, about two weeks before the big anniversary™, she does start experiencing some "trauma residuals" from her abduction. she's not having flashbacks or nightmares or full-on panic attacks, per se; she just feels off. spacey. emotionally unbalanced. like everything in her head has just been shifted two inches to the left of where it should be.

she keeps expecting to have some kind of big breakdown at some point, but the catharsis doesn't ever come.

and, honestly, the lack of punctuation is what bothers her more than anything.

she confides in grissom: she's scared. she tried to get out ahead of her trauma by "doing all the right things," but she is still being affected, not in any obvious, dramatic way but enough so that her trauma is inarguably impacting her behavior. coworkers keep asking her if she’s okay. looking like they don’t fully believe her when she says she is. she can’t help but be concerned: what if the same thing happens a few years on from now? the last thing in the world she would ever want to do to her child(ren) is make them feel like mommy's sad or upset for no reason.

so she and grissom talk the issue through: they both agree that trauma is a fickle thing—particularly as trauma reactions can't always be pinned down to one day or easily predicted in terms of how they'll manifest. show great variance in intensity, duration, form, etc. also can't be totally prevented, even if one tries to account for them as much as possible. chances are, she will be dealing with after effects—from her childhood, from her abduction—for the rest of her life.

sara explains: logically, she knows all of these things. but she still doesn't want their child(ren) to suffer for having a traumatized parent. she has experience that way with her own mother. remembers how helpless she felt when she was little, watching her mother struggle; how much she internalized her mother's sadness and anger. though as an adult, she (mostly) knows better now, back then, she wondered if she caused or exacerbated her mother’s misery and questioned why she wasn't enough to make her mother happier.

here, grissom digs in: "and did your mother ever answer those questions for you?"

her silence tells him no.

grissom offers his postulate: the truth might have helped—not by making sara’s mother “magically better” but by allowing sara, even as a child, to contextualize the situation and understand her mother's mental health conditions existed independent of anything having to do with her. just hearing, in no uncertain terms, that her mother wasn’t sad for any reason having to do with her may have alleviated some of her misplaced guilt.

sara agrees: they should be honest with their child(ren) and explain things at a level they can understand.

but she still worries: it will be a long time yet before they can have those kinds of honest conversations. what will happen in the meanwhile? babies pick up on their caretakers' cues and moods, after all. she doesn’t want to do damage by exuding sadness or fear in their child(ren)’s presence.

grissom reassures her: in all the time they've been together, even during periods when her mental health has been at its poorest ("even in november"), he has always felt loved by and safe with her. he has not been oblivious to her sadness and fear. but he also has never felt that those reactions in her negated her affections. he suspects their child(ren) will feel the same.

still, she makes him promise: if she ever gets to the point where she can't be a good caretaker of their child(ren), he'll intervene. "that was part of the problem," she explains, "with my parents. no matter how miserable things got, no one said anything or did anything about it. no one asked for help. we all just sat there with it."

grissom agrees: they'll ask for help if they need it. offer help when they see it's needed, even if it hasn't been asked for. and neither one of them will give up.

the promise does make sara feel somewhat better.

—though, of course, it doesn’t fully alleviate her cptsd symptoms.

may proves to be a hard month, not only because of the trauma but for other reasons, too.

[insert major accidentsverse spoilers here]

but it also is not without happy moments—sometimes impossibly happy, like the first time they see a footprint, clearly discernible for what it is, show through the skin of her belly—and, most importantly, never without love.

she reflects: one year ago, she was alone in a desert, sure she was going to die. now, she is never alone, and she has never been surer of what she has to live for. lying in bed with grissom, his hand over the footprint protruding slightly below her navel, she feels a kind of peace she could never have imagined she would feel, just one year on from that day. she knows: what happened to her will stay with her for the rest of her life—will sometimes rear up in unaccountable ways—but it won’t be what defines her. won’t be the main throughline in her story. she’s writing that one herself, here, now. and she loves where her story is headed.

thanks for the question! please feel welcome to send another any time.

#answered #chelsshearman #accidentsverse #csiverse #my fic #**

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fugsbunny · 16 days

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ok so i had a rough therapy session on friday and just finished the sunshine court and since this is tumblr why am i here if not to compare me to my favorite fictional characters so either buckle up or keep scrolling

so on friday i basically cried for half an hour to my therapist about how i my depression has dominated my life for the last 7 years and im sick of it and i that struggle to accept that im not able to work a 40h week or even a 32h week and than cannot even use this extra time to do as many social things as i want to do even though many people strive for this exact kind of lifestyle of work less and have more time

and my therapist said im not able to accept that i didnt get to choose the life im living even tho i can see that its objectively i lifestyle i think is really good and she really got me with that one

so when i was binging tsc over the weekend i realised that Neil, Jean and Kevin also didnt get to choose, their mafia ties already dictated so much of their life but Neil also made the deal with Ichirou and i see myself and my struggles so much in this deal, it was the only thing he could do to ensure not only his/their survival but also a somewhat normal life, it was basically the only real choice he had

and for Neil it was a good choice because it was what he wanted and the life he wants to life so he not only accepted it but embraced it and i guess for Kevin its the same even tho we never get his pov

but in tsc Jean struggles, he does for multiple reasons but he also hasnt accepted that this is his future, his only future that he has to accept and im not saying my difficulties and his with this are the same but i really see myself in this struggle, he never got to choose anything for himself and now has to build his own life in the constraints that he was given and he cannot do it, cannot let go of his old life and what people told him to do with his life and what was expected of him and now he has to accept this new thing

and its also so obviously a way better life than he had before and i think at the end of the book he started to really realise this but it also was forced upon him and he has to somehow reshape his whole self around it and thats fucking hard

i think my point is i really really want to be Neil, i want to be grateful for the chance i was given, that im able to still life a pretty good life despite my depression that i can make the best out of, to really see it as this great chance that it is and all the great things i can do with it

but right now im Jean, i was given something i didnt ask for and cannot see how good this is because all i can see is the past and that was taken from me and how stuck i am in old thought patterns that harm me more that help me but its all i know and i ever was even tho deep down i know how bad and wrong they are

but the good thing is, there are more books coming and Jean will get through this and i will get to experience it with him and one day also make it through

#all for the game #the sunshine court #jean moreau #neil josten #personal #mental health

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set-wingedwarrior · 1 year

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I wanted to make a big-ass analisys on Tai, but I kinda don't feel like it. Have a summary instead.

In a few words, I think people on both sides are taking a very complex situation and giving it a black or white interpretation, which doesn't sit right with me.

My opinion, explained as simple as possible, is that Tai has been a bad and neglective parent not for lack of love, but for lack of ability in the given circumstances. He was a broken man who did the best he could, and still badly hurt his daughters in the process, sometimes by making terrible mistakes.

Taiyang was absent and Yang took over as the caretaker role for her baby sister, and that's not good for a child. That is indeed a textbook parentification case, which very often do take place when one parent passes away and the other is frozen by grief, but I wouldn't consider this a case of abuse as well.

Abuse to be called that has to be pretty extreme and consistent for a long time (honestly, internet is ruining the word by using it every time someone makes a mistake or when your friend treats you badly once), and let's be honest: we don't know how long Taiyang has been shut down. Yang doesn't specify it in Burning the Candle, nor is it ever mentioned by writers or such (at least to my knowledge). Considering what we saw of the relationship he has with his daughters though, I'd argue that it wasn't for the long time that people believe and that he stepped up at some point (I'm pretty sure their relationship would be much more ostile if he didn't).

"Why does Ruby say that Yang raised her then?" because she already had formed an attachment to Yang as parental figure. You can have multiple attachments as a child of course, but that also means that Yang simply couldn't step down from that role, even with Taiyang being back, because Ruby kept treating her like one (that's not to blame on Ruby of course, it was a natural response from her).

Now, let's not forget about intentions: it is true that abuse isn't always made with conscious ill-intent, but it's also true that not all forms of hurting are abuse. Considering everything from the little we know, I'd say Tai falls more into the neglect category, which can but doesn't always allign to the point of abuse (see again the point about consistency).

That's what I think but, truth to be told, none of us has enough information to make a proper analysis or statement. It is a very complex matter that in real life would require a deep study/analysis and lots of therapy sessions. Meanwhile Tai is a fictional character we barely see in the show he's a part of.

It is fine to speculate and discuss (in a civil manner please) and share our opinions. I'm not expecting everyone to agree with me or text me about how I changed their minds; I just wanted to share my opinion. But let's not pretend that there's some sort of real final answer or interpretation when we get so little to work with. Maybe not even the writers know clearly, and just had his character as a tool, who knows!

Maybe some day we'll get more information that will make me go "damn, I was completely wrong!", o maybe not. Honestly, I don't particularly care. But I'd like for people to chill, stop treating this as a trial, and recognize that different interpretations from different people with different experiences and backgrounds aren't a bad thing.

#should i tag discourse?#let me know #for a summary it still came out pretty long #but it could have been worse #you have no idea how much stuff i got from my major lmao #i could have pulled out so many examples and course of actions that are used in real life #anyway don't be rude please #It's fine to disagree #It's not that big of a deal

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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

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wreck my plans - chapter two

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Series rating: M

Chapter rating: M

Word count: 4,241

Notes: All my love to @ezrasbirdie for continuing to beta read this series and for her enthusiasm for this chapter when she read it over ❤️ Also a huge thank you to everyone who left such kind feedback on chapter one. I’ve got most of the plot mapped out and I’m excited for you all to see where this goes!

Comments/reblogs appreciated!

Chapter warnings: Swearing, fated lovers, divorced main characters, therapy, yearning, a couple of horny adults

previous chapter || next chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (marcus pike)

SEPTEMBER

It’s a hot day. Summer is clinging on to the very end this year with its last gasps being prolonged. You don’t mind. Having a functional air conditioner for the first time in years is keeping you cool. Kevin had refused to fix the air conditioner at your shared house and had balked at the idea of calling a repairman.

The washing machine has you mesmerized. It’s the night before you’re supposed to go to Marcus’s first figure drawing class and you have no idea what you want to wear. He’d said comfy clothes, but that’s so vague, you’re not too sure what he entirely meant. You’d needed to do laundry anyway, and this way you’d have options.

Marcus seems nice. Handsome, too. You don’t know if it’s because it’s been so long since you’d noticed someone, but there’s a pull there. You could feel it when you met up with him to discuss the job. It’s silly, you know, but it’s been so long since someone had actually looked at you and seen you.

You’re so lost in thought, you hardly hear Charlotte come in. “How many loads is this?” she asks, plopping down on the floor next to you.

“Huh? Oh, three, I think. I had a lot to do,” you say, returning your attention to the washing machine with a yawn.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” your sister asks you after a minute of silence.

You shrug. “I guess. Dr. Ridley said it was good to get out and do something for myself.” You’ve been seeing your new therapist since March and you really like her. You think she might be the best therapist you’d ever been to.

“And she’s right,” Charlotte affirms. “When was the last thing you did something for yourself on this scale?”

Again, you shrug. “I don’t know. A while. You know how Ke – how he – felt about that sort of thing.”

Charlotte grumbles. She really doesn’t like your ex-husband, she hadn’t when you were married to him either. You think she may have been the happiest after you when you announced you were finally filing for divorce. “Well, he doesn’t count. You’re getting paid really good money to basically just stand there and look at the eye candy while people draw you.” At your look of slight incredulity she continues, “What? Ellie’s sister is in that class and she says Professor Dameron? More like Professor Damn-eron.”

You bark out a startled laugh. Ellie’s sister isn’t wrong; you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought the same thing. “There’s just one thing,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know what to wear. Marcus just said to wear something comfy for the first couple of sessions.”

Charlotte nods, remembering her own experience in the class. “Well, last year when I took it, it wasn’t someone as gorgeous as you. But she basically wore, like, jeans and t-shirts.” You whine, thinking about wearing jeans on an 84-degree day. “But it’s really up to the model. You could show up wearing that for all you like. It’s not a fashion show, it’s more, like, the students getting used to drawing different textures and shit.” She looks at you, wearing a cropped top and cutoff denim shorts. “You could wear something like that if you want to,” she suggests.

You shake your head. “I don’t know, Char. I wanna make a good first impression, you know?”

Your sister understands. “I get it. But just a piece of advice? Don’t overthink this. Just… I don’t know, go with it. What would Dr. Ridley say?”

You know exactly what Dr. Ridley would say. Let this thing happen as it does. “Okay. I was thinking maybe a dress? You know the sundress I got last week when we went thrift-shopping?”

Charlotte’s eyes light up. “Oooh yes, perfect!”

You yawn again. “Thank God Cassidy was able to cover tomorrow morning’s opening shift.” You’d asked to switch with the other morning manager so that you could have a chance to sleep in and give yourself plenty of time to get ready after your bi-weekly morning appointment with Dr. Ridley.

When the laundry is finally finished at eleven forty-five, Charlotte helps you fold it all carefully. “Hey, if I don’t see you before the class tomorrow, good luck. Not that you need it. I think this is really great that you’re doing this,” says Charlotte, setting the laundry basket down on the floor outside your bedroom door.

“Thanks, kid,” you reply. Toeing the laundry basket into your room, you quickly put it all away before curling into bed and falling right to sleep.

- - - -

Marcus isn’t sure why he’s disappointed that you’re not at the cafe the next morning, but he feels the pang of disappointment all the same. He tries not to question it; he’s seeing you later today for Christ’s sake. But still, the barista, a university student he thinks, doesn’t make his order the same way you had done a few weeks ago.

Today’s the first day that you’re going to be sitting in his figure drawing class. He wonders how you’re feeling about all of it. Nervous? Excited?

It’s a talented bunch of kids that he’s undercover-teaching. At first, he’d been nervous that he wouldn’t be a good teacher, that Megan had been right. But after a while on the first day, he’d gotten into the swing of things. And he finds he’s quite enjoying it as well. If this weren’t an undercover thing, he’d say maybe he should switch careers.

He’s so glad that he found you as his model. It’s odd; he’s just met you and he already feels a connection. A connection that he can’t explain. He’s only met you a handful of times but he likes you. If he didn’t have an undercover operation to maintain, he’d maybe ask you out for a meal. Get to know you better. But he has the integrity of the case to maintain. And if anything got out, the entire sting operation would be up in smoke before he could make any headway on it.

He takes his less-than-perfect coffee and heads out to Dr. Ridley’s office. He’s not allowed to say much about this case, not wanting anything to get out before the Bureau is ready to release a statement, in addition to the confidentiality that comes with being an FBI agent. He does, however, mention that his new case requires him to be undercover as an art instructor. Dr. Ridley isn’t surprised that he’s doing better at it than he originally expected. “Marcus, the only person who thought you couldn’t do it was someone who was manipulating you into doing something they wanted you to do. Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she tells him. “This is very good, these improvements you're making with yourself.” This makes Marcus feel better.

Before he realizes it, it’s time for him to get ready for the class. Usually he shows up about ten minutes before the class starts, wanting to make sure that everything is set up the way he likes it. When he arrives at the studio, you’re standing outside the door, waiting.

And oh, god, you’re wearing a dress. “Hello,” he says, attempting to swallow his nerves.

You look up from your phone, putting it in the pocket of your dress. “Hi, Professor Dameron,” you reply.

“Marcus, please,” he reminds you and you repeat his name. “You found the classroom okay?” Marcus asks you, unlocking the door, letting you go in first. As the door shuts, he flicks on the lights.

“Yeah. My sister Charlotte took this class last year and she gave me directions.” There’s a sea of desks and chairs facing a platform that you’ll presumably be standing on. You gulp. “H-how many people are in the class?” You try to make your voice sound casual.

“Maybe fifty? I’d have to double check,” Marcus says, noticing your trepidation. “Hey, don’t worry. We’re not jumping into the deep end just yet. The first couple of weeks are a warmup. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out, no big deal.” Secretly, he’s unsure if he’d prefer it if it didn’t work out so then he would feel less weird about wanting to ask you out. He shakes the thought away. Get it together, Pike.

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy chuckle. “Just stage fright, I guess.” Looking at the stage, you gesture to it and say, “Is that where you want me to…?”

Marcus nods. “Yeah. I know there is a desk there, too. But I’m the type that walks around, observing. So it’ll just be you.” He notices the blip of panic in your eyes that quickly dissipates. “You, uh, can put your bag and other things under the desk.”

Students are beginning to filter in as you place your phone in your mini-backpack before stuffing it beneath the desk. Marcus notices the pins on it as you slide it off your shoulders. “Mandalorian fan, huh?” he asks, pointing to the Grogu pin.

“What? Oh, yeah.” You’re still a bit flustered but Marcus has managed to calm your nerves. He stands next to the desk, pulling out a pair of glasses from his bag.

“I apologize for how nerdy I’m about to look,” Marcus says to you in an undertone, pushing the square-framed glasses on his face. “But my eyes were really sore this morning and I just really fucking hate putting contacts in on days like that.” And oh my god, he looks the last thing from a nerd. You need to catch your breath.

You look away so you don’t get re-flustered right before the class starts. The class is mostly female, with some male students as well. You’d say it’s a seventy-five/twenty-five ratio if you had to guess. You spot Ellie’s sister, Tessa, sitting near the front with a gaggle of girls you vaguely recognize.

“Good afternoon everyone,” Marcus begins as he calls the class to attention five minutes past the hour. “As you all know, this week we are beginning our semester-long project of figure-drawing. As discussed in the first class, your grade will largely be based on how you improve over the course of the next three months.” He gestures to you. “This is going to be your model for the semester.” Giving your name, he continues sternly. “I only want to stress this once, we are all adults in this room and she has thankfully accepted this position, so please treat her with the same respect and dignity you would treat me or anyone else in this room. Am I clear?” The class murmurs their assent.

You can’t help it. You’re flustered now for a different reason. Seeing someone be so authoritative like that has always done something for you. You bite your lip, trying to keep yourself calm, but you’re not sure how well you manage. You’re glad that his attention is on the class and the class’s attention is largely on him. Still, you manage to catch Tessa’s eye unintentionally and she winks discreetly, knowingly, smirking as she returns her attention to Marcus. Finally managing to school your features as Marcus directs his attention back to you, he says, “I want you to stand as you are. We’ll break in about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”

Waiting until the class has their sketchpads and charcoal pencils at the ready, you adjust your position ever so slightly and stand at the ready. You’re going to be standing for a long time; you’re glad that your sandals are supportive.

The only sound in the room is that of pencil on paper; every so often Marcus’s shoes will squeak as he takes a turn around the class.

Marcus is mesmerized by you, your look of slight defiance and determination. It stirs something, rekindles something that he thought long gone: inspiration.

- - - -

“I started drawing again,” Marcus says to Dr. Ridley two weeks later.

She looks up from her notes. “That’s wonderful, Marcus,” she says. “You’ve been saying for so long that you thought your inspiration was long gone. What brought it back?” she asks.

Marcus hesitates. He can’t tell her that much about the case still. “You know that part of my undercover work entails teaching a figure drawing class.” Dr. Ridley nods. “So, the inspiration is partially to do with teaching, but mostly to do with the model.” At Dr. Ridley’s look of alarm and confusion, he hastens to add, “No, no, no. Nothing like that. Fuck, no. Not anything like that. She isn’t a student. She doesn’t even go to school there, she was just looking for a job. She’s closer to me in age than she is to the students.”

The dots connect in Dr. Ridley’s head as she remembers another client of hers talking about doing a modeling job for a university class. She doesn’t say anything. “And tell me about this woman. What about her inspired you to pick up the pencil again so to speak?”

Marcus opens his mouth and shuts it several times in succession. “There’s a connection,” he finally says. “It feels like we know each other, even though we just met for the first time just under a month ago.” He knows how it sounds; he doesn’t want to dive in this quickly. Not to mention, he can’t.

“And does she feel the same way?” asks Dr. Ridley.

Again Marcus hesitates. How can he know that? “I’m not sure. She seems to like me.” Last week you had genuinely laughed at a bad joke he’d made before the class began. You’re always eager to start a conversation, and you haven’t been scared off yet, not by the class or, more importantly, by him.

The class has moved, with varying results, from fully clothed figure drawing to figure drawing in undergarments. Today is the first day that you’ll be standing up there in nothing more than a bra and panties. You’d taken it in stride when he told you at the end of last week’s class. You’ve settled into the gig pretty easily. He sometimes sees you in the morning at the cafe if the paperwork and ordering was all caught up.

(More often than not, you took a break from paperwork and ordering when he came in so you could see him; it helps that he always comes in at about the same time. You feel like a high schooler with her first crush all over again. At least Marcus is better than Oliver ended up being.)

“It doesn’t matter, though. I can’t ask her out,” Marcus ends up saying.

Dr. Ridley frowns. “If this has to do with your previous relationships –”

“It doesn’t. It’s just… This case is so secretive and I can’t risk the integrity of it.” He sounds like a broken record, but it’s the truth, it has to be. As much as he likes you and enjoys the easy friendship you’ve started, it has to stay there for the sake of the case. Even if he wants to take you for breakfast and have you try the best pancakes he’s ever had. He doesn’t even know if you like pancakes but he still wants to share them with you.

“That may be,” Dr. Ridley says. “But that doesn’t mean at the end of the semester, or once you’ve cracked the case, you can’t…”

He’s considered it. It’s only been a month, but he’s never had a connection like this with anyone else. “After admitting that I’ve lied to her the entire time about who I really am?” he asks ruefully.

“If the connection is there like you say it is, isn’t that worth the risk?” asks Dr. Ridley.

That evening, you’re running late. “Christ,” you pant as you run to the door just as Marcus is unlocking the door. “I’m not late, am I?” you ask. The weather’s begun to cool slightly. You’re in a long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans.

“Right on time,” Marcus says.

But you’re not, you think. You don’t have enough time to pick up where you left off on your discussion from last time.

Marcus holds open the door for you, his heart hammering as an idea forms. “I was wondering… You can say no if you don’t feel comfortable…”

You arch a curious brow at him. “What’s that?”

“Well, if we should exchange numbers.” Marcus rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “That way if ever either of us is feeling under the weather or running late or something comes up, neither of us is left in the lurch.”

You’d been angling for a way to get his number. Trying not to sound too eager, you say, “Sure, that’s a good idea.”

You give him your number before helping him set up a partition off to the side of the platform. “So you can change behind there with some privacy,” he explains to you.

“Right,” you say. “I’ll just…” You point to the partition as people begin to file in. As you begin to shimmy out of your jeans your phone buzzes.

Hey, this is Marcus. Just wanted you to get my number/contact information, reads the text.

Hi Marcus, you reply, sending a waving emoji along with it, before you return to changing. You can hear Marcus greet the class as the last minute din of chatter and discussions die down.

Oddly enough, you don’t feel as nervous about this as you had at the beginning. You chalk it up to being used to having a hundred and two eyes on you for the past month or so.

Waiting until Marcus finishes his opening spiel, you step out from behind the partition and stand in position, wearing the same neutral expression as always. As Marcus makes his rounds across the classroom, pointing out corrections and observations, he meets your gaze. You hold it for a long moment, his brown eyes blazing into your own eyes. It’s almost like playing a game of chicken with him, seeing who will look away first. It’s Marcus. Clearing his throat he looks down at Tessa’s sketch of you. “Very good, Miss Thompson. I like how you’ve captured her gaze. Like she knows something you don’t.”

- - - -

“How do you think it’s going so far?” asks Charlotte. It’s been almost a month since you officially started.

Picking up a box of spaghetti, you toss it into the cart that you’re pushing, Charlotte in step beside you. “I think pretty good. It’s kinda boring sometimes. And my muscles ache after a long pose.”

Charlotte nods. “I think that’s par for the course,” she says. “And the…” she gestures to herself, “stuff?”

It takes a minute for you to realize what she’s asking. “Oh. That. No, we haven’t gotten there yet. I don’t think that’s until mid-October if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. But how is professor hottie?” she asks with a knowing smirk. You and Marcus had started texting each other outside of the official reason why you’d exchanged numbers. Mostly sharing memes, but sometimes you’ll carry on a conversation that was cut short earlier in the day.

With a shrug, you grab a bag of rice. “Nothing to report,” you say, attempting nonchalance. She sees right through you.

“Oh, sure. Yeah. I believe that,” she says sarcastically.

“It’ll sound silly,” you say, “it sounds silly to me. But I feel this… magnetic pull towards him?” Charlotte doesn’t say anything. “Like, we’re definitely friends. But, I don’t know. It could be that I’m feeling all these post-divorce feelings, but Char. It’s like he sees me. In a way that no one ever has. Not even Kevin really saw me.” Charlotte fake spits at the mention of your ex-husband. “I’m probably reading too much into it. I don’t know. What I do know is he’s so fucking pretty to look at. But he’s also my boss, technically.”

Charlotte mercifully changes the topic. “And how are things at the bistro?” Of the three jobs you have, you only really mention the cafe and the modeling gig.

“Not much to report there. They gave me the all clear to go down to ten hours a week, but you already knew that. I don’t know what’s going to happen after this semester is over.”

As you push the shopping cart to the checkout, Charlotte says, “Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.” And you know she’s talking about more than one thing.

Charlotte drops you off at the building before she heads out for girls night with her friends. She keeps trying to get you to join them but it never works out or you’re worn out from work and just want to sit on the couch with a glass of wine and a book. Maybe one of these days you will go.

Marcus is just coming into the building as the door shuts behind you. “You’re earlier than usual,” he says.

“Sister dropped me off. She’s going out with some girlfriends tonight,” you explain, falling into step beside him. Your stomach growls.

“Hungry?” he asks, glancing at his watch. He has his glasses on again today. “We’ve got time before class if you wanna grab a bite to eat.”

“Um…” you hesitate for a second. It’ll be going on seven by the time class gets out and then factoring in the bus, it’ll be almost eight before you get home. “Sure.”

And that’s how you find yourself sitting across from Marcus in the cafeteria, eating wraps and chips. You’d both gone for chocolate milk as a drink. You’d offered to pay for yours, but he had simply waved you off and paid for the entire meal.

“That’s better,” you say. “It’s been so long since I had cafeteria food.”

Marcus nods. “Well, we can’t go to class on an empty stomach.”

The two of you chat on the way to the studio, the topic going to where you went to school. “I went to the University of Texas, in Austin,” Marcus offers, “art and art history.” It isn’t a lie. He had started in the art department, which was very different to the current art department he was in.

You gape at him. “No way, that’s where I went! Only I took business.”

Marcus chuckles. “Huh. Small world.”

“No kidding,” you reply as he unlocks the door to the studio. “When did you go?”

“Oh, god. Like. Fifteen years ago?” he guesses. “I graduated in 2009.”

“I started in 2008. God, that’s kind of freaky to think about. Do you think our paths ever crossed?” you ask.

“I think I’d remember if our paths ever crossed,” Marcus affirms.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you quite sure about that, Professor Dameron?” you tease, your voice just this side of flirtatious and there’s a pang in Marcus’s chest at the reminder of who he really is versus who you think he is. Still, he forces a chuckle before you step behind the partition to step out of your leggings and hoodie.

Focus is hard to achieve tonight for some reason. You’re fidgety and you blame it on what little you’re wearing. Still, you try to maintain your pose. Unable to tear your eyes from Marcus. As he’s making his rounds around the class who are diligently sketching you, he frowns. Your pose isn’t quite right.

He should just tell you to adjust the way you’re facing ever so slightly. But that would distract the class and you could change the pose too much. Once he’s finished with the student whose sketch he’s currently giving a once-over, he strolls over to you.

Your eyes lift to meet his as he steps up onto the platform, asking a silent question of “yes?”

His voice, quiet, responds, “can I just…?”

And without breaking eye contact, even for a second, he reaches out and touches you just beneath your chin, moving your face ever so slightly into the position needed.

Oh. You realize it all of a sudden, the dawning realization hitting you like a freight train, your face blazing with the sudden comprehension, the air knocked from your lungs. You’re so overwhelmed with this sudden feeling; you need to calm down, but keeping calm is the last thing you’re able to do at the moment. You’ve never been this affected by a touch as simple as this one before, not even when you were with Kevin, and that scares you a little bit if you’re being completely honest.

All of your nerve endings are on fire. It’s such an innocuous gesture, meant simply to adjust the way you’re facing. Marcus has touched you before. But not like this, never like this. You keep your eyes fixed on his, trying to school your features and, somehow, either through divine intervention or sheer fucking willpower, maintain that neutral look of defiance. His own face is impossible to read, his intense brown eyes still locked onto yours.

But he fucking knows. You liked it, want him to do that again.

“That’s better,” he murmurs gruffly. And as if he hadn’t just rocked both your worlds with his simple, innocent touch, Marcus returns to the sea of students to see how they’re progressing.

This is not good, Marcus thinks, trying to pretend like he hadn’t seen the way you reacted, the way he had reacted. Not good at all.

--- taglist in reblog

#pedro pascal #marcus pike x reader

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allandoflimbo · 1 year

Text

Take It Back: His Story (4)

Sequel to Take It Back

Previous Chapter

Summary: You and Bucky. It was supposed to be a happy ever after. Your story, home, and love was near perfect. After all, you had worked so hard and suffered so much to be where you finally were. But behind the scenes, Bucky had been dealing with more baggage from the past than he had been willing to publicly share. Steve was always the second best when it came to him and Bucky. From Nat, to you, and maybe now, even someone else. It’s been seven years since Ashlyn cheated on Bucky, but nine since she first fell in love with him.

Two years after their public divorce and after starting therapy, she holds onto a dangerous mixture of jealousy and strength. With new friendships and new love on her side, she knows she should let Bucky go. But should is so hard to do when she loved as hard as she did.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Masterpage for Take It Back: His Story

“Let’s take it back a step.”

Bucky’s mind was in the middle of a whirl when she says it.

Along with her words to stop him, Dr. Raynor holds her hand up. His eyes go to her hand that remains up in the air and he opens his mouth to speak, but she doesn’t let him as she continues.

“What did I say would be our approach?” Her tone is calculating and he knows it, but it’s well deserved. He’s been avoiding a good chunk of information.

He licks his lips and swallows thickly.

“We would do each one at a time.” He says quietly.

She stares at him for a second longer with that same look.

Bucky guessed that look meant she was probably debating with herself if she should continue this session at all.

She quickly lets out a quick sharp exhale and shifts in her seat.

“This whole experience here won’t be easy, Bucky. I know you know that. This isn’t just to share stories, but for you to finally talk about every single thing, and I know that’s what you want to do. But you cannot be afraid to avoid something you want. We can’t hop around from one story to another,” she snaps her finger, “just like that. You need to get it all out so we can see the root of the solution for each thing as best we can. I know you know that, but I know you also want to rush through it all as much as you can. Sure, we’ve spoken about most of these topics before, but this is different.”

She’s not wrong at all.

“Right. Sorry.”

She looks him dead in the eye and then turns her laptop back towards her.

“College.” She starts.

Bucky nods.

“Let’s go back to that story about Steve and when you spoke to him about your college girlfriend, Nat. About your friendship. The one you brought up in our last session. Do you recall?”

“Yes.”

“And Afghanistan.” Bucky winces at her words, “We need to start that far back.”

Bucky nods again, running his hands through his hair as he hangs his head low.

“I’ve heard everything that has happened, but in third person, and all very vague. I need you to be transparent with me from the very beginning. If you want me to best understand to better help you, I need to know the story. This will hurt, but it will help you We both know this, and we both know deep down you want to, which is why you are here.”

Bucky looks up at her and her heart cracks slightly.

She knew this would be hard for him.

“We have as much time as you need. Start whenever you are ready.”

The Real Beginning

“Get in the bus!” Bucky’s screams were desperate, his voice cracking with fear.

He tried to push each child safely onto the white and outdated school bus. Their little screams and cries filled the air over the distant, but approaching, sounds of bombs and men yelling.

He knew the kids couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he was glad they trusted him enough to get in the vehicle.

He still doesn’t know how these children ended up here. He just knew children were innocent and this was not an accident.

“Is that all of them?” A shout comes from his right. Bucky turns to look at his friend Matthew, seeing the clear fear in his dark brown eyes.

“I don’t know, I have no idea.” Bucky shouts back, putting what he thinks is the last little kid on the bus; a seven-year-old little girl, “but I think so.” He turns to the driver, another soldier, “take them to Roeford. Don’t stop and be careful!” The soldier nods quickly and speeds away.

Just as quickly, a loud pop goes off in Bucky’s right ear, making him lose his hearing momentarily.

He cringes, the ringing is unbearable.

After a second, he looks over to see Matthew. His stomach drops. His friend was laying down in the sand and dirt where the bus once stood, a pool of blood underneath his head.

Bucky watches stunned, as just as quickly, another bullet goes straight into his friend’s skull, the brain matter going everywhere and contorting his face in multiple directions.

Bucky screams.

He wants to run over to his friend, even though he knows it’s a death sentence, but before he even has the chance to, a pair of strong arms wrap around him.

His yells of despair and pain become completely and utterly inconsolable.

He never knew fear like this. Ever.

Bucky wakes up with a jolt, his body sitting up straight and unable to catch his breath.

He was still in critical shock as they brought him home on the A400M.

If anyone would’ve said any word to him, he wouldn’t have heard them.

He hasn’t spoken a word since his last scream six days ago.

Eventually, his yelling stopped. He realized soon that they were of no use anymore, and that instead, he was just starting to badly lose his voice. Not that it mattered much if he were to die soon.

He had blacked out for the eighth time when he was woken up to the sound of shouting - English - and gunfire. He was too far gone and too delirious to provide a proper reaction when the armed forces approached his side on the metal bed, hands immediately going to untie him.

His blood squelched beneath their boots . He could still hear it.

He doesn’t remember how he was greeted, or what they told him they would do for him. He just remembered feeling tired, dizzy, sick, and completely disassociated from reality.

He no longer felt like he needed to care about anything about himself anymore. Not that it mattered.

When they had placed him on the stretcher, and then taken him out into the hot Afghan sun, he passed out once more.

He doesn’t know how many times they revived him, and how much fluids they pumped into his body.

He doesn’t remember the surgery or any of the doctors.

Maybe it was the medically induced short coma they had put him in that made his memory so foggy.

He doesn’t know. Not that it mattered.

He looks around the airbus and sees some other soldiers walking back and forth, some offering him to lie down or take a sip of water.

He doesn’t respond.

He closes and opens his eyes. He finds himself back in that cavern, back with those tools, and with Matthew’s dead but open eye staring at him from the corner.

He’s shaking his head back and forth, can’t be believing that his rescue had all been a dream.

He starts crying, asking for it to be anything but this.

“James. James, calm down. You’re safe. You’re on a military aircraft. We’re bringing you home. You are safe.”

“No. No. Matt …” the older man facial’s expression falls at the name.

Bucky doesn’t care that everyone stops what they are doing to look over at him if even for a second.

He dissociates immediately, passing out once again.

He wakes up to the sound of low talking and something creeping open. Metal on metal.

It sends a jolt of nausea through his gut.

Too quickly after, he also feels the heat of the summer air slams him in the face, along with its strong UV rays that just manage to peak into his eyes.

He doesn’t recall how they get him up, but then end up rolling him down the cargo door out in a wheelchair. If he could talk, he would’ve told them he didn’t need one.

With a hand to his eyes to help shield some of the sun, the first thing he makes out is other government officials standing around the tarmac and some sleek black vehicles.

He begins to feel light and airy as his eyes take in the airport and the blue sky. Maybe it was the post-surgery pain meds still working.

It takes him too long for him to make sense of the two pairs of arms hugging his head and shoulders, and the cries of what he then realizes is his mother. The hushed words — his father.

Why wasn’t she at the hospital? Why was dad whispering?

Bucky tries to pull away from his parents, to try and breathe for a second, just one second, but he remains disassociated, numb, and without energy.

So he subjects to the continuation of the hugs.

The trauma surgeon speaks to his mom and dad, updating them and handing them his prescription meds. During the ride home, he’s in a trance, eyes stuck on the scenery that passes him out the window.

He sees everything, but he can’t make sense of any of it.

How can things be this way now, so simple, after what transpired only a few weeks ago?

How could he be here in the backseat of a brand new G-Wagon, with birds singing happily outside, when Matthew was rotting to death in a casket? It was not fair.

How was he just a few weeks ago held captive in a cave, with his arm almost hanging off, bleeding and starving to death, and now his mother was talking about what he and his dad would have for dinner tonight?

He knew she meant well.

But still.

He feels the vehicle slow down to a curve. He looks at the gravel underneath the tires that led to a beautiful three-story cape cod-style mansion. It was grey and white.

The summer home.

When the car is turned off, his dad turns to his mother.

Bucky watches as he places a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

She then turns her head to speak to Bucky in the backseat.

“Honey, I have go back to the hospital, but we’re dropping you off first okay?” Bucky’s mom says. “They transferred me so I’d be closer to you. So we can see each other here. You only have two months left until you go to college. We think it’s best you spend it here at the home, where you can have some space and quiet.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

All of it sounds wrong but simultaneously good.

“Thank you.” Is all he says. His voice remains monotone and his face stoic. The rumble of his first real words in days feels like sand in his windpipe.

Bucky watches as his dad gets out of his seat, goes to grab the things out of the trunk, and then opens the backseat door for him.

His dad hands him his hand and Bucky gladly takes it with his right hand.

His left arm was in a swing and wrapped up with heavy dressings that would need constant monitoring and cleaning.

His father helps him slowly make his way up the stairs and through the front door of the home.

“I’ll help walk you up, okay?” His dad says, sliding the key into the lock.

Bucky nods. Still feeling ashamed and embarrassed. He’s not sure why he feels that way, but he does.

They take each step one at a time. Bucky’s induced week-long coma left his legs a little more out of shape than he’d thought.

Once they are in front of the door to his bedroom, his father turns to him.

He looks sad. Bucky looks away, not liking it.

His father leads him into his bedroom, and then he walks over to Bucky’s nightstand.

Once Bucky eventually sits down on the side of his bed, loving the relief off his legs, his dad places the duffle bag on the floor. He reaches over and also places the paper bag on the little table next to his bed.

“These are your meds.” His father says gently, his own eyes staying on the bag and then slowly drifting to his son and his arm.

Bucky’s eyes go to the floor and he nods.

“I’m going to take your mother, and once I’m back I’ll…” there’s a large pause between them and it makes Bucky’s eyes fill with water and his throat constrict painfully.

Help feed me?

Help me shower naked like a baby?

Help me use the bathroom ?

Help me pull my bandages off my disgusting wounds that represent my cowardliness?

“ Okay .” Is all Bucky manages to say.

He doesn’t remember watching his dad leave, nor the heavy slumber that came right after.

The last few hours were a blur of sleeping, sleeping, and drinking a few sips of water. He doesn’t even know what time it was or if it was already the next day. He hasn’t opened his blackout curtains so he doesn’t know.

He does know he’s ready for his first shower at home.

He sits himself up with one arm and then lets out a long breath. He was exhausted.

He looks towards his closed bedroom door and debates if he really needed to ask his dad for help.

There was something that bothered him about asking his dad to help him undress and wash him with soap. Something so simple.

He runs a hand up his face and through his hair.

He would try without help.

He starts with his pants and underwear since it’s the easiest. He looks down at his grey t-shirt, wondering how he would do this.

He hesitates for a moment before starting with untying his swing from around his back as best as he could with one arm. He needed to get it off so he could prep his arm with the sleeve in the bag in his room. He almost has the sling completely unclipped when he feels the first tug on his shoulder, making him cry out.

His weight of his arm was pulling on the severed nerves. He sobs through clenched teeth, cursing himself for clearly nothing thinking this through.

He puts the one clip back on the sling and then rests his right hand forward onto the nightstand. He keeps himself up like that, already feeling too tired to do anymore. He also feels vulnerable and ashamed.

Here he was, pants around his ankle in his bedroom, wanting to just take a shower, and he couldn’t even do that.

He blinks away the tears and sits down on his overslept bed.

Slowly, with draining energy, he pulls his garments back up his legs. With a deep and shaky breath, he raises his head back up to face his bedroom door.

“Dad.” He starts quietly, not knowing how much his voice could take yet, “Dad.” He tries a little stronger and louder.

He doesn’t trust it to go louder than that. He stares at the door that remains closed and untouched. He hates this so much. He can feel the tightness in his throat grow into that painful lump that comes right before a cry.

He opens his mouth again when just then the door opens.

He lets out a cry of relief, but just before he can ask his dad for anything, Bucky takes in the look on his father’s face.

He didn’t come in because he heard him. It was for something else.

His dad looks furious.

It scares Bucky immediately. He recoils, realizing for the first time that his pants were still unbuttoned.

“They took her.” His dad says, eyes wide as saucers.

The words don’t really make sense to Bucky at first. It takes him a second to even really hear what his dad just said.

“W-what?” Genuinely confused.

His dad looks him dead in the eye, a strong finger pointing at Bucky.

“Your mother. She’s missing.” His voice is strong but it breaks at the end.

Bucky’s gut falls- hard .

He lets out a shutter as he looks his dad up and down, almost in disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

George’s face turns into an ugly snarl.

“What do you think it means? She’s gone! They kidnapped her, because you—“ Bucky swallows hard, his eyes swelling with tears. Mr. Barnes catches himself and steps back. He shakes his head as if to shake off whatever it was he was going to say. He runs a hand up through his hair, almost regretful at his words towards his son, “They took her.”

Bucky starts shaking his head back and forth as he shuffles back. No .

“Dad—“ his voice cracks.

His dad starts to walk back and forth across the room.

“You— you need to stay low. Just like we said before, what happened there doesn’t get out. You got lost — that is it.”

Bucky starts shaking his head.

“Dad—“

“We will find her. We will find her , okay?” He says, obviously trying to convince himself more than Bucky.

Bucky just stands there in the middle of his room, feeling sick to his stomach.

———

It’s been two months since he started physical therapy and two months since they’ve been looking for his mother.

The last thing Bucky was ready for, or wanted to even do, was leave the summer home to go to college.

You’d think he would be tired of eating cereal all day and watching Breaking Bad.

But his friends told him he couldn’t give up now.

And so he worked on his muscles, and his arm, and his hand. Physical therapy was two times a week. He was nearing his twentieth week of PT. His fingers were near perfect, but his arm would still take a few more months (or maybe years) to get it near to what it was.

It still required more surgery since his arrival home.

The nightmares still didn’t stop, nor did the severe pain because of the nerve damage. But they were getting better. The doctor said a lot of it was psychological at this point. He saw a therapist, Dr. Raynor, every two weeks on Monday mornings.

He had two last upcoming surgeries, one more for his nerves and one last one regarding his bones being shifted, because they had been chaffed so badly.

That was the last of his worries.

He wanted to find his mother.

The first month since she had been missing, he couldn’t sleep, and he still somehow held hope.

As time went by, he knew things weren’t looking good. Everyone did. By the beginning of the second month, they knew what happened, but they hadn’t found evidence.

Bucky relied desperately on the evidence. He convinced himself that he would lose no hope unless he had proof to give up hope. Since there wasn’t any, she still had to be out there somewhere.

He had carpooled a ride with Steve and his parents to the campus where they would get settled into their dorms. They had been there the week prior and already set everything up with their stuff.

Once they arrive and tell Steves' parents goodbye, they go their separate ways.

Bucky goes into his dorm and sets his backpack down on his wooden and bland-looking chair.

With a loud sigh, he sits down on his bed and looks out the window into the late summer sky. He couldn't feel it, but he knew a soft breeze came through as the foliage blew here and there.

Hope .

He sighed.

He wasn’t ready for anything .

He takes in a deep breath and fidgets with his fingers. He looks down at it, gnawing at his bottom lip.

The double knock on his door surprises him.

He smiles at Connor, his roommate.

“Hey, man. Just coming in real quick to grab my gym bag. Didn't mean to bother you.” Connor says.

Bucky chuckles.

“No worries. You’re fine. Not a bother.”

Connor nods and goes over to his side of the room. He grabs his bag underneath the bed. When he swings it over his shoulder, Bucky is expecting him to leave, but instead he just stands there.

“A couple of us are going to the Equinox down the street and then we’re going out for some burgers later, if you want to join?”

“Thanks. But maybe later, or another day,” he finds himself rambling and looking away from Connor, “I’ll definitely be down.”

“Alright, I’ll hold you to it, man. See ya later.” Once Connor is gone, Bucky runs his right up his face and through his hair. He doesn’t know if he should be thankful for having a nice roommate or if he secretly wished he would have one that would just pretend the other wasn’t here.

He falls back against his bed, tired.

He pulls out his phone and sends Steve a text.

What are u up to tonight?

He stares at it until Steve responds, which doesn’t take very long.

I need to finish setting up my stuff still then I need to get ready for classes Monday. I’m swamped dude, sry. :/

Bucky sighs, letting his phone drop.

Truth was, he did want to do something tonight. He needed a good distraction. He just wasn’t in the mood for meeting new people tonight.

Not tonight.

He decides to order a personal pizza and just watch some movies on his laptop for the night.

Order placed, and the sun already beginning to set, he gets up and starts to fix up his desk a bit. His arm is no longer in a permanent sling, it only takes him about thirty seconds to do. After that, he pulls out his laptop, trying to decide on what to watch.

He gets stuck between How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days and Fifty First Dates.

Sue him, but Bucky loved his romcoms.

Once he’s settled on his choice, How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days , he gets a food delivery notification on his phone.

Cursing for losing track of time, he grabs the cash and quickly makes his way out of his dorm, making sure to grab his key on the way out.

He makes his way to the front entrance of the housing for his building, already looking forward to his little treat.

He sees a redhead standing there, holding a pie a little larger than he expected. His stomach grumbles.

He opens the heavy front door, the tip already in hand.

“Hey, sorry. Thank you.” He reaches forward and grabs the side of the box.

The girl turns to look at him and the look on her face is one for the books.

“ Excuse me ?” She smirks, the grip on the box tightening.

Huh?

Bucky opens his mouth to speak when—

“Order for Bucky?”

Bucky turns to see an older guy with a baseball cap holding out a much smaller pie. Bucky’s eyes go down to it and the man and back at the girl.

He slowly lets go of the box he was gripping and clears his throat.

“That’s mine. Yeah. Room 8.” Bucky says, taking the box from the guy.

“You paid full in card, you’re good to go, son.” The man says.

“Here, I insist.” Bucky is handing the man a twenty. The older man takes it kindly.

“Bless you. Have a great night.” He thanks him.

Holding the warm box, he then turns back around to face that same girl again.

She’s still smirking.

Bucky blushes.

“Sorry about that. Mere coincidence.”

She raises a brow and lets out a scoff.

“Except that your pizza is the size of your hand.”

Bucky smiles and nods.

He chuckles and looks down.

“Yeah. It’s my own personal pizza. I’m alone so, I think it’ll be fine.”

The girl nods.

“Understood,” she smiles sweetly this time, “I’m Natasha.”

“I’m Bucky.”

“Hi, Bucky.”

“I would shake your hand but as you can see.”

She looks down at her own hands.

“I think it’s safe to say that I could say the same.”

They both chuckle together, letting the comfortable silence linger between them.

“Freshman, too?” She asks and Bucky nods. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing more of you.” She gives him a half smile, “but you should go before that tiny thing gets cold.”

He tilts his head at her.

“How long have you been out here?”

She raises a brow.

“Uhm, why?”

“Well,” he looks out into the now dark sky, “it’s getting pretty late, and a little breezy, and it’s a little dangerous to be sitting here, waiting to be set up.”

“Set up?” She acts shocked, and it quickly fades to a sad furrow. Bucky continues to look at her for another second before looking away and sighing.

“He’s a jerk.” He says.

“Yeah, whatever.” She plays with her box and looks out into the air. She balances the box in one hand as she stretches her other hand into her cross-body bag and pulls out her keys, “I’m gonna head to my room and eat my own personal pie.” She looks back up at him and their eyes stay glued for a bit before she smiles again, “I’ll see you around.”

After their goodbyes, Bucky heads up to his door and, for the first time in a while, he feels nice. He thinks that was the most he’s talked to another person in months, aside from his dad or Steve.

It puts him in a good mood.

One he did not expect.

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe for just a second, he had to pretend to be a normal college boy.

With a deep breath, he opens his pizza, admiring the deliciousness that looks him back in the eye. Crisscross on his bed, he presses play on the movie.

He doesn’t get that far past the first few scenes before he realizes he ate the entire pizza already.

——

That Monday evening, he gets his nerve procedure. The following Monday, he sees Natasha in the main Library. He was looking for a specific book for one of his classes when he walks by the end table to leave. He notices a familiar shade of red hair.

“If it wasn’t so nice, I’d say you were stalking me.” He says so casually that she doesn’t look up right away.

She lowers her book and stares up at him. He smiles at her.

She looks down at his book of choice, True North, and then closes hers, The Heart Of Change. Bucky watches her, intrigued. This girl was like a fireball.

“Guess you aren’t nice then, since you said it.”

He smirks at her.

It’s then that her gaze trails over his arm in a sling and the heavy-looking book in his hand.

Her eyes soften, and that spitfire and playful look are gone.

“Do you need help with that?” She asks.

He looks down at what she’s referencing, and why she made that conclusion, and he clears his throat.

“No, I’m alright. I’m used to it.”

She doesn’t buy it. She stands up and gently takes the heavy book from him. He’s stunned.

When she looks back up again, their eyes meet.

“I insist.” She walks with him back to that familiar building.

When they are in front of the door, he thanks her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Bucky.” Their eyes stay connected and Bucky feels confused. Confused because he doesn’t remember how to do this. He doesn’t remember how to be normal and just ask a girl out, because he wants to right now.

“Uhm, right. So.” She squints her eyes at his words as he tries to find them, “Would, uh, would you maybe want to hang sometime?”

“Like a date?” She asks.

He stares at her for a second before nodding.

“Yes.”

She gives him a genuine smile.

“I’d love to.” She pulls out her phone from her pocket and hands it to him, “give me your number.” He does it right away and hands it back to her. She touches something on the keypad, “I’m calling you so you have mine.” Two seconds later his phone starts ringing. She hangs up, “Text me a day and time.”

——

It happens fast. It was only Wednesday when they went on their first date. By Friday, they were already sleeping together.

That first night, he enjoys that feeling in his tummy. He felt like he was getting that break he was hoping for all along. For the first time in a while, he saw a glimpse of hope.

Nat helped him more than she realized. He was very thankful for her and he hoped she knew that, even though he told her constantly.

——

One month later, that hope and light were quickly ripped away from him.

He had gotten a phone call from his dad while he was in his dorm room, and Connor had been sitting on his bed doing his homework.

Bucky felt a heavy wave of nausea make its way up his throat, and he felt a heavy stab in his chest.

A strong sense of impending doom.

He felt sick.

Completely sick and devastated.

He felt like dying.

Sensing something wrong, Connor had looked over at him and quickly put his laptop to the side to run to Bucky’s side, concerned. He barely made it there, because Bucky beat him to the bathroom where he threw up nonstop. Connor looked down at Bucky’s cell phone that he left on his bed, the call still on.

Connor slowly makes his way to the bathroom when he hears Bucky has stopped.

Bucky stands up again and sways a bit, his eyes red and swollen.

He walks past Connor, pushing him aside, and goes to his desk where he starts rummaging for things in the drawers. Connor watches intently as Bucky finds what he was looking for, an orange pill bottle.

Bucky is a mess, struggling to open his opioids with his trembling hands.

Connor squinted, knowing fully well he wasn’t due for another dose until around 2 AM. That was when his alarm always went off.

“Buck—“ Connor’s tone is knowing. Bucky is still trying to get it open, cries leaving his chest as he grips the plastic with both hands. One on the bottle, the other on the white cap. Connor runs up to him, “Bucky, stop!” The pill bottle opens up and slips out of Bucky’s hand. The bottle falls under his bed and pills go all over the floor.

“No, no, no, no.” Bucky repeats over and over again as he falls to his knees. He’s looking for them all over the floor.

His pills. My pills .

“Bucky, stop, please.” Connor is repeating over and over again, putting a hand on his new friend’s good shoulder. Bucky ignores him completely as his right hand glides over the floor. He manages to grab a few in his hand and he brings them to his face.

Connor’s eyes go as wide as saucers.

“Bucky, no!” Connor shouts, fighting with Bucky to get them out of his fist. His hand is over Bucky’s and they stare at each other like they are in a competition to see who would give up first.

Bucky is the first to go as his left arm twitches and he lets out a short scream, falling back against the floor the rest of the way.

The pills that were in his hand are now in Connors.

Bucky cries silently, both in physical and emotional pain.

Connor sits on his knees as he watches him fall apart.

They found his mother’s remains.

——

Every night that week, Bucky has a nightmare. The pain in his arm also comes back at full speed. The physical therapist lets him skip his two sessions for the week.

Connor is always up with him, ready to get him whenever he needs.

Steve and Sam come over twice that week to see if he needs anything.

It’s on Steve’s second visit that Nat also happens to be there.

Bucky and Nat are talking when there’s a knock on the door. Nat offers to go and open it.

Like a slow-motion, dramatic-as-hell movie, the world stops moving.

Nat and Steve stood there face to face for the first time since that night.

Nat opens her mouth to say something but, from behind, Bucky beats her to it.

“Hey, Steve.”

Steve clears his throat and looks over to Bucky. His eyes slowly drift back towards Nat.

“Uh, hey.”

Bucky gets up off his chair and goes to stand next to Nat, placing his right arm over her shoulder. Steve watches carefully, analyzing each move between them like a hawk.

Shit .

His stomach grows frigid and his heart breaks slightly.

“Hi.” Steve says again, to no one in particular.

Bucky gives Nat a firm squeeze.

“You can come in,” Bucky says kindly.

Steve nods and awkwardly shuffles in, making sure to now avoid all eye contact with Nat.

The last time he saw her, he had been kissing her so hard he saw literal shooting stars.

“This is Natasha, sorry I hadn’t introduced you guys yet. I was meaning to get around to it. Nat, Steve.” Bucky introduces them.

“Nice, to meet you,” Steve says, looking around the room, still slightly shocked about finding the girl he’s liked for over a year, in his best friend’s dorm.

“Likewise,” Nat says, tone unfamiliar.

“Sorry for the, ya know…” Bucky’s voice drifts off as he motions to the slight mess that is his and Connor’s room, “I’ve been packing to go home for a few weeks.”

Steve’s animosity is gone just like that.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” he looks between Bucky and Nat again. Nat walks away to go sit on Bucky’s bed while Bucky continues to sort through the belongings in his wardrobe, “If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

Bucky sighs.

“Thanks, but I should be busy enough to keep my mind occupied.”

“He has another surgery this Friday. Then, all next week, Mr. Rollins has given him more than enough work to keep him busy,” Nat says with a disappointed tone, “of course Mr. Rollins offered a grace period of three weeks but Bucky refused to take it.”

Bucky starts shaking his head.

“The last thing I need is to stop living my life. That’s what you taught me. Right, Nat?” After Bucky’s question, the room goes quiet again, “I can’t stop everything,” his voice breaks, “I need to try to keep going.”

Bucky’s shoulders relax as he feels Nat’s hand on his right shoulder.

“We’ll both be just a call away.” She says.

——

The drive home is too much. Whoever in his head told him it was a good idea was stupid.

Oh, right, it was himself.

By the time he pulls his Honda into one of his dad’s apartment buildings on Madison Ave, he’s ready to pass out.

Putting his car in park and pulling the keys out of the ignition, he tosses his head back against his seat and lets out a long breath.

It all still felt so surreal.

No. No thoughts.

With that, he gets out, grabs his luggage, and makes his way to the lobby’s side entrance.

He ignores the sounds. He tries to focus. He needs to. He needs to stay in his head or he would lose it.

Breathe in ten seconds, out ten , just like Nat taught him.

He enters the elevator, and presses his dad’s floor along with the code.

The ride up takes too long. He ignores the moisture that fills his eyes at the last memory he had in this elevator with his mother.

He pushes those memories out and closes his eyes tightly together. He stands there, waiting for that ding.

When it comes, he walks off; relieved.

All the lights inside are set to dim, and the curtains are drawn closed. He doesn’t ignore the hundreds of flowers set on the floor. It feels morbid here. Bucky hates it.

He wants to leave, but he won’t.

He walks through the foyer and into the living room.

“Dad?” He says, looking around.

“Hey.” His father is standing to the side, a glass of scotch in hand. He looks rough. Probably just as much as me, Bucky thinks.

His dad lets out a heavy sigh and places the glass down.

Bucky’s heart breaks even more, if possible. This entire time he had been hollowing in his own pain, when his own father was here alone, hurting and dealing with the death of his own wife, a woman he loved.

They don’t say much more before Bucky walks up to him.

His father wraps his arms around him, hugging him tightly. They stay in a tight embrace as his father places a small kiss on the top of his head, his hand going there to comfort him.

That’s when Bucky loses it again.

——

There was no personal urn. They were given her ashes in a discreet and small black box, which they would later bury under a small oak tree. They would plant the tree on top and it would grow in her memory. It was Bucky’s idea and his father liked it.

The funeral is the next morning. It felt impersonal. Ninety percent of the invitees were people Bucky didn’t even know, along with a lot of press waiting outside the premises. There was also a big police presence, given the circumstance of his mother’s death and what happened with Bucky, which still remained a secret from the public.

The ride to the penthouse is silent, but a different kind of silence than the one Bucky felt when he first learned of her confirmed death. He doesn’t know what it is, but he and his father make peace with it.

When they arrive, they help each other get rid of the already dying flowers and clean the home. They didn't care that they had a well-paid housekeeper for that, the next three weeks would be about bonding and letting everything settle in.

They make dinner together. Nothing too special, some roasted chicken with potatoes and string beans.

By their second week, things were feeling a bit better. Even Bucky was starting to already think about new beginnings, maybe even restarting old endings.

It’s over some stir fry that he mentions it.

“How’s school going?” Mr. Barnes asks, “I’m still disappointed you chose Harvard over Dartmouth.”

Bucky sighs, not wanting to have this conversation again.

“It’s good. It’s good for me.” He ignores the second comment completely.

His dad hums in response.

“Things are going well with Nat?”

Bucky nods.

“They are. She’s good for me.”

“That she is. She’s also very smart. She’s going to make a fine wife to a good lawyer one day.”

Bucky can’t help but cringe at the sexist comment, and totally ignores the marriage one.

“She is very smart.”

They continue to eat in silence for a little longer.

“I’m thinking I’m picking up some extra cash,” Bucky says and eats takes a spoon of mashed potatoes.

Mr. Barnes perks a brow at him and then dabs his mouth with the napkin.

“You planning on working the clubhouse for another summer again? You know come senior year, I’ll have you getting ready to intern at the company.”

Bucky swallows the last of his potatoes and looks away from his dad.

“No, not the clubhouse.”

“Then what?”

Bucky swirls his spoon around for a bit and picks up more potatoes.

“I’m thinking of doing some gigs again. Some small ones. Maybe during break. Just some small coffee houses.”

There’s a long silence before his dad responds. He knows he’s disappointed, but he also knows how much Bucky used to love to play.

His son is mourning, and he doesn’t want to take this away right now.

“Can you still play after?” Bucky knows he’s asking about his hand.

“I can. Took some time, but looks like it’s still there.”

Mr. Barnes nods.

“I’m not for or against it. As long as it’s only one break.”

“Of course, dad.”

_____

Harvard Vs. Dartmouth’s first football game.

The air was static and on fire. The crowd was contagious, and a few months after probably the worst days of Bucky’s life, he was finally feeling back on top again.

He couldn’t find a better time to feel himself again than at a football game with his girlfriend.

Nat’s hand was in his as he pulled her down the steps to one of the benches farther down. They said hi to some of their classmates as they made their way down.

Thanks to Connor who played for their school, his team was able to save Bucky, Steve, sam, and Nat a good area for them to enjoy the game.

The couple quickly spotted Steve and Sam. Steve and Bucky’s eyes met, and Steve felt guilty.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky finally had the guts to ask him if anything had happened between him and Nat, where Steve finally told him the truth. Ever since there had been this awkward tension between them.

Bucky’s hand was on Nat’s waist as he guided her first down the row to sit closest to Steve and Sam.

The crow around them goes wild. When Bucky sits next to Nat, he looks over at her and pulls the red beanie tighter over her head. She looks over at him and smiles. He leans forward and gives her a quick peck.

“Connor’s a badass,” Sam says, another cheer coming from the crowd.

Nat pulls out a box of skittles from her jacket pocket and offers Bucky some. He stretches out his hands and takes a couple, tossing them back into his mouth.

She turns to Steve and he barely glances at her and gives her a short no. Sam takes half the box. Steve keeps his eyes straight ahead as Nat reaches over to take the box from him.

Bucky pretends not to notice, taking the box from Nat to grab a few more.

About forty minutes into the game, Bucky starts to notice Nat shivering a bit more. He takes his jacket off, offering to give it to her.

“Bucky, it’s okay, really. I’m fine. You need it more than me, anyway. You know you need the warmth—”

“I don’t care, Nat. I’m not letting you catch a cold.”

Bucky could practically feel Steve roll his eyes as Bucky catches a glimpse of him over his shoulder.

That’s just about what does it for Bucky before he lets out a long sigh and finishes taking off his jacket.

“Take it,” He ignores her protests as he places it over her shoulders, “I have to run out to the car and grab something. I’ll probably grab the small blanket I saw in there anyway.”

“Okay.” She says.

Bucky looks back over at Steve.

“Steve said he left something there earlier, and I just remembered he has to come to look at it to make sure it’s the right one,” Steve’s eyebrows comically furrow in complete confusion before he looks over at his best friend, “If you want to come, too?”

Steve looks at him, lost. Reluctantly, he nods.

Steve follows Bucky up the stairs and then through the hallway that led back to where all the stairs were. Steve really thinks Bucky is going to go towards the parking lot area, so when Bucky suddenly stops and Steve almost walks straight into him, he’s shocked.

Bucky turns around and looks at him, furiously.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, genuinely not knowing what was happening.

“You,” Bucky says, glad there was no one around except for a soda machine, “Why are you being such an ass to her?” Steve’s mouth opens and closes. This frustrates Bucky even more, “I get the whole thing about you and her and you liked her and all that, but you don’t have to take whatever it is you’re still feeling about her on her. She did nothing wrong.”

Steve’s mouth is still gaping open. He stands up taller on his feet and lets out a long sigh. It was ironically funny that they were the same height.

“Bucky.”

“I’m serious man. I asked you if you still had feelings for her, and I have a feeling you lied to me. Tell me the truth and I’ll…” Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “I don’t know, but you don’t gotta be this way.”

“Bucky, stop.” Steve says firmly, “I didn’t realize I was being an ass or acting like one,” Bucky gives him an are-you-shitting-me face, “I’m serious, I didn’t! I guess it’s just coming out. I just…” Steve lets out a long breath, “Look, you’re a good guy. You’re probably one of the sweetest guys ever. And I’m not trying to get with you or something when I say it, but it’s true, okay? You’re this super nice guy and you’re a good best friend. You’re great, and all the girls love you, in a different way than they like me.” Bucky’s face falls.

“Steve—”

“No, let me finish because it’s not what you think. I’m not saying I’m jealous of you, because it’s not that. I get girls. It’s not that. It’s the relationship . You’re my best friend and I do want the best for you. I will always want the best for you. And I gave you that permission to keep being with her, me knowing good and well you would drop her for me in a second if I asked, because that’s who you are, but I’m not going to take something great from you for selfish reasons.” Steve clenches his teeth and his jaw tightens, “But I know what she told me that night, and I know what we felt, and I know that that night meant a lot to her, too.” Bucky’s eyes drop, “I’m sorry, I know it’s uncomfortable to talk about, but I might as well say it now.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m not saying I want her to betray you in any way or for something to happen, but do you know how frustrating it is for me to be around her for as long as I have and for her to act like she just met me for the first time four months ago?” Bucky’s face falls, “It’s not you that I’m upset with. I’m upset with the lack of compassion from her. So, I’m sorry if I’m making these faces without realizing it. It’s hard.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, I—” Bucky looks around and then back to Steve, “I was so busy thinking about the other things it could be that I didn’t stop to think about how she’s really treated you .”

“Look, Bucky. It’s not our fault we have the same taste, and it’s not like you took some girl from me knowing I was with her or something. We were never really together officially. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But, still. You like her, Steve.” Bucky says with no hesitation, “Do you want me to tell her something?”

“What? No!”

“I can just tell her to speak to you, maybe if you guys spoke about this.”

“And then what?”

“She’d stop treating you like you meant nothing to her.”

“Buck—“

“We both know her well enough to know she’s not like that. We know that meant something to her, maybe there’s a reason she’s been standoffish.”

“And then what, Bucky? What if she has a reason? That won’t make you uncomfortable? How about us three, our dynamic? It’s not that simple.”

“If she feels the same way, then it is what it is,” Bucky says simply, defeated. Steve stares at him surprised. Shocked. Almost offended at his best friend’s lack of his own compassion.

“She loves you, Bucky.”

Bucky sighs and looks down at the ground.

“We were going to talk about it anyway. Nat and I are great together, she’s helped me through so much. So much. And she’s an amazing person. She’s smart, a little fireball, sweet, she is compassionate, and she’s beautiful. What we have, is exactly what we both needed when we needed it. She taught me so much. Don’t shake your head back and forth, because she and I have talked about this already. Aside from the physical aspect of our relationship, her and I are really just really great—”

“Don’t say it, jerk.”

“ Friends .” Bucky says, “It’s not official yet, but we don’t know where this will take us. If it doesn’t last—”

“Bucky, stop this.”

“I’m serious! If it doesn’t last, what do you have to lose?”

“You’re telling me to go after your girlfriend?”

“I’m telling you that she and I are going to talk again and depending on where that talk goes, you should take your chance and talk to her. If your fear is ruining my relationship with her and you, at least then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

“ Bucky .”

Bucky places a hand on Steve’s shoulder and gives him a firm squeeze.

“I’ll let you know when I speak to her. Until then, try to keep your facial expressions in check. It’s pissing me off, Stevie.”

——

The weather outside was chilly and brisk. It’s the second winter in a row where there would be no snow on Christmas. Bucky was back in New York City for winter break with Natasha at his side. They both decided this would be a great opportunity to see if what was left of their fire was still enough there to make more of a relationship.

They would try more romantic things. Despite this private conversation with his best friend, Bucky wasn’t going to treat his relationship with Nat unfairly. He was still fully committed until they tried everything.

The second stop of their winter break was at a bar in Chelsea.

Bucky’s first gig in three years. He was nervous, beyond nervous even, but he also felt this sense of renovation. He was also excited.

The bar had a comforting and warm setting. The lights on the stage were bright as the others were dimmed down. On each table, there was a little candle.

The chatter died down as the mic squeaked over the sound system. Bucky’s eye catches Nat in the front where she sits at a round table.

He smiles.

He clears his throat as now all the eyes are on him, waiting.

He feels the cold chain of his dog tag around his neck and over his chest. A reminder.

He’s sitting down, his acoustic guitar settled on his right thigh. He puts his right foot on his chosen pedal.

The whole place is quiet now except for some plates and utensils in the distance.

“I would like to dedicate this one to my beautiful mother. She’s not here with us anymore, but she’ll always be with me in my heart. Love you, momma.”

The lights dim even more. He swallows thickly and licks his lips, eyes flickering up to the ceiling for just a second.

The first strum is heavy and sweet, and the chords that follow it, match its beauty and symphony.

His voice adds gravel to it, a little imperfection added in that makes it authentically warm and personal.

His voice flows like honey over each chord, and while, physically he’s in that coffee house, mentally he is very far away.

——

Little treat:

Quick flash forward four years in Grafton, Vermont.

Despite Bucky’s promise to his dad, he tries to play at least every year for every winter break in the city.

Now 24, since this is his first year since graduating (after deciding to do one more), he’s wrapped up. He feels sad about it. He’s having his last drink of the night, making small talk with the bartender, Lucas.

“This is your last one? For real this time?” Lucas asks, a sad tone in his voice.

“For real, Luke.” Bucky takes the last sip of his drink, and his black guitar swings behind his back. He lets out a long breath. “Thanks, man.”

He slides the empty shot glass back against the table.

It’s then that Bucky hears the most beautiful sound. A laugh. His eyes shoot up. It’s a girl. He can’t see her, but he can see the back of her head. She was a little shorter than the other girl standing next to her. He couldn’t see their faces. She laughs once more and his heart flutters.

He doesn’t know if it’s because it’s his fifth drink of the night, but with that shine around her and that laughter, he feels a pull like never before.

He doesn’t have time to even react before the girl — whoever she was — was already walking out with the other girl.

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