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ijustwant2write · 3 years

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The Miracle Question-Bucky Barnes x Reader

(GIF credit to @sebastianruinedme)

Summary: When Bucky doesn’t tell (Y/N) that he missed his appointment, nearly getting into trouble with the government, she becomes furious and upset with him. She demands to have a session with him, wondering if their relationship is as stable as they thought it was, and if it’s actually making Bucky worse. To add to her anger, the new ‘Captain America’ decides to step in.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader (platonic), John Walker x Reader (acquaintances), Lemar Hoskins x Reader (acquaintances)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

(Y/L/N)=Your last name

Warnings: Mentions of therapy, arguing, slight violence, fluff

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Why would he do something like this and not tell me? He was doing so well with his appointments, and although I knew he wasn't enjoying them, at least he was going so he could get them over and done with. We hardly spoke of them, he was never the one to bring up the topic, it was always me; I just wanted to know how he was doing, I cared for him so much, and it was hurting me to think he wasn't able to open up.

"Sam." I got his attention as I briskly walked into the police station.

"Hey," he could see I was upset, immediately using a calmer tone,"he's alright. His therapist is here, she's got everything sorted."

"But why did it take me watching a video on twitter of my boyfriend being arrested to know about this?"

No one had called. Surely I was one of his emergency contacts? And if I (bizarrely) wasn't, why hadn't Sam called me?

Sam sighed."He didn't want you to know. He missed an appointment he had to go to and-"

"Didn't want me to know?!" I raised my voice, not caring if I grabbed the attention of anyone around us.

Sam held up his hands, trying to quieten me."Look, I'm not getting involved with your personal matters. That's up to you two. Just keep your voice down, we are in a police station."

I scoffed in disbelief."Why didn't he want me to know? He knew I would be angry, but I would never argue about it with him, or make him feel bad about it. I would support him."

"I know you wouldn't, and so does he. Bucky is still getting used to opening up, even with you. He just doesn't want to hurt you."

“Sam,” an older woman interrupted us,“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Doctor Raynor, I’m James’ therapist.”

They shook hands.“It’s so nice to meet you.”

Raynor put her attention on me, also shaking my hand.“You must be (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the girlfriend. I’ve also heard a lot about you.”

“You have? Oh, didn’t think he would talk about me that much.”

“Thank you for getting him out.” Sam quickly interjected.

“Oh, that was not me.”

“Christina!” another voice called out.

We all turned to see who called, and I almost rolled my eyes when I saw who it was. John Walker, the new ‘Captain America’, was headed our way, almost swaggering. People immediately wanted pictures which he agreed to, and although I know Steve might have done the same in some cases, it wouldn’t be a priority for him, nor would he look like was was enjoying it. Although I didn’t want to judge others before knowing them, America had given the title to some random man, forgetting that Steve was not only a hero, but a friend and family to people like us.

“It’s great to see you again.” Walker said as he shook someone’s hand.

“You gotta be kidding me, you know him?” Sam mumbled.

“Yeah, we did some field ops back in the day.”

“Heard you were working with Bucky so I thought I would step in.” he said as he approached.“Bucky’s not gonna be following a strict schedule any longer.”

“We haven’t finished our work. Who’s authorised this?”

“Um...” he smiled as he gestured to himself.

Who was he to come in here and change everything? Bucky was doing well in his therapy sessions...or at least I assumed he was, we never spoke about it. And I hated the way he called him ‘Bucky’; only close ones were allowed to call him that.

A loud buzzer sounded throughout the station, and I whipped my head around, relieved to see Bucky walking out with two police officers. I no longer listened to Walker, running towards my boyfriend. He easily caught me as I threw my arms around him, not caring that the policemen escorting him out were watching.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, seeming both worried and annoyed.

“Bucky, you got arrested! I had to come see you, make sure you’re OK. Why didn’t you get someone to call me? Also, why did you miss your session anyway?”

“It’s a long story. And it’s not worth telling.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bucky’s eye line was now on Walker as he shouted over his shoulder,“I’ll be outside.”

Before I could say anything else, Dr. Raynor spoke,“James, condition of your release, session now. You too, Sam and (Y/N).”

“That’s OK. I’ll be out here with-”

She interrupted Sam.“That wasn’t a request.”

Bucky was silent as he slid away, reluctantly following the doctor. I tried holding his hand, but he was making it difficult to even grab it in the first place. My heart sank at the thought of Bucky not wanting me there, not even wanting to be comforted. When these sessions first began, he would come home and want to be held, be comforted; sometimes he asked if he could hold me, just to ensure that I was there with him, that I could feel safe in his arms. That was happening less and less now, it scared me to think he didn’t want this relationship anymore.

We were sat in an interrogation room, Dr Raynor on one side and two chairs on the other. She told Bucky and I to sit first, and that she would deal with Sam later. Nerves suddenly washed over me, petrified of what sort of answers Bucky was going to give.

“OK, so we can all sense a lot of tension in this room. And although I’m going in a slightly unprofessional route, I feel that we all need to do this to ensure you are all OK, that is my job after all. So, who wants to go first?”

She looked between me and Bucky. Part of me wanted to get the confrontation out of the way, perhaps that would make things go quicker and we would get out of here sooner. But my fear held me back.

“No volunteers? Wow, that’s surprising. Okay. We’re going to do any exercise. It’s something I use with couples when they are trying to figure out what sort of life they wanna build together. Are you familiar with the miracle question?”

I nodded.“Yes.”

“No.” Bucky answered at the same time.

“OK, it goes like this. Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something that you would like to see that would make your life better?”

Shit, that was deep. There’s a million things I could think of that I wanted with Bucky. We used to talk about it all the time. He wanted security in knowing that I wanted a life with him, and I wanted the same, hoping that one day it would happen. Glancing at him, Bucky was slouched in the chair, staring at his hands folded together on his lap. It didn’t look like he was going to be saying anything soon, so I took the first step.

“Um...” I started, unsure how to word this.“I would want to take away any suffering Bucky has gone through, so that he could have a somewhat normal life, and didn’t have to force himself through things like this. No offence doctor. That way he wouldn’t have to feel pressured into opening up and he would tell me anything that was on his mind.”

“That’s a good start.” Raynor slowly said.“And it’s a very sweet sentiment, but it’s what you want, (Y/N).”

“That is what I want. All I want is for Bucky to be happy, I love him.”

“Again, very sweet, I know you care about him very much. But let’s try looking at it a different way. You want your miracle to be that James opens up more. That he lets you into the side of his life you don’t get to see in person.”

“I...I guess.”

“You feel left out of the equation, because James won’t express how he’s feeling?”

“Yeah, when you put it like that, that’s what I want. I want my boyfriend to be able to feel like he can tell me anything, no matter how gruesome, traumatic or even little it is.”

“Right. Glad we got there in the end. OK James, your turn.”

I watched in anticipation for Bucky to speak. What if I had messed things up? What if that was the opposite of what he wanted?

“My miracle would be...not having you involved in that side of things.”

He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. He also didn’t look phased by his answer. So his miracle would be to not have me know about a huge part of his life? He was a hero for god’s sake! Why was he shutting me out? What had I done to deserve this? Had I hurt him in some way that made him feel that he couldn’t talk to me anymore?

“What? Bucky, have I done something to upset you?”

“I just think it would be easier for both of us.”

“You know I’m always here for you, right? We’ve spoke about this before, I don’t understand why you’re only expressing this now.”

Raynor tried to get us back on track.“Alright you two, I think we need to dissect this-”

“I’m sorry doctor but I would like Bucky to elaborate more on this matter, because I’m not fully understanding.”

“What’s not to understand?” he finally looked at me, but I hated this expression. It was as if I had asked the stupidest question in the world.

“Bucky, why are you being like this? You used to tell me about everything, what’s changed?”

He didn’t answer. I just scoffed, hastily grabbing my handbag and coat.

“(Y/N), please sit down.” Raynor asked.

“I can’t. I can’t sit here and wait for an explanation that I’m not going to get. Just focus on the two heroes, I’ll find out about all of this never.”

I rushed out of the room, breathing heavily as I tried not to cry, but my eyes were already watering. Ignoring looks from people in the waiting room, I couldn’t stop myself from starting to cry. Although I had every reason to be upset that my boyfriend wasn’t communicating with me anymore, I also felt slightly guilty for just storming out of there. Maybe we would have resolved it.

“Miss, you OK?”

Oh, I did not want to deal with Walker right now. He would only piss me off.

“Do you need help? We can provide assistance if you need it.”

Although I had wanted to walk away, I knew I should have, my feet were already leading me towards him. I was embarrassed that I was still crying, but I tried to block that from my mind by now. He was leaning against a police car with his friend, who’s name I hadn’t bothered learning.

“You don’t look so good, shall we get a cop to drive you home?”

“Who do you think you are?!” I snapped.

“Well, I’m Captain America-”

“No, you’re someone who thinks they’re anything close to what Steve was. He didn’t go around introducing himself as Captain America, He didn’t care about the title. I understand you’re under a lot of pressure Walker, Steve has a huge legacy to live up to. But don’t you dare come waltzing in expecting those two amazing men to immediately work alongside you like nothing has changed.”

“You got all of that out of your system?”

My eyes widened at him.“Are you serious right now?”

“Look,” his friend butted in,“we just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get mixed up in this. We’re dealing with something major here, it could effect the whole world.”

“Sorry, but who are you?”

He rolled his eyes.“Come on man, how many times? It’s Battlestar.”

My face remained emotionless.

“Lemar Hoskins? You know, the new Captain America with his-”

“I don’t think she cares.” Walker explained.

“You think I don’t know anything about trying to save the world? My friends are part of the Avengers, my boyfriend fought against Thanos. He disappeared in the Blip and I was left by myself wondering if he would ever come back. I’ve been targeted, I’ve seen aliens close up. Nothing could effect me now.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’ve had to endure that.”

“Do you two just not listen to anyone but yourselves?”

“(Y/N), listen,” Walker dared to put his hand on my shoulder,“you’re a normal citizen like us. No super powers, no hidden strength, yet here you are with a super soldier that’s over a hundred years old! I mean, do the maths here, you could have walked away from all this danger. And yet, here you are, by yourself at a police station, whilst your boyfriend cares more about his ‘job’ than making sure you’re safe.”

That was it, the last straw. I slapped his hand off of me, preparing to punch him square in the face, when someone pulled me back.

“No (Y/N)!” Sam raised his voice as he made sure to distance me away from Walker. He quickly stood in between us.

“What did you do, Walker!?” Bucky quickly stormed over.“Did you touch her?!”

Sam was desperately trying to diffuse the situation, knowing that people could be watching.“Bucky, calm down.”

“Did he do anything to you?” Bucky asked me quietly, his hands cupping my face as he looked over me.

My heart raced at the gesture, forgetting for a second that I was upset with him. I shook my head with his hands still on me, and they slid down my arms, one wrapping around my waist to keep me close to him.

“I didn’t touch her Bucky, I was just trying to....you know what, it’s not even important. Can we talk, privately?”

“(Y/N) is staying.”

Walker sighed.“Look, if we divide ourselves, we don’t stand a chance, you guys know that.”

“So what do you got?” Sam said.

“Well the leader’s name’s Karli Morgenthau. We’ve been targeting civilians who’ve been helping Karli move from place to place.”

Lemar spoke up.“They geotagged a location, then scrambled the signal. But our satellites have found their symbol popping up in various displaced communities all across Central and Eastern Europe.”

“We think she’s taking the medicine she just stole to one of these camps.” Walker added.

“Well, there are a lot of those all over the planet since the Blip.” Bucky pointed out.

“Hundreds probably.” I said.

“So I guess you’ll have to look real hard.”

Walker smirked.“Good thing I have 20/20 vision, huh?”

“Where is she now, Walker? Do you know?”

“No, we don’t know, Bucky.” Walker was agitated.“It’s only a matter of time before we find out.”

Bucky had to push his buttons even more.“Things are really intense for you, aren’t they, Walker?”

Sam came to stand between us and Walker.“Take it easy. Look, Walker’s right. It is imperative that we find them and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement and all kind of authorization you have to get. We’re free agents. We’re more flexible. So it wouldn’t make sense for us to work with you.”

Sam and Bucky turned away, Bucky guiding me with him. Walker called after us.

“A word of advice, then. Stay the hell out of my way.”

I instantly became defensive.“What the hell is that supposed to mean-”

“It’s OK.” Bucky reassured me, making sure I didn’t go back. Frustrated that Walker got the last word, I hesitantly followed my boyfriend.

“Hold up,” Sam stopped us,“I think you two need a quick chat before we delve into anything else. You both know that this is something big, we don’t know what we’re fully dealing with yet or how to fix it. Before we do all of that, you two better resolve whatever happened back there. I’ll be waiting Buck.”

We both watched Sam walk away, unsure how to start this conversation. He clearly showed that he still cared for me back there, but should I still be worried that our relationship was headed in a rocky direction?

“You OK?”

“Honestly? No, not really.”

“(Y/N)-”

“Do you realise how much you hurt me back there? I don’t want you to feel like you can’t speak to me anymore. And about me not being involved; what do you think the last years have been like? I know everything, you’ve expressed so much to me, opened up about your past. Why has that suddenly changed?”

“Because we have a chance now. The world is...relatively back to normal. I got an opportunity to make sure you’re safer, keep all of these nightmares away from you, not pass on my torture to you.”

“Bucky...what have the past years been for? Nothing needs to change. Just because things are getting back to how they used to be, it doesn’t mean we need to forget about the past. If I don’t know what’s going on with you, how can I look after you? How can I help you?”

“You shouldn’t have to do this-”

“I already made that decision when I knew I wanted to be with you. But we can’t revert back to how it was Bucky, not after all the work and effort we put in.”

“I’m sorry. I really thought I could make everything better.”

I sighed, reaching out to hold his hand.“They already were. I know whatever you’ve got yourself into is big, but I’m here for you Bucky, I always will be.”

“I’m sorry again, I’ll make sure I keep opening up to you. That’s the least you deserve.”

I went on my tip toes to kiss him, still worried despite everything he had said. Bucky was still fragile, but now he was on another mission. I wasn’t sure if it was the best thing for him, something for him to focus on. Or it could send him in a spiral, and I wouldn’t know anything about it. I had to stay close to this mission, even if it meant I was in danger. Though what would change there? I had to keep an eye on him, I had to make sure he was OK. I loved him too much to let him slip back into the dark.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fan fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fan fiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes one shot #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier imagines #winter soldier one shot #winter soldier x reader #the falcon and the winter solider spoilers #the falcon and the winter soldier

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 07 part two

(Masterpost)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Lantern Lighting

Now we have the famous lantern scene, where everybody gets to express their character and have dates, ranging from disastrous to delightful, with the objects of their affection.

Wei Wuxian continues to be ridiculously good at drawing.

We’ve all seen Lan Wangji’s lovely first smile in the show a million times, so...let’s look at it again!

This scene is important not just because of the smile, but because there’s a distinct shift in the way they talk about their growing relationship. In the pond, it was “come visit me” and “never!” “I want to be your friend” “No need.” Basically Lan Wangji firmly saying no to Wei Wuxian’s offers of friendship.

This time, Wei Wuxian says “let’s do this together” and Lan Wangji says “I’m used to being alone,” which is not actually a No, just an explanation. And WWX says, you can change that. And then Lan Wangji DOES change it, sharing the lantern and the promise with Wei Wuxian.

Whoever painted this flower is even better than Wei Wuxian at plein air painting.

(more after the cut!)

Everybody’s wishes

Nie Huasang makes a practical wish. Wen Qing prays for her brother and Jiang Cheng notices how she’s like Yanli. Jiang Cheng isn’t very intense about Wen Qing, which could be a sign of his shyness but could also be a sign of his gayness or aceness. After all, later in life he’s an apparently wealthy clan leader who is hot as fuck, and needs an heir, since his nephew is a Jin. But he’s still not married, 16 years after breaking up with and uh, helping to kill and cremate, the girl he liked in summer school.

The Promise We Made Together

Wei Wuxian makes an ultra-idealistic wish/promise while Lan Wangji watches and falls the rest of the way in love with him, and silently makes the same pledge inside his head. Later they will each refer to this as a promise they made together, which is a really super high level of face-reading by Wei Wuxian, to understand that he really is speaking for both of them here. While making this promise, Lan Wangji brings out his Yin Iron Magic Bag and waves it around in front of everyone, but nobody notices.

Let’s take a moment to consider *why* this moment is so powerful for Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji is a boy whose emotions are always on the boil. He’s 100% upset all the time, at this age, and he keeps it clamped down all the time. His cultivation level is probably as high as it is partly because of all the work he does in emotion regulation. (note: if you haven’t read all the meta at @howpeacefulislwj , go read it; it’s awesome and hilarious)

Wei Wuxian doesn’t GAF about emotion regulation; he just expresses what he feels, all the damn time.

He is openly bored, lusty, playful, hungry, whiny. He straight up tells Lan Wangji “you’re boring and you have a stick up your ass” as part of saying he wants to be friends; no deference and also no falseness.

And he can see right through Lan Wangji’s reserve, barging into his loneliness and isolation without any regard for all of his wards. Wards are made to be broken.

(Unrelated note: Young Lan Wangji's rare moments of contentment seem to come from looking at something beautiful--the moon, falling petals, these lanterns, his mirror.)

But Wei Wuxian is also good. Lan Wangji desperately wants to be good. And here’s Wei Wuxian embodying this awful, amazing, tempting alternative path, in which all the interesting things in life get explored thoroughly, all the sweetness and beauty gets consumed unreservedly, all the pain and ugliness gets confronted and endured without hesitation.

In this moment, Wei Wuxian tells Lan Wangji “you can change,” and then offers up this prayer/promise that is just pure chivarly, speaking straight to Lan Wangji’s heart. Very simply, I want to spend my life doing right. Not 3500 rules; just one.

This infuriating boy, who breaks rules and who flirts indiscriminately and who pushes and pushes and pushes, reveals himself in this moment to be a hero at the beginning of his journey, and Lan Wangji sees it, and his heart goes right over the cliff.

The Girls’ Room

The girl cultivators all rush over to Yanli to get in her business about her betrothal, inspiring Jin Zixuan to act like a jerk to her and get even further onto Wei Wuxian’s bad side.

Talk Shit, Get Hit

Yanli’s wish was that Wei Wuxian would grow up and be good. He promptly launches his own personal Sunshot campaign, punching her fiancee so hard that the sun falls out of the sky and the previously well-lit scene transitions to full night.

So, in English, “don’t mention it again” is really mild, akin to “I don’t want to talk about it.” Wei Wuxian’s reaction makes it seem like Jin Zixuan said something really shitty, like “don’t you dare mention that woman to me!” So I’m assuming something is being lost in translation.

Lan Wangji tries to calm him down. He grabs Wei Wuxian’s sexy arm muscle and basically holds it until the Jiangs exit the scene.

Nie Huaisang has placed himself between the opposing factions, which is unusually direct of him. In the future he’ll stick to being an unindicted co-conspirator when Wei Wuxian starts trouble.

Ants in my Pants

Lan Wangji thinks kneeling can make Wei Wuxian cry, which is adorable of him.

He really relishes this opportunity to be a pedantic tool to his new boyfriend that annoying boy he hardly ever touches, and it really doesn’t work out for him, poor lamb.

Jiang Fengmian stops by to show exactly how deep his affection for Wei Wuxian runs, and to give him whiplash from constantly changing parental expectations. In a couple of hours he’ll be laughing over WWX & JC’s hijinks.

Wei Wuxian takes this opportunity to fantasize about bad things happening to the other boy in the fight, which is in no way foreshadowing of anything.

Douche Dads Conference

We now convene this meeting of the douchebag council. Jiang Cheng is also invited even though he’s a prick, not a douche. <--important distinction

This is our first time meeting Clan Leader Jin Guangshan. He's actually the most sensible and best parent in this scene, but his smug self-satisfaction hints at his true nature. This actor, Shen Xiaohai, has been active in cdramas for a long while now. I wonder what he looked like 15 years ago?

...Holy mother of god.

Jiang Fengmian is the worst dad and the worst husband here. His clan believes in letting children do what they want - uhh YOUR child wants to marry Jin Zixuan. “I wrote a letter to her mother, who arranged this marriage.” Uhhh she arranged for her sickly, low-cultivation-level, sweet and vulnerable child to marry the heir of a rich and powerful clan, with a powerful mother-in-law who’s looking forward to loving and protecting her. Basically she’s guaranteed her daughter’s safety and comfort, and even potential happiness, since her husband may learn to appreciate her (and in fact, does, thanks to soup and repeated beatings from WWX).

Mom worked hard and probably spent a fair amount of social capital to achieve this. And you’re going to toss that aside because the boy thinks he’s too good for her? What the everloving fuck, how are you a clan leader in the first place?

You can see that Jiang Cheng understands all of this and what a terrible choice his father is making here.

So do the other adults in the room.

Jin Guangshen: our wives are going to kill us

Lan Qiren: I'm looking at a couple of dead men

Jiang Fengmian pointedly won’t listen to Jiang Cheng or let him speak, showing that all his talk about being free is actually bullshit, that only applies to other people’s children.

Jiang Chang vaults off of the deck to tell Wei Wuxian about it. Hottt

Sorry Sis

Wei Wuxian goes to Jiang Yanli to sorta-apologize and sorta ask to be let off the hook for fucking up her engagement, which he absolutely did. He knows it, which is presumably why he bows to her in paperman form while hiding outside.

At no time has Jiang Yanli indicated to anyone that she doesn’t want to marry Jin Zixuan, as far as I can see, or said she wanted to be defended from insults with punching. Look how good SHE is at defending a person from insults, for comparison.

Yin Iron Blah Blah Blah

The senior Lans meet with Jiang Fengmian to talk about the Yawn Yin Iron. Yawn.

Jiang Fengmian addresses Lan Xichen as Lan Gongzi, which is adorable, since he is a big boy to everyone else. His family calls him Xichen and other people call him Zewu-Jun.

Farewell and Fuck You

The three Jiang kids come to say goodbye.

Lan Quiren says goodbye with a heap of criticism for Wei Wuxian and the horse he rode in on, and Jiang Fengmian basically says, yep, that’s what he’s like, all right.

Good thing Wei Ying gets so much verbal abuse at home he doesn’t take it very hard when he finds it in the field.

Wangji doesn’t say goodbye properly, which will be a recurring theme for the two of them.

I don’t know if this is because he has a problem with goodbyes, or is just being a jerk, or because he’s so bad at lying he doesn’t dare talk to Wei Wuxian lest he reveal his travel plans.

Indulgent Dad Continues to be the Worst

Jiang Cheng complains at Wei Wuxian for wanting to say goodbye to Lan Wangji, and WWX says he likes him because he is equal to WWX in fighting, whereas JC sucks. JC hits him tries to hit him--gosh, he DOES suck, comparatively.

Yanli, who has been keeping these boys in line all summer, sighs deeply at her Dad’s tolerance for their hijinks. OP has five brothers and this sibling-hijinks behavior is 100% accurate, except for the part where it is happening at someone else’s house in front of the hosts.

WWX pretending to be Lan Qiren where Lan Wangji can see him doing it, in front of Lan Qiren’s colleague and supposed friend, and just earning a laugh from the patriarch? Good lord. Dad Jiang tolerating this is shocking, particularly in the in-show culture where corporal punishment is as common as tea.

We’ve tried Nothing, and we’re all out of ideas!

Uggghh why are you like this?

Here in the real world, OP uses “positive discipline” with her child, and encourages other parents to consider it, particularly if your child is neuroatypical or asynchronous. That said, JF should be punishing the crap out of both boys for this behavior every time it happens, or should quit being a clan leader. He’s relying on Jiang Yanli to keep them in line while he gets to just be amused by them. And he’s letting Lan Qiren discipline Wei Wuxian instead of doing it himself. He suuuuuuucks.

Lan Wangji watches all of this. Lan Xichen reminds Lan Wangji that without Wei Wuxian, he’s completely fucking miserable. Lan Wangji still doesn’t plan to bring him along on his trip, though.

Time to return to our lives of crushing loneliness

Rabbits

At this same moment when Lan Wangji is staring down the barrel of future loneliness, Wei Wuxian is already deciding to leave the (forbidden) rabbits in Cloud Recesses “In case Lan Zhan gets lonely.” This small decision by Wei Wuxian - breaking the rules of Cloud Recesses for the millionth time - is kinder than he knows. Because what is the job of these rabbits? Let’s have a desaturated flashback.

Lan Zhan spent 3 years in the ice cave. The rabbits kept Lan Yi company in the ice cave. So...did the rabbits sneak in to keep Lan Wangji company in the ice cave as well? I’m going to say yes. By ep 43 they are following him to the gate of Cloud Recesses so they are very attached to him. Well done, Wei Ying.

Where my bitches at? Seriously, our warren needs bitches

(Is Watership Down still a thing people read? If not, just go ahead and assume all of OP’s rabbit jokes are about Watership Down because OP ain’t going to stop making them)

While Wei Wuxian annoys the bunny he has a flashback to the scene that happened 4 minutes earlier. The Untamed editors assume the viewership has the attention span of a goldfish, and I personally appreciate that they understand me so well.

Wei Wuxian figures out that Lan Wangji is going on the road alone, and tells the bunny immediately. The bunny is very concerned.

Writing Prompt: What do next-generation cultivators Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi wish for at lantern-lighting time?

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #wangxian #the untamed gifs #cdrama #chen qing ling #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #my gifs #the untamed spoilers

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razrbladekiss · 3 years

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TYRANTS | Chapter Eight - Angels Or Devils

WORD COUNT: 6.3k

WARNINGS: mentions of death, grief, tig, usual SOA shit

MASTERLIST

Irked, Chibs stuffed his cellphone into the pocket of his cut with a prolonged fuck to accompany the squelch of glass against leather.

He couldn’t get a firm grip on anything this morning.

Jax was at large, Isla and Tig had rolled onto the lot together looking much, much too comfortable, and Gemma was chewing every goddamn soul’s ear off about her son.

To say that he wanted the day to be over—before it had even commenced—was the understatement of the fucking year.

“Where the hell is he?” Clay barked from the front of the garage, turning to eye Isla directly. “You sure you haven’t seen him?”

“If I knew where he was, I would’ve told you by now.” Her retort was just as curt, prompting Tig to tense in his spot beside her.

He twined his hand around her bicep in order to calm her, but it was no use.

“Well somebody must know where he is—“

“You tried callin’ Tara?” Chibs cut the president off, hoping he’d be able to take some of the heat off of his daughter—the one that seemed to get all of Clay’s Jax-fueled frustrations launched atop her these days.

He just glared at the Scot.

“I can swing by his place? Make sure he ain’t there?” Tig offered.

“He isn’t. Wendy would’ve said.”

“Alright,” the sergeant smacked his lips together. “We’re gonna have to go without him, then.”

Isla hummed, agreeing with Tig.

That forced a vexed snarl from Clay, and she wanted to throttle him for being so fucking haughty today.

“What? He has a point. If we wait around for him, then we’re gonna be late and the other Sons will get to the cemetery before us. Jax knows where we’re going, and what time this fucking funeral starts, so just trust that he’ll be there!”

Her outburst was completely uncharacteristic. It was brash and loud, and Clay realized that her emotions were running a hell of a lot higher today than what they usually would have, so he allowed it to pass.

He cut her some slack because that was what she needed. Isla needed to blow off some steam, to raise her voice and yell out her frustrations because she would’ve let them bubble over, otherwise.

Plus, unbeknownst to him, she had started to take the Mirtazapine that had been prescribed to her, and she still didn’t know how to feel about it.

It was odd. Everything about today, was just fucking odd.

“Kids right.” The rasped acknowledgment came from Happy this time, nodding in her direction with that signature stoic expression he was known to host. “Jax wouldn’t miss this.”

“Alright.” Clay waved a hand tersely before gesturing to the sea of Harley-Davidsons parked side-by-side. “You heard ‘em. Let’s go.”

Tig grabbed at her hand as she went to slip away—exactly like she did to him last night—and pulled her toward him.

The moment didn’t go unnoticed by Clay and her father as they mounted their bikes, sharing the same look that’d been meshed with confusion and concern.

“You good now?”

She nodded, using her pointer finger to twist the crucifix that was sat against her neck, feeling a foreign heat prickle against her cheeks because all eyes were on them.

After turning up together today, people had their suspicions, too.

And those suspicions were mostly held by Chibs and the pres, but it was partly unrest because they both knew what Tig had done—though, Chibs wasn’t officially privy to Clay pulling the strings.

He would be, though. In time, he would find out for himself.

“Gemma and Wendy are heading out in the SUV. Are you going too?” He squinted underneath the sun, pulling his sunglasses from the neck of his shirt.

“I am.” Isla smiled, squeezing Tig’s hand. “Ride safe.”

She stood straight—not having to shift onto her toes because her heels provided some more height—and pressed a dulcet kiss to his cheek.

“Please don’t get into another fight today.” She expressed sadly, lightly ghosting her fingertips over the bruise sitting uncomfortably against his cheekbone. “I don’t think I have it in me to take care of you again.”

“I can’t make any promises.” Her lips curled upward, expressing some sort of smile—though, what with the forthcoming event, she didn’t feel too good about it.

But she remained silent, after that.

Isla got into the car without saying a single word.

The lull was of course grim, but stillness was what the three women needed. It was good for them to sit in complete silence—the only sound coming from the din of the car engine and outside of the vehicle—because it allowed them space to think.

She needed to collect her thoughts this morning, especially after what she had learned last night. Isla didn’t want to think that Jax would have flipped on Tig like that, but it was Jax.

He was unpredictable.

Never once had she felt a sense of outrage that she wasn’t sure how to quell whenever thinking of her best friend, but she was beginning to understand just why Clay was so pissed at his rashness lately.

Even if he was acting on instinct—using his conscience to rule his decisions—Jax was still acting recklessly. His desire to do the morally sound thing outweighed the need that his club had for him to carry out the act that would result in the greater good.

And he was right to stop Tig from pulling the trigger on that girl, but Isla was wary of how he had decided to handle it.

“You didn’t call me last night.” Gemma whispered as the car pulled up to the cemetery gates. “You said that you’d call me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Genuinely, she told her. “When I got in I just went straight to bed, but then Tig turned up at my place and he needed my help, and then—“

“You let him stay.” She finished Isla’s sentence with a hum, providing her with an unusually somber glance. “If there’s anything going on between the two of you, then it’s okay—“

“There isn’t.” Isla shot her down, impatiently waiting for the all-clear to leave the vehicle. “He got hurt last night, needed patching up and didn’t wanna go to the clubhouse in case he saw Jax again, and so he came to me. And, because I’m nice, I let him stay the night.”

“Why wouldn’t he wanna see Jax?”

Wendy’s qualm came unexpectedly. She hadn’t thought that the blonde was listening to the little back and forth.

“Because he was the reason that Tig needed his face fixed.” She spat bitterly when Wendy just blinked at her, hoping to God that they’d be able to get outside soon.

Her irritation with the VP was palpable, and Gemma couldn’t help wondering whether Jax’s stunt had a part to play in why she was so galled when his name was brought up before they left the garage.

Regardless, Isla was getting along with it today. For the sake of Opie and his kids, she was putting her hostility aside and paying her respects to Donna the way that she had always been taught to.

“Woah, what a turn out.” Her admiration for the Sons grew with every single member—every Nomad—that she saw riding along the winding road.

Isla moved between Chibs and Tig, holding tightly onto her father’s hand as they walked toward Donna’s casket.

“Still no Jax.” Almost relieved, Tig noted. “Wonder if he’s gonna ride over with Tacoma.”

“Doubt it.” The Scot added. “He woulda followed us. Dunno where the fuck he’s gotten to.”

“He’ll be here.” She promised hopefully, breaking away from the two men—shaking Chibs off when he held on a little bit tighter, not wanting to let her go.

The black dress she’d thrown on was hardly funeral attire, but the tights hugging her legs underneath the cotton made it a bit better.

Tig watched her pad across the grass and toward Opie, trying to sniff back his own tears at the sight of her taking a long-stemmed blue flower, kissing the petals, and placing it atop the coffin.

It was horrible.

“I’m sorry, Ope.” Isla pressed a kiss to her fingers and ghosted it over the wood, feeling her eyes dampen. “Anything you need—anything at all that you can think of for yourself or your mom or the kids—I’m here. Always.”

He couldn’t quite find the words to thank her, but she knew that he was grateful. Opie didn’t have to say anything for Isla to recognize his appreciation for her, for his family, and for everybody that turned out today.

Jax wasn’t there, though. Not yet.

And, perhaps, Isla being at his side during a time of such harrowing distress was her way of trying to comfort him because his best friend was nowhere to be seen. But she would’ve done it for anybody.

She just wished that it wasn’t Opie.

“I love you…So much.” She whispered through a smile when more people began to filter in, backing away to sit beside Gemma and in front of Tig.

The cool metal of his rings were against her shoulder in an instant, anchoring her back to earth after floating much, much too high above the ground.

She was in a distorted haze, so to speak. Isla’s head wasn’t particularly in the right place today, and it could’ve been down to a multitude of things—but she wanted to simply pin it on her grief.

Chibs saw the way she gnawed into her bottom lip, the way she continually pulled Diane’s crucifix across the golden chain as means of comfort—or, maybe, it was just out of remorse.

He noticed that his daughter—his little girl—peered at Opie’s children sitting beside their grandmother as they said goodbye to the woman that brought them into the world.

He wondered if they understood the weight of it all. They were so young, so impressionable, so innocent, and he saw a lot of Isla in those two kids.

The dull throb of Isla’s heart almost slowed to a halt when the funeral commenced, and Jax was still completely out of sight. Juice held his cut while he stood beside Tara, feeling his chest tighten.

It was difficult to understand just why Jackson Teller didn’t show for such an important moment in Opie’s life.

“I can’t believe him.” Tig hissed out in a whisper, completely ruffled. Isla looked up at the man behind her, holding a dainty hand on top of his. “I can’t fucking believe him.”

He didn’t know what to say. Clay didn’t, either. As he stood beside his Sgt. At Arms and peered down at the disheveled blonde, Clay Morrow struggled to find the words to elucidate his disdain for the lack of action from his step-son.

Donna was family. Opie was family. Family was meant to be there for one another, not purposely ignoring such a pivotal event.

“He’ll be here.” Isla repeated her promise, melting into her space as Tig leant over to kiss the top of her head.

Her eyes glazed over instantaneously, coercing her to turn away before she broke down.

But she leaned backward into his embrace, and watched the ceremony commence.

And it only took a handful of moments for her mood to perk up—as much as it could have under the circumstances—but she was conceivably happier at the sight before her.

“I told you.” She mumbled. She refused to let up her grip on Tig, though, holding onto him firmer now.

It was comfortable. He was comfortable.

“What the fuck…”

Jax looked like hell. Still wearing last night’s clothes—still bloodied and bruised from his scuffle—he sauntered over the grass and made a beeline for Tara.

Isla’s throat hitched.

“Did you do that to him?” She mumbled in reference to the slit in his lip, craning her neck to eye the blue-eyed man.

“Yeah, probably.”

She just shook her head with a tiny smirk, shifting her focus back to the asshole that was taking his sweet fucking time.

It didn’t upset her as much as she thought that it would’ve, watching him go back to her like that. If anything, she was glad that they had managed to reconcile because she made him happy.

But, for a reason unbeknownst to herself, she felt bad for Wendy.

To watch the father of her newborn take his cut from a woman that’d only been back in his life for five minutes, to hold and kiss her in front of everyone, was something she shouldn’t have had to witness today.

They weren’t together, but she knew how that was bound to hurt—to sting and incapacitate her because it was all still so fucking raw.

Poor Wendy.

He took one of the flowers away from the sparse pile, holding it to his lips, and placed it atop Donna’s casket.

Jax glared over his shoulder, shooting the two guilt-ridden men a look that read fury. He made sure that Isla wasn’t looking at him when he did that, though.

He refused to look at her.

And he didn’t stay, either. He paid his respects for all of thirty seconds before stalking away, and leaving the most egregious of tastes on the tip of each tongue.

The funeral flew by, after that.

Before Isla knew it, she was dismounting Tig’s bike outside of T M—again—and stumbling over her heels when she couldn’t quite find her footing. She’d been in a world of her own for the last fifteen minutes.

“You want me to get you a beer?” She asked, handing him her helmet. “Or did you want some of that wine you like?”

He snorted at her taunt, taking it from her. “Beer—but none of that shit Bobby drinks.”

Isla chuckled, backing away from the bike and Tig.

“You want a drink, too?” She asked Clay when he strode over, hands in his pockets.

He nodded, waiting for her to slip out of sight before turning his attention to his Sergeant.

“What’s going on with you two?” Clay asked him accusingly, snatching Tig’s attention from the blonde who was ambling into the clubhouse.

He waved the pres off, lighting a cigarette. “Nothing, man. She’s just been helpin’ me out—“

“That’s what you’re calling it now, huh?”

“That’s what it is.” Tig shrugged, exhaling the smoke from his nostrils. “Y’know what she’s like. She sees someone that needs patchin’ up, and she does it. That’s all.”

Unconvinced, Clay leaned closer to him—striving for the little moment to go unnoticed by those that shrouded the lot. Jax and Tara, for one.

“That’s Chibs’s kid. You be careful.”

“Ain’t nothing to be careful about, brother.” Tig ground his lips together, squinting upward as he rested against his bike. “We’re just friends.”

“You stayed the night with her.”

“Yeah—“

“Twice.”

“Clay—“

“In the same fucking bed!” He snapped, running a hand over his face.

His desire to protect the women in his life—to assert the dominance he had, or his authority—was remarkably overbearing at the best of times.

Isla and Gemma didn’t particularly need to be coddled the way that they’d always been at the hands of Clay Morrow and his club, but they were.

And the thought of his sleaziest, loathsome, savage brother getting closer and closer to that woman churned his stomach. Because he knew what Tig was capable of—what he did—and would be damned if anything were to happen to her at the hands of Tig fucking Trager.

Chibs would kill him, too.

“Nothing happened, nothing’s currently happening, and nothing will happen.” He guaranteed. “Clay, I swear.”

“Alright.” Dubious, the older man responded. “But, if there is, then you be careful. Jax is onto us, and it’s only a matter of time before Isla puts two and two together—‘cuz she ain’t stupid.”

Be careful. Be careful. Be careful.

How about you shut the fuck up?

“I know she isn’t.” Almost irked that Clay would assume he thought that, he retorted. “But she’s got shit going on too, man, I don’t think she’s gonna be focusing on this right now so you don’t gotta worry.”

“Alright.” Clay repeated himself.

He didn’t think that his right-hand was telling him the truth, but he couldn’t exactly do anything about that until an issue arose.

What he did know, though, was that Tig Trager would’ve had some serious hell to pay if he had ignited something with Isla right now.

Or ever, really.

“Keep Jax away from her.” He told Clay, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “She’s pissed at him for what he did to me last night.”

“What’d he do?”

Tig pointed at the cuts on his cheek, grimacing. “She’s fucked off, and if they talk she’s probably gonna throw something at him.”

“Eh. Let her.” Clay waved him off, hastily shutting himself up when he heeded her heels clicking across the gravel toward them. “He needs to be humbled sometimes.”

The rivalry between the two had only intensified since Abel was born and Jax’s priorities shifted from the club.

His family came first. His biological family came first.

And maybe Clay didn’t understand the implications and responsibilities that came along with fatherhood because he’d never had that bestowed upon him, but Jax did.

He knew that he had to provide for his kid, for the one being that was solely dependent on him, and he would never compromise or jeopardize that.

Things weren’t going to be made easy for the man, however.

“Budweiser for you.” Isla smiled, handing a bottle to Tig. She passed one to Clay, holding onto it a little firmer as she offered it to him. “And one for you—but you need to take this, and go see your wife.”

“Why?” Hesitantly, he accepted the alcohol.

Isla shrugged. “She just wants to see you. Seems important.”

“Shit.” Clay hissed, taking a long swig before striding away.

She watched him stamp toward the clubhouse, heeding the change in his mood, and wondered why Gemma was so determined to talk to him at that specific moment.

It could’ve been anything with that woman, really. It could’ve been something so minor, completely insignificant, that Gemma had to get off her chest.

Or it could’ve been something along the lines of elucidating the bone-crushing lament that she held for both her husband and Tig.

Whatever it was, however, Clay wasn’t excited to face her.

“What’d he chew your ear off about?” Isla asked, struggling to open her beer. She sighed, suddenly remembering why she loved her screw-top bottles of wine so much.

“Pass it to me.” Tig took it from her, using his own bottle cap to pop hers off. He chuckled at her grimace, handing it back.

“Thanks.” She groaned, lifting it upward. “So…What did Clay want?”

Budweiser blanketed Tig’s tongue and lips as he pulled the drink away from his mouth, using the back of his hand to rub at the excess.

Quickly, he wondered whether lying to Isla—fabricating the truth and downplaying his superior’s concern—was in his best interest.

But she was perceptive. There was no doubt that she’d realize he was lying to her.

“He thinks that something is going on between us.”

She rolled her eyes, taking a pull.

“What?” A little nervous—on edge, perhaps—Tig asked her. “Did you already know that he felt that way?”

“No.” Instantly, she retorted. “I didn’t know about Clay, but Gemma feels the same. D’ya think they’ve talked?”

“Oh, definitely.” With a small glower, he told her.

They absolutely talked about the two, and that was what worried Tig.

There was nothing wrong with them colluding against the pair, as a rule. He wasn’t offended at the thought, he felt quite honored actually.

But it was the connotation that came alongside those conspiracies. The idea that Tig was only so friendly—so supportive and loving—toward Isla because he wanted one thing from her.

And, really, Tig hadn’t pondered that thought before. Well, not before last night, anyway.

For the first time—possibly ever—sex wasn’t on Tig’s agenda with Isla. Enticing her, breaking her heart, and sending her on her way was not something he wanted.

But Tig was renowned for that, wasn’t he? He was known for being a hapless bachelor. A man whose priorities were neither here nor there.

Everyone just expected that. They saw him with her, and came to that one conclusion.

Maybe Isla expected it a little bit, too. Because she’d known him long enough to understand the kind of man that he was—or had the propensity to be—and she could hardly lie and say that this version of Tig didn’t confuse her.

He’d always been the same with her, though. Perhaps that’d been the difference between every woman that entered and left his life, and Isla Telford.

He wasn’t interested in her. Like that.

“Does that bother you?” With an almost undetectable twinge of hurt, Isla asked.

As if it was a basic instinct, Tig shook his head. “Nah. They talk shit all the time. Stuff like that don’t bother me.”

She nodded, refusing to add anything else. Isla sipped her beer, hoping that the ground would open up and swallow her fucking whole.

There wasn’t a single word in the English language that’d ascribe her feeling at that precise time, but ashamed was possibly the closest she could’ve gotten.

And, still, that was a little bit further off the mark than what she would’ve liked. Because she wasn’t entirely ashamed for reacting the way that she had, more so the way that she fucking felt.

Isla’s heart took a blow when Tig told her that.

For why, though? She wasn’t sure.

It might’ve been the nonchalant expression. The complete colorless response that stirred a foreign emotion within her—striking hard against her chest.

Or, it might’ve been what he had said. It was such a casual proclamation. Something that didn’t mean anything, but everything simultaneously.

She didn’t feel anything for Tig. She didn’t particularly want to feel anything for him, either, but that hurt. A lot.

“Same, to be honest.” She lied, forcing her lips upward in a smile. “Gemma is always on my case about this sorta thing. But I just let it go over my head.”

“Always?”

“Yup. Always.” Isla mentioned around the protruding lump in her throat. “If she’s not talking about me and you—like there is a me and you—she’s talking about me and Jax. And if it isn’t that, she’s bitching about Wendy, or Tara, or just anything she can think of.”

Like there is a me and you.

Tig sniffed a little, nodding. He didn’t want Isla to think that bothered him, but it did. A bit, anyway.

“She’s so overbearing, sometimes.” Genuinely slumped, she stated. Isla leaned against the railing beside Tig’s bike, finally looking at him. “Don’t tell her I said that?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He chuckled, taking another swig. “I’d never purposely get you into shit with your mother—“

“She’s not my mother.” Her eyes rolled. “She acts like it, and I love her like one, but she is not my mother.”

Tig knew. He knew all too well just how Isla felt about that, and he wasn’t exactly sure why he said that to her, today.

Gemma was the best woman she knew and the one that, strangely, brought her all of the comfort and prosperity that she’d craved.

But she wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t close to being Diane, and maybe the comparison between the pair hurt a little. Because Gemma Teller-Morrow was nothing like Diane Telford—and the sooner everybody knew that, the sooner Isla could rest.

“I feel bad talking shit about her. All she’s done is help me.”

“And parent you.” He reminded her, tipping his bottle upward. “She parents all of us, but what I mean is she treats you like a kid sometimes. Jax, too.”

“Yeah. I know.” Peeved, she conceded. “But, what can I do? if I wanna keep her around—keep having her so close to me—then, I guess I’ve gotta make a few sacrifices. And, I mean, it’s not all bad.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not. I’m glad that she’s the woman that took a shine to me. If Luann ended up being the one…”

Tig smirked, sizing her up. “You’d probably be doing porn right now.”

“Exactly.” Without shame—not even feeling slightly bashful at the glance she was receiving—she said. “I don’t think I’d hate doing porn, but I don’t think SAMCRO would be thrilled.”

“Absolutely not. Chibs would kill you, for one.”

“And Gemma.”

“Clay, too.” Tig added, withering at the thought.

“What about you?” A little too bold, she asked.

Though their relationship was of the lighthearted nature, Isla wasn’t certain that the habitual riposte was a thing as of late. His response would probably jar her, she thought.

“I wouldn’t hate it.”

She halted, blushing at his words. Her ears prickled with heat, too.

“It’d be hot.” He shrugged, putting his empty bottle against the ground. “I’m sure Juice would love it, too—“

“Oh, get fucked.” She snorted a laugh, throwing the red cap at his chest as he got to his feet. It bounced off the fabric of his shirt, coercing a chuckle from Tig.

“It was only one time.” He taunted, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “That’s still one more time than most chicks ‘round here.”

“He wasn’t awful.” Isla shrugged. “He knew what he was doing, and I had fun. But, like, he hasn’t got any hair…”

“Hair?” Tig began to gesture downward, chuckling when she grabbed his hands to stop him.

“I don’t mean that. I mean hair on his head, Tig.” She calmed her laughter, letting go of him. “I like to tug on it, I guess.”

It felt somewhat illegal, obtaining this information from her.

He already knew that she was a sex fiend, that she liked it rough, and now that she had some kind of hair-pulling kink.

Tig’s chest tightened. So did his pants.

“Duly noted.” Like usual, he quipped. Tig motioned for Isla to head inside with him when he heeded things heating up between Jax and Tara.

She, as always, made a mental note to grill her friend later. Or, maybe, her friends. Because she and Tara were on that level, now, and she felt that things could’ve sailed smoothly between herself and the doctor.

Isla just hoped that she’d open up to her.

“Are you gonna talk to him?” He asked, reading her fucking mind. “I know that you two talk a lot.”

“Probably.” Her shrug was insouciant. “But I’ll leave it a while, I think. Leave the dust to settle over before I approach either one of them.”

Tig’s heart began to thrash. It battered viciously within the constraints of his chest, thumping at an unsteady rhythm the more Isla babbled on as they neared the clubhouse.

It was maiming him, having to keep this to himself.

He knew that concealing it—the weight of it all—was for the best. It’d guarantee peace and conformity within the club and Isla’s life, but it was also a crippling guilt that not even Tig was sure he’d be able to hold forever.

Clay was heartless, though. The nefarious leader hadn’t a single problem with lying through his fucking teeth, and Tig was more than aware that Clay would continue the charade if and when he decided that he could no longer.

He supposed he could thank him for that.

But, then again, he was also the reason that Tig Trager had found himself tangled within yet another web of lethal falsehoods. Thanking Clay was the very last thing that he wanted to do.

“Oh, shit.” Isla stated through partially gritted teeth. She gestured to her father and Happy’s scorned glares. “Why do I keep getting this fucking look from everyone?”

“It’s not you. It’s me.” He snorted another laugh, taking her hand and walking her further into the room after she stopped completely dead.

Really, Donna’s wake was as vibrant as it could’ve been and nobody—aside from Isla’s old man and the Tacoma Nomad—had their sights set on the Sergeant and Chibs’s daughter.

The atmosphere was strangely spirited, hearty and animated as everybody came together to celebrate the life of Opie’s wife…The way that they always had.

But Isla was still on tenterhooks. She loathed the thought of her dad disapproving of her, today, but she didn’t desire the castigation that would’ve come hand in hand with her need to talk to him.

“Tequila?”

“I’ll get back to you on that one.” She smiled at Tig, making a beeline for the bar when she saw Kip. He followed her.

“You’re turning down free alcohol?”

Isla scoffed. “It might be free, but the effects of it would cost me my fucking reputation here.”

Tig’s eyebrows raised. “How so? You don’t not drink, Isla.”

“I know.” Her lips pursed, watching Kip pop the caps off of six beers. “But I never drink tequila. It makes me…uh…it makes me feel a little hot—“

“Tequila turns you on, is what you’re saying.”

“Well, yeah.” A crimson blush bled over her cheeks, her nose, and even across her forehead as her entire face burned red. “It’s no big deal. Just something I discovered after getting black-out drunk when I’d barely turned twenty-one.”

If Tig wasn’t feeling aroused before, then he definitely was at her admission. He had to think of anything to throw his brain off of that mental image.

“I don’t tend to drink the strong stuff.”

“Unless it’s whiskey.”

She pointed with a smile, nodding her head. “That’s right—“

“Hey, what did you want?” Kip interrupted sheepishly, gesturing to the half-empty bottle she had between her fingertips. “Another Bud?”

“Yes, please.” Again, she smiled.

“Same for you?”

Tig nodded.

“Kip,” she began, “and you take something, too. You’ve dealt with these assholes for long enough, now. Take a break. I’ll man the bar if you’d like.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that—Gemma’ll kill me—“

“With all due respect, fuck Gemma.” She heard Tig chuckle beside her, shrugging when the prospect glanced at the pair nervously. “She won’t say anything if I tell her that I’m the one that told you to take ten minutes away from the bar.”

“Yeah.” He backed her up, grinning. “She never gets mad at Isla.”

It was completely uncharacteristic of him. But she brought something out from the very chasms of Tig Trager’s cold, black heart, and he lauded that.

Not many people had managed to scrape beneath the surface that way, not even Colleen.

God.

Tig shook himself out of the daze he’d slipped into, watching Isla and Kip trade places as she stepped behind the bar, and he made a beeline for a stool.

He’d been standing for a while, now.

“Are you gonna join me behind here?” She asked, drawing Tig’s attention back to her. Isla held up another bottle for him, twinkling underneath the yellowed light above the liquor shelves.

She looked, almost, angelic.

“Sack—“ Tig grabbed at his arm when he tried to leave his seat, feeling the prospect go rigid under his grip.

Isla’s eyebrows bunched together.

“Take two beers for Hap and Chibs.” He released the grey shirt, grinning as he saw the man sweat—clearly anticipating something more than just doing a simple favor.

“Oh, sure.” Kip breathed a sigh of relief, taking the two bottles that Isla had slid toward him. “That all?”

“Yep.” She added, gesturing for him to get on his way and enjoy the break that he’d been appointed.

He headed toward the two men beside the pool table, handing them their beers and pointing toward Tig. He waved with a small smile—hoping to come off as genuine, rather than scheming.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Giving the two men a couple of beers to throw them off the scent—or, at least, to distract them from making a fuss—was just a ploy to defer attention from the two nestled amongst the alcohol.

And it seemed to work, too.

As Tig walked around the bar to join her on the other side, Isla popped a few bottle caps, mixed a few drinks, and talked to every person that stopped off in front of the oak, without being so much as glanced at by her father.

Gemma hadn’t noticed the change, either.

“You want anything?” She asked Tig, mindlessly pouring a glass of whiskey for one of the Tacoma guys. “Some tequila?”

Indifferently, he shrugged.

“Okay, well that was helpful.”

“Alright,” he chuckled, grabbing two shot glasses, “I’ll take one, if you do, too.”

“Tig.”

“Isla.” His tone was deriding, though she couldn’t help but smile.

She pushed the whiskey toward the unfamiliar Son, thanking him for showing his face today, and turned her attention back to Tig.

In the thirty seconds in which her focus had been diverted, he’d poured two shots, grabbed some salt, and two lime wedges from underneath the counter.

She swallowed thickly, hoping to god she’d be able to play off the effects of that liquor.

Because it was only the one, wasn’t it? She was only going to have one single shot of tequila and, surely, that wasn’t enough to intoxicate her…

Right?

“Aw, fuck.” She slurred, pushing the empty bottle aside. “I really—“ she hiccuped. “I really need to stop drinking.”

“Why?” Just as garbled, he responded.

“‘Cuz I feel like I’m gonna puke.” She snorted a laugh, pushing all of the limes strewn across the redwood into the bin. “And my breath stinks of tequila.”

He waved her off, looking at his chest as he wiped the alcohol from his leathers. “Tequila don’t smell that bad.”

Isla blushed, though she fished around her purse for some gum, regardless.

And her heart fucking plummeted to the pit of her stomach when she noticed the bottle of antidepressants in the smaller compartment, suddenly realizing that her excessive alcohol consumption tonight was for sure going to mess with her.

Shit.

“Water?” He asked, holding two empty glasses. He heeded the dread in her expression, how she looked like she’d seen a fucking ghost.

“Please.”

Tig handed her one of the glasses, slinging his free arm over her shoulder—mainly in an attempt to stabilize her—and padded over to the kitchen.

The clubhouse was a little more sparse, now. Jax and Tara sat alongside Juice, Chibs, and Happy, meanwhile Gemma and Clay were meters apart from one another.

But nobody seemed to notice the lack of manpower behind that bar, which was a wonderful thing. Because Isla feared that she might’ve collapsed had she not hydrated herself.

She feared that she might’ve said, or done, something that she might’ve regretted, too.

Tequila did make her feel “hot”, after all.

“God, I need this so bad.” She practically moaned, twisting the cold water tap, haphazardly holding her glass underneath it.

Isla didn’t even shut the water off, she just chugged that slightly lukewarm—strangely beautiful—liquid like her life depended on it.

“Fuck.” She gasped for air, putting her glass atop the draining board. “Oh my god, that was so fucking good.”

Tig watched in awe.

As droplets of water trickled from her lips, and chin, to her chest, Tig subtly groaned to himself. He stifled a reaction, however.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hell yeah.” She nodded.

Tig held her glass underneath the tap again, filling it half way. “You want some more?”

Isla took it from him, cocking her head a little when he didn’t let go of the glass. “What?”

“How’d that tequila make you feel?”

“What?” She repeated herself, forgetting about what she told him earlier. “Oh…”

“How’d it make you feel?” He pressed, releasing his grip though lifting his hand to brush his thumb underneath her glossy lips.

“Good.” Isla stumbled over her words, watching his eyes flick over her features. She gulped, though she put the glass straight back down. “Really, really good.”

Tig jolted, though relaxed when she let her hands rest against his shoulders. He hadn’t expected this today. Or ever, really.

“How good is really really good?” He asked, twisting a couple of ringed fingers through long, loose curls.

Her heart was no longer sinking to the pit of her stomach, but fluttering wildly within her palpitating chest.

“Pretty good.”

“Right.” He caught her bluff, nodding. “I could think of something that’d make you feel really, really, really good, y’know?”

“You think?” Isla leaned into him when a hand pressed into the small of her back, and the other holding onto the nape of her neck. She shivered. “Because I think you could.”

Confidently, he bobbed his head. “Oh, I could.”

She was a bundle of nerves, frankly. Tig was so nonchalant, so breezy, and she was just so fucking fraught.

But he didn’t seem to notice—or care—while he surveyed her face, grinding his lips together in anticipation. He lowered his head a little to meet her height, though she still stood on her toes.

“Make me feel really good, Tig.” She whispered, the citrusy scent of tequila permeating his senses, quickening the rate of his pulse.

Isla’s sweet, soft lips ghosted over his own as she exuded a satisfied sigh, loosening up at the feeling of their noses brushing over one another.

It was so gentle. She hasn’t expected a man of such stature, such hunger and animosity, to be capable of something so soothing.

An unmistakable burst of desire started to seep through her, humming against his lips as she opted to wrap both arms around his neck while he backed her up against the sink.

With the support against her lower back, Isla wound a leg around his waist as the kiss amplified and Tig began to grind his hips into her whilst simultaneously moaning.

She didn’t know how badly she needed this tonight.

Pink nails wound into his unruly curls, mindlessly nudging through the hair—pushing him to hasten. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, then. Lauding the flavor of tequila and cigarettes.

But Isla promptly froze at the sound of footsteps—heels, precisely—clicking across the tile.

“Tig, wait.” She jerked her head a little, urging him to stop. “I can hear Gemma—“

“You can see her, too.” The matriarch stated, rounding the corner and immediately coming into Isla’s line of sight.

Both Tig and the blonde shifted to look at her.

“Am I interrupting something?”

#tig trager #tig trager x oc #tig trager fic #tig trager fanfiction #sons of anarchy fic #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy fandom #sons of anarchy #jax teller #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller x oc

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plush-rabbit · 4 years

Text

SFW Alphabet - Shigaraki Tomura

A: Affection (How affectionate are they with a s/o?)

Tomura isn’t very affectionate. He’s cold and distant; with the only sign that he wants you near him is when knees and shoulders touch. However, once he receives affection from you, he relishes in it. He’s nuzzling into you, his lips ghosting over your exposed skin and he just wants to lay there with you for as long as he can. His affection will always be a silent plea for you to start it.

B: Breath (What could their s/o do to take their breath away?)

If you touch him of your own accord, he’s freezing in place with halted breath as you run your hands over him. There’s hesitation to touch you, always afraid that he’ll slip and put all five fingers on you, a mistake he’s not willing to take chances with. But when touch him, going into him with full acceptance and pressing your lips against his, he’s melting and forgetting how to breathe.

C: Cuddling (Do they cuddle? If they do, how and when do they cuddle?)

He’s scared to cuddle. He doesn’t want to risk accidently decaying you and will only cuddle if you both are awake- less of a chance for hands to accidentally meet. Once he has control over his quirk, there’s always a chance you’ll fall asleep with limbs entangled and hands meeting. He’s still apprehensive about it but he has confidence in himself and you have confidence in him. The most used position is when you both are facing each other where a head is buried in a chest and lips are pressed against a temple.

D: Dream (What do they dream of doing with their s/o?)

Before he gained control of his quirk, his main wish was to touch you. He wanted to feel your hand in his and intertwine fingers and trace your features. He wanted to touch you without fear. After gaining control of his quirk, his only dream is to have you by his side as he achieves his goal.

E: Effort (How much effort do they put into a relationship?)

He isn’t used to being in a relationship so he doesn’t put that much effort into it. He usually gets annoyed if you express distaste in his lack of effort. However, if it proves to be a strain, he’s willing to try to put effort into it and will take advice from the internet or otome games. He doesn’t want you to leave him, he’s willing to try even if it isn’t his usual cup of tea.

F: Fear (What do they do if their s/o is scared? How do they handle it?)

He flicks them in the forehead and will walk them away from whatever they’re scared of (spiders, bugs, etc.) If you’re scared by the storm, he lets you play co-op with him and will do anything else he can to try to distract you. If it’s a fear that dwells more on personal issues, he’s not that good at dealing with them but he’ll listen to you rant and just try to help you calm down. He’s oddly really good at helping you get distracted. He claims he can’t get shit done if you’re whimpering but long after you’ve calmed down, he’s still with you.

G: Gifts (What type of gifts do they give their s/o? Do they want a gift in return?)

In the beginning if the relationship, he hardly gives you any gifts. The only gifts that he’ll give you are when he accidentally breaks something of yours and it’s replaced the next day. As the League rises in the ranks, the gifts will become more, proper things that you’ve expressed wanting before. He doesn’t expect gifts back but he’s always delighted when he does; he watches over them and protects them with his life.

H: Hugs (Do they hug their s/o? How often?)

He doesn’t hug you too often, only moving to stand closer to you, shoulders bumping and a pinky outstretched towards you. But as time goes on, he seeks for your affection and will nudge you, his silent ask for a hug. His hugs are stiff in the beginning, so still you swear he isn’t breathing but as the affection increases, so do his hugs. He’s wrapping his arms tight around you and burying his head into the curve of your neck and he’s relaxed.

I: Intimacy (How romantic are they? Do they have problems with intimacy?)

He isn’t very romantic. Romance with him is a step above friendship and while he will go up to you to a plant a kiss he won’t be there with flowers and a box of chocolates. Intimacy is a hard thing for him to grasp,

J: Jealous (Do they get jealous? How do they act when jealous?)

He is easily jealous. You belong to him, you’re dating him and while he does have faith that you won’t cheat on him, he can’t stop the feeling from overtaking him. He’s a lot rougher when he’s jealous. He’s pulling you into a bruising kiss, hands that clutch the fabric of your shirt and if looks could kill, the person flirting with you would be dead a hundred times over. The person has five seconds to walk away and if they don’t, his fingers are digging into his face. It’s a threat for all others in the room that you’re off limits.

K: Kiss (Are they a good kisser? Do they like to kiss? How often do they try to kiss you?)

He is a harsh kisser- cracked lips that are scarred are pressed against yours- slowly molding into a more passionate kiss. He loves to kiss you, it’s his chance to show you how much he cares for you without saying it. He will always kiss you when he gets the chance. He’s less likely to do it in public, but he won’t pull away if you insinuate it.

L: Love (When do they say they love you? How often do they say it? Do they prefer to say or show it?)

Tomura says the l-word far into the relationship, eyes that stare deep in yours and the hint of a smile threatening to spill as he tells you that he loves you. He doesn’t say it often, you’re the one who tells him and he nods in affirmation. He prefers to show his love to you. If you want someone to disappear, he’s on it, you want a new controller, a store is getting ransacked that night. Often times, his love is shown to you with his vulnerability.

M: Marriage (Do they want to get married? If so, what kind of ceremony?)

He doesn’t want to get married. He sees it as a waste since he knows that he loves you and that you love him. You two have been together through thick and thin and he’s aware that you’re not going to leave him.

N: Night Out (What type of dates do they like to go on? How often do they like to go on them?)

Date nights are nights. Given who he is, you two can’t exactly go to a movie theater or take a walk in the park so regular nights where you two are alone are often considered date nights. You’ll bring home take out and watch movies or watch him play a game, often playing together and just stay together. He feels a tad annoyed that he can’t go out with you but you always claim that you’re happy at home with him and you prefer to be indoors anyways.

O: Out of the Ordinary (What’s something they don’t normally do with/for their s/o?)

He hardly expresses his concerns with you. You’ll try to ease him into sharing with you, claiming that it’s what partners do and that you’re with him and you accept every part of him and his life. He still can’t bring himself to go to you and express his emotions the way you can. He tells you it’s not a big deal- that it concerns stuff he doesn’t want to put on you but he still lets you massage his scalp and press gentle kisses to him when he’s had a difficult day.

P: Playful (Are they playful in a relationship? If so, how do they play around/mess with their s/o?)

While he’s serious in the beginning, he becomes more playful as the relationship progresses. He teases you a lot more, will engage with banter and snicker when you whine and call him mean.

Q: Questions (Do they ask their s/o their opinion on things? Do they share theirs?)

He won’t ask for your opinion, he doesn’t really care but if you voice it, he’s more likely to change his view on whatever it was. He will voice his opinion before you can even open your mouth.

R: Random (How spontaneous is their relationship? Do they do things on the spot or plan ahead?)

The relationship is spontaneous. He shows up to your door in the middle of the night or breaks in through a window and will just shake you awake. If he has a spare second, he’s using it on you. Things with him just happen and you just have to go with it. He’ll respect your wishes if you just want to sleep while he’s there or if you rather not go out anywhere but he will complain for a bit.

S: Sleep (How do they sleep with their s/o?)

He will avoid sleeping with you in the beginning. You truly mean a lot to him and he can’t risk losing you because you wanted to sleep in the same bed with him. It’s a slow progression when he starts to sleep you, back facing you to a body that sleeps still, to facing towards you and eventually cuddling to sleep.

T: Trust (How much do they trust their s/o?)

He will not trust you in the beginning of the relationship, he’ll shun you out and lie but once he realizes you’re there to stay, he will place his entire trust in you. He will trust to go to you with more of the League’s minor plans, for his own personal reasons. He’d never say it but he’d place his life in your hands.

U: Unique (What makes them unique as an s/o?)

Tomura is an obsessive lover. Growing up in his conditions where he had no contact with anyone his age and being stunted emotionally, he grows to be obsessed with you, always wanting you by his side and needing to know if you’re safe. Once he’s able to touch you, he’s holding onto you, always a hand on you and keeping you close to him.

V: Vulnerable (How long until they can be vulnerable around their s/o? What are they like in this state?)

You’re in it for the long run if you want him to be vulnerable. He’s already a person who wants to stick close by you, but when he’s vulnerable you see a side of him you haven’t seen before. He’s pressed against you and hiding his face, he’ll make noises of disapproval if you try to shift in fear that you’re going to leave. He’s needy to new extent, and he’s quiet, only wanting you to touch him.

W: Wild Card (Random headcanon)

You are his haven. He may not be the most vocal about how much you really mean to him, but you are the best thing he’s had in his life. He goes to you for comfort, for reassurance, for praise, for love. You are the one thing that calms him down without the additional feeling of sickness.

X: X-Ray (What would they do if their s/o got injured?)

If you got hurt on your own accord he’s telling you to be more careful and treating you a tad softer depending on your level of injury. However, if someone were to hurt you, it’s an immediate death, hands over the person’s face and watching them disintegrate. He’s silent and cold, even to you, the only indication that he cares is that he doesn’t allow you to leave the bed no matter the level of injury, he’s keeping watch on at all times.

Y: Yuck (Do they have any pet peeves about their s/o? Are there any habits that might bother their s/o?)

He dislikes that you want to celebrate holidays. He doesn’t see the need and finds it tedious, it’s so much work for one day and you usually want him to just wait and relax for a second but he doesn’t have time to relax. You want to show your love a little bit more during those days and want him to just put a little effort but he sees it as a dumb holiday(s) and will turn his nose up.

As for something that bothers you, he’s dismissive and waves off your concerns. He will run himself ragged, resting once his body can’t handle to stay up any longer and you want to ease a bit of his workload, but he won’t let you get anywhere near the League if he can help it. He’ll say he’s fine and that’s final.

Z: Zeal (Are they passionate as a s/o? Do they want or like passion?)

While he may not be the most affectionate type, he’s very passionate about the relationship and he shows it through his actions. He presses heated kisses against you, pressing his body against yours and littering your body with the ghost of his lips. He doesn’t necessarily need passion, but when it’s given to him, he needs it more than he needs air- he needs to get drunk off of it and commit your touch to memory.

#shigaraki headcanons #shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura headcanons #bnha #bnha headcanons #he's so hard to write for #like damn #sfw alphabet #let me know if you guys like the new alphabet better or the old one #for like both things #um #yeah thats about it #bye

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gellavonhamster · 3 years

Text

cold weapons

Suicide Squad (2016) || Captain Boomerang/Katana || post-canon

ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2017 but I didn't attempt to translate it into English back then.

“So, what do you think of them?” Colonel Flag asks.

Tatsu puts the folder containing the rap sheet of Waylon Jones, better known as Killer Croc, on top of three other folders.

“They’re complicated,” she replies after giving it some thought.

The materials in these folders could have formed her first impression about the members of Task Force X – or, as Lawton has aptly put it, the Suicide Squad. Could have, but did not, because they were given their first task earlier than expected. Which is why she doesn’t say “villains” or “scoundrels” or “worst team imaginable” – her first impression of them was formed in combat, and then in an empty bar in Midway City where they all drank together thinking it may be the last drink in their lives. She remembers all of this and says ‘complicated’.

“Very tactful of you,” the colonel chuckles. Then again, what kind of colonel is he now – an unwashed shirt, black circles under the eyes. Just another guy struggling with a deluge of work, a hard-hearted boss, and a troubled relationship with his girlfriend. “But yeah, they definitely aren’t simple,” continues Rick Flag, one of her few friends in the country that will never become her home, and Tatsu cannot suppress a tired smile.

“You like them.”

“They’re… tolerable,” Rick admits, and takes another sip of coffee. Lately he seems to be living only on coffee and whiskey and the verb “must” and (so Tatsu supposes, although they don’t talk about that) the hope that June Moone, who still hasn’t fully recovered from all the horrors she’s been through, will be all right – and will stop isolating herself and avoiding him. These means for not letting yourself just fall down and never get up are far from being reliable, but Tatsu herself lives mostly on revenge and duty and, for that matter, whiskey as well, to a certain degree, so it’s not for her to judge. “Most of them, at least. All of them minus the Australian.”

“At least he’s a good fighter,” Tatsu points out. This is the only good thing she can say about Captain Boomerang with full confidence.

“He’s not cut out for teamwork.”

“When we were fighting the Enchantress, it didn’t look to me like that.”

She does not put much meaning into these words. It’s just that at some point Captain Boomerang saved her, and she saved him – and good thing they’re even, because the last thing she needs is to owe a favour to someone so incompatible with the very concept of duty. She could have said much about the man who tried to escape at the very beginning of the mission and got a teammate killed (and for some reason stood up for El Diablo when Harley Quinn lashed out at him at the bar, and for some reason came back before the battle after trying to desert), but the only thing she’s sure of is that he’s a fine weapon; she can confirm that, being a weapon herself. At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from him.

At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from her, too.

***

It is possible that what she said about Digger Harkness sticks in Rick’s memory, because when the need to comb the area arises during the next mission, he sends the two of them to search through the same building.

“If he gets up to something, do whatever you want to him. No one’s gonna weep for him,” he flings off. This is in the heat of the moment, of course – Boomerang almost got into a fight with Killer Croc on the helicopter over some nonsense. Or rather, it was Croc that almost got into a fight with Boomerang after the latter provoked him. Complicated.

“You heard that, darl?” Boomerang addresses her with a smile so wide as if he hasn’t heard the last remark. “I’m all yours.”

Tatsu looks the other way and pointedly takes her sword out of its sheath – not completely, just a little. No further comments follow, and they part company – Deadshot with Croc, Flag with his team of spec ops, Tatsu with Boomerang – and go on a recce.

In the basement, they discover something that looks like a laboratory – if a place so far from being sanitary may even be called one. All their hopes to move without making a sound crumble as soon as they enter the room: the floor is covered with broken glass. Those who ran the place must have escaped in haste and couldn’t take the entire stock of the serum with them, so they opted to destroy most of it. Tatsu’s attention is immediately drawn to the object on the table in the middle of the room – a metal container with tubes going from it to several smaller vessels. She heads straight for the table, shards crunching underfoot. Boomerang follows her, apparently kicking the largest shards on purpose so that they fly in all directions.

“Looks like a hooch still,” he comments, having come closer, and gives a whistle. “Whoa, fuck, is that blood?”

Compared to the first task of their squad, this one looks almost effortless. Two gangs, the members of one of which possess the formula of the serum that grants superpowers to those who take it. A gun battle, collateral damage, the entire district on lockdown. If a few people weren’t noticed literally floating through the sky, the police would have been handling this. But this is an emergency, which is why they’re here, and the flying gangsters aren’t flying anymore, for Lawton is an exceptionally good shot.

As it turns out, the serum that sparked the conflict is based on metahuman blood – hardly donated voluntarily.

“I’ll contact Colonel Flag,” says Tatsu, eyes locked on the bloodied tubes, and then someone grabs her by the neck.

For the first time in her life, she really has to fight blindly – because her enemy is invisible.

Later, when the dead bodies gradually become visible on the floor like an eerie animated movie, it turns out there were four of them. Before that, Tatsu manages to lose her sword, recapture it, almost choke when an invisible hand squeezes her neck, slash one of the attackers in half, and plunge the blade into another’s stomach. Boomerang takes care of the other two, knocking over the container in the process.

Tatsu is listening to the silence that came after the fight, wondering if any other invisible foes are lurking around the corner, when she feels that something is wrong. Something is wrong with her – she just can't figure out what. Sometimes it happens that one feels unwell but cannot determine what exactly the problem is – she is experiencing something similar now. Until she realizes: the mask. Until she looks up and makes eye contact with Captain Boomerang, who is staring at her and grinning.

“You lost anything, doll?” Harkness inquires innocently, with an emphasis on the last word, and his smile grows even wider and cockier.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The invisible man she fought hand to hand tore off her mask, and she didn’t even notice. But her partner, blast him, did – and picked it up.

“Give it back,” Tatsu demands, hand outstretched. She feels naked. In combat, during the mission, she is Katana, a single whole with her sword. A cold weapon. No one needs to see her face. Truly, if she was wearing only the mask and nothing else, she would have felt less exposed – all right, this is an overstatement, and she doesn’t even want to imagine such a situation. Meanwhile, Boomerang is in no hurry to return the mask.

“What did ya call me when that fucker was about to stab me?” he asks. Tatsu clenches the sword hilt. There is no telling how many enemies drunk on the magic serum are hiding in this house, and he’s dawdling. “You said…”

Damn it, what did she say? She saw one of the invisibles creeping up on him while he was fighting another – a bloodstain was floating through the air. She shouted…

“I said ‘George’”. Isn’t your name George Harkness?”

“You bet it is. It’s just weird. Most people don’t call me George, y’know.”

“How do they call you then?”

“Digger. Boomerang. Boomer. That Prick. All sorts of things, but never George. But you,” he winks, “can call me whatever ya want. I liked the way you say my name.”

“Give. Me. The mask.”

“And the magic word?”

“I will chop your hand off,” as a proof of her intentions, she puts the blade against his extended hand that is holding her mask. In fact, she would face no consequences for doing so. No one’s gonna weep for him.

Harkness makes a helpless gesture and hands her the mask.

“Can’t say no to you, luv.”

The mask helps her conceal her identity, but what is more important is that it helps her conceal needless emotions. Tatsu really hopes that her facial expression isn’t giving away that she’s ill at ease now. This is a weakness; weaknesses are not to be demonstrated. She feels deeply relieved when she puts the mask back on.

“Let’s get out of here,” she commands, turns around, and heads for the exit. Harkness trails behind.

“It ain’t fair, by the way. You know my real name, but I don’t know yours,” he muses. “Care to introduce yourself, eh?”

He asks the same question at least three times more before they return to Belle Reve, and each time she ignores him.

***

A week later, he still doesn’t know her name – but he learns something else.

They do away with the last members of the recent gang on the outskirts of the city. Both wretches have overused the unfortunate serum, in keeping with the best traditions of the clichéd movies about superheroes and supervillains that Hollywood keeps producing for some reason, even though it is more and more often possible to see nearly the same thing on the news. As a result, one of them got puffed up almost to the size of the creature that Superman died fighting, and the other couldn’t control the flames bursting from his mouth. He burned half of the shopping centre with customers, retail workers, and guards. With teenagers in the bowling alley on the second floor and children in the playroom on the first.

Santana… wouldn’t have approved.

Both problems eliminated, they leave: the firefighters and the cops will take it from here. Flag’s spec ops stay behind, because officially it is their victory; the general public shouldn’t know about the existence of Task Force X. Through backyards, they retreat in the direction of the abandoned construction site on the other side of the street; a car has been sent to pick them up there.

There is a workers’ trailer still standing by the construction pit. The door is not locked, and Rick, Deadshot, Croc, and Boomerang go inside. Jones’s arm is broken: his inhuman strength notwithstanding, he still was no match for his enemy – not the fire-breather, but the other one. Tatsu leaves them to figure out how to make a temporary sling, and wanders away. Not far from the trailer, a piece of tarpaulin stretched over the fence has come off, and she can see the building across the street. Tatsu sits down on the ground, puts her arms around her knees, and stares at the dandelions growing by the fence.

In her head, flames are raging.

She doesn’t look up, neither when she hears the footsteps approaching, nor when Harkness – and it is him, no one else in the Squad reeks of the mixture of booze and cologne like that – sits down next to her and cracks open a can of beer.

“You want some?” he nudges her. What extraordinary generosity. It is, however, perfectly possible that if she says yes, he’ll reply along the lines of “Well, then go and buy yourself some.”

“No,” Tatsu replies without looking and, after a short pause, adds, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

With a sigh, she accepts the can from his hands, and takes a sip.

“This is disgusting,” she whispers, and takes another.

Harkness just snorts and opens another one. For a little while, they sit side by side in silence, drinking each from their own can, and study the wall opposite through the mesh of the fence – like out of a prison window. Old advertisements that are half torn off, graffiti, a writing proclaiming that life fucks us all – plenty of things to stare at to avoid looking the person next to you in the eye.

“So what the hell happened to ya?” Boomerang asks, and suddenly she could do with some serum for invisibility or, better yet, disappearing completely. Naturally, it is a fleeting impulse; she has no right to disappear. She has obligations – towards Flag, towards Waller. Towards herself.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You zoned out, Flag shouted himself hoarse before you heard him. Like you were someplace else. Didn’t ya?”

Why do you need to know? Tatsu thinks. If she almost rushed headlong into the fire, it’s her own business. If it only seemed to her that someone was there, it’s her own business. If she’s going to see things that aren’t there for the rest of her life, it’s her own business. He shouldn't have spoken. There is something comforting about being silent together.

“Nah, you don’t have to say if you don’t wanna,” Boomerang assents, and takes another pull on his can. “I just thought that you, well. Might wanna talk to someone.”

And they fall silent again. Yet now Tatsu feels awkward, which makes her angry at herself. She’s not obliged to pour out her heart to anyone who shows something that looks like care.

This silence doesn’t make it any easier.

“I have… bad memories,” she finally says. Now it won’t be as awkward: she answered his question. It won’t be, right? “About a fire”.

Harkness nods, looking at her attentively.

“Someone you knew died, aye?”

“My children,” she hears herself say, and wishes to disappear again.

“Fuck,” Boomerang says, embarrassed, and – unbelievable – looks like he actually feels bad about starting this conversation. “I’m sorry, I… well, uh, I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” Tatsu says mechanically. Nothing is okay: she can still see Yuki’s tear-stained face, still hear Reiko’s voice, she is still watching the flames run up the curtains that she and Maseo picked together, she is still breathing in the smoke and still cannot believe she deserves a gulp of fresh air. She should have saved them. All of them.

Boomerang looks at her incredulously but doesn’t say anything, and bit by bit, the silence that she doesn’t want to run from returns – the kind of silence in which one is not alone.

Then there are footsteps again, and Flag approaches them.

“There you are,” he says with relief as soon as he sees her. Rick does not let himself overstep the limits of formality – they’re on a mission, after all – but he has obviously been worried. At the sight of Harkness, he frowns warily. “You! Quit getting on her nerves.”

“Who’s gettin’ on her nerves, Colonel? I was just tryin’ to help,” Harkness protests. It appears Rick’s words have wounded him a little.

“He was,” Tatsu says. “It’s all under control, Colonel Flag.”

Flag shifts his gaze to her and then to Boomerang again, and nods.

“Okay. In any case… follow me. We’re leaving.”

Tatsu gives her unfinished beer to Boomerang.

“Don’t talk about this to anyone,” she tells him. This might be an order or a request; she doesn’t really know.

He nods, and she thinks absentmindedly: who would have thought this man knows how to make a solemn face.

“Thank you,” she says again, hoping that he understands that this is not just about the beer or his promise to keep his mouth shut.

***

After a few days, Tatsu comes to visit him. In prison.

Actually, she comes to visit all of them, of course. Not more than fifteen minutes alone with each of them – Waller wouldn’t allow more. This request seems to have surprised her, but Tatsu is certain that Waller is already picturing the new threads she can use to manipulate her special operations puppets. So it is possible that one day this decision will blow up in Tatsu’s face – or in the faces of all of them. But she cannot shake off the feeling that she must do this – so that someone except Rick, who is already dealing with a lot these days, would notice in time if the inmates are treated with undeserved cruelty. So that she knows what’s on their minds, because it is safer to fight side by side with the people whose line of thought she can understand at least roughly. So that there is some kind of variety in their lives between the missions.

This is why she visits all three of them. Killer Croc, who looks like he’s not surprised to see her in the slightest and doesn’t really seems to care that she came, but doesn’t have any issue with that either. Deadshot, who looks like he is surprised, but doesn’t seem to mind answering her questions when she notices a stack of letters in the corner and asks him how his daughter is doing. And Captain Boomerang, who, when she enters his cell, looks like he can’t figure out if he’s dreaming.

“Katana?” he frowns perplexedly. He’s stripped to his waist, so she can see a couple of fresh scars he brought back from the last mission, and he’s got a black eye – when Tatsu saw him last, he had not. Must have quarrelled with the guards again. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

For a moment he seems not to understand what she just said. Then he breaks into a smile – or rather a grin, wide and pleased. Very pleased.

“Aha! Knew it would end up like this,” he pronounces in triumph.

“Like this?”

“You,” he looks like he’s just proven a theorem of immense complexity, “missed me.”

“I haven’t missed you, Captain.”

A very, very pleased grin.

“And still you’re here.”

“I visited Deadshot and Killer Croc earlier,” Tatsu says, and sees his facial expression change instantly. Not for long: the grin is quick to return, and she wouldn’t be able to tell right away that he’s disappointed.

“Did ya now? And how are our fellas doing? Better than me, I reckon?”

“So it would seem. Did you fight the guards?”

“Why do you care, gorgeous?”

Indeed, why does she? Most likely, he picked a fight himself – and got his just deserts.

“Make up your mind,” Tatsu says, “if you think that I missed you or that I don’t care.”

Harkness chuckles and really seems to ponder over this for a while.

“Beats me,” he concludes at last. “Care to throw some light on it?”

No, Tatsu thinks, I don’t get it myself and I’m not sure I want to.

Instead of answering, she comes closer to him – so close that she can smell his sweat – and studies his face. She has to look up to be able to do that, which must look comical. Then again, he’s hardly stupid enough to laugh at her height or anything else about her, especially when she’s armed and he is not.

“You lost a tooth. What happened?”

“Didn’t get along with one of the Wall’s watchdogs.”

“You could have tried not to look for trouble for a change,” all of a sudden, Tatsu realizes that she’s mad. Really mad at him. They might get dragged to another mission this instant; whether they like it or not, they have to be in good enough shape to protect the society that the most of them have to atone before at least partially. They shouldn’t spend their energy and health on nonsense. Black eyes and knocked-out teeth are nothing, but it mustn’t come to any of them being out of action when all of them are needed. All their powers, all their skills. All the anger they should rather aim at something other than the people who can just press a certain button at any point – and dispose of the wilful weapon.

Boomerang bares his teeth – not like Croc, of course, but still threateningly. He looks dangerous now – big, sturdy, more than a head taller than her. But he still isn’t more dangerous than her – and both of them are aware of that.

“And they could have tried,” he speaks through his teeth, “not to talk shit about my mother for a change. They wanna talk shit about me, they can knock themselves out. I’ve heard enough ‘bout myself, I don’t give a flying fuck about what else they gonna say. But they’d better leave my mother out of it.”

So that’s what it is. They have found a quick and easy way to infuriate the man who has “MUM” tattooed on his chest. In uneven letters, like a child's handwriting. Tatsu noticed that tattoo as soon as she came in but didn’t look too closely at it. Now she feels like she has the right to look, to let her gaze slip lower, at the ridiculous writing that heaves with each furious breath of his, and then to avert her eyes at once.

“They have power, and you have nothing,” she says. “Do you enjoy being their plaything?”

“Oh, so I’m a plaything, darl? And do I have much choice who to be now? In these four walls, and,” Boomerang points at his neck, at the place where a bomb is implanted under his skin, “with this crap in my neck?”

Tatsu looks up again, right him in the eye.

“You already know who you are,” she tells him. “You’re a weapon. Broken weapons get discarded. And you’re letting them break you.”

He stays silent, just looks at her in an odd manner, as if she’s speaking another language but he has a vague understanding of what she’s saying and doesn’t like what he just heard – because it is the truth.

Tatsu still doesn’t understand why she cares, and with each passing minute she has less and less desire to learn why.

“Also,” she continues, “if you call me ‘darl’ or ‘gorgeous’ one more time, you’re going to regret opening your mouth.”

“Yeah? And how should I call ya?”

“Katana.”

“What, and that’s all? Nah, we might be weapons,” and she probably ought to remind him that there is no ‘we’, but in this particular case he’s right. Perhaps that is why Tatsu feels drawn to all of them: they’re cut from the same cloth, “but we’re alive as well. So far. Seriously, what’s yer real name? You know mine.”

“I should not disclose that.”

“Oh, come on. Listen,” he breaks into a pleased grin again. Another theorem proven. “How about a deal? You tell me yer name, and I will try to keep my temper if anyone else decides to stir me up. What do ya think?”

“As if you’re going to keep your word.”

Boomerang makes a show of putting his hand over his heart.

“For you, ma’am… anything.”

For you. All at once, she recalls Rick’s words: do whatever you want to him. How many minutes of the visit she has already spent on this predictably fruitless conversation?

“My name is Tatsu Yamashiro,” she says, tired, and then he smiles – not the way he did before, but in a calmer and more sincere manner. Gratefully.

“George Harkness,” he offers her his hand with an earnest air. “Nice to meet ya.”

Tatsu hesitantly offers him hers. Her hand looks very small and fragile against his huge paw, and he must be thinking the same because the handshake comes out very careful. He could easily break her wrist. She could easily kill him with one hand afterwards. But he holds her hand gently in his warm, pleasantly calloused palm, and Tatsu hastens to take her hand away, because this is a mistake of an even worse kind than the time he saw her without the mask.

“So you promise not to fights the guards.”

“I promise to try,” Harkness assures, but he’s keeping one hand behind his back.

“Don’t cross your fingers,” Tatsu says sternly. Real mature.

With a sigh, Boomerang repeats his promise, this time holding his hands within her view.

“But I ain’t promisin’ not to call you gorgeous,” he declares in the end.

“You know my name now.”

“But you’re still gorgeous.”

“Time’s up!” shouts the guard outside the door, and Tatsu cannot help feeling relieved that she has to go. She doesn’t regret visiting him, but all of this is too strange and awkward, and both of them might be weapons, but her position is different from his, and it is better not to forget that.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asks him on parting.

“Well,” Boomerang smirks. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“With something I would actually agree to do?”

“Come again. Will ya?” This time he isn’t flirting; this time she can feel his insecurity, even shyness. As if he doesn’t like to admit to himself that what she answers is really important to him.

“I’ll try,” she says cautiously. She’s not going to make any promises: she asked Waller about one time only. She doubts if she’ll be allowed to visit them again – to visit him again.

“Try,” Harkness repeats, as if weighing the word on his tongue. “This means no.”

“This means I’ll try,” Tatsu says firmly.

And she comes again in a week. And the week after next. And a week after that.

***

“Why didn’t you walk away in Midway City?” Tatsu asks him once. “When Rick broke the control panel. You left then; why did you return?”

A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since the time Captain Boomerang dared to smart off Amanda Waller. Several successful missions, slightly more respectful attitude on his part – and his cell already bears a passing resemblance to a place for living, even if for living quite miserably. Now there is even a table, and a chair that she gets to sit on as guest privilege. Harkness is sitting on the floor opposite her. The question seems to catch him unawares, but only for a moment.

“Huh? Why did I return? Gotta live up to my name, that’s why. Have you ever thrown a boomerang, luv?”

I’m going to throw you somewhere one day, Tatsu thinks, yet without much irritation.

“And jokes aside?”

Boomerang attempts to feign an offended sigh.

“How do ya think? Plenty of options, all right. You gonna try to guess which one?”

Tatsu frowns.

“Is this a psychoanalysis session? Were you bitten by Harley Quinn?”

“Nah, Blondie didn’t bite me, I would’ve remembered. So don’t be jealous,” his voice gets playful again, and Tatsu stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “Lookie here… suppose I suddenly realized that I can’t leave you guys! ‘Cause you’re my mates. One for all, and so on. Don’t believe me?”

“You said something about plenty of options. What are the rest of them?”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“We-e-ell… the second, ‘course, is that I wanted to save the world. Not that the world smiles upon me every bloody day, but I still wanna live! And for everyone an’ their mother to know that the bastards like us can also be heroes. Don’t you like being one of the good guys, eh, Tatsu?”

“I’m not ‘one of the good guys’”, Tatsu protests. “And it’s not me that we’re talking about. Any other options?”

“There was no point in leaving. That was still gonna be the end of the world, aye? So I’d rather meet it in battle and in good company than on the run. All the same it’ll be the end. There you go.”

He stops talking, and in the silence that falls Tatsu can hear the footsteps of the guards in the corridor. Once again she wonders what the duty attendants that monitor everything through the surveillance cameras think of their conversations. They must make for the strangest and most pointless reality show ever.

“The third one,” she says.

Boomerang looks a bit disappointed.

“Why?”

“Not the first one, because none of us meant anything to you then. You had just met us. And it didn’t seem like you were upset about letting Slipknot down,” Tatsu explains. She doesn’t intend to offend him – she’s just saying the truth. Once, he claimed it himself that they understand each other – here’s some understanding, he’s welcome. “Not the second one either, because you’re not stupid – no, stop smiling. You never believed that if people like us stop the Enchantress, someone would learn about that. Only the third option remains.”

Harkness nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his eyes turn pensive, abstracted, as if he is there again, in the night city frozen in anticipation of the apocalypse. As if he sees himself – and makes a choice once again. “And that’s what happened in the end, didn’t it?”

“So the third option, then?”

“So it is.”

But something in his face makes Tatsu think that he was hoping for a different answer.

***

Time flies; weeks and months go by. Tatsu spends them fighting, spilling someone else’s blood, occasionally drinking with Flag at a bar or in his apartment – a bachelor’s home again; reading books – most of the plots seem too naïve and unimaginative compared to what goes on in her life, and that is even for the best, and visiting the members of the Suicide Squad in Belle Reve. Some people go clubbing Friday evenings, and she goes to prison Friday afternoons.

“Don’t get attached to them,” Rick scolds her.

“That is rich coming from you,” Tatsu replies, and he has enough self-awareness not to argue. Lest he gets offended, she chooses not to tell him that sometimes she and Lawton talk a little about him good-naturedly behind his back.

During one of her visits, Harkness raises a topic she has totally forgotten about.

“Hey, come to think of it, we never had that drink,” he points out. Tatsu doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and it must be written all over her face, because he continues. “Remember I asked you out for a drink? In Midway City, before we fought the witch.”

Tatsu has to make an effort to remember: indeed, he said something of the sort, but it never occurred to her to take those words seriously.

“We had a drink,” she counters. “When… when you shared your beer with me.”

He shakes his head, dissatisfied.

“At the construction site? That’s bollocks. I’m talking a proper bar… nah, a restaurant! With crystal glasses an’ candles an’ shit… Like normal people.”

“Candles,” Tatsu mumbles. She tries to imagine the two of them at the table at a restaurant; the picture turns out pretty absurd. On the other hand, a lot of what has happened in her life during the past few years can be deemed absurd.

“Yeah. Candles,” echoes Harkness, and continues with a crooked smile, “well, that’s me jokin’ around. In the near future,” he gestures in the direction of the small barred window of his cell, “I won’t be able to take you even to a fucking McDonald’s.”

They don’t talk about the hypothetical dinners at a restaurant anymore, but the absurd picture stays with Tatsu, who still feels somehow indebted to Boomerang – for no reason, as she keeps telling herself – for that conversation at the construction site. She doesn’t like to feel the weight of unpaid debts on her shoulders – yes, that’s what it is about.

One day, she finds a way to pay that debt back.

***

She waits for him in the car outside the prison gate. She hears him first; she cannot make out what exactly he is yelling at the guards, but that surely isn’t ‘good evening’. Then the door of the jeep is open, and someone must have kicked him in the rear because he literally falls into the car. Tatsu shrinks back on instinct.

Then Harkness looks up – and notices her.

“Katana?.. Hey, what the hell’s going on? They didn’t let me take the boomerangs, didn’t let me take anything…”

“Close the door,” Tatsu tells him, and when he, still confused, obeys, tells the driver, “Let’s go.”

The car pulls away.

“I still don’t get what’s happening,” Harkness reminds her. “Sure, I’m happy to see ya, but… you weren’t ordered to take me to the woods and finish me off under the radar, huh?”

“If Waller wanted to get rid of you, she would have had you killed in your own cell, and that’s all.”

“Wow, thanks for honesty. So where are we going?”

“To a restaurant,” Tatsu says, and turns away. Yet again it crosses her mind that it is a terrible idea.

“A restaurant?” Harkness drawls quizzically.

“As far as I recall, you said that the beer at the construction site is ‘bollocks’.”

She should turn back to him, of course. The problem is that Tatsu is ninety-nine per cent sure that if she meets his eye now, she will blush. And she is by no means going to give him any sign that might be interpreted as taking an interest… of a certain kind. She has already blundered more than a few times.

Therefore she stubbornly keeps looking out of the window. Then again, she doesn’t even need to look to picture how his facial expression is changing now; she’s seen this rakish grin enough times.

“Holy cow. Tatsu, are you serious? We’re really just going to a restaurant? We’re getting outta this shithole where they only give us porridge with rat crap to gorge ourselves on lobsters and drink wine? Oh, fuck me sideways,” in the end, she turns to him and sees him throw back his head and burst into laughter, narrowing his eyes happily. “I’ll be damned! Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Pinch me.”

“I can assure you you’re not,” Tatsu says, and realizes that she is also starting to smile despite herself. She has visited him and the others in Belle Reve often enough to know that porridge with rat crap, unfortunately, is far from being just a figure of speech. After such a diet, a meal at a restaurant must seem like the pinnacle of happiness.

Boomerang shakes his head, apparently still unable to believe her.

“Holy fucking shit. How did you do that? How do you even do all that? I’ve told ya you’re unreal, have I?”

“Yes, you have,” Tatsu confirms patiently. And more than once – too often for her to attach great importance to it, too fervently for it not to please her at all. “Let’s put it that way: this is Waller paying me for a… favour.”

“A favour, then. I take it a lot of some poor suckers died?”

“No,” she shakes her head. And it is true – but there still was a lot of blood. Both the man Waller indicated and his bodyguards turned out to be worthy adversaries. The whole thing went not as smoothly as she wanted it to – not that she wanted to; not that she would kill another person she knows nothing about if she could help it. Nothing to assure her: this one deserves it. Everything turned out rather… nasty. She had to burn the bodies. Then she got home in a haze, tended to a couple of fresh wounds – or rather, just scratches. And then she went to the bathroom and spent a long time soaping herself, as if the invisible filth that bothered her the most could be washed off with shower gel.

Afterwards, she rummaged through her modest wardrobe and dug out the only dress she has about in America. Nothing special: wine red, below the knee length, sleeveless but with a pretty high neckline – very demure. The first and so far the last dress she bought after… after. If she and Rick didn’t have to accompany Amanda Waller to some event once, she wouldn’t have bought this one either. She put it on, combed her hair, still wet after the shower, with her fingers, looked at herself in the mirror – and flew into a rage, pulled off the dress, and could barely stop herself from tearing it to shreds. Restaurant or not, what does it matter? The last thing she needs is for him to think she dressed up for him.

So the situation might be a little less absurd than it could have been. Both of them look like they’re going on another mission with the others, only she isn’t wearing her mask – he has already seen her face anyway – and he isn’t wearing his ever-present coat. It is no wonder he wasn’t allowed to take it – Waller wasn’t going to let him out of Belle Reve armed, and to let him wear his coat would probably be as unwise as to hand him all his boomerangs. Tatsu has no doubt that everyone and their dog have already searched through the personal belongings of the Squad, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that somewhere in his inside pockets Harkness has as many boomerangs as he is listed as having officially. She witnessed this man produce from his bosom at least four different lighters, a massive stack of dollars, a pocket knife, small binoculars, flat-nose pliers, and a toy unicorn. She has to admit: sometimes she doesn’t understand how he even does all that either.

It appears that the thoughts of Captain Boomerang also turn to the contents of his pockets.

“Hey, how the hell are we affording this, though? Make no mistake, I’d stand treat, but my stash is in the coat, and these assholes didn’t let me take it, y’know.”

“Don’t worry about that. Waller is paying for everything,” she explains, unable to suppress a grin, because this part, possibly the most unbelievable part of the entire affair, gives her a sort of silly, spiteful joy. Task Force X is a comparatively recent project, but they’ve already cleaned up so much mess for Amanda Waller that Heracles and his labours don’t even come close. A dinner at a restaurant is the least thing she could offer them. So when Boomerang explodes with laughter and gives her a conspiratorial wink, she looks him right in the eye and smiles. Another mistake. Then again, this is not the first time they share a secret.

He puts his hand on her knee, and she shakes it off immediately; this is way too far.

“I see you took your sword with ya,” Harkness observes, not giving any sign that something didn’t go the way he wanted.

“I am to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah. How about…” he leans in closer, and the smell of cologne blasts up Tatsu’s nose. She can only hope it is due to external use only, “we chop off his head,” he nods at the driver, “and drive the fuck away from this? Huh?”

The driver, who can definitely hear everything, doesn’t turn, but Tatsu notices him tense up.

“You’re kidding,” she says dryly. He may be, or he may be not – with Digger Harkness, one cannot always tell.

“Why kidding, doll? Zip, and done. There’s no way you enjoy working for Waller.”

“I do not. But if you pull some stunt,” Tatsu feels for the sword hilt, and Boomerang sees that – very well, it is good for him to see that, “I will chop your head off. I really hope it won’t come to that.”

“And what’s it to you? Scared of me? But I’m unarmed,” he claps himself on the chest demonstratively, implying that he has no weapons on him. “Why do you care if it does?”

“I just wouldn’t like to do that,” she says firmly, and it’s true. It works well; he doesn’t even mention running away for the remainder of the day.

This might be the strangest evening in her life.

Waller’s man drives them to a French restaurant whose name she cannot read but is almost sure that the phrase was chosen solely because it sounds impressive. They are let in through the back door, so no one among the other guests, who are sporting evening dresses and suits, pays any attention to her crop top and sword or to his… appearance in general. Their table is one of those located in alcoves, away from prying eyes, but Tatsu feels they are being watched. Which means Waller doesn’t trust her too much – well, she can understand that. She is part of a special team composed of deranged madmen, and she must admit she likes these deranged madmen more than she likes certain normal people known to her. Of course, she is Flag’s right-hand woman, but it is most likely that Waller doesn’t trust Flag either. It is doubtful whether there are any people in this world that she trusts at all.

Waller is rich. Their little feast will not shatter her wealth, all the more so since the restaurant she sent them to is not the most luxurious. But they still have a field day ordering loads of food and a bottle of the most expensive wine on the menu.

“To honour among thieves?” she suggests, when they raise their glasses for the first time.

“Didn’t ya say yer not a thief?”

“That is true,” she admits, and adds inwardly, I’m a killer.

In the end, they drink to the Suicide Squad. Then to Lawton and Jones, currently languishing in their cells. Then to Zoe Lawton, who is acting in a school play next week. To a lot of things. He asks her about her life here, in America. At some point she finds herself trying to explain to him what taiyaki is, and him telling her about banana sandwiches, and she can’t remember why they started talking about this at all. The bottle becomes empty, and another appears as if by itself.

They don’t talk about the past. They don’t talk about the future, because there might be no future at all – they can’t know for sure, what with their way of life. That evening, Tatsu laughs and thinks: good thing I’m drunk – it almost gets easier for a while.

When it’s time to leave, Harkness gets pig-headed.

“Whoa, no, no, no. Already? It’s too early, are you kiddin’ me?” he booms out when they exit the restaurant. He protests, but she drags him by the hand and he stumbles along after all, treading heavily like a dancing bear. “Let’s go someplace else, luv. Look at the pretty stars.”

“We are already late. And you… you have to go back to jail,” Tatsu tells him. The stars are pretty indeed, but she regrets looking up at them, because her head begins to spin. Thankfully, she isn’t wearing high heels. Thankfully, she doesn’t have any high-heeled shoes at all, or she could have been possessed to wear them. “Sorry,” she adds when they get into the car and set off. “There is no other way.”

“Back to jail,” Boomerang repeats with disgust. Sprawling on the seat, he unzips his hoodie, and Tatsu is swept over by the smell of cologne again. Weirdly, it doesn’t annoy her as much as at the beginning of the evening. “I’m a fucking Cinderella. I’m not back by midnight, they turn me into a pumpkin.”

“Cinderella,” Tatsu echoes, and giggles: everything is way funnier now. The driver makes a sudden turn, and she is literally thrown at Boomerang. Her cheek presses to his chest – and stays there. Tatsu feels drunk and sated and drunk again, and sleepy too, and he makes for a decent pillow, and she can’t make herself move away.

“Oh, you think it’s funny,” Harkness mutters with mock offence in his voice. It seems he’s about to fall asleep too. “Well, go on, laugh.”

They drive back in silence, and through the drowse Tatsu feels the warm arm around her waist and thinks: good thing I’m drunk, I can pretend I’m asleep.

The road to Belle Reve is long, but it still feels like they reach it too quickly.

“Inmate,” calls one of the guards, “get out.”

Harkness, his eyes still closed, moans with discontent.

“Captain Boomerang,” Tatsu says softly, freeing herself from his embrace. “It’s time.”

There is nothing to be done. He’s already about to step out of the jeep, when he suddenly moves closer to her again.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says, looking her right in the eye. “Aren’t ya forgetting something?”

It takes her some time to realize what he means: he must be expecting her to kiss him. All at once she remembers everything that has happened this evening, and awful shame washes over her: it is no wonder he’s expecting that to happen.

“Inmate, get out!”

She shrinks back.

“Good night, Captain,” she tells him as dryly as she can. He looks wounded but says nothing, and almost obediently lets the guards escort him back to his cell. Tatsu closes her eyes and rubs her temples wearily. Tomorrow she is going to regret drinking so much. She already does – and that’s not the only thing she regrets.

She has to stop seeing him.

***

At first, she even succeeds. Next Friday Tatsu, as always, goes to Belle Reve to see the Squad – all of them save for Harkness. She feels sick at heart because if she did promise him anything, it was to visit him, and now she’s going back on her word because of her own stupid weakness. But there is no other way.

“He asked about you,” Waylon tells her a week later, when she brings him the latest issue of Playboy. Tatsu almost doesn’t feel weird anymore when buying it, and doesn’t try to imagine anymore what the news stand clerks think when she pays them for it. Such periodicals cause her a feeling of light disgust, but Croc, who gets let out of jail only to be thrown into another trouble spot, deserves at least some small joys.

“Who?”

Waylon, no doubt observant like all the quiet ones tend to be, bares his impressive teeth.

“You know who.”

It seems a logical solution to give up on these visits at all – but in that case she would betray all of them. Perhaps this little tradition is much more important to her than it is to the prisoners, but Tatsu is almost sure that it means something to them as well. She has no right to deprive the rest of them of this bit of understanding, companionship, normalcy because she wasn’t smart enough to stop the game she and Boomerang started before it became too late.

At home – not that the apartment she’s renting here deserves to be called ‘home’ – she, unable to fall asleep, unsheathes the sword and runs the tips of her fingers along the cool blade. A tender, habitual movement – like touching the cheek of a loved one.

“I’ve lost my way, Maseo,” whispers Tatsu. The place where the souls of the people struck down by this blade are trapped is still a mystery to her, but she knows that Maseo will come as soon as she calls him – as a voice from afar, as nebulous shapes in the swirls of smoke, as the peace and safety granted by the presence of someone dear. “I’m afraid of my own heart.”

I know your heart, Tatsu. You have nothing to be afraid of.

“It makes me act rashly. Makes me succumb to false feelings.”

I know your heart, Tatsu, and it incapable of falsehood.

Only the ones that are already far away can speak so vaguely and with such unrelenting honesty at the same time.

“I will always love you,” she whispers ardently. Not because she doesn’t want him to think it is not so; not because she herself feels like it is not so anymore either. She knows for sure that she is always going to love him, for she loved him as a lover, as a husband, as the father of her children, as the only thing she had left after all her life fell apart, burned in that damned fire. He will stay in her heart until her last breath – even if she has to close her heart to the rest of the world. Once she used to think that after all she’s been through, it isn’t going to be an issue.

And I will always love you, her husband replies, and Tatsu blinks back tears with a deep sigh.

“I just wish you were alive,” she tells him for what must be the hundredth, or maybe a thousandth time.

If he was with her – not as smoke or a voice, but as flesh and blood – he probably would have kissed her gently on the nape of her neck, as he often used to do.

I just wish, says her husband – no, the soul of her husband, which is already rushing away, deep into the world she shouldn’t hurry to go to if she doesn’t want this sword to fall into wrong hands, that you were happy.

***

Literally the next day there is a message from Metropolis that some giant snake-like beast is terrorizing the city and devouring people. The monster was last seen crawling into the building of the opera – which is where their squad heads to after reaching the city.

“Look at that freak,” Harkness comments in a low voice. The creature is curled up slumbering on stage, and they are watching it from the catwalks above. “Not a family of yours by any chance, eh, ‘gator?’

Waylon steps towards him, and the planks creak under his feet, threatening to break.

“Say that again,” he growls.

Tatsu bares her sword and wedges herself between them. Waylon backs off reluctantly.

“Knock it off,” she tells Boomerang. It feels like everything has come full circle – the day Harkness picked up her mask, he also had a run-in with Jones. The day they were sent to fight the Enchantress, she also put the blade of her sword under his chin. Why did she even think something would change?

“Oh, so you’re talking to me after all?”

“Enough,” Tatsu hisses. She really wants to try to explain everything to him. Maybe if she tries to put her feelings into words, many things will become clear to her, too. But if he thinks they are going to discuss this now, he is mistaken.

On the neighbouring catwalk, Rick is looking at them in a rage, gesturing both of them to shut up. Harkness steps closer; now the blade of the Soultaker is within a hair’s breadth away from his neck. A single careless movement, and blood will be spilled. A wild idea crosses her mind: it looks as if he’s into this. Tatsu licks her lips.

“Y’know,” Boomerang begins, lowering his head a little so that it is easier for him to look her in the eye, “I think you’re scared of me. Or of yourself, hell if I know. Am I right?”

A loud rustle comes from beneath, and the next instant the monster bites through the middle of the catwalk they’re standing on, and both of them are falling down. Tatsu manages to grab some rope, but when she tries to climb it, her hands slip, and she comes tumbling down.

The fall is far from being soft, even though she falls on the tatters of the curtain, which the snake must have torn earlier. She is lucky not to hurt her head, but her left leg and hip are aching. Only the awareness that there is no time to lie around makes her summon up all her strength and get up. Her sword is nowhere to be seen, and Tatsu is overwhelmed by fury: now she is useless.

The snake roars and shakes its head, trying to shake off Croc, who is trying to bite through its scales. Rick is shooting at the monster from above, and Deadshot, who is already on stage somehow, is doing the same from below, dodging the blows of its tail. Tatsu sweeps her eyes weakly over the stage and suddenly notices a hole broken in it. At the very edge of the hole, the hilt of her sword is sticking out of the floor. Moving as quickly as it is possible to do that with a limp, Tatsu hurries there.

The moment she pulls the sword out of the stage, Harkness’s head pokes out of the hole. Not waiting for him to ask for help, Tatsu helps him get out.

“Are you…” both of them begin in unison and drop it immediately, because the snake has managed to shake off the bothersome little crocodile – who is hopefully just somewhere on the floor and not in its belly – and is moving towards them, slower than before but still pretty speedily. They scatter, and Tatsu charges at the monster with her sword drawn. Harkness throws a boomerang at the creature, aiming at its eye, but it dodges at the last second.

Eventually, with joint forces they manage to kill the beast. To be on the safe side, Lawton fires a round into its open jaws. The long body shudders one last time and falls still. For some time, the five of them stand there looking at it.

“Where could this thing even come from?” Rick mutters.

“Remember what the Wicked Witch of the West said when she tried to get us to join her? The world is changing, the time of magic has come, blah, blah, blah,” Lawton reminds him. Rick nods absentmindedly; these are not happy memories.

Jones kicks the dead snake.

“Maybe it meant no harm,” he points out in his deep voice.

“Croc,” Rick says wearily, “it ate people.”

“So did I.”

“But at least you didn’t chew the curtain at the opera like a disgraced diva?” Lawton asks, struggling not to grin.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Well, then it’s okay.”

Rick titters nervously, and the next instant all of them are shaking with laughter.

Tatsu is drinking water straight from the tap in the restroom, when Harkness comes in.

“This is a ladies’ room,” she says reflexively.

“Hey, I just wanna wash my face, is all.”

Without waiting for her to answer, he comes closer and starts washing at the neighbouring sink. Tatsu casts a sidelong look at him and notices that the water is turning red.

“Show me your face,” she orders.

“It’s not a bad face, what’s yer problem?”

“I’m serious.”

He rolls his eyes, but stands still while she examines his face, only wincing when she dabs at the cut on his forehead with a paper towel.

“Just a scratch,” he assures at once.

“Just a scratch,” Tatsu agrees. She scrunches up the towel and throws it into the sink. She would like to keep her hand on his face, pretending that she’s still wiping off the blood, but she’s done pretending.

“How about you?” Boomerang asks quietly.

“Fine. A couple of bruises. You were lucky today,” she says just as quietly, and takes off her mask. Tomorrow they might not be as lucky. “I’m happy for you.”

“And I’m happy you got out alive… darl.”

For a moment she wants him to ruin everything. To reply with a jibe, to crack another dirty joke, to try to grab and kiss her only to get smacked. Not to stand motionless in front of her like he’s afraid to scare her off. It occurred to her once that from the outside their relationship might look like an attempt to tame a wild animal. Perhaps this is a mutual process.

Do whatever you want to him.

She stands up on tiptoes and kisses him.

For an instant, Harkness freezes – possibly trying to figure out again if he’s dreaming – and then pulls her closer and kisses back. Drinks her hungrily, like this is both the first time and the last. Bearing in mind what their lives are like, it really might be the last.

Tatsu doesn’t immediately realize why she suddenly doesn’t need to stand on tiptoes anymore.

“Put me down–” she starts, but gives up and wraps her legs around his waist. Boomerang grunts with satisfaction and switches from her lips to her neck. His beard, fortunately, is softer than could have been expected.

“Stop drinking so much,” Tatsu breathes out, now that no one is trying to shut her mouth. “You taste like…” all English words slip her mind, “like… a beer cask.”

It tickles her when he laughs into her neck.

Someone simply must enter now – Rick, Floyd, Amanda Waller, the president of the United States, but no, no one is trying to stop him from squeezing her hips, to stop her from running her fingers through his hair. Weapon to weapon, blade to blade. Red-hot metal to red-hot metal. Melting until something new is forged – without fear, without regret, without the past, without the future.

Clearly, Maseo wants too much: she remembers what happiness is, and she is sure she’ll never ever be happy again.

But she can take a shot at being alive.

#suicide squad #katana #captain boomerang #tatsu yamashiro #digger harkness #kaboom #captain boomerang x katana #boomerang x katana #dc #my fic #gella talks skwad #talk talk talk #my magnum opus lmao #amazed i managed to translate this. i am not a woman i'm a god indeed #once again i still know nothing about the geography of the dceu!united states #and whether a city like metropolis could have an opera house

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aria-chicken-flugget · 4 years

Text

The Brothers (+Undateables)

React to A CRONCHIE MC

MC who’s joints crack randomly OR has Joint Hypermobility Syndrome

For @offbrandmilk and The Simp Club 😂✌️

The Brothers ~

Lucifer 🔥

Y’all are chillin in his study as he finishes up his work when *CRONCH*

He snaps his gaze up, that disgusted surprise on his face at the noise

“MC... did you- did you just make that noise?”

“Ah yea, sometimes my back cracks randomly when I get up lol.”

*Disgust intensifies*

“Do you... need assistance of some kind, perhaps?”

Would relax and sigh with relief when you say no

“You humans never cease to amaze me.” “Thanks!” “... That wasn’t a compliment.” “:(“

Would Glare TM each time it happens, making you feel increasingly self conscious

Until he’ll inexplicably soften - “MC...” “Yes?” “When -“ he’ll huff, “Doesn’t that hurt you? To do that...?”

His brows downturned, blush upon his cheeks as he attempts to examine the latest CRONCH

If yes, will personally see to it that you are looked after during those times - “it’s not that bad Lucifer! Really!” Does not register lol

If no, will revert back to being vexed or ‘disgusted’ by it, especially in public

Clicks his knuckles, on purpose, with a sickening crack

“You hypocrite!”

Mammon 💵

You’re messing with the Levi, having taken a treasured figurine to ‘sell’ when you drop it

“Hurry up would ya? He’ll catch up!”

You squat to pick it up when *CRONCH*

In the heat of the chase, silence falls dead

A solid minuet of Mammon frowning between you and your knees before anyone speaks

The Most Expressive Derp TM

“Wha- what the heck was that?!”

You rise, brushing it off with an exasperated sigh “It’s nothing, happens a lot.”

“We don’t even make that noise when Lucifer punishes us.”

Would occasionally steal glances thinking he’s being surreptitious about it when you finally ask “What is it?” Would fiercely deny it

“Pfft Me? THE GREAT MAMMON? Starin’? Ha - in your DREAMS Human.” Blush

*Spongebob narrator voice* 5 Seconds Later

“Ok so what if i was starin’, huh? It was weird!”

... “You’re fine though, right? It didn’t hurt ya doin that to get the toy of his, right?”

... “Mammon! Would you stop looking at me like i’m going to snap in half if you breathe?!” Blush

Levi 👾

You’re doing a co-op match of a horror game you’re trying with him - things get jumpy when *CRONCH*

You’d bent your arms ‘inhumanly’ at a jump scare, accompanied by a CRONCH

Levi thought it was the game that made that sickening crack

You wish you could frame the horror stricken expression that turns to face you after a dumb moment

His face unmoving, his eyes flit to your bent back arms and your casual smile

Error 404, Levi does not compute

You break the silence with a laugh, “Oh yea i’ve got hypermobility -“ bends arms further

He snaps out of it with a “Wooooaaaaaaaahhhhh!!” “Eek!” As you tease him a bit further

“The game’s scary enough!” “LOLOLOL”

Actually finds it really cool

Quickly gets you two to cosplay and roleplay usuing your ‘Special Ability’ as he’d call it

Would 100% roleplay kinky and try to do it himself, too

Fails

Satan 📚

He’d be teaching you how to play chess in the library. Silent focus, from jovial to tense... until *CRONCH*

Raised brows as he meets your blushing features. You scratch your head, nervous for disturbing the silence

He frowns, a smirk tugging his lips, “Did you just make that sound?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose to put you off or anything -“ “Good. Or else i’d have to punish you.”

You try not to combust at the unintentional insinuation

Otherwise lets it slide, finding it ‘odd’ or ‘quirky’, even endearing...

Likes that he’s the first and only brother to know about this ‘quirk’ of yours

Barely notices it/doesn’t mind at all

That is until, you CRONCH in the silence he requires in order to read dense text

He eyes you darkly as you CRONCH for the fourth time in a row - you wince

“Sorry!” A harsh whisper before you creep out to CRONCH your back elsewhere

Smirks as you leave, shaking his head before calling you back in - as though it were an ‘inconvenience’ to do so

Asmodeus 💋

He’d drawn you a bath in his own king sized tub, ready to spoil you rotten for your spa day

You’d sunk into the tub with an appreciative hum as he began rubbing massage oil in your wrists

He’d set the mood PERFECTLY as usual

“How am I supposed to control myself when you sing so sweetly?” Wiggly brows

There wasn’t a crick, nor a crack... BUT A *CRONCH*

He freezes, you peel your eyes open with a suppressed smile. He makes a choked noise, the mood having been shot dead

“Honey... what the hell was that noise?”

Knowing full well it was your wrists that made such a deafening crack

You giggle at his tense expression, as he asks “So are you secretly an eighty year old, or?”

You explain you have joint hypermobility syndrome, which is sometimes painful

After getting over his initial freak out, he pampers you EVEN MORE

“You come to me if it hurts honey, ok?”

Your pain is his pain, though he may not show it, he actually gets intensely upset if something truly hurts you

Beelzebub 🍔

You’re chilling in your room together, with take out from a new chain beside Hell’s Kitchen, both making happy yummy noises as you eat

*CRONCH*

Beel pauses mid bite, but shrugs and keeps eating. Maybe there was lettuce in his burger after all?

You remember - sauce! Can’t eat with Beel without the full experience!

“Hey there’s some Hellfire sauce in the kitchen lemme grab it real quick -“ “:)”

You get up to get it when - *CRONCH* there go your ankles again. Welp.

His eyebrows raise a second, “MC... are you ok?”

You smile, laughing off how that happens sometimes

He frowns in thought before shrugging with a laugh alongside you, “Fair enough.” Seems legit lmao

He’s seen weirder shit and is still unfazed by it so he does not give a flying fuck lol

“As long as it doesnt hurt.” “:)”

If your joints/limbs were particularly sore or even dislocated that day, he would gently scoop you up and carry you anywhere <3

Belphegor 😴

Your napping in his arms as the little spoon, just between wake and sleep as he snuggles into you. You shift to get comfy when *CRONCH*

He freezes, you freeze too, trying not to laugh

“MC...” he begins groggily “What the fuck was that noise you just made?”

You explain sometimes you just CRONCH. It be like that sometimes Belphie, it do

He doesnt believe you, especially since you’re laughing as you explain it

“No really! I’m serious!” “Then why are you laughing?” “Because it’s funny! You’re reaction pfft” “>:(“

“If your weird human body wakes me up i’m not gonna nap with you again.”

He doesnt mean it

*Goes to leave because you CRONCHED* “Well, where do you think you’re going?”

*Visible Confusion* He flashes a cocky grin, “You’re not skipping out on being my Pillow.”

Grabs your CRONCHY wrist and tugs you back under the covers for more snuggles

“But you said -“ “Shut up and sleep”

*Kisses your forehead* “:)” <3

The Undateables ~

Luke 👼

He’s baking treats for you, Beel and Simeon when you offer a hand when you see him sturggle with the tray and *CRONCH*

The Most Disgusted Face TM

Almost drops the tray on your feet

“What in this disgraceful Devildom was that noise, MC?!”

“My joints do that sometimes” with a shrug and laugh as you #Take 2 with the baking

Turns his nose up “That was a horrible noise no wonder the demons love you so much.”

Tries and fails to act prim and proper as he carries the tray from your grasp, only for Beel to tackle the tray and eat the first batch

This ’Chihuahua’ is all bark and no bite, doesnt mean a word

After a silence, he’ll ask quietly, “Are you... hurt by it?” Little blushy face

If no, he’ll smile and turn his attention back to the sweet treats. If yes, he’ll be a sad puppy

“I’m alright, Luke! Don’t worry.” “Ok :)”

Will fight any demon anyone who may question or mock you over it, even though it doesnt bother you

“ChOtTo MaTtE! >:(“ #NotSoSilentProtector

Simeon 😇

Your walking to class together at RAD when he drops his books. You insist on plucking them from the ground for him when *CRONCH*

Surprised Pikachu Face TM

Breaks into That Smile TM and laughs with you at your cronchie knees

“That was... certainly an interesting noise.”

You don’t need to explain, but you do for the record so to speak

He gets weirdly curious about it, Is it all humans? Do you enforce cronchie joints upon your young? Mandatory or compulsory to be a human with cronchie joints? “:’)”

Will try to CRONCH too out of curiosity

It doesn’t go badly per se, but it doesn’t go well either

“Simeon, stop before you hurt yourself.”

Similarly to Beel, is hardly fazed by it at all when considering some shit this boi has seen

“Oooh like what?! *~*” He smiles all Innocent TM “You don’t want to know.”

Innocent my ass

“Now I wanna know more!”

Solomon 🧙‍♂️

He’s showing you some magic to prank the brothers in a sneak attack when *CRONCH*

He eyes you with That Smirk TM and bursts out laughing with you

“Hey! Me too!” *CRONCH* his knuckles

You two start CRONCH Wars

You act out lines of Star Wars to each other ever since and CRONCH, terrifying the Demon Brothers and Purgatory Hall

“MC, I AM your father.” *CRONCH*

Somewhere nearby, Lucifer holds the bridge of his nose with a deep *sigh*

You both sneak attack the others with CRONCHES, scaring the shit out of them

apart from Beel or Satan. They don’t notice or see it coming, respectively

You did it once to Lucifer. You did not want to do it again ... *~*

You start to slowly recruit others to the CRONCH wars, starting with Levi and Mammon

“When will this nonsense end?” “THE CRONCH WARS NEVER END, LUCIFER. NEVEEER.”

Would CRONCH next to you when you’re asleep to freak you out

*CRONCH* “Solomon... why are you in my bedroom?”

Barbatos 🕰

He’s showing you how to prepare the Hellfire cigar rolled cookies so that you can teach Lucifer, when *SPLAT*

...

Jk, it’s ofc a *CRONCH* - but i nearly got ya! haha ok sorry i’ll stop

Anyway, *CRONCH* go your shoulders as you bend over a simmering tray to get a whiff

Your eyes pop open as you hear the sickening crack and Barbatos makes a small surprised choking noise

You lift your gaze with a nervous smile only to see him smirk

“That was a... curious noise, MC.” That small chuckle behind his gloved hand, “Is that a regular occurrence?”

Laughs it off, shrugs. Surprised he didn’t see it coming when he quite literally knows all

Ignores it from then on

However will chuckle behind that glove if the timing is particularly humourous

Will seem unfazed if it hurt you, but his actions would speak for him.

Making you tea and checking on you more frequently, even if you’re not at the palace

Would snark anyone who comments on your CRONCHINESS like the diva he secretly is

Diavolo 👑

You’re visiting the palace on your best behaviour, taking a stroll with Diavolo when *CRONCH*

He’s smiling through a frown as he tries to work out where the noise came from

“Was - was that you, MC?” That Laugh TM head tipped back, tears in his eyes laughing

“Hahah such fun!” *CRONCH*

He CRONCHED his arms to CRONCH with you, only he CRONCHED too far

His arms are stuck in their newfound ‘unsightly’ position

Puppy eyes as he can’t seem to UN-CRONCH

Your turn to burst out laughing, he quickly joins you

Lucifer’s hand flies to his chest when he sees you two return - “MC... did you have something to do with this?” Glare

You flush, about to fight your case when Diavolo steps in with That Smile TM

“I wanted to joint in!” “...” “;)” *FacePalm*

“It was fun, you should try it Lucifer!”

Satan snickers at the double meaning - “Fun? Lucifer doesn’t know how to have fun.”

Diavolo pulls those Sad Puppy Eyes TM

By the end of the night Lucifer literally bent over backwards to make Diavolo happy lolololol

Don’t take these too seriously! Mostly a shit post for the simp club lolol - hope they made you smile! ✨

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me brothers #obey me undateables #Obey Me Boys React to #om! swd #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me Asmo #obey me Beel #obey me belphie #shitpost #meme

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hlupdate · 3 years

Link

Variety’s Grammy-nominated Hitmaker of the Year goes deep on the music industry, the great pause and finding his own muses.

“We’ll dance again,” Harry Styles coos, the Los Angeles sunshine peeking through his pandemic-shaggy hair just so. The singer, songwriter and actor — beloved and critically acclaimed thanks to his life-affirming year-old album, “Fine Line” — is lamenting that his Variety Hitmaker of the Year cover conversation has to be conducted over Zoom rather than in person. Even via videoconference, the Brit is effortlessly charming, as anyone who’s come within earshot of him would attest, but it quickly becomes clear that beneath that genial smile is a well-honed media strategy.

To wit: In an interview that appears a few days later announcing his investment in a new arena in his native Manchester (more on that in a bit), he repeats the refrain — “There will be a time we dance again”— referencing a much-needed return to live music and the promise of some 4,000 jobs for residents.

None of which is to suggest that Styles, 26, phones it in for interviews. Quite the opposite: He does very few, conceivably to give more of himself and not cheapen what is out there and also to use the publicity opportunity to indulge his other interests, like fashion. (Last month Styles became the first male to grace the cover of Vogue solo.) Still, it stings a little that a waltz with the former One Direction member may not come to pass on this album cycle — curse you, coronavirus.

Styles’ isolation has coincided with his maturation as an artist, a thespian and a person. With “Fine Line,” he’s proved himself a skilled lyricist with a tremendous ear for harmony and melody. In preparing for his role in Olivia Wilde’s period thriller “Don’t Worry Darling,” which is shooting outside Palm Springs, he found an outlet for expression in interpreting words on a page. And for the first time, he’s using his megaphone to speak out about social justice — inspired by the outpouring of support for Black people around the world following the death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police in May.

Styles has spent much of the past nine months at home in London, where life has slowed considerably. The time has allowed him to ponder such heady issues as his purpose on the earth. “It’s been a pause that I don’t know if I would have otherwise taken,” says Styles. “I think it’s been pretty good for me to have a kind of stop, to look and think about what it actually means to be an artist, what it means to do what we do and why we do it. I lean into moments like this — moments of uncertainty.”

In truth, while Styles has largely been keeping a low profile — his Love On Tour, due to kick off on April 15, was postponed in late March and is now scheduled to launch in February 2021 (whether it actually will remains to be seen) — his music has not. This is especially true in the U.S., where he’s notched two hit singles, “Adore You,” the second-most-played song at radio in 2020, and “Watermelon Sugar” (No. 22 on Variety’s year-end Hitmakers chart), with a third, “Golden,” already cresting the top 20 on the pop format. The massive cross-platform success of these songs means Styles has finally and decisively broken into the American market, maneuvering its web of gatekeepers to accumulate 6.2 million consumption units and rising.

Why do these particular songs resonate in 2020? Styles doesn’t have the faintest idea. While he acknowledges a “nursery rhyme” feel to “Watermelon Sugar” with its earwormy loop of a chorus, that’s about as much insight as he can offer. His longtime collaborator and friend Tom Hull, also known as the producer Kid Harpoon, offers this take: “There’s a lot of amazing things about that song, but what really stands out is the lyric. It’s not trying to hide or be clever. The simplicity of watermelon … there’s such a joy in it, [which] is a massive part of that song’s success.” Also, his kids love it. “I’ve never had a song connect with children in this way,” says Hull, whose credits include tunes by Shawn Mendes, Florence and the Machine and Calvin Harris. “I get sent videos all the time from friends of their kids singing. I have a 3-year-old and an 8-year-old, and they listen to it.”

Styles is quick to note that he doesn’t chase pop appeal when crafting songs. In fact, the times when he pondered or approved a purposeful tweak, like on his self-titled 2017 debut, still gnaw at him. “I love that album so much because it represents such a time in my life, but when I listen to it — sonically and lyrically, especially — I can hear places where I was playing it safe,” he says. “I was scared to get it wrong.”

Contemporary effects and on-trend beats hardly factor into Styles’ decision-making. He likes to focus on feelings — his own and his followers’ — and see himself on the other side of the velvet rope, an important distinction in his view. “People within [the industry] feel like they operate on a higher level of listening, and I like to make music from the point of being a fan of music,” Styles says. “Fans are the best A&R.”

This from someone who’s had free rein to pursue every musical whim, and hand in the album of his dreams in the form of “Fine Line.” Chart success makes it all the sweeter, but Styles insists that writing “for the right reasons” supersedes any commercial considerations. “There’s no part that feels, eh, icky — like it was made in the lab,” he says.

Styles has experience in this realm. As a graduate of the U.K. competition series “The X Factor,” where he and four other auditionees — Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne and Louis Tomlinson — were singled out by show creator and star judge Simon Cowell to conjoin as One Direction, he’s seen how the prefab pop machine works up close. The One Direction oeuvre, which counts some 42 million albums sold worldwide, includes songs written with such established hitmakers as Ryan Tedder, Savan Kotecha and Teddy Geiger. Being a studious, insatiable observer, Styles took it all in.

“I learned so much,” he says of the experience. “When we were in the band, I used to try and write with as many different people as I could. I wanted to practice — and I wrote a lot of bad shit.”

His bandmates also benefited from the pop star boot camp. The proof is in the relatively seamless solo transitions of at least three of its members — Payne, Malik and Horan in addition to Styles — each of whom has landed hit singles on charts in the U.K., the U.S. and beyond.

This departs from the typical trajectories of boy bands including New Kids on the Block and ’N Sync, which have all pro ered a star frontman. The thinking for decades was that a record company would be lucky to have one breakout solo career among the bunch.

Styles has plainly thought about this.

“When you look at the history of people coming out of bands and starting solo careers, they feel this need to apologize for being in the band. ‘Don’t worry, everyone, that wasn’t me! Now I get to do what I really want to do.’ But we loved being in the band,” he says. “I think there’s a wont to pit people against each other. And I think it’s never been about that for us. It’s about a next step in evolution. The fact that we’ve all achieved different things outside of the band says a lot about how hard we worked in it.”

Indeed, during the five-ish years that One Direction existed, Styles’ schedule involved the sort of nonstop international jet-setting that few get to see in a lifetime, never mind their teenage years. Between 2011 and 2015, One Direction’s tours pulled in north of $631 million in gross ticket sales, according to concert trade Pollstar, and the band was selling out stadiums worldwide by the time it entered its extended hiatus. Styles, too, had built up to playing arenas as a solo artist, engaging audiences with his colorful stage wear and banter and left-of-center choices for opening acts (a pre-Grammy-haul Kacey Musgraves in 2018; indie darlings King Princess and Jenny Lewis for his rescheduled 2021 run).

Stages of all sizes feel like home to Styles. He grew up in a suburb of Manchester, ground zero for some of the biggest British acts of the 1980s and ’90s, including Joy Division, New Order, the Smiths and Oasis, the latter of which broke the same year Styles was born. His parents were also music lovers. Styles’ father fed him a balanced diet of the Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, the Rolling Stones and Queen, while Mum was a fan of Shania Twain, Norah Jones and Savage Garden. “They’re all great melody writers,” says Styles of the acts’ musical throughline.

Stevie Nicks, who in the past has described “Fine Line” as Styles’ “Rumours,” referencing the Fleetwood Mac 1977 classic, sees him as a kindred spirit. “Harry writes and sings his songs about real experiences that seemingly happened yesterday,” she tells Variety. “He taps into real life. He doesn’t make up stories. He tells the truth, and that is what I do. ‘Fine Line’ has been my favorite record since it came out. It is his ‘Rumours.’ I told him that in a note on December 13, 2019 before he went on stage to play the ‘Fine Line’ album at the Forum. We cried. He sang those songs like he had sung them a thousand times. That’s a great songwriter and a great performer.”

“Harry’s playing and writing is instinctual,” adds Jonathan Wilson, a friend and peer who’s advised Styles on backing and session musicians. “He understands history and where to take the torch. You can see the thread of great British performers — from Bolan to Bowie — in his music.”

Also shaping his musical DNA was Manchester itself, the site of a 23,500-seat arena, dubbed Co-op Live, for which Styles is an investor and adviser. Oak View Group, a company specializing in live entertainment and global sports that was founded by Tim Leiweke and Irving Azoff in 2015 (Jeffrey Azoff, Irving’s son, represents Styles at Full Stop Management), is leading the effort to construct the venue. The project gained planning approval in September and is set to open in 2023, with its arrival representing a £350 million ($455 million) investment in the city. (Worth noting: Manchester is already home to an arena — the site of a 2017 bombing outside an Ariana Grande concert — and a football stadium, where One Love Manchester, an all-star benefit show to raise money for victims of the terrorist attack, took place.)

“I went to my first shows in Manchester,” Styles says of concerts paid for with money earned delivering newspapers for a supermarket called the Co-op. “My friends and I would go in on weekends. There’s so many amazing small venues, and music is such a massive part of the city. I think Manchester deserves it. It feels like a full-circle, coming-home thing to be doing this and to be able to give any kind of input. I’m incredibly proud. Hopefully they’ll let me play there at some point.”

Though Styles has owned properties in Los Angeles, his base for the foreseeable future is London. “I feel like my relationship with L.A. has changed a lot,” he explains. “I’ve kind of accepted that I don’t have to live here anymore; for a while I felt like I was supposed to. Like it meant things were going well. This happened, then you move to L.A.! But I don’t really want to.”

Is it any wonder? Between COVID and the turmoil in the U.S. spurred by the presidential election, Styles, like some 79 million American voters, is recovering from sticker shock over the bill of goods sold to them by the concept of democracy. “In general, as people, there’s a lack of empathy,” he observes. “We found this place that’s so divisive. We just don’t listen to each other anymore. And that’s quite scary.”

That belief prompted Styles to speak out publicly in the wake of George Floyd’s death. As protests in support of Black Lives Matter took to streets all over the world, for Styles, it triggered a period of introspection, as marked by an Instagram message (liked by 2.7 million users and counting) in which he declared: “I do things every day without fear, because I am privileged, and I am privileged every day because I am white. … Being not racist is not enough, we must be anti racist. Social change is enacted when a society mobilizes. I stand in solidarity with all of those protesting. I’m donating to help post bail for arrested organizers. Look inwards, educate yourself and others. LISTEN, READ, SHARE, DONATE and VOTE. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. BLACK LIVES MATTER.”

“Talking about race can be really uncomfortable for everyone,” Styles elaborates. “I had a realization that my own comfort in the conversation has nothing to do with the problem — like that’s not enough of a reason to not have a conversation. Looking back, I don’t think I’ve been outspoken enough in the past. Using that feeling has pushed me forward to being open and ready to learn. … How can I ensure from my side that in 20 years, the right things are still being done and the right people are getting the right opportunities? That it’s not a passing thing?”

His own record company — and corporate parent Sony Music Group, whose chairman, Rob Stringer, signed Styles in 2016 — has been grappling with these same questions as the industry has faced its own reckoning with race. At issue: inequality among the upper ranks (an oft-cited statistic: popular music is 80% Black, but the music business is 80% white); contracts rooted in a decades-old system that many say is set up to take advantage of artists, Black artists more unfairly than white; and the call for a return of master rights, an ownership model that is at the core of the business.

Styles acknowledges the fundamental imbalance in how a major label deal is structured — the record company takes on the financial risk while the artist is made to recoup money spent on the project before the act is considered profitable and earning royalties (typically at a 15% to 18% rate for the artist, while the label keeps and disburses the rest). “Historically, I can’t think of any industry that’s benefited more off of Black culture than music,” he says. “There are discussions that need to happen about this long history of not being paid fairly. It’s a time for listening, and hopefully, people will come out humbled, educated and willing to learn and change.”

By all accounts, Styles is a voracious reader, a movie lover and an aesthete. He stays in shape by adhering to a strict daily exercise routine. “I tried to keep up but didn’t last more than two weeks,” says Hull, Styles’ producer, with a laugh. “The discipline is terrifying.”

Of course, with the fashion world beckoning — Styles recently appeared in a film series for Gucci’s new collection that was co-directed by the fashion house’s creative director, Alessandro Michele, and Oscar winner Gus Van Sant — and a movie that’s set in the 1950s, maintaining that physique is part of the job. And he’s no stranger to visual continuity after appearing in Christopher Nolan’s epic “Dunkirk” and having to return to set for reshoots; his hair, which needed to be cut back to its circa 1940 form, is a constant topic of conversation among fans. This time, it’s the ink that poses a challenge. By Styles’ tally, he’s up to 60 tattoos, which require an hour in the makeup chair to cover up. “It’s the only time I really regret getting tattooed,” he says.

He shows no regret, however, when it comes to stylistic choices overall, and takes pride in his gender-agnostic portfolio, which includes wearing a Gucci dress on that Vogue cover— an image that incited conservative pundit Candace Owens to plead publicly to “bring back manly men.” In Styles’ view: “To not wear [something] because it’s females’ clothing, you shut out a whole world of great clothes. And I think what’s exciting about right now is you can wear what you like. It doesn’t have to be X or Y. Those lines are becoming more and more blurred.”

But acclaim, if you can believe it, is not top of mind for Styles. As far as the Grammys are concerned, Styles shrugs, “It’s never why I do anything.” His team and longtime label, however, had their hearts set on a showing at the Jan. 31 ceremony. Their investment in Styles has been substantial — not just monetarily but in carefully crafting his career in the wake of such icons as David Bowie, who released his final albums with the label. Hope at the company and in many fans’ hearts that Styles would receive an album of the year nomination did not come to pass. However, he was recognized in three categories, including best pop vocal album.

“It’s always nice to know that people like what you’re doing, but ultimately — and especially working in a subjective field — I don’t put too much weight on that stuff,” Styles says. “I think it’s important when making any kind of art to remove the ego from it.” Citing the painter Matisse, he adds: “It’s about the work that you do when you’re not expecting any applause.”

#harry styles #variety #021220

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need-a-fugue · 3 years

Text

We Grow Together (27)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tessa Sullivan (OFC)

Chapter Summary: An argument leads to a deep dive into the past, and Tessa finally shares with Bucky some important insights into her history.

Warnings: Angst! Brief mentions of sexual assault.

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right?

“What the hell was that?” Bucky angrily barks when he enters the conference room they commandeered at the tower.

Tessa doesn’t even realize that he’s talking to her, she’s so consumed with reading the emails on her phone. But of course, everyone else in the room knows exactly who his words are directed at. Clint casually reaches over her and pries the phone from her hands. “Hey! That’s important… that’s work,” she complains, smacking at him to get the phone back.

Bucky steps up so that he’s directly in front of her, looming over her as she leans on the table at the center of the room. “I told you to stay in my sight.” He seethes. “You don’t disappear like that.”

“What?” she asks, a scowl taking over her face. “Are you serious? I moved around the corner for like 30 seconds.”

“The one thing we agreed on was that you’d stay in our sights. The entire time. That’s protocol.”

“Protocol?” she laughs. “You said you were going to shoot him.”

He lets out and indignant scoff. “I wasn’t going to shoot him! You were in the middle of a restaurant. In Manhattan. You think I’m an idiot?”

“You think I am?”

“Enough,” Steve shouts, walking over to stand between the arguing couple. He turns to Tessa. “You were told to stay where we could see you. That was an order.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Cal’s a complete asshole, but he’s no threat to me. Not like you’re thinking.”

“That’s not the damn point,” Bucky shoots out from behind Steve.

Steve levels her with a stare. “When you’re in the field, you follow my orders. If you can’t do that, you can’t be a part of this team. Understood?”

“Am I supposed to salute now or something?” she says, crossing her arms tightly in front of her.

He takes a step closer. “Is that understood?” he asks again through gritted teeth.

If she is intimidated, she doesn’t let it show, her stance remaining defiant even as she bitterly issues out, “Yes, sir.”

“And you,” he says, spinning around to face his friend, “You’re not in charge here.”

Bucky’s face pinches, so taken aback by the statement. “What?”

“This is my op. You report to me. You don’t threaten civilians – ”

“It wasn’t a real threat,” he protests.

“You don’t berate someone on my team,” Steve goes on.

He throw up his arms in obvious irritation. “This is such bullshit.”

Steve grabs his arm and drags him to a corner of the room, never mind the fact that Bucky’s metal fingers furiously try to pry loose from his grip as they move. “You’re pissed off, I get it,” he says in a low tone. “But if you want to be on this team, I need you respect my authority. If someone on the team screws up, it’s on me to talk to them about it. Not you. Especially if that someone is your…”

Bucky raises his eyebrows expectantly. “My…”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know what I’m saying. If something happens with Tessa on a mission, you need to let me handle it. I don’t want to cut you loose. But if I feel like you can’t be objective, I will.”

Bucky grinds his jaw, positively seething at his friend’s – his captain’s – words. “Understood,” he grits out finally, realizing that there’s really no logical argument he can make.

“Good.” Steve turns back to the team. “Good,” he says to everyone. “Okay. Let’s head back to the compound for tonight. We can reconvene at 0700 to have an official debrief and plan our next move.”

“I don’t suppose anyone else wants to give me a lift?” Tessa asks, not even bothering to look up from the phone that she finally managed to wrestle away from Barton.

“Oh no,” Clint says, patting her on the shoulder as he heads for the door. “But just remember, if things get too tense, you two can always pull over and hate fuck in a bathroom somewhere.” She punches him in the arm. Hard. But it doesn’t keep him from raucously laughing as he strolls out of the room behind Nat and Steve.

000

They’re in the car no more than five minutes when she starts worrying her hands so hard that he actually hears a knuckle pop. He glances down and sees the anxious tugging and bending that’s caused her fingers to go white. “Stop that,” he snaps.

She looks over at him with a pained expression. “I’m sorry about leaving your sight, okay?” He doesn’t respond, though she can see his jaw tense as he watches the highway in front of them. “Are you really that mad at me?”

He pinches his lips tightly together and looks away from the road just long enough to spare her a glimpse. “No.”

She continues to nervously work her hands. “Are you sure? You seem pretty angry.”

He takes in a long, deep breath. “I’m mad at you for disobeying orders.” His eyes drop to the abused fingers in her lap and he sighs as he removes his right hand from the steering wheel and drops it onto her hands, pulling them apart. He laces his fingers with hers and turns his attention back to the road. “But I’m not really mad at you.”

She swallows hard and gives his hand a sharp squeeze. “I’m not good at following orders.”

“Yeah,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he moves his hand back to the wheel. “I know.”

“Steve got very captain-y,” she hums, brows raised. “I thought he was going to ground me.”

Bucky lets loose with a small chuckle, though he tries to hide it. “You’d deserve it.”

She shifts in her seat, turning to face him. “I popped around the corner for less than a minute.”

“A minute is all it takes,” he says, tone suddenly serious.

“He wasn’t going to hurt me. He wouldn’t do that.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, the pinched expression returning to his face.

“I do know that. I know him.”

“Right,” he says, a sardonic laugh escaping him. “You know him pretty damn well, huh?”

“Aha!” If it weren’t for the fact that she was belted in, she would be jumping right out of her seat. “I knew you were mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he seethes. “You have a past. So do I. You’ve been with other men.”

“So have you?”

He slowly turns his head to give her an irritated look. He’s met with a very recognizable shit-eating grin. “I’m not mad about that. I didn’t like finding out about him this way…”

Her expression falls and she pivots a bit in her seat, leaning her head back as she stares at him. “I didn’t know… It honestly didn’t occur to me…”

“I know.” He turns his soft blue eyes to her just long enough to momentarily meet her gaze.

“I didn’t really think he was dead.” She crinkles her brow. “Well, he could’ve been and it wouldn’t have surprised me. But… I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see him again.”

They sit in silence for a good mile and half before Bucky nervously utters, “You were with him for five years.”

She scoffs loudly. “Hardly.” She pulls her legs up underneath her, folding herself up on the leather seat. “I mean… technically, maybe.”

“Technically maybe?”

“It was… complicated.”

He continues to stare straight ahead at the road, makes no move to look at her when he asks, “Did you love him?”

She hesitates only briefly. “Yes.”

He gives a slow nod as he takes that in. “Even though he’s an asshole?”

Sniggering, she replies, “Because he’s an asshole. Always was.” She looks out the window wistfully. “The guy you saw today is the guy he’s always been. Just a giant ball of selfish, blind ambition.”

Bucky raises his brows thoughtfully. “Sounds a little like someone else I know.”

“You think I’m selfish?” she frowns at him.

He glances over at her with a playful smile. “Blindly ambitious,” he clarifies.

She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I guess we did have that in common.”

“So…” he prompts when she falls silent.

“So what?”

“So why would you fall in love with an asshole?” He looks over and sees the thoughtful frown on her face. “Am I an asshole?” he asks, a hint of sincerity mixed in with the teasing.

She looks positively stricken when she turns to him. “God, no. Baby,” she says, reaching out to grasp his shoulder, “You’re amazing.”

“I’m amazing?” he laughs.

She leans closer to him, curling around the center console in an attempt to be next to him. “You care so much… about me and Steve, and everyone else you love. And you love! And you show it.” Falling back into her seat, she turns her face away. “Cal was never like that. Not at all.”

“He didn’t love you?”

She shrugs. “I think he did. He’s just… different. And honestly, at that time, when I was with him – at least in the beginning – I don’t think I would’ve really accepted love… not the kind of love that you give me, anyway,” she finishes with a soft smile.

Bucky nods for a moment, thinking through what he wants to ask next. “But he never… hurt you?”

“Well,” she breathes out. “I was young, dumb, and in love. And he was a bit older, way more experienced, and, you know, an asshole.”

“Physically,” he states, a rough edge to his voice. She gives him a confused look. “That dream you had,” he says, struggling to get the words out. “Someone choked you.”

She takes a sharp inhale and shakes her head emphatically. “No. No, that wasn’t Cal.”

“So… some other asshole boyfriend?”

Sighing, she leans her head back on the headrest. “That was before Cal. A long time ago. When I was even younger and dumber.” She looks over at him and sees his jaw tick as his eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. “You’ve been holding onto that one,” she says with a smirk.

He gives her a get serious look, but says nothing.

They sit in silence for a long moment, the only sound the low hum of the barely there music on the radio. She lets out a single, long-held breath. “It was in college. I was 18 and living a double life. Science nerd in a fast-track med program by day. Vigilante mutant X-Man by night. Well, some nights.” He glances over at her and sees that she’s staring pensively out the passenger’s side window as she speaks. “There was this guy… just a normal, smart guy. Normal. You know how it is, you go out a few times. You have a good time. You think, hey, this is great, he really likes me! And I’d never been with a normal guy before. But then it was like a switch somewhere flipped and…” She shrugs again.

“And?” he asks, his voice timid.

She turns to face him and the two lock eyes for a brief moment before he’s forced to look back at the road. Once he turns away, she continues, slowly, achingly. “That night, things got… heated. More heated than usual. And he shoved me. And then he choked me. And I started to use my powers. But then I thought… if you do that, everyone will know. At Xavier’s I was… me. Whatever that meant. But in the real world… I had to be someone else. Something else.” She closes her eyes tightly, squeezing them shut for a single, long moment. “Like I said, I was young and dumb.”

He sits with her words for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. Then… “You let someone just…” He can’t quite bring himself to finish the thought, so she does it for him.

“Rape me?”

His eyes go wide, chest tightens. He had thought that might’ve been what happened. But hearing the word… It’s almost too much to take, and all at once, his mind veers back to Cal. “Why would you love someone who’s bad to you?” he asks, the question tumbling out over his lips as he slowly pulls the car over to the side of the road.

“What?” she asks, genuinely confused.

He puts the car in park and turns to her. “Why would you let someone hurt you?”

She looks into his eyes and sees indisputable pain, as though just hearing that she’s been hurt in the past had somehow managed to knock the wind out of him. “Are… are you talking about…”

“I’m talking about all of it, Tessa. I’m talking about this guy… Cal. I’m talking about re-hiring Max. I’m talking about this… thing in college.”

“I just told you about that. I didn’t want to be found out. I didn’t want to be the mutant freak.”

He shakes his head and stares her down, his light eyes suddenly swimming in unshed tears. “I’m talking about me almost killing you.”

“Jesus!” She rips off the seatbelt and propels herself upright in the car seat, up onto her knees that had been tucked beneath her. “We’ve been through this!”

“Have we?” he asks, voice a little too calm.

“You didn’t mean to hurt me. You would never mean to hurt me!”

“But I did.”

She shakes her head, frustration causing a bright blush to grow over her cheeks and burn at the tips of her ears. “I shouldn’t have to explain to you why I did or didn’t do something… I shouldn’t have to explain to you why I forgave you for something that wasn’t even your fault.”

“I never asked for an explanation. Because I know I would’ve forgiven you too. But… I’m worried there’s something more here. A pattern.” He speaks while staring down at his own hands, either too upset or too certain of his words to be willing to look her in the eye as he utters them.

Tessa takes in a deep breath and markedly blows it out. Anger and frustration are causing tears to build in her eyes and clog the back of her throat. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she chokes out.

At hearing her tear-filled voice, his gaze shifts up. He locks eyes with her and his frown deepens. “I just want what’s best for you,” he says, soft sincerity lacing his words.

She lets out a single, harsh guffaw. “That’s what you say to a child, James. I’m not a fucking child.”

“Okay.” He turns back to the road, stares ahead at the setting sun in the distance. The car continues to run, engine idling in rhythm with the slight hum of the music on the radio.

Tessa shifts, unfolding her legs from beneath her and sliding back down into her seat. “Cal was like a drug for me,” she says softly. “His energy was… intense. And penetrating. I… I felt it.” She sniffles a bit and swipes at a few errant tears that rolled down her cheeks. “It’s not a pattern. I’m not some insecure little girl who goes looking for pain because she thinks she deserves it.”

He pivots his head toward her, gazing at the side of her still-red face as she focuses her eyes straight ahead. “What is it then?”

She shakes her head absently – “It’s me.” – and turns her glistening gaze to him for the briefest of moments. “Sometimes… I feel so much that it’s like I can’t actually feel anything at all. I can’t really explain it. Feeling energy… it’s just something I can do. It’s like seeing or hearing. Or smelling.” She turns her body towards him and reaches out, takes his hand in hers. “You know what it’s like when you smell something for so long, and you get used to it… sensitized? And then you just can’t smell it anymore?”

He nods.

“I think I have a better handle on it now. Probably not always. But I can sort of… tune people out now in a way that I couldn’t before. But then… when I first met Cal… I just needed to feel. And he had this sort of powerful energy that was just so… big. And I needed it. Because it was the only thing I could really feel. Sometimes I still get like that.” She pulls in a sharp breath. “And sometimes that intensity is bad… yeah. Sometimes it’s unhealthy or… or hurtful.” Then, looking deep into his eyes, she says simply, “But sometimes I need it.”

He pulls his hand from hers and reaches up to her face to swipe away a few tear tracks with the pad of his thumb. He gives her a small, almost sad smile. “Do you get that from me?”

A slight chuckle escapes her, as do a few more tears as her eyes shift down. “At first, maybe. Yeah, you have a sort of brooding intensity. And that was probably the first thing that attracted me to you.” She looks back up at him, takes in his frown. “Then I got to know you, and I realized there was so much more to be attracted to. And then I really got to know you…”

“I don’t like the idea of you wanting to be with me because of that.”

“Baby, it’s just… you.” She snuggles her cheek into his open palm. “Your energy is bright and intense and brave and… How could I not want to be around that?” He looks less than convinced as he drops his hand from her face and swallows hard. So she goes on, ready to explain. “Everyone has a certain energy signature. The people I know well, I can tell when they’re in a room, sometimes when they’re in the same building as me, even if I can’t see or hear them. I can feel them.”

He nods. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before.”

“But the thing I’ve noticed, the thing I’ve figured out over the years, is that inside that signature there’s this one thing. It almost feels dumb to put a word to it… a single word really isn’t enough to properly describe it… but…” She pauses for moment and chews the inside of her cheek as she thinks. “Natasha,” she starts again. “She’s this fierce, determined, fearless, smart, amazing woman.”

He raises his brows and nods. “Okay. Sure.”

“That thing that I can sense, the most potent piece of her energy signature… it’s vulnerability. It’s something she hides well, but I can see it… feel it. And Steve… When he’s around I’m swept up in this overwhelming desire for justice. It might not be something he’s always thinking about, but it’s so much a part of him that even his base energy just exudes it. Clint gives off joy. Even when he’s at his worst. Even when he doesn’t feel happy at all. He still is joy. Sam is love,” she says with a small laugh. “Pure and simple. And Tony is – it might sound crazy – insecurity. Bruce is fear,” she finishes with a frown.

Bucky gives her a thoughtful look. “What am I?”

She gazes at him, a small smile blooming on her face. “You’re my strength,” she says wistfully. “I might’ve noticed the intensity at first… the anger, the pain, the confusion… all of that created this force that sucked me in. But the closer I got to you, the easier it was to see what was hidden beneath all of those loud elements. You’ve made it through so much. You fought your way back from hell. You never gave up. You, my dear,” she says with a teasing glint, “are stronger than anyone I’ve known. At your core. It’s something that just… burns inside of you.”

He drops his head, a bit of a blush taking over his face. “That sounds better than… intensity.”

She laughs, a light and airy sound that makes his heart beat quicken. “Oh, you still have intensity. But what I get from you… it’s good.”

He looks up at her, still ducking his head. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Cal was a destructive drug. You… you’re like… you’re like coffee.”

He snorts out a laugh. “I’m like coffee?”

Slowly, she climbs over the center console in the car and into his lap. He shifts to let her settle in as she wraps her arms around him. Laying her head on his shoulder, she mutters simply, “You sustain me.”

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x original female character #Bucky x original female character #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfic #Supernova

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themockingcrows · 3 years

Text

Doki Doki Grist Panic! Ch. 5

This chapter is SFW!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802735/chapters/79743136

“Bullshit,” Dirk said, leg crossing over the other pointedly, arms over his chest. “There is no way in Hell you got a freebie that nice. There’s gotta be a price.”

It’d been a long while since he’d been in their area, and even longer since he’d sat down with them civilly. Dave would’ve been happier if he hadn’t made his appearance in the middle of the night, let himself in from the rooftop, and immediately accosted him while he was taking a much needed nap for information. The message from Bro about his safe reappearance had been taken to heart, and he’d hurried there as fast as he was able to flash step and jump. Public transport was for chumps. Bro, needing to keep himself busy while Dirk was in range, was sat in the kitchen making midnight brownies from the box and nibbling a spoonful of batter while the oven preheated.

“So, what. Like. More time taken?” Dave asked, taking his new sword back. “I’ve tried calling the old one out, it won’t come.”

“What about the timetables. Did they get an upgrade too? Or your uniform?”

Dave frowned and kicked back onto the open half of the sofa after dispersing the sword. He was still tired, his head ached, and he was feeling emotionally wrung out by his recent betrayal revelation. Dirk’s pestering questions, some that he’d already answered once, was rubbing wrong on his few nerves.

“He said it was the same far as he could tell, remember,” Bro piped up, finally able to put the batter into the pan before popping the spoon back into his mouth to hold it instead of dropping it in the sink.

“What he said.”

Dirk furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I still call bullshit. When I got my weapon upgrade it had a price. A pretty noticeable one.”

“What was so bad about your price, didn’t it just fuck with your powers?”

“It fucked with my humanity, but go off I guess,” Dirk muttered, finally unfolding his arms to lean back into the sofa more comfortably. “The whole heart rending thing started seeping out even when I didn’t want it to. It took a while for me to feel safe around people. I. ...I felt things too strongly,” he explained. “All my emotions were off kilter, and behind it all this intense blankness.”

“Sounds normal,” Dave snorted. “You’re the king of the poker face.”

“Excuse the fuck outta me, he’s just the prince,” Bro said, popping the spoon out of his mouth. “MY ass is the king, kid’s got room to grow before he hits that rank.”

“Before my heart starts giving out like yours did, you mean,” Dirk said flatly, eyeing Bro as he closed the oven with a bit more force than needed. It was still a sore spot, after all. Spoon in the sink, he came around to the futon with the bowl on offer. Dave took it up and ran his finger around the traces of fudgy lines within before popping a glob worth into his mouth with a hum.

“It didn’t start weakenin’ this bad till after I gave everything up. More fees.”

“This bad. Which means it started when you were still working,” Dirk said. “Believe me when I say I’ve been on top of this shit ever since taking up the mantle after you. I might not be as OP as you were just yet, but I’m already pretty fuckin’ close, which means I’m keeping an eye out for all the little sneaky ways I’m gettin’ fucked over by Yaldabaoth.”

An agent of heart in the literal and metaphorical sense, it made sense that was what his prices would be linked to. Dave glanced at his own hands for a moment, wondering if it was true of himself as well, if his most recent upgrade had taken more time from him without his knowing. If so, how much was gone now? He used to have at least a basic sense, could keep track, but now what? What if it had taken a few years from him without his knowing? What if more was coming in the form of an upgrade to some other aspect of his powers? Were they already upgraded like the sword without him noticing…? Why did the beings that ruled their lives and souls demand so much for them in exchange for these powers. Was it to keep them expendable? In a sense they were being built like glass cannons, cosmic powers crammed into fragile bodies. It made sense there’d be some breakages along the way, and it made even more sense that those beings wouldn’t give too much of a shit considering there would always be another to take the mantle afterwards.

Dirk was watching him from the corner of his eye behind his pointed shades, and eventually he spoke up. “You’ve got that look on your face again. You’re thinking too much.”

“I’m thinking just enough for a guy who might drop dead in battle if I time shit wrong someday,” Dave said. “Just the right amount.”

“Morbid.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Dirk made a face of his own before sighing and looking up to the ceiling. “Fine, fine. ...Man it’s been a while since I saw you. You still growin’?”

“Hardly. Maybe a bit,” Dave admitted. “But I’m done by now, surely. What about you? I didn’t get that good a look at your uniform, but it’s changed hasn’t it?”

Dirk grimaced a bit, but nodded. “Yep. Could’ve done without the pumpkin pants, but what’re ya gonna do, you know?”

“Heels still, too?”

“Mhmm. I miss my flats,” Dirk sighed. He looked to Bro with a frown. “You could’ve warned me the shoes weren’t a personal choice.”

“Kid, you think I’d run around fightin’ in heels for fun? What am I, Sailor Mars? Besides, excuse me for bein’ a little bitter at tossin’ the torch over, but I figured you’d deal with it when it happened, and I was right.”

“Ninja in heels, nice,” Dave smirked. “Can I see the uniform? I haven’t gotten a decent look at it in a while, and definitely not since the upgrade.”

“Man, I already bounced my ass all the way over here in it, can you just see it next time?”

“Might not be a next time,” Dave pointed out. “I’ve still got a prick to take care of, I don’t know how big a cut that new sword did on my time, and new enemies can turn up at any time even on your turf. You know that.”

Bro looked amused instead of upset. “You heard him, let’s see how you’re fillin’ the uniform out and makin’ it your own,” he said, gesturing a turn around gesture with one hand as he leaned over the back of the futon to snag the bowl back from Dave once most of the chocolate seemed to be gone.

“Dicks, the both of you,” Dirk grumbled, but pushed up from his comfy spot on the futon with a sigh. Bidding farewell to his comfortable sneakers, he stepped back and set his hand over his chest, lowering his head down as he focused. The light started near his feet and above his head at the same time in a solid ring of fuschia, before quickly snapping down to meet each other in the center as if drawn by strong magnets. Wherever the rings passed changed into the uniform he bore, the white sheer stockings, the black and white ankle boots with the noticeable heel and strap. The fuschia pumpkin pants, the green ribbon hemming the bottom in a sturdy woven pattern, the princely tailcoat and ribbons, the fanned sleeves with the matching green ribbon hem woven in on the edges, the fingerless gloves. The fact that the uniform was finished with a small jeweled tiara added a bit of flash that hadn’t been quite the same before. Dave grinned, but Dirk immediately drew his katana from the air and pointed it towards him.

“What,” Dave said flatly, unimpressed.

“What do you think?” Dirk said. “Wanna head up to the roof, do a bit of practice?”

“...Man, I’m tired, it’s the middle of the night, I’ve got enough shit to worry about. What if there’s another attack?”

“I’m here to back you up if there is,” Dirk said, unmoving. “I wanna see your upgrade in action, measure how close we are now in power.” There was no playfulness in his voice now, flat as his expression, controlled. He stared while barely blinking, and the way he held his sword meant it’d be just as easy to swing it Bro’s direction as well. One step forward and he’d draw blood on Dave as it was.

Dave’s stomach settled uncomfortably. He didn’t want to do this. Sparring as practice was one thing, but sometimes Dirk could get a bit… odd when under Yaldabaoth’s influence. Seemingly even more so now compared to the last time they’d been in close contact. It’d been stupid to goad him into changing in hindsight, but what could he really do?

“Stop pointing that at me and I might.”

“Make me.”

“If you start shit inside this apartment I swear to Christ I’ll whoop both your asses, magic or none, don’t even test me,” Bro warned. “Rooftop’s your best bet, somewhere quiet outside off town’d be even better. Don’t need a light show attractin’ attention to where you live, y’know?”

Dirk glanced at him without moving before slowly lowering the sword and putting it away. “Fine then. You’re right enough, I’d hate to cause problems for you despite appearances. How about we make it interesting, then. Race to the outskirts of town, have our spar. Loser buys breakfast for everyone tomorrow and has to go pick it up.”

“You’re stayin’ the night?” Bro asked, confused.

“Of course I am, I’m not hauling my ass back home instantly after coming all this way,” he scoffed. “Might stay tomorrow too if you let me. Make a mini vacation out of it.”

Awkward, Dave got up from the futon once the sword was put away, sighed, and changed. His uniform felt the same as before, no changes, though after a bit of rest he did think he felt a bit lighter at least. Dirk cocked his head.

“Did you always have shoulder and forearm guards?”

“Wha- Fucking. God damn it,” he hissed. So there were changes after all. Subtle, but there. The shoulder guards were layered and matched the fabric below, while the forearm guards were black and white, disappearing beneath the edges of his gloves. His silhouette was becoming more knightly, he supposed. What was next, full body armor? How would he move in that?

“Interesting. ...Come on, then. There’s a race ahead of us,” Dirk said with a playful looking smirk finally. It made Dave relax somewhat, knowing there was still some lightheartedness to it, but it didn’t relieve him entirely. There was still a fight ahead, and without someone where to pull them apart meant he’d either need to yield and get Dirk to believe him, or manage to beat him to make it stop no doubt.

All three went to the rooftop, Bro standing with his hands in his pockets, feet bare on the rough surface, minding the spot Dave had been feeding birds before where they left scraps of seeds behind. Dirk and Dave approached the edge of the roof, while Dirk gestured further out towards the darkness beyond the city’s edge.

“First one there gets first strike.”

“I can’t guarantee that, what if I get there second and sneak attack you,” Dave complained.

“Well, now it’s not a sneak attack, is it. Guess you’ll just have to get there first and do whatever you want, then,” Dirk shrugged. “C’mon Dave, let’s get going,” he said, bending his knees and jumping off the edge of the building. He fell for a ways, Dave peering over the edge to watch him go, and angled towards another building as he went, beginning to run and bounce from roof to roof at speed.

“Better hurry up,” Bro said, coming closer to see how far ahead Dirk was getting. “You’ll be fine. I don’t think he’ll do anything too serious. There’ll be brownies here when ya’ll get back. Or at least there should be, no promises if you take forever.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’. God damn it,” Dave muttered, stepping back a few paces to get a running jump of things before bouncing off the roof into a freefall. His cape whipped back from his body in the wind, and he’s sure he gave someone a heart attack if they were looking at the right time, but he had somewhere to be and no time to walk down the flights of stairs and deal with the creaky ass elevator that rarely ever worked. He landed on the next roof solidly enough it rattled him for a moment, recovering enough to rise and begin to ping pong between buildings after Dirk’s distant form. Dare he slow time to catch up…? It’d make things more fair, right? They hadn’t started at the exact same time, and if Dirk had this ability surely he’d do it too.

The gears appeared in the air behind him, bright and steadily ticking as he jumped and bounced around from place to place, spinning faster for a moment as he summoned the timetables and gave them a spin. Time slowed, the streets below moving at a crawl, and Dirk in the distance slowing down. Making use of this limited burst of slowness, Dave put away the timetables and rushed forward with his head lowered, scaling a wall to gain some extra height before taking another long bouncing leap. Soon enough he was caught up with Dirk, and as he bounced past him, time sped back up.

“Son of a-” he heard Dirk hiss behind him.

He heard a crackle, and just managed to dodge what looked like a shot of pink lightning that had been aimed at his back.

“Dude, what the fuck!” he cried, not daring to stop running now, breathless. The buildings were shorter now, further apart, they’d have to start going down the streets soon, scaring people in their backyards with flashes of color.

“You used powers, I can use powers,” Dirk defended. “Or would you rather this?” he asked, shimmering the air as he pulled his sword out and rushed close enough to take a swing before Dave bounced off the building's edge to the next one once again.

“I’d rather none of it!” Dave shouted at him, pulling his broadsword out so he wouldn’t be bare handed as they rushed along. He wanted to spar on the way TO the sparring spot? Fine. He turned on his heel and took a swing, barely missing Dirk’s legs as he forced a jump sooner. Dirk landed a few feet away with a well timed click of his heels on the rooftop, eyes vivid in the darkness, accented from below by a streetlight. Instead of continuing to run though, he ran at him with his blade ready to strike, forcing Dave to go on the defense again and try to parry the strike.

A katana versus a broadsword would always have an advantage of speed, of being able to rush strikes in, to cut the air cleaner. A broadsword however had stopping power. If Dave could land hits, they’d matter much more. He managed to land one after deflecting several of Dirk’s flurry strikes, slashing down hard to make him back off long enough to start running again. They were NOT going to have this battle on a rooftop damn it, they were gonna have it on the solid ground an-

Dirk struck him out of midair with a bout of pink lightning that seared along Dave’s spine and rattled his soul. He felt his heart hammering as he tucked, ducked, and rolled onto the street below, a bit dazed as he stood up and raised his sword in preparation. There was next to no time till Dirk came after him again from above, having to block strongly enough that he skidded backwards a few paces under the force. Blades still locked, Dirk grinned and leaned forwards.

“Gets your blood flowing, doesn’t it.”

“God you’re creepy sometimes, y’know that?” Dave grunted, breaking the block and brute forcing Dirk back. Strong as Dirk could be, Dave was still physically stronger than him hand to hand even out of uniform, and he knew how to use it to his advantage. The fact he had to do it in the middle of the street was annoying, though.

“Car,” Dirk said, casually turning and crouching before leaping away like a magical rabbit, leaving Dave to stand there in the headlights staring down the confused driver and passengers. He grinned awkwardly, waved, then turning and jumped off into the night as well after Dirk, praying they could actually make it outside of town before getting tangled up again.

No such luck. The Walmart parking lot was their next battle site, Dirk striking Dave down out of the air with his knees and forcing him to avoid parked cars once again. They struggled in close proximity before separating far enough to exchange blows, till Dave finally grimaced and slowed time once more.

“Cheate-!” Dirk started as soon as he saw the timetables come out, voice distorted and pink energy crackling from his free hand, unmoving. Dave caught his breath. He adjusted his grip. When the timer counted down in his head, he sprung forward on the attack and forced Dirk to his back, dodging the lightning by planting a knee on the middle of his arm.

“Man can we stop already?” Dave asked, gritting his teeth right afterwards as Dirk struggled to push the sword back away from his neck. “I don’t wanna whip your ass up and down this parkin’ lot, but if you make me I will. I wanna eat brownies and take a fuckin’ nap.”

“You gonna eat brownies and take a nap when your wannabe boyfriend comes back? Gonna go easy on him again?” Dirk spat. Ouch. Sore spot. “At least my affairs are in order and my job is my top priority.”

“Bullshit, what about Jake.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

Dave hissed when Dirk managed to force him off, tackling him down. The swords were abandoned as they wrestled back and forth, Dave’s cape tangling around them as he tried to keep Dirk’s hands from aiming a proper strike at him. He wound up flat on his back with Dirk over top of him, clung to his wrists to keep them down and not directly useful.

“The whole reason you switched locations was because of him! And you’re still not datin’ yet!” Dave said, grunting when Dirk suddenly got a surge of strength and damn well knew how to use it. He managed to get one hand loose, but instead of letting out his lightning, he balled his fist up and decked Dave across the face. Dave shoved his hand up into Dirk’s face, bashing his nose with the heel of his palm before scrabbling for his wrist again and dragging it down. Blood began to pour from Dirk’s nose, dripping down steadily off his lips and chin and onto Dave’s chest.

“He’s signed under Abraxas, it’d never work. Yaldabaoth’s a bastard when it comes to those who work under them as it is, add in that it’d be impossible,” Dirk grunted, straining, wishing he hadn’t dropped his sword.

“You don’t know that!”

“Shut up, you almost fucked an alien who wants to kill the Earth, you’re in no position to give me romantic advice while I’m trying to kick your ass!” Dirk cried, wrenching his hands free and raising both up towards the sky. Moments before he could slam them down on Dave’s chest, time slowed to a complete stop. Face sore and tasting blood, Dave scrambled out from beneath Dirk and crawled quickly for the swords. He kicked Dirk’s further away before grabbing his broadsword and standing, waiting till the timer ran out to swing a solid strike at his back. When Dirk went down, he stepped hard on the center of his upper back and set the blade against the side of his neck in warning.

“Yield, dude, I’m done,” Dave said simply. “I wanna go home, I wanna eat brownies, I want a nap. I’ll deal with the threat when it’s time. It’s stupid to bust each other’s asses when what I could really use is someone to talk strategy with,” he admitted. “...I think there’s somethin’ I could use your powers for, specifically, but I’d need to figure out what to do first. That is, if you’d even be willin’ to help me with it.”

“...God damn it I didn’t wanna buy breakfast for everyone,” Dirk muttered, breaths heaving, fists curled tight in their gloves.

“Yield,” Dave said more seriously, pushing the blade against Dirk’s neck enough to draw blood. He couldn’t trust him till he said it, not entirely.

With a sigh, Dirk relaxed his body. “Fine. I yield.”

Sending away his broadsword, Dave leaned down and offered Dirk a hand up to his feet. He waited a moment before taking it, hesitating just enough Dave worried, but the way he clasped his hand afterward was warm as ever. Comforting. “Y’know, we’re lucky if this doesn’t wind up online somewhere as two freaks in cosplay brawlin’ at a Walmart.”

“Bet it’s already up there with the others,” Dirk smirked. “Maybe it’s on a fan page.”

“A fan page? You think people give a shit about us enough to make a fan page ?”

“Hey, they’re common in Japan as it is, they’re common in Europe. I’d be shocked if there’s not several already for us. Just under no names since we don’t give any when we do shit.”

“Maybe. ...God, what if they make a movie,” Dave said with a grimace, only now realizing how possible that actually was. Merchandising deals, even. All without him seeing a cent of it. Damn, what a thankless job.

“I’d say knock on wood, but honestly it’s pointless with how many of us there are workin’ at any given time. If it’s not us, it’ll be one of them,” Dirk shrugged, dusting himself down. He sighed, collected his sword, and sent it away. “C’mon, let’s get back so you can have your damn brownies you were bellyachin’ about. You can tell me about your plan while we eat.”

“Look, box mix brownies are god tier, and we’ve got ice cream somewhere in the freezer too unless Bro ate it without me knowin’, combine them and you’ve got a winnin’ combination. Who up at half past fuck off in the mornin’ wouldn’t want a piece of that?”

Dirk smirked a bit. Dave was still so young… They weren’t even that far apart in age, and he just seemed so young by comparison. Maybe it was just him. Maybe it was Yaldabaoth’s opinion at work. But that such a fresh face and wide eyes could save the world just as readily as himself was really something to take in.

“You’ve got a point.”

#homestuck #dave strider #dirk strider #bro strider #my fic #magical boy fic hell yeah hell yeah

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elizabear · 3 years

Text

body language will do the trick

OK, so I know this is going to be fully AU in about five seconds when The Falcon and the Winter Soldier airs, but those couples counseling scenes in the trailer got me WAY TOO EXCITED and I really couldn't help myself.

Title: body language will do the trick

Rating: Explicit

Category: M/M

Relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes (background Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff)

Additional tags: frenemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, couples counseling, because sam and bucky can’t stop flirting at work, post-avengers endgame, but it’s au because, steve rogers isn’t old, and natasha romanoff lives, captain america sam wilson, shield agent bucky barnes, past steve rogers/bucky barnes, but it’s minor, bucky and sam fall in love, but COMPETITIVELY, oral sex, anal sex, tender railing, idiots in love, praise kink

Words: 12,598

Link to AO3: here

Summary:

“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”

Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”

Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.

“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.

Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.

Bucky Barnes is pretty sure that these counseling sessions—supposedly for Bucky and Sam’s “interpersonal issues”—are Director Fury’s revenge for that whole fake assassination situation. Which, to be fair to Fury, came about as the result of Bucky’s very real assassination attempt, even if the subsequent “assassination” was fake, so Bucky can’t exactly blame Fury there. What Bucky doesn’t understand is why their possibly-fake counselor—is she a real counselor, or just another one of Fury’s spies?—chooses to conduct her “therapy” sessions in the unlikely and frankly suspicious location of an underground bunker.

Dr. Carson’s therapy bunker is probably just a temporary location, since usable office facilities with running water and electricity are still pretty limited after the Blip, but Bucky was definitely under the impression that modern American therapists’ offices were supposed to be more soothing than this. He’d expected a bland but tasteful space filled with a cushy sofa and watercolor paintings and the calming sounds of nature recordings. Instead, Bucky and Sam are sitting in uncomfortable chairs in a dim room with bare cement walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting. Is Fury even trying to sell this fake counseling op?

Bucky and Sam’s counselor/interrogator is most definitely hostile. Although Dr. Carson looks lovely in her delicate green silk blouse and expensive silk scarf, her expression is stern and sour. She’s styled her glossy dark hair neatly, in gentle waves that summon a distant memory of the way women used to wear their hair in the 1940s, and Bucky wonders if this is Dr. Carson’s authentic style or if it’s just part of another SHIELD spy game, meant to trick or manipulate Bucky into confiding in Dr. Carson because she looks familiar and nonthreatening.

Bucky considers it an insult to the memory of Peggy Carter if Fury thinks he could’ve worked with Carter for two years in the SSR and still underestimate a woman just because she has nice hair and a pretty outfit.

Also, if Dr. Carson’s trying to lull Bucky into a false sense of security, why is she doing it in this weird basement?

Honestly this whole counseling thing really does seem like it’s secretly just a poorly planned interrogation.

Like right now. Dr. Carson asks, “Are you having a staring contest?” and Bucky isn’t going to disclose valuable intel by admitting that while Sam is definitely having a staring contest with him, Bucky is just using this as an excuse to look into Sam’s eyes, which are warm and brown and make Bucky feel all sorts of confusing things. Bucky is trained to resist interrogation, and that piece of information definitely falls under the category of “unexpected and alarming potential weaknesses.”

Also Bucky’s still sort of figuring out how he feels about Sam’s whole eye and face and shoulder situation, so the staring contest is actually a pretty great cover for whatever the fuck is really going on with him. Half of successfully surviving an interrogation is letting your captors fill in the blanks themselves and then pretending like their waterboarding is the worst thing you’ve ever endured.

Unfortunately, while Bucky is congratulating himself on successfully maintaining operations security—and winning their staring contest, no reason he can’t do both at once—Dr. Carson seems to reach her limit for the amount of shit she’s willing to endure from them today.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” Dr. Carson shoots them with a hard glare. “I’m giving you a five minute break, and if you’re not ready to open up and work on your communication and compatibility issues, I’m going to have to advise Fury to put you both on leave.”

Bucky’s fine with being put on leave, and he’s fully prepared to wait out SHIELD, Fury, and Dr. Carson. It took HYDRA fifteen years to break him down enough to send him out on missions, and no matter how much they tortured him Bucky didn’t shed so much as a single tear until they showed him newspaper headlines about what a bad pilot Steve turned out to be.

Also, Bucky’s not entirely sure that he’s not actually immortal, so he figures his patience will probably far outlast Fury’s determination to punish him for shooting him a few times when he didn’t even die. Actually, now that Bucky thinks about it, Fury’s probably less mad about the whole fake assassination thing than he is about Steve forcing him to offer Bucky a job and then grit out the most begrudging apology Bucky has ever heard in his life for SHIELDRA holding Bucky hostage as a brainwashed assassin while Fury was the Director of SHIELD. Right in front of Captain Marvel, too, Fury’s favorite Avenger, who had looked very disappointed in him. Apparently Danvers had her own history as a superpowered amnesiac brainwashed into working for the bad guys? Bucky’s unclear on the details, but when Danvers’s mouth tightened and her head shook in dismay, Nick Fury’s shoulders had slumped like a chastened schoolboy.

God, Steve is such a dick sometimes. Bucky loves him so much.

Dr. Carson’s high heels make clipped little clicking noises that speak volumes about her frustration with them as she strides purposefully out of the room. As soon as she closes the door, so firmly that Bucky can just tell that she had to have put conscious, controlled effort into not slamming it behind her, Bucky turns to Sam with a satisfied grin.

“Well, I think we’re doing great,” Bucky says. “SHIELD’s going to have to work a lot harder to get any real intel out of us, and I was definitely promised that they wouldn’t be using any drugs or brainwashing techniques this time so I think we’re going to nail this whole interrogation.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “This is therapy, man, not an interrogation. We’re supposed to be, like, opening up and becoming a better team.”

“Yeah, well, if this is real therapy then where are the goats?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow toward the most likely location of the nearest camera as if to say gotcha, Fury, your goatless fake therapy interrogation tactic isn’t fooling me.

“I’m sorry, goats? Why would there be goats?”

Bucky leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. “I’m just saying, in Wakanda I always got to hang out with animals when I did therapy. And look how great that turned out! I hardly ever kill anyone anymore, and when I do it’s on purpose because I decided to. Anyway, I really feel like this is all just a plot by SHIELD to find out why we—”

Bucky and Sam bicker for a while about whether or not this is real therapy until they’re interrupted by Dr. Carson’s return, her face looking a little damp now, like maybe she spent her time away from them splashing water on it and doing some deep breathing exercises in the bathroom.

“OK,” says Dr. Carson, visibly relaxing her spine. “We’re going to take a new approach. Have you heard of the five love languages?”

Sam’s eyes widen in horror. “No, we are not doing the five love languages.”

Bucky hasn’t heard of the five love languages, but he can tell from the look on Sam’s face that they definitely don’t want to do this, and Bucky’s pretty good at improvising when he needs to. “Oh, you know, I think HYDRA already implanted the five love languages in my brain when they were doing the rest of the Romance languages. So we can just skip those, I already know them.”

Bucky offers Dr. Carson his blandest and most innocent smile, the same one that sometimes worked on Sister Mary Angela back at old St. Charles Borromeo, but Dr. Carson’s face remains as stony and unmoved as the church itself, still standing in Brooklyn Heights in the year of our Lord 2023. Instead she says, “I think we need to take a couples therapy approach.”

“Couples therapy,” Sam repeats, sinking lower in his chair. Bucky winces as Sam’s knee starts to crush his balls.

“According to this file,” Dr. Carson says, opening it up to read aloud, “the two of you are here because your colleagues have complained about your, quote, romantically-charged bickering, your constant flirting, and your unnecessarily sexual sparring.”

Dr. Carson punctuates these damning statements with some truly savage air quotes.

“Listen, when I slap Sam’s bare ass in the locker room after a good sparring session it’s with purely collegial respect for a worthy opponent,” Bucky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I only ever treat Sam with the same level of professional respect I give Steve and Natasha.”

Sam nods in support. “Steve and Natasha never have a problem getting sweaty and physical with us, and I’ve personally witnessed Steve and Natasha slap Bucky’s ass dozens of times.”

Dr. Carson raises a single judgmental eyebrow. “Don’t you think there might be a reason why Fury’s banned the four of you from using the gym at the same time?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “The other SHIELD agents get intimidated by Sam’s shredded abs and Steve’s and my super strength. Plus everyone’s scared of Natasha.”

Dr. Carson closes her eyes and visibly counts to ten. Bucky can see her mouth forming the words.

“All right, we’re just going to move on here, because I’m really only able to deal with just the one dysfunctional relationship at a time.” Dr. Carson passes them some worksheets and pencils. “I want you to fill these out, honestly, and then hand them back to me when you’re done.”

Bucky reads over the worksheets, which are filled with questions like, “Do you like it more when your partner reacts positively to something you’ve accomplished or when they do something for you that you know they don’t particularly enjoy?” There are a lot of questions about hugging, and holding hands, and Bucky gets distracted trying to picture holding hands with Sam, who has big hands, strong and capable and—

“Stop trying to copy my answers,” Sam says, when he notices Bucky glancing over at the way Sam grips his pen as he fills out his worksheet. Sam shoves his knee harder into Bucky’s crotch and Bucky stifles a gasp.

“I’m not!”

“Bucky, stop cheating.” Dr. Carson presses her lips together in a severe frown.

Bucky scowls and scooches his chair back several inches. It makes a loud scraping sound as it drags against the cement floor. But before going back to filling out his form, Bucky gives Sam’s ankle a sharp kick for getting him in trouble with Dr. Carson, and the two of them engage in a brief but brutal silent kicking war below the front of the desk where Dr. Carson can’t see.

When Bucky and Sam finish their kicking war and their quizzes, they hand their worksheets back to Dr. Carson for grading and rub their shins as they wait.

“Bucky, your primary love language is words of affirmation, and your secondary love language is physical touch,” Dr. Carson announces. “And Sam, your primary love language is acts of service, while your secondary love language is quality time.”

Bucky frowns. On the one hand, he feels like he’s received some pretty valuable intel about Sam that he could use to his benefit. But on the other hand, he’s probably given up some valuable intel of his own. He wishes there hadn’t been so many questions that made him think about hugging and touching Sam—somehow those made him so distracted that he forgot to respond with lies.

Bucky’s stomach knots up a bit at the thought of Sam learning his potential weaknesses, but really, how much of a psyop could Sam possibly launch with the results from a couples counseling questionnaire? (Natasha could probably execute a successful psyop based on the information from a Buzzfeed quiz meant to reveal your “celebrity mom,” so Bucky really hopes Sam doesn’t talk to Natasha about this.)

“Your homework is to try to learn to speak each other’s language.” Dr. Carson stands up and walks around the desk to touch Bucky’s shoulder. “Good job today, Bucky.”

Bucky smiles, and the knot in his stomach releases a bit. He is so nailing this therapy thing, he knew he’d be better at it than Sam.

Dr. Carson helps Sam back into his coat as she ushers them toward the door, and Bucky’s pretty sure she’s meant to be modeling an act of service except that mostly it seems like she’s just trying to rush them out of the office.

“See you next week.” Dr. Carson smiles stiffly, like she is not at all looking forward to seeing them next week. Her expression is full of determined professionalism right up until the click of the door latch, and then Bucky hears a dull thudding noise that is pretty unmistakably the sound of Dr. Carson hitting her head against the doorframe.

“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”

Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”

Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.

“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.

Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.

***

They’re on a mission together the next day, battling some Doombots in New Jersey, and wow is Sam committed to this whole words of affirmation thing.

When Bucky deflects a punch aimed straight for Sam’s head with his vibranium arm, Sam whistles and says, “Nice save, man, you’re killing it today.” Warmth rises up in Bucky’s chest at Sam’s praise, and Bucky is filled with panic and dismay when he realizes that the fight to squash it back down is honestly more taxing than their battle against Doombots. There’s absolutely no reason Bucky should be having such a physical reaction to basic battle camaraderie.

When Bucky stretches his leg up above his head to nail one of the bots with a vicious kick, Sam smirks and gives him a distinct how-you-doing sort of nod. “That was—seriously hot, man. Have you been doing yoga or something?”

So apparently Sam is choosing to interpret words of affirmation as “wild flirtation,” and Bucky’s cheeks are choosing to betray him by radiating at Sam’s attention. Bucky knows there’s a flush spreading down his neck, and he’s hoping Sam will attribute it to exertion from the fight, because there’s no way Bucky can let Sam know that Sam’s sort of winning at their therapy homework—not when Bucky’s entire mental health journey and, like, the honor of the Wakandan animal-assisted therapy program is at stake.

But after they board the Quinjet and set the autopilot on a course back to New York, Sam gives Bucky a slow up-and-down perusal with his eyes, and Bucky feels Sam’s gaze like a physical touch. “You look really good after a fight, Buck. That messed up hair and pretty pink blush are giving me all kinds of ideas.”

Bucky’s cock twitches at that, and huh. Bucky blinks and looks down at his crotch.

So that’s working again.

A dirty smirk spreads across Sam’s face, like maybe Sam knows exactly what just happened inside Bucky’s pants, and fuck, this whole situation is spiraling rapidly out of Bucky’s control. Like, yeah, Bucky kept Sam from getting a pretty gnarly concussion, and that was probably an act of service, right? But it’s pretty clear, to both of them, that Sam is winning this competition, and Bucky is not about to go down without a fight.

Which is—an idea.

Bucky drops to his knees in front of Sam and bites his lip in a way that he knows, instinctively, will make him look hot. Sam inhales sharply in response, and Bucky reaches up to grasp Sam by the hips before he can take a step backwards. The material of Sam’s uniform bunches up and shifts under Bucky’s hands, and fuck, Bucky’s cock is aching now, throbbing and filling up in his tight uniform pants. Bucky forgot he could feel so good.

“What are you doing,” Sam protests in a half-assed sort of way.

“Servicing you,” Bucky replies with a wicked grin, sliding Sam’s zipper down slowly over his thickening cock. Bucky can’t remember if he’s done this before, but the way his mouth waters and his throat aches in anticipation makes him feel pretty fucking confident about how this is going to go down.

But before Bucky can pull Sam’s cock out of his briefs, Sam slides his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tips his head gently backward, using his other hand to tilt Bucky’s chin up to look into Sam’s face. Sam’s pretty brown eyes are already darkening with arousal, but his expression is serious.

“You don’t have to suck my dick for therapy, man.”

Bucky huffs. “Sam, this is the first time my dick’s been hard since 1945. Do you know how many times Steve’s let me watch him jerk off trying to heIp me get hard again? I am definitely not doing this only to win at therapy, pal.”

Sam’s hands freeze in Bucky’s hair and his cock swells visibly in his briefs. “I’m sorry, Steve let you do what now? Dude, I thought Steve was straight.”

“Oh, he’s definitely, like, straight-ish,” Bucky assures Sam, with a little so-so wave of his hand that hopefully conveys the correct amount of ambiguity there. “He’s mostly just a really great friend.”

Sam’s eyes close for a long moment, and then Bucky’s scalp stings when Sam clenches his fist in Bucky’s hair and pulls. “Jesus,” mutters Sam, his voice gruff and husky. “Yeah, OK, baby. Go ahead and suck my dick.”

Bucky’s heart pounds as he pulls Sam’s cock out of his briefs and licks a wet stripe up the length of it, groaning at the feel of Sam’s skin under his tongue. Sam tastes salty with sweat, and his scent is musky and thick after their fight with the Doombots. Bucky teases him for a while, the way he’s seen people do in porn, trailing wet kisses along the shaft and mouthing at the head, and Sam lets out a ragged moan when Bucky’s mouth finally engulfs him. Bucky’s feeling pretty cocky about this, loves the rush of power he feels as Sam’s hips twitch and jerk to keep from thrusting into Bucky’s mouth—but then Sam fucking escalates shit, because Sam is an asshole.

“Christ, you feel good,” Sam murmurs, reaching down to rub his thumb against Bucky’s mouth, stretched wide around Sam’s cock. “You look so pretty with my dick in your mouth.”

And then Bucky’s the one moaning, eyelids fluttering shut and heat coursing down his spine at the sound of Sam’s husky voice. Bucky should have expected Sam to counter his act of service with more words of affirmation, but somehow he wasn’t prepared for the unbearable ache he’d feel at Sam’s dirty talk. Bucky feels inexperienced, outclassed at this sort of sexual warfare, and the only way he can retaliate is by sinking as far down on Sam’s cock as his throat will allow him. He reaches up to grab Sam’s hips, urging him to fuck his mouth, and then he hums a little inside his head to try to tune out the sound of Sam’s praise.

“Fuck,” says Sam. “God, that’s it, baby. You take it so well, Buck. So fucking good for me.”

Bucky whines, his jaw aching, eyes filling with tears as Sam’s cock stretches his mouth open. Sam keeps offering him filthy praise as he slides his mouth up and down Sam’s thick cock, and Bucky doesn’t know why this is doing it for him when all of Steve’s pale skin and strong thighs and big dick couldn’t, but maybe seventy years of torture and captivity have left Bucky with a few new kinks. Or maybe Bucky’s just healing or whatever. Bucky honestly doesn’t care, as long as Sam keeps letting him fill his throat with Sam’s dick.

Sam’s voice is rough when he says, “God, you fucking love it, don’t you,” and Bucky pulls off Sam’s cock just long enough to nod eagerly and gasp for air before diving back in. “Take your dick out, baby. I want you to come sucking my cock.”

Bucky’s rhythm stutters at that, his hand reaching down to pull his cock out of his uniform pants. He wants to be so fucking good for Sam, wants to come just how Sam says, wants Sam to keep telling him how good he looks, how much he loves fucking Bucky’s mouth, how much he likes giving it to him.

Sam’s praise grows hotter and filthier as he gets closer, and Bucky whimpers as he feels his own orgasm approaching. God, he hasn’t come in so long, hasn’t felt that hot rush and that familiar ache in his balls in forever and he wants it, wants to come, he just needs—

“Come on, baby, come for me, I know you can do it, just keep sucking my cock, God, you look so good, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

And Bucky spirals over the edge, cock pulsing and spilling over his fist. He lets out a choked moan around Sam’s dick before his mouth is flooded with bitter, salty fluid. And then Bucky feels so fucking full, like he could drown happily in Sam’s smell and his taste and his fucking words of affirmation.

Fuck.

Bucky definitely did not win that round.

***

The whole blow job thing was an outstanding idea, really, one of Bucky’s best. But fuck, he did not anticipate Sam using that as an opportunity to completely turn the tables and affirm the shit out of him. Bucky can’t help but privately acknowledge to himself that Sam is completely winning at love languages so far.

They’re in counseling the next week, still in Dr. Carson’s depressing therapy bunker, and honestly, Bucky can’t imagine that this setting is good for, like, anybody’s mental health. His therapy in Wakanda always took place outdoors, under the warm African sun, surrounded by the wild, earthy smells of mud and animals and Lake Turkana. It made him feel open and free and connected to nature or whatever. It was peaceful.

Therapy at SHIELD is not very peaceful, especially because Dr. Carson clearly hates them, and she isn’t at all impressed by what Bucky considers some very impressive progress by them. Bucky and Sam are getting along.

“So,” Dr. Carson begins, apparently deciding to just start right off with more hurtful accusations from their colleagues, “according to Carl from the gun range, the two of you have been subjecting your coworkers to your, quote, uncomfortable bickering-slash-foreplay, and Maria Hill reports that you’re still, quote, cluttering up comms during missions with the most embarrassing flirting I have ever heard, I hate it so much.”

Dr. Carson’s air quotes are fucking vicious.

Despite the fact that they’ve only just started their session, Dr. Carson looks tense and aggravated already. She’s wearing another pretty silk blouse today, but her earrings don’t seem to match and it looks like she didn’t bother to curl her hair today. Maybe she just realized that Bucky wasn’t fooled by those forties waves?

Also, even though it’s Friday, Dr. Carson’s giving off a very Monday sort of vibe.

“Sam and I are working on it, OK?” Bucky says, with a mulish set to his jaw. “Obviously I’m doing my best here, but it’s hard to do therapy in a cement basement that gives me flashbacks to 1970s HYDRA facilities where I was tortured. And there aren’t even any pets at all to comfort me. Didn’t you receive the note from my Wakandan therapist stating that I require animals during therapy?”

A blood vessel in Dr. Carson’s forehead throbs, and she raises her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I’ll see if I can get us a room upstairs for our next session, but I’m telling you for the last time that we don’t have any therapy goats.”

“Well, I don’t have any issues doing therapy without goats,” Sam says, like the worst sort of teacher’s pet. God, Sam’s teachers probably loved his charming smile and his quick wit and his stupid handsome face. “Maybe Bucky is using the goats as an emotional crutch.”

“Listen, goat therapy works, OK?” Bucky counts out on his fingers as he lists the many examples of real progress he’s made since his time as a goat farmer in Wakanda. “I started off as an amnesiac brainwashed assassin, and now I have a steady job, a haircut, an apartment leased under my own shell companies, and I only kill people when I want to kill people now. And I wash my hair regularly. And if I don’t wash my hair, I use dry shampoo. And I don’t turn into a mindless killing machine when people speak Russian at me.”

“Dude,” Sam says.

“Anyway, it’s fine if you’re not as good at therapy as me.”

“Not as—not as good at therapy as you? Man, I am a certified peer specialist. I was so good at my own therapy that they let me give other people therapy,” Sam says, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Yeah, in America, where they’re not even familiar with things like advanced goat therapy.” Bucky clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Did you even keep up with your continuing education requirements while you were fugitives with Steve?”

Sam sinks lower in his seat and frowns. “No. But speaking of Steve,” Sam says, perking up a bit as he follows a new thread of argument. “Whose PTSD recovery was so complete and inspirational that Steve Rogers trusted them with the responsibility of carrying the Captain America shield, hm?”

“Listen, Steve is reckless as shit and he’s so irresponsible with that shield that he’s constantly losing it in rivers and getting it broken by alien supervillains,” Bucky points out. “I’m so recovered that the king of an entire country, a man so responsible that they put him in charge of running literally everything in the most advanced nation on the planet, trusted me with a prosthetic arm powerful enough to crush the skull of an ordinary man with a single blow. Probably even his skull, and he’s been enhanced by some weird plant that makes him even stronger than Steve.”

“Yeah, well, I’m so recovered that—”

Dr. Carson interrupts them here, pinching the bridge of her nose. “OK, listen, I think there’s actually something pretty interesting here in how you each relate your recovery to your ability to wield weapons. Why don’t we stop bickering and discuss that a little further?”

“Yeah, OK,” Bucky mumbles.

Sam sighs heavily. “Fine.”

***

So the blow job thing is working perfectly—like, so perfectly, God, Sam’s dick is amazing—except for the fact that Sam is able to talk the entire time. Words of affirmation spill from Sam’s pretty lips every time Bucky swallows his cock, and Bucky is still fucking losing the love languages competition.

It’s time to create a Pinterest strategy board to figure this thing out.

Bucky is a visual planner, and he believes in tactical flexibility. He might not remember a lot about sex, but there’s tons of porn on the Internet. He just needs to find a couple of ways to service Sam while Sam’s mouth is otherwise occupied. How hard could that be?

After a lot of research and the creation of several Pinterest mood boards, Bucky calls Steve down the hall to his apartment to help him out. They all live in the same building since it has the best security in the city—and Bucky and Natasha are very particular about security—and it makes sense for the four of them to basically live together when they already spend all their time together. When Steve arrives, they head right to Bucky’s bedroom, get undressed, and survey the porn board on Bucky’s laptop.

“OK, so what about sixty-nine,” Steve suggests. “Let’s try that.”

They get themselves into position, mouths hovering over each other’s flaccid dicks like totally normal best friends.

“See, I feel like this works, but is it really servicing Sam if he’s, like, servicing me at the same time?” Bucky flops over onto his back in frustration and worries at his lower lip with his teeth.

Steve nods and tilts his head in thought. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Depending on the grading rubric, the two acts might cancel each other out. How about rimming?”

“I feel like rimming is a great idea, and I definitely want to do that, but how do I shut him up while I do it?”

Steve frowns. “Can you reach up and cover his mouth with your hand? Hold on, let me bend over and we’ll see.” Steve gets on his hands and knees, tilting his ass up for Bucky to simulate a rim job.

“You know, your ass really is kind of amazing.” Bucky takes a moment to admire the jewel of Howard Stark’s empire. “I mean, it was cute as hell when you were little too, but Scott Lang definitely wasn’t wrong in that podcast episode about which superhero has America’s ass. Don’t tell Sam I said that, by the way.”

“Thanks, pal,” Steve says, flashing Bucky a quick grin. “Your ass is great too, Sam’s a lucky guy. Now bend over and pretend to rim me.”

Bucky leans down and uses his hand to cover Steve’s exposed hole, then presses his mouth against the back of his hand to simulate a rim job. He reaches forward with his other arm to see if he can put his vibranium hand over Steve’s mouth. He could—maybe? If he releases the catch on his shoulder?

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Bucky says with a frown. “Here, maybe try getting on your back and holding onto your legs?”

“Like this?” Steve asks, shifting gamely into position. Bucky folds him over and pretends to rim him while covering Steve’s mouth, which—works, actually. And this is probably the most erotic scene Bucky’s ever been a part of—Steve really does look incredible like this—so it’s kind of a shame that it does absolutely nothing whatsoever for Bucky’s dick.

Except then Bucky pictures Sam in Steve’s position, bent over and whining under Bucky’s vibranium hand, and Bucky’s cock gives a little twitch. Fuck.

Bucky sighs and releases Steve with a short nod. “Not bad, pal. I think this one’s gonna work. Let’s write it down.”

They test out a few more positions, taking careful notes on the comfort and degree of mouth coverage of each one. Bucky finds a few more pictures to add to his Pinterest board, and they sort through every image and assign them to the correct position number. Then Bucky and Steve print off their pictures and tape them to Bucky’s wall for inspiration, mapping out a sequence of actions that will lead to orgasms for both Sam and Bucky with a minimum amount of talking on Sam’s part.

Which is a shame, really. Sam’s dirty talk really does it for Bucky.

Still nude, Bucky and Steve stand in front of the vision board and assess the plan.

“I think position two is really going to work,” Steve says, stroking his chin, and Bucky’s brain flashes back to an image of Steve in pretty much this exact pose, assessing a map of HYDRA facilities in Western Europe with no less gravity and passion. God, Steve Rogers is a great fucking friend. “And if you really want to service the guy, I mean, you’ve already got him all loose and open. You might as well give him your dick too, right?”

Bucky nods in agreement. “Yeah, I mean, as long as I keep kissing him, he won’t be able to affirm me too much. I think this really is the winning scenario.”

“Great teamwork, pal,” Steve says, slapping Bucky’s bare ass. “This was fun! Just like the old days.”

Bucky smiles wistfully. “Yeah, there’s nothing like planning an op with The Man With the Plan. Hey, you want to grab dinner after this?”

“Nah,” Steve says, too-casually, angling his pelvis away from Bucky as he pulls his pants back on. “I think I’m gonna go see if Natasha’s busy.”

Bucky grins. “Give her my best.”

“Will do. Love you, pal,” Steve says, giving Bucky a quick kiss before he leaves.

Steve doesn’t bother putting a shirt on before he goes, and Bucky can hear him whistling cheerfully all the way down to Nat’s apartment.

***

Steve and Bucky’s plan was great, so naturally it goes to shit as soon as Sam gets involved.

Bucky’s sucking Sam’s dick, which OK, yeah, wasn’t technically in the plan, but God, Sam’s got such a great dick. How far behind can Bucky really fall in the standings from just one blow job?

“Your mouth feels so fucking good, baby,” Sam says, sliding his long fingers through Bucky’s hair—which Bucky washed before he came over, because he is killing it as a recovered assassin and also because this afternoon Sam grabbed his hips and leaned in, breath hot against Bucky’s ear, and murmured how much he wants to smell Bucky’s shampoo on his pillows tomorrow morning.

Which was both smooth as hell and very convincing. Bucky immediately bought like three more bottles of that shit and accepted Sam’s invitation over to his apartment that night.

So now they’re in Sam’s apartment, and Bucky’s sliding his mouth along Sam’s cock, and Sam’s telling him how much he loves the way Bucky sucks him, loves the way Bucky’s pretty face looks with Sam’s cock in his mouth, lips slick with spit and tears leaking out of his eyes. And then Sam says—

“Are you gonna let me fuck you tonight, baby? Gonna let me see how well you take it?”

And before Bucky knows it, he’s moaning around Sam’s cock and nodding his head, and Sam’s pulling a condom and lube out of the side drawer, and then Bucky’s face down on Sam’s bed, gasping and clenching around Sam’s long fingers.

When Sam finally turns him over and pushes inside him, Bucky feels his brain just—fully vacate his skull. Pleasure buzzes up and down Bucky’s spine like an electric current, and he’s only barely conscious of the wet-sounding gasp that comes out of his mouth when Sam finally slides all the way home.

Sam gives it to him slow and sweet, fucking into him at a dreamy, leisurely pace as Bucky grabs fistfuls of Sam’s sheets and scrabbles at any leverage he can get to try and push back against Sam’s cock. Bucky wants Sam to grab his hips and pound him hard, overwhelm him with stimulation and keep him from sinking under the gentle wave of that languid rhythm. It’s too intimate, too vulnerable, and Bucky’s chest is cracking wide open for Sam to look inside. He’s a little afraid of what Sam might see within him, but instead Sam’s expression is full of awe, his face open and tender as he runs a thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, so fucking sweet for me.”

There’s a lot of eye contact after that, and romantic face touching, and Sam telling Bucky how much he loves the way he feels, loves the way he looks and smells and tastes. Warmth pools deep in Bucky’s gut, spreading through his veins like the burn of whiskey, until Bucky feels like he’s going to burst into flames around Sam’s cock. Instead he comes, long and hard and messy, all over his stomach.

Sam’s eyes are hot as he looks down at the sight of Bucky’s abs covered in pearly fluid, and then he slams his hips into Bucky three more times, hard, before groaning and collapsing on top of him.

Fuck, Bucky thinks.

He takes a few minutes to catch his breath, and then suppresses a half-hearted sigh when he realizes that he completely blew the plan. Like, yes, that was some fucking amazing sex, Sam gave him the dicking of a lifetime, but somehow Bucky ended up even further behind in the love language competition. How does Sam keep winning?

It’s too late now to offer another act of service. Even if Bucky could get it up again, Sam definitely couldn’t.

Shit.

But wait, what was Sam’s secondary love language? Quality time? Perfect.

Bucky rolls over to give Sam a few open-mouthed kisses on his shoulder. Sam is sweaty from exertion, and he tastes salty and amazing. God, Sam is the best.

“You mind if I stay the night, sweetheart?” Bucky murmurs.

Sam’s lips curve up in a soft and pleased smile. “Yeah, baby, I was hoping you would.”

“C’mere, you can be the little spoon,” Bucky says, reaching around Sam’s waist to reel him in, and Sam huffs out a surprised grunt and then a happy sigh when Bucky wraps his arms and leg around him.

They fall asleep within minutes, and it turns out Sam really was into the smell of Bucky on his pillows because they fuck again in the morning, and this time Bucky forgets to keep track of who’s winning at therapy homework.

***

They fuck constantly after that, which is amazing, but unfortunately Bucky is still staying in this game only by the skin of his teeth. Like, yes, Bucky is performing acts of service for Sam on the regular, but somehow Bucky finds his self-control dissolving like sugar melting into caramel when Sam spreads him out under his dirty mouth and his clever hands.

So now when Sam collapses on top of him at night, fucked out and shaking, Bucky nuzzles his face into the back of Sam’s neck and wraps his arm around him to pull him close. Bucky stays the night, every night, and at work he sticks to Sam more tightly than one of Steve Rogers’s t-shirts. But the more quality time Bucky offers Sam, the more acts of service Bucky ends up performing—which, sure, sounds like a plan that would put Bucky pretty solidly in the lead, except for how Bucky always ends up a sobbing, needy mess dripping onto Sam’s sheets while Sam smirks and tells him how good Bucky is for him.

They fight together even better now, in sync in a way that Bucky hasn’t felt since he worked with the Howling Commandos, and when they finish a skirmish they turn to each other, flushed and grinning, flying high on adrenaline and oxytocin and arousal. They kiss savagely, mouths wet and open, and they don’t care who hears them pant and groan over the comms.

“God, you were so fucking hot—”

“Sam, yes, god, please—”

Bucky and Sam have died and come back to life already this year and somehow they’re still bringing each other back to life. Bucky swaggers through SHIELD headquarters with champagne flowing through his veins, bright and bubbly, and Fury yells at them twice for passing dirty notes to each other during briefings. They’re obnoxious about it, obvious and messy and shameless, and Bucky’s pretty sure that Maria Hill is going to resign in protest if she has to work surveillance for even one more of their ops.

Somehow they’re generating even more complaints to HR than before.

***

Dr. Carson has finally managed to find them a room with a window for their counseling sessions. They’re on the fifth floor, and there’s not much of a view—just the brick wall of the building next to them—but sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains and highlights the cut ridges of Sam’s frankly incredible cheekbones. God, Sam’s so fucking handsome.

Bucky and Sam are grinning broadly, but Dr. Carson looks stressed out and irritated today, even though they just started the appointment. Her hair is stringy and a little greasy at the roots, and Bucky wonders if Dr. Carson knows about dry shampoo. He isn’t sure how to ask, or if it would be rude to offer her a few sprays from the travel bottle he keeps in one of the pockets of his tactical pants? She’s still wearing a nice silk blouse, but it looks like she’s buttoned it incorrectly, and the tail is hanging out of the top of her slacks.

Are those even slacks? They kind of look like yoga pants.

Privately, Bucky thinks that an outsider might be hard pressed to figure out which of them was supposed to be the mental patient here. Are Bucky and Sam actually driving this woman insane?

“So you’re sleeping together.” Dr. Carson’s tone is flat and dismayed. “You know this is against SHIELD employee regulations, don’t you?”

She taps her pen against their folders in agitation, and Bucky wonders if those folders are their actual permanent records. Does Bucky’s folder still have all of the notes from Sister Mary Angela about his “distracting” and “unnaturally close” relationship with Steve? God, Sister Mary Angela hated Steve.

Sam waves a careless hand and props his ankle up on his other knee. “We’re independent contractors, and Steve and Natasha made sure that our contracts didn’t include any kind of anti-fraternization policies. They were extremely thorough about it.”

Dr. Carson sighs heavily, and it looks like she’s doing literally everything in her power not to roll her eyes. Instead, she tips her head back and looks at the ceiling, probably hoping to roll her eyes where Bucky and Sam can’t see them. “Nevertheless, the two of you are still required to be discreet and professional when you’re at work. We’ve received complaints from several of your coworkers about your behavior in the last week. According to Carl, you’ve been bringing, quote, unwanted and uncomfortable sexual energy to the workplace.”

Bucky scoffs. He knows how to handle this sort of situation. “Listen, I didn’t lose my life fighting Nazis so that a little homoerotic banter and ass grabbing would get me in trouble at work. And anyway, this is how Captain America and I behaved at work back when we were fighting fascism and defending the free world—in the 1940s, even!—so I can’t imagine that somehow you’re just not allowed to give each other friendly hand jobs in closets in 2023. If anything, I should be able to give Sam a friendly hand job outside of a closet. Those are exactly the kinds of freedoms I fought and died for.”

Sam nods in support and says, “That’s a great point, Buck,” and Bucky feels warmth curling in his belly before he realizes, fuck, Sam’s doing it again, and right in front of Dr. Carson too. Jesus, Sam is so good at therapy. “And it sounds like Carl might be just a tad bit homophobic. Maybe we should be complaining to HR about him. You know, I didn’t serve during the long years of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell just to hear—”

“Carl is happily married to his male partner of thirty-seven years,” Dr. Carson states, clenching her jaw. Bucky has literally fought people to the death who look less bothered by his general existence. “Also, you didn’t actually die fighting Nazis, Agent Barnes.”

“It was a metaphorical death,” Bucky defends, because this is important to him. “The old Bucky Barnes died in that ravine. We went over it all in my therapy in Wakanda, the most scientifically advanced country in the world. What even are your credentials and where are your goats?”

“I have a Bachelor’s degree in psychology from Harvard and doctorates in clinical psychology and neuroscience from Oxford. I was a Rhodes scholar, I’ve received a MacArthur Fellowship for my work in PTSD and polytrauma in returning veterans, and I literally wrote the textbook for most Introduction to Psychology courses.”

Bucky waves his dismissive hand at this. “Yeah, well, Sam did eighty hours of coursework and an eighty hour practicum to become a certified peer counselor. Plus he has experiential knowledge, which is more important than book learning. Also, Sam isn’t HYDRA. Are you HYDRA?”

The wood in Dr. Carson’s pencil cracks a bit under her hand. “I’m not HYDRA.”

“But, like, would Nick Fury know if you were HYDRA?” Bucky presses.

“That’s an excellent point, baby, you’re killing it in therapy today.” Sam pats Bucky on the thigh and then leaves his hand there, bare inches away from Bucky’s cock, and Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from moving his hips or making any noises. “Nick Fury would definitely not know if Dr. Carson were HYDRA, his Nazi-finding track record is, like, dismal at best. I vote that we suspend therapy until there’s been an independent investigation into whether or not Dr. Carson is HYDRA.”

“You can’t suspend therapy,” Dr. Carson says, her expression pinched. “These counseling sessions are mandatory.”

“Look, we’ll keep doing the love languages thing as a show of good faith, and once the investigation’s concluded we’ll come back so you can decide which one of us is winning at therapy,” Bucky says. “In the meantime just, like, prepare to have all of your secrets uncovered and all of your loved ones and ex-boyfriends questioned extensively about your most private and intimate memories.”

Dr. Carson covers her face with her hands. Is she trying to muffle a scream?

“For the last time, no one wins at therapy,” she grits out.

“I mean, I think I’m pretty obviously winning,” Sam says. Bucky tips his head in reluctant agreement. “Anyway, we’ll talk to Natasha and Steve about the HYDRA thing since they actually know how to find Nazis. If Steve and Nat clear you, then Bucky and I will agree to let you judge which one of us is winning the love languages competition. In the meantime, it would be nice if you could get some therapy pets for Bucky. He likes animals. Goats might be a bit unreasonable for downtown D.C., but I’m sure you could rustle up some cats or something, right?”

Bucky hums. “I like dogs better.’

“All right, cool. Dr. C, get us some dogs.” Sam raps two knuckles against the desk. “Bucky and I are going to go to the gym to work out a bit. Bucky’s shoulders are looking really good lately.”

“Sam!” Bucky hisses, squirming a bit in his seat. “Not in front of Dr. Carson!”

“Sorry, baby,” Sam says, holding out a hand to pull Bucky up out of his chair. “See you next week, Dr. C!”

***

It hasn’t exactly escaped Bucky’s notice that Natasha has been avoiding him ever since Bucky and Sam started their love languages competition, so when Bucky sees Steve walking alone down the hallway toward his office, he reaches out from the broom closet where he’s hiding and yanks Steve inside.

“Is Natasha helping Sam win the love languages competition?” Bucky hisses.

There’s no real reason that they need to have this conversation in a broom closet instead of Steve’s office, but Bucky’s feeling nostalgic today, and Steve doesn’t seem at all bothered to suddenly find himself in a broom closet with Bucky.

“I mean, probably?” Steve says with a shrug. “It seems only fair, since I’m helping you. Also her dirty talk has really leveled up lately, and that’s probably not a coincidence. Why, what’s Sam doing?”

“He’s, like, constantly flirting with me. And the touching! God, Steve, I’m horny all the time now. And you wouldn’t believe the things he says to me in bed! Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on all the sex routines you and I’ve choreographed when Sam’s telling me how pretty I look with his cock in my mouth?”

“Natasha is definitely helping him then—she says that to me all the time when she’s using her strap on,” Steve says, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Are you sure you can’t keep it together enough to service him without getting distracted by his words of affirmation?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, his cheeks growing hot. “You have no idea, Steve, like Sam just gets so filthy. I know my brain’s been fried like an egg and I don’t actually remember a lot about sex, but I don’t think people talked like this in the ‘40s, right?”

“I mean, you and I shared a bedroom in an apartment with paper thin walls and then spent a few years in a warzone. There’s not much opportunity for dirty talk when you’re just doing your best to get off without waking anybody up,” Steve says. “But that does give me an idea. Sam’s secondary love language is quality time, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“So date him! You may not have the sexual repertoire of someone who’s watched hundreds of hours of modern porn or even someone who remembers much about having sex before like three weeks ago, but you do know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing.”

Bucky’s forehead wrinkles. “Do I, though? Do I still know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing?”

“I believe in you, pal.” Steve claps him on the shoulder and then looks around the broom closet thoughtfully, taking in the dirty mop and the shelves of cleaning supplies and filthy rags. “You’re honestly not even doing a bad job of wooing me right now. Want to trade hand jobs for old time’s sake?”

Bucky shoots Steve a withering look. “I’m not wooing you right now, Steve, you’re just easy. Go find Natasha if you’re horny.”

Steve shrugs. “Eh, it was worth a shot.”

***

Two months later, once Steve and Natasha have completed Dr. Carson’s background check and confirmed that she isn’t HYDRA, Sam and Bucky return to therapy. Even though Dr. Carson hasn’t seen them in months, she looks pinched and irritated, and the deep wrinkles in her forehead and the sudden explosion of gray in her hair make her look as though she’s aged five years since she started giving them therapy.

Bucky frowns and squints in suspicion. “We haven’t gotten Blipped again, have we?”

“What?”

“You just look—” Bucky gestures toward her hair and the bags under her eyes.

Dr. Carson’s expression shifts from exhausted indifference to polite fury, and Bucky’s just about to apologize when Sam gestures toward the floor under the window and says, “Hey, look at that! It’s about time you got Bucky a therapy puppy, you know that his doctors in Wakanda strongly encouraged it.”

When Bucky follows the line of Sam’s arm, he sees the cutest puppy in the world sitting in a fuzzy little dog bed with pictures of bones on it. Bucky gasps in delight. “He’s so cute, Sam, look at his little face!”

The puppy’s face is perfect, with big brown eyes and a short little snout with a tiny black nose. When he wags his tail, his little butt wiggles and Bucky wants to die about it. He loves this puppy so much.

“I’m naming him Paddington after my favorite movie,” Bucky declares.

“I love it,” Sam says immediately, pulling out his phone. “Put him in your lap so I can get some pictures for Steve and Natasha. They’re going to be so jealous when they find out that we got to have a dog in our therapy.”

Sam and Bucky spend the next ten minutes playing with Paddington and taking photos of the two of them with their adorable new therapy dog while Dr. Carson rubs her forehead like she just fucking knew this puppy would be a distraction.

“I think we should get started,” Dr. Carson interrupts, glancing pointedly at her watch.

“Yes, perfect!” Bucky pulls a small notebook out of his back pocket. “OK, so let me catch you up on everything we’ve done to each other since our last meeting, and I especially want your input on the scoring system that Sam and I have developed—”

Bucky and Sam spend the next half hour recounting their every interaction over the past couple of months in explicit, pornographic detail while Dr. Carson repeatedly clenches and unclenches her fists. When they spend ten full minutes alone on the rim job Bucky gave Sam last Saturday, Dr. Carson’s eyes go distant and glassy like a shell shocked veteran of the Great War or something. Bucky has literally seen torture victims make less of an effort to dissociate from their surroundings than Dr. Carson right now.

Honestly, who would have expected a therapist with thirty years’ experience to be so faint of heart? It’s absolutely critical to Bucky and Sam’s scoring system to determine whether Sam let out a “choked moan” or a “strangled gasp” while Bucky ate him out, and Bucky doesn’t appreciate Dr. Carson’s frankly lackluster participation when they stage a reenactment of events to try and settle the matter. She doesn’t even seem very decisive when she finally renders her judgment, like maybe she just doesn’t care what kind of sound Sam made, even though it was the most erotic noise Bucky’s ever heard in a hundred years.

When Sam concludes his argument for why words of affirmation during sex should count for more points than praise at work, Dr. Carson sighs heavily, looks off into the distance for exactly ten seconds, and then states, “I think we should discuss how you two can erect boundaries between your work relationship and your sexual relationship.”

Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow at Dr. Carson’s audacity. “Do you really feel like you’re qualified to counsel us on that particular issue?”

Dr. Carson’s jaw clenches. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, after everything that went down between you and Dr. Fitzgerald back in Philadelphia, I hardly think—”

Dr. Carson’s face whitens like curdled milk. “How did you find out about that?”

“Remember Natasha’s background check? Anyway, I’m just saying that it’s a tad bit hypocritical of you to suggest that Bucky and I shouldn’t be fucking during work hours, I mean, Bucky isn’t even married—”

Dr. Carson bites her lip so ferociously that she draws blood. “Bucky may not be married, but he is technically your subordinate, and that means there’s an uneven power dynamic to consider here—”

Sam smirks like he’s fucking Benjamin Matlock and he knows he’s just one pointed question away from making the guilty party break down and confess right there on the witness stand. (Bucky makes a mental note to ask Sam later why he and Natasha always snicker when Bucky and Steve get together to play cribbage and watch Matlock on Sunday afternoons.) “You mean like the uneven power dynamic at play between you and that doctoral student whose dissertation committee you chaired at UPenn?”

Dr. Carson gasps, and her face turns as red and furious as Sister Mary Angela’s that time she caught Steve’s skinny arms nailing a copy of Martin Luther’s Ninety-five Theses to the heavy wooden door of St. Charles Borromeo.

Bucky’s mind wanders a bit at that memory. God, Steve Rogers really was such a bad influence—maybe Sister Mary Angela was right about their distracting and unnaturally close relationship. Because of course Bucky couldn’t leave that stubborn asshole to face Sister Mary Angela’s wrath alone, so Bucky had ended up confessing to abusing his powers as editor of the student newspaper to let Steve use the school’s small printing press. Bucky emerged from the experience with an ass that burned for a week and a few uncomfortable new kinks.

Now, Bucky looks speculatively over at Sam’s strong hands and shifts in his chair.

“I just remembered, Sam and I have something really important to do,” Bucky announces. “So we’ll see you next week, right? OK, cool. C’mon, Paddington!”

Bucky grabs Paddington’s cute little dog bed and Paddington hops down from Sam’s lap to follow them out of the office, his tail wagging happily as he trots along beside them. God, Paddington is so fucking cute, Bucky cannot believe what a great dog he is.

Dr. Carson calls out after them through gritted teeth. “You’re not supposed to take the therapy dog with you!”

“Sorry, what?” Sam shouts back, cupping his hand around his ear. “I can’t hear you!”

“Bucky, I know you have super hearing!”.

“Sorry, I’m a hundred and six years old and I left my ear trumpet at home!” Bucky raises his hands in an exaggerated shrug to convey the hopelessness of trying to communicate at this great distance of about forty feet.

“God, I need a fucking vacation forever,” Dr. Carson mutters.

***

Later, after Bucky and Sam collapse against Sam’s sheets in sweaty exhaustion, Bucky mentally tallies their points and comes to the frustrating conclusion that Sam is still absolutely wiping the floor with him in this love languages competition. God, how is Sam so good at everything? He’s so fucking handsome and charming and athletic and just, like, absolute dynamite in the sack—

God, no wonder Bucky’s losing. There’s no way he can win this competition with his dick alone. Time to channel Tommy Dorsey and play it from the heart.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky murmurs, leaning up to nuzzle his nose against Sam’s jaw. “Let me cook you dinner tonight, doll. Wanna treat you right.”

“‘M not your doll,” Sam grumbles. “But yeah, OK.”

Bucky kisses Sam’s shoulder and plots.

Three hours later, Bucky and Steve survey Bucky’s dining room with the smug satisfaction of Scarlett O’Hara stealing her sister’s fiancé to get her greedy hands on his general store and sawmill.

“I think we nailed it, pal,” Steve boasts. “This looks just like your date night mood board.”

“I mean, I feel like half the credit should go to Pinterest user donkeydick2004—who would’ve guessed that he’d have such a sensitive soul.”

Bucky’s dining room table is covered with rose petals sprinkled over Bucky’s mother’s best lace tablecloth, liberated from the archives of the Smithsonian along with the rest of the contents of Steve and Bucky’s old Brooklyn Heights apartment. Two lit candles rise proudly from the gleaming silver of Sarah Rogers’s candleholders—the only wedding gift she’d managed to save from the pawnbroker during those lean years of Steve’s childhood—and the Victrola crackles with the smooth tenor of Enrico Caruso singing an aria so romantic it once brought a tear to the clear, flinty eye of Bucky’s father. Bucky’s grateful now that the Barneses were a Victor Talking Machine Company family—those Edison wax cylinders decayed faster than American democracy after the invention of Facebook.

The first time Bucky saw the familiar red logo of that Caruso record again—faithful Nipper the dog, his head tipped toward the horn of a gramophone playing the sound of his dead master’s voice—Bucky drove straight out into the desert and screamed until he was hoarse.

And now tonight Bucky’s using that very record to romance the shit out of Sam Wilson, so Nick Fury and Dr. Carson can fuck off with their so-called “therapy” because Bucky Barnes is doing great.

Steve clears his throat and gives Bucky a meaningful look. “You know, if this is all just some competition between you and Sam, you didn’t have to drive out to Maryland to dig all of our most personal and intimate memories out of storage for this dinner.”

Flustered, Bucky replies, “You have no idea what a canny opponent Sam is! Every time that man talks, my heart flutters and my stomach’s all full of butterflies. Besides,” Bucky says, “my grandfather paid fifty extra dollars to get the Circassian walnut veneer put on that old Victrola—he would haunt me if I didn’t ever use it, Steve.”

“You know your Aunt Margaret spit on her own father’s grave when your grandfather left that Victrola to your dad instead of her?”

Bucky laughs. “Is that why they had that big falling out? I couldn’t remember.”

“Peggy said that your Aunt Margaret wrote Howard Stark a letter every month until the day she died demanding the return of that Victrola.”

“Well, I hope that greedy old hag is looking down at me right now,” Bucky says, shaking his head in disbelief. “She deserves to watch me seduce my gay lover with that Victrola, it serves her right. You know she called you a fairy once?”

Steve gestures toward the intimate tableau featuring all of Bucky’s most precious memories and dryly states, “Well, as long as you’re clear on spite as your motivation for all of this.”

Bucky bites his lip as a sudden fear strikes him. “Do you think Sam’s going to like the chicken? People still roast chicken, right? It’s not just, like, sushi and gluten free vegan desserts nowadays?”

Steve opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Paddington dives off the sofa like he’s responding to an Avengers Assemble alarm—which, oh my god, could Paddington wear a little outfit and come with the Avengers on ops? Bucky needs to look into this immediately—and dances around in elation when Bucky opens the door to reveal Sam, who is looking fine as hell in a lavender button-down and navy trousers.

And Bucky’s heart is—honestly not reacting much differently than Paddington right now.

“Aw, hi, baby!” Sam says, leaning down to pet Paddington and scratch him behind the ears. When Sam’s finished giving Paddington the attention he so richly deserves, Bucky’s pulled in for a long, heartbreakingly tender kiss that sends a shiver of want down the entire length of his spine. Sam and Steve exchange their own greetings while Bucky surreptitiously reaches up to rub at the goosebumps prickling at the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.

“Steve, you’re going to be OK watching Paddington tonight, right?” Bucky’s voice is threaded with the justifiable suspicion of someone who has known Steve Rogers for a lifetime.

Steve’s mouth drops open in offense. “Yes! Bucky, I know how to watch a dog.”

Bucky lifts Paddington’s tiny body and curls his arms protectively around him. “OK, well, Paddington is the most important thing in the world to me, and you are literally the least responsible person I know, so.”

“What? Bucky, I’m—that’s—I’m Captain America. I’m famously responsible.”

“Sam is Captain America, Steve. I feel like you’re not moving on. Also my brain might be a giant lump of small curd cottage cheese now, but I still remember that you’re a reckless idiot.”

Sam gives Steve a sharp look of his own and says, “Steve, Paddington is very important to Bucky’s therapy and also to our therapy as a couple—” Sam pauses, then adds, “of coworkers. So make sure you give him his favorite treats, but don’t give him too many treats, and make sure he doesn’t pull the squeaker out of his stuffed alligator—”

Bucky and Sam lead Steve to the door while Sam continues to debrief Steve on all of Paddington’s most important feelings and preferences. “You should really be writing all of this down, Steve,” Sam says with a frown.

Steve sighs. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“All right, well, if we pick him up in the morning and he has an upset tummy, I will literally kill you, and Sam—the trustworthy Captain America—will be my alibi,” Bucky says.

Sam nods in solemn agreement.

Bucky and Sam part from Paddington with identical expressions of worry as Steve walks him down the hall to his apartment.

As soon as Steve’s door closes, Bucky is all over Sam, pressing him against the wall and skimming his lips over the warm skin of Sam’s neck. God, Sam smells incredible, like tobacco and vanilla and oiled leather, and somehow the masculine scent of him travels down Bucky’s windpipe and directly to his cock.

“Hi,” Bucky breathes.

“Hey, baby,” Sam murmurs, tipping his head back to let Bucky’s lips trail along his throat to his jawline. Bucky’s just getting really into it, his hips pressing insistently against Sam’s, when the timer for the oven goes off.

Over dinner, Bucky and Sam talk and laugh about their coworkers as the candlelight does frankly amazing things for Sam’s bone structure. Bucky squirms in his chair and tries to will away the flush he can feel spreading up his neck when Sam compliments Bucky on the romantic lighting and the beautiful place settings. Fuck, he’s supposed to be giving Sam quality time here, and instead Sam’s using that quality time to offer Bucky more words of affirmation. Bucky’s not really ready to concede this battle just yet, but he’s definitely starting to craft a defeat narrative for himself about the lack of shame in being beaten by the best.

And Sam is definitely the best.

“That chicken was incredible.” Sam pats his stomach and groans in satisfaction. “You know that’s just how my mama always makes it?”

Bucky wonders if it would be weird to divulge that he actually broke into Sam’s mother’s house to sneak a look at her recipe cards. That’s normal intelligence gathering, right? Bucky made sure Sam’s mom was out of the house when he entered, and afterward he sent a team of security specialists to give her a better alarm system setup—”compliments of SHIELD, ma’am”—when he realized that her house was way too easy to break into. And Bucky’s dad always said to leave things better than you found them, so if anything Sam’s mom is probably safer now than she was before the world’s most legendary assassin crept into her house to rifle through her personal belongings.

He feels like Natasha would agree with him but he also feels like Natasha is probably just as batshit insane as Bucky and Steve are. Bucky has literally no normal friends and he should probably start spending more time with Sharon Carter.

After dinner, Sam looks relaxed and sated, his eyes warm and heavy-lidded as he watches Bucky shiver under his praise. “You know you have a praise kink, right?”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky says, and tries to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Steve and I did a ton of research and watched, like, hours of porn together. We figured it out.”

“You and Steve have some serious boundary issues.” Sam shakes his head and grins in amusement. “But seriously, though, you’re not just hooking up with me because you imprinted on me after I made your dick hard or something, right? I mean, I remember the first time I got a boner after being deployed. I cried like a baby, so I get it, man, but—”

“Actually, I sort of wanted to talk to you about that,” Bucky says, his stomach swimming with nerves. This is the moment he’s been anticipating and dreading since he planned this whole date night op. “I was thinking—how would you feel about taking this competition to the next level?”

Sam’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I just think we’d both have more time and energy to devote to this competition if we were competing, you know, exclusively.”

“Ah.” Sam’s expression clears and a slow smile spreads across his handsome face. “You want to be boyfriends.”

“I want to be boyfriends,” Bucky confirms with a decisive nod.

He may be losing this love language competition by about a hundred and fifty points, but Bucky still has some fight in him yet. And between work and sex and co-ownership of Paddington, Bucky’s already spending so much time with Sam that there’s no real way to increase the amount of time in “quality time”—but he can improve the quality of that time. If Bucky and Sam are boyfriends, Bucky figures, all that quality time should automatically count for more points than the quality time they spend together as coworkers with confusing feelings for each other, right?

Bucky’s lungs burn as he holds his breath held in anticipation of Sam’s response.

“Yeah, let’s be boyfriends,” Sam says, with a grin tugging at his lips.

Bucky’s heart soars in victory.

***

Bucky and Sam have decided not to bring Paddington with them to any future therapy appointments just in case Dr. Carson tries to take him away like Cruella de Vil.

This week, however, Dr. Carson shows up their session with a whole new vibe. Instead of striding imperiously into her office in her usual stern fashion, Dr. Carson blows in fifteen minutes late with the casual energy of a high school senior during the last week of school. She walks over to her desk, flip-flops slapping against her feet, and reclines back in her chair to prop her feet up onto the polished surface of her solid oak desk. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie like a suburban mom in an airport waiting to fly down to Miami for a Caribbean cruise.

“So how’s it going this week, boys?” Dr. Carson asks, slurping from the straw of her Big Gulp soda.

“Um, great.” Sam eyes her cautiously. “Bucky and I are boyfriends now.”

“No shit!” Dr. Carson says, and tilts her head back to squint down at them. “Huh. What do you know about that.” Then she shrugs. “Tell me how it happened.”

So Bucky and Sam tell her every detail of the last week, including the way they tenderly made love after Sam agreed to be Bucky’s boyfriend. Dr. Carson is clear-eyed and engaged the entire time, even during the five full minutes Sam devotes to the ripple of Bucky’s abdominal muscles as he strains toward orgasm, and Bucky’s just starting to think that maybe they can get some real therapy out of Dr. Carson when she says—

“So Fury’s transferring me to Hawaii.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. “What?”

“Yup.” Dr. Carson burrows deeper into her chair and lets out a relaxed sigh before taking another loud sip of her soda. “This is our last session!”

“So do we have a new therapist after this, or?” Sam waves his hand uncertainly.

“Nah, I’m just gonna go ahead and tell Fury that you guys are doing great. You’ve officially graduated therapy.”

Bucky chokes on air. “Excuse me, what? We graduated therapy?”

“Sure, why not?” Dr. Carson says with a lazy shrug. “Despite literally all of my expectations to the contrary, it seems like you guys have actually formed a stable partnership. Just, you know, maybe stop fucking so much at work.”

Bucky scoffs. “Listen, I didn’t give my life fighting Nazis in World War II—” he begins.

***

After Bucky and Sam’s appointment with Dr. Carson, Sam receives a text asking him to meet Fury in his executive suite.

Bucky heads back to his own office—his real one, buried deep within the bowels of SHIELD in a secret interrogation room someone bricked up the entrance to and then forgot about years ago. Bucky discovered it while crawling through the air ducts to place surveillance equipment in the offices of Nick Fury and the major SHIELD department heads. Once Bucky disposed of the mummified body he found inside—which, wow, super gross—it made the perfect private office space and server room.

Bucky opens his surveillance software just in time to hear Fury tell Sam that Bucky broke his best therapist.

“Dr. Carson is a highly trained professional at the top of her field,” Fury says, his voice stern. “I had to offer her a fifty percent raise to lure her away from private practice, and now I’m sending her away from D.C., where all of my elite agents reside, to Honolulu, which is where I send all the useless nepotism agents I’m forced to hire by the World Security Council. I don’t know what Barnes did to that woman but he just cost me a very experienced and expensive mental health professional.”

“And what makes you think Agent Barnes is at fault?”

“Dr. Carson is obviously not at liberty to divulge any specifics about what was said during your therapy sessions, but she did note that your bickering was ‘maddening’ and that she, quote, hadn’t even realized it was possible to overshare during therapy. She also indicated that Barnes instigated an invasive and traumatizing background check that caused her a great deal of personal distress.’”

“Given Agent Barnes’s history with SHIELD, I think it’s perfectly understandable that he may have sought reassurance that Dr. Carson wasn’t an agent of HYDRA.” Sam’s voice is bland and pleasant. “It’s hardly Agent Barnes’s fault that Dr. Carson turned out to have a surprisingly messy personal life.”

“Be that as it may, I’m suspending Barnes from active duty until he passes a second psych eval from another therapist.”

“With all due respect, sir, Agent Barnes has been nothing but cooperative in this retaliatory investigation into his mental state. He’s a skilled and creative fighter, a selfless and generous partner, and a brilliant tactician. He deserves to be treated with the same respect as any other SHIELD agent who hasn’t shot you.”

Jesus Christ, is Sam offering Bucky words of affirmation even when he’s not there to hear them? What kind of love language master is Sam? God, how can Bucky possibly compete with this?

Fury’s voice is strangled. “Retaliatory?”

“Yes,” Sam says firmly. “As far as I’m aware, Agent Barnes has cleared all mandatory psychological evaluations and then some. If you have a problem with his—or my—behavior in the workplace, I suggest you carefully review our employment contracts and initiate the appropriate disciplinary proceedings. In the meantime, I will be continuing with Agent Barnes as my partner. There will be no suspension.”

The sound of Fury’s office door slamming shut is unexpectedly erotic.

By the time Sam slides through the secret passageway into Bucky’s office, Sam looks calm and collected, like he hasn’t just returned from facing down a man with the power and authority to send him to one of a half-dozen black sites so secret they probably exist on other planets.

“So how’d the meeting go?” Bucky asks, suppressing a grin.

“Oh, it was fine,” Sam says with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “We don’t have to do therapy anymore.”

Bucky lets his smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah? No more retaliatory investigations into my mental state?”

When Sam realizes how Bucky must have overheard that remark, his eyes widen in delight. “I’m sorry, did you bug Fury’s office? Bucky Barnes, you crazy asshole, I love you so fucking much.”

Bucky freezes. Sam loves him? Adrenaline and exhilaration race through Bucky’s veins, spreading through his entire circulatory system until he feels like he’s going to buzz right out of his skin. For the second time in Bucky’s life, he’s been flung straight over the side of a cliff, except this time Sam has wings to catch him. God, this is why they call it falling, isn’t it?

Bucky is feeling so fucking affirmed right now. He has never felt so affirmed in his entire life.

And Bucky’s lost that stupid competition now, hasn’t he. There’s no way Bucky can compete with that declaration, no way he can pull off a victory after Sam just earned himself, like, fifty million points—but when Bucky looks at Sam’s gap-toothed grin, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s secretly won after all.

And he does have one last, best card to play.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky says, with a wide grin, “how do you feel about moving in together?”

#marvel cinematic universe #bucky barnes #sam wilson #bucky barnes x sam wilson #winter falcon #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #steve rogers x natasha romanoff #old man steve has no power here #fuck old man steve #natasha romanoff lives #idiots in love

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rantceratops · 4 years

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Why Dick is NOT a Resentful Twat: An Evidence Backed Rant by TheRantDragon.

*cracks knuckles*

I have been dying to tackle this one all day. This is legitimately FUN for me, I am enjoying myself. I came home from work, I sat down at my computer, and I started compiling my list of points and evidence. I am beyond ready to debunk this asinine fucking fan theory.

And for those of you that DON’T know what fan theory I’m talking about, it’s as crazy as this: Somehow it was apparently gathered that Dick is resentful towards Wally and Artemis’s romantic relationship. That because his s3 Fever Dream takes place very obviously sometime right after Artemis joined the Team in Infiltrator, and because he and Wally’s relationship was supposedly “strained” in s2 because of Artemis being undercover, that means that Dick is resentful because he either 1) is jealous of their romance because it means Artemis is “stealing” all of Wally’s time/friendship from him (I am legit rolling my eyes so hard right now, I wish I could film it), or 2) he secretly has romantic feelings for Wally.

This is all complete bullshit, and I am here today to show you, in extreme detail, with a shit ton of pictures and gifs straight from the show to back it all up, why this is the dumbest theory I’ve witnessed on this hellsite.

Please, proceed under the cut with the knowledge that it will be long and sarcastic and also I’m a bitch. :) I’m also going to warn you that if you remotely ship *raught or *ird*lash in a “canon” sense, you might want to skip this. By all means I support and respect people shipping what they like, but my philosophy is that I don’t have to respect the ship itself, just the people who do the shipping of it. I refuse to respect any ship I don’t like(I don’t expect anyone to respect my ships), and I don’t have to and I’m not obligated to.

These points are not in any specific order.

Point One

So, I’m actually going to start this off with an oldie, but a goodie. If you will, my friends, go back in time to early Invasion. Depths had just aired, and there was another theory going around then, that I feel the need to address first. This might feel a bit unrelated, but remember that I am debunking the notion that Dick is resentful toward Spitfire for ANY reason, so I feel it needs to be addressed first.

This theory, which was a shipping theory, was that Dick was in love with Artemis or otherwise had feelings for her, and that this was all part of the drama fueling into Dick and Wally’s supposed “strain”. He gave her mouth-to-mouth when he “didn’t need to”, he looked at his old picture of them wistfully in the warehouse, he looked away from Artemis and Wally’s last kiss because it was “painful” due to him being jealous.

None of this was true, and never was.

“Dick gave Artemis mouth-to-mouth even though it was “unnecessary”. He did this because he wanted to “kiss” her.”

Okay, but Dick giving Artemis mouth-to-mouth was 100% necessary. They were trying to sell a death here, really sell it because the entire mission hinged on the success of her death being believed. How unbelievable would it have been for Dick to just sit there and watch his friend bleed out and die, instead of trying everything he could to save her life? Regardless of whether CPR would have been the appropriate thing, the point is that if she had stopped breathing, CPR would be the obvious option in a last ditch effort. He needed to try everything to make this look good.

“Dick looked all wistfully at that picture of he and Artemis in Depths and said ‘We’ll laugh about this some day’, he clearly has feelings for her.”

No. First of all, Dick probably has a fucking framed version of that picture because of how damn funny it is. It’s his ultimate Artemis troll, and in case y’all forgot, they are very good friends (and oh, believe me, that is a topic I will get into). I hardly think looking at a picture of a fond memory with a friend automatically means romance. Secondly, this entire scene served two purposes. The first was to continue to try and fool the audience into believing that Artemis had truly died (it got me, I was crying up until she came out in the warehouse, not even gonna lie here. It got me GOOD). The second was to show the sense of guilt that Dick was feeling. He had literally asked Artemis to basically throw her life away; to fake her death, to fool all of their friends and family into thinking she had DIED. This is serious fucking shit, this isn’t something to just shrug off. (I am not saying that Artemis did not make her own decisions here, because she did, but this whole entire plan was Dick’s idea, and he is the one who asked her, thus putting the guilt he felt upon his shoulders). So outside of the audience reasoning for the picture, it was meant to show his guilt. “We’ll laugh about this someday...” Will we laugh about this someday too? Will this all be funny later, when things are okay? Can we still laugh and be okay even after what I’ve asked you to do?

“Dick looked away when Wally and Artemis kissed, even Kaldur noticed! He obviously has feelings for her and it hurt for him to watch, and this is definitely really feeding into his strain with Wally!”

Uh, no. Again, this all ties back to guilt, and general respect. Kaldur is not looking at Dick, Kaldur is turning his gaze away as well, to offer them respect. They are about to part from each other for god knows how long, and Artemis and Kaldur are both going into the lion’s den, where anything could fuck up at any time and leave them surrounded by enemies hundreds of meters below the ocean. Of course it’s common fucking courtesy to look way and give your friends some mild form of privacy. Dick is also looking away largely out of respect, but his feels lightly tinged with that guilt I already talked about. Guilt at what he’s asked her to do, of what he’s asked her to leave behind, of how his best pal will have to roll with the punches and act devastated that his girlfriend is dead. And honestly just guilt at seeing two people, both whom are his GOOD friends, and who happen to be pretty fucking solid and in love with each other, part ways for god knows how long.

Point Two

Dick cherishes childhood/the past/the good old days. This is made extremely obvious, especially throughout Outsiders. I bring this point up as part of debunking the notion that the era of Dick’s fever dream somehow means that he feels resentment towards Spitfire; that by going back to a point before they were together, that means Dick specifically misses those days before Artemis started “taking up Wally’s time” (huge eye roll again).

This is expressed mostly through a few quotes, that I will list here, and you can go listen yourself if you feel the need to.

“Oh maaan...I hate being a grown-up.” - Expressed during the Outsiders episode “Rescue Op.”. This is in response to Dick questioning why Brion and the others went and did the thing they were told NOT to do, to which Conner and Megan proceed to remind him of the Cadmus incident while also obviously implying as well all the times the Team broke the rules as teenagers. I think this quote speaks for itself.

“Kinda like old times, huh, Wall?” -During Dick’s hilarious adventures with the Harpers during the Outsiders episode “Private Security”. (That episode is a goddamn national treasure). While obviously this moment is largely meant to focus on Dick’s deeper issue of avoiding his problem and not having Wally around to knock some damn sense into him, I do think this is also fairly an indication of how much Dick misses the old days/latches onto them. This one is more specifically related to Wally, but it doesn’t remove from my point.

And of course the biggest one here, is the actual Fever Dream itself. Dick misses the old days, when the Team was young and new and everyone was at the top of their game. When his best friend was alive and well and goofy as ever and they were all having FUN with the hero gig. Things hadn’t gotten so dark yet. I will tackle this more thoroughly in and of itself later, but it also is relevant in this section.

Dick very deeply clings to the “good old days”. He MISSES his early days with the Team.

Point Three

Now, let’s talk about Artemis and Dick’s friendship. I already think that the fandom doesn’t appreciate this friendship enough as it is, but this fan theory leans toward straight up disrespecting not only Dick’s friendship with Wally, but his friendship with Artemis as well. I’ll start off by saying that I am not remotely arguing that Dick’s friendship with Artemis is a Wally-level for him (no one is Wally level, that’s his best bud <3), but I think it’s made incredibly obvious that they care deeply about each other in many ways throughout the series. They love each other.

My point here is that insinuating that Dick “resents” Spitfire because Artemis supposedly “steals” all of Wally’s time is just so fucking gross. That, at its core, is asserting that Dick resents Artemis herself, which is just plain fucking false. Now I will show and tell you WHY that is some blatant fucking bullshit.

The simple fact that Artemis and Dick are the OG badass no-powers heroes of the Team.

The entirety of Homefront. Seriously, go re-watch it in case you have forgotten how amazing it is and how amazing their friendship is

Three little moments in episodes right after Homefront, indicating the two have grown closer following the events in that episode: Dick and Artemis both helping each other with the attacking monkeys in Alpha Male; Artemis having clearly gotten some re-breathers from Dick after Homefront to add to her arsenal; Artemis and Dick sparring at the beginning of Humanity (and Artemis kicking his ass).

Dick specifically choosing Artemis to go undercover with Kaldur because he knows how capable she is, and how much he trusts her.

Dick and Artemis’s quiet conversation while waiting for the Comms Satellite to launch in Depths.

Dick specifically seeking out Artemis as part of his Team for the Markovia op, because he knows how capable she is, and how much he trusts her.

Dick and Artemis’s playful “Tigress”/”Nightwing banter on the beach in the Evolution episode.

Dick placing a comforting hand on her shoulder when Artemis explained her decision to live a normal life with Wally in the episode Influence. (ah yes, solidarity, compassion, and comfort! Truly the most resentful of gestures!)

Artemis and Dick’s touching moment shared for Wally after the events of the Fever Dream.

And just a couple of bonus images of their friendship:

( ^ look at them fucking hamming it up XD <3)

There was literally zero indication that Dick harbors any sort of resentment toward Artemis, which would have to be the case for the argument against Spitfire, considering the resentment itself would have to start with her coming into Wally’s life. There is nothing but love, friendship, trust, and understanding between these two. There is not even a fragment to suggest otherwise. So no, this does not stand.

Point Four

Dick ships Spitfire. How could he resent something that he very obviously supports? There’s no shipper goggles here, we have several instances in the series itself that either blatantly or insinuates that Dick is fully aware of and in support of them.

-First of all we have the whole exchange between he and Wally in Infiltrator. He’s clearly noticed the tension as they all have, and while this isn’t a major one, I think it still stands. “You might cut her some slack. It was her arrow saved your butt against Amazo.” I’d also argue that, upon listening to Dick’s voice when he says this to Wally, that his appeasing inflection indicates that he’s trying to help clear the air between them, to give Wally a reason to chill and give her a chance. It might not be for romance purposes just yet, but he clearly was trying to help them become friends and ease the tension.

-The most blatant quote from Bereft: “Yeesh, get a room!” in response to them arguing with their faces close and being generally fairly obvious to anyone with eyeballs/ears.

-In Failsafe, Dick knowingly, if regretfully, uses Wally’s feelings for Artemis to keep him moving forward. He sees how badly Wally reacts, is able to easily discern from past moments between them and from Wally’s reaction itself, that he has some pretty deep feelings for her. We’ve already seen evidence that Dick is supporting of it through his teases, and the fact that he realized he’d have to feed Wally false hope about her to keep him moving shows that he’s not blind to it by any means. Dick felt awful about it; he does not say anything specifically about anyone on the Team to BC in his therapy session, but everything is still addressed as a whole, as he does talk about “sending (his) friends to their deaths” and being like Batman with his drive to finish the mission, etc.

-Again, Dick showed respect(and guilt) and looked away when Artemis and Wally kissed in Depths.

-And lastly and probably most importantly: the Fever Dream itself has nods to early Spitfire, and it came straight from Dick’s own brain. He’s not an idiot, he knows they liked each other and what they would mean to each other. If he had some kind of true resentment about it, don’t you think that in addition to not being so chummy with Artemis in s2 and s3, that he would have, idk, imagined the Team WITHOUT Artemis completely? Come the heck on, people. This is so goofy. (”Oh, hey, the new girl. I’m gonna keep my eye on her.” “We heard that!” // “Jected! She owes me one!” “You know I can still hear you?” “Dang it!” These two quotes are quite literally references to Infiltrator itself, wherein Artemis tells Wally “You know, I can still hear you!” when Wally says he’s not going to give her the satisfaction.)

Point Five

The Fever Dream itself. This isn’t even going to be a massive section because it doesn’t really have to be.

The point of the Fever Dream taking place in what was clearly post Infiltrator, was that it was before Failsafe. Before Infiltrator, nothing super crazy traumatizingly bad had happened to the Team yet. It wasn’t arguably until Home Front, Revelation, and Failsafe that shit started getting deep. They lost Kent in Denial and that probably didn’t sit well with Wally, it was one of the first losses they had experienced besides the woman the boys failed to protect in the tie-in comics. But ultimately Failsafe is the biggest thing that happened to them; it ruined them, it left lasting scars, it wasn’t fun, and being a hero was supposed to be fun back then. They knew it was responsibility too, I’m not saying they didn’t, but... they were kids, and it felt cool to be doing the stuff they were doing.

I don’t think there’s really any specific reason other than that. Early Team was good days, when everyone was happy. It was “All aster, no dis”. To me this is extremely obvious.

Point Six

Perhaps an even shorter point but one that desperately needs to be said because imo it alone is enough to derail all this horseshit.

This fan theory, once again I must reiterate, is basically saying that Dick either resents Spitfire/Artemis because it strained he and Wally’s friendship somehow, or that Dick has some hidden romantic feelings toward Wally. In claiming this, you are flat out choosing to ignore that Dick himself is basically a respectful player in s2 onward. It is made NO secret that he dates a LOT of women, all of which he respects and enjoys the company of and ends things nicely with, because he just loves women and sex (literally a Greg answer, of which I will grace you with shortly).

Are you trying to tell me that Dick resents Wally having a loving, deep, dedicated, solid, fucking loving ass relationship, and yet himself goes around being with a bunch of women and eventually winds up in his OWN deep long-term relationship with BABS? What kinda fucking hypocritical BULLSHIT y’all trying to pull here?

This point alone is enough to destroy this entire stupid ass theory.

(”Dick Grayson is a perfect gentlemen who love sex. He keeps a strong friendship with his many, many ex-GFs.” This was from a raunchy q&a done with Greg that included some of the other characters/relationships as well. And honestly that is THE most perfect description of s2-onward Dick that I’ve ever seen. “A perfect gentlemen that loves sex.” This is literally him.)

Final Point

I’m honestly just gonna stop the *ird*lash part of the theory in it’s tracks right here and now.

Now, anyone can ship whatever the hell they like, I am NOT disputing that, nor telling people they have to ship what I ship. What I AM saying though is that *ird*lash is not a thing in canon, so a fan theory based around some secret romantic feelings for Wally just isn’t going to work. Now, you can imagine whatever you like in fanon and fanfiction that’s cool! Fanon/fanfiction is always there to have your back (hell, I rely on it every day since 2013 with Spitfire because as of right now Wally be dead! *shrug*).

But the fact of the matter is that not only does the show dispute this pairing, as both boys are in dedicated relationships with other people canonically, neither Dick nor Wally are romantically inclined to each other in the creator’s eyes.

(”Well, what really precludes it, I suppose, is that I don’t think either of them are gay. But everyone is entitled to their opinion.” - Greg) And he’s blessing people to have their own opinions and use fanon too!

In Conclusion

Dick is not and never has been a resentful twat/bad friend, and this theory made me puke a little in my mouth from the first moment I heard it. I’m inclined to say that having a bit more respect for Dick might be wise.

#ranty rants #ranty is a bitch #yj meta #yj #otp: when we're alone #spitfire #ranty's meta

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ellariasand · 4 years

Text

i’m not gonna teach him how to dance with you

pairing: frank castle x karen page summary: frank's helping karen with a story. some slight miscalculations put them in serious trouble. rating: t warnings: references to sexual situations & canon-typical violence - no actual depictions of either; swearing word count: 8.2k (sweet jesus) a/n: i’m not particularly used to posting my writing on tumblr (you can find this same piece along with others over on my AO3), so this is new for me! big props to @peoniesforfrankcastle for pitching me the softball of “what do you think would happen if frank and karen ended up in their own version of the landlord threesome situation from new girl??”, because that’s a normal thing to discuss at 1:30 in the morning on a saturday. enjoy!

“You’re sure this is the place?”

It’s pissing rain outside the pathetic blue Jetta Frank’s sitting in — because of course it is. It’s dark, it’s wet, and the only thing he can see properly is the profile of Karen Page’s face, highlighted by soft blue dashboard lights. It’s cold, he’s not dressed properly, and he’d be at home in bed if not for her. He’d be warm, comfortable, and not packing three different pistols on various parts of his body. He’d be, for as much as the Punisher can be, safe.

But Karen, despite every warning and caution and threat to her life, never quite knew when to quit.

She’s packing quite a different arsenal as she sits in the passenger seat, hands still covered in glitter from the bachelorette party she’d been at an hour earlier. Marci had insisted, she claimed as she checked the clip on her own gun, just an hour to say hi — but Frank knew better. Just an hour, he thinks as she makes sure her tape recorder’s working, is an hour she doesn’t have to think about what she’s about to do.

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

She sounds absolutely certain as she speaks, even though Frank can see her hand shake as she stuffs the gun and the tape into her coat pocket. Her research is sound, her head screwed on straight, her plan well-equipped. (Well, perhaps not so much her plan as the plan Madani and Frank helped her make, but it’s all the same to her.) She’s Darius and Daniel all at once, throwing herself into the lion’s den without even a backwards glance.

She’s here for a story, and she’s going to get what she wants, no matter how it scares the shit out of her.

Or Frank, for that matter.

“You’re dead sure?”

His voice is as deadpan as it was the first time he asked - all bite, no bark. Someone once joked that he sounds like he gargles with rocks when he does that, pulls out the Marine voice. The voice meant for giving and receiving orders, not sitting in a Volkswagen with a Bulletin reporter helping her with a story. Apparently, it’s as intimidating as the bruises perennially darkening the orbitals of his eyes - not that he’d be able to tell, the way Karen responds to him.

“Yes, Frank.” She sounds as impassive as he does, if not more. He can’t read her expression in the low light, but he’s sure it’s as stolid as his. “Why are you so concerned about it?”

All he can think to do is scoff as she pats herself down in a quick double-check.

“Because I’d’ve appreciated it if you’d told me we were going to a Cooley gun club instead of having to hear about it from Lieberman.”

If he couldn’t read her expression before, he can now. It drops like a sack of bricks, and for all that his voice suddenly sounds upset, Frank can practically feel the weight of it hit his chest as the frown envelops her entire face. It dents her eyebrows, creases her forehead like some imitation of a child’s origami project. It’s a frown of surprise, not dissimilar to the ones he used to see on Lisa when he caught her reading past her bedtime. She’s been caught with her hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

Even if Lieberman hadn’t tattled, Frank would’ve figured it out eventually. Anyone north of 119th this late was asking for trouble, if not pointing the gun at their forehead themselves. Even he didn’t stray this far if he didn’t have to. Not if he wasn’t on a job. Once Central Park was in their rear-view, he’d gripped the Weston under his jacket a little more tightly.

Karen’s parked herself right in the middle of a warzone, and judging by the loss of confidence in her expression, she knows it.

“I didn’t want to lose my chance at getting you to help,” she mutters. She sounds as much of a spitfire as she did before, but the way she’s gripping her coat sleeves betrays her real reaction. “David knew?”

“‘Course he did.” Frank scoffs. “Guy can hack the NS-fuckin’-A, you think your laptop’s any different?”

Karen’s frown deepens, the delicate origami construction of her face crumpling.

“So that’s why you agreed to come,” she says quietly. It’s almost enough to make Frank regret his choice of words. Almost, if not for the truth of what they’re about to do weighing down on his shoulders.

“You can’t just...throw yourself in with the Kitchen Irish, Karen,” he replies, firmly but carefully.

“I did it with Grotto.”

It’s like she doesn’t even think before the words are out of her mouth. She’s so sure of herself. It scares Frank. Just enough.

“Yeah,” he says, “And look how that turned out.”

“With you in the driver’s seat of my car, wearing a tape wire and helping me with a story.” Karen’s still wearing the frown, but she’s repurposed it now. Outfitted it to her advantage. Crumpled the paper and refolded it - treasure out of trash. “Not too bad in the grand scheme of things.”

She says it with a shrug and a nonchalant glance over at him, and Frank can’t muster much beyond an incredulous laugh in response. A small part of him knows he’d walk through all seven circles of hell with weights tied to his legs if it meant helping Karen with a story, but sometimes he wonders how she does it - looks danger in the face and laughs like it’s nothing more than a carnival clown, there for her amusement. Like the few inches of column space she’s afforded can be weaponized as much as the Ruger she keeps in her purse.

Karen dances with devils and comes out in first place every time, and Frank should know. He’s one of them.

“We get in, you talk to the guy, we get out, alright?”

He says it with a deadpan that hardly hides how much he’d rather taken Karen right back home, but he doesn’t stop Karen from fixing her lipstick in the mirror, doesn’t stop himself from checking that all three of his pistols are loaded and ready to go. The faster they’re in, the faster they’re out, and the less he has to feel his heart pounding in his chest like an animal trying to escape its cage.

“No funny business.”

Karen’s nod in response is perfunctory - she’s thirty-two, not twelve. She knows how this works. Frank knows that too, but the words come out anyway, in some vain attempt to reassure himself that what they were about to do wasn’t completely and utterly batshit. They’re more of a mantra than a command, and Karen’s response comes quickly on their heels as she pops open the door to the Jetta.

“People say my sense of humor is surprisingly dry.”

Frank Castle has, thus far, simply been too angry to die. No other way to phrase it. He’s been shot, tortured, run through, hit by cars, and electrocuted, amongst a handful of other, unmentionable things. He’s gone through more injuries than a child’s video game character, and yet he’s gotten back up, beaten and bruised, every time, without fail. Whether it’s stubbornness or just rage, no one can ever really tell.

But, he thinks as she smirks and hops out of the car, Karen Page might just end up being the death of him.

___________

The club they end up loitering outside of is dark, barely more than a husk of a building on the outside. It’s creative, the amount of effort these scumbags put into disguising themselves in plain sight, despite their existence being as common knowledge as the Harlem bus schedule. Decrepit storefronts, butcher shop basements, even the occasional apartment over a nail salon. Real estate in New York is slim, and Frank’s seen just about all of it - and a disproportionate amount of it with Karen at his side.

He doesn’t understand how he keeps getting dragged into these places, these undercover ops for information held so closely it might as well be fantasy. He doesn’t understand how Karen gets herself involved, much less convinces him on nothing more than a hunch and a prayer to follow at her heels, sneaking about like Zoey when she’s trying to dart out the apartment door before Karen can catch her.

He is, as Lieberman not-so-lightly puts it, built like a brick shithouse — sneaking isn’t particularly his style. Pretending to be someone else is something he’s done enough of in his everyday life. The life belonging to Pete. The life that doesn’t quite fit right - a present from an overbearing grandparent that collects dust in the basement from disuse. An old shirt, run through the wash one too many times that ends up stretched and worn, too grimy and ugly for everyday use.

The only parts of that life that seem to fit right are the ones with Karen in them. Even if they involve breaking the law.

The both of them are soaked by the time they’ve made it down the street, out of sight of their little blue getaway vehicle but in too much of a hurry to have bothered with an umbrella. Mercifully, there’s an overhang, and in some stroke of luck, the Irish at least have the courtesy to answer quickly when Karen knocks at the peeling wooden door with bare knuckles.

She’s good at that, sneaking right in the front door instead of prowling around out back. Good enough that Frank can only stare in silence as she barely blinks at a burly, dark-haired man opening the door, drilling her with enough questions to unsettle a Marine. He watches intently as she tosses around names Frank’s never heard, places he’s never been like she’s at some kind of fucked up family reunion. She calls him Robert and herself Harriet, and all he can think as they’re invited to cross the threshold is that at least it isn’t Pete.

The inside of the club looks more inviting than the outside, but Frank’s eyes are too busy scanning the interior for exits to notice the furnishings. He lets Karen do all the flattering as they’re dragged through room after room, past locked door after locked door, each one more and more concerning as Karen makes inane comments his ears barely hear. He’d been primed on all the exits - and that did mean all - but the anonymity of what lay behind those dark panels of wood doesn’t bode very well for them.

He manages to count sixteen separate doors by the time one of them opens to invite them in. The creak of it grates on Frank’s nerves, but he pays no mind as his attention zeroes in on Karen, whose blonde hair is disappearing into a dimly lit room, leaving him to chase after her like fool’s fire.

His eyes are practically evolved for low-lighting by now, but his pupils still blow wide as he ducks past a burly security detail and into the darkened room. He could swear he’s stepped into an old-fashioned parlor, one of those overly ornate ones from the PBS dramas Karen likes to watch. Velvety couch, paintings on the wall, the works - even that awful gold gilt that old New York money people thought was pretty, rather than like they’d plastered scrapyard salvage all over their walls. Frankly, his grandmother had had better taste in decor, but clearly the new Irish have money. And they want to prove it.

They want to prove they can defend themselves, too, based on the three men Frank clocks the instant the door snaps shut behind them. Strapped to the gills with firepower, looking like they could take a hit from a train and not move and inch, and angry to boot. Not too dissimilar from himself, in a way, aside from the way they mold themselves around the presence of a much slimmer man, in much better clothing, looking significantly more smug.

If Frank had to describe him, he’d say the man standing in front of he and Karen looks like one of those people mothers describe as “homely” when they’re young, but is really just the kind of person women cross the street to get away from on their commute home. Pasty, skinny, unsettling to a degree that Frank can visibly notice as Karen’s posture goes rigid. The suit he’s wearing is very obviously couture, as are his cufflinks and shoes, but it doesn’t offset the alarm bells that his general presence sets off in the both of them. Not enough to truly make either of them afraid, but enough to suck all the air out of the room in less than an instant.

Why do all drug lords remind Frank of the rats in the 34th Street subway station?

Perhaps because of the way they sneer like this one does, overconfident and cocky when Frank knows he could crush him under the heel of his boot in one step. Perhaps because of the way they carry themselves like they own the world, own the people standing in front of them and all that they’ll ever say simply because they’re on home turf. They’re leeches of the worst kind - vacuums of airheadedness and egos so big they could stop a truck.

Frank prays this isn’t the guy Karen’s come to see.

There’s a reason he stopped doing that.

“Ah, Miss Smith.”

His voice is as cocky as his face, dripping with something between venom and crude oil. His hand extends towards Karen, and Frank can only watch as she accepts it with a plastic smile.

“What a treat to finally speak in person. And this is Mister…?”

“Martin,” Karen replies. “My partner, yes.”

“Partner.” He says the word as if considering it, as if the answer is better than he’d been expecting...which is, ironically, the best reaction Frank’s gotten to his own presence in years. Clearly the beard he’d started growing in was doing its job as a mask. “Wonderful.”

He’s like a cartoon villain, this guy - if cartoon villains trafficked women and had bodyguards wearing enough firepower to set a building alight. All he’s missing is a mustache to twirl. Too bad he looks too young and skinny to be able to grow one.

“We weren’t expecting a third,” he jeers, “But in that case, would you prefer business or pleasure first?”

Karen shrugs, and Frank mirrors it. It doesn’t look as friendly coming from someone as broad-shouldered as him.

“I suppose we could do both,” Karen says. “It’s a bit late for shooting, but I’m not opposed to firing a few rounds while we talk about the--”

The laughter that cuts Karen off is even more jeering than the Bad Bond Villain’s voice. It’s high-pitched, off-key - like the vocal equivalent of nails scratching on a chalkboard. It takes a significant amount of Frank’s restraint not to flinch as he grins at Karen, far too boldly to simply be friendly.

“Oh no, my dear,” he replies as Karen’s mouth is left hanging open. “This isn’t that kind of club. Did Georgey not tell you?”

Karen’s mouth closes, then opens, then closes again as she blinks. Frank offers a quick “no sir” in place of a response from her, despite the fact that the closest thing he’d ever heard to the name Georgey was one of Karen’s silly pet names for her dog. Whether she’d crucify him for that, he couldn’t tell, but it was better than leaving the reject Lucky Charms man hanging. The expression on the man’s face tells him that’s a bad idea.

“His loss, my gain, then.” The man shrugs, sits up straighter in his seat. “You two are...swingers, no?”

Ah. So, not a gun club then.

Frank can feel Karen tense next to him. Not enough to alarm the asshole, but enough that he hears her breathing go shallow, notices the way she sits up that much straighter on the couch. She nods, refusing to break character, but he can see how far the comment has thrown her off course. He even goes a bit stiff himself - and not in the way the creep sitting in front of them would hope for - so he’s not sure he blames her. He can do guns, he can do knives...but this was new.

“It’s all part of the deal.” The creep sounds far too satisfied with himself, far too pleased in reaction to Karen’s nod that wasn’t any more than perfunctory. “We give you what you need, you give us...a little something in return.”

The look he shoots at Karen is enough to make Frank’s trigger finger twitch.

The locked doors suddenly make more sense, much the same as the furnishings that seemed slightly too impeccable for a mafia den. Everything is slightly too pristine, slightly too well-oiled for a bunch of amateurs fresh out of metaphorical diapers. No criminal gives this much of a shit about appearances unless they’re trying to impress - who that is, Frank doesn’t know, but he can only imagine the kinds of clients that run through here. A gun club in the middle of Harlem is bad enough, but this? Nothing wrong with a bit of fun if you aren’t psychotic, but...

“You traffic girls and you run a swinger’s club.” Frank’s voice sounds like he’s down an entire construction site’s worth of grave, disguising the sarcasm he can’t quite keep out of it. “Clever.”

The man nods, oblivious to Frank’s train of thought.

“We pride ourselves on it.” Pride isn’t exactly the word Frank would use, but the emotion shows on his face anyway. “The guns are a temporary cover. While we get our hooks in, so to speak. Clearly a good cover though, eh?”

He’s teasing Karen now, clearly trying to get under the thick skin of the identity she’s created for herself. It won’t budge, Frank knows that much, but the remark still makes him shift in his seat, fighting off the urge to throttle the bastard before they’ve even gotten a word out of him.

Frank’s never been good at holding his tongue, but he’ll do it for Karen.

She nods at the remark, a sound coming out of her mouth that’s as far from her real laugh as Frank imagines she can possibly get. It’s a hollow tittering sound, like hearing birds chirping through the metal of a roof they’ve nested on, but it’s convincing enough for their host, whose grin borders just the slightest bit on insane.

“We’ll give you two a moment,” he says. “Only reasonable to let you get...comfortable.”

There’s that teasing voice again, and Frank hardly has the chance to let it annoy him before one of the guards is swooping in on them, an ominous black-clad raven with an assault rifle strapped across his chest. He almost reaches out when he puts a hand at the small of Karen’s back, not quite pushing her but not letting her move of her own free will either. The cold stare Frank receives when his nerves jump is enough to tell him that he should follow, or suffer the consequences otherwise. He’s not particular to following the rules - not anymore - but he chooses to make an exception this time.

The creep stands by as the two of them are herded away, towards a door at the far end of the parlor that hangs just ajar enough to remind Frank too much of The Shining. The darkness beyond doesn’t look promising, and the results aren’t much better as they’re herded into some kind of dimly-lit antechamber, presumably a dressing room of sorts. Broom closet would’ve been a better term for it, given the fact that Frank and Karen are nearly chest to chest once the gorilla takes his hands away and leaves the two of them in relative dark, lit only by mood lighting that does about as much for Frank’s eyesight as a flashlight with mostly-dead batteries.

He can see about as much of Karen as he could in the Jetta, but he’s hesitant to say anything. Who knows how much of the club the Cooleys had bugged for posterity - he wouldn’t be surprised if there are cameras hidden in the tiny cracks of exposed brick he can see behind the swaths of fabric covering the walls. These types didn’t seem entirely beyond a bit of voyeurism at all.

“You okay?”

Frank Castle is not a man to whisper, but that’s how his voice comes out anyway; low enough that it would probably be unintelligible to cameras. It’s not as though he needs to shout in this broom closet anyway.

Karen shakes her head, less as a response to his question and more as if she’s trying to shake cobwebs from her brain that she’d missed when she dusted last.

“I swear to God I didn’t know this was going to happen.” She’s rambling, her sentences peeling off one after the other with no way of stopping them. “There was nothing in the notes about it. Not in the witness statements, not in the police reports...fuck, somebody should have told me or else I wouldn’t have brought you here into the middle of this—”

“Hey, hey, hey.”

Frank’s hands are on her shoulders before he can think to stop them, a grounding wire for his emotions and hers. He knows how it feels to have a plan go to shit, that feeling of the ground spinning underneath you without any recourse to stop it. He can see that feeling in Karen, the way her pupils are so blown with fear he can practically see himself in them. It’s not often that anyone can strike fear into Karen Page.

“Shhh. It’s okay.” He’s rubbing her arms now, though perhaps a bit more for his own sake than for hers. “Even Lieberman missed it. It’s not your fault.”

It really isn’t. He’s not sure how a sex club got confused with a gun league - all euphemisms aside, even Lieberman isn’t that stupid - but the Irish must be smarter than he thinks. Or, at least, clever enough to deflect attention away from themselves. It makes sense, in the long run of things, he thinks... if you’re that kind of subway track scum that traffics human beings.

“I’ll handle it,” he mutters. “You go out the back, call Nelson or Walker or somebody, get the hell out of here. I’ve still got the tape so you’ll still get what you need, I promise. I can take care of—“

“What?”

Karen’s voice interrupts the speech that he has memorized all too well, and he short circuits. Feels his hands squeeze her shoulders in place of a question. Watches her shuffle in place, shift her weight to her hip. He’s not prepared for this. This doesn’t usually happen.

She’s got her eyebrows raised, shoulders squared under his hands. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. He can’t focus when she’s looking at him like that. Can barely focus when she’s looking at him at all.

“Red door down the hall takes you out the back,” he sputters. Now was not the time for thought-out tactical plans. “I’ll get you what you need. You just get out.”

He’s not sure exactly how he’ll manage that, but he will. It’s the least he could do, in return for everything she’s--

“Frank, I’m not leaving.”

He can feel Karen’s enunciation down to his bones. It rattles her shoulders and moves the curtains that swirl around them, an energy not even Red could match if he tried. It’s an energy that speaks to the reason she’s good at her job, why and how she gets herself into situations like this, cramped in a tiny dressing room in a swingers’ club well past midnight when she could very well be at home, safe and secure without a second though otherwise. It’s an energy Frank knows all too well.

Here she is, looking as much like a scared rabbit as Frank’s ever seen, and Karen chooses now to be stubborn.

“You kiddin’ me?”

His arms flop down at his sides, and the air stings his palms where they’d touched Karen’s shoulders. She’s looking straight at him now, and that’s all he can focus on - the stinging and her eyes. Both of which flare when she shrugs.

“No, I don’t think I am,” she replies. “I don’t think “coercion via the Punisher” is a printable source. It’s my responsibility to get this information, and if takes going a little out of my comfort zone, then I’m more than willing to—“

“The guy wants you to strip down and have sex with him, and you call that your responsibility?”

It seems like an applicable moment to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, had he not broken it less than a week earlier. His definition of “responsibility” might be more muddled than the average New Yorker’s, but being propositioned for a threeway in exchange for information is certainly not in his dictionary.

“He included you in the offer too,” Karen protests, “And I’m pretty sure I just heard you say ‘I’ll handle it’.”

“Not by playing into whatever fucked up fantasy he’s got in mind!”

He might as well have pulled the pistol out of his waistband for all the good his words did. They ricochet off the walls like stray bullets, and he can see them lodge into Karen, though the way she rolls her shoulders and stands all that much straighter proves that she’s not in any mood to back down. She never is, and he knows it. Anyone who assumes otherwise is in for the shock of their life.

Being around Karen is like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, and Frank is a curious kid who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

“How badly do you need him to squeal?”

He chooses the sentence carefully, measuring his words as though they can remedy the situation all on their own. He’s not good with that, figuring out what to say. Actions speak louder than words, he’d always believed that, but this is Karen’s show. Karen’s livelihood. A livelihood she’d built on words alone.

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Enough that I’m willing to stay,” she says. “Frank, this story could wipe out a whole new generation of Kitchen Irish before they even get started. If I get this guy to talk, they’d be busted wide open within the week. Maybe sooner.”

“Same thing could happen to your head if you say the wrong thing.”

“I’m a journalist, Frank.” Karen squirms under his gaze, but doesn’t falter. “Saying the right thing is what I get paid to do.”

But you shouldn’t have to.

That’s what Frank wants to say. Wants to blurt it so loudly that the shit-for-brains in the next room can hear him loud and clear. Wants an excuse to bust them out of there, to avoid this situation entirely rather than subject himself to the burning gaze of this woman who doesn't know when to quit. He wants to shake some sense into Karen’s head, despite the fact that she’s about the only sensible person left in his life.

“I emptied a clip on a man,” she says. Her words are measured, careful. “I think I can handle...that.”

It suddenly feels like there’s not enough air in the room for both of them to breathe.

“Fine.”

Frank can’t tell if she’s being entirely serious, or if this is another facet to the facade she’s put on tonight - whether her bravery is manufactured entirely because she’s too persistent to walk away from a story unfinished. The room feels like it’s running circles around him, and he’s too dizzy to fight.

“You want it?” His voice is harder now, sharper. “Let’s go in there and get it.”

It’s not quite the Punisher persona she’s used to - it’s a little frayed around the edges, askew from being out of place - but Karen recognizes an irritated Frank when she sees one.

“I can do it by myself,” she sighs. Frank isn’t convinced - not when there’s half an army on the other side of the door and a creep who’ll undoubtedly take advantage of her the moment he turns his back.

“Like you said,” he replies, “he said both of us.”

Karen frowns.

“You’re really going to go in there and do this just to get me to admit that I’m wrong?”

“Could do worse.”

His shoulders are too heavy with the weight of their predicament to really make his shrug convincing, but he does it anyway. Tries his hardest to look nonchalant, despite the fact that his dominant hand still burns - this time for something a bit more significant than the air it’s currently grasping at.

“Too much longer in here and they’re going to get suspicious,” he offers. “Either we do this or we don’t. Your pick.”

He’s offering her an ultimatum. Karen fucking hates those.

“I do the talking.”

It’s the only thing she says while she’s shrugging off her jacket, loosening the top button on the starched, Wednesday Addams-looking blouse she’s got on. It’s the only confirmation Frank gets to shirk his own hoodie (how he’s going to finesse hiding the wire he’s wearing, he doesn’t know), before she slips out of the dressing room and back into the parlor, where Redhead Dr. No has shirked his own suit jacket, and the armed gorillas have all but disappeared.

He can’t tell if the feeling in the pit of his stomach is regret, but it certainly makes him nauseous all the same.

If it’s at all possible to have dimmed the already barely-lit lights of the parlor, that’s what they’d done in the time it’s taken he and Karen to argue their way into this mess. He can see the room for what it really is now that he’s removed the rose-colored glasses of playing along with Karen’s scheme: the way the room is laid out, with larger-than-usual couches, designed with open slats for things Frank didn’t even want to begin to think about. The fact that, despite being part of a much larger complex of rooms, there are no doors leading anywhere except the small antechamber, and no windows either. All that’s missing is some shitty Careless Whisper saxophone playing in the background, and even Frank wouldn’t do that song that much of a disservice.

“Ah, the lovebirds return.”

The phrase lovebirds makes the hair on Frank’s neck stand on end, but he beats the impulse to stir like a startled cat down just enough as their host approaches, clearly more keen than when they’d been whisked away. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, and Frank’s fairly certain he can see rope burns up and down the lengths of his arms - fresh enough that they might not even be a day old.

That is what makes him startle.

“It’s club policy for couples to...initiate proceedings,” their host says, with an eagerness that makes Frank want to beat it out of him. “To ensure all parties have a comfortable evening. Unless, of course, you’d like to…?”

“No, I think we’re fine.”

Karen’s face is red as she replies - not the kind of red it gets when she’s angry, but a brighter kind. It makes her look gaunt.

“No sense breaking the rules our first time ‘round, huh?”

The man smiles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Very well,” he sneers. “I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Whenever you’re ready.

The dealer’s voice is laced with the chill of dry ice, and that fact doesn’t escape Frank. This isn’t some jaunty weekend experiment, where consent is key and anybody who isn’t comfortable can bounce when they want to. This is payment, and he expects his full share, whether they like they like it or not.

That’s the thought that ruminates in Frank’s head as the dealer fiddles with the buttons on his perfectly-starched shirt, and Karen moves into his space enough that his vision is enveloped by her. That’s the thought as she steps in close, close enough that they can share the same breath, and that’s the thought as he considers the fact that nothing on Earth could possibly be more humiliating than this. The thought of touching and being touched in ways that don’t bear thinking about is worse than any embarrassment he’s ever suffered. Worse than any hazing his Marine buddies ever put him through, worse than any and every time he’s said something stupid and gotten himself landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. He feels stripped bare, down to the bone, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothing yet.

But for a moment, he looks at Karen, and thinks of the way his hands burned when he touched her, and a part of him thinks, Maybe if we spin this, we can get out mostly unscathed. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Not with Karen. He thinks that, of all the people he could end up stuck here with, at least it’s her. Their foreheads are touching, and he can feel Karen skate her own hands down his arms until she’s gripping his. At this distance, he could reach out and--

But then another part of him remembers Maria, remembers that he can’t recall the last time he used those hands to do anything but cause hurt. He remembers everything he buries deep inside, under layers of Kevlar and firearms and a voice so gravelly no one could ever think that it had ever belonged to a father. He remembers all the reasons why Karen shouldn’t trust him anywhere near her, and the situation morphs, molds itself into something that could only be a disaster, could only end with both of them hurt in a way that no stitches or antiseptics or trauma nurses could ever fix. It’s inescapable, and it’s all his--

“It’s the red door, right?”

Karen’s voice is a whisper, barely audible even when she leans in close (too close, too close, she’ll get hurt); it’s easily misconstrued as sexy, but really, it’s a well-practiced way of communicating in crisis, and Frank can hear the wobble in it even as she breathes.

He nods just enough that she can feel it, without looking like he’s doing anything but...well, setting the mood. Karen nods too, and he’s sure the both of them look fidgety - like nervous first-timers, not sure how to proceed. And it isn’t far from the truth - Frank’s got no idea how he’s going to proceed from here, but he’s nothing if not good at improvising.

“I, ah...think you should take charge.”

This she says at full volume, loud enough that their partner can hear. Like she said - she knows when to say the right thing.

And Frank knows enough about the fear on her face that his pistol’s out of his pocket before she can blink back tears.

And when he blows them out of there, it isn’t a euphemism.

_________

The sun is peeking out over the horizon line by the time the two of them stumble down the sidewalk to Karen’s walk-up. It plays peekaboo with them, reminding them that they've survived to see another day as Frank watches Karen digs for her keys in her purse. It’s stopped raining now, though the air is still muggy with its aftereffects, and they walk slowly as they approach the stairs to her building. She’s got cuts in three places on her face, and he’s got at least one broken rib, but they’re out. They’re safe.

She’s safe.

Her hands are still shaking though, vibrating ever so slightly as she attempts to find the right key to get them into the building. The ring jingles like an out-of-tune band, and Frank can see the frustrated, tired tears in her eyes as they slip out of her hand and onto the ground.

“Let me.”

He stoops before she can and dutifully ignores every protest from his tired, overworked muscles as he picks the bundle of metal up from the ground. They chime their high-pitched tune as he does, muffled by the size of his hand compared to Karen’s, like wind chimes in a distant open window. She doesn’t look at him - won’t look at him, maybe - as he straightens his back, but she can’t hide her frenetic blinking from him as he does. He doesn’t blame her. This is the longest night either of them has had in years.

He’s never sure how to fill long silences between them. He’s a man of few words, always has been, and the idea of saying anything when his entire body wants to shut down is beyond his area of comprehension right now. Is he supposed to hug her? Pat her on the back, tell her it’s alright after she watched him (not for the first time) eviscerate a handful of human beings like it’s nothing? Nothing he could possibly say can erase that. Erase everything else he’s ever done to her, every layer of hell she’s been dragged through and back out again. Silence feels like the only appropriate response, the only way to avoid dragging her through anything else.

She’s the first to speak up, naturally. Her voice comes out soft, a quiet monotone Frank suspects she uses to disguise the fact that she’s choking back a night’s worth of emotions all at once.

“Thanks.” She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t move to wipe away tears, doesn’t hide behind the high collar of her jacket to avoid him. “Do you want to…?”

She hesitates, and Frank can nearly hear her backtracking in her head as her sentence drops off. The missing word hangs in the air, heavy and loud despite the fact that it never leaves Karen’s mouth.

Stay.

“I’ll be up working on this damn thing to make the deadline.” She shrugs, as though overnight shootouts and going thirty-six hours without sleep are a regular part of anyone’s workday. The laugh that comes with it is watery. “Might as well have some company.”

The scoff that escapes Frank’s mouth isn’t entirely intentional, but it isn’t accidental either. He can feel the bruised muscles in his face sting as he lets the sound ring, ducking his head to fiddle with the glittering skull trinket she keeps on her key ring.

“Almost get your head blown off and you’re worried about a deadline,” he mutters. “Should be resting.”

“So should you. And I know for a fact you won’t sleep a wink.”

Karen shrugs, reaching a hand out for her keys. Frank obliges, and there’s something of a smile on his face when he does. The little skull glints in the light of the streetlamp, a sly reminder of just what kind of a mess she’d gotten herself involved with.

“I started this story,” she asserts, “And now I'm obligated to finish it. Just like any job.”

“You think you’re gonna be able to get anything outta that wire?”

“I’ll have to,” she says. “If not, I’ll pester Turk, see what else he can get me. Maybe do a ridealong or something. I know what’s there. We saw it. I just need proof.”

Frank laughs then. Not maliciously - not really intentionally, either. It just spills out, a soft, short bark of a thing that sounds off coming from him. Frank Castle doesn’t laugh, much less like that. It’s like interference on a radio; a negative side effect of pushing the wrong button or adjusting the wrong lever. The AM channel no one ever wants to use.

“Y’know,” he huffs, “I wonder if you don’t know when to let something die.”

It’s not that he doesn’t think before he speaks - Frank’s a smart man, he knows what happens when someone backs Karen Page into a corner. He’s seen it, from the moment she shoved that photo of his family in his face while he was chained helpless to a hospital bed, and he respects it. She’s a force to be reckoned with, a hurricane of immense proportions that doesn’t give a shit who you are or how much power you say you have if you’re in the way of the truth. Karen Page is not someone to be taken lightly.

But she’s more than that. She’s also a human being, a woman with a life, friends, family that cares about her. She’s got more than blood on her hands and a legacy so stained she can’t even use the name her family thought to give her when she was born. She’s better than that, better than this ugly, misshapen world they’ve both found themselves in whether they like it or not. She’s the best goddamn thing to happen to New York - hell, the country, probably - since god knows what, and to lose her to the storm of her own determination is something that Frank thinks might snap a lot of people clean in two.

Himself included.

He knows he’s said the wrong thing, knows he’s pushed that button of hers that makes her cheeks flare red and her voice hike up a few notches. He can tell as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as soon as she bunches her keys up in her fist in a way that’s got to hurt as she finally looks him in the eyes.

“Oh, you mean the hundreds of people that would die because I put myself over the truth?” She spits the words out like they’re shitty vodka from Josie’s, like if she kept them in she’d explode. “What am I supposed to do, just let this fall by the wayside? Tell Ellison I need him to switch me to the lifestyle section this week? I can’t just let it go. That’s not how this works.”

A part of Frank knows she’s right - knows that this shit won’t stop until the world can see the man behind the curtain - but a bigger part of him, the stubborn, protective part of him that he can never quite seem to fight down, can’t live with the idea of danger knocking at Karen’s door.

“You could’ve been killed before the truth ever got out!” He doesn’t mean to be as loud as he is, but that hidden part of him doesn’t like the quiet. “You really want to do that again? You want to put a gun to your own head like that?”

“I was hardly in danger of anything except hurting my own pride and you know that. I just let myself get scared.”

Frank can see her flex her hand where her keys are digging into her palm, but she doesn’t relent. She doesn’t look angry, but he can see the way her jaw clenches to fight back another round of frustrated tears threatening to spill over. He can see how tense she is, how close her shoulders are to touching her ears. She’s got every hallmark of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but she refuses to move an inch.

“Don’t make this about my safety, Frank,” she says. “You can’t keep mothering me like this. I can handle myself.”

She stares at him like she bore a hole directly to his soul, and Frank’s skin burns when she looks at him like that. Not like fire, but like acid. Corrosive, stinging, sizzling. It’s a burning that seeps through his clothes, plasters them to his body so nothing he does can serve as escape. It’s the worst in his hands - pins and needles that suddenly makes that “reach out and touch faith” song make more sense. He feels the stinging down to his bones, and sometimes he wonders whether he’s just a skeletal ghost floating around anymore. Whether the rest of him matches the skull crudely painted on a vest in his closet.

No, it’s not like fire. Fire would be too easy, too instant. One splash of water and it’s out, wiped from body and from memory. It burns brightly but shortly, in and out of someone’s life with almost no passing thought beyond treating the wounds left behind. Fire is an easy solution. Fire doesn’t come from people who matter.

No, the burning Frank feels isn’t fire, because Karen Page never does things the easy way.

“‘M sorry,” he says, conceding another in a long list of arguments that neither of them would ever be able to win. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do to stop the burning. Isn’t sure if he wants to stop it. “Just didn’t—I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“Didn’t want what to…”

Her sentence drifts off before she can finish it, and he can’t be sure whether she understood what he was referring to. Her fists clench and unclench, and the burning worsens when she looks at him like she’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Frank, come on.” Her voice is tired - the groan of someone who’s been through far too much, far too soon. “You’re bleeding. I’m tired. Let’s just go up, and you can crash on the couch and we’ll talk about this—“

In the morning. Later. After. That’s always how it goes. Let things settle. Let them rest. Let the blood flow out of things, let the venom run its course. Take the rose-colored glasses off and let reality settle back in before anyone does something dumb. Karen wants an after for him, she’s said as much. She wants him to be able to walk out, as unscathed as a man with blood on his hands can ever manage to be.

What she doesn’t realize is that his after is already standing right in front of him.

Which is his only explanation for why his hand shoots out and closes around her arm like he’s pulling her away from some invisible danger. It’s the only explanation for the way he spins her like a top, until they’re close enough that he can see her eyes dilate in surprise. It’s the only explanation for the way he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, a feral animal broken free and running down the streets of Brooklyn with wild abandon.

It’s the only explanation for the way that he kisses her on her front stoop for God, the early morning garbagemen, and the rest of the modern world to see.

Karen Page, he realizes, is everything good left in the world. She is sun after a thunderstorm and a comfortable bed after a long day. She’s raucous laughter at a terrible joke, the kindness of a stranger when you need it most. She’s good friends and fond memories and the ridiculous way she dances to Lady Gaga whenever she finishes a piece that gives her trouble. She’s the beers they share on her fire escape after weeks away and the tight feeling he gets in his chest every time someone asks what the hell he’s still fighting so hard for. She’s everything he thought he’d given up the right to have a long time ago, and she’s everything he fights to keep.

Pulling away from her is painful. More painful than any gunshot, any gut punch, any knife wound he’s ever received. Pulling away from Karen is like pulling the skin from his bones, the air from his lungs. It’s like the burning he feels, only a million times worse. A million hot pokers on his skin, burning away anything that makes him who he is and leaving nothing but a shell, cradling this stubborn, beautiful, terrifyingly intelligent woman in its arms.

All that’s left is her. All that matters is her.

Her eyes are closed when he finally moves far enough away to see her face in full. For a moment, he panics, terrified -- too close, too close, fuck, did I make her cry again? -- but then she’s opening them, something he thinks might be glee or absolute horror written on her face. He can’t tell which is which, so he improvises.

“Didn’t want to do that in front of the Irish.”

Karen’s pupils are still dilated, and the glee-horror-something-else-maybe morphs. Becomes a little clearer.

“Oh.”

It sounds less like surprise and more like a smug question. He shrugs. He’s still got a hand at the small of her back.

“Didn’t want them to get a chance at it either.”

Now he sounds smug. The garbagemen can definitely see them now. He’s not sure he cares.

“Mmm.” Karen doesn’t bother to move. Doesn’t bother to separate herself from him. “Kinda glad about that.”

Frank quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” She fiddles with her keyring. Glances at the tiny skull. Jams the whole thing in her pocket. “‘Cause you kinda just ruined it for me for the rest of my life.”

“What, the saving your life or the kissing?”

“Both.”

She taps his chest with her newly free hand, and the spaces that have been hollow there since the park feel just that much fuller. Just enough to ease the ache.

“But mostly the latter.”

Frank can’t even remember what the latter is, but Karen’s kissing him again and that’s all that matters. This moment, on this grimy doorstep, with her hands bunched in his coat and his wrapped around her back.

So this is what it means to finally have an after.

#do i know how to tag this? absolutely the fuck not.#the punisher fic #punisherff #kastlenetwork #kastleff #my work #maggie.txt #karen page x frank castle #the punisher

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