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drabbles-mc · 2 years

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Family Gathering

Gilly Lopez x F!Reader

Inspired by Day 13 of the August Prompts: spicy food

Warnings: language, alcohol, found family fluff

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: I sat down to start the fic for today’s prompt with no idea who or what fandom I was going to write it for. But I’m very glad my brain took it in a Gilly direction. And also the rest of the guys lmao. Hope y’all enjoy!

General Mayans Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @thesandbeneathmytoes @paintballkid711 @queenbeered @kelpies-shed @sesamepancakes @yourwonkywriter @chibsytelford @plentyoffandoms @amorestevens @garbinge @bucky-iss-bae @encounterthepast @bport76 @rosieposie0624 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @mijop @choochoo284 @blessedboo @holl2712 @lakamaa12 @shadow-of-wonder @withmyteeth @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @punkgoddess-98 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck @fanfic-n-tabulous @i-love-scott-mccall @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @beardburnsupersoldiers @mveggieburger @thanossexual @bruxasolta @passionatewrites @90sisthenew80s @xeniarocks @littlekittymeow @beardsanddetectives (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

The day had started off so quietly despite what you knew was coming later. You’d invited all of the guys from the club over for a barbecue, wanting to take advantage of not just the nice weather, but the fact that things had actually been going well for the first time in a long time. While you never knew all of the details of it, you were able to glean a lot from the moods that Gilly usually came home in. Even when things were rough, he never took it out on you, but you could still tell. He seemed less tense lately, coming home a little earlier, with a little more energy. It gave you a bit of hope that the club was on an upswing. And, when you had floated him the idea of having everyone over, he was eager to agree.

So that’s what the two of you had been doing for most of the morning. You both pitched in, cleaning the house, getting the back yard set up, and prepping the food. While Gilly was usually very territorial over the kitchen, he did his best to try and keep it in check, knowing that this was a two of you thing. He was trying to get better at sharing.

It didn��t mean that you didn’t catch him looking over your shoulder a couple times as you both got things ready. You didn’t comment on it, just choosing to laugh and shake your head at him. He didn’t try to offer any advice, so you assumed that you were doing alright.

“Alright,” you took the dishtowel that was draped over your shoulder, wiping your hands on it before tossing it onto the counter, “That’s all set. I’m gonna shower and stuff before everyone gets here,” you walked over, kissing him quickly on the lips, “I love you.”

The smile on his face was genuine even though his attention quickly returned to the food he was prepping, “I love you too.”

You had your music playing from your phone while you showered. Apparently you were playing it loud enough to drown out the sounds of a few of the guys showing up to the house. You changed into a fresh tank top and a pair of cutoff shorts, slipping on a pair of slides before making your way back towards the kitchen. Your phone was tucked into your back pocket, music still playing while you half danced, half walked.

It wasn’t until you turned out of the hall and into the kitchen that you heard the voices. You stopped dead in your tracks, eyes widening at the sight of all the men in your kitchen. You knew that they were coming, but you weren’t expecting them so early. And you usually heard their bikes when they all rolled up. Reaching into your back pocket, you pulled your phone out and immediately stopped your music. The kitchen fell silent with the absence of your Throwback 2000’s playlist, which you still cringed every time you realized some of your long-standing favorite songs were now considered throwbacks.

It was just the usual crew, the Core Four, as you so lovingly named them. EZ and Angel, which you began to realize that one never really traveled without the other, Coco, and of course Gilly. They were all standing around the kitchen, beer bottles in hand. The three visitors were trying to stifle their laughter, but Gilly didn’t share the same sentiment.

“Coulda just told me you wanted to pick the music today,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head at him, not further acknowledging the comment as you turned your attention to the other three, “Sorry, guys. Somehow missed hearing you all roll up.”

“It’s the shower surround sound,” Angel joked.

You smiled, “Yea, something like that,” you paused, “I’d offer you guys drinks, but looks like Gilly already beat me to it,” you walked up beside him, pressing a brief, soft kiss to his jaw.

“Yea,” Coco smirked, “You got him fully domesticated now.”

You laughed and Gilly shook his head, “Fuck off.”

You patted Gilly’s chest, “He’s not wrong, though.”

He motioned back and forth between the two of you, “See? This is why I never invite you guys over,” he laughed, “This is how it starts. Gonna be outnumbered all fuckin’ day now.”

You laughed, taking the bottle from Gilly’s hand and giving yourself a sip of it before handing it back, “Yea, maybe.”

The group of you only lingered in the kitchen for another minute or two making small talk before you started herding all of them outside. That was the whole point of the day anyway. EZ asked if there was anything that any of them could do to help, and you were all too happy to put them to work bringing stuff out with them. Gilly made it clear that none of them were allowed to carry any of the food, that he didn’t trust them not to fall and drop everything. It got a laugh out of you, knowing that he trusted these men with his life but not the food he had prepped for everyone. You passed off snacks and a few extra bottles of beer for the coolers off to them as they all filed out of the kitchen and into the back yard.

The Reyes brothers and Coco were laughing amongst themselves as they went out the side door onto the porch, leaving just you and Gilly still in the kitchen. When Angel slid the deck door shut behind him, Gilly turned to look at you, his expression getting a little softer as he took in the sight of you. He could see that your hair was still a little damp from the shower, your face bare, and it still made his heart speed up a little bit every time, no matter how many times he’d seen you like that.

“Didn’t mean to ambush you,” he joked.

You smiled, shaking your head as you stepped closer to him, leaning against his chest, “Don’t worry about it. I just can’t believe I didn’t hear them.”

“Yea,” he laughed, “me either. They’re fuckin’ obnoxious,” he tried to sound annoyed but you knew he was faking it.

“Remember,” you poked his chest with your pointer finger, “They’re your friends.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You gave him a playful push towards the door, “I’ll be out in a minute—just gonna grab my own beer.”

“Oh,” he chuckled as he shook his head at you, “not just going to keep stealing mine?”

You hummed in amusement as you stepped in just close enough to place a lingering kiss on his lips and say, “I’ll still do that too,” before backing away and heading towards the fridge.

Gilly lingered for a moment, watching the way you drummed your fingers on the side of the refrigerator door. He smiled to himself before prying himself away and heading out to join the people that he’d invited over.

You were digging the bottle opener out of the kitchen drawer when you heard the sound of more motorcycles rolling up. You quickly popped the top off of your beer bottle, tossing the cap into the garbage before walking over to the door to greet whoever was arriving now. You might not have been able to extend that courtesy to Angel, EZ, and Coco, but it wasn’t too late this time.

Pulling the front door open, you smiled at the sight of Creeper and Riz getting off of their bikes. The two of them were chatting as they walked up to the door, pausing their conversation to greet you with hugs and kisses on the cheek.

Riz nodded towards the beer in your hand, “Didn’t start the party without us, did you?”

You chuckled, shaking your head, “Not at all. A few of the guys just got here a couple minutes ago. Reyes boys and Coco.”

“Angel? Really?” Creeper joked as he walked into the house with you, shutting the door behind you all, “Guy will be late for his own funeral, but he’s here early?”

You pointed at Creeper knowingly, “He knows that Gilly is cooking today. Food is the best motivator.”

Walking to the kitchen, you tossed a bottle of beer to Riz, and a bottle of water to Creeper before letting them know that everyone else was out in the back yard. You were following behind them, smiling at the sight of your backyard filling with people that you cared about, that Gilly cared about. And it wasn’t even everyone yet.

You were all sitting around the large picnic table in the back yard, a project that you and Gilly had tackled together, building it yourselves. You thought it was going to be the thing that made Gilly leave you, but the two of you managed to power through the project, coming out on the other side of it with a table large enough to seat just about all of Santo Padre. You smiled to yourself at the memory.

It took the guys no time at all to get right into their stories, tales of their antics that you were sure had been told a thousand times before, and would be told a thousand times more if they had anything to say about it. You sat back and listened, sipping casually on your beer as you watched all of them starting to get more and more animated as they got farther into the story that they were telling.

You all paused for a moment when you clocked the familiar rumble coming down the street again. You and Gilly looked at each other and you waved him off, mouthing a silent, “I got it,” to let him know that he could stay with the guys, and you would go and greet whoever was pulling in now.

“And they give me shit for being late,” Angel huffed with a roll of his eyes.

“’Cause you’re always fuckin’ late,” Coco said with a laugh.

You were laughing at their comments flying back and forth as you slipped back into the house and headed for the front door. Pulling the door open, you and Bishop mirrored each other’s shocked expression. He was just about to knock when you pulled the door open.

He lowered his hand, immediately shifting to pull you into a hug, “Good to see you, sweetheart.”

You leaned into the hug as you responded, “Good to see you too,” pulling away, you repeated the process with Taza and Hank, “I’m warning you now, all those boys are going to give you guys grief for being the last ones here.”

“We’re the last ones here?” Hank sounded genuinely surprised.

You were about to make the same comment that you’d made to Creeper and Riz, but Taza beat you to it, surprisingly enough, “Gilly’s cooking. They won’t be late for that.”

“Should start having him cater Templo, then,” Bishop remarked with a shake of his head as you all walked through the house and out to the back yard.

“Ay!” Angel threw his arms up as the four of you all walked down the deck steps, “Look who decided to show up!”

Bishop shook his head, retort already locked and loaded, “Angel, if—”

“Hey,” Angel cut him off, “no pulling rank here, Pres,” he gestured over to you, “Y/N’s house is neutral territory.”

“Actually,” you took a swig of your drink, “it’s not neutral territory. I’m in charge here,” you joked.

“Damn,” EZ joked, a smirk on his face, “Tough break, Gilly.”

Gilly shrugged, eyes fixed on you as he smiled, “I’m not mad about it.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach at the look on his face. Clearing your throat, you motioned for him to come with you, “Wanna bring the rest of it out now that everyone is here?”

He nodded, finishing off his beer and setting the bottle on the table, “Yea, comin’.”

You were already opening the fridge, trying to figure out which plates and trays you should take out first. You’d pulled both refrigerator doors open, arms outstretched as one hand rested on each to keep them open while you thought. It had the added benefit of washing you over with a wave of cold air. You were lightly gnawing at your lip in thought when you felt a pair of arms slithering around your middle. You huffed out a laugh when you felt Gilly’s chin rest on your shoulder.

“Might have to use those muscles to pick the plates up instead of propping the doors open,” he joked.

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see you, “I’m strategizing,” you tried to sound serious and failed.

“Since when?” he laughed.

“Since you’re so picky about all of this,” you turned to look at him as best you could, “Figured some of these only you were allowed to carry.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and you could feel the sensation of his laughter against your skin as he did, “You’re right.”

He pulled you back against him, partially out of affection, partially so that he could try to weasel in front of you and get to the plates in the fridge. You didn’t fight him on it. He knew exactly what each plate was and which ones he was most protective of. In light of that, he carefully selected two for you, turning and handing them back to you.

You took them carefully, wanting to make a joke about dropping them but knowing he wouldn’t find it nearly as funny as you. You flashed him a smile and nodded as you turned around and started walking towards the door. You were only a couple steps away from the door when he spoke up, “Hey.”

You looked back over your shoulder at him, seeing that he had already picked up a couple plates for himself, “Yea?”

“I love you.”

Your smile grew, “I love you too.” When you started making your way down the steps of the deck, the first thing you saw was Angel lingering over by the grill. He wasn’t touching it, but you knew that that didn’t really matter. You laughed as you hip-checked him out of the way, “I wouldn’t do that, Angel.”

“What?” he looked so confused.

“I’d stay away from Gilly’s grill if I were you,” you warned, “And away from him while he’s using it, too.”

He rolled his eyes at you, “Oh, come on, he’s not that—”

“Nah, she’s right,” Gilly cut him off, setting his plates down beside yours, “Touch this and I’ll chop your goddamn fingers off,” he turned back to you, tone changing completely as he kissed you, “Thank you.”

You were certain that the warm fuzzy feeling you felt inside was showing on the outside as well, “No problem,” turning around, you playfully pushed Angel back towards the table, “Now c’mon and help me bring out the sides, before you start losing fingers.”

Despite the fact that Gilly wanted a decent perimeter around him while he worked the grill, he was still fully in-tune with the conversations that were happening at the table behind him. There was something different about getting together someplace that wasn’t the clubhouse. It felt a little more intimate—no hang-arounds or other extra people. It was nice, and based off the comments and the laughter he assumed that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. It wasn’t often that he heard Bishop and Hank laughing along with everyone else. Maybe the house really was neutral territory.

“I’m still waitin’ for Y/N to hook me up with one of her friends,” Angel said, the comment following up a bit of a verbal jab that Coco shot at him over his single status. Which you found interesting since you were fairly certain that Gilly was the only one of them who was in a real relationship with someone, except maybe EZ, but he kept that part of his life pretty private.

You were going to say something but surprisingly enough, Hank spoke up, “She doesn’t have any friends that she hates that much, Angel.” You laughed and shook your head but you didn’t argue the point.

“C’mon,” Angel held his arms out, like he was putting himself on display, “you’re tellin’ me that none of your friends—”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” you cut him off, almost doubling over with laughter as you stood up from your spot on the bench.

You went and gathered up all of the empty bottles that were starting to collect on the surface of the table, intent on bringing them to the recycling bin inside. Even as you retreated towards the house, you could still pick up on bits and pieces of the shift in conversation behind you. You paused in the doorway, looking at the entire crew of them all sitting around talking to each other. Even though Gilly was standing by the grill, he was still turning around to talk to everyone. You could pick his laughter out of everyone else’s with ease, and it sent a wave of calm over you. You liked the scene playing out in front of you—you hoped that things kept going well so you could see it more often.

When you came back out, you saw that everyone had helped themselves to more drinks. You walked over to the cooler, grabbing a bottle of soda for yourself before walking over to the grill to see how everything was coming along. Given the present company, you knew that you were the only one who was going to be allowed that close to Gilly and his domain. You went back and forth between looking at the plate that was starting to get stacked high with things that were cooked and taken off the grill, and peering around his shoulder to see what was still in progress. It always amazed you how quickly he managed to get through everything, and that despite the speed with which he cooked it always tasted amazing. You supposed that’s why he took such a painstakingly long time with prep.

“Looks good, baby,” you weren’t going to ask him to turn and face you to kiss you, so instead you pressed a kiss to the outside of his arm, a sweet and passive little gesture before you spoke up again, “Want me to bring these to the table? Clear you some room?”

He looked at you, nodding, “Thank you.”

You winked, “I got you,” picking up the plate, you asked, “These are regular, right?” you motioned to the various cuts of meat on the plate.

He nodded, chuckling, “Yea. Good call.”

You tapped the side of your head with your finger, “Every now and then.”

“What’s the other option, then?” EZ asked as you set the plates down.

“Hm?” you glanced over at him.

“If this is regular,” he motioned to the plates, “what else does Gilly have up his sleeve over there?”

You laughed, “He’s got this, spicy like,” you gestured vaguely with your hands as you tried to conjure up the right word, “marinade. Super good. It’ll kick your ass if you’re not expecting it, though.”

“Oh for real?” Angel asked, and you could see the intense interest all over his face and Coco’s as well.

You nodded, chuckling, “Yea, for real,” looking back over your shoulder, you spoke to Gilly, “Have you really never cooked for these guys, babe?”

“Fuck no,” he laughed as he pulled another piece of chicken off the grill and onto the plate, “Still wouldn’t have if you hadn’t said something about all this,” he motioned to the group of them all sitting at the table.

All of the guys were laughing and shaking their heads as Gilly shut off the grill, grabbing the last few plates of food and bringing them over. He set them down in the center of the table, taking one last look at it all to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything. He must’ve been satisfied, because you saw him give the tiniest little nod of his head to no one in particular before making his way over so that he could sit next to you.

No one wasted any time diving right into the food, which you were grateful for. The guys were tossing rolls to each other up and down the length of the picnic table and you couldn’t help but to laugh, trying to intercept them every now and then.

It struck you, as you watched them all chatting amongst themselves, that the only other time they really all sat together like this was at Templo. Parties at the clubhouse they all sort of paired off into their smaller groups, never really all sitting down together like this. You sat back for a moment, idly toying with the food on your plate as you looked around at everyone.

You felt Gilly’s hand land on your thigh underneath the table, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to face him, a smile on your face, “Yea?”

He smiled but you could see the small furrow of his brows, “You good?”

You nodded, resting your hand on top of his, “Yea, I’m good. This is nice,” you gestured to the table full of people with your fork.

“Good,” he gave your leg a light squeeze, “But if you want me to kick ‘em all out, I will,” he laughed.

“You can try,” Creeper remarked, having heard the quick, quiet exchange between the two of you, “but you’re not gonna be able to get any of this food from me, though.”

You laughed as you looked over at Gilly, “Looks like you’re gonna be on the hook for a lot more barbecues.”

“Between you and Felipe,” Taza joked, “you could have quite the catering business.”

EZ was shaking his head, laughing, “Pops would lock him in the freezer and leave him behind.”

Gilly laughed, shaking his head but he didn’t actually argue the point, “Yea, nah, your old man wouldn’t last a week with me.”

“I don’t know,” you had a sing-songy lilt to your voice, “He’s dealt with EZ and Angel for how long now?”

Bishop laughed, “That’s true.”

Angel sucked his teeth, but everyone could see the amusement in his eyes, “Man, fuck all you guys.”

You chuckled, “Keep talking like that, and you’ll have to give the food back.”

“Her house, her rules, remember?” Coco piped in with a smirk.

You smiled triumphantly, “Man, I could get used to hearing that.”

“Yea,” Gilly said with a shake of his head, “because I always put up so much of a fight about everything,” he laughed.

You smiled over at him, batting your eyelashes, “Yea, I guess that’s true. We do alright,” you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

“Hey,” Angel gestured to everyone around the table, “some of us are tryin’ to eat, here.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were only able to hold back your laughter for a couple seconds before it burst out of you. Shaking your head, you got back to the meal in front of you, letting the conversation drift back to the numerous stories that they always had to tell. You watched everyone laughing and joking with each other, gaze frequently drifting back to Gilly who looked more relaxed than you had seen him in a while. You noticed the way his hand never left your thigh, and a smile curled your lips as you tuned back into the controlled chaos unfolding around the table in your back yard.

#mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans mc imagine #gilly lopez #gilly lopez x reader #gilly lopez x you #august prompts #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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morbidshay · 1 month

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Monday 3/18/24

Hi, Hello, Howdy? How is everyone doing today? Here is my version of events:

Spent the last day with my partner today before I officially go home. It was quite devasting knowing it was the last time, especially because I cannot seem to keep cool. Meaning, I am at a constant state of unrest and dysregulation that my thought patterns occur in negative obsessive loops but I have no self control to get myself out of it then bringing everyone down with me. Nothing anyone does or says satiates this demon in my noggin. They're (my partner) being understanding of it all. They know I'm trying to get help and fix the uncontrollable, but it doesn't excuse the way I hurt them during figuring my shit out.

I still have yet to book a flight or schedule UPS to pick up my boxes for delivery. My mom expects me to call UPS and organize the details, which is a fair responsibility, but I feel like I can't do it. Just like I couldn't do my homework, or go out in public, or sometimes even to the bathroom when needed. It is a paralyzing feeling knowing and screaming at my brain to work but my body couldn't be farther from the same page.

If we are celebrating small wins - and we are - I guess I should give myself the benefit of the doubt and let everyone know I picked up my medicine and went to get snacks, and ATE them. Woot Woot, they have nothing on me. So tonight is my first night on lithium 450mg and mirtazapine 15mg. If anyone has any knowledge on these medications let me know.

Hi this is just a vent now : I turned 20 and started seeing all the patterns my body and mind does. I never knew searching for words to define my consistently invalidated feelings and reactions would lead me to questioning if I could be a system, or have traits related to PDA, or if every bit of movement in my brain is actually an obsession, forced, or I'm faking. I think for the most part, terms are coming. and I am coming to terms with them, but fuck I'm exhausted and so alone.

Thank you if you read a small sliver of my life and complaints. Don't be afraid to share yours. Let's make the world a little less lonely. Who woke up today? Who brushed their teeth? Showered? Didn't lose your mind when an article of clothing gets stuck on a door knob? Began square breathing when things didn't go as planned? Who simply rotated every hour to avoid bed sores? if any of this has been done by anyone - I am proud of you - know that and be proud of yourself too. You're inspirational to others (ME!)

Song of the Day:

#personal #journal #mental health #did system #osdd system #plural system #pda #pda autism #pda profile #tw disordered eating #lithium #mirtazapine #relationship #anxious attachment #Spotify

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mangoisms · 1 year

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like the part of the song where it falls ━ miyuki kazuya

━ part five: and probably, if they don’t waste time looking for an easier world, they can do it / read part four

━ wc: 6k

━ warnings: none

━ masterpost

The twenty-fourth of December is spent poolside.

Your sister and Hector are gone, spending the rest of the year in Europe. They’d asked you to come but you didn’t want to leave Kazuya alone like that. He says he’s used to spending this time of the year alone — he hasn’t been back to Japan since before his second season with the Braves — but just because he’s used to it doesn’t mean you’re fine leaving him alone like that.

You don’t do anything special — he doesn’t celebrate — but just spend time together. Watch some Say Yes to the Dress and some House. Do a few puzzles together. Have him quiz you on your baseball knowledge. Read comics. You brought Volume 1 of your No Man’s Land omnibus collection for him, since, like he said, he was ‘intrigued.’

“Just intrigued, tomcat,” he had stressed to you, upon seeing you beam. “I’m not turning into you. DC is way too complicated for me.”

“I thought you liked challenges?”

“Fun challenges that make me use my brain. Looking at reading guides just makes me want to pull my hair out.”

“Boo.”

But you get it. It really is not for everyone. Most of the time, you just kind of have to go into it without a second thought. Find a reading guide for a character you like and start there. Confusion is just second nature to this stuff. He’s not like that. He needs all the pieces of the puzzle.

On the twenty-third, which is when you go over to his apartment, you two just hang out. You’ll be spending the night until the twenty-sixth. Since you feed Batman and Robin (your pets, not the characters) twice a day, you have an automatic feeder for them for the few days you’ll be gone, that way he doesn’t have to drive you back and forth between East Village and Normal Heights.

It is also the first time you are spending the night at his apartment and you try to be really normal about all of it.

You occupy yourself with studying every detail of it. A fourteen hundred square foot apartment on the twenty-third floor, one bedroom, one and a half bath, with an modern open floor plan, floor to ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom, and a balcony that gives you literal next-door views of Petco Park (like seriously, it’s probably about ten blocks away).

The whole one bedroom thing would have created a problem if you hadn’t initially said this would be a sleepover. By definition, that means sleeping together. In the same room. But not the same bed. No.

You could, maybe, but that would be too much. He’d quickly taken over and said he had futons you two could use in the living room. A much better alternative. Though, admittedly, having to sleep separated by only a few feet is… a little more painful. But them’s the breaks! Can’t do anything about it. Nope.

Anyway… on the twenty-fourth, the two of you sleep in, seeing no use in getting up early since you guys aren’t doing anything.

You spend the first part of the day lazing around, then you head upstairs. To the very luxurious indoor pool all tenants are allowed to use. Except…

“I didn’t want to be that person, but I asked them about closing it off from anyone else, that way it’s just us.”

“You can do that?” you ask, lifting your eyes from the shiny marble floor of the elevator.

He shrugs. “For what I pay in rent here, of course. They were happy to.”

“And the fact that you’re you had nothing to do with it, huh?”

“Do you really want other people to be in there with us?”

“No,” you admit. That ran too much of a risk of you two being covertly photographed and recorded. And that just wasn’t fun. Plus, yeah, it would be nice to have this very luxurious pool to yourselves.

You looked it up. Their indoor pool is on the thirty-second floor, the second to last. They have locker rooms to shower and change in, heated towel racks, and poolside service for food and drinks. Kazuya is bringing snacks and drinks but still. It’s loads better than the shitty little pool at your apartments.

“Besides,” he adds. “It’s Christmas Eve. No one’s going to the pool.”

“We are.”

“Because I was coerced by you. I’ve given you too much power.”

You laugh hard at that one.

The doors open. A small foyer leads to a single door, which unlocks with a swipe of Kazuya’s keycard. He lets you in first.

Chlorine hits your senses immediately. The air is tepid, warm, but not too hot and not too cold, either. The pool is not exactly Olympic-sized but it’s much better than the tiny one at your apartment with dead bugs, bits of grass, and dirt on the bottom. This one is pristine, walls painted light blue, lights blurry under the water. Everything is large enough that your voices echo.

Being up on the thirty-second floor, floor-to-ceiling windows take up the entire left side, offering a view of the western horizon and allowing the sun to shine on you as it makes its way down. This is the tallest building in East Village, so you overlook everyone else, which is good, otherwise those windows might’ve presented a privacy problem. Pool chairs line both sides. A whirlpool tub sits at one end, partially jutting into the flat side of the pool.

“I can’t believe you pay god-knows-how-much money for this place and don’t even use their pool,” you say, running to claim one of the chairs in front of the window, flip-flops smacking around the ground. The area around the pool is completely dry. Did he really hold this thing the entire day? You suppose it makes sense. Better that than having to kick people out when you came down.

“You’ve seen my bathtub, tomcat. This is just… extra.”

“You’ve seen my bathtub, tomcat, this is just extra —do you hear yourself right now?” you laugh, dropping your tote bag onto the chair and slipping off your flip-flops. Even the concrete is warm. Not too rough, either. You bend down to pull out the small speaker you’d brought, turning it on and grabbing your phone to find a playlist. Something mellow should do, you think.

“And!” he interjects, holding up a finger as he drops his bag on the chair next to yours. “It makes my hair tangled.”

“Small price to pay for being rocked to sleep like a baby,” you say, slipping off your loose workout shorts and your t-shirt, leaving you in a pair of lilac spandex shorts and a black high-neck bikini top.

“Yeah, what’s up with that, anyway?”

“Well, given that you’re a hater, I wouldn’t expect you to understand but in my experience, if you swim around, float around, long enough, afterward, not only are you the good kind of tired, but when you’re in bed, it’s like… rocking on a boat. Rollercoasters are kind of the same, except it’s less rocking and more like… flying. But the good kind.”

“Is the brain damage finally manifesting?”

“You’ll see,” you promise, then turn to launch yourself into the pool.

Gravity takes you into its clutches. You sink beneath the surface. The world muffles. Warm, leaning on hot, water swaddles you like a baby. You open your eyes for a brief second, indulging for just this one moment since you don’t want your eyes to turn red from the chlorine. Air bubbles sway in front of you. Under the water, the walls are arctic blue, bright and warm.

You could stay here forever.

But the reverberation of Kazuya’s voice makes you resurface, wiping a hand over your face.

You blink up at him, still standing by the pool chairs. “What?”

“I said, if you end in the hospital because you drowned, Hector is going to kill me.”

“He wouldn’t. He swore a whole oath about stuff like that. Very integral to his job. And plus, it’d piss me and my sister off.”

“Which has more weight? The Hippocratic Oath or your combined wrath?”

“Our combined wrath, duh. Stop standing around and get in! The water is sooo nice.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Hey, you stay out of the deep end, got it? You’re too short for it. Even while treading. It’s like two of you.”

You splash water at him but he moves out of the way, snickering as he goes around to the stairs. The deepest it goes is eight feet and the shallow end is three and half feet but he’s just being dramatic. You’re in the middle, where the floor slopes down, toes brushing the smooth bottom as you tread.

You move further toward the shallow end as he steps into the pool. His glasses are off and he’s in a pair of maroon swim trunks and a black t-shirt, which he…

You raise an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to take your shirt off?”

“I’m shy.”

You laugh so hard you have to hold onto the wall to steady yourself, ignoring his affronted Oi! at your reaction.

Being absurdly tall at six foot one, the water in the shallow end only comes up to his hips, wetting the end of the shirt.

“You’re shy? Don’t make me laugh.”

“You already did!”

You laugh again, going over to him and tugging on his arm, the two of you wading in deeper.

“Didn’t you say you had shared baths at your high school?” you ask, pulling on his shirt.

“Why are you so eager to get me out of my shirt, huh?” he shoots back, fighting you. Or pretending to. He could push you off if he really wanted to. Mostly, he looks like he’s just trying not to smile. The tips of his ears are suspiciously red.

“Don’t be embarrassed!” you laugh.

“I am not!”

In retaliation, he grabs you, pulling you in then dragging you down with him underwater.

You both resurface. He pushes his hair back from his face. You grab him again, laughing. He laughs, too.

You get the shirt off eventually. Then he hits you with it and you pull it on in retaliation. Then you fight a little more.

“What did I tell you?” he asks, sinking so the water is up to his shoulders, like you. “Too much power.”

“Yeah, but you’re having fun, aren’t you?”

He looks at you for a moment, unbearably attractive with his hair pushed back, shirt off, revealing pale brown skin.

Then he splashes you.

You sputter.

There is no other reason to be here, you think. To have fun. To act like a pair of teenagers.

But when you tire of that, you both end up floating on your backs, your bodies parallel in opposite directions, heads next to each other.

A song plays quietly from the speaker. One of your more mellow playlists.

Down beneath the ashes and the stone Sure of what I've lived and have known I see you so uncomfortably alone I wish I could show you how much you've grown

“How are things with your friends?”you ask, your voice soft.

“Better… better.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“They want to meet you, you know.”

Downtown hot spots I used to be on this street I used to be seventeen I used to be seventeen

“No way.”

“I’ve been known to be difficult. They’re surprised you managed to become my friend in such a short period of time.”

The word friend pokes harshly at your heart. Your chest feels heavier, each breath an effort.

No. This is fine. You said it yourself. This has to be enough.

“Tomcat?”

“Sorry. You should give yourself more credit. This is a two-way street. I was willing but how could any of it work if you weren’t willing to humor me?”

“I wasn’t humoring you,” he murmurs after a moment of silence. “I’m not. I don’t… not for this stuff.”

“Oh.” You smile. The anvil on your chest lightens. “Have I made you a believer?”

“In the innate goodness of humanity and the fact that our existence is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe but all the more important because of it?”

“Well… it’s not all meaningless. I mean, sure, but… you know how light travels in space?”

“Takes a long time.”

“Really long time. Lot of the stars we see in the night sky, they’re thousands of years old. We’re looking into the past ‘cause it takes that long for light to reach us.”

“So?”

“So…” you smile. “We do the same, too. Humans. Earth. If someone looked at us right now, from however many light-years away, they’d see a moment from our past. The dinosaurs. The advent of civilization. The Sumerians, the Greeks, the Romans. All those people and places and things that are gone… somewhere out there, they’re still alive. Humanity will go on forever. Somewhere, thousands of years from now, someone will see us.”

Kazuya is quiet for a long, long moment.

“Too much?” you ask eventually.

“No,” he murmurs. “No. Somehow, you always manage to make it sound… nice.”

“It is nice.”

“Yeah. It is.”

You stay there for a little while longer until the pangs of hunger force you out for a snack. Wrapped in fluffy white towels that are warm as if they just came out of the dryer, you two sit on the ends of the pool chair, eating spam egg onigiri. Something light so as to not spoil dinner, which is supposed to be tsukemen.

The sun is starting to set by now, already four-thirty. Golden light spills through the windows.

“Woo, that’s bright.”

“Your eyes still bother you?”

You polish off your onigiri, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “Sometimes. My head, too.”

You look at him to avoid looking outside. As usual, he looks ethereal in the light, but you catch the flash of guilt on his face. You don’t get to say anything before it’s replaced by something else. Amusement.

“What?”

Kazuya leans forward. Everything inside you freezes. He smells like chlorine and sunscreen and the green tea you’re drinking. The look in his eyes is soft, the set of his mouth fondly amused. His hand comes up to your face. You barely suppress a flinch as his thumb brushes under the corner of your mouth, that one swipe of his finger sending sparks skittering down your spine.

He moves back. You force your eyes away, to his thumb, where a small flake of seaweed lingers.

“Oh. Thanks.”

You feel like you might spontaneously combust. Every part of you wants to lunge across this space between you and be held.

It’s the kind of want that makes you feel small and overexposed, so you look away, back at the skyline, even though it hurts your eyes.

The two of you wait a little while after eating before making for the pool again. You toss your damp towels into the laundry chute, then shiver. His shirt is coldly damp. He stands and stretches as you walk back over and you avoid looking at the unmistakable muscle there, instead reaching for the hem of his shirt.

“You’re taking it off?” he asks, a little bit of a whine in his voice.

“It’s cold!” you whine back.

Kazuya eyes you, then strides forward, quickly closing the space between you.

A new song is playing on your speaker. Quiet and calm.

You don’t have time to focus on it. He grabs you, warm hands on your arms, gentle, and then the both of you are tipping into the water.

Water swallows you whole. Everything fizzles out. Just you, the silence underneath the surface and —

Kazuya. His hands still on your arms, pulling you down because gravity demands more of him than it does you, and with you two tethered, you have no choice but to go down with him.

You open your eyes. He’s already looking at you. The look on his face indescribably soft. His t-shirt billows around your body.

You think, even if you had a choice, you would go, anyway.

You think you might have a choice, the way your chest balloons with something warm, so light, so free. Gravity loosening on you as you find something else to keep you on this planet, like a string to a kite.

But everything must end.

You resurface in the next moment, taking in a breath. He comes up a second later, wiping his face, pushing his hair back.

“Can I be selfish for a moment?” you ask, your voice almost a whisper, still trying to regain your breath.

He looks at you. Droplets of water hang on his eyelashes.

“Be as selfish as you’d like,” he says quietly.

“You… I mean… I know…”

He floats closer to you. The water comes up to your neck. You balance on the floor on your tippy-toes.

“Take a breath, tomcat,” he says, laying a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

You do so and you finally hear the song playing quietly from your speaker.

When I see you look at me I’m not sure of anything All I know is when you smile I believe in everything

“I know you said you aren’t humoring me. But you’re not… I’m sorry, I don’t mean this badly. You’re not doing this because of… what happened in October, right?”

“Pity, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“It was never pity. It was… guilt. Obligation. My responsibility.” His hand slides closer to you, until his thumb can brush the skin of your neck. Back and forth. Back and forth. Your pulse flutters underneath the skin.

“But after that first day, when you were so… relaxed about everything, I was interested. That’s why I came back. I had a good excuse for it, too, but I did feel some responsibility then, too. Then we had that talk on the curb and I… wanted to stick around to see how things unfold.”

Do you know how I dream? How I dream about you? Do you know how I feel? Do you know?

“Oh…”

His other hand comes up to your left temple, fingers settling into his hair, not moving, just shallowly sinking in, while his thumb brushes over your temple. Where your bruise was once. Where your fracture has now healed.

He’s never handled you like this. Not so gently, not so…

Tenderly.

“I’m not here because I’m obligated to be here. Or because I pity you.”

“No?”

He says your name, your name, not tomcat, not Tee, not anything else.

“I’m here because I want to be here.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t mean…

Kazuya moves closer, smiling now, something soft and tender just for your eyes. For gravity. For the warm water lapping at you. And in a thousand years from now, for whoever looks back and sees this moment.

“I thought about how this could go for a while. A younger me would’ve gladly set fire to this at the first hint of feelings, even if it meant he got burned, too. But now… I can’t do that to you.”

“Kazuya…” you whisper, heart pounding.

“But more truthfully,” he shakes his head slightly, “I’m selfish. I don’t want to lose you. In any capacity. You don’t even have to say anything. I don’t expect you… I don’t expect anything. I just… you have to know. You taught me that. That I need to say these things. I’m here… because I want to be here, because… because I don’t want anyone else.”

A shade of hesitation passes in his eyes before he pulls experimentally on you. You understand and sink easily into his embrace. Warm. So warm. Everything inside you is singing. But your voice is frozen.

This feels like a fever dream. Like maybe you did drown during that first jump. Or maybe you’re in a coma at the hospital, still suffering from the home-run. Nothing feels real. Yet, at the same time, it feels too real. Warm water lapping at your bodies. His heart pounding under your cheek. He smells like chlorine.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says again, voice vibrating under your ear. “I just… we can still be friends, right? I’ll take you however I can. I swear.”

Your voice doesn’t work.

You nod.

He holds you for a long time.

“Who’s Robin right now?” The question drifts to you from the living room.

You lean down to spit out your toothpaste. “Tim. Jason hasn’t been brought back yet. Or, actually, I think he is alive by this point but still catatonic. Probably with Talia. Love her.”

“She’s —”

“Damian’s mother.”

“Right. Only biological son of Batman.”

“Mmhm.”

Everything was weird when you two came back earlier.

So, so weird.

Mostly because of you.

Because you were kicking and screaming inside yourself, wondering why the hell you didn’t tell him you think the world of him, too.

Well. You know why.

How could you have ever expected that?

In what universe does this happen? To you?

Now, listen, it’s not a self-deprecation thing. You’re a catch! You know you are! But it’s just… it seemed like something you could only ever dream about. Something you could only make playlists for, full of achingly earnest love songs and a few well-placed sad love songs, too.

It took you off guard. You never expected him to say something, even if he did have feelings. You thought you would. If you had the inkling he felt the same. And his behavior did raise a few of those flags but how could you be certain? How could you potentially ruin this?

You and he are two sides of the same coin on that front.

You don’t have to say anything. I just… we can still be friends, right? I’ll take you however I can. I swear.

Your insides lurch. You hold onto the sink, palm pressed to your face.

You’re so stupid.

He showered first when you got back, that way he could start on dinner while you went after.

It was a peculiar kind of hell, to step inside his bathroom, heat still hanging heavy, the spicy and sweet scent of his shampoo coating the insides of your lungs.

You had to pull yourself together after that.

You need to regroup and think all of this through.

So, things got better after that. Even if it’s hard to look at him. True to his word, he isn’t doing anything stranger than usual but you know.

The words, the knowledge of his feelings, it’s been spoken. It’s there, heavy between you two.

Selfishly, you think it would be easier if you didn’t feel anything.

But you do.

You step out of the bathroom. The lights are off except for a lamp. The futons are spread out in front of the small dining table between the living room and the kitchen, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glass door to the balcony. He lays on his stomach on the one closest to the door, the thick omnibus held in his hands.

“Where exactly is Gotham supposed to be?”

“New Jersey.”

“Yeah. That checks out.”

You smile, ignoring the anvil on your chest, and drop onto your futon, two feet away from his. You pick up your book on Shohei Ohtani. You want to reread it now that you have a better grasp on the complicated jargon they were using. Though it’s still hard to apply your knowledge.

Your eyes scan the lines. Nothing registers. You flip the pages, anyway.

“Hmm.” The thoughtful hum brings you eyes up. Kazuya is squinting at the pages.

“What?”

“So… the city had a massive earthquake.”

“Yes.”

“And… instead of continuing rescue efforts, the government…”

“Declares Gotham City ‘no man’s land.’ So, not part of the US anymore. On its own. Bridges leading out are blown, they put mines in the rivers so people can’t escape, then they have the military guarding any remaining entrances in and out.”

“Yeah. I can see that. You know, I’m not the most ethical guy but… that seems a little…”

“Fucked up?” you ask, grinning. This is better. Easier. Familiar. You are passionate about this particular arc. No Man’s Land is an excellent event. One of DC’s best. But you hardly mind a critical angle.

You have many thoughts on Gotham and its perception in the comics, particularly No Man’s Land.

He flips a page. “Pretty much.”

“I don’t disagree. Truthfully, I can totally believe the government would do something like that if it were a little more blatantly evil. But you know what I don’t believe?”

“What?”

“That when they did this, people were fine with it. I mean, they even try to say that polls of the people wanted it but… come on! That’s like if they cut off… Chicago! Or Detroit! A ‘bad city.’” You put air-quotes around that. He snorts.

“No one would take that. Not to mention, it’s kind of glaringly obvious who’s been left behind. And then when things get bad, it’s not some kind of gotcha, either. I’m not sure what any of them are expecting since Arkham — you know, the guy in charge of the prison for the ‘criminally insane’ — let all of the rogues out, including the Joker, and then of course, the gangs stay because other people are staying, too — well, the ones who can’t even leave. It’s literally like closing the zoo but leaving all the enclosures open and being surprised when you come back to find chaos. What are any of them expecting to happen? Oracle says it’s proof of the natural state of human being. It’s not true. That’s just what happens when your government is negligent.”

“That… is fair,” he concedes. “But what are all these air-quotes about?”

“First air-quotes — self-explanatory. Negligent government and screwed up system. Second set, around the whole criminally insane thing?”

“It is Joker.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, but… sure, some people will say he’s, like, a ‘psychopath,’ ‘sociopath,’ whatever. But I think you can have horrible people like the Joker and they’re just like that for no reason other than —” you spread your palms “— they’re assholes. No other rhyme or reason. It’s been touched on, anyway, that the Joker wants people to think he’s ‘insane’ as a cover or whatever.”

He looks back to the omnibus. “Huh.”

“It’s still a good read, though,” you say, yawning. “Even if I disagree with some of it. One of the best. These days, it’s all just — bleh.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Just weird. Characterization is suffering. Half of these writers don’t want to put in the work to study canon. And I get it, there are, like, multiple canons, but come on! Consistency! Continuity!”

“Who knew you were actually such a hater?”

“I am a proud hater! It’s good to be critical! I love to be critical! I can be multiple things at once,” you say, pouting.

The look on his face is fond. Achingly so. You flop onto your back to avoid it.

“It’s not all bad, I guess,” you continue, praying for your heart to calm down. “They made Tim bi. Though, to be honest, if anyone should’ve been made bi, it’s definitely Dick. I say this as the Dick Grayson in my relationship with Jerry.”

“Am I supposed to understand this reference?”

You grin up at the ceiling. “I say he’s the Donna Troy to my Dick Grayson. Donna Troy is Dick’s best friend. Soulmate, really.”

“Cute,” he says, sarcasm heavy. A little jealous, maybe, but you shove the thought into a box as soon as it comes.

“Platonic soulmate,” you say pointedly, though you should just leave it. “Anyway. Back to the point. Tim is still good. Pissed a lot of homophobes off.”

You let out a yawn, then wiggle back onto your futon.

“I’ll turn out the light.”

“If you want to keep reading, you can.”

“No… no, I’m starting to think I just prefer to hear you explain these things.”

Your face warms. You can’t say anything.

He quickly continues. “Plus, the format is a little confusing. With the bubbles and the panels.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

The deflection is meaningless because you know he means it. He should find you… a little interesting at best, annoying at worst. But no, he’s… It’s like when you hear him talk about baseball. You’ll talk about it all day if it’s him. He’s so passionate about it.

You realize with a bolt of lightning down your spine it’s the exact same for him with you and comics.

It should be a warm realization. One that makes you happy. But as the light shuts off, plunging you two into darkness, the space illuminated only from the moon outside, something inside you aches.

You crawl under the covers and he does the same.

Slowly, as your body relaxes, sleep lapping at your senses, you start to feel it.

The swaying.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Like you’re still in the pool.

“Do you feel it?” you ask, voice hushed, eyelids growing heavier with each second that passes.

“Yeah,” comes Kazuya’s sleepy response. “I feel it.”

Well, you made your point.

But at what cost?

[Night Owl Transcript — 21:09 — 12/26/2023]

Tee: You know, it’s just… one of those days, guys. Think all the excitement from these last few months is catching up to me. We’ll start slow. But it’s nothing to worry about. We’ll, uh, be back in tip-top shape by next year. [Pause] Yes, I know next year is next week.

[Nothing But Thieves’ “Real Love Song” plays] And this is a sad song, so sad Aching like it’s more than I can take sad I cried so hard I died sad Losing all that’s making me human inside sad

Can I sing this to you? Got a thing about you And it won’t go away No, it won’t go away It won’t go away

This is a love song, so what? Did it slide into your heart? I guess not I still want your love a whole lot Have you heard a better song? Oh, I hope not

[Night Owl Transcript — 20:30 — 1/2/2023]

[Off-air recording starts] Mouser: We didn’t do much for new years. You know how Nana is. Just slept in. You? Did you, uh, spend time with Miyuki? Tee: Huh? Oh. Oh, yeah, we… we really just watched TV. Some House. You know. Mouser: Right… have you been getting any sleep? ‘Cause, Tee, you look — Tee: Thank you, Jerry. Mouser: Did something happen? Tee: …Everything’s fine, bud. Let’s just… I’m just gonna do some puzzles, ‘kay?

[Ayoni’s “If You Leave” plays] Tell me you love me before you go Don’t you know I love you? I love you, don’t leave me, baby Tell me you need me Before you leave Can’t you see? This kills me (If you leave, if you leave)

Don’t make me beg I am despondent If you leave me, I might die Shed my old skin, embrace the fire Cry down hoover, room stands still Said, if you leave me, die on that hill If you leave me, don’t look back

“I know you don’t like it when people make assumptions based on the songs you play but… this is a little concerning, don’t you think?”

Your sister is fresh-faced and glowing from the trip to Europe. Meanwhile it’s barely the first week of January and you feel so…

“I mean… heartbreak pop. It’s not like you.”

Oh, but it is like you. In this moment, right now, you feel like exactly that.

And who’s fault is it?

Your own.

You shouldn’t be like this. You and Kazuya still hang out. Of course you do. You’re… you’re supposed to be friends.

But everything is different.

Your wildest dreams are in reach.

Were in reach.

Things have gone on this long. Do you have any right to go to him and say you do want to be with him? That you panicked? He doesn’t deserve that.

“Do you see what I mean?”

You think your sister is talking to you, initially, but when you raise your head from your mass of blankets on your shitty threadbare couch, you see her next to the tank, directing her words to Batman and Robin.

You scowl and sink back into your cocoon. “Everything is under control.”

“Not really what I’m asking, is it?”

Your door opens. Hector hobbles in with armfuls of groceries.

“Nine dollars for a dozen eggs! What kind of world are we living in?” he admonishes, dropping everything onto your tiny dining table.

“Hector,” your sister sighs. “Your sister in law is in love with Miyuki Kazuya.”

You groan. Hector’s head whips to you, eyes wide.

“He gave you a concussion!”

“That was an accident!”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

“It doesn’t matter!” your sister interjects. “It was always going to happen. Anyone could see that.”

“Hello?!”

Hector grunts. “Suppose that is true.”

“What.”

Your sister points at you, impassioned. “I would bet all our money that he feels the same.”

You glower at her. “He does. Where’s my money.”

Hector groans.

Your sister huffs. “Relax, it was just a joke —”

“Hey!” you protest.

“Your boyfriend is a millionaire!”

“He is not my boyfriend!”

“He likes you back?” Hector admonishes. “We’re going to be family now? Babe, I’m not mad about the money. I’m mad about that!”

“Die mad about it!” she snaps. “Don’t you think she deserves a little happiness, too?”

“I mean, she was pretty happy beforehand —”

“You know what I mean! And if that’s the case,” she looks at you, lips pursed. “What’s with the heartbreak pop? And why isn’t he your boyfriend?”

“Because I didn’t say anything.”

Your apartment falls silent. Behind your sister, Batman and Robin’s tank glugs quietly. Robin swishes through the holes of his hollow tree trunk. Batman vibes on a nearby branch. You wish you could be as zen as him.

“Why not?” your sister eventually asks, voice gentle.

You shrug miserably. “Didn’t think he’d ever feel the same.”

“But he does,” Hector says, brown eyes softer now. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

“It should. But… I didn’t say anything. It was… he took me off guard. How can I say something now when this happened almost two weeks ago and we agreed to just be friends? That that was all he wanted… if anything else…”

A look of grudging respect crosses Hector’s face.

“Hnh. Guess he’s not all bad.”

“Hector.”

He sighs, tilting his face to the ceiling. Your water-stained popcorn ceiling that you’ve become familiar with over the last week since sleep evades you. Since you evade sleep, too. Treacherous with her visions of a future you don’t think you have a right to anymore.

Your sister sits beside you on the couch. She smells like jasmine. Her hands are soft as she takes yours. Hector joins you on your other side. He smells like sandalwood. It clears your head.

“What’s stopping you now?”

“I should’ve said something then. Not now.”

“Who cares about should haves?” Hector asks. “The Tee I know doesn’t.”

“I’ve never had something this important to me like that. I can’t… it’s not…”

“If not for you, then for him,” your sister says softly. “He should know, don’t you think? He should know someone loves him.”

“He has his friends.”

“You’re you and they’re them. I’m sure he does have their love. But he’d want yours, too.”

“He’s going to leave soon. For spring training.”

“All the more important to say something, then.”

Hector nudges you. “You almost died last year. These kinda things — they can’t wait. They don't wait. It’s not fair to him and not fair to you.”

You put your face in your hands. “I hate when you guys tag-team me!”

“We rarely do,” Hector says, affronted. “Your sister always takes your side.”

“Well, she’s my sister. I’ll always have her.”

“And me?”

“Oh, stop it. It’s the same with you and your brothers.”

Quiet for a moment before he says, “That is true.”

Your sister hugs you. “Just think about it.”

Hector drops a rough kiss on your head. “Yeah. But just so you know, he will be getting the shovel talk.”

You groan.

“Now you’re speaking my language, Dr. Peña,” your sister says, coy.

“Don’t you guys have your own house?”

[Night Owl Transcript — 23:31 — 1/6/2023]

[Fall Out Boy’s “So Much (For) Stardust” plays] In another life, you were my babe In another life, you were the sunshine of my lifetime What would you trade for the pain? I’m not sure

And look! look! look! I think those little fish better wake up and dash themselves away from the hopeless future that is bulging toward them.

And probably, if they don’t waste time looking for an easier world,

they can do it.

#daiya no ace #ace of diamond #miyuki kazuya #miyuki kazuya x reader #daiya no ace x reader #ace of diamond x reader #moss writes

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janokenmun · 1 year

Text

yknow what im gonna talk about my autism now. i have thoughts in my brain and i wish to post them (also disclaimer: i'm not 100% sure i have autism? i've always explained it as being on the border of autistic and neurotypical and i'm not fully sure which side i fall on)

im very low needs id say! i can largely function on my own, mostly it's a bit hard to take shower (hair being wet = mild bad sensory) but that's something i feel i can work on and actively get better at

the highest-needs part for me is like. if doing things for someone else, i need things explained in a Very Specific way! it has to be a completely unambiguous instruction list; i've compared it to like, instructions a robot could use. if there's anything ambiguous, i have to ask about it, and if i can't ask about it, i just end up shutting down. (this also applies to doing basically anything for the first time if it's important!)

like for example, helping clean stuff up! valid instruction sets:

"take all of these items in this specific location, and move them to this other location."

"i'll sort the items into piles. anything in pile A, put on the bookshelf. anything in pile B, put in the pantry. anything in pile C, put in your room or the basement (your choice; there's no consequences for your choices here, it doesn't matter). anything in pile D, put in the trash." (this arrangement works very well for me!!!)

"anything in this area with property A, put in location A. anything with property B, put in location B. anything with property C, put in location C." (a bit harder, there'll be a lot of questions of things on the boundary or things with multiple relevant properties)

but if it's something like, i don't know where they want it, i will ask A Lot of questions, like one per item! and this can often get annoying to people which sucks since if i can't ask, i just shut down!

beyond that, it's mostly stuff like needing jokes to be clarified a lot, since often i'll read something as way harsher than it's intended. some people i know are really cool and will include things like "(this is a joke)" on most or all of the jokes they make! i like those people. it's hard for me to be friends with someone if i don't feel comfortable approaching them to ask for clarification on the tone of a message, but i can be acquaintances with them without too much difficulty.

then there's some relatively minor things, like i mishear things a lot and will ask "what'd you say?" a Lot! and i'll also tune out by accident while reading or thinking about something and then i'll come back to reality like "wait whatd you say i was thinking about british telephone boxes". also some images and sounds are bad sensory to me, it's not a huge deal since if it's an image i can just Look Away like switching to another chat, if it's on discord or similar i'll have to either be tabbed out or on another chat 99% of the time, or do a big screen-clearing message of purely newlines. (my gf is trying very hard to spoiler-tag things she thinks might be bad sensory! is very good.)

that's basically all of my needs relating to other people, the rest of my autism (as far as i know) essentially boils down to little challenges i can overcome on my own or little personality quirks (disclaimer: idk how many of these are autism-related, if any!). like how i will get obsessed with something and talk about it frequently for WEEKS (right now it's rats and toki pona)! or looking at a message, reading it, and then taking 7 years to reply since it was too much mental effort to reply just then and then i tab out and forget and the next time that person messages i'm like "oh yeah you said something!!". or listening to the same song for hours straight! or stuff like eating the exact same thing for lunch, every day, for years, with few exceptions (it's a ham and cheese sandwich with exactly 4 slices of ham)! or looking at a box and thinking. wow. this is an amazing piece of engineering. and inspecting every detail of the box

also uh i use a lot of words since i like being precise. which, i Imagine is Somewhat Evident in this post! (also i have no idea how i should do tags so i have been very conservative with them on this post)

#autism

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creatur3creati0ns · 8 months

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My History with Self Harm and Self Tattooing

I think it goes without saying that this will be discussing both tattooing and self harm, so if that’s something you don’t want to read about, here’s your trigger warning. I won’t be getting into explicit descriptions about self harm but for the sake of the story I will be mentioning the main form of self harm I used to engage in, which is cutting. I myself can not read, hear, or watch any media that shows or describes cutting, and even writing or saying the world evokes a very bad physical reaction in me so trust me when I say I will try to tell this as best I can while attempting not to trigger anyone, especially myself. But I will be talking about it, maybe more than you’re comfortable with, so do be careful if needed. There will also be mentions of suicidal ideation, mental illness, and the struggles that come along with those, as well as brief mentions of childhood abuse and trauma. No specifics, but the acknowledgment of them. I also show a picture where I have mild hives on my skin, in the “My History with Tattooing” section, and I do warn before I show you. I briefly mention sexual themes, as well as BDSM.

My History with Self Harm

I started self harming around 13 years old, after I was in a car accident that gave me a traumatic brain injury and triggered a myriad of mental illnesses including social anxiety, major depressive disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and depersonalization/derealization. Along with this I was dealing with abuse from my parents and pressures around school. Everything accumulated in panic attacks and general feelings of hopelessness and helplessness. That brought on heavy thoughts of suicidal ideation. I did not have any control in my life, especially over what happened to my own body. The way that I regained a bit of control was by self harming. My usual go-to was cutting. This also helped with my dissociation disorder, because it was a very grounding experience that brought me back into reality and my body. I had a whole ritual surrounding it, and it was something that I did very often and was the main coping mechanism I used at the first sign of trouble. It got to the point where I would even do it at school, under my desk or hidden in the office.

When I started getting help for my struggles, one suggestion I found online to help with self harm urges was to draw on myself. This was something that I connected with instantly. Very quickly I found myself spending at least an hour each night drawing on the places I wanted to self harm. I would spend time each morning refreshing the drawings that might have smudged at night, and redrawing them after a shower. My marker of choice was any Sharpie, and I still have a very large collection of them. Black was my usual go to, and I had a black Sharpie on me at all times. Usually two, one with a pointed tip for details and one with a rounded tip for thicker lines or coloring things in. I tried different brands of skin safe markers and I did like them, but they didn’t last as long and they were expensive. At some point I was obsessed with “Mr. Sketch Scented Markers” and I still have two packages of those. I loved experimenting with different markers and I still do, but now it’s mainly for drawing or coloring on paper. I also experimented with different ways to make the drawings last longer, like covering them with baby powder and hairspray. I would draw on myself any chance I would get, and would always spend the car ride to school doing it.

Pictured above was the first photo I have of a drawing I did on myself. I’m using Snapchat screenshot for most of the pictures in this post because it has the date there. These were done with the good ol’ Mr. Sketch, and I specifically remember I would only listen to Emma Chamberlain’s “spring 2018” playlist while doing this in my mother’s bedroom. She has since changed the playlist name and added songs I never listened to, but the first 16 or so songs were the ones I would listen to every night for a few weeks. Why I was in my mother’s bedroom is also a long story, but when I was dealing with my suicidal ideation I was not allowed to sleep in a room by myself for around two years. During this time I had to sleep in her room, in her bed. About an hour before bed I would be able to have the room to myself to draw.

I was never much of an artist before I started doing this, so most of the things I did at the beginning of my skin drawing journey were doodles I thought of or simple designs I saw on Pinterest.

At some point I graduated from drawing only on my inner forearms and outer thighs to my hands and fingers and all over my legs and pretty much anywhere I could reach. I got pretty good at drawing with my non-dominant hand so that my right hand and arm was covered in marker as well. Here I was still doing some Pinterest drawings.

Those triangles on my left knee in the picture above was something I would do a lot. It was the first “design” I ever created myself, and was definitely the easiest to do. You can see X’s on my hand here, which is something I started to do a bit before this picture, like this. Easier to do with my non-dominant hand.

One of my favorite things to doodle were triangles, like the ones seen here.

I started getting a little funky with my triangles.

One of my favorite things to do after a few years was to black out my knuckles with boxes.

In my spare time I would look at other people’s tattoos online and try to imitate them on my own skin.

I started to like blacked out shapes. Try to get as much color on my body as possible.

That turned into blacking out a portion of my arm.

Or even blacking out my whole arm.

I even drew on my neck and face.

Funnily enough, I ended up getting my first piercing there, an eyebrow piercing.

Some extras I like:

Little hint of a blacked out arm there.

My mother wasn’t a fan of any of this at first until I told her it helped with my self harm urges. Of course it didn’t completely stop my self harming, but it definitely lessened how much I did it. She would often gift me markers for holidays, or even just on random days when she was at the store and found something that I might like. That’s what happened with the “Mr. Sketch Scented Markers.” If you read my “The First 20 Years” post, you know I have a lot of complicated feelings about my mother. She was heavily abusive and our relationship suffered because of it . But as every other human being on the planet, she had her good moments and there were things she was good at as a parent. She would stand up for me when others made negative comments about my drawings. My grandmother didn’t like the fact that I had Sharpie all over my hands, but the only time I heard her bring it up to my mother, my mother said that it really helped me and that it was important. The next day my grandmother complimented some of my drawings, and a few months later when a friend of hers was visiting, she pointed it out to her friend and mentioned that she thought I was getting good at it. My grandmother was also very abusive and a decently bad person, but again. People are not only one thing blah blah.

Once I was at a doctor’s appointment and had heavy black drawings all over my hands and a nurse asked if they were tattoos. I was maybe 16 at the time, and I told her no, it was just marker. She went on to say that that was good, because tattoos are bad and unprofessional and will kill your chance at being successful and I should especially not have them so young. I nodded along silently and then left to have a panic attack in the bathroom, and texted my mother telling her what happened because I didn’t know what else to do. It might seem like an extreme reaction, but in general I hated confrontation and any time any adult showed even an ounce of disappointment or anger over something I did or even just who I was, it destroyed me. My mother ended up calling the office to explain the importance of my drawings (this office already knew in depth about my self harm and mental health issues, as it was a small medical practice and my mother loved to talk) and say that what the nurse said was upsetting and inappropriate. A few minutes later the nurse came back into the exam room to apologize very sincerely and give me a hug, which was appreciated but also very awkward considering I thought it looked like I called my mommy to complain about the mean nurse to get her in trouble.

In October of 2020 I started taking drawing a little more seriously, and finally found my style. I was always doodling, literally any chance I could get. Every page in my school notebooks were filled with triangles and lines and dots. There was a drawing on some part of my body at all times. I found this artist, ihategreeneggs on Instagram and wanted to try my own version of something he did. This was his drawing that inspired me.

And this is what I ended up doing. My very first drawings of what would eventually become my style.

Here I drew my mushroom guy (who is my favorite, now) on my arm. A little hard to see but you get the picture. I plan on getting him tattooed on me for real. Probably by someone else, just so it’s as good as it can be.

I realized after a few years that I enjoy having marks on my skin. Whether it was self harm, Sharpies, scars, random scratches, or even hickeys and impact play marks later on in my life, any time I could see something on my skin out of the corner of my eye or in the mirror it would make me happy and present in myself. I’m still not totally sure why, but I think it has something to do with “my skin has changed or looks different than when I was born and that is proof that I am real.” This is still something I feel now, but I have developed healthier ways of getting those marks on my skin.

My History with Tattoos

I was around tattoos at a very young age. My dad has several pretty old tattoos, and two of them were decent sized pieces on both forearms. I can’t remember exactly what they were, but I’m near positive that one was a traditional full body tiger, and the other was a traditional scorpion. He had some other ones on his shoulder and his chest. He has my mother’s name in a red heart. My mother’s only tattoo is a giant rose on her ass that spells my father’s name in the leaves. Yes, they are divorced.

My mother said early on in my life that she did not want me or my sister to get any tattoos or facial piercings. If we did get tattoos, they needed to be very easily hidden. When I was younger, I didn’t really have a desire for tattoos or piercings. I thought they were cool, but not for me. I did want to dye my hair, though, and my mother refused to let us do that either. As I entered middle school, I was exposed to emo culture, as are most young queer kids, and then I did want tattoos and piercings. I knew that as soon as I turned 18, I was gonna spend that day getting piercings and tattoos and dyeing my hair. That’s not what I did during my birthday, but a couple months after turning 18 I got my first facial piercing, and a couple months after that I ordered my first hand poke kit. At least I dyed my hair immediately.

If you’re familiar with tattoos, you know that hand poked tattoos are usually called stick and pokes. I personally say hand poke because of the stigma around “stick n pokes” and the fact that I did mine with an actual tattoo needle and tattoo ink, as opposed to the sewing needle and pen ink that most people think of when you say stick and poke. Nothing wrong with that, I personally am of the opinion that you can do whatever the hell you want with your body as long as you’re still advocating for others to do it as safely as they can. A lot of the tattoo artists I was learning from called it hand poked, or even hand pushed, and it stuck for me. I don’t care what others call it, but I think hand poked sounds cute and is more fitting for my personal process.

I had been learning about the tattooing process for years, but in the months following my 18th birthday I started learning more about the hand poke process as opposed to machine done tattoos. I saw hand poke as more approachable and accessible. I had known for years that some day I wanted to be a tattoo artist. After drawing on myself for years, developing my style, and drawing on anyone who would let me, I wanted to be able to do it permanently. I love the idea of providing people with little friends on their body that go with them everywhere. That’s exactly what I want in life! And I like creating, it’s the best thing for me to do.

I really wanted tattoos and the easiest way was for me to do it myself. I was a few hours away from my parents, in my own room I was paying rent for, with my partner and close friend in the rooms across the hall. I finally felt safe and grounded. I had my own space and I had the freedom to do what I wanted. Now was as good a time as any to try hand poke out.

I had decided that I wanted my first tattoo to be meaningful to me, and I didn’t care if the rest I got were. “Firsts” have always been important for me in my life. In September of 2021, I decided to tattoo “LET GO” on the top right of my right thigh, the words facing me. This, of course, has absolutely no meaning to me now, but at the time I thought this was a good reminder. I think it came out pretty damn good considering it was my first ever tattoo on skin.

My second tattoo was a creature I drew a long while ago, and I did it on the top right of my left shin, right below the knee. This was a horrible and painful decision, especially for my second tattoo ever. I did this tattoo the same day I did my first one, because the first one was so quick to do.

A little over a week later, I did my next tattoos. My third and fourth tattoos were also done the same day. An “X” on my left middle finger knuckle, something I’ve wanted for a while, and a little smiley face on the second knuckle of my left pointer finger.

I don’t know for sure why I did that fourth one, as I was never a huge fan of smiley faces. I just think I wanted another finger tattoo while I had the supplies out. I regretted it pretty quickly, but the very next day my sister came to visit me in the new city I moved to and she was wearing a smiley face ring on the same finger I had my tattoo on. So it was very much worth it for the sweet memory.

A little less than a week after those, I did a pretty ambitious tattoo, my fifth. About a four inch by four inch snail I drew with some of my signature, uh, squiggles? I don’t know what these are but I’ve been doing them forever. The ones I currently do in my drawings are a bit different, but this was an old drawing when I first started out with this style. Either way, it was a lot more than I could handle. I wanted the squiggles colored in and I had only done one pass through the whole thing, but I had already spent hours on it and I didn’t want to overwork my skin, so I decided to stop for the day and do it again after it healed. Long story story I developed chronic hives after this tattoo (not related) so it was left unfinished for a while. “A while” being two years. More about those hives in my “The First 20 Years” post if you’re interested. This is the only pic I have of that tattoo, so if looking at hives freaks you out, keep in mind I have mild hives in this picture.

I did a lot of research before tattooing myself. I bought a kit from a website that wasn’t Amazon, and I practiced on a lot of fake skin. I watched a lot of YouTube and Instagram videos by hand poke tattoo artists and read many articles. Yet when I did the tattoos, I still fucked up. It’s in the nature of the practice, when you’re first starting out. I was happy with what I did, though, and I was safe doing it, so that’s all that mattered. About a year passed by, and they faded pretty badly. The ink the kit came with wasn’t the greatest, and I definitely poked too shallow out of fear. I had a friend who expressed interest in stick and poke, and since I had a lot of supplies, I invited them over to use some and pretty much showed them how to hand poke. I wasn’t the best teacher considering the last time I had done it I barely knew what I was doing, but they knew it wasn’t going to turn out perfect and didn’t mind. I touched up my X on my middle finger while they did a smiley face on their middle finger. I just checked in with them a couple days ago, and about a year later, it still looks pretty good. Still quite dark, so clearly they poked deep enough. This time after my tattoo I actually did aftercare and treated it well. It was a good experience. We watched Adventure Time while doing it, and it’s a great memory for me. I think that’s what tattooing should be all about.

Why I’m Even Writing This

Last week, I was having a hard day. I was deep in relationship problems that I thought was going to end it, and leave me having to move two hours away from the city I call home, to move into my sister’s apartment with her and her boyfriend. That is, of course, better than being unhoused, but there were a number of reasons why this would be my last option. There were also a number of reasons why me being unhoused was a very real worry at the time if my relationship ended. This isn’t about that, though, so I digress.

The night prior, right as the relationship problem started, I had reached out to a friend to come pick me up and take me to their place. I can’t drive and I needed to get out of the apartment for a bit. We weren’t that close, never hung out outside of a group, but they were my only friend who lived near me and had their own place. We ended up talking about what was happening in my relationship, and as five hours passed, we talked about other things as well. Tattoos got brought up, as they inevitably do when I’m talking to, well, pretty much anyone.

This friend had a few tattoos on their arms. They had a stick and poke done with a sewing needle and pen ink that a friend did years and years ago, and a professionally done stick and poke with incredible detail. I say stick and poke because that’s the word they used. This is the first friend I have that has both hand poked tattoos and machine done tattoos, so I was pretty excited to ask about the difference, specifically with the pain. I don’t remember much of what they said because it was a week ago at this point and I had a lot on my mind, but some key things they said was that the hand poked ones hurt a lot less, and the machine done ones ended up feeling numb after a while because of all the buzzing.

I mentioned that eventually I want to be a tattoo artist, and it felt like they lit up. They said that they thought I would be a good one. I honestly think I give off tattoo artist wannabe vibes so it was very nice to hear someone else say it would fit me well. I said that I haven’t tattooed myself in a long time, at least a year at that point. I told them that what they said made me want to start up again, and now was as good a time as any considering I’m unemployed and quite literally have nothing better to do. Not to mention I really needed the distraction at the time. I said that I would spend the next day practicing or maybe even touching up one of my old tattoos that you can barely see now that it’s been two years since I’ve done them.

Without going into too much detail, the next day after talking with my friend, things got unimaginably worse. This was last Friday. I was experiencing thoughts of wanting to self harm, which was something that I hadn’t experienced in at least a month. The emotions I was feeling at the time were overwhelming. They were the kind of feelings that I knew self harm would immediately fix. Put me in control when I thought my whole existence was coming to an end. I thought that I had made my mind up while I was sitting in the bathroom having my second panic attack of the day. I don’t know what stopped me from doing it. Maybe it was because I was thinking about the therapy session I had that morning before everything went to shit. I had told my therapist that I was going to spend the day practicing tattooing while waiting for the inevitable conversation my partner and I would have to have. I didn’t expect the conversation to come so quickly after my session ended, which is one of the reasons I had such an extreme reaction. I guess I decided to go through with what I told her I was going to do, but now the urge had moved to tattooing myself instead of fake skin. Practice is practice, I suppose.

I got out my supplies and set everything up and decided to basically re-poke my second tattoo that was on my shin. I spent a few hours doing it while watching House M.D. and it made everything a lot better. Afterwards, I was writing everything that had happened the previous few days down for my next therapy appointment. I realized I had “urge to self harm” and “tattooed myself” in the same sentence. I was worried that it would come across like I had exchanged the razor for a tattoo needle in a way to cause myself harm. I decided to spend some time thinking about the difference in self tattooing and self harming for me and if they were related.

I looked online to see if people had written about a connection between self harm and tattoos. I wanted to hear others' thoughts, especially people in the mental health field. I, of course, found some people saying that body modifications were an extreme form of self harm or that body modifications were only done by people who were mentally ill. That’s definitely not what I was looking for. I found this article, though, which interested me. I decided to sit down and write through the process and intent of my self harm vs. my tattooing, and what the similarities were, if any.

The Difference Between My Self Harm and My Self Tattooing

I went through the feelings I have before, during, right after, and the following days after I self harm or tattoo.

Before I self harm, I look forward to it. I’m clear headed, sure, and confident. During it, my thoughts start to devolve. I get a little panicky and shaky, and no longer feel clear headed or confident. I try to make it quick. I do it without looking, and as fast and as much as possible. If it’s an especially painful one I pause for a second or so, usually let out a curse and try to calm myself with some quick rocking back and forth, then go back in before I lose my nerve and can’t continue any longer. Right after, I feel a lot of relief, and am nervous but smiley. Not happy, but I smile pretty much immediately. It’s not because I find it funny, either, but it has to do with the immense relief. I feel grounded again. I get rid of everything quickly, never clean myself up, and immediately go do something else. Then comes the shame. I used to be the kind of person to track my “clean” days, so every time I relapsed, there was deep sadness and frustration when it finally sinks in what I had done. The following days after I self harm, I will hit or slap the harmed area quickly when I experience something triggering or upsetting in any way. A hit of pain helps ground me and make me feel more in control, and reminds me of what I did to gain control. After a few days I can finally look at the area I harmed, and I look at it closely, running my fingers over it, and bringing it up to my face so it’s the only thing I can see and focus on. Self harm helps me in the moment, but immediately afterwards I feel so much worse. The days following, it helps me through other triggers, but instead of using my healthly coping mechanisms, I automatically re-injure myself.

Before I tattoo, I’m anxious but excited and prepared. During it, I am slow and careful and will look at the area I’m tattooing closely, taking my time with the piece until I feel like I’m done. I pause for a bit if there’s a lot of pain, and let myself take a rest and come back to it in a while if I need to. Right after, I’m happy and proud. I’m still learning tattooing, so it can be quite a hard and long process, but that just makes me more proud of myself for being able to do it. My focus is then on carefully wrapping up the tattoo and taking care of it, and then slowly putting everything away, being mindful of not hitting my tattoo accidentally. I spend time afterwards looking at it and appreciating my work. The following days after I tattoo myself, I am careful to not touch it, hit it, or scrape it. I leave the second skin on for a while, looking at it every so often, which makes me happy. After the second skin is off, I spend time taking care of it using tattoo ointment, then moisturizing when it’s ready, and am careful to not have any rough contact with it.

I realized that I don’t tattoo for the pain, but for the closeness it brings to my body. Tattooing myself is very grounding. I have to listen to my body and be aware of where my hand is and where I’m tattooing, how I’m stretching the skin, where the needle is going. It’s a ritual of caring for my body, in addition to putting something that makes me happy on my body using my own hand. The pain is just a byproduct of the tattoo, while the pain of self harm is one of the only things that matters.

Using Self Tattooing as a Substitute for Self Harm

The next morning when I had my therapy session, I brought this all up to my therapist. She made some great points that made me feel more secure in how I was feeling. She said that tattooing myself was a substitute for self harm. Pain is just a sensation, and it’s something that’s okay to endure or even seek out. Tattooing myself is a creative and regulated pain that doesn’t put me in harm's way or make me unsafe. Just because there is pain in an activity, doesn’t mean it’s a form of self harm. I have five facial piercings, which all hurt to get, but the purpose of getting them was to have cool metal in my face, which then connects me more to my body. Even people who do things like body suspension do it for reasons other than the pain. And if pain is the main reason why you’re doing something, I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing. Speaking as a masochist and a sadist, pain can be enjoyable in many different ways. There’s a difference between self harm and being hurt. Safety has a big part to play in it, as does listening to your body when it tells you to stop.

Because I wanted marks on my skin at all times, I would self harm constantly. With a tattoo, it’s a one and done deal. I do it and then it’s there forever. There’s no need to constantly keep it up, causing more pain and injury each time. The fact that I designed my tattoos myself aids in the grounding and “I am real” feeling that skin drawings have given me in my life. When I tattoo I am clear headed and not overly emotional. When self harming, I am very vulnerable and on edge. Each time I leave a mark it's different than the last, and I couldn’t care less about how deep I’m going. It’s a very dangerous process that I would do very often. I stopped tracking my clean days, but I know it’s been a while since I self harmed. Having tattoos to look at instead makes me a lot happier.

Closing Thoughts

As of writing this, I re-poked my shin tattoo nine days ago.

I redid my thigh tattoo two days ago, using my tattoo machine for the first time. My partner bought me my machine for our one year anniversary in October of 2021, and I’ve practiced with it a few times. I definitely should have done more research considering most of my tattoo knowledge came through hand poke and my previous knowledge of machine tattooing is quite a few years old and I don’t remember some of it. I had to look up a few things. I spent around three hours on it, but mostly because I took 10 minute breaks very frequently. I’m going to be honest, machine tattooing sucked. I felt I had less control and it was so so so much more painful than handpoke. I definitely want to make a different post talking about my experience with hand poke vs machine. I think I’m going to stick with hand poke for the most part. But long story short, I stopped halfway-ish through because I couldn’t handle the pain anymore and I was having trouble with the needle I was using. Fucking magnums. I’m going to let it heal and then handpoke the snail and finish the squiggles with, unfortunately, my tattoo machine.

Art has been incredibly beneficial to me for a large portion of my life. It has helped me through very rough times. Even now, when something has happened and my nervous system is dysregulated, I end up grabbing my iPad and making some vent art. It instantly makes me feel better and provides an outlet for anger, sadness, and any other emotion I might have. It also helps me to process my feelings. Art and body modifications are one of the most important things in my life, and they both have helped me to connect with myself, in general and also in my trans identity. I’m going to be saying this phrase a lot, as you have seen so far, so get ready; this is something that I want to write about more in depth at some point.

I’d say that’s all. This only took, I don’t know, a little less than a week to write. Finding the pictures and placing them here correctly was the hardest part. So far the two things I have written have been very long, a little over 5,000 words. Hopefully soon I can write something a bit more simple. And hopefully soon I can figure out how to end something without outright saying “the end.” Anyway. Thanks for reading!

The End :D

#trans #queer #body mods #body modifications #tattoos #piercings #personal essay #tw: self harm #self harm and tattoos #self harm and body mods #personal writing #queer body mods #queer tattoos

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commanderquinn · 10 months

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Good Space Chapter 1: Flower

! i dont! keep these posts! updated! like i do! ao3!

that means you're going to find typos and shit (and possibly minor detail changes) that don't match the ao3 version! that's because im not going to bother fixing the tumblr posts until i finish good space as a whole. im only uploading them here as a backup tbh

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master list / ao3 chapter link

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She’s the one good thing about trips to medical in the Avenger’s Tower.

Every other day, at her direct insistence, her lab is the only place in the entire wing that he’s willing to go to. It smells warm and safe, nothing like the antiseptic that makes him want to break a limb. For the first two weeks, he tries to tell her that she doesn’t have to do this. He’s been looking after the link from his arm to his brain for years. There’s never been a problem with it that he couldn’t handle, and he’ll come back if anything ever feels off. No matter how much Steve hovers, she doesn’t need to waste her time on this.

By the start of the third week, he can’t bring himself to suggest that anymore.

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psa: there’s some gross ass (sometimes detailed) nazi medical shit all through this fic, so if lobotomy talk of any kind is a no for you, skim over any brain talk. your best bet is just to skip the lab scenes where you can ❤️

fic title is a song by skrillex! we needed bouncy shit that vague hinted at plot. the chapter title is a moby song to lay out the v i b e s 👾 im always going to list these, so y’all have a song to listen to while reading

all i can think that needs to be said for canon clarity (ill make it all clear over time dw) is post-WS buckaroo got picked up by steve and sam to be taken for a shower and therapy. no civil war, no age of ultron. we're taking parts of it and doing other shit, you'll see. fury’s publicly alive and director again, shield got flushed out because mmmmm i said so i guess. no red room here. its not about nat, the lack of consent history hanging between them isnt something i want with this. i want to focus on other parts of their trauma bond. alsomaybeishipnatwithsomeoneinthis.

im sorry, but i never started wanda content on my end, and AI jarvis is comfy nostalgia i want to play in, so likely not a lot for her here. yes, we will be having shuri bully bucky, ofc, she’s the pin that holds this whole plot together (what else is new)

oh and i treat bucky’s arm as more of an atompunk feel rather than “the nazi’s had bleeding edge limb tech in ww2 that only affects bucky’s arm, definitely not anything else”

other than that, we’re firmly in good ‘ol stark tech magic and too many open wiki pages for all my plot device needs

also my grammar aint the good. i write these mf's in my spare time while baked af, you're gonna have to give a bitch a break babes 👾

—

Febuary 17th, 2018

"That's not what I'm asking about."

Tony throws up his hands from the other side of the conference table, then lets them smack back down against the polished surface dramatically. "Illuminate me then, Rogers. I'm running out of ways to explain that she's the best I've got to offer for this."

Steve pushes a hand through his hair with a frustrated huff. "I'm not a brain surgeon."

"No shit, that's what she's here for."

"I meant that I don't know what the fuck I'm looking at."

"Now I know you're worried if you're willing to," Tony clutches at the front of his shirt in mock horror, "swear in public." Pepper smacks his shoulder without even looking up from her tablet. The sight would make Steve smile under normal circumstances.

"You can hand me any resume you want, Tony. I'm telling you that I won't be able to see a difference. I know you're giving me a team who can do the work; I'm asking if they can do it while it's Bucky."

"Are you worried about his safety or theirs?" Pepper asks, finally looking over. Her tone isn't judgemental. If anything, it's veering towards the gentleness it has when she's talking Tony down.

"I'm not worried about theirs. I will be there every time. Even if he has a bad day, I'll make sure that—look. Nothing's going to happen. It's just...." Steve flips open the folder he's been carrying for a week. The edges of it are starting to wear down at this point. Sighing, he slides his summary notes to their side of the table. "He still doesn't... he doesn't talk about the previous escapes. No matter what his therapist tries. He just can't bring himself to do it. But it's not hard to get a clear picture of what used to happen. He does this every time. He builds himself a strong house, then a fallback point, and then he goes to work trying to fix all the damage alone, which he'll never be able to do. No one could. And there's not going to be a goon squad rolling in to drag him back anymore, so he's just going to—"

"Yeah, yeah, push him to help him; I grasped the concept the first hundred times," Tony cuts in. If he weren't so damn anxious, Steve might honestly feel bad about being so far up everyone's ass over this. "You've got me on board. So, what's the concern here? Will she quit the first time he bites her head off? That's a pretty chauvinist perspective, especially coming from you."

"She's had to put up with Tony long enough to befriend him; that should be proof enough." Pepper smiles as the nightmare himself points toward her in silent agreement.

Steve raises his hands amicably. "I'm not trying to insult anyone's professionalism. I'm sure she's had more than her fair share of problem patients to get where she is today. I'm... I'm more asking if—Christ. I'm sorry in advance, alright? But... Tony, I need you to look me in the eye and tell me that you'd have trusted her to get you home."

A stiff, all-consuming silence falls over the spare meeting room. Pepper and Steve waiting on bated breath; Tony frozen as he looks back at him with an expressionless face.

Steve despises himself for doing this to him. The knowledge of what happened in that cave is something the man is unimaginably protective over. It took years—and a night of blackout drinking on Tony's end—for the story to even slip out of him. Talking about Yinsen is the only time Steve's seen him cry that he can remember. It was just one overflow, barely even two tears that got scrubbed off his cheeks within the first minute, but it was there. It's the only way Steve knows to get his point across.

Tony looks down at the table and adjusts his posture. His head shifts and his lips purse in that signature move of his, the one that comes up when he's forced to be a person. With feelings. Pepper's arm moves, no doubt taking his hand under the table.

He looks back up, meeting Steve's eyes as his posture relaxes. "I wish they could have met. I think Yin would have gotten a kick out of her fashion taste. I think she'd have gotten an even bigger one out of putting him in it."

It's the most ringing endorsement he's ever heard the man give. More importantly, Steve knows just how much weight sits behind the guarded words.

—

"I've got their personnel files if you want them. They all volunteered them to you willingly."

"I'm alright."

"Do you want their names ahead of time?"

"No."

"Not even their first ones?"

"They can tell them to me."

"Okay."

"...."

"...What are they?"

"The ones that'll be behind the glass are Hannah and Wyatt." Of course Steve knows to start there, where his nerves will fixate the most. Asshole. "You probably won't even talk to the two of them today, but your main doctor for this will definitely offer to let you. Her name is Ava. She's going to check in with you for confirmation on a lot of things before she does them. I shadowed her for over a week, asshole. It's not about you; she does it for everyone."

Bucky grunts. "I wouldn't have jumped on her for it."

"No, you'd have sat there brooding like a petulant jackass instead, probably making her feel bad." Steve pauses for a long moment, fiddling with the paper coffee cup in his hands. "You should read Hannah's file, Buck."

"Why?" He shouldn't ask. He can hear the motive sitting in his best friend's voice. It's a fucking trap, and he fucking knows it, but he also can't stop himself.

"Her last name is Schuster."

He absolutely despises the way the situation makes his gut clench. They're dead. They're all dead, and the ones in their place have been declawed for much longer than he's been off ice. He's probably not even going to talk to the woman, at least not today. He might catch the sight of a name on a coat, however. Or on a chart.

He wanted to do this without letting old habits in. He wanted to at least start this feeling like a person, not a weapon. But he gets why the dickhead is trying to baby-step him into it.

Bucky holds out his hand. Steve silently passes him the tablet he keeps. Neither of them says a word as he reads the SHEILD file to himself, line by line. Taking in a stranger's entire professional life. Her family, her known associates, every residence she's ever held. It takes a moment of hovering his finger over the subfolder with her medical records to talk himself down from opening it. Nothing is lingering in those shadows; Steve wouldn't allow it. That's not a line he needs to cross anymore.

He hands it back when he's done. "The other two?"

"Nothing I could think of. Ava's seen your hard limit list—you remember I told you I was gonna give it to one of your—?"

"I remember. It's okay. That's why you have it."

"Yeah." Steve takes another long pause. "You remember that she knows—"

"I know."

"Good. The others don't. She says they don't need to for any of it, and it's never going on record again." He looks over out of the corner of his eye. "She's going to bring it up today."

"I had a hunch."

"I just wanted to make sure it didn't surprise you."

"I know."

"Good." Steve picks up his coffee to drain the last of it in one swig. He tosses the empty cup into a trashcan by the wall a few tables over before looking back at him. He extends his now-empty hand. "Ready?"

"Not in the fucking least." Bucky raises his hand to lock with his best friends momentarily. "Let's go."

There's no wing in this tower—and he's been through all of them by now—that he dislikes more than medical. The place makes his skin feel like a thousand goddamn spiders are crawling all over him, and the smell of it, fuck. It sits in his head like a fog while it burns up the inside of his nose, making him want to break anything touching any part of him. He'd make Steve be here with him no matter what; that's a given. But the fact that there's going to be a doctor poking at him today while he's trying to power through it all makes the guy's presence non-negotiable. Bucky needs the safety net for the good of everyone in that room.

Steve doesn't try for talking to distract him, mercifully enough. There are times when it helps. Today isn't going to be one of them. He doesn't even have to bring it up for Steve to know, and the reminder that he's understood helps his nerves. It's been an incredibly long time since he had an incident. He's proud of every last one of those days. He won't be upset with himself—well. He'll try not to be upset with himself if that streak ends. But he really, really wants that day not to be today.

Bucky treats it like a mission. He's braced and ready for the antiseptic when they first get through the entrance. He doesn't flinch or huff through his nose at the invasion, not even as they make their way to the specialized divisions. He's walked these hallways before; he's walked every single one in the tower. It was the only way he could get himself to sleep during his first week here. Aside from a few trips to the emergency intake, he hasn't had to force himself back.

He's definitely never bothered with meeting the specialists themselves. It took long enough to convince himself not to memorize the names of every staff member in the tower. He doesn't need to do that anymore. That's what his therapist and the Star Spangled Spandex keep insisting, anyways.

The door Steve goes for sticks out against the sleek hallway long before they reach it. It's painted, and not just a solid color; it's covered with a garden scene done by several different hands, going by the skill variation. Bucky runs his thumb over one of the hundreds of flowers as they walk past it to feel how thick the tiny acrylic mountains are. One of the petals cracks under the light pressure of the move, making him frown. The mural's not sealed at all, despite being long dried. Not the kind of thing maintenance usually overlooks.

An absolute shock of color hits Bucky's eyes when he gets his first look at the neurosurgeon's office. The walls he can spot from this side of the entryway are lined with tie-dye hanging cloths, and the floor is covered in fluffed-up, vibrant rugs. There's not a hint of SHIELD regulation left in the architecture, with all the walls that aren't glass holding even more heavy paint globs. Some of the murals are more flowers, but a majority of them are space themed.

The stench of antiseptic fades the farther into the room Bucky goes. By the time the door shuts behind him, it's entirely replaced with the warm aroma of apples and cinnamon. A long, curved desk is off to one corner, pushed against the glass wall overlooking the city and covered in picture frames. An arrangement of chairs piled with pillows matching the rest of the decor sits in the center. Each one of them is fucking massive.

The room itself is separated in half by a thick glass wall. He can spot two doctors sitting behind an array of equipment on the other, equally decorated side behind the glass. There isn't any creative paint in there from what he can spot. If it weren't for that, he could almost forget that he's standing in a medical lab.

Almost.

"Hi there," comes a voice to his right.

The woman it belongs to almost blends in with the office once Bucky turns his head to look at her. The lab coat that comes down to her knees is a solid blue rather than tye-dye, but it's covered in stitched designs. Most of them are shaped like bees. Bucky barely stops his eyebrows from raising at the sight of the outfit underneath. Loose cloth pants hanging low on her hips, with even more bees on them, and a hand-knit top that would have been called obscene during most of the decades he woke up in. The bun she's pulled her hair into must have been done this morning; more than a few bundles are hanging down haphazardly. Bucky hasn't met a lot of brain surgeons that he knows of, but he doesn't remember any of them having glasses as thick as hers. He's pretty sure that good vision is something most of them need for the job. Not that he's nervous.

She walks over with a warm smile, already extending a hand to him. She's a short, round little thing. Barely five feet, if his guess is accurate. It always is. "I'm Dr. Ryder. You can call me Ava. I'm told you're my newest patient."

He accepts the shake with a nod and tries not to think about how sweaty his hand might feel to her. Wiping it against his pants would have been too weird. "James."

"But you prefer Bucky, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. Ava," he corrects himself quickly.

"Oooh, someone's stepped on some toes in the new century." Her smile takes on a teasing edge. "I'm originally from Canada; you won't find me taking offense. Ingrained cultural manners are a bitch to hold back."

"Careful, they're the only manners he's got," Steve warns, already heading for one of the chairs.

"Ignore him. I'm house-trained," Bucky assures her. Taking his hand back, he hikes a thumb over his shoulder, needing something to stall with. "You sure you don't want someone to give your door a few clear coats? It'd be a shame to see all that work chip off."

Ava waves dismissively. "We redo it a lot; it's a relaxation project around here. It'll look different pretty soon." She points toward the glass wall separating the two halves of the office. "I've got the rest of the team working on a project to give us some space, but I can bring them in for a minute if you'd like to meet them?"

"I'm... I'm alright for now, thanks. I can meet them—whenever."

She doesn't insist further or comment on the blatant nerves in his voice. Her hand waves at the arranged chairs as she moves to sit in one. "Take your pick of the lineup, then. Typically I'd offer to take you to the corner of the roof that we've claimed for ourselves as an alternative. But, I need to keep you in environmental controls for sanitation, at least for the initial visit."

Bucky nods a few times as he sits in the one next to Steve's. His ass sinks nearly a foot into nothing but pillows, and his spine goes rigid. "Here's fine."

He'd have said no anyways, not that he'll mention that. Too many open sight lines with his anxiety on edge. He'll be revisiting the roof before his next appointment to familiarize himself, though, that's for sure. His last trip up there was long before she was even hired. The mental image of bead strings and tye-dye throw blankets on patio furniture flits through his head. If she decorates the same way everywhere, he's guessing it won't be all that hard to find the space.

Ava pulls up a tablet from the coffee table to rest in the middle of her folded legs. He's guessing she's into yoga in her spare time. One of her eyebrows arches at them in amusement. "You know, I've never actually seen someone fill one of these before now."

"The benefits of dosed living," Steve quips, his tone a little too positive. It makes Bucky's foot start to bounce silently against the floor on instinct.

If she notices, the doctor doesn't mention it as she focuses on Bucky. "Steve tells me you prefer when doctors keep things direct with you."

Bucky shifts his eyes over to the man in question, who busies himself with one of the pillows, picking at the hanging fringe. Fucker's going to be hearing about this later, that's for damn sure.

He looks back at Ava. Time to get it over with, he encourages himself. "Yeah, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. I know Steve's already told you, but I want you to hear it from my mouth. I have The Soldier's activation memorized."

He can't stop the gut instinct to swallow over hearing the words, but he nods. "I'm okay with it."

"It's not in any of my notes; it never will be. My team understands that there is a specific trigger in place; they need to in order to do their job. But they have no indication of what it is. I'll never write the words out or speak them where they can be picked up. Steve helped me with the pronunciation and the order when he first gave me your records, but you have my word that I won't be repeating them."

"You should," Bucky insists immediately. "If anything happens, you should, and you shouldn't hesitate about it."

"She knows, Buck," Steve assures him with a murmur. "I took her through the worst case drill. She's got a panic button on her."

"Steve tells me that my reaction time is fast enough for working on your case safely." Ava's head tilts to the side slightly. "Your comfort is the priority here. We can always run through a silent drill together if you'd like the reassurance."

He thinks about it. Honest to god, he lets himself sit in the idea of putting Steve's training to the test for more than a few moments. Neither of them push him for an answer. "I might take you up on that at some point."

She nods, the hair hanging closest to her face bouncing slightly. "Whenever you want. That offer is permanent. I'm taking this case on because I want to help undo what's been done; I'm not here to let it be continued, not even in research." Her eyes shift to Steve, with a bitter defiance building in them. "I trust that'll be clarified to the director if our work here ever reaches his ears, captain."

Steve nods, finally looking up from where he's moved on to picking at the pillow's stitches. "There's no more mud in that water. Fury understands how far over the line we went."

Ava doesn't look convinced in the least. Bucky doesn't blame her, not with the scattered memories of his role in all of it sitting in his head. When she looks back at him, the distrust leaves her eyes. "I'd like to get a better idea of what we'll be working with. I know that's probably going to be one of the most difficult parts of this, so we can try to get through it now if you'd like. Or we can wait until you're feeling more comfortable. It's entirely up to you."

Shifting slightly to straighten out his shoulders, Bucky nods. "I'm ready now."

It's an outright lie, but that doesn't really matter anymore. There's never going to be a time when he is ready. He still needs to do this.

"I'm going to need to adjust your head a few times today," she tells him with a relaxed, melodic tone as she stands up. She lifts a black briefcase from the coffee table and brings it over to rest on the arm of his chair, where he can easily see it being handled. "Is there anywhere you'd prefer me putting my hands? Or anywhere specific you want me to avoid?"

Bucky sees Steve shift his head slightly in his peripheral and wants to roll his eyes. Asshole. He'd have made a joke at the most; he wouldn't have been insulted. Probably. "I can't think of anywhere to steer you away from. You're good to do whatever you need to do."

She doesn't take him into the other section of the room like he thought she would. She doesn't even make him stand back up. All it takes to get the nightmare he's been dreading for years started is Ava pulling a wired, plastic wreath from the briefcase to put over the top of his head. She doesn't push a cold faceplate over his eye and against his temples; no bite guard gets shoved in his mouth. There's no frigid metal probing into the top of his neck to make his teeth buzz until he wants to rip them out of his jaw. The air around him isn't humid and suffocating like it was in that bunker. He can't hear the hum of electric coils or the squeak of leather boots on linoleum.

He's not in Siberia. He's in New York. This isn't a HYDRA agent strapping him down. This is a hippie, who definitely smoked pot this morning, putting a sensor on his head that barely has any weight.

"Here, hold this for me," she tells him from behind his chair, offering her tablet over his shoulder. He takes it silently, bringing it to rest in both hands. A digital scan of his brain is already being mapped out on the screen. It's the first time he's seen the anchor that wraps around his brainstem since the X-rays HYDRA used to leave up like trophies. "We can get a look at this thing together."

Bucky takes a deep breath in. It's… not a pretty sight. Whatever they put in him isn't registering in the bright blue lights of the rest of his brain. They're all dark spots, primarily lines branching out from the anchor that might as well be a black hole.

"You see that?" Ava leans forward to run her nail up the path of one of the lines. It starts at the anchor, and it's attached to another point further up, but that junction is the source of even more lines that go all over. There's a fucking mechanical spider web in his brain. "That's your motor cortex, and those links are tethered to your arm, starting there. That—the one right there—is what's making your cybernetics work."

"What's the rest of it?" There's a fucking lot of it, whatever it is. A lot more than he remembers being put in.

"Considering the intent of the Nazis that had you, the end goal was probably total control." Her finger moves, tapping several things that look way too fucking important as she keeps talking. "All of those there are connected to your essential functions: breathing, heart rate, consciousness. From there, they branched out into trying for control over your limbs. Jesus." She leans further over his shoulder and pinches at the screen to zoom in. "It looks like they were already building into your entire cognitive process."

"What does that mean?" Steve asks, worry rising in his tone.

"It means they were reckless on top of being cruel. And fucking stupid—pardon my French."

"You're talking to soldiers, doc," Bucky reminds her quietly, his brows drawn in as his eyes trace the black spots in his grey matter.

"Right. In that case, fuck every last one of them and the horses they rode... into whichever circle of hell they're burning in, I guess." Bucky's lips twitch slightly as she zooms back out. "They were venturing into parts of the brain that haven't been studied enough for human testing, even by today's standards. Blindly poking just to see what worked; my guess is because they knew that you could survive it. You see that big scary thing under your hippocampus?"

Bucky nods as she taps at the anchor. "Yeah. Yeah, that was… that was the first part. That got put in, I mean." He clears his throat when it starts to scratch. "I'm. I'm pretty sure it was the first part."

"Do you want to know why you don't feel sure?" she asks gently. Her voice has dropped to something much softer. It makes him sit back in the overly comfortable chair incrementally.

"Yeah," he tells her quietly, honestly. He wouldn't have a year ago.

Ava circles her finger around the center of his brain, where one of the more prominent lines from the anchor holds several thinner, black branches. "That's your limbic system. It controls emotion, memory, behavioral habits, that kind of thing. They fried it at some point trying to get to your memories, I assume. My team has the photograph from your HYDRA file, the one with the X-ray from your initial brain surgery. I've studied it with my own eyes. That serum in your bloodstream is the only thing that brought you back from being a vegetable. The salvaged notes from the initial facility they kept you in mention months of unresponsiveness and varying levels of brain activity.

"There's a reason you can't remember who you were then, Bucky. They wiped you clean because they knew you, out of all their test subjects, could recover from it. There wasn't enough left of your mind to hold memories, much less any kind of higher will." He hears her clothes shuffle behind him and sees Steve turn his head to look back at her from the corner of his eye. "I'm more than willing to testify to that in any court on Earth, captain. So we're clear."

"Understood," Steve replies, his voice thick. "I appreciate that."

Fuck, so does Bucky. Too bad he can't get his throat to open back up at the moment.

"Now, let's talk about the hard part." He hears Ava sigh. "From what I can see, there's no way we can remove any of this. Not by any standard that I'm willing to entertain, at least."

Bucky shakes his head and tries clearing his throat again. It doesn't feel anywhere near as successful this time around. "That's fine. I don't—I don't think I'd… I wouldn't be ready for that. I just want to know it's not…."

"Capable of being controlled remotely?" she offers when he trails off.

"Yeah. Aside from the code. I don't—that's not a problem. They're dead. Anyone else that had it, I mean." Christ, his foot's going to bounce straight out of his boot, right through the leather.

"I can't make any kind of assurances at this stage when it comes to that. But you have my word that it will be my team's primary focus." Her hand pulls back, and he feels four of her fingertips lightly rest on his shoulder. "I'd prefer to check that connection point they left over your spinal cord before you leave today, but the rest of what we need for diagnostics can wait until another time."

Bucky pulls in a heavy breath through his nose. "Yeah. I'm ready to do that."

"I need to get a few things for it and check in with my team." She taps at the side of the wreath lightly. "You don't have to keep looking at the scan, but you should leave this on while I'm gone so we can get some basic readings."

"You're the boss, doc." He tries not to make it look like he's in a hurry to get the thing out of his hand when he dumps the tablet on his leg.

"I'll be back in just a bit," she tells them, calmly shuffling off into the other half of the office. The glass door hisses loudly as she goes through it, confirming it's a sterile lab. The wall frosts over shortly after with the privacy screen activating.

Neither of them says a word for the first few minutes.

"Well," Steve finally offers up, his voice still as thick as when he thanked the doctor. "There's the confirmation you've been waiting for."

"That's not what that was—"

"Alright, you know what? Fuck you very much, Buck—"

"Fuck me? Fuck me? Yeah, I guess that's how it works now, what with you making alll the fucking calls—"

Steve's finger comes sailing into his face. "This affects more than just—" He stops with a short, muted groan and yanks his hand back to shove through his hair. After a moment, he lets it fall to his thigh in a clenched fist. "You want to sit here blaming yourself for it all, fine. I've got no right to tell you to stop when I'm still doing the exact same thing. But I'm pulling you through this whether," his voice goes high and mocking as he turns to glare a hole into the side of Bucky's head, "yooou like it or not. I let you fall once; I'm not fucking doing it again, asshole."

Bucky stares down a lava lamp sitting on the coffee table for a long, silent moment, his face pinched. He counts the number of wiggling blobs floating from the top to the bottom. He takes in their shared color and picks as close to a stupid paint name for it as possible. One by one, his photographic memory goes down the list of stupid colors from that stupid swatch wall at the stupid art supply store that Steve takes him to when he can't sleep at three in fucking the morning. He decides on fuchsia because it sounds extra stupid. There're twelve in total, they're fuchsia, and his best friend is as stupid as the name of their color.

The anger eventually eases up. "You're the asshole."

Steve sits back in his chair with a sigh. "Love you, too."

It takes a long minute of grinding his teeth for Bucky to force out the question that won't stop echoing in his head. "She doesn't know about the others?"

"She knows there were other attempts, but no, I didn't tell her any of them were successful. I left my notes in her file on what's been held back from her, along with the things she knows that her team doesn't. You can tell her whatever you want; that's up to you. I really think you should read through all of their files."

"Yeah?" Bucky snaps mockingly. "I really think you should kiss my ass."

Steve reaches out to grab one of the magazines from a stack on the coffee table. His posture is resigned and absolutely screaming I know better than you right now, idiot. "You should grow the fuck up."

—

There's no way the notes from HYDRA cover all his surgeries, not with this much framework built up inside his brain.

Steve warned her to expect something like this. The bastards passed Bucky around like a science experiment over the decades. Whenever a station was compromised, all of its records were destroyed to safeguard HYDRA's critical secrets, the work and confirmed existence of the Winter Soldier being one of them. Only a handful were raided by SHEILD efficiently enough to prevent further loss of his medical history. What remains is the scattered works of solitary minds spanned across decades.

In Ava's opinion, not one of those minds should have been granted the mercy of seeing daylight again after their senseless, abhorrent, despicable crimes against the sergeant. Never in her life has she been a violent woman, but given a blunt object and five minutes with the lot of them, she'd have been very tempted to rebalance nature with ruthless gusto.

A hand nudges at her arm, pulling her from her distraction with a quick inhale. "Sorry, repeat that?"

Wyatt's eyebrows pull in sympathetically. "Y'can hand this part off to one of us, boss."

"You can hand it off to him," Hannah interrupts briskly, her eyes never moving from where they're pressed against a microscope.

"Y'can hand it off to me," Wyatt rapidly corrects with a warm smile. He drums his stylus against his arm and leans against the lab's center console. The movable hologram program Tony gifted them is already building detail into one of the darkest acts in human history. Right there, in front of one of the most gentle souls Ava's ever met. The contrast makes her stomach drop. "I mean it; y'know me, I got a real sweet touch. Betch'a the sergeant wouldn't even know I'd been there til it was over."

"Don't make me say it, Combs." Hannah almost sounds bored. The former marine is in a good mood today.

Wyatt doesn't even bother with throwing a quip back at her. He's usually wise enough to know when he's in a losing battle. Reaching out, he gives Ava's shoulder a supportive bump. "You said so yourself; he's alright with meetin' us."

Ava shakes her head, bringing her hand up to rub at the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are stinging hard enough to make them water. She shouldn't have pulled an all-nighter before this; it definitely isn't helping her frustration. "He's okay with it; that doesn't mean he's ready for it. You should see the way he's practically vibrating in that chair. There's not one part of this he isn't forcing himself through. I want to try to limit contact until he feels like he's in control of the space around him."

"That won't take long," Hannah comments quietly, reaching for another slide. "There are certain habits infiltrators don't lose."

"Speakin' from your own experience on that one?" Wyatt asks, curiosity creeping into his tone. Their eternal beacon of southern sunshine has yet to give up chasing details about her, unlike everyone else who visits their little medical corner.

"Infiltrator is not the classification I would have given myself. I was never very subtle in my old line of work."

"Yeah, 'cause subtle's definitely the word I'd pick for your blunt ass now." Wyatt rolls his eyes and extends his hand to rapidly spin the projection of Bucky's brain with the flick of a stubby finger. "Either'a you looked at these trenches much yet? There's different cablin' in every major section. None of it's got a set standard, far as I can tell."

"I don't think he ever had the same doctor for more than two surgeries." Ava leans heavily against the console with a sigh, trying not to let herself venture into the mindset of a terrified soldier. She has to stay detached, or this will eat her alive before they're even halfway done. The enlarged hologram already hurts to look at in more ways than one. "Steve confirmed that HYDRA intermittently lost sections of his records through the years. All of this could be fractured by the decades; we won't know until Paige starts getting a read on the programming behind that main port."

"How do you want us to handle data transfer?" Hannah asks.

"Let's keep this off our internal server as much as we can help it. Tony sectioned off a virtual instance that we can burn when needed, but the only time you should be using that is for his scans. Put everything else on an isolated hard copy here in the lab, wherever you can do it without hindering the work. I want the equipment analysis kept as off-record as possible. I don't want this being recreated. By anyone."

"Definitely agreein' with you on that one, boss." Wyatt pokes his finger into the projection's left frontal lobe, halting its slowing spin. "I know we said extraction ain't the goal here, but I'm gonna be runnin' some sims on that when I've got the time. I don't like the idea of leavin' any'a this shit in, even if we do get it identified and nuked."

Ava nods and reaches up to give his shoulder a warm squeeze. "Let me know what initial paths you route; we can build from there. I doubt he'll be ready for any extensive work for years to come, but the least we can do is present him with some options." She takes a deep breath through her nose as she looks over the port connection on the hologram. "Alright, I'll be back after I finish his consultation."

"Good luck, boss," Wyatt encourages with a smile. "Tell the sergeant we said hi."

She waves her hand over her shoulder with a hum and braces herself to face her latest patient again.

The sergeant himself is sitting just as stiffly as he was when she left, but the captain has moved on to relaxing with a magazine in his hands. They both look up at the sound of the door opening, with a laid-back smile on Steve's face and a forced one on Bucky's. She almost wants to tell him that he doesn't have to make an attempt.

"Sorry for the wait; needed a quick check-in with the brain trust." And to not want to throw something heavy through Tony's fancy glass walls. "They wanted me to pass along their hello's. Dr. Combs, in particular, is very excited to meet you."

Bucky huffs a silent laugh through his nose as she returns to stand at the side of his chair. She doesn't try to move behind him for the moment. "Yeah, I'm sure I'm real—"

"Buck," Steve cuts in softly with a side eye in his best friend's direction.

"Fascinating?" Bucky's eyes lift to Ava's at her teasing guess, and his responding nod is sheepish. She smiles at the attempted manners. "Your case is as interesting as it is horrific, that's for sure. Lucky for you, we're a morbid bunch, so you can go for the gallows humor whenever you want." She taps at Bucky's arm with the pad of her index finger, trying to warm him up to repeat physical contact. "However, I'm pretty sure Wyatt is looking forward to asking for your autograph above everything."

The sergeant's eyebrows rocket toward his hairline. "What's he looking for? Love, The Winter Soldier?"

"Bucky." Steve doesn't even look over this time; he just drops one side of the magazine to pinch the bridge of his nose.

The sight of an exasperated Captain America sitting in her office makes Ava snort loudly. She doesn't miss the way it makes Bucky's lips raise at the corners. "He comes from a long line of history buffs who believe accurate preservation is the best tool to prevent it from repeating. The guy grew up with battle models and field testimonials from every major war. I'm guessing he had some Howling Commando envy as a kid, though he won't own up to that on his end."

"He knows I was one of them for all of five minutes, right?"

"None of us were Howlies for long," Steve forcefully insists, one foot coming over to kick Buckys. "But that doesn't change the good we did while we were."

"It also won't stop him from chewing your ear off about it if you let him." Ava crosses her arms over her chest in amusement. "My advice is to stop him early. Definitely before he starts asking what you remember about the maps. You've got a real Milo Thatch working on your brain now." Bucky looks up at her in confusion. "Haven't gotten around to Disney movies yet? Milo's a character from Atlantis, one of my personal favorites. He and Wyatt share a certain level of academic excitement."

"I'll add it to the watch list." A small smile comes up, making her wonder what his cheeks look like when he really lets it go. "And keep the point of no return in mind."

She stops herself from gushing about the beauty of the art behind the movie, wanting to honor his headfirst approach. "You ready to get the last part of today's visit over with?"

His shoulders rise with another resigned intake, making her want to be ferociously violent toward the closest available Nazi. "I'm ready when you are, doc."

"My go-to hardware specialist built a prototype connector based on the scans Tony got during your initial intake. It's only the first iteration for the sake of data extraction, so be sure to speak up if anything feels off. Anything at all, even if it's just minor discomfort. She can work on changing it for the next build. I'm sure Steve can attest to Paige's efficiency at her job by now."

The slightest hint of a blush comes over the captain's cheeks at the teasing mention of his numerous visits to the engineering department. "Ms. Findley—"

"Does she ask you to call her that?" Bucky jumps on his best friend with immediately. Ava would feel bad about chumming the waters, but the banter is making him relax against the chair.

Steve shuts his mouth momentarily. The blush gets a shade darker before he opens it again. "Paige is a very dedicated worker. And a lovely conversationalist. How do you two know each other? Through Tony?"

Now Ava really does feel bad. She puts a hand on her hip and tries to keep her smile from growing. "No, I'm the one who introduced them. She's been my best friend for about fifteen years now."

Steve freezes, and Bucky's grin takes over the lower half of his face. The sergeant sits all the way back, with shoulders that are perfectly at ease. "Oh, good. If I think of anything later, I can just have Stevie drop it off for me. I'd hate to forget between appointments."

Ava pulls the wireless reader and its port connector from the briefcase on Bucky's chair. She steps up behind him and tries not to let her eyes linger on how his smile lights up his face or how it warms her chest to see. Her free hand comes to rest on his left shoulder, leaving the exit door in his right peripherals. "This shouldn't take more than a few minutes at most. Ready?"

"Hit me." It almost doesn't sound forced.

She lifts his hair and runs her thumb over the port once to brace him for the new sensations before lining up the connector. As she'd explicitly requested of Paige, the mechanism doesn't snap into place when she locks it in, meaning there's no responding vibration to move through his skull. The notes from Bucky's therapist that were passed along didn't mention it, but they hardly mention anything at all. There's a lot he's holding back, there has to be, and she's been trying to preempt as much of it as she can.

Bucky's nails dig into the arm of the chair, and he inhales sharply. After a moment, his fingers start to relax one by one. Ava watches them all, her eyes moving between his hands and neck repeatedly, while the reader begins its data harvest. She gives him long enough to get a few steady breaths in.

"Have you started any animated movie binges?" she prods, wanting to stall for time to get a closer look at his implant. With him letting her hold up his hair like this, it might be her only chance for the foreseeable future.

"Sam's gotten me to sit through a few of his picks," he replies tensely.

"Mmm. I'm guessing Mister Feathers is a Pixar fan."

"I know that's an animation studio, but that's the extent of my expertise on the subject. Are they the ones who made Lilo and Stitch?"

"He did not make you watch that one first."

"He did, but that's technically not my first animated movie. We had them back in the 30s, you know."

"Some of us still call it animation's golden age," Steve mutters in the most crotchety old artist fashion, his eyes back on the magazine in his lap.

"Take a look around this room, Rogers," Ava sasses. "Do I look like someone who'd argue with you about its significance?"

"Point taken."

Her eyebrows pull in while she looks over just how much of Bucky's spinal cord is exposed to outside influence. She knows how far the port runs thanks to the scans, but now she's getting an eyeful of movable hatching and flesh that will never get the proper chance to heal.

"How are you handling the daily care of this?" she asks, running her finger around one edge of the port.

"I do it," Bucky tells her simply.

Her eyes lock on the back of his head in disbelief. "You do… what, exactly?"

"I've got a morning routine for it. Clear the excess buildup, sterilize the whole area, work the skin, that kind of thing."

"You understand that this has direct access to your brainstem, right?"

"I know." He shifts his weight in the chair. "I'm careful."

"I have several medical degrees, one of which is entirely focused on the human brain, and even I would hesitate to approach this on my own body. If anything that can give you so much as a hundred-degree fever touches this, you're dead, Bucky." She lets the hand not holding up his hair come to rest on his shoulder. "I'm not trying to scare you with this, but as your doctor, I need to make sure you understand the severity here. I don't want you doing this yourself anymore; I want you to come to my office for it."

"That's not necessary—"

"What time do you want him here in the mornings?" Steve asks, ignoring Bucky entirely.

"I don't need to come here in the mornings—"

"It doesn't have to be every morning," Ava offers, wanting to give him a compromise. She's definitely not letting him go back to doing it himself. "I can set up a stable cleaning routine every other day whenever you have the time to come in."

"I have it handled, really—"

"I wouldn't push it past three days, though."

"Every other morning," Steve agrees. "That's perfect. JARVIS can keep an eye on the schedules for him."

"I've got working fucking eyeballs," Bucky almost shouts, making Ava and Steve finally let up.

She squeezes her hand on his shoulder, half in apology, half in sympathy. "Yes, you do. But they happen to be in the front of your head. My eyes can see the back of your neck without a mirror, and they've got a decade's worth of disgustingly thorough medical training behind them. You came here because you're ready for this to get done. Now you actually have to let me do it."

Bucky lifts a hand as if he's about to argue but then lowers it with a soft sigh. "Yeah... yeah, alright. But I'm not always going to be here in the mornings—"

"She said it doesn't have to be the mornings," Steve cuts in again.

"You know what I mean, jackass. I'm not always going to be here consistently. I have, you know, a job that you try to boss me around on—"

"We can make sure you've got a trained medic to help—"

"No, Grant."

The words are said softly, and it takes a moment for Ava to even remember that it's the captain's middle name, but something happens in the wake of them. Steve's relentless push stops on a dime, and the fight leaves Bucky's shoulders. The two of them relax marginally, and Steve nods once. "Okay. So, we establish the routine here. Get it ironed out; get you practiced with it. Then I'll clear you for doing it yourself on missions. But if you miss even one while you're here, so help me—"

"I got it, I got it."

Steve watches Bucky with a tightly held expression for another long moment. Then he looks up at Ava with a nod. "He'll be here, and I'll make sure he's not cleared for another mission until you two have a stable routine for taking care of this."

Ava gives Bucky's shoulder another light squeeze. "I promise it'll be quick every time. I'll work with Paige on making you a field kit. In the long run, this shouldn't interrupt your normal day-to-day much at all."

"Appreciate the effort, doc." Bucky gives a soft grunt. "Sorry for the. Y'know. Pushback."

"I think the world owes you a little more than patience as backpay, Sergeant. I'm happy to help where I can."

—

Febuary 19th 2018

"I can handle it if you want me to."

"No. No, I... I can do it."

"You're sure?"

"You think I can't?"

"I think you look like you're about to throw up on my shoes."

"I don't like the idea of... starting off like that."

"That's why I'm offering to do it."

"No. It should be me. There are things you won't be able to explain."

"You can always fill in the blanks when she shows up for Soldat training."

"What a great alternative first impression! Hello, ma'am, not only am I a complete jackass, but I also delegate my role as—"

"You're not delegating; you're assigning the right person to the job. And this takes away the need for you to be a jackass."

"Leaving you to be a confrontational bitch in someone's eyes?"

"What's the issue there?"

"That's not what you are, Nat."

"Says who?"

Steve reaches out to smack the side of her arm. "That's one of my closest friends you're ragging on."

"She can take it." Natasha looks over at him, a bored hike to one brow. "Let's stay focused on what the doctor can take. This won't be like the therapists. We can't put him through multiple doctors on this. We'll only get one or two tries before he draws the hard limit."

He nods, turning his eyes back to the closed elevator doors. "Right. Right, it's for a good reason. I can do it."

"You don't have to. I can handle it."

"I know. But it should be me." He knocks the side of his boot against hers. "Thank you."

"Always. Let me know how it goes."

Natasha's off the elevator before the doors are even finished opening, leaving Steve to collect himself alone. He pushes off the back railing with a heavy sigh. No part of this is going to be easy to stomach. He's accepted that. He exits the elevator with a resigned set to his shoulders.

The medical wing is dark this late into the day. JARVIS already confirmed that the doctor is still in the building. From the AI's reports, she pulls late nights like this regularly. It bodes well for what he'll have to ask of her and her team.

He stops to admire the heavy paint on the outside of the lab's door. There's days worth of work here, clearly a labor of love. It takes until he's admiring the fourth flower of his perusal to notice that it's not all the same artist. He scans it a bit quicker after that, trying to take a guess as to how many different hands took part. His best guess is four.

Accepting that he's been inadvertently stalling, Steve pushes it open roughly. He probably should have expected the onslaught of color in the room from seeing the door. It still hits him hard enough to make him do a double-take through his exaggerated annoyance. The doctor sitting on the other side of a very large desk nearly jumps out of her chair.

"Christ Al-fucking-mighty," she swears, one hand coming up to brace against her chest. Steve gets nailed with a furious glare. "Knock much?"

Well, that's one test passed. "Are you Dr. Ryder?"

"I am. Who the hell wants to—oh." Recognition dawns on her face as Steve gets close enough to be illuminated by her desk light. The fury in her shifts toward indignance. "I happen to hold a lot of respect for you, at least during normal business hours. So, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt here and let you have a moment to explain yourself, captain."

He almost starts with an apology, but he catches himself in time. "I've been told you're one of the best neurosurgeons we're in contact with—"

"No, you've been told I am the best." She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair. Her head inclines toward him. "You can continue."

Steve's reservations about her being able to handle Bucky are leaving rapidly. It almost makes him smile. He holds it together with his best captain voice. "I need your expertise on a consultation. A private consultation. Completely off SHEILD books."

"Am I being roped into the organization's second overhaul?" There's bitterness lingering in her tone. The kind Steve remembers feeling on his own end for months leading up to Fury's near-assassination.

"No. When I say private, I mean private. This isn't under SHIELD purview. I'll be expecting discretion if you think you're up to the case, so we're clear."

The doctor's eyebrows sail up, and her head moves back far enough to hit her chair. "I'll be expecting you to hand over some details before I agree to a damn thing. As a follow-up, you can provide me with an explanation as to why this needed to be done an hour before midnight, with no forewarning and definitely no respect. Otherwise, you can turn your happy ass back around and go find the other neurosurgeons you didn't feel like harassing first."

Damn. He really should have gotten Natasha to do this; she's faster with proper comebacks. "You'll be given information as you need to know it. First, I need to make sure that—"

"First, you can fuck off." Her head shifts to one side as he pauses. "I don't respond well to authority, captain. I'm sure whatever's going on is very important if it's got America's Sweetheart making an ass of himself in the middle of my office on a Monday night. But that's not really my problem. It could be, were I given a reason to care about it."

"Does rectifying war crimes warrant your valuable attention, doctor?" The words feel awful leaving his mouth; she doesn't deserve to get barked at like this. But he needs an honest indication of how she'll react to a bad day.

Ava watches him with a slightly open mouth for more than a few tense moments. Then recognition dawns for a second time, and her eyes roll dramatically. "Oh, for god's sweet sake. You could have just asked if I have experience with PTSD patients. Hell, you were clearly sent by Tony, and I met the man at a veteran's benefit, so you could have asked him. Barnes' presence on the Avenger's roster isn't exactly a secret these days."

Steve holds himself still, then shifts his weight to one foot. "You met at a veteran's benefit?"

She nods slowly, with a bit of mockery behind the motion. "Yes. Almost a decade ago. He funds most of my work with the VA."

That hadn't been included in her resume. He didn't want to invade her privacy by pulling her file until she agreed to it. Steve feels heat rise to his cheeks. Then the anger starts to surface. "You know, I'm not one hundred percent sure I was supposed to know that."

"You think?" The words are bone dry, and her posture is still defensive, but there's a smile working its way up from the corners of her lips.

"Look, I...." Steve raises a hand to the back of his neck sheepishly. "I apologize. I promise it's not about doubting your professionalism—"

"It's about protecting family, yeah, I get it." Her arms don't unfold from her chest. But her eyebrows do come back down.

"He's very important to me. I want to make sure he's in good hands, that's all."

"Well?"

Steve's brows draw in. "I wasn't trying to dump the case on you right now—"

"No, idiot." Her eyes roll again, with much less aggression. "I'm asking if I passed."

"Oh." He nods, his cheeks still feeling far too hot. "With flying colors, so far. There's still a lot more to cover before we get Bucky involved, but. Yes, ma'am. I think you'll handle him just fine."

With a sigh, her arms finally lower. She extends a hand out in his direction. "Ava Ryder. It's very nice to meet you, Captain Rogers."

He takes her hand with a firm shake, inclining his head apologetically. "It's very nice to meet you, as well, doctor. You can call me Steve."

"You can call me Ava. So can James whenever I'm finally graced with his presence."

Yeah. She'll do just fine. "He prefers Bucky. And I'm sure he'll provide you with a much more agreeable first impression. All that can wait until you don't look like you're going to fall asleep on your keyboard, though.

Ava smiles warmly at him, falling back against her chair as she takes back her hand. "I'm looking forward to it. You can send me the details on the case at a reasonable hour to make up for scaring the shit out of me."

"Yes, ma'am." He tips his head respectfully, already backing up from her desk. "Sorry for the scare. And for being so disrespectful. He really is—"

"Important to you." She waves her hand dismissively before reaching up to push at her glasses. "I get it, don't worry. I'd be twice as much of a wreck in your shoes. You're doing fine."

Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, there are benefits to having the worst moments of his life in the history books. "I appreciate that, thank you. You have a good rest of your night, ma'am. I'll send—I'll have JARVIS send you his file—"

"Captain Rogers is unaware of how to forward SHEILD files, doctor," the AI cuts in gleefully.

"I had my suspicions, JARVIS; thanks." She waves her hand again, this time in goodbye, as she looks back at her computer screen. "Please don't trip on my carpet and bust your ass on the way out of my office."

Steve pointedly turns on his heel, glad for the excuse to hide his burning face. He all but races to the door. "I'll be in contact, doc."

"Mhmm."

When he pulls open the painted door, he's almost unsurprised to find Natasha leaning against the other side of the hallway. She doesn't move at all, but one side of her mouth lifts in a smirk.

Steve lets the door shut softly behind him before cocking his head to the side. "Very cute. You two in on it together?"

"No, but sniffing out Tony's bait didn't take long. You'd have noticed, too, if you weren't so far up Bucky's ass." Her head tilts in the opposite direction as his. "Feel better?"

He straightens up with a nod. The motion feels confident. "Much."

—author's end notes, yoinked straight from ao3—

“what’s paige like?” well. to put it simply. she is every last ounce of karma that steve has earned by lovingly terrorizing his best friend 😌

i feel like the overall theme got covered enough with this to tell if the plot is for you or not. flirting starts next, but isn't super blatant until chap 4. i am in zero rush and will have no problem with dedicating an entire chap to cuddling tbh, this is a comfort project im in for the long haul. check back later for * to get full smut taste, current (possibly changing) map has it in chap 9. OR you can check back for kinktober, i have all 31 days outlined for these idiots. i need starfield to be good so i can do smut for that too, bethesda pls

keep in mind this will get sci-fi weird at times, and loosely ref/revolve around greek myth tropes bc iiiii like ‘em ❤️ im a fandom ancient who takes no issue with cleaning out the dickhead comments 😌 also i might edit shit. im still not clear on what ao3 will email about a bookmark (god willing its not edits that dont include a new chapter) but just in case i figured id warn for anyone who doesn't want email spam

im gonna try to keep ava and paige as vague as possible, aside from a few scattered physical details so i have SOMETHING to write. my favorite bucky fic in existence is a reader!fic (safe with me is Ungodly levels of good, and i dont just say that as a fellow west wing addict. i constantly forget that his apartment in it isn't actually canon and there're no m&ms hiding for eternity somewhere) so you wont get any judgment from me on replacing both of them right down to their names, that’s how im writing them!! it just feels unfair to tag it a reader fic with them being given SUCH a heavy “presence" i guess

main pov's (the undated ones) will always flip between bucky and ava. the dated ones are other characters pov's OOOOOOR its a flashback in which case it could be the two of them, but ill always try to make it clear whose headspace is focused up front, so i dont think ive set up a hurdle there

thanks for reading ❤️ i love and appreciate feedback immensely ❤️ feeds the brain chemicals 😌 no worries abt spoilers, i feel like anyone looking there knows what theyre risking lmao

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #chapter update #man the way thats going to be the extend of effort i have when it comes to promoing this damn thing #truly astonishing how little fandom energy i have lmao #i sure as shit aint taggin the other ones with anything but my sorting tags lmao #i do not have the Energy #good space

0 notes

ilici · 3 years

Text

bfb.

Summary: You grew up with Dream and Drista your whole life, but as you got older you soon realized your feelings towards Dream. (You are 19 in this and the reader is female for the plot)

MINORS DNI

Warnings: oral fixation, dumbification, choking

Word Count: 2234

Sighing, Y/N looked at Drista then towards her tv, “Hey Drista?” Y/N asked, gaining Drista’s attention.”Yeah Y/N?” She asked, looking over at her best friend, “Does it bother you that your best friend is like 6 years older than you?” They asked, and Drista frowned once she heard the words. “No I like it a lot, I grew up with you and saw you as an older sister to me. You are always there for me, and you can even pick me up early from school so that’s a bonus.” Drista laughed as the last part left her mouth, which caused Y/N to softly punch her arm. “Can I ask you something and you not laugh at me?” Y/N asked, and Drista made a noise, shifting around so that they could face one another.

Y/N took in a deep breath, and looked at the younger girl, “I've known you and Dream all my life, but around the age of 17 I started to realize my feelings for Dream were a bit different.” She explained, stumbling over her words a bit scared of how Drista would react. “I know, I can tell by the way you look at him.” Drista explained, which made Y/N relax a bit, “Is it that obvious?” She asked worriedly, and Drista shrugged, “Maybe to me, but boys tend to be oblivious.” Once the words left her mouth, Drista gasped, “This is like that episode of Victorious!” She said excitedly, and Y/N furrowed her eyebrows throwing her a confused look. “You know the song BFB?”

Y/N slowly nodded her head, and Drista groaned, “You’re about as dumb as a pig.” She complained, “BFB means best friends brother.” She said, making exaggerated hand movements. “Oh yeah.” Y/N laughed, and softly pushed Drista, “I swear you are a nerd.” She said, causing the younger to giggle. Shaking her head, she got up, “You have school tomorrow, so you need to sleep. It’s two hours past your bedtime. Your mom would kill me for letting you stay awake this late.” Y/N said, and Drista pouted, “Fine.” She said giving up, “I’m going to go take a shower, and I’ll be back. I will try not to wake you if you are asleep by the time I get back.”

Nodding her head, Drista switched the movie over to Princess and the Frog, turning her lamp off on her bedside table. Y/N walked over and grabbed a pair of clothes from her closet as she practically lived there. Walking out, she mumbled a ‘goodnight’ to Drista as she turned around she slowly made her way to the bathroom. Putting her clothes in the bathroom, she walked downstairs into the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Thirsty?” A voice spoke up making Y/N yelp and jump. “Holy shit Dream. You scared me you dick head.” She mumbled shoving him, as he was leaning against the counter. “Why were you even standing in the dark you weirdo.” Y/N said, getting a glass cup, getting some water.

Dream watched her movements, and he shrugged to himself, “I have this kitchen memorized like the back of my hand. There’s no need to turn on the light.” He explained, and Y/N was now facing the sink, finishing up her glass of water. “I suppose that’s true.” She said nodding her head, pouring the rest of the remaining water out and put the glass in the sink. As she was about to turn around, she felt his body against her backside. Gulping she kept her eyes glued to the window where she could somewhat see their reflection. “Don’t you want somebody to love?” He whispered, moving Y/N hair over her shoulder as he wrapped his fingers around her throat.

Freezing, Y/N felt herself melt at the gesture, her eyes locked with Dream’s reflection on the window, the only light source being the light above the sink. “What makes you think that?” She asked, trying to keep her voice at a confident tone. Dream chuckled, leaving one hand around her throat, while his free hand reached up grabbing a handful of her hair pulling it back roughly so her head was leaning back. Wincing slightly, she bit her bottom lip not allowing herself to make a sound. “So you’re telling me..” He whispered, leaning down so his lips were right next to her ear.

“You don't want me to just fuck you senseless right here, right now?” He asked, and Y/N felt her entire face flush. “What are you saying right now?” She asked embarrassed, and Dream chuckled darkly, tightening his grip around her neck before he let go, and released the grip on her hair. “You’ll see with time princess.” He whispered ghosting his lips over her exposed neck, which caused a shiver to go down her spine. She finally let a whimper escape, “Dream..” She whispered and turned around to see he had left already. Soon it hit her like a brick, she blushed madly and her heart raced.

“What the fuck just happened..” She mumbled, steadying herself on the counter. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she moved her hand up to touch her neck, where his hand once was. Groaning, she shook her head, “Fuck you for messing with me.” She said, frustrated by confusion and touch deprivation. Walking up and into the bathroom, she started the shower and slowly stripped of her clothes. Getting inside the shower, her body relaxed as the heat consumed her. Letting out a content sigh, her eyes shot open when she heard someone enter the bathroom.

“Dri?” She asked, not daring to look out in case she would lock eyes with the green eyed boy she once saw in the kitchen. “Yeah?” The voice of Drista spoke up, letting out a sigh of relief she relaxed instantly, “What are you doing?” She asked and Drista cleared her throat, “I overheard Dream talking to who I assume was George and Sapnap. But he said that you and him had an interaction in the kitchen.” Drista said, and Y/N instantly tensed up at the reasoning. “What did you hear?” She asked, and Drista shrugged even though Y/N could not see her, “Something about you and him bumping into one another.” She said, and Y/N was thankful Dream didn’t go into detail with his friends.

“Well I am going to bed now.” Drista said, walking out, “Oh hey Dream.” Y/N heard as the door was being shut, Y/N couldn’t help but feel on edge. Her body was craving for Dream to touch her like that again, but she refused to believe it. Hearing the bathroom door open again, this time the culprit tried to make it as quiet as possible. “Having a nice shower princess?” His voice ricocheted off the walls of the shower, and into her ears. Shivering even though her body was under scalding hot water, she looked over his outline visible through the shower curtain. “What are you doing in here?” She asked, her voice wavering a bit from both excitement and fear.

“I also needed a shower, and I figured why not save water?” He said, alarmingly calm. As soon as the words registered through her brain, the shower curtain opened. This wasn’t the first time Dream and Y/N were close to having sex it almost happened when he was 20 and Y/N was 18. They had gotten into an argument which led to a heated makeout session, which they both agreed to forget. “Dream!” Y/N shrieked when she saw his body come into view. Her entire body froze, as her eyes just took in his bare body. “Like the view? It’s not the first time you’ve seen it. Or the second, or third.” He said, grabbing her hips pulling her towards him.

Yeah they’ve made out and saw each other naked multiple times, some accidental. But never did she think this would be happening, “I will not touch you, or anything without your permission princess.” He whispered into her ear, and Y/N felt her insides melt at his words. She wanted this, she has for quite a while. Dream has too. But he had patience, but he was no longer patient once he overheard their conversation about him earlier when he was on his way to the kitchen. “Please Dream.” Y/N spoke up, knocking Dream out of his trance, and a smirk found its way onto his features. “As you wish.”

Turning her around he shoved her onto the shower wall, and she leaned against it for support. “Your safe word is Dove.” He said slowly, as his hands trailed over her wet body. He moved over a bit, so the water could hit him as well. “I will then ask for your color. Green means keep going after a short break, and red means stop completely, okay?” He explained, and Y/N nodded her head. He slowly and teasingly trailed a hand up, and wrapped his hand back around her throat, “Will you be a good girl and keep quiet?” He said in her ear, and Y/N nodded her head, “Yes sir.” She said, and Dream growled at the name. “Good girl.” He said, and slowly he used his free hand to finger her so she could be prepared.

Moving the hand up, he tapped her lips as he inserted two fingers into her mouth, “Suck.” He ordered, and Y/N happily obliged since she loved to have things in her mouth she could chew or suck on. Sucking on his fingers, he slowly removed them from her mouth. Moving his hand back down, the other hand still wrapped around her throat. Slowly he inserted one finger, and she let out a quiet moan as she bit her lip. Slowly he started moving his finger in and out, loving the way her body reacted to it. She wasn’t a virgin, she had lost it when she was 17 with some random guy at a party. Picking up the pace, he slowly inserted another finger, and she bit her bottom lip to hold back the moan.

Picking up the pace of his fingers, he started to curl his fingers searching for the certain spot. Y/N accidentally let out a loud moan when he hit a spot that sent pleasure everywhere throughout her body. Dream smirked once he knew he had found it, “Quieter princess.” He warned, and she nodded her head leaning it against the wall. Thrusting his fingers quickly, making sure he repeatedly hit that spot, she found herself growing close to her climax. Dream noticed this by the way her legs started to shake, and he slowly pulled his fingers out. He licked them clean, and she whined at the loss of pleasure. Smirking, he grabbed his dick aligning it to her entrance.

Slowly he inserted the tip, and kept going until he bottomed out. Y/N winced from how big he was, “Fuck..” She whispered, in both pain and pleasure, “Please move.” She begged, and Dream knew she wouldn't be able to keep quiet by how she reacted when he entered her. Moving his free hand up, he forced his fingers into her mouth, instantly letting them go to the back of her throat. She gagged around his fingers, as he started pounding into her. Letting out choked moans on his fingers, she felt tears rolling down her face. It was mixed with the water from the shower head, on her left side and her tears. Dream picked up the pace, pulling her body back against him so he could see her fucked out face. Groaning once he saw the tears, and her crossed eyes, he moved his hand from her throat down to play with her clit.

Getting overwhelmed with the sensation she felt herself grow close again, Dream on the other hand didn’t care if she made noises now. He wanted to hear her, he quickly pulled his fingers out of her mouth and held her steady by her hip with his other hand. Y/N felt herself cum on his dick, and Dream felt her clench around him making him hiss at the feeling. He kept pounding into her, making her grow overstimulated. Screaming out, she grabbed his wrist that led to the hand that was toying with her clit. Digging her nails into his wrist, her eyes rolled back and she started babbling out incoherent words, “Is my princess fucked dumb? Is my dick so good that she can’t talk?” He cooed, feeling himself growing closer. Y/N nodded her head, moans and blabbering was the only thing she could let out. Pulling out quickly, he felt himself cum on her ass and some on her lower back. Groaning he leaned his head back and bit his bottom lip. The water was now getting cold, so he quickly cleaned her up and washed her hair, and body before he got out drying her off as she was clearly out of it.

Dressing her, he himself quickly got dressed carrying her to his room. Laying her down, he laid beside of her and wrapped an arm around her waist, kissing her neck softly. “Goodnight princess.” He whispered, and Y/N tiredly mumbled it back.

#mcyt #mcyt imagine #mcyt smut #mcyt fanfiction #dreamwastaken #dream x reader #dreamsmp #dreamwastaken smut

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itsbun · 3 years

Text

On a lighter note: Here are some of the interesting parts of being autistic!

1. Stuffies have to pass the “hug test”. If they are too small, too hard, too itchy, etc. to hug then I won’t buy them!

2. If I am buying multiple colors of a certain style of clothing, they have to be the exact. Same. Thing. From the same company, in the same cut and fabric, or I will feel like they don’t “belong” with the others. I own 5 skirts, all the same size and style, and my t shirts are all the same size with the same neckline. I wear the same socks in different colors, the same style of choker, and I used to own two pairs of converse to switch between but I have leg/feet problems now and need to wear ugly orthopedic shoes :/

3. I don’t wear makeup or style my hair. Some of that is from dysphoria (I’m enby) but I just don’t like to do my makeup or have to spend an hour meticulously arranging my hair until it looks a certain way. I squeeze it when I get out of the shower so my curls stay curly and that’s it!

4. At some point in the last two years I decided my favorite color was pastel pink. So uh... I made my entire room and 80% of the things in it pastel pink. Yes, including stuffies. And bed sheets. And curtains. One day I wanna paint the walls pink too!

5. I sit really weirdly. Like really weirdly. Like even the fact that I’m gay doesn’t explain how weirdly I sit. I sit with my feet and legs in weird positions that don’t look comfortable to other people. Right now I am sitting with one foot on top of a leg of my chair and the other wrapped around the back leg of my chair with my feet in two separate directions. Yes it’s comfortable. No it’s probably not helping the leg problems lol

6. I think one of the reasons I sing a lot (every day sometimes for hours!) is because it’s a vocal stim for me! I looooove singing so much it’s not even funny. I’ll sing the same song over and over until I don’t wanna sing it anymore, and then I’ll pick a new song!

7. I know every single episode (that I’ve seen) of Spongebob in detail from start to finish. I can sit there and quote and entire Spongebob episode without watching it first. The funny part to me is I don’t have a TV in my room, and I watch TV very very rarely when I am sitting with my family.

8. I never stop moving! I’m always twiddling my thumbs or wiggling my toes or shaking my leg. I do it without noticing. I do little dances or rock when I’m bored, I sing to myself very quietly, I pinch at my skin (not in a mean way), I fidget with things in my hands, the list goes on!

9. I am very bad with directions. If someone walks with me to a place, and I turn around to come back from that place, my brain can’t reorient because I am facing a different direction and didn’t catalogue enough about my surroundings to make it back on my own. This happened every day in elementary school for over 4 years and continues to happen every time I go places.

10. I am sooo picky with food textures, tastes, temperatures, and how it’s cooked! For example, I am a person that actually loves mushy room temperature food, but struggles with food that is too hot, too spicy, or too cold. I don’t like to season my food at all. I also hate foods with slimy seeds in them like tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, most peppers, watermelon, etc. I will not eat most fruits or veggies unless they are cooked in the way I know I like.

Aaaand I can’t think of any more rn! Please let me know if you feel similarly or related to anything! I like to think it’s unique but it would be cool to meet other neurodivergent pals who are like me!

#actually autistic #actually add #neurodivergent #autism #autistic #special interests #hyperfixations #red instead #not agere

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snickerdoodlles · 2 years

Note

i'd put the dead body there myself to see bad buddy + 18 from your fic prompt

i bet u didn't even know i've been thinking about a patpran assassin au when u sent this prompt in ❤ tagging @jemmo because assassin au is like 77% hers, i'm just here to push the pran+knives agenda and channel some murder vibes XD

dimples can always lie (series), pt.1, 1035w, lite M 18: “And why exactly is there a dead body in my bathroom?” (prompt list)

It takes Pat a few minutes to notice the elephant in the room. He’s still fucked out and delightfully sore from the late hours of last night, so he just sleepily ignores the glassy-eyed stare as he takes a piss and it’s not until he’s brushing his teeth that his brain pops online and thinks, Hey, that ain’t right.

Pat turns to look at the dead body tucked neatly into the tub. He picks out the knife wounds, but all of the blood’s been cleaned away and there’s no stains to be found anywhere in the tub or room. He scrubs his teeth and absorbs the other details he’s first missed, like the blood spattered suit hanging on the back of the door and the throwing knives laid out to dry along the vanity. The window leading out to the fire escape is open and when Pat pokes his head outside to check, he sees a blood spatter on the landing. So that explains why he didn’t notice anything come in last night, but who the hell is the tool in the bathtub?

Pat cleans himself up best he can with just the sink basin and a washcloth. His muscles protest the lack of a hot shower, but the bathroom isn’t large enough to stow the body elsewhere (not that Pat’s particularly inclined to use that shower now anyways), so a sponge bath will have to do. He takes a minute to admire the love bites and scratches Pran had decorated him with last night, then grabs an old and worn pair of sweats to tug on before making his way through the hotel suite in search of Pran.

The best part of splurging on pricey hotel suites is that they come with a kitchen. The kitchens are always shit--outdated and poorly planned, almost entirely unused and dusty dull for it--but Pran always brings his own knives and crappy stoves still heat food just fine, so Pat’s treated to sights like now: Pran humming one of his own songs as he chops up some vegetables for snacks and a late lunch, all while wearing just Pat’s button down from last night, boxers, and socks. It’s a little domesticity from home, and Pat’s helpless to resist.

“Finally up?” Pran taunts with a smugly dimpled grin. Pat rolls his eyes. Like anyone wouldn’t be exhausted after a night of being fucked over half the room’s furniture. Not that he’s complaining, mind. There are a lot of benefits to a night that begins with Pran descending on him with an angry gleam in his eyes, and they’re not just the sex.

Pat slides his arms around Pran’s waist and Pran goes soft and cuddly in his hold. Pat smiles against Pran’s shoulder at his easy acceptance as he takes a deep sniff of Pran’s neck. He smells like fresh laundry and talc, the best smell in the world, and Pat presses little kisses to the soft skin below Pran’s ear. “And why exactly is there a dead body in our bathroom?”

Pran scoffs irritably. ��Because we didn’t need a bigger mess than last night.”

Pat pauses. His thumbs rub Pran hips as he thinks, but… “Nothing went wrong last night?” Pran sniffs, offended, and Pat ducks his head to hide his smile. “No. I would know, I was on the comms and had control of their security cameras.” Pat presses a loud smooching kiss against Pran’s cheek. “You were perfect.”

Pran sticks his tongue out in mock disgust, but a cute, pleased little flush runs over the bridge of his nose. Pat nuzzles the side of his neck happily and the flush grows despite Pran’s grumbles. “I’m not talking about the hit in the casino. Some rookie goon happened to see me walking back here while he was out getting sandwiches and decided to jump me,” Pran complains, more annoyed than put out. “He got blood on my favorite suit.”

Pat’s hands slide up under Pran’s shirt, fingers searching, and Pran squirms as the sensation tickles his ribs. “Not my blood,” he retorts as he pushes Pat’s hands away. “Give me some credit.”

Pat stops trying to feel Pran up, but he does hug him closer. “You were okay getting back though?”

“Mm. The idiot didn’t even call it in.” Both of them scoff in disgust at the poor safety protocol, even though Pat’s incredibly grateful for the man’s stupidity.

A few things are starting to line up in Pat’s head though. “And you brought him back here because…?”

“Well, he was getting a lot of sandwiches.”

“Ah, the dinner sucker,” Pat says knowingly. “They always do notice when those ones go missing.” Pran snorts and Pat hugs him tighter. Next time, Pat won’t let Pran cut out the comms until he’s back in Pat’s arms. Pran might complain about his sappy praises or excessive flirting right in his ear, but better that than him being entirely without backup.

Pran rubs his thumb along Pat’s wrist soothingly. “It only took a minute. Two, at most. He was very green.” Pran looks over his shoulder and holds up a carrot stick in apology. “I would’ve called if it was serious.”

Pat holds his pout for another second, because their definitions for serious and dangerous have been skewed for a long time, Pran’s worse than his, but he takes the offered apology without protest. Pran dimples fondly as Pat munches his treat with puffy cheeks. Pat’s hard pressed to stay mad at him.

“Well,” Pat muses, “considering last night’s targets were Boss John’s operations manager and his favorite hacker, and poison’s pretty discreet, and the dead goon won’t start smelling for a few more hours…”

Pat grins and slips his hand into Pran’s boxers. Pran’s head falls back with a silent moan and his hips buck as Pat gets his hand around the warm girth of his dick.

Pat grinds his half-hard dick against the plush swell of Pran’s ass. “What do you say to enjoying a few more hours of this location before we skip town?”

Pran twists in his arms and answers with a filthy kiss.

#bad buddy #pat x pran #patpran assassin au #NSFA (not safe for apple)-adjacent #okay so ppl following me for a while know that my AUs are usually pretty intricate and how much i love building up new worlds and details #this is not one of those #this au is just vibes and fun #<3 #cookie's writing

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justkending · 3 years

Text

Moral of the Story (Prologue)

Series Summary: From childhood friends, to highschool sweethearts, the two naive, young, and lovestruck teens decided the best way to keep a strong relationship during college would be to marry right out of highschool. No one batted an eye at the idea as everyone knew they were soulmates. However, college is a big step in a person’s life. You learn new things about yourself, you make new friends, find new hobbies… And maybe being newly weds and going to different colleges across the states wasn’t the best plan… After a falling out, and a tragic heartbreaking divorce, the two now hold grudges for how the other handled the whole thing in the past. Neither not really knowing both sides of the story. 10 years later, and they both get a call from the lawyers office that settled their divorce. Somehow the papers never went through and the divorce was never completed. So now, the exes, or should we say husband and wife, have to meet back up after all these years to settle their failed marriage once and for all. (This summary will be shorter in other chapters. I just needed to get the full concept out there;)

A/N (repeat): So the other day while I was doing my hair (quite the process), I was playing music and the song Moral of the Story by Ashe came on. Mind you, I’ve heard this song hundreds of times, but for some reason, this time I got a major story idea! Listening to the lyrics brought me to this new series. Of course, the lengthy summary above will give you an idea of what came to my brain, but I recommend you listen to the song still because it plays a big part in my thought process:) (Plus it’s a good song;) Enjoy and please do not hesitate to share your thoughts and comments with me! I love each and every single one<3

(I will release the first chapter at the beginning of next week! That way I can give myself some time to write more chapters before sharing it!)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Y/N (Modern AU)

Word Count: 1200+

Prologue:

"Melody, have the papers for the Bee's Knees company come in yet?"

"Uh, no. But I can call them again and see if they faxed it or sent over a physical copy though," Melody answered from her desk, already typing away to find the company.

"Perfect. We have a meeting with a recycling plant next week and I want to get everything set before we go in with them," Y/N nodded, coming out from her office with a file in her hands. She turned to her assistant at the front desk who was about 20 emails deep and already finding the issue. "Hey, you're not coming in tomorrow, right?"

"Um, no, no. I am. I rescheduled that date," she answered bashfully as if she had been caught in the act of something.

"Melody..." Y/N drug out, hand on her hip.

"What? I- He understood. He said he was fine moving it to Saturday," the young woman shrugged, never looking back at her boss that was clearly sending her a motherly stare.

"You're already over your 40 hours this week, and you've rescheduled with him, what? 3 times now?" Y/N moved to the front of the desk so the young brunette had to make eye contact with her.

"Yes," she answered hesitantly.

"Is it just nerves or something else?" Y/N smirked.

"I'm not nervous... It's just been a while since I've had time for a date."

"Two things about what you just said in the past minute. One, clearly this guy likes you because he's rescheduled with you this many times and hasn't called it off yet. So if you're nervous about it not going well on his end, I think you're safe," Y/N pointed a finger at her.

"But-," Melody started.

"Second," Y/N cut off with a raised eyebrow. "I'm giving you time to go on a date and you're still not taking it. Work is no longer an excuse."

Melody stopped avoiding eye contact and looked up at the Y/H/C hair woman leaning on her reception desk.

"You've been talking with my mom again, haven't you?" she sighed.

"I promised I'd take care of you. So yes, I have. And though her reasoning for you dating is because she wants grandbabies, I just want you to have fun and live your life. You're 22. Don't waste your young years being scared."

"Ugh, fine. I'll text him now and see if he's still available for tonight," she groaned.

"Perfect!" Y/N grinned in victory as she started to walk back to her office. "I expect the details in the morning," she winked before she walked in.

"Oh, Y/N!" Melody stopped her. "A message came for you while you were in that last meeting."

"Who from?" Y/N quirked an eyebrow, moving back to the desk.

"Uh, I don't really know. Didn't sound familiar, but here's the name and number they said to call back from," she answered, handing her a note.

Y/N took the small paper and looked it over. Her face dropped and her eyes widened.

"You ok? Is it someone you know?" the young assistant asked, noticing what looked like horror on her face.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, an old acquaintance of mine," Y/N tried to quickly brush off. "Um, I'm going to take this. Can you hold any calls and if anyone comes to talk, tell them to just email me?"

"Oh, ok. Yeah, I'll take care of it," Melody nodded.

"Thank you."

Rushing back to her office and quickly shutting her door, she raced to her phone. She read the business name again, not sure if she was dreaming or if it was a hallucination.

Nope. Hammer Attorney was written in Melody's perfect penmanship on the paper with a number that held an area code from New York. A place she never thought she would hear from again and from a town she hadn't visited in almost 10 years._________________

"Buck, did you tell Fury about getting those new water therapy machines?" Steve shouted from his room.

"We're at home, Steve. Why are we talking about work?" Bucky groaned as he slouched on the couch. A beer in hand and a documentary with I Survived stories playing in front of him.

Steve came in from around the corner looking down at his phone in hand before moving his eye line to his roommate.

"Because I just got a call from the night crew saying that the last one that was working, finally went out tonight while they were running it for some test," Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Ugh, you would think that a facility run by a billionaire who literally makes his money on high-tech machines, wouldn't have to ask for those kinds of things," Bucky groaned, grabbing his own phone and going through emails. "Let me check to see if the email went through. He wasn't in office when I went to tell him."

As he was sorting through the hundreds of emails sent back and forth just this week alone, he found the reply message.

"Yeah, management confirmed it. They should be in by Saturday it looks like. Guess Stark was still working out the kinks to a new one and was waiting to send one our way until the last one died to get more time on his newest model."

Steve nodded before walking to the kitchen and typing Bucky's response to the other crew members.

"The man is always finding new ways to upgrade them before he can even send them to us."

Just as Bucky was about to throw his phone to the side again though, it started ringing. Looking at the caller ID, he didn't recognize the unknown number. It was from in-state but in his hometown area of Brooklyn. He pinched his eyebrows together confused at the call, but answered it anyway, thinking it must be someone from home.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Mr. Barnes?" The other voice answered.

"Yes, this is him. Who's this?" he asked, sitting up a little and putting the beer on the end table.

"My name is Matthew Murdock. I work at Nelson and Murdock Law firm," he went on. Bucky shook his head not knowing what that was supposed to mean. "Well, you may actually know us previously as Hammer Attorney. We recently just took over their business after some fraud issues."

Bucky's heart stopped. He knew what that name meant.

"I hate to inform you, but we were going through some of their old files. Ones we were informed could be incomplete or done completely incorrectly due to little care in the actual cases, but more so in taking the money."

"Incomplete cases?" Bucky said softly. His brain was still trying to wrap around the conversation.

"Yes, unfortunately, it looks like a lot of cases having to deal with divorces that the past owners handled, were done strictly in order to launder money. They weren't actually certified, nor trained in handling divorce settlements."

Bucky froze. Eyes wide. Mouth agape.

He stuttered out a response when the man on the other line didn't continue.

"A-And talking about incomplete divorce settlements, you called because..." Bucky knew. He needed to hear it out loud because if he didn't, it wasn't true. It couldn't be.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Barnes, but it looks as though you and your wife, Y/N Y/L/N or sorry, Y/N Barnes, are actually not divorced."

(I will release the first chapter at the beginning of next week! That way I can give myself some time to write more chapters before sharing it!)

Moral of the Story Taglist:

@taylormobley @ximaginx @vicmc624

Marvel Tags:

@thejourneyneverendsx @death-unbecomes-you @heyiamthatbitch @lizzymacy555 @srrymydood @xa-dia @redhairedfeistynerd @morganclaire4 @connie326 @captain-asguard @mollygetssherlockcoffee @teenagedreams-bucky @shower-me-with-roses @pham-tastical

My Lovelies forever:

@natura1phenomenon @lauravicente @kakakatey @traceyaudette @notyourtypicalrose @laneygthememequeen @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @sandlee44 @thorne93 @thefaithfulwriter @essie1876 @greyeyedsmile14 @capsiclehan @xostephanie @averyrogers83 @awesomenursingstudent @gh0stgurl @cs-please @carls1022 @jjlevin @rainbowkisses31 @carls1022 @anise-d-castle6 @deannotmoose @their-bibliophile @kitkatd7 @willowbleedsonpaper @mariaenchanted @snffbeebee @couldabeenamermaid @rebekahdawkins @alyispunk

Bucky Barnes Tags:

@chloe-skywalker @charmedbysarge @jbarness @bellamy-barnes @katiaw2 @aikeia

#bucky barnes x reader au #bucky barnes highschool sweetheart #bucky barnes collge au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #justkending #new series #new marvel series #marvel au

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sneezefiction · 3 years

Text

answers

oikawa x reader

desc: oikawa changes some lyrics in taylor swift’s song “love story”

a/n: please keep in mind that most of this is just humorous & there’s no serious characterization in this particular story. i laughed a lot while writing it :,,) for @cutiekawa because you gave me the idea; thank you for that! and also for @seroto-rin because this is very similar to your husband’s lyric changing habits lol – i still laugh whenever i think about it <3 warnings: language, mentions drinking/being drunk

wc: 3k

— It’s 2 am when you hear Oikawa pattering down the hallway and past your room. From the gentle footsteps and the occasional whisper of “shit” when the floor creaks, it's obvious that he’s trying to stay quiet.

But his attempts are in vain because, one, you’re wide awake and, two, he’s just knocked over an empty beer can from earlier. It was probably the one he’d left on the hall table – you’d told him to throw it away but he’d refused saying that he’d “throw it away in the morning when his arms weren’t so tired.”

This is just karma.

The clatter of the aluminum on wooden floors echoes throughout the dorm. A much louder, especially frustrated, “fuck” follows right after it.

The word, though crass, sounds deceptively attractive on his tongue. But most things Oikawa-related just happen to be attractive.

You muffle your laughter with a blanket. He’s probably disoriented from the alcohol – it’s only been an hour and 5 drinks each since you both called it a night. You’d headed straight to bed but he’d fallen asleep on the couch where you left him, hair a-mess and lips parted.

But, for someone who used to stay out till daybreak on weekends, he’s spent most Fridays hanging out with you instead.

This weekend was no different.

Oikawa ordered Thai takeout, you found a mindless Netflix series to binge, both of you had a little too much to drink, laughter ensued, the doe-eyed boy found his head in your lap, and…

You pull a face – one that goes unseen because of the dark, but you make it anyway.

Okay, that last part was a little different.

He’d had his head in your lap.

His head… in your… lap.

And, if you’re not mistaken (or delirious), you’d had your hands in his hair, twirling strands and tracing circles at the base of his neck. A foggy image of him gazing up at you with softened eyes, deep chocolate in color, begins to solidify.

That lazy smile, a hand on your thigh, tresses tickling your skin...

You turn over in your bed, bunching up your sheets and holding them close to you like a shield of fabric — a flimsy, make-shift defense against tipsy mind-wandering. It isn’t very effective.

Your brain is not wandering but racing around this hand-in-hair realization.

Like an iron rod poking at hot embers, these prodding memories make your cheeks grow hotter by the millisecond. You bury your face in your pillow, embarrassment tight in your throat.

Somehow you’d forgotten that he’d practically climbed into your lap. You’re not in the clear quite yet, but your brain is functioning well enough that it wishes you’d had a little more to drink – just enough to forget about it entirely. You starfish out on your bed, arms and legs dramatically splayed across the mattress.

Do (hot, charming, charismatic, windswept) flatmates usually get this... cuddly? Is that normal?

Does Iwaizumi wrap his arms around his roomies after a long day and a few bottles? How about Mattsun? Makki…?

Okay, no, none of them really seem like the type to get up close and personal with their roommates without good reason. Well, maybe Makki, but he’d do it to be a pain in the ass – not to charm the living-hell out of someone.

You try to take in a deep breath and wrap your head around what this means for you… but end up inhaling a feather from your pillow instead. As you hack and cough, you try to smother the noise in more cloth material – you really didn’t need him coming into your room, much less leaning over your bed to check on you.

Oikawa is messing with your head.

If you knew any better, you’d have run away screaming the moment he’d asked you to room with him. No one that pretty and charismatic is good news. At least, not when it comes to shared housing.

But, here you are, writhing under the covers and hot like a fever all because he couldn’t keep to himself. Screw him and his charming smile for putting you in this position.

He either knows you’re crushing like he’s the last man on earth or he’s blissfully unaware and way too physically affectionate for his own good.

You don’t dare consider that he likes you back though. Only deer and Olympic athletes made leaps like that. Oikawa had too many admirers… an irritating amount.

The blankets scrunch even tighter between your fists, likely thanking their maker that they don’t have nerve endings.

Every fiber of your being is begging to know if these feelings are reciprocated. You’d hate to live out the rest of this semester knowing the boy down the hall may not like you back. Worse, that he finds out you think he’s hot shit and doesn’t like you back – that would be unrequited love at its finest.

But, with a degree and your mental health on the line, why should you care about such minor, itty bitty, pointless details.

This isn’t that big a deal.

And even if he did like you back? Well, Oikawa isn’t someone you can simply “pin down.” He comes with a distinctive, dramatic personality and a meddling side. Not to mention, he’s already the embodiment of chaos – he’s proven this to be true over the past 4 months he’s lived with you.

There’s a familiar squeak of the shower faucet handle and the hiss of hot water. You jump at the sound.

Maybe he’d forgotten, but your bedroom shares a very thin wall with the bathroom. Though you recall him saying he wanted to take a shower earlier, so you guess that he’s only just remembered.

You pick up your phone, blue light casting a less-than angelic glow on your sleepy face. You pray that TikTok will have some sort of life-changing “I’m in love with my hot, crazy flatmate” advice. Or that it will distract you from your inner turmoil. Either would be appreciated but the latter seems more likely.

Scrolling slowly, you get through about 3 videos before something else catches your attention.

There’s a deep reverberation buzzing through your wall. A gentle hum, much like a shower-concert lullaby.

But the noise is getting louder. And the humming? A lot more lyrical.

You shift into a sitting position, propping yourself up with your hands. With your side sunken into a pillow, you press your ear against the cool drywall. Your ears tune into the sound.

Oikawa, voice confident and free, is… singing.

“...But you were everything to me, I was begging you ‘please don’t go’…”

But he’s not just singing.

“And I said…”

He’s belting Taylor Swift with the enthusiasm of an 11-year-old Swiftie super-fan. Like the world would end if he didn’t put enough passion into this performance. Like the showerhead is his microphone and the surrounding tiles are his adoring audience.

“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I'll be waiting; all that's left to do is run...”

Most people would be pissed if their friend were singing in the shower at 2 am… but you can’t find it in yourself to be anything but enamored.

God, you hate him for doing this right now. Hate that he’s inadvertently endearing you to him. Hate that, no matter what you do, he’s somehow always there.

Pressed up against you on the couch, meeting you for dinner at his favorite restaurant, fussing at each other over a shitty cup of coffee in your even shittier kitchen, calling you when he needs somebody to keep him company at the library…

“You'll be the prince & I'll be the princess…”

And now he’s accidentally serenading you with Taylor’s “Fearless” album. In the shower.

You facepalm, sinking into your hands, exasperated and just so… done.

You sink back down into the bedsheets, wishing your earbuds were nearby to drown out the regrettably adorable performance.

“It's a love story y/n, just say ‘Yes.’”

And your heart drops, panic setting in like the touch down of a whirling tornado. A fire tornado. A fire tornado with frogs and lizards and sharp objects spinning around inside of it.

What… did he just say?

The lyrics… they were muffled. You definitely heard them incorrectly. You… you just need to get your ears checked. Yes, that’s it. That’s all there is to it. You’ll schedule an appointment first thing tomorrow morning.

Because who the fuck sings like that at 2 am in a shared dorm? And who the fuck puts someone else’s name into a song like that? No one? Yes, no one.

Especially not the Oikawa Tooru.

And especially not with your name.

Because that’s just... weird.

The grip on your phone is mighty – thank God for durable glass because any other material would’ve splintered or shattered in your hold.

But what the hell.

“Y/n, save me, I've been feeling so alone,” he sings as though he were Beyoncé’s son.

This time it’s clear as day. Oikawa is definitely still out of it and he’s undoubtedly singing your name.

No, no, no.

“I keep waiting for you but you never come…”

You bolt out of bed, feet hitting the floor at lightning-strike speed.

“Is this in my head? I don't know what to think,”

In one swift movement, you fling the bedroom door open and rush down the hall. You shouldn’t be listening to this.

“He knelt to the ground & pulled out a ring, and said...”

And before you can stop your hand, it’s knocking rapidly on the bathroom door.

There’s a gasp, what you assume to a bar of soap hitting the shower floor, and an abrupt silence that follows.

You’d only wanted to stop him from singing.

However, you hadn’t thought through what you were going to say to him about this whole... lyrical mess. Your face feels like the surface of the sun, burning and flaring and flushing. What are you supposed to do now?

Oikawa speaks up, voice quiet, “Hello?”

Shit.

Maybe if you’re careful you can get yourself out of this. Just act like you didn’t hear anything and bring it up tomorrow when you’re both thinking straight. A thorough and sober discussion would be needed.

You had questions. Questions that needed answers.

Why did he have his head in your lap? Had you said anything to him that you’d regret later? Does he like you? Where should you two place your boundaries if he doesn’t like you back? And why Taylor Swift?

“Y/n, is that you?” He asks, nonchalantly.

Who else would it be?

The handle squeaks and, with that, the water stops. Only the gentle swirl of the drain and the occasional drips and drops from the showerhead are audible.

It’s too late. You’re already there. You’ve knocked and, in doing so, you’ve sealed your fate.

“...Yes,” is your whisper of a reply.

“What’s up? Was I too loud for you?”

You’ve got the entire building on high-alert singing that loudly.

...is what you would say if you weren’t currently imploding. This is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. And nothing you ever want to experience again.

“Um, yeah, sorry.” You look down at your shuffling feet.

The hallway is pitch black, hardly allowing for even a mere shadow. Rushing out of your room, you’d forgotten to turn on even a single light.

You hear him step onto the tile floor and the rustle of a tower from the bathroom closet.

“Wait, can we talk?” He asks as though it weren’t the question of the fucking year. “I mean, preferably after I get out of the bathroom.” There’s a lack of tact to his words.

This isn’t the charming Oikawa you’re used to. This is a blunt… confusingly straightforward Oikawa.

His tone wavers like maybe he’d had a little more to drink than you’d last remembered. Your memory was proving to be disappointingly unreliable tonight.

You swallow thickly, “Sure.”

Because what else can you say?

“Can I stop by your room in a minute?”

You take a deep breath, “Yeah.”

And you patter back to your no-longer very safe haven. Oikawa is about to infiltrate your space… with your permission. And the weapons he’ll bring will either harpoon you or leave you emotionally paralyzed – whether that emotional paralysis is a good or bad thing will be decided in the near future.

Your bed, though soft and blanket-covered, looks far less appealing now. It may as well be a bed of nails because you would rather hide beneath it than sit atop it.

But you sit anyway, letting the mattress dip and the springs twang.

The bathroom door cries as it opens, putting you on edge. Your heart is pounding like a drum at a summer festival – hotter and louder with every beat.

The trod of footsteps tells you he’s approaching and, sure enough, the open door reveals Oikawa.

With only a lamp to brighten the space, he’s more contoured than usual. His hair is wet and heavy against his head, taking on an even darker brown than before. You’ve seen him fresh out of the shower before, but this… is different. Oikawa’s shirt sticks to his chest slightly – he must’ve thrown it on without drying off fully to get to you faster.

He takes a few steps into your room, choosing to lean his back against a wall next to your work desk. Oikawa brings his hands behind his back, pressing his weight into them. Brown eyes flicker from you to the wall behind you and back again.

Naturally, tension lays thick as a fog in the air space.

“Hey, I’m…”

You cut him off, “You don’t have to say sorry! It’s… it’s okay.”

Oops, you’d said that a little too loud. Not that it mattered much after Oikawa’s passionate performance.

An eyebrow raises and confusion sparks across his face. Your body freezes.

He brings a hand behind his neck. “Oh, I was just gonna say that I’m still kinda drunk.”

You knew that much. Though you really thought he’d say something other than that. Preferably something about the, uh, devoted love-song?

Why is he acting so casual right now? Is this even Tooru? Had he read too many alien conspiracies and been abducted for learning too much about extraterrestrials?

Maybe he doesn’t realize you’d even heard him say your name in the shower.

“Oh... right.” You say slowly, lips staying parted at the end of your sentence.

“Which… probably isn’t good for either of us,” Different words drawl out and there’s a soft slur to some syllables, but at least he’s easy to understand, “me drinking too much, I mean.”

“Yeah,” you mutter.

“I think we should both just go to bed then.”

Your chest tightens. Of course, you want answers.

They’re likely embarrassing, face-reddening, Taylor Swift-centric answers. But you want them, nonetheless.

Although, it’s probably for the best that you don’t bring this up tonight. It was all probably a joke or a harmless accident – and, anyway, he admitted to being drunk.

“Right.”

“But I think you should know that I like you. A lot.”

“Yeah,” you respond again, automatically.

There’s another heavy silence. The pretty boy just stares at you, cherry colors tinting his cheeks but showing no expression of fear or embarrassment. You stare back, processing his words at turtle-like speeds.

The words tumble out, “Wait, say that again?” You double back, your own face reheating to its earlier temperature.

“I’m gonna be mad at myself in the morning if I don’t leave right now. And I really need to stop listening to that stupid song,” Oikawa says to himself.

“But I wanted to see how you would respond if I changed the lyrics,” the words are pointed back at you again.

He stands up, feet moving slowly toward the doorway. Did he just… completely ignore your question?

Your jaw drops, “Did…” you can hardly speak.

Clearing your throat, you try again, focusing intently on your words, “...did you mean for me to hear you?”

“...Maybe.” He draws out the “e,” looking back at you.

That’s it. He’s lost his fucking mind. You’re going to strangle him.

No TikTok advice could have prepared you for the monstrosity that is Oikawa Tooru. How Iwaizumi put up with that... that child for all these years, you have no idea.

You have to make a note of sending him a “get well” card, because nobody could be mentally okay after dealing with him for that long.

“B- but… why? What?” You stammer out, back stiff as a board.

“You like me don’t you?” He tilts his head, hair flopping cutely with it.

You gape like a fish, mouth opening and closing.

And it’s not that you don’t want to respond.

It’s that you can’t. You have no words. You vocal chords are on a panic-induced lockdown.

Because he knew.

He knew this entire time. Which you thought he might, but that doesn’t make the situation any less infuriating.

“And I like you back.”

You’re dumbfounded. You can’t think. This is ridiculous.

You open your mouth once more but he has no intention of continuing this conversation.

“Sleep well!” Without further comment, Oikawa flashes you a sleepy smile and begins scampering back to his room after having wreaked havoc on your poor heart.

Your voice comes back just in time for you to wake up the entire building once more,

“No, you get your ass back here and explain yourself!”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa scenarios #oikawa imagines #seijoh #what did i just write #this is gonna go under: 'things i gave up my sleep for'#ughsjdljlds'ldsdjd #also #i dont like the term crack fic anymore? so i think just calling it humorous is... a good way to go #goodnight yall #queued up!

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