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sommerregenjuniluft · 1 month

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@jegulus-microfic march 25 - eyeliner - 2341 words

<33 of losing babies and chance meetings in hawaii

Regulus rubs at his eyes, smudging the remains of eyeliner from the previous evening probably only more.

It’s been a wild night out given that Regulus found himself the only one out of his friend group appearing down for breakfast at the hotel’s buffet. He went for a classic hangover comfort food, coffee with beans and toast and while he longed for the sausages and eggs and fruit and frozen joghurt Regulus isn’t fool enough to think he would have been able to keep all of that down.

Sleep is already tugging at the corners of his mind again when he presses the elevator button to bring him back up to his hotel room to doze away another few more hours. There’s a nice breeze coming in from the double doors leading out to the pool and Regulus leans against the cooling marble of the wall, eyes closed, soaking it all in.

It’s been Pandora’s idea, to get the five of them out for a few days over easter, away from home. From work and family—not that the latter was much of Regulus’ concern—and Regulus must admit that this one is definitely one of her better experiments.

The elevator doors ding and Regulus blinks open his eyes and steps forward only to come to an immediate halt because—

Because there’s a baby in the lift.

Just– all by itself.

Sitting in its buggy. Completely at ease.

Alone.

No like…parent or guardian inside.

What appears to be a small boy with the wildest sort of curly, black hair Regulus has ever seen sits in his seat, one spiderman sock barely hanging onto his toes, chewing away on a toy in his lap and gazing with big, intensely green eyes up at Regulus.

“Uh, hi there, baby,” Regulus says. He sets a foot onto the threshold to keep the doors open and bends down, “Where’s your family, buddy?”

The kid suddenly throws his little body back into the padding of his buggy with a blinding grin and a screech of what Regulus assumes to be ecstatic elation, “Pafoo!”

“Bless you, mate,” Regulus replies politely.

The little boy reaches his hands out to Regulus, “Out!”

And, well, the little bugger might be onto something here because as of right now Regulus must look like a right nutter talking to the inside of an elevator and if the little one’s parents are going to try and find him they’ll probably start at the elevator areas on each floor.

So Regulus gets the small kid out of the elevator and wheels him over to where a set of dark leather sofas and armchairs are gathered opposite the elevator doors.

When Regulus sits down across from the little boy he giggles, happy as ever, as if nothing was amiss.

Well, at least the one time Regulus finds a lost baby it’s a happy one. Lucky draw, he thinks.

The boy is back to chewing on the little rubber ring again and Regulus eyes him curiously, chin propped on his fist. The boy’s skin is a warm brown, similar to Evan’s and Pandora’s and there’s a faint layer of freckles dotting his nose—just like it will happen to Regulus after a few more days out under the Hawaiian sunshine. There’s a small patch of drool on his yellow shirt but he looks clean otherwise.

After another moment of inner contemplation Regulus finally reaches out and tugs the sock back into place.

The boy snickers, wiggling his foot and Regulus finds his lips tugging at the corners.

“Pafoo, out!” the boy repeats again.

Regulus frowns, “Yeah, mate, I already got us off the elevator.”

The little boy keeps squirming in his seat.

“Oh,” Regulus makes when it dawns on him, “Oh, out. Er– yes, sure, hold on.”

He scoots forward on the leather to inspect the little belt trapping the boy in his seat. Eventually Regulus finds the lock, figures out the mechanism and untangles the boy from his buggy. Before he has the chance to freeze and wonder if the boy is even old enough to be able to walk yet there are small, chubby arms reaching out to him and tangling around his neck.

“Oh, okay,” Regulus blinks, feeling his tiny body warm where it’s pressed into his chest, “Um, okay, I’m– okay, uh. Hi.”

The boy pulls back from the crook of Regulus’ neck, smiling brightly. “Hi,” he replies, sweet as sugar and waving a hand at him. Regulus’ heart does not melt.

Regulus’ eyes however clock the small bracelet on the boy’s wrist, donned with little letters spelling out the name Harry.

“Harry, huh?” he asks. “My name is Regulus.”

Harry makes another one of his loud, elated noises, “Pafoo!”

“Nah, mate, Re-gu-lus.”

“Pafoo,” Harry grins.

“Fine,” Regulus sniffs, “I guess I shouldn’t expect too much from a one or two year old.”

Harry giggles again, nose scrunching adorably and hiccuping little laughs into Regulus’ shoulder.

If Regulus had ovaries he’s pretty sure they would be actively doing something right now which– is decidedly a disturbing thought to have. In a manner of trying to distract himself Regulus looks around, gaze landing on the socks once more.

“So what’s your favourite Spiderman movie, Harry?”

“Spidey!”

“Yes, which one?”

“Pafoo.”

“Mine’s probably the one with Andrew Garfield.”

“Mo!” Harry yells suddenly, pointing back at his buggy.

“Mo?” Regulus asks, confused.

“Mo,” Harry makes again, knocking his tiny, loosely curled fists against each other.

That’s when the clarity washes over Regulus, lips dropping open with a silent oh of understanding. It’s sign language for more.

He’s seen young parents teach their babies sign language for easier communication and with Dorcas being hard of hearing Regulus and his friends obviously have taken on learning a whole lot as well. The basics are as easy for Regulus as English and French are by now.

“More of what?” Regulus asks, doing the according signs.

“Tea!” Harry responds, smiling brightly, clearly happy with being understood.

Regulus kicks at the buggy to turn it and then fishes a sippy cup out of the holder next to the handles.

Harry slurps away at his cold tea content and does the little gulp ahh thing small kids do when they exhale once they’re done drinking.

Regulus does not think about adopting a baby.

“Harry!” someone calls from the end of the hall suddenly and may the gods stand by because the person running over is undoubtedly the most handsome man Regulus has ever seen.

The small boy in Regulus arms is literally a carbon copy what with the wild, black hair, the dark skin and the bright smile.

“Dada!” Harry yells, as if it wasn’t clear as day that they share the same DNA.

Regulus’ hands start sweating where they’re still around Harry’s now wiggling body, watching the young man rush over.

“Oh, god, thank you thank you,” the stranger chants, carefully lifting Harry out of Regulus’ hands, “Hi, baby, hi. Daddy’s here. Oh, holy fuck.”

Regulus snorts a little at the crude language but, alas, Harry is probably too young to remember anyways.

He gives them their little moment of embracing, fighting against the restless squirming in his stomach, the thing scratching at the inside of his walls demanding to find out everything about the cute boy’s father.

Once the young father has got enough squeeze time and Harry starts trying to wiggle free, he lets out another string of curses, this time Spanish, and Regulus barely refrains from whimpering.

He has to trap another one behind his teeth when the man finally, actually glances at him, relief clear on his features, laughing breathlessly and chocolate brown eyes glinting happily and with ebbing nerves.

“Thank you, I’m–” the handsome stranger blinks a little, mouth working uselessly before he slips back into a lopsided grin, “Hi, I’m James, you- wow, hello, uh– thank you, um, for Harry. I’m so glad he’s okay, I’m James– by the way. And you are? Aside from my gorgeous knight in shining armour.”

Regulus cocks a brow, hands on his naked hips right above the elastic of his short running pants and below his cropped, black shirt with pink letters saying those are bold words for someone in stabbing range. It was a Christmas present from his friends and the first thing he saw after rolling out of bed with a hangover this morning, sue him.

“No problem, he’s a little sunshine,” Regulus replies, gazing at Harry where he’s fiddling with James’ necklace, “I’m Regulus.”

“Wait,” James says, jaw dropping, “Your name is—”

“James!” it comes from the other side of the hall, followed by another rush of footsteps and Regulus turns to see two more men jogging over to them. One of them being—

“Jesus, fuck, I’m so glad you found him,” Sirius says, eyes fixated on James and Harry.

Sirius, as in, Regulus’ older brother Sirius.

Sirius, as in, Regulus’ older brother that he hasn’t seen in four years.

Sirius with his long-ish hair falling down to his armpits now in long, soft curls. Sirius with his arms full of tattoos and wearing red bootie shorts and having pierced nipples and Sirius with pink cheeks and a relieved look on his face and Sirius having his fingers interlaced with another man’s.

Sirius blowing out another breath as he strokes the little boy’s cheek carefully, “Where’d you find h—”

Sirius that swivels and looks right at Regulus standing dumbfounded in a random hotel lobby on fucking Hawaii.

“Regulus.”

“Sirius.”

“I– what are you doing here?”

Regulus narrows his eyes, “I found Harry.”

“You what?”

“Are you deaf?” Regulus shoots back, “I found your friend’s baby.”

Sirius’ mouth drops open, “Excuse me, that is my godson.”

Regulus slips into a frown, suddenly and stupidly feeling a bit possessive over the little kid that is clearly taken with him but apparently supposed to be his older brother’s godson.

He sniffs, crossing his arms, “Well, you’re clearly not doing your job well seeing as you’ve lost him. Also he called me his Pafoo.”

Regulus expects Sirius to volley back another insult, a counter-argument or something of the likes but instead he lets the loudest, most dramatic gasp rip from his throat.

“Oh God,” James mumbles, blanching but failing to keep his lips from twitching.

The man next to Sirius looks just as conflicted, instantly cooing into Sirius’ ear soothingly and rubbing his shoulder as this one whimpers like a wounded dog.

“What?” Regulus asks, looking at James.

The handsome father winces with a badly concealed grin before he ducks close, murmuring, “It’s Padfoot. That’s what we call Sirius, it’s sorta his nickname.”

Regulus can’t help it, the gleeful laugh bubbles right out of him. He could kiss little Harry right now.

“No!” Sirius wails, letting himself fall back into the lanky, taller man’s arms. “Betrayal!”

“Come now, Pads, he’s 18 months old,” the third man says soothingly.

“Remus is right,” James concurs, “Harry doesn’t even know my mum from our neighbour most times.”

“Effie doesn’t live with you,” Sirius cries out.

Regulus thinks there might actually be tears forming in his eyes.

“And neither do you,” James says pointedly, “You’re across the hall and you work full time, might I remind you. You’re over maybe four times a week.”

“Five! At least!”

“Sirius, darling, please stop yelling,” Remus mutters, glancing at a passing old couple with a wobbly smile.

Regulus grins, “No, please keep going, this is the highlight of my vacation so far.”

There’s a poke in his naked side and when Regulus looks over James is giving him a playful scolding glare.

Regulus digs his teeth into his lower lip, voice purposefully innocent, “What?”

“Don’t be a tease,” James chides but it sorta loses the edge with how wide he’s smiling.

“Or else?” Regulus counters.

James hums, giving Regulus a once over before clearing his throat, looking back at his friend, “Here, Moons, can you take Harry for a second?”

Sirius makes an affronted noise, looking downright stricken and he quickly takes Remus’ outstretched hands, pulling, what is presumably his boyfriend, out of reach for James. “Two Potters in one day!? Prongs, are you trying to kill me?”

James sighs, pulling Harry back against his hip which then decides to reach out his hands to Sirius, “Pafoo.”

��That’s right,” Sirius sniffs, crossing the distance and ripping Harry from James’ hold, “I love you, little stinker. You’ll get it with time, I know you will. You’re such a smart boy, Hazza.”

Harry immediately starts playing with the thin braids in Sirius’ hair and his brother swivels to level Regulus with a triumphant smirk.

“Whatever,” Regulus says, crossing his arms again.

But before jealousy, no matter over whom, can spread itself in Regulus’ chest, Sirius is stepping closer.

Regulus is certain their flip flops nearly touch and Sirius is staring at him intensely with the same eyes he sees in the mirror every day, and it makes him swallow. The freckle over Sirius’ mouth is just the same as four years ago, as is the one on Regulus’ temple.

“There’s a baby swimming lesson at the pool I wanted to attend with Harry later at 2,” Sirius says, voice husky, “Care to join?”

Regulus was supposed to meet the others back in Barty and Evan’s room at 3 but they’re probably passed out until then anyways. “I think I can make some time,” he replies airily.

Sirius blows out a heavy breath through his nose, before slipping into a grin, “Good.”

“Good,” Regulus mimics.

“I bet Harry floats better than you,” Sirius taunts, “Do you still sink like a stone?”

“It’s amazing how much of a talent you still possess for making me regret things,” Regulus snips back.

Sirius bumps their shoulder together, making Harry giggle and Regulus purses his lips in an effort to hide his smile.

And then James is there on the other side of him, taking Harry back from Sirius and smiling sweetly down at Regulus and for some reason his cheeks feel a little warmer suddenly.

—

[also for personal reasons i need everyone to know these were the booty shorts sirius was wearing]

#dad james potter #i'm rewatching modern family and mitch and cam lost lily in an elevator on hawaii so now we have this #jegulus #jegulus microfic #starchaser #sunseeker #wolfstar #baby harry potter #toddler harry potter #lune writes #lune’s tiny fic #regulus black #james potter #black brothers #sirius black

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avaarctic · 5 months

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"Tangle & Whisper: New Roads" Issue #2 Part 4

We're finally back! Things are finally becoming clearer for our famous ShyAwoo and Lemur, and things are going to be getting interesting!!!

After a slight delay, Part 4 of "New Roads" is here~! We've recently brought on GabsSam as a secondary Penciler, which has let us work much faster now! Part 5 is already well into development now too!

Hope you all enjoy some of the Easter Eggs we threw in!

#tangle and whisper #tangle the lemur #whisperthewolf #whispangle #sally acorn #nicole the hololynx #bunnie rabbot #Egg Legion #sonic fan comic #wispons

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got-pucks · 9 months

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hiding in plain sight || jamie drysdale

summary: in which meeting the parents turns into a realization that he was hiding in plain sight all this time

Inspired by "the glue song (ft. clairo)" by beabadoobee

I've never known someone like you Tangled in love, stuck by you from the glue Don't forget to kiss me or else you'll have to miss me I guess I'm stuck forever by the glue, oh, and you

You've been hiding in plain sight, and it appeared, oh I know Loving you once only feels wrong, I need you I always knew I'd find you, to be here is worth the wait to I'm not lying when I say, "I've been stuck by the glue onto you"

Music played quietly as you stared out the window, watching the scenery pass. The sky was painted with hues of blue, pink, and orange. It was evening and the sun was setting, meaning it was close to dinnertime and you were getting closer to Jamie’s childhood home. The well-anticipated meet-the-parents date had arrived, if you could even call it a date.

Funny enough, you and Jamie grew up in neighboring towns, living only 15 minutes between each other’s homes. You had met through mutual friends and hit it off pretty quickly, discovering you had similar interests, hobbies, and places to visit when at home.

“You seem awfully quiet over there,” Jamie’s words broke you out of your trance. Your face felt a sudden rush of warmth as he spoke up again, “You know you have nothing to be nervous about, right? My parents will adore you.”

Jamie reached his hand over the center console and encompassed your own, giving you the reassurance that you needed. “You know, I don’t think that I have ever known someone quite like you, Jamie,” you express, looking over at him, “It feels like we’ve known each other for a lifetime when in reality it’s only been a few months. You’re just so special and I don’t know what I would ever do if I lost you”

Jamie blushes, lifting your intertwined hands to his mouth to press a kiss into the back of your hand. He let out a soft giggle exclaiming that he doesn’t think that would ever be a possibility.

It turns out that Jamie’s reassuring words were correct, his parents loved you. The minute the door opened they welcomed you with open arms.

After dinner was over, you found yourself sitting in the living room. All sorts of home videotapes were sprawled on the floor as one played on the TV. The one on the TV showed a young Jamie at a community-organized Easter egg hunt. He was showing the camera the candy in the egg he just found. However, something in the background caught your attention.

There, you saw yourself with one of your parents running around looking for eggs.

“Wait a minute, I think that might be me in the background,” you exclaimed in disbelief.

Jamie hummed at your claim, “Well I mean we did grow up right by each other. It wouldn’t be too crazy that we would have gone to similar community events.”

As other tapes played on the TV, and when the childhood photos were brought out, you found more and more of yourself in parts of each others’ childhood events. Birthday parties, other community celebrations, preschool photos.

It turns out, you and Jamie were hiding in plain sight all this time, and it was most definitely worth the wait.

#mine!#jamie drysdale x you #jamie drysdale imagine #jamie drysdale x reader #jamie drysdale #jamie drysdale fic #nhl fanfic #nhl blurb #nhl imagine #jamie drysdale blurb #jamie drysdale masterlist #anaheim ducks #jamie drysdale fanfiction #anaheim ducks imagines #im so in love with this boy <3

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wehaveimagineshere · 3 months

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Hello there, Ren! I absolutely fell in love with your Carlos fic, so I'm here to ask for another one! The prompt I was thinking of is Carlos' s/o (gn preferably) comforting him through PTSD symptoms like a recurring nightmare or a flashback (cuz his backstory is insanely traumatic + the whole RC incident is bound to mess someone up). He's such a sweet guy who deserves more love, and I love the way you write him. I'll definitely be back for more from time to time. You both have a nice day!

Hi Anon! Thank you so much! <3 Carlos deserves so much love and I got so excited seeing another request for him! Yes, please, come back as often as those ideas hit! I can't wait to see you again (:

I hope you have a good day too! And a good week, cause you definitely made mine!

~*~*~

People never quite understand how suddenly things can change.

Movies have a build up, an obvious path from "here" to "there." The little easter eggs, the little foreshadowing, the description on the back of the case. But real life is never so simple.

A five year old could never understand why his mother pulls him from his bed in the middle of the night, tears streaming down her face. Her hushed but frantic whispering that everything would be alright as the door smashes open and hands drag both of them out into the living room.

The men, unfamiliar and smelling of sweat and blood, are just hazy silhouettes in his memories now, in his dreams. Silver moonlight glinting off their guns, mechanisms he'd glimpsed once in his older brother's hands but not knowing the name for at the time, pierce through the dark as more figures drag out the rest of his family.

As they drag out his older brother, who won't go down without a fight.

His dreams can never decide exactly how long that fight lasts. Seconds or minutes, all he knows is the blur of fists, the laughing and tauntings of the strange men, the screaming and pleading of his mother, and that one gunshot.

The gunshot that silences his mother as she wraps her body around his, as if she can hide him from the present, from the pain and confusion it'll bring. She can't cover his ears, though, as the wet thud of his lifeless brother hits the floor.

As the man with the gun aims it at his mother, quiet, dark words spitting from his mouth before he leaves, taking his gang with him.

His mother rocks, his small frame rocking with her, as she sobs into his torn and dirty shirt. As she mutters that signature "It's okay, we'll be okay," her fingers threading through his hair in an attempt to soothe.

A five year old child cannot comprehend death, killing, so he doesn't know to not look. To not peek through the curtain of his mother's hair to the heap on the floor. He doesn't understand why his brother doesn't move, why he--

But he does. It starts with a twitch of the fingers, then a spasm in the arms. Bracing his arms underneath him, his brother jerkily lifts himself up, saliva and blood dripping from his lips. And when he looks up...

It's the eyes of the dead. Milky white, skin ashen and sickly. He knows, then. Some deep, primal part of him knows that he's staring at his reaper, that his mother has no idea their deaths will come in the form of her own son, brought back by the devil himself.

His brother lunges, and he can do nothing as his mother screams, ripped away from him as blood spurts and bodies writhe as she tries to get away, as his brother clamps on with inhuman strength, teeth deep in her throat--

Carlos jerks away, air sawing into his lungs as his eyes dart about. Muscles tight, unsure if he should move or stay, he swings his head--

"Hey," comes a soft whisper. "You're alright, Carlos. You're okay."

"It'll be alright, little Carlos, we'll be okay."

Moving to stand but finding them bound, his shaking hands start yanking at the bindings.

"Carlos. Sweetie. You're in bed. You got tangled up in the blankets. You're okay. You're safe."

"Sweet little Carlos, mommy will protect you, it'll be okay."

The ripping of fabric finally makes him pause, heart slamming against his ribcage.

"Carlos. It was a dream. Just a dream. We're in bed, the doors are locked, it's just you and me."

Curling in on himself, he tries to focus on his breathing, to try not to hyperventilate.

You help walk him through it.

"Deep inhale through your nose, honey. Count to five. One. Two. Three. Four. Release. There you go. One more time. One. Two."

He follows your instructions the best he's able, clinging to the soothing sound of your voice, clinging to each count and exhale, and slowly, oh so slowly, the death grip on the ripped comforter relaxes.

"There you go. I have some water. Do you want some?"

It takes him a few seconds to nod.

"Alright. It's a glass. It's a little cool to the touch."

Shifting so he's facing you, the glass in your hand outstretched, he takes it and swallows deeply, not realizing how hot he is until the cold water slides down his chest, shocking his senses.

He puts the cool glass up against his sweat slicked forehead.

"It should be about three in the morning right now," you continue, feet tucked underneath you. "I turned on the light in the hallway and drew the right side of our curtains. I also got some towels."

Setting down the glass on his bedside table, he turns back to a hand towel laid neatly in front of your knees. Absently he reaches for it, dragging it across his brow.

"I can wet one or two if you need. Just let me know."

Exhaling, he finally attempts his voice. "I'm alright."

Deep, gravelly, haunted. He barely even recognizes it.

"I know, it's okay."

Lowering the towel, he holds out a hand, one you gingerly take. Tugging you close, he rests his forehead against the crook of your neck and inhales, the familiar, soothing scent of you wrapping around his heart.

"May I run my fingers through your hair?"

He nods. "I'm alright," he says again against your skin, the words a little more stable.

"Okay." You start at the base of his neck and run up, catching the small knots in his hair and gently working them out, nails softly scratching his scalp.

He practically melts, an arm snaking around your waist to draw you onto his lap. Wrapping your free hand around him, you rest your head against his as you keep threading your fingers through his hair, not caring how drenched in sweat he is.

Sweat can be washed off.

"When I say I'm the reason you never get any sleep," you hear him say, "I don't mean like this."

You huff a chuckle. "Nobody needs to know that. It'll remain our little secret."

There's an uncertain pause. "Thank you."

"Carlos. I told you I'd always be here for you, and I meant it." You kiss his temple. "I always mean it."

"I know. I just..." He squeezes you tight for just a moment.

You squeeze back. "We've all got our monsters under the bed. Some are just bigger than others. And thankfully, we share a bed now."

His lips brush your shoulder as he smiles. Lifting his head to place a kiss on your forehead, he moves down to your cheek, then captures your mouth.

It's soft and sweet, the kiss, the thank you that Carlos could never fully put into words. He pulls away for just a moment, to look into the eyes that have saved him time and time again, before drawing you in once more.

You place a hand against his cheek as he pulls away again, a palm he nuzzles into. The smile that blooms across your lips squeezes his heart, once again reminded of how lucky he is to hold you, kiss you, call you his.

"Think you'll be able to sleep?" you ask, the movement of your lips distracting.

"Not for a while," he replies.

"Well, we have more of that show we were watching."

He dips to your lips again and murmurs against them, "We're already in bed."

Your mouth quirk and you pull back to give him a look. "At the very least, you need to wipe all this sweat off."

The sly smirk that finds its way onto his lips feels right, a little more himself. "Just so you can get me all sweaty again?"

"So I know you're sweaty because of me," you respond without a beat, a playful grin brightening your face as you reach for a towel and smoosh his face in it.

"A cruel Majesty you are," comes the faux hurt muffled reply.

You kiss what you can only guess is his nose through the towel. "You love me though."

"I do."

Releasing the towel, your smile softens as you see the look on his face. The openness only you're allowed to witness. "Love you too, big guy."

#resident evil #carlos oliveira #carlos oliveira x reader #carlos oliveira/reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #carlos oliveira x gn reader #carlos oliveira/gn reader

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astxrwar · 2 months

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drops of blood [3/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11k

CONTENT WARNINGS: masturbation in this one. stalking, exhibitionism. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes really starting to settle in. Weird psychological elements kinda. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". there is a playlist and it's got hozier and the songs are sooo mood.

Thanks for reading!

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

It's been snowing, on and off, the last few days; the gutters on your apartment complex are ancient and decaying, and meltwater pools in the rusted divots along them. The runoff from the rooftop freezes overnight, forms these jagged, spindly icicles on the overhangs, like fingers reaching down towards the street below. You can hear them outside your bedroom, water sliding off the sharp pinpoint ends and hitting the ledge of the window, wearing divots into the brick.

The sound follows you to sleep, the steady drip-drip, drip-drip, drip-drip, staccato and rhythmic and spaced like a heartbeat. In your dream you wriggle out from the tangle of your covers and pad to the window and part the curtains. You look out at the dark night sky and watch the droplets as they fall, glittering flashes of light reflected in the beads of water from streetlamps or the headlights of passing cars somewhere on the street below.

When you look down to the windowsill, the water gathered there has turned color, glittering like rubies, like pomegranate seeds. Like blood, dark and rich and red.

“It’s called starfruit. Carambola, technically.”

It’s just the two of you, and it’s late, the sky black and the street nearly empty and the lights inside the coffee shop reflected back by the windows, the both of your reflections mirrored there. Barnes has been here since seven-thirty, but you’d been busy again, and you feel bad; he must have been horribly bored, just waiting that whole time. If he was, he doesn’t look it– he looks just as neutrally impassive as ever, leaned back in the chair, watching you dump the grocery bag out on the tabletop and pull another chair over to sit across from him.

The fruit is yellow and ridged and weird-shaped, and he prods at it with one hand; the left one, gloved. His mouth twitches.

“Dunno if you’ve ever seen a star,” he says, “But I’m pretty sure they don’t look like that.”

You flash him a smile, dragging the chair a little closer. Under the table– the cheap square of laminated plastic that suddenly feels far too small– your knee brushes against his, and he starts, jerks back a fraction of an inch and straightens, this sharp frisson of tension that reverberates out through his whole body like tremors from a stress fracture. His reflexes are much faster than yours, all of them, and he’s able to compose himself and carry on as if nothing happened before you can respond to whatever that was; he’s already leaning to draw his knife from his boot and setting it on the table by the time any of it has even registered in your brain.

Hyperreactive startle response, you reason; that’s not abnormal. He’s a veteran. Multiple times over. You’d spent a long time researching it, combat PTSD, wanting to know, wanting to have the information to be able to— meet him halfway, or something. You don’t know the details of his life these days, not outside of these slivers of time he spends with you, and you’d never ask, but a part of you still wonders how many other friends he has. How many other people he even talks to, besides you and his therapist. The thought makes something ache, in your chest, something soft and melancholy and a little bit painful; it does something else, too, makes you feel determined to not mess this up.

You figure right now, what would help the most is for you to not mention it. The way he’d– flinched, or startled, or something, jerked back from less than half a second of contact like you’d burned him.

Barnes lays out the starfruit lengthwise across one of those flimsy recycled paper napkins and aligns the knife to cut it right down the middle, which conveniently gives you something to say that’s entirely unrelated to whatever just happened.

“Hold on, wait,” you say quickly, “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Doing it wrong,” Barnes repeats, and maybe you imagine it, the way his shoulders relax. Like he’s relieved. He looks up from it, at you; his eyes crinkle up at the corners, just a little bit, humor glinting in the precise and magnetic blue of his irises, and something strange lights in your stomach in response. “What, because there’s a right way?”

“Yes,” you reply, with a teasing sort of cadence like, duh, obviously.

Whatever that feeling is, It buzzes in the pit of your stomach at the barest amount of warmth in his expression; something like adrenaline or anxiety or frayed nerves, only multiple times brighter. A sensation that’s not unfamiliar, not unrecognizable, either, and also not something you really want to think about or examine too closely, right now. Or— ever.

Barnes opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then doesn’t. He closes it again, and he glances down and away from you, drums his fingers against the table. Taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap. When he looks at you again, the brightness that had been in his eyes before is gone, snuffed out like somebody’d blown out a candle, and whatever it’s been replaced with is something else entirely.

He sets the knife down. The handle clicks against the laminate and your pulse does something weird at the sound; stutters, maybe, or skips, or just stalls outright. He nudges it with the tip of his finger, at the base, makes it spin in a slow, juddering circle, until the blade is pointed towards him, and then he slides it across the table.

When your heartbeat picks up again, it’s too-fast, thudding quick and insistent in the hollow of your throat, like rabbit’s feet.

“Here,” he says. “You want to, this time? Since– since there’s a right way, and all.”

There’s a roughness to his voice, a strain that makes you think of last week, please do it, I just want you to be safe, makes you think of the blood by the dumpster in the back, how he’d looked when he’d come back inside, they were just drunks, it’s fine, it’s all fine, and that warmth inside of you dissipates.

(No, it doesn’t.)

“Sure, yeah,” you hear yourself say, warbly and far-away, like maybe somebody else is speaking. Somebody who isn’t you. But it’s your hand that reaches out to drag the edge of the napkin across the table, and it’s your hand that closes around the knife, too.

The handle is still warm. Something deep inside of you coils in on itself, in the pit of your stomach or the base of your spine or maybe lower, twists and tightens and pulses like a heartbeat. You think about his hand, being where yours is now, the way that he’d spun the knife a few weeks ago, how he handles it with this unnervingly practiced ease, this familiarity, like it’s something more than an object.

Like it’s an extension of his body.

(Again, you think about the blood.)

Carambolas are long, oval fruits with five- or six-point ridges; you cut it into slices the way you’d slice a banana, and the pieces fall over one another shaped like stars.

“Huh,” you hear Barnes say, and when he reaches for one, the glove probably in his pocket, you swallow around nothing at all, suddenly aware with startling clarity of how close his hand is to your own. How much bigger it is than your own. “Starfruit. No kidding.”

You wait for him to pull back before you move to take your own piece, his flinch replaying in the back of your mind, and something else there, too, that you determinedly continue to ignore. The skin on the carambola crunches between your teeth and the juice floods your mouth, sour-sweet and unfamiliar; you’re aware of it, the mechanical action of eating, the taste, but you’re not paying attention to that.

He hasn’t moved to take the knife back. It’s sitting on the table still, closer to you than it is to him. You don’t even really make the conscious decision to reach for it, you just do, dragging it closer to you and turning it lengthwise; up close, there are flaws that you couldn’t see from a distance, chips in the matte black coating of paint over the flat of the blade and the handle, divots worn into the edge from use.

(You wonder if he’s ever killed anyone with it.)

“How sharp is this thing?” you ask absently– idly– inanely, operating on some stupid and unthinking whim, the same impulse that has you reaching out and touching the tapered point of the knife with your thumb, pressing in, just a little, the skin indenting around it until–

Until something entirely predictable happens. Something that anyone with a modicum of common sense could have guessed at, that most people, you figure, probably would have known well enough to avoid, because most people, you think, possess a rational understanding of actions and consequences that would have kept them from doing what you’d just done.

“Okay,” you say, watching the blood beading up along where the sharpened tip had cut into your skin. It’s just a little, no more than you’d get from a pin-prick or a paper cut, just enough to well up into a drop that grows until the surface tension breaks and it spills onto the flat of the blade, oozing sluggishly down the pad of your thumb. “Pretty sharp.”

You’re not going to wipe it off on the napkin, because there’s food on there, so you bring it to your mouth; the second your hand is clear of the knife, Barnes reaches for it, snatches it back, so quickly that it feels like both things happen at the same time, even though you know, rationally, that isn’t possible.

Barnes is staring at you.

“Sorry,” you blurt out reflexively, “Sorry, that was— pretty stupid of me, don’t know what I was expecting—“

“No,” he cuts you off, “No, you’re— it’s fine, you don’t need to apologize, I shouldn’t have—“ he stops and he stammers and then he cuts out into silence and his expression flickers through a whole bunch of things, some that you recognize and others that you don’t; he looks plaintive and stricken and ashamed and worried and scared and something else that you can’t find the words to describe. “Are you— you’re okay?”

“I— yeah, of course,” you reply, feeling again like there’s something you’re missing. Like whatever puzzle you’re constructing of James Buchanan Barnes—it has this hole, right in the center of it, a silhouette in the shape of whatever it is you’re unable to figure out, and like if you could just find it you might be able to fit everything together, and that it– that he– might finally make sense to you. “Not your fault, I was being— dumb. And look, see? It’s fine.”

You hold out your hand to him. He glances down at it for a fraction of a second and then looks back at you, eyes wavering and glassy and filled with that thing you can’t name.

All that’s left is a thin, red line where the knife had pressed in.

No blood.

You finish late, almost midnight.

It’s your own fault, you’d gotten distracted, neglected clearing out the pastry display case and cleaning the espresso machine and prepping the brewing stations for the next morning in favor of sitting with Barnes for— way too long. He’d left at eleven, on the dot, and you hadn’t asked him to wait because he’d already been there a while, spent most of it just waiting there for you as the steady tide of customers ebbed and flowed and ebbed again, always just busy enough to keep you occupied and unavailable. So when you strip off your apron and your uniform hat and shrug your coat on over your sweater and finally flick the lights off in the shop behind you, you expect to come out to— nothing. Nobody.

But he’s there, standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, expression flat and clear and calm. He makes eye contact with you and something tightens, his brow, maybe, just for a half-second, but then you smile just on instinct, stopping on the sidewalk a few feet away, and his expression, it– softens, again.

“You stayed,” you say aloud, aware of how pleased you must sound and wondering again, somewhere in the back of your mind, if that’s really how you should feel.

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing down at his feet, scuffing one foot against the concrete. “Yeah, sorry, I, ah—“

“No, I wasn’t– I’m glad,” you interject quickly, back turned from him as you lock the door behind you. “I just— I didn’t ask today because I knew I’d be out late, and I don’t want to— take up all of your time, I guess, I already feel like I made you waste so much of it just, like, sitting, so—“

When you turn back to him, he’s staring, the way he does sometimes— the way he does a lot, precise and unwavering and intense enough to make you feel like you’ve been pinned to the spot– and whatever you’d been saying dries up somewhere in the back of your throat.

“No,” Barnes says, takes all of an aborted half-step closer, and then he tears his eyes away, like he’d maybe realized and tried to correct it, the way that he’d been looking at you. “It’s— you’re not a waste of time,” he says, looking at the ground.

The warmth you can feel in your face, you decide, is because of the cold, and nothing else.

He tells you to lock up again, and you tell him that you will.

It’s the very first thing, after pulling the keys from the door, before you hang them up on the peg nearby or strip your coat or take off your shoes— you always flip the deadbolt, and the flimsier lock on the door handle. Force of habit, deeply ingrained.

The windows, though—

It’s the third floor, you reason. There’s a fire escape outside the one that looks in on your bedroom, but the ladder can only be released from the second-story landing, some fifteen feet in the air. You have nothing to worry about. And maybe that’s why you just never get around to it; the fact that the urgency’s not there. It’s not a part of your routine. You mean to do it, because he asks and because you’d said you would, but somewhere between stripping from your work clothes and washing off the smell of stale coffee after a long and annoying shift and padding into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your chest and water still dripping from your hair and onto the floor—

You always end up forgetting.

You have those dreams again. A whole bunch of times.

The ones with the broken pavement, the darkened street, the heartbeat.

The blood.

His birthday is March 10th. He hasn’t told you this. You know, though. You’ll see him on the 8th, the Friday he always comes in, and that’s close enough, you figure. Probably better that way; with how he is, so closed off, you think he’ll probably want to spend the actual day alone.

There is an Etsy shop that makes pocket-knives. Fancy ones. Objectively cool-looking ones.You place the order at two in the morning Saturday night, operating on some half-awake impulse. It’s four inches long— street-legal— with this wood-paneled handle and a flat-grip hilt and three letters engraved on one side. JBB. You figured that was better, the initials; the interpretation being left up to him, whether it’s Buchanan or Bucky. It’s just a keepsake. Something you thought he might— like.

“What’d you get this time?” he asks, that brightness in his expression again; your heart is beating too fast, and you’re anxious and doubtful and feeling a little bit sick, spiraling and suddenly certain this was all a massive mistake. But it’s in your hand, in a reusable grocery bag, and you hadn’t even brought anything else to fall back on in case you ended up losing your nerve about it like you are right this second.

You pull out the chair across from him and sit down and drop the bag at your feet, awkwardly folding your hands on the table.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The silence drags out for what must be only a few seconds but still somehow feels like so much longer, thick and oppressive and borderline uncomfortable.

You open your mouth to speak—

Whatever small amount of courage you’d managed to work up evaporates from you completely.

“Nothing,” you say, nudging the bag with your foot until it’s under your seat, “It’s, um— it’s nothing.”

Barnes stares at you some more, and then raises one incredulous eyebrow. “Okay, well, it’s definitely not nothing.”

“Yeah, or, I mean– no, it’s just— “ You grimace and shift in your chair, suddenly realizing how uncomfortable it is, flimsy and straight-backed and too hard. “I had an idea, but it was a bad one, and— just, nevermind. It’s really— it’s nothing.”

Barnes pulls a patently disbelieving face and leans back and straightens out until his legs are just a little bit past yours under the table, his heels angled against the tiled floor on either side of your calves. There’s still a lot of space between the two of you, he’s nowhere near close enough to be touching, but the awareness of it— his body almost bracketing your own, even if only a little— it lances right through the pit of your stomach, a bright shock of electricity that hums somewhere in your whole body, like it’s leached right into your blood.

Barnes is still staring at you.

“Just spill it, come on,” he says. “I’m not so old that I can’t tell when you’re full of shit.”

You swallow, half-nervous and half— something else.

(Something worse, maybe.)

“It’s your birthday this week,” you blurt out, so quickly that the words all sort of blur together into one continuous block of sound. “I remembered from– you know. History.”

You regret saying it before the words have even completely left your mouth, because something in his expression just– shatters.

“You didn’t—“ He sits up straight and shifts back and shuts his eyes, his brow pinching together in the middle. When he speaks again, it’s soft and small and remarkably plaintive. “You did, didn’t you? I can’t— you shouldn’t have— no. Just— no.“

Your mouth twists into this tight little frown.

“See, I knew it was a bad idea,” you say, aiming at sounding dismissive in some light-hearted and trivial way, and unsure how close you get to achieving that. “Don’t worry, I can just— I’ll return it. I should have asked, but I—well, I saw this thing online, and I thought of you, and I didn’t, you know, actually think, and—“

You’re trying, pretty hard, to not sound like you’re a lot of things—self-conscious, embarrassed, a little disappointed— but it’s clear you do a fucking terrible job at hiding all of that, because his eyes snap open and that furrow in his brow worries deeper and before you can even finish he’s leaned forwards again and cut you off completely.

“No, hey, it’s— it’s fine, you can still— if you want—” he starts, stumbling over the words, like he’s saying it faster than he can even think, “If you really want to, then I’ll— it’s okay.”

You’re not looking at him anymore, looking at the table instead, the places where the laminate is cracked and peeling along the edge closest to you. Whatever you feel right now is cold and slimy and awkward and bad, but you figure this is the time to suck it up and get the fuck over it. No gifts. That’s—fine. It’s a totally reasonable boundary, and you should have known better; you should have asked, you should have thought of it earlier so that you would have even been able to ask, but you didn’t. And it’s fine.

When you finally do look back at him, he’s doing that thing again, his eyes gone all wide and glossy and sad. “Just forget about it,” you reply, a lot more firmly than before, “Seriously, it’s fine, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s okay, really,” he interjects, with a strange urgency. “Really, all right? It’s– I— I just didn’t want you to feel like— like you have to. You’re— you already—“

Barnes cuts off mid-sentence, and falls silent like he’d decided whatever he was going to say wasn’t actually worth saying, after all. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and then he laughs, this short, sharp, self-deprecating sound, and his mouth twitches at the corners, just a little. It’s not like a repressed smile, not really; it’s rueful and distant and a little too sad.

“It’s just—it’s been a really long time since anybody’s—“ he starts, trailing off, clearing his throat, like that might make his voice steadier. Less hoarse. “Since I’ve had a birthday. Guess I kinda forgot my manners. Last time I had to use ‘em was way back in 1942, so. Kind of— rusty.”

Something in your chest— it aches, like somebody’s stuck a hand in past your ribs and grabbed your heart in a fist and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I thought– I figured somebody would have– since you’ve been back, I didn’t know–”

“No– hey, c’mon, don’t be sorry,” he says quickly. He leans forwards a little bit more, rests his elbows on the table, arms folded over each other. “What do you have to be sorry for? It’s not– it’s not like it’s your fault.”

You manage a kind of watery approximation of a smile at that, and maybe you imagine it, the way that the tension around his eyes and his mouth eases, his expression going just a little bit softer.

(But maybe you don’t.)

“Kinda makes me wish I’d gone all out,” you say quietly, your mouth curling up further at the corners, despite itself. “Sheet cake and everything, you know? Candles. Balloons, even.”

Barnes makes another sound, another laugh, maybe, except not really. More like the kind of thing somebody does as a placeholder, instead of something else. Maybe something worse. “I definitely don’t deserve all that,” he says, with this kind of lightness that feels— feigned. Performative.

And all of this, you think, with this soft sad sinking feeling; all of it suddenly starts to make a lot more sense.

“It doesn’t work that way,” you tell him, before you can think better of it. You’re looking down at your hands, and your voice comes out small, but steady. Certain. “People don’t— deserve anything from anyone, not really. I just— I wanted to do something nice for you.”

You still don’t look up. Whatever might be in his expression right now— you think if you looked at him, if you saw it, you might lose your nerve again. “If— if that’s okay, I mean,” you add, after a while, painfully aware of his silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “That’s— it’s okay.”

When you do finally glance up at him, his eyes are wavering and glassy and strangely delicate, like a sheen of ice frozen over window panes. The way he’s looking at you; he’s never looked at you like that before. You don’t think anybody’s ever looked at you like that before, soft and fond and fragile and like you might be able to break him wide open, if you tried. If you wanted to.

(And maybe you do want that. Just to get inside, just to see, you think, in some part of your brain buried so deep you can almost pretend you don’t think it at all. You’d do it gently, put him back together after, piece by vulnerable piece, and maybe you want to do that, too.)

You reach for the bag under the table and take out the box inside, wrapped up neat in brightly-colored paper, the cheesy kind they sell at the dollar store, with a pattern of multicolored balloons and ribbons and HAPPY BIRTHDAYs written in this big, overdramatic font plastered all over it.

“Here,” you say, kind of timidly, sliding it across the table.

Barnes stares at it for a long time. He blinks, and clears his throat, and then finally reaches for the package, pulling it closer to the edge.

“You put a bow on it,” he observes, nonplussed, pressing down on the glinting silver loops of folded plastic with his index finger until they flatten against the box.

The corners of your mouth twitch up, just a little. “I did,” you reply, watching as he peels the square of adhesive-lined cardboard off from where it’s affixed to the wrapping paper, mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like what the fuck as he examines it; it occurs to you that they’d probably actually tied bows by hand, way back in the 40s, and that this might be his first time encountering one of the shitty little mass-produced stick-on ones that you can get at the dollar store.

It’s kind of funny. And then it’s also kind of sad.

He sets it on the table and spins the package until he finds the edge with the tape and pulls that free, working it open that careful way that you’ve seen old people do, when they’re trying not to tear the paper, and that, too, is absurd and endearing and has you pressing down on the beginnings of a soft smile. “Just rip it, I don’t care, it’s going in the garbage anyways.”

“Oh, yeah,” Barnes mumbles, and then tears right through it. “Old habit.”

With the wrapping paper gone, there’s just the actual box the knife came in, made of dark, varnished wood, spartan and simple. It props up, with this mechanism on the inside, doubles as a display case; you’d fooled around with it when it had arrived in the mail.

He flips open the lid and his breath catches.

You shift, nervously, in your seat, careful to not lean closer or brush his calves with your shoes, just trying to fidget enough to dispel whatever apprehensive wave of tension has washed over you at the face he’s making, the worry lines folding deeper and his brow furrowing in again.

He pulls the folded knife free of the case with his fingers, so carefully, like he thinks he might break it just by touching it at all, and turns it over in his palm.

“It has— those are my initials,” he says, blankly.

You clear your throat and duck your head and look at the table again. “Yeah, um— the guy I bought it from, he does custom engravings, too, and it was free, so.”

Barnes pulls down on the release mechanism with his index finger and the knife flicks open with a soft click. He hasn’t looked at you, and you’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

“It’s, like. Damascus steel?” you continue, painfully awkward, painfully aware of how awkward you’re being and somehow also unable to do anything to stop yourself, “It’s this weird thing where they take two steel alloys and they fold them together a whole bunch of times, and that’s how they make it, that’s why it— looks like that.”

He makes this sound, holding it in his left hand so he can touch the flat of the blade with the tips of his fingers, running them across like he thinks he might be able to feel ridges, or something, evidence that the two contrasting shades of metal are actually distinct and separate parts, but there’s nothing. It’s smooth. You’d done the same thing yourself, just to see; you can’t feel the individual alloys at all, can’t even tell where one ends and another begins anymore. It’s all just one piece, complete and inseparable. Whole.

“How much did this cost?” he says, his voice wavering.

You pick at the spot on your side of the table where the laminate is peeling, working a fingernail under the edge and pulling it up more. “Only two dollars,” you say, keeping your own voice as light as you can make it, hoping with a mounting sense of unease that you haven’t upset him. That it wasn’t as terrible of an idea as your brain is telling you it was. “In— you know. 1940s money.”

Barnes makes some sound that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, but it’s thick and rough and hoarse and doesn’t really sound anything like one. “You said when you saw this,” he begins, turning it over again in his palm, still just staring at it. “You thought of– me?”

“Yeah,” you reply, eyes still cast down. “I— yeah, I thought you might— like it.”

(That’s not a lie. Not really. It’s just not the whole truth, either.)

“Oh.” Barnes closes his eyes for a second. He swallows thickly, gives one jerky and abrupt nod before he opens them again and says, his voice shaking more than you’ve ever heard, “I do, I— I really—this is— thank you.”

And just like that— all of your worry is gone, melted away like frost in the sunlight, and you’re smiling at him before you can even think to stop it, not sure if you would have been able to, anyways.

“Good,” you say, “I’m really glad,” like maybe if you say it with enough insistence he might actually believe that you mean it; that it’s not about pity or obligation or any of that. You’d really just wanted this, nothing else. To do something nice for him.

He gives you another one of those looks again, soft and fond and impossibly grateful.

You hesitate, just for a second, before you add, “Happy birthday, Barnes.”

Almost as soon as you say it, his eyes break from yours so abruptly that it takes you by surprise, feels like it physically jolts and forcibly recalibrates your whole nervous system.

There’s a long, strange, fraught pause.

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are, both of you leaned in with your elbows on this tiny little coffee table that’s a grand total of two feet across, and something inside of you feels like it ignites at the realization. His legs are stretched out underneath it again, longer than yours, larger, too, so you can fit easily in whatever space is left there, even with them straightened and taking up way more than half of it, and you’re aware of that, too, whatever had come alive in your belly burning a little brighter in response.

In the soft orange light from the overhead fixture, as close as you’ve ever been to him, you can see flecks of silver glinting in the stubble along the sharp edge of his jaw; the angular planes of his face and the blunt curves of his cheekbones and worry lines setting in on his forehead. It’s not his birthday yet, it’s still two days away, and you find yourself wondering how old he’ll be.

Thirty-seven, you think, completely arbitrarily; though you’re not going to tell him that.

“Would you do something for me,” he blurts out; it’s a question, but it’s not really phrased like one, comes out pitched low and flat and monotone. His eyes are closed and his expression tense again, like he’s forcing himself to say it.

“Yeah,” you reply, automatic, unthinking, “Yeah, whatever you need, what’s up?”

What he does in response to that could technically be called a smile, based just on description alone, but in reality looks nothing like one at all; the upturn of his mouth too sharp and his eyes too cold and the sum of it deeply self-deprecating. More like a grimace, you think.

The silence stretches. Charged. Expectant. He’s staring at you again, and you’re thinking more stupid things about the color of his eyes, his irises that bright and blinding shade of blue, and you’re not paying attention as much as you should be.

“Can you—” he clears his throat. Looks away. “I want you to call me Bucky.”

You blink at him for a moment, uncomprehending. And then your stomach does this weird and physiologically impossible fluttering jittery thing and your pulse speeds up or slows down or maybe misses a beat entirely. Maybe misses several.

“Oh, I– okay,” is all you say, momentarily too stunned to manage much more than that. Suddenly your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy and uncooperative, like you’ve just somehow managed to forget how to move it with the dexterity required to actually form syllables and say them aloud, and it takes way too long to snap the fuck out of it and stammer through all of three words in a voice that sounds way too soft and way too shy to actually belong to you, “Happy birthday, Bucky.”

Something flickers in his eyes, too fast for you to examine in detail, and then—

He smiles. Really smiles, small and soft and entirely too fleeting, the kind that reaches his eyes and transforms his whole face and softens his expression into something open and honest and so fundamentally different than the way you’re used to seeing him that it almost feels wrong to be seeing it at all. Like you’ve been sucker-punched, or something. Like you’re staring, wide-eyed, into the sun.

For a second, he looks— happy. But just like with anything else you’ve ever seen from him, it’s only a second, and then it’s gone.

“Listen, ah, next week,” Barnes— Bucky— says, stopping at your apartment building; he’s not looking at you, looking at the ground, head ducked down, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “How about— maybe I could bring something. Y’know, for— for a change.”

You’re standing on the first step of the staircase up to the lobby door; you think it must put you almost at head-height, compared to him, but it’s hard to tell. He’ll let you sit across from him, at that one little table, but he always stands so far away.

“Yeah,” you say, looking back at him; you’re maybe still kind of running on the high of before, the thought that you might have done something that made him happy, even if just for a second, and you blame that and the fact that it’s nearly midnight for why even something as small as that has you smiling, bright and wide and embarrassingly genuine. “Yeah, that’d be– I’d like that.”

“And don’t forget to lock your—“

“I know, I know,” you cut him off, fighting back the mostly good-natured urge to roll your eyes. “I will.”

He looks uncomfortable, maybe uneasy, but it’s brief and fleeting and less important than the number of other things you’re still thinking about.

You stand there for a long, lingering moment, just looking at him.

He stares right back at you, expression unreadable.

Finally, he clears his throat. Looks away.

When he says goodnight, he says your name, too, and a frisson of— something, it shivers right down the length of your spine at the sound of it.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say back, a part of you kind of hoping that you’ll get another smile from him, even just a split second of one.

A flicker of something soft and satisfied flashes across his face, but it doesn’t last, and he doesn’t smile again.

It’s all because of that, you’ll think later, having woken up for no reason at some ridiculous hour Saturday night and found yourself unable to fall back asleep, staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dark.

You’d been thinking about him, because it’s past midnight, technically Sunday. Technically his birthday. And you keep thinking about that smile, all of a split second of one; some stupid part of you had been strangely captivated by it, the way that you’d almost been able to see that twenty-eight-year-old guy from Brooklyn way back when, the ghost of him still in his mannerisms, sometimes, but never as clearly visible as it had been right then. Maybe it was the contrast, the superimposition of that younger, happier, safer self over the face of somebody who wasn’t really any of those things anymore— but you’d been reminded, painfully, of a fact that you’d been doing a great job at ignoring, until now.

The fact that he’s— handsome. That you had, at one point, found him attractive. The crush was brief and surface-level and fleeting, the dead Sergeant James Barnes functioning as a suitably unobtainable receptacle for what was, at the time, your tenuous grasp on the concept of attraction in general. You had realized pretty quickly as you’d gotten older that your type, the kind of people you’re actually interested in, the kind you would actively pursue in real life, are not anything like he was; sweet and charming and boyish and—

And young, a particularly hedonistic voice in your head supplies unhelpfully.

But Barnes— Bucky, your brain corrects, which is also unhelpful and has your stomach doing another one of those weird little flips— he’s not any of those things, anymore. He’s older than he’d been then, by an amount that is not-insignificant, and he’s thorny and standoffish and intense and even a little bit scary, sometimes. That childhood crush had been on a guy who was essentially fictional, a memorialized facsimile of a real person, and that had felt safe, idealized and superficial and well beyond your reach. Whatever your little relationship with Bucky is now— whatever it’s turning into— it’s not like that at all. Sergeant Barnes was some long-dead historical relic, but Bucky is alive, he’s a real human being, someone that you know.

It’s strange to think about, and your mind drifts there, next; the fact that you actually know what he looks like, not just in frozen split-seconds from photographs, but in person, up close. You’ve seen him with a five o'clock shadow and with scruffy days-old stubble and you know that he sometimes nicks himself shaving; you know what he looks like when he’s well-rested and when he’s dead tired with bruise-dark bags under his eyes, you’ve seen him with hair all messed up by the wind and chapped lips when there’d been that cold spell back in February and the air had been freezing and bone-dry for weeks. You know that he takes up way too much space when he’s relaxed, slouches in his chair and stretches his legs out as far as they’ll go, and you know that he’s taller than you, larger, too, that his chest is broad and his shoulders are broader and sometimes when he sits leaned forward his leather jacket bunches up around the tops of his biceps like the sleeves are just shy of being a little bit too small, and you know that his right hand— the only one you’ve ever seen without the gloves on— is tanned and calloused and a lot fucking bigger than yours, that it looks like it might be just a little bit rough, if he were to touch you—

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you mumble, out loud, feeling your face burn with some awful and deeply embarrassing warmth; you try to just roll over onto your side and smush your face into your pillow and will yourself back to sleep, to not fucking think— whatever the fuck you were even thinking. But it’s two in the morning, that horrible hour when nothing seems real and your impulse control is languishing somewhere hopelessly out of reach, and you’re barely half-awake and verging on delirious and as much as you try to think of anything else— literally, literally anything else— the thoughts just seem to sharpen, defiant. Like some part of your brain that you can’t access or control is all the more interested in bringing these things to mind, now that you’re working so hard to ignore them.

Like the fact that you know he runs hot; if he were to touch you his hand would be rough and it would be warm and it would be able to cover such a large span of your body, effortlessly, without even trying. And the other one— you know that it’s metal, even though you’ve never seen it, and that horrible part of your brain suggests that that one might be cool and smooth and if he were to touch you it might make goosebumps spill down the backs of your arms from the chill, from the contrast; he could span your whole ribcage with both of them, your brain supplies traitorously. Could probably close his palm right around the bones of your wrist, maybe even both at once, could cover the whole soft sensitive stretch of the insides of your thighs, could fit one, easily, around your throat—

You make another sound, a wavering and ashamed and deeply self-reproachful one, but it’s really fucking late and you’re really fucking tired and your brain is doing that stupid thing where it decides to hyperfixate on something specifically because you don’t want to think about it, and you rationalize, with a dull pang of guilt, that you might as well just— get it over with. Give up and give in and then get some fucking sleep and be entirely back to normal tomorrow and never have to think about or address any of it ever again.

You shift again, onto your back, and you squirm your way deeper under the coverlet until it’s up around your shoulders and shove your underwear down with the heel of your palm and you ignore the visceral stab of something like shame if shame had fucking teeth that burns in your belly at just how wet you already are, your fingers slipping and sliding and sticky and rubbing light little circles over your clit.

You stop trying to fight that part of your brain that’s insisting on thinking about it.

His reflexes, they’re so much faster than your own, so inhumanly fast that it sometimes feels supernatural; the things he could do to you, you think, helplessly, how strong he is, how he could probably move your whole body like you weigh nothing at all, how he could keep you from moving, and it wouldn’t even be hard. You think about the shadow of perpetual stubble on his cheeks and jaw and how it might feel, coarse and prickly and rasping against the corners of your mouth or the spot where your neck meets the slope of your shoulder or the sensitive insides of your thighs, and then you think about the sound he sometimes makes, the sharp little exhale of breath, an almost-laugh, imagining it in a wildly different context–

Some kind of awful traitorous little whine of a noise almost escapes, the pressure building behind your voice box, but you crush it into silence instead, pressing the flat of your forearm across your mouth, the muscles in your thighs already starting to twitch and tighten and that pressure in your belly rising way too fucking fast.

You think about his face twisting up and going tense and his eyes screwed shut so tight the little muscles around them tremble with the effort, and you think about the all of a handful of times you’ve ever heard his voice shake. Heard it crack. You think of his fingers winding in your hair and his hand tightening into a fist and how the muscles and tendons there would bunch and flex and the skin stretched across his knuckles would turn pale and taut and bloodless, his expression going finally, blissfully fucking slack, images your brain conjures with a terrifying degree of accuracy because you’ve seen all of this from him already. You know what it looks like, in person, up close, you know what he looks like and what he sounds like and you even know the smell of what must be his aftershave or maybe his cologne, warm and woodsy and a little bit sweet, and it’s so easy to take those memories and separate the details out and rearrange them into something else, a horribly vivid fantasy.

You think about standing on the first step of your apartment complex and looking at him and how he’d said your name.

It takes you by surprise, when you come, how easily you do, quick and sweet and warm and shamefully satisfying, a shockwave of heat that ripples out through all of your limbs and shivers down your spine and pulses in the fibers of your muscles, constricting your breathing and forcing your heels to dig divots into the mattress and your thighs to close up around your hand and a single muffled shuddering sound to finally break the silence you’d imposed on your vocal cords and escape from your open mouth.

Outside your window, the fire escape creaks, like maybe there’d been a sharp gust of wind through the alley where the apartment complex dumpsters are lined. That’s the first thing that registers, as your body relaxes and your breathing steadies and slows and your brain reorients around things that are— real. The sound of swaying metal. Your darkened bedroom. The faint sheen of sweat you can feel starting in the dips of your collarbones. The haze of perpetual city light leaking in from outside, a dim, slanted rectangle of it cutting across the floor under the window, your curtains not quite drawn all the way shut. Exhaustion hits like a fucking freight train; your eyelids are heavy and your pulse is slowing and your limbs feel warm and weighed down like molten lead and your brain is, thankfully, finally, silent.

You hear it again, right before you drift off; the creaking outside. And maybe there’s a shadow, one that cuts across that block of gray-blue light on the floor, as quick and as sure as a knife— but maybe there isn’t. Maybe you’re already asleep. Already dreaming.

This time, you’re down on the street again, walking from the other direction. Not like you’re coming home from work, but maybe the grocery store or a friend’s or the park that overlooks the East River, or something. From this way, you can see your bedroom window; you can see the fire escape, too, a spindly, narrow set of iron staircases affixed to the side, painted black by the landlord a few months back to disguise how it’s all rusted to shit. It’s wrong, though, the whole thing is twisted and mangled like a broken spine— like somebody had torn it straight off the building in places, grabbed some part and pulled until the railing bent and the stairs warped and the brackets ripped right out from where they’d been cemented into the wall.

When you wake up the next morning, it’s deceptively easy to make yourself believe you had just gone to bed at midnight and stayed asleep straight through until your alarm had gone off.

That all of it had just been part of that strange, surreal dream.

Passionfruit is another South American native, about the size of a kiwi, maybe a little smaller; the rind on the outside is this mottled kind of purple color, and the edible insides are soft and jelly-like and weird-looking.

“I had to go all the way to Whole Foods on Houston just to find something new,” Bucky’s telling you– complaining, from the sound of it, but from his face and the curve of his mouth you can tell he doesn’t really mind– dragging a plastic spoon around the edge of the peel. He’d brought two, split the first one in half with the knife you’d bought him for his birthday, and you’d grinned like an idiot, seeing it. “Took a train and everything. Wasted a whole hour.”

“Yeah, well, ” He’s not wearing the glove, not on his right; he usually doesn’t, anymore. You’re trying not to look at his hands, trying to make eye contact like you normally do, trying to even remember how much eye contact you normally make, trying to stop thinking about the tiny little two-foot table or his legs on either side of your own underneath it or the way that he’s staring at you. “There’s only so many fruits out there.”

You take a spoonful of passionfruit out of your half, focus on that. It’s less sweet than it looks; more tart, not exactly citrusy, but close. He’s still watching you, which isn’t unusual, but it’s making you feel weird, jittery and off-balance and unseasonably warm for mid-March.

“I’m gonna have to come up with a whole new gimmick pretty soon,” you say, just to fill the quiet. Just teasing. “Or else you’re gonna get bored of me.”

Bucky makes this flat and disbelieving sound in response, a scoff, dry and short and incredulous, like it’s really that bizarre, for you to even suggest it. Even as a joke.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, sarcasm evident, and then something else about the store, something he’d seen maybe for next week. But you’re not paying attention, just watching him, that warm thing in your belly again, the one that feels like some terrible and badly-kept secret.

The one that just keeps getting harder to ignore.

There really aren’t that many things left; you hadn’t been kidding about that.

Persimmons, most of which are imported from Japan. One of the men in my unit was Japanese, Bucky says, picking out the blood-red seeds with the point of his knife, From San Francisco, Jim Morita. He was a funny guy. Lychee, native to China, the first thing that he dislikes, people eat these things? tastes like— fancy soap, and then figs, something else he’d had back in the ‘40s, when they’d be in season down in California. Those you eat only after carefully inspecting the inside, telling him, you know wasps lay eggs in these things, right? And, no, he did not know that, and I didn’t really want to, either, but thanks, dunno if I’ll ever be able to eat ‘em again, that’s– gross.

“When I was maybe about nineteen,” he says after that, some rainy day in mid-April, the sky still not quite black even after eight, the pavement slick and dark and reflecting back shards of white and yellow from the streetlights turning on above it. “There was this wasp’s nest outside my bedroom window. Steve’d just moved in when his mom died, and he’s– well, he was– real allergic to bee stings, right?”

He pauses, finishes his coffee. The way the light is, right now, the blue twilight from outside and the artificially bright gold from the coffee shop— he looks—

You swallow, glance away.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, setting the cup down, “Anyway, I was all worried he’d get stung by these things so bad he might really die, or somethin’, so I made him stay inside and went out with a whole three layers of clothes on, a slingshot, and a trash can. Still got stung seventeen times. Supposed to go on a date that weekend– she bailed on me, ‘cause my face was so swollen up.”

You lose the fight to not laugh somewhere long before he finishes; he gets as close to smiling as you’ve seen since his birthday, watching you fold into yourself, giggling.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, “What’s so funny, huh?”

You are, you want to tell him, you’re funny and I like you a lot and you’re probably my favorite part of this stupid fucking job.

“Nothing,” you say, ducking your head with a grin, “Nothing, just– you know people who are allergic to bee stings aren’t usually allergic to wasps, right?”

He blinks at you, and then makes some exasperated noise and leans back in his chair and throws up his hands, like he’s annoyed, except for the corners of his mouth twitching higher. “Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know that? It was the thirties, doll, not like there was the internet.”

And there it is again, like an echo, like maybe it’s really 1941 again and he hasn’t gone off to war yet and he’s just a few years older than you, some twenty-seven-year-old playboy from back before the Playboy magazine had even been founded. You’re strangely endeared by it, and then even more by the fact that he’s not that at all, that it’d come from the mouth of someone older and stranger, who’d been through hell and back in some haphazard approximation of a decade spread out over almost a whole century and come out of it still the same, in a lot of ways, and different, in a lot of them, too.

He’s so stunned by what he’s said it doesn’t even matter that his reflexes are faster than yours multiple times over; he’s still just staring at you, struck dumb and unspeaking and frozen like a deer in headlights, by the time your brain has processed what’d happened.

“I like hearing you talk about it,” you say, smiling softly, “Sometimes you get so caught up it’s like– watching somebody travel in time.”

Bucky seems to relax at the realization that you’re not going to be weird about it. You won’t– you’re not even going to think about it in any amount of detail. Right now you are going to put it in a little box inside your head where you put all of the things about him that you don’t think about anywhere except the privacy of your room, in your own bed, staring up at the ceiling fan blades spinning listless and slow in the dark of the evening or the gray light of pre-dawn.

“That’s really just a nice way of saying you sound like a fucking geriatric,” you add, sidestepping all of those thoughts with a practiced ease and hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. “I bet the old ladies would love you down at the bingo hall.”

He shoots you this rueful look, “Yeah,” he says, self-deprecating, “Yeah, they probably would.”

It’s not that you forget, not really, the two sides to the coin, just that you stop thinking so much about the other one. You just get used to the weird things, and they all kind of fade into the background– the staring and the subconscious fidgeting with the knife and the way that Bucky moves, sometimes, so fast and so precise that it’s unsettling.

The warning. Lock your door. Windows, too.

He always says it. It starts to feel normal. He’s just worried about you, your safety. Hypervigilance, again. He’s a little bit paranoid, and you don’t blame him for that— how could you. It’s not his fault.

And you do remember to lock your door. You always do, you always had, even before he’d started reminding you. You have a routine, to wind down after a closing shift and go straight to bed; you get home and lock your door and hang up your keys, take a shower and brush your teeth and gor right to bed.

By the time you get to your bedroom, you’ve always forgotten about it completely— that he’d said to lock your window, too.

It’s not like he says it the exact same way every time. Sometimes he says remember to lock everything, other times don’t forget to lock up, sometimes he says lock your door, windows, too, always a little different.

Which is why you almost don’t notice, when what he says one night is;

“Really do lock them, this time. Your windows.”

Something flashes in his expression as soon as he’s said it. A flicker of realization, sharp and volatile and impossibly fast, and then his whole face does something you’ve never seen before– it hardens, and it shuts off, and it goes cold.

Your heartbeat pitches up in your chest until it feels like it’s beating in the hollow of your throat, fluttering there like bird’s wings, and your breath catches. It’s only the smallest amount, so little that you can barely hear it, but you know— somehow— that he can. That he notices. That he can tell. Even though his expression stays utterly empty, frozen still and serene like the unbroken surface of a deep, depthless lake— you just know. It’s something in the pit of your stomach, or the base of your spine, or maybe neither of those places, maybe starting in your hindbrain, that base and unthinking instinct that can sense the presence of a threat even before the rational parts of your consciousness have registered it. Whatever it is, it’s flooding your body with adrenaline, like somebody had pulled a fire alarm in a multi-story building, the warning siren wailing and the emergency lights flashing and the inhabitants all scattering towards the exit signs.

Except, in this analogy, you’re not the people, you think. You’re more like the building; stationary, unable to run.

“Okay,” you say, slow and small and strangely calm, “You always say that. Why?”

A muscle in his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, silent, like a statue, his eyes flat and cold and devoid of anything at all.

You think of a lot of things you haven’t in a while. The knife and the blood and the Winter Soldier.

Inside of you, something twists— something that, you think, might be fear.

(Something that isn’t.)

Your mind is racing. Your thoughts— they’re scattered and fragmentary and moving so fast you can’t hold onto them, connected by some subconscious thread of understanding that you can’t see.

What you can see, though, is how Bucky’s still looking at you, his eyes vacant and empty and his expression so lifeless he looks catatonic; it’s not like he’s forced himself into some impassive and impenetrable detachment as much as it looks like he’s torn out everything inside and crushed it into nothing, ground it into the dirt, anything he might think or feel. Left this emptied-out imitation of himself, like a shell. Like a skeleton. Like that very first time, the husk of the pomegranate, the wilted, waxy skin, with all of the red stripped clean—and it startles you, how vehemently some part of you reacts to it. Thinks, a little desperately; no. Please don’t do that. Please come back.

“Bucky,” you say, on purpose, after he’s been silent for a long time, careful to keep your voice soft; he flinches, a brief, slight thing that’s almost imperceptible, a fissure splitting across whatever facade he’s put on. Something inside of you clings to it, evidence that he’s still even there at all, that he hasn’t shut himself off from you completely.

He makes this low sound, and he finally moves, just a little, shifts his weight and drags his palm down the lower half of his face.

“I just want to know that you’re– safe,” he manages, his voice carefully flat, not really admitting to anything, not explicitly, but this weightless trembling shock of adrenaline pierces right through your belly, anyways.“That’s– that’s all.”

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, your chest, too, like your muscles have all constricted, like your lungs can’t expand fully. You’re suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing, aware that something must be off about it, that it’s coming too fast or too shallow or just somehow wrong, because it feels like you’re not getting enough air. And maybe that explains it, the way that you feel right now, dizzy and breathless and strangely numb, like your brain is just– shut off. Or, no, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s the opposite, maybe it’s working so fast you can’t make sense of any of it, all of your thoughts blurring out into this long indecipherable stretch of white noise.

Maybe, you think, distantly, maybe you’re just– overreacting. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe you’re overworked and overtired and all of this is just a very long, very strange list of uncanny coincidences.

(But also— maybe not.)

“But I’m not, like–” your voice cracks, and you have to clear your throat, force yourself to focus on steadying it when you continue, “You don’t think I’m– in danger, or anything, right?

Bucky opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“No,” he says, his voice something worse than hoarse, like it’d been ripped to shreds, like you’d carved the word right out of his mouth.

He looks like he might say something else, but you cut him off before he can. The way that he seems right now– you’re afraid that if he speaks again it might be something terribly final. I shouldn’t, he’d said, once, and meant it like he should go, and not come back. Meant it like goodbye.

“Okay,” you blurt out, before you can even think; because, you realize, you don’t want that, you do not want that at all, and that matters to you much more than whatever may or may not be happening right now. You don’t want him to leave and you don’t want things to change and you want everything to stay exactly the same as it’s been, and you would do anything– rationalize anything– to make sure of it, to have the assurance that he’s not going to just disappear, that you wouldn’t just wake up tomorrow to a world in which you'd never see him again. You’d do it in a heartbeat.

(You’ve done it already. Ignored things that, you think, maybe you shouldn’t have. Lots of them, that perpetual voice in the back of your head supplies– so, really, even if you are right, even if you’re not being paranoid, what’s one more?)

“Then it’s fine,” you tell him, forcing your voice to be as steady as you can make it. “It’s— I’ll lock it, I will, as soon as I get inside, and– and everything will be fine, okay? You won’t have to worry anymore.”

You glance down at your feet, the pavement, huscuffing your shoe against the sidewalk, toeing at a crushed, dirt-caked bottlecap wedged into a crack in the asphalt, just to give yourself an outlet for your nerves. Waiting for him to say— anything.

He doesn’t say a word.

“I gotta go to bed, it’s pretty late,” you say, after a while. You look back up at him. You wonder if he’d even taken his eyes off you at all. “I’ll—I’ll see you next week, though?”

His face twists up, just for a second, his brow raising, furrowing in, his eyes gone wide and round and stricken, before he seems to notice the shift in his expression and forces it to smoothen out again. “If— if you still do,” he says, “Then— I’ll— yeah.”

He starts saying something else, but you say, “I do,” before he’s even got the first syllable out.

He stares at you for a long moment before he responds, and it takes everything you have to hold his gaze, not to blink or flinch or look away.

Maybe you should, you think.

Maybe you should have been doing that the whole time.

At night, you replay everything, alone in your bedroom. In the absence of that nervous adrenaline you’d felt down on the street, it all kind of seems silly. Bucky knows you; he knows that you’re a terminal procrastinator and he knows that you’re always really tired after work and he knows that you never really took it seriously, the thing with the windows. It’s not so outlandish to think he’d just– guessed, and guessed right, and then felt bad about having anxiety, the way he, historically, feels bad about ever having any kind of visible emotion that’s considered less-than-palatable. And all of the things about his behavior that your brain had taken as evidence otherwise, it had been so subtle that you could barely be certain that there’d been anything there at all. He gives you so little to go off of, it’s like it renders your rational mind utterly useless, the scraps of information you feel like you have to fight to even get in the first place arranging themselves into absolutely nothing.

All you have, then, is your gut. Your instinct.

You glance over at the window. The curtain is open, and you can see the moon between the silhouettes of the buildings across the street, hanging pearlescent and full against the backdrop of the night, like the globe of an eye. Milky and opaque and sightless. Blind.

You really should lock it.

Yeah, you think, yeah, you probably should. But– just because you’d promised. Tomorrow you’ll do that, before you go to work, and then Bucky won’t have to worry anymore, and everything will be fine.

You tell yourself this, firmly, like that will make it true.

Everything will be fine.

In your dream, the eye of the moon in the window has a pupil, endless and blacker than the night sky, blown out so wide the iris around it is just this slender, paper-thin ring of color.

Blue.

You wake up in the middle of the night with a start, your blanket kicked down into a twisted heap at the foot of your bed, your bare legs and the stretch of your exposed stomach where your shirt had ridden up in your sleep staring back at you accusingly, every inch of your skin burning up and running hot like you’re fighting a fever. You’d fallen asleep without getting up to close the curtain, something you normally do in the spring and summer when the sun rises before you wake up; you tell yourself it’s just that you’re not in the habit yet, haven’t gotten used to needing to bother, because it’d been winter. But it’s the middle of the night and your body temperature feels like it’s skyrocketing and your pulse is so loud in your ears you can hear it, and when you try to lie to yourself it’s like your brain just won’t let you.

You’re shaking, you realize.

You’re not even a little bit cold.

You force yourself up out of bed on unsteady feet and you move to the window and you don’t lock it, you don’t even think to, but you do, shamefully, draw the curtains closed.

When you lay back flat in your bed you pull up your blanket, even though your skin is sticky and glinting with a faint sheen of sweat. You draw it up over your whole body, your head, too, and only when it’s covering you completely do you finally slip your fingers past the elastic of your underwear. The thoughts rush back again and you fall right into them, his name in your mouth; even if you can’t quite bring yourself to say it aloud, just holding the silent shape of it on your tongue and so close to your teeth, feels like this terrible, bloody secret—Bucky. Bucky. Bucky—

You come quickly, so quickly, well before the air starts to feel thin, but you still gasp for a breath when you throw off the blanket after, like you’d been suffocating. You force your lungs to expand out far past what feels natural, filling them until your chest starts to burn and then holding it for as long as you can.

You exhale, horribly unsteady, and draw in another, slower breath–

There’s a sound, from outside, like something scraping against brick, and your breathing— it catches, so hard you nearly choke on it.

You burrow deeper into your blanket, trembling, your whole body alight with adrenaline and your brain telling you that you’re being paranoid and something deeper telling you– or wishing, hoping, which is maybe even worse– that you’re not. That it’s–

You can’t bring yourself to think it, not even in the privacy of your own head, but you don’t even have to. Whatever brief and shallow feeling of satisfaction you’d felt– it’s already gone, like it’s evaporated, and that feverish, trembling warmth has flooded right back.

You think you might be afraid of Bucky Barnes. You’re pretty sure you should be.

(You know, though, deep down– you know you’re not.)

#bucky barnes x reader #fic; drops of blood #please tell me why this is going to finish at like 4 chapters/45k #HOWWWW!#it does not feel that long when I'm writing it

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last-ofthe-starks · 2 years

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HOTD episode 4

Some thoughts and Easter eggs:

WHAT A DOOSEY THIS ONE WAS

The choice for a female director for this episode was SO KEY. I cannot stress this enough.

Daemon and Rhaenyra chemistry is next level. I mean, wow. We open on a shot of the necklace Daemon gifted her. Having given her that necklace, it is now clear that Daemon made the first move of power over her; he exists in the back of her mind while we meets potential suiters. The excitement on her face when she sees Daemon is priceless, and tells you that she’s completely enamored by him.

When Rhaenyra is playing Westeros’ version of the Bachelorette, we see Storms End for the first time, and a member of the House Blackwood and Bracken. These are two family’s who “helped” Aegon during the conquest but absolutely detest one another. These are two houses we did not see in GOT but it’s always fun to be introduced formally to another family in this world.

Viserys really plays up his power as King when Daemon shows up. He makes a point to fill the hall, have his sword by his side, and dress up for his arrival in order to project his power and reaffirm his dominance over him. What is great though, is that despite all that and the time that has passed, Daemon still walks in like he owns the place.

Daemon and Viserys’ reunion highlights Viserys’ greatest strength and weakness: his love for Daemon. We know he deeply loves his brother, you can see how much happier he is when Daemon is there; joking and jesting with him. It’s a side to him we haven’t seen. But he is weak as Daemon says, and unable to detect Otto and Daemon’s motives every time he comes back. Daemon plays him like a fiddle.

Daemon with short hair.. wooooooie. Also, Matt Smith’s jaw bone could cut glass. He just exudes confidence. His reunion with Viserys is heavy but reiterates to us again how tangled and complex the brothers relationship truly is. He is back to gain his brothers favor again and this time an older Rhaenyra is a chess piece. My favorite shot was when Daemon was walking towards the throne and Rhaenyra mirrored him in the crowd, walking beside him but not together yet.

Alicent is positioned as an outsider a few times this episode, trying desperately to get back into the good graces of the Targaryen’s but struggling under the weight that position inevitably brings. Every time she tries to connect with Rhaenyra it’s obvious the disconnect these two have at their core. Alicent was born into thinking her only job was to be in court. Rhaenyra strives for more. Unlike the books you can really see her struggling to maintain a relationship with Rhaenyra and do the right thing by everyone. Their conversations this episode are great foreshadowing for when the two of them eventually breaking free of confines and tradition in their own ways.

We learn Corlys is speaking with house of Bravos and the rush to marry Rhaenyra to build strong alliances becomes all the more rushed. We also see that Rhaenyra is no longer a cup bearer, which FINALLY.

Daemon and Rhaenyra speaking in high valerian is such a wonderful detail that makes their interactions so beautiful and significant. They truly enter their own world when speaking. Partner that with their letters and secret meetings, and it’s no wonder they are so close. Rhaenyra white lied and swore on the memory of her mother in order to protect her and Daemon’s relationship, that is significant.

This episode reiterates what I love about this story, because the show, not the book, is able to dictate what is cannon for the first time. The book is told in the third person by multiple sources, so the moments we read about that seem so simple or one sided are now given great context and meaning. In the books Daemon bringing Rhaenyra out into the city and to brothels which simply put seemed crass (and is definitely effed up by todays standards), but in this episode we can also see how he was strengthening her character by exposing her to the realities and possibilities of the real world she was expected to rule. By showing her how the common folk feel about their family, I’d argue he is teaching her how important their opinions are, and how to be a better listener and ruler.

Rhaenyra sees people having sex for pleasure, while we see Alicent has only ever known being at Viserys’ beck and call in a loveless marriage. Daemon tells her women should be equals in control of their own pleasure, and we see that in her marriage Alicent is quite isolated and alone with no voice. The juxtaposition here was quite jarring.

Daemon 1000% got spooked by Rhaenyra kissing him back like she did. He lost his control and power over the situation, she took it, and he bolted. So much was said without words in that moment.

The writers are very clearly (and quickly) trying to show how Rhaenyra and Criston became closer in the year time jump since last episode. He seems much softer with her at the beginning of the episode. You can understand that he would be the closest person she has next to Daemon and can understand how her seeking pleasure with him could have happened organically. At the very least, she loses her maidenhead with someone she trusted and someone who cared for her too. This is a departure from the books where public perception was that Criston Cole rejected Rhaenyra and she loses her maidenhead to Breakbones.

When Rhaenyra is with Daemon, she maintains eye contact with him the entire time. When she is with Criston Cole, she does not. When they zoom in on her face after her and Criston are finished, she is not looking at him but beyond him over his shoulder. This is a great way to reiterate that she did not want Criston like she wants Daemon, she only wanted to use him for her own pleasure.

I know it is expected that Otto would have spies as hand of the King, but he still sucks so much. The way he delivers the news about her and Daemon is so calculated and the phrasing is purposefully done so that Rhaenyra looks bad. And I am SO GLAD Viserys made comments back to him accusing of being so ambitious that he would spy upon Rhaenyra, awaiting the moment to make her look bad. That said, Daemon and Rhaenyra were not very subtle, and that was clearly Daemon’s intention here. Again, he is a morally grey character!

Having Daemon screwed over by Mysaria was a nice nod to the books. She becomes a character similar to Verys. And has found agency as a woman that does not involve reproducing or using her body. Watching her exchange money with what we presume is a little bird is a nice detail we will see again no doubt.

The Daemon and Viserys confrontation scene is SO GOOD. SO GOOD.

Daemon is not a nice dude, we know that he has self serving motives and that at the end of the day he is untrustworthy. We know that he is using Rhaenyra to get back at his brother in a twisted way, because otherwise he would have denied having slept with her, and he doesn’t. But I do think he loves her, in the most complicated way ever.

Daemon asking Viserys to wed Rhaenyra is interpreted as an obvious bid to get closer to the throne, but I disagree. His earlier comments about being married for duty, but maintaining the ability to do what you want is important within your marriage are important here. He mentions wanting to restore their house to the same glory it had under Aegon’s rule; Aegon had two wives (like Daemon would if he wed Rhaenyra). It was said Aegon married his older sister for duty, and younger sister for love. Perhaps that is Daemon’s true intention as well. At the end of the day I don’t think he wants the throne, he wants his family protected and put in the best position to rule.

The Catspaw Dagger scene. Truly gave me chills. Viserys references previous owners of the dagger and one of them is Aegon (the man is mentioned constantly). This scene is a great way to make Rhaenyra come to terms and agreement with the benefits of arranged marriages, especially after her talks with Daemon. She must set herself up to succeed because being hair goes beyond her feelings, she now carry’s the prophesy with her, and that is the most important thing now.

Viserys and Otto scene. SO GOOD. I could watch Viserys remote that pin all day. This was the episode that we finally saw Viserys have a spine. We also see that despite their struggling relationship, Rhaenyra still has her fathers ear and influence. She quite easily convinces her father to finally be done with Otto and his untrustworthiness, something we know he’s recognized and thought but has not yet had the guts to do. This influence other her father proves to us once again why Daemon being linked to Rhaenyra could and would only benefit him. She is stronger willed than her father, and Daemon knows she could/would be a great Queen.

#house of the dragon #hotdedit #rhaenyra targaryen #gotedit #game of thrones #daemon targaryen #hotd #hotd spoilers #asoiaf #daemon x rhaenyra #house of the dragon 1x04 #hotd 1x04 #daemon and rhaenyra #daemon Targaryen #rhaenyra x daemon #Rhaenyra #viserys targaryen

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pjisskullourful · 5 months

Text

𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓼

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

🌼Damiano × reader

part 25 of ??? [parts 1-24]

NSFW 🔥 bigtime horny kitty energy, much dirtiness [⚠️potential trigger warning: body image issues]

° Damiano David/female reader insert

wordcount:: 12,602

° all of the requests!! a secret friend on here wanted shower sex, a reader on ao3 asked for thigh riding& an anon sent in: What do you think of the girlfriend being jealous of somebody going after/ flirting with Damiano? Given who he is I bet it would happen and I think It would be fun to see how you would play that out. Cause I can see Damiano being real cocky about his girl getting all possessive over him and then having some ✨fun time ✨ with her to show her she’s the only one for him 😍 [requests are open! but commisions are priority, secure the 5th spot in my cue here!]

° none of the lyrics included belong to me[×]

You paused from closing the fly on your high-waisted pants - you had been trying on the outfit you wanted to wear to dinner tonight, but something had caught your eye, distracting you.

A jagged, dark line reached up from just above the waistband of your underwear. This stretch mark was brand new to your eyes. It hit you like an actual wound, your mind racing.

As your throat clenched, you stopped caring about checking that your choice of outfit was cute or not. You hated this intruder on the side of your tummy. This new line was a failure on your part, maybe if you weren’t so lazy, or spent less time playing video games, you could have avoided gaining another mark in your ugly collection. You were frozen with the top of your pants in your hands.

How long had this mark been on your body? Had Damiano seen it - what did he think when he looked at it?

This was supposed to be a fun day - the day before Easter, and some friends of his were hosting a dinner that would end in an egg hunt through their garden. You were going to be meeting more of the people he had grown up with. But most importantly, you were getting to spend the whole weekend with him, there hadn’t been many of those so far this year. There was no Måneskin-business to take him out of the country, he was just your boyfriend this weekend.

You didn’t want to waste any of this precious time with your insecurities. You wished you hadn’t seen the line, because it hadn’t been as simple as noticing it. You were having a full reaction to it. The change of mood inside of you was almost a tangible sensation.

You didn’t know how to resolve it, you just knew that you wanted the unpleasantness to stop. Your solution was to physically move away from it. You undressed without completing the try-on process, so desperate to walk away and pretend this negativity didn’t exist. You just needed to refresh yourself and then you would be able to get back on the right track.

“I’m gonna have a shower.” You loudly announced without knowing if he actually heard you. He might be outside having a cigarette, or otherwise occupied too far from the bedroom.

You went into the bathroom and stopped at the vanity, pulling your hairbrush out of a draw. You took your hair down and started brushing through any tangles. Standing in front of the wide mirror, it wasn’t easy to keep your concentration on your hair. Your eyes wanted to wander, to find other flaws in the reflection to tear yourself apart over.

Until you were given the perfect distraction. Your boyfriend came into the room, his figure filling the reflection behind you. He was dressed in only a pair of underwear, wearing a festive headband on top of his short hair. It was enough to make you smile, even though you had to feign annoyance.

“Take those off.” You said as sternly as you could manage.

“You got it, baby.” He said, promptly taking his briefs off.

You were amused, even as you rolled your eyes. You turned your back on the mirror, more than happy to put all of your attention on him. “I meant the bunny ears and you know it.”

The fuzzy rabbit ears remained fixed on his head as he furrowed his brow. “I’m confused, do you want me to put the underwear back on?”

“Damiano.” You warned, but this only resulted in getting him to say your name back to you, in a sing-songy way, delivered with a positively devilish smile. “I never should have let you take the ears from my office…”

His eyes grew wide and he pointed an accusing finger at you. “You were the one who took them.”

You let this unserious discussion progress, exaggerating your shock. “How dare you accuse me.”

“No, how dare you. I was just there to pick you up from work. You were the one who pulled them out of the cute little window display and put them on my head.” He said.

“I didn’t think you were going to walk out still wearing them. And I was kind of distracted, I was working.” You added to his recollection. “Now, you have to take them off before they get stretched or broken ‘cause I’ve gotta put them back, they’ll probably be part of next year’s Easter display.”

He resisted, still. “I like them. You have to agree that they look better on me than they did in the window.”

“I agree.” You said. “Now take them off.”

The thing that was stopping you from simply snatching the accessory off of him, was the knowledge of how getting too close to him would change this situation entirely. He could physically overpower you in an instant and any illusion of you having some control would be banished.

“You can ask nicer than that, kitty.” He said, very clearly enjoying this teasing.

“Can you please take the ears off for me, please and thank you.” You said, even clasping your hands together in front of yourself to further sell it.

He cocked his head to the side. “I didn’t hear a single word you said. It’s kinda hard to hear you over all of those clothes you’re wearing.”

You reminded yourself how much you enjoyed being called a ‘good girl’ as inspiration to help you bite back any sarcastic comments. You even resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

You removed the two items that you were wearing - a bra and a pair of panties. You cupped your hands to either side of your mouth and spoke at a much higher volume. “Can you hear me now?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, did you have a request for me or something?”

“Can you please take those ears off for me, please?” You asked.

“Why, of course I can.” He said, plucking the accessory off of his head. “Here you go.”

You snatched it out of his hand, holding it securely in both of yours. “I’m gonna find someplace to hide these from you.”

“I can’t imagine why you would think that’s necessary. I’ll get the shower started while you do that, shall I?”

This made you pause from leaving the room. “Oh, you’re joining me?”

“Yeah, unless that’s not okay? I thought we should shower together, to save water.” He said.

You smirked. “To save water. Yep, that’s fine.”

You carried the confiscated item over to where you kept your work bag. It was enough to put it into your bag and shut the zipper. If he pulled it out of there he would be in the wrong - you’d both know it, and any argument would be in your favour.

When you returned to the bathroom, it was to find him standing under the stream of water. You were further distracted from your earlier issues as you admired how great he looked when soaking wet.

He turned his head and smiled at the sight of you, beckoning you in with a curling of his finger. You stepped in, sliding the door shut behind yourself. You shouldn’t have been surprised when he was instantly drawing you in for kisses, his hands cradling your face. There were times when the two of you could share a focused shower, spending as much time washing yourselves as you did making out.

But the look he had given you had indicated that this wasn’t the case for today. You linked your arms around his waist, indulging in this as the noise of the persistent water blocked out everything else. You felt how easy it would be to melt as his mouth worked tenderly against yours.

His hands left your face, slowly moving down to where the water had already reached. He started to kiss his way off of your mouth, his lips pressing against your chin before going lower. You couldn’t help arching your back into him as his lips worked across your throat. This was the closeness that you absolutely ached for when he was away, showers (like pretty much everything else) were so dull without him.

But -

“I need to wash my hair. This shower was supposed to have purpose.” You said.

He stopped what he was doing to look up at you. “Nobody’s stopping you from washing your hair. Look, I’ll even help. I’ve got lots of time to help with washing your hair these days.”

“I could return the favour and use my volumising shampoo on your hair.” You said of his well maintained buzzcut.

He wore a deadpan expression, blinking at you. “Hilarious. I swear, you’ve missed your calling in life. You shouldn’t be doing admin work- stand-up comedy, that’s where you should be. Netflix would give you a special so fast.”

“Because I’m a special girl.” You said as he let go of you to grab the shampoo bottle.

The intimacy wasn’t totally lost in this process. The two of you remained standing very close together (even though there was ample room for each of you in here) and you took every opportunity to touch him.

When he began to massage the shampoo into your scalp, you could have let out a moan of pleasure. You shut your eyes and soaked up every second of his attentiveness. His fingers slowly dragging across your scalp was the only thing that you needed right now.

“Stop making that face.” He said, his voice so stern that your eyes instantly snapped open, you were practically ready to apologise at once. “That’s a sex face and if you keep it up you’re gonna get me hard, which isn’t the purpose of this shower, right?”

You almost began giggling, you covered your face with both of your hands. “I didn’t mean to. I, I guess I was enjoying myself a little too much.”

“I’ll say.”

You parted your fingers to peek at him. “Did I really do a sex face?”

“Oh, yes. If you want me to get specific- it was your edging face. When I see that face I know that I’m doing it right and your brain is getting all empty.” He said before instructing you to tilt your head back under the stream of water.

As he rinsed all of the product out of your hair, you physically cringed. “Oh my God, I hope I don’t make that face when they’re washing my hair at the hairdressers.”

“Relax baby, I’m the only one who knows that face is linked to naughtiness.” He said.

You tried your best to stay in constant awareness, and control, over your facial expressions as he conditioned your hair. The lack of massaging on your scalp kept you from that floaty feeling.

“What do you think, is that up to your standards?” He asked, losing the careful look on his face that he had been wearing during this task.

You tested his work by running your fingers through the ends of your hair. “It feels perfect. Thank you, Daddy.” You reached out to tap the end of his nose.

“Okay, your hair is washed, what other purposes did this shower have?” He asked.

You smiled, your feet almost overlapping his on the wet ground and you wrapped an arm around his neck. "Do you want to see more of my sex faces?"

"Duh." He said, both of his hands going to your cheeks as he brought you in for kisses.

You wrapped your other arm around his middle, holding him close as you stood chest-to-chest. His fingers caressed your cheeks as his tongue slid back-and-forth along the seam of your lips. You endeavoured to get as much of your body pressed against his as possible. You relaxed your jaw, allowing his tongue into your mouth as you began to explore his body with your hands.

One of his hands left your face, meanwhile you were reaching between the two of you. You were half-anticipating where you would be feeling his hand next, but mostly you were concentrating on his little reactions as your hand travelled down lower.

You were interrupted, breaking the kiss with a gasp when the water hitting your shoulders became shockingly cold. The chill sank beneath the surface instantly and you were rattled beyond logic at first. Your eyes snapped open, searching for more information.

“Are you trying to get me out of the shower?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder to where his fingers were fixed around the hot water faucet, and he wasn’t turning it up. “Because you can just say if you don’t wanna fuck in here, I-...”

“No, it’s not that. This is gonna increase your blood flow, my fucktoy is gonna get more sensitive in less time.” As you listened to his explanation, it felt like the stream of water was getting colder still.

His hand left the dial and he held his fingers up, letting the water hit them straight away. “But if you don’t wanna fuck in here.” His eyes were set on you as he took his hand out of the stream, bringing it towards his body. “I don’t mind relocating, but I think you’ll find, if you trust me- you’ll find this very enjoyable.”

To correspond with this final word, he pushed his fingers in between your labia majora and an icy touch greeted your clit. Your gut twisted and your heart lifted as you tightened your arm around him. The intensity was immediate, making you feel as if your nerves were already on the verge of fraying as he started working the hood with his cold fingers. Your hand moved across the coarse hair on the back of his head as your eyes fluttered shut.

You couldn’t fill your lungs and you were too caught off-guard to form any coherent thoughts. “Hu-mmph…”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” He commented and you could hear the smile on his lips before you saw it.

He began to move his fingers up-and-down your slit. You gradually came back into yourself, regaining some scraps of control. You could form thoughts again, thinking beyond what he was doing with his fingers, thinking to his pleasure.

This time when you reached between your bodies, you followed through, not stopping until you could wrap your fingers around his stiffened dick. The way he was looking into your eyes seemed to egg you on and you started to stroke, slowly at first.

You were positioned more beneath the shower head than him, the driving water was impossible for you to escape. The cold didn’t just prompt dramatic goosebumps, it cut through any of the potential noise that could rise up in your mind. With your heart racing, you concentrated solely on all of these sensations, fully locked into the experience. It didn’t seem that he was going to move you out of the stream anytime soon, forcing you to embrace the way those persistent droplets made your skin sting a little.

Your nipples felt as hard as rocks when he closed his mouth around one of the peaks. The pleasure rushed through you, the strongest wave yet, which made your legs feel a little weak. You grasped to the back of his head, at the same time your other hand moved faster on his dick.

He traded off one of his hands for the other on your pussy, these fingers were freshly chilled and you let out another surprised gasp. You didn’t care about catching your breath, too preoccupied by delighting in every swirl of his fingers around your clitoris. The excitement crackled in the air all around you as he sucked on your nipple.

You arched your back to press more of your body to him, your needs growing. You rushed ahead, too eager to be content with more foreplay. Thankfully he didn’t subdue you, going along with it when you began guiding his dick towards your entrance.

He wrapped his arms tightly around you as you lifted a foot from the wet ground, spreading your cunt further and applying more of your weight to his body. You drew in a quick, shallow breath as his tip stretched your cunt as needed. In stark contrast to the water, a primal heat was born into you, radiating out from your cunt.

He transferred his mouth to your other nipple, heating you up here too. He wrapped his fingers around your thigh so that he could hold your knee against his hip. You were rocking yourself forward, his cock filling you as you sought more of his body to grind against.

He was short on breath as he looked up at you, watching how you continued to move. You bit into your lower lip, hoping that he wasn’t about to exert his dominance by making you stop, because this was starting to feel so good.

“Damn, you’re very keen to show me those sex faces, aren’t you babygirl?” He asked, his tone thankfully free of any disapproval.

“Yes.” You said over the continuous pelting of water on tiles.

“Show them to me.” He said, gripping your squishy thigh harder. “Show me.”

“Yes.” It came out a little less clearly this time and your eyes fluttered shut.

You stroked yourself up-and-down his shaft, working yourself into a pace that you hoped you could maintain. The water was freezing the bare skin on your back, but his body was heating your front and you lived in these oppositions. The cold made you more grateful for the warmth, made you keener to notice it in your body. You chased it with more determined thrusting, delivering your hips to his.

His lips left your nipple, ravishing your throat instead. You didn’t raise a complaint over the possibility of him creating a hickey that so many strangers would see, you were too locked into the good for that. And so was he, his moans vibrating against your skin.

His approval inspired you to gain more speed, caring less about how slippery the floor was. The concerns couldn’t stand up to how spectacular every collision felt, with your body crying out for more - always more.

A loud whimper ripped free from your throat in response to cold suddenly engulfing your nipple. You were surprised out of your momentum, even forgetting to breathe for a second. Your mouth hung open as you looked down and identified the cause, his freshly chilled fingers pinching either side of the peak. His eyes were on you, not missing a single reaction, he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

As you were somewhat settling into this sensation, the intensity shot up by him fucking into you. Your mouth remained agape as he followed this with more fast thrusts. He was establishing a rhythm, one of his hands grasping your ass so that he could continuously bring you forward on his dick. His other hand remained on your breast, maintaining that firm, cold grip on your nipple, which had the potential to drive you crazy.

You let all of the desperation go straight to your head, wrapping your arms around him as your release became the only thing you cared about. You wondered if he would make you wait, the thought of that made your legs want to give out.

“Oh, Daddy.” You whined as you made the effort to move with him, your body filled with frenetic energy as you chased his tempo. “Fuck, Daddy, Daddy…”

Every clenching of your cunt had you plunging deeper into the pleasure, as every collision of your bodies felt more significant than the previous. The cold water slapped your skin relentlessly, competing for attention with all of these other grand sensations.

His breathing came in heavier-and-heavier, accompanied by the occasional moans as he refused to quit working you over. His movements were consistent as he got all that he could out of this angle. You clung to him, riding out every high that he gave to you.

Between your sensitive walls you could feel how swollen his driving cock had become. And soon it was leaking inside of you. At first it was a bit of extra warmth in your pussy. Then it was an unignorable rush that was coating you as his jerking got faster.

“Ah-hu… uh, unf.” He gasped as he saw out the entirety of his orgasm deep inside of you.

You felt how he pulsed as you remained in motion. He released your nipple, just wrapping his arms around you to support you through your continuing rocking. As your eyes fluttered, unable to stay completely open, you saw how he watched you, taking in every facial expression that this sex was bringing out of you.

You reached your highest peak, slamming your body into him as you allowed yourself to come undone. You threw your head back, the stinging water hitting your face as you were stunned by your climax. The cold kept you from floating away, instead you were extremely conscious of how your body was being dazzled by this pleasure.

You felt the oxygen rushing through your blood and you were rejuvenated as you started to come down. You found yourself smiling, your earlier negative emotions couldn’t touch you in this state - you wouldn’t be surprised if you had a visible glow right now, you felt that good. And it was all thanks to your connection with Damiano.

“I love you.” You said, still buzzing even as your bodies started to separate.

“I love you too, baby.” He punctuated this statement with a quick kiss on your lips.

You planted your feet as firmly on the floor as you could manage. As he moved around you, you were again very grateful for the sight of him soaking wet. He manipulated the taps, bringing the hot water back in a way that eased any lingering tension out of your body, finally seeing the end of your goosebumps.

“How do you feel?” He asked as his eyes carefully surveyed your current state.

You pushed your dripping hair away from your face, gaining back more of your composure with every passing moment. “Great. Dirty, but clean. Did you enjoy my sex faces?”

“Always do.” He said and you got another kiss. “Now, one of the things on your menu is a shower. Is that what you wanna do for aftercare? Because I can just leave you in here.”

“Or, you can shut up and make me a cup of tea.” You said, which he went along with.

He left the bathroom behind, a towel wrapped around his waist. You were going to be in here much longer, plugging in your hairdryer. As you got to work on your wet hair, you could feel the bliss from your climax still simmering under the surface. Seeing your reflection, you weren’t focusing on any flaws because you had been granted a new energy, which felt like it could carry you through the process of getting ready. Earlier, this had seemed to be a taxing feat that would have to endure.

The steaming cup of tea was awaiting your arrival at your makeup table. You collected your mobile phone before going over to the seat. Checking the time on its screen made you worry a little, more time had been spent in the shower than you had realised.

You looked up when you noticed him coming into the room. “Is what we did in the shower gonna make us terribly late for this dinner?”

He considered the time displayed on the bedside clock. “No, we should be fine. Besides, I think what we did was very worth it, don’t you baby?”

“Don’t you dare distract me with a play-by-play, I’ve gotta do my makeup.”

*** *** ***

But he was wrong and you were late to arrive at the dinner party. Damiano tried to reassure you, telling you no one would mind that you were ‘fashionably late’.

But you worried about making a bad first impression on his friends. This only strengthened when it became clear that the rest of the guests had been waiting for the two of you. Almost every person assembled in Mia and Antonio’s dining room (and it was a sizable group) watched your delayed entrance.

Damiano was absolutely unfazed by this, swiftly making an apology to the hosts, which didn’t include placing the blame on you. Then, with your fingers interlaced securely, he made his way around the room, greeting people individually and introducing you. Even as they all smiled at you, you couldn’t help feeling like you didn’t know where you stood with these people.

Nathan quietly informed the two of you that you hadn’t missed anything important. Some gossip had been shared during the pre-dinner drinks, but nothing truly worth noting had happened.

Antonio announced that the food had been laid out in the kitchen and everyone was welcome to serve themselves, buffet-style. Before you or Damiano could make a decision of your next move, you were being accosted by a petite woman who carried the scent of a freshly-smoked cigarette with her.

“Oh my God, who let you in here?” He loudly asked as his attention went to this stranger.

“I could ask the same thing about you.” She said, stepping in close at once. “Give me a hug, you animal.”

His hand slipped from yours so that he could embrace her. The lack of distance between the two of them suggested more than just an acquaintance, but her face didn’t strike you as familiar from any of the childhood-cataloguing photo albums that his mum had shown you.

“How long has it been?” She asked, yet to notice you as she beamed up at him.

“Years.”

“Duh, Domino.” She said, giving his shoulder a playful shove.

You furrowed your brow, unsure if you had misheard her (with a house full of people, it was likely your hearing was slightly compromised). Or if she had seriously messed up the pronunciation of his name. His lack of reaction made you think the former was what had happened.

“But have an actual think about it. When did we actually see each other last?” She asked.

He gave this some consideration. “Was it Kesha?”

“It was.” She said happily. “That concert was amazing. I crowd-surfed that night.”

He rolled his eyes. “Convincing the drunk guys next to you to pick you up for a couple of seconds is not crowd-surfing.”

You couldn’t help clearing your throat. You didn’t like how you felt right now, waiting for somebody to notice you so that you could be acknowledged and included.

He instantly set about rectifying this, taking a step away from the enthusiastic stranger so that he could put an arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry baby, I totally forgot my manners there. This is Andrea, she dated my brother in high school.” You extended your hand for a shake. “And this is my girlfriend…”

“Nice to meet you.” You said. As you shook her hand, it was hard to ignore the way that she still barely looked at you - apparently all of her attention remained on this little reunion.

“You too. It’s good to see the woman who’s crazy enough to think she can keep up with this clown.” She said - what the Hell did that mean?

“Hey, watch what you’re saying. I think you will find that it’s you who is the clown.” He teased.

Her comeback was delivered within seconds. “Classic thing for a clown to say.”

He didn’t struggle for a comeback either, it was as if the two of them had never fallen out of the habit of making fun of one another. As they joked, you had no idea how you were supposed to be contributing to this conversation. This only got worse when they began to refer to things you had never heard of. All that you could do was smile and hope you didn’t look as awkward as you currently felt.

You weren’t very fond of the way she repeatedly cut him off, talking over him so that her point could be reached first. He didn’t let this trip him up, but you were keeping a mental tally of it, even as you went on smiling.

After a while you were noticing more-and-more people coming to the table with plates full of food. You weren’t the only three not in the process of sitting down.

But you were getting bored of forcing a laugh whenever they laughed and the two of them weren’t slowing down. They kept talking without much pause, meanwhile your eyes were getting drawn back to the food.

You jumped on the briefest of lulls in their conversation, giving his hand on your shoulder a little squeeze. “I’m gonna get the food before the best stuff is gone. Did you want me to put a plate together for you as well?”

“That would be amazing, thanks babe.” He said.

You stepped away from them, hearing their chatting continue as you headed in the direction of the kitchen. There were a handful of people in this room, loading up plates, considering the food on offer or having contained conversations.

You collected two clean plates from the station and approached the food-covered counter. This brought you closer to where Mia was standing, allowing you to hear what the host was saying to Liliana.

“-never had them at any of your parties before.” Liliana said.

“We’re just trying it out to see if it makes things easier. This way we can make sure all the couples get to sit together.” Mia said.

“I get that. But what I don’t get is why you stuck Andrea down the end of the table.” Liliana said, and you felt compelled to listen more carefully now. “She hates not sitting in the middle. Do you really think she’s not gonna have a bitch and a moan about that before the party is over?”

You quickly looked up, seeing Mia make a face before you went back to adding sausages to Damiano’s plate. “I know, trust that I know. I’ve been friends with her longer than you, I’ve heard more of that bitching than you. But I put her where she demanded to be.”

“Demanded?” Liliana repeated.

“Yeah, she demanded that she get to sit next to Damiano.” Mia said - something about this statement didn’t sit right with you, spawning the feeling that you should put your guard up. Even if you couldn’t articulate why.

They kept talking, the discussion regarding the assigned seats at the table moving away from Damiano and Andrea. You concentrated on just picking which foods looked most appetising. You tried to not analyse what the women had said as you added generous servings to each plate.

By the time you reached the table (a steaming plate held in each hand), you found that Damiano was already seated. And beside him, still talking, was Andrea. You sat down on the opposite side of him, providing him with the selection of food.

He didn’t let this go unnoticed, instantly turning to give you a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best, thank you baby.”

“I did a good job?” You asked.

“Yeah, everything looks fantastic.” He said, picking up his cutlery.

You were interrupted from your second bite when Andrea got your attention by saying your name. “What do you do for a living, sweetie? Or are you a professional groupie?”

“I’m her groupie.” He said.

“I work in real estate, general admin stuff.” You said, knowing that she wasn’t seeking too much information.

She wordlessly stared at you, as if this needed a beat to be understood. “Huh…”

You showed an uneasy smile. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, of course it isn’t.” She said, her eyes mainly on Damiano again. “I’m just surprised. I was expecting you would be dating a model, or some type of influencer, at the very least. Wow, I know whose day at work gets talked about first.”

You dropped your eyes, the empty hand in your lap clenched into a fist. You wished for even a shred of his natural sass, because you couldn’t think of a single thing to say. You couldn’t express yourself, nevermind defending yourself.

“Oh I don’t know about that.” He said. “Parts of my job are pretty boring. Recording music is seriously tedious, there isn’t much about my day to tell if all I did was listen to the same eleven seconds of one song, trying to decide if the pitch should go slightly up or down. I would much rather hear about the stuff happening in her office. You genuinely don’t want to imagine all of the hours this poor woman has wasted hearing me do the same three vocal warm-ups.”

You reached under the table for his leg. “I’m just grateful you don’t do it in your sleep.”

He placed his hand over yours, his fingers moving to their familiar hold. He used his other hand to operate his fork and you started to eat more as well.

That surge of being embarrassed was easing off. But you couldn’t help feeling a little inferior. You supposed that the opinion of this woman seemed significant because she had been a part of your boyfriend’s family long before you. If you had been feeling more confident tonight, then her effervescence wouldn’t seem like such a threat.

You could feel relieved when she didn’t direct any more questions at you. You continued to be bothered by her habit of speaking over him. But with so many other people around the table, you didn’t struggle to find someone else to talk to and distract yourself. You got to know Nathan better.

After clearing his plate, Damiano wanted to go out to the yard to have a cigarette. Instantly Andrea was insisting on going with him. You tracked their movements away from the table, unshakably annoyed and hating every second of it.

You didn’t want to behave like an animal marking their territory. But a lull in your conversation with Gabriella saw you unable to resist the urge to make an excuse to leave the table. Your fingers were curled up, ready to tense as you walked out of the dining room, headed for the back door.

They were the only two people on the patio, cigarettes ablaze as they chatted. Actually, ‘chatting’ didn’t seem to adequately capture what you were seeing - it was Andrea talking. She was so animated and loud, dominating the space, dominating all of your boyfriend’s attention. And it made your blood run hotter than usual. There was something uncontrollable in you that was making your reactions to this woman stronger than usual. But you didn’t know how to make it stop.

And the elevated emotions dictated your actions. You left your subtlety largely behind, making your mind up to act without hesitation, without getting locked into self-consciousness.

You walked directly to Damiano’s side, snaking both of your arms around him as you stood as close as possible. You heard her continuing to talk, but he looked at you, an intrigued smile forming on his mouth. He began putting an arm around you as you moved in to kiss him.

She could regard your job as unglamorous if she wanted. But you were giving her the reminder that you had the guy she was so desperately trying to spend time with. He didn’t mind the public display of affection, kissing you back straight away. You doubted he would be bothered by this possessiveness. You had succeeded in shutting her up.

He was smiling as you separated and you gave a little giggle before speaking. “Sorry if I interrupted, I just really missed you, babe.”

“Missed me?” He repeated, eyebrows raised, but clearly not on the verge of discouraging you. “I haven’t been out here that long, have I? I swear this is still my first cigarette.”

You deposited your hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “I know. But I got to thinking about you. I was talking to Gabriella about TV shows and stuff. I told her how we’ve been watching Orphan Black for the first time. Which made me think about- but I didn’t say it to her- about how you really woke me up that time I almost fell asleep watching it.”

His eyes grew wide. “You didn’t wanna say it to Gabi, but you pretty much just told Andrea.”

“Coffee.” You said loudly. “He made me the strongest espresso known to man, and then he turned the volume all the way up. No one could sleep under those conditions.”

“Oh man, we used to have to keep you so far away from coffee, Domino. It was the worst combination.” She said and the apparent mispronunciation got your attention again.

“Yeah. Well it doesn’t quite have the same effect on me these days.” He said.

She looked at you, surveying you as she exhaled a column of smoke. “Do you wanna know what I’ve just noticed?”

No, your mind replied. And maybe in an alternate world, you would have let her see some of your attitude. You wouldn’t be held back by shyness and the constant need to be polite, and treat her how she had been treating you.

But you kept on smiling, tilting your head to the side in a display of curiosity as he invited her to elaborate.

“She doesn’t have a single tattoo.” She stated, pointing a finger at you. You felt like she had been watching you so carefully, looking for something to judge you over. “I’m in shock over here, I literally cannot believe you’re dating someone with no tattoos.”

“Wait…”

“Did Hell actually freeze over?” She joked, speaking directly over your attempt to respond.

Fortunately, she let Damiano talk. “No, she does have one.”

You held his body closer, stroking a hand across his chest. “We got tattooed together in Japan, when I was on tour with him.”

“Yeah, we got our dragons done by the same artist in Tokyo. ‘Cause why would we buy a typical souvenir from a shop?” He said and you could sense the pride in him even in this brief retelling of that day.

But she continued to be unimpressed, making a face that saw her gritting her teeth in an uncomfortable-looking manner. “Matching tattoos? Oh, you guys… I really thought you would have known about this, Domino. Matching tattoos are the kiss of death.” You couldn’t keep yourself from sighing, but she still had more to say. “It’s a curse, even in friendships. I’m speaking from experience here, a lot of experience.”

“What if we just don’t believe in curses?” You asked.

“It might just be an Andrea-thing, not-...”

His teasing was interrupted by the loud ringing of her phone. She frowned at him as she pulled it out of her pocket. Whatever she saw on the screen wasn’t good and soon she was scowling. She answered the call with a huff.

“This isn’t a good time, Darr-... what the fuck do you mean you’re at my place?” She started to stalk off.

Damiano waited until she was out of earshot to speak. “I guess that toxic ex of hers is out of prison…”

“Matching tattoos are a curse?” You asked, your jaw clenched. “Shall I call Ethan, Thomas and Vic to ask for signs of the curse since you guys got your matching tattoos?”

“It’s all bullshit.” He said with a shake of his head and having him on your side felt validating, it helped ease some of the tension.

“Is she saying your name wrong on purpose, or does she have a speech impediment that I should be more sensitive about?” You asked.

He furrowed his brow, pausing as he sucked on the filtered end of his cigarette. “You mean Domino? That was a name she and my brother came up with when I was a tween. I had lots of pimples, ‘cause puberty. And dominoes have spots, and they thought it was close enough to Damiano for it to be comedy gold.”

“That’s so mean.” You said, finding another reason to dislike her.

“It was a long time ago, you know how siblings torture each other.” He said.

“I guess.”

He turned to face you, wrapping both of his arms around you now. “So you missed me, huh?” You felt his hands sliding down your back, travelling towards your butt. “It looks like this yard is smaller than Ethan’s, so I don’t think we could get away with sneaking off for a fuck like we did at his housewarming party.”

“I’ll save the horny kitty energy for when we get home, then.” You said.

You didn’t worry about the damage to your lipstick as he moved in, seeking more kisses. You kissed him back, relaxing into the embrace. It was a nice break to not currently hear Andrea’s voice. There was nothing to analyse in this moment, you just enjoyed how his mouth naturally moved with yours.

Once he was finished smoking his cigarette, the two of you returned inside. Soon Mia and Antonio were getting all of their guests ready for the egg hunt portion of the evening. It wasn’t just their backyard that you would be searching - they had friendly and understanding neighbours that had allowed chocolate eggs to be hidden around their front yards. Those participating had agreed to leave porch lights on, signalling that it was okay to approach their homes. Not everyone on the street had joined and you were told no one would vouch for you if you got into trouble for climbing over any fences.

The search area had been divided up, with each team of two allocated a different section to investigate. Every section had the same amount of eggs, so everyone had an opportunity to win.

The prize had come from the speciality chocolate shop Mia worked at. It was a large (about eleven inches in height), solid, artisan Easter bunny. You had already secretly decided that Damiano would be eating it alone if you two claimed the victory.

You held the cute little wicker basket in one hand, holding Damiano’s hand with the other as you walked with the rest of the group. Before you could get shown to your allocated search zone, Andrea approached, a smug-looking smile on her face.

“I wouldn’t be feeling too confident if I were you, not with Domino on your team. That guy can’t find anything, he was always losing his phone, like it fell off the face of the Earth or something.” She said.

“Good thing that was a very long time ago.” He said.

Antonio pointed you to the front yard you would be searching. You and Damiano approached with the flashlights of your phone’s activated. The rest of the party moved onto the next participating house.

You found the first egg, its foil wrapping catching the light from inside the cylinder that was attached to the letterbox, designed to hold a newspaper. There was another one beside the base of a rose bush. He noticed one on the short staircase and upon going to collect it, he spotted a second egg behind the steps, reaching his hand into the gap.

He was looking up, amongst the branches of a tree when you heard Andrea’s far-off laugh. It prompted an instant reaction from you and you took this private moment to express some of the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“I don’t know how much more I can take of her calling you that.” You said.

He looked at you, brow furrowed as it took him a pause to figure out what you were talking about. It wasn’t even on his mind. “Oh, the whole domino thing. I wouldn’t let it get to you, kitty. After tonight, you will probably never have to hear it again.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t irritating at this moment. They used it to bully you, it’s not nice to keep repeating it.” You said. “It’s not your name.”

He had gone back to searching the tree from his viewpoint, looking for something that didn’t belong. “And yet, she keeps calling me that. It’s like she thinks I have a humiliation kink, or something.”

Your mouth dropped open and you stared at him, unable to believe that he had found a new way to make you uncomfortable in this situation. This wasn’t a perspective you had considered and you instantly hated it. He wasn’t on the same page as you, he didn’t know what you needed to hear.

You couldn’t think of anything to say. All you knew was that you wanted to get out of this situation - you were tired of the negative emotions holding you down.

He seemed to realise his error after a moment, looking at you with wide eyes. “That was the wrong thing to say. Why did I say that?”

“I don’t know.” You said and your hand on the basket curled into a fist.

He had pocketed his phone, turning to you as he spoke with an apologetic tone. “That was- I wasn’t thinking, literally. Literally that was just stupidity and the worst attempt at a joke, ever. If I could take it back… Let me take it back? Please, I didn’t mean anything-...”

You showed him the palm of your hand, succeeding in getting him to stop talking. “The toothpaste is out of the tube now, Damiano. And I’m gonna walk away.”

“No, baby, you can’t.” He said, but you had already started to back away. “Let me apologise.”

“Save it for later. Truly, I just need a moment to be annoyed. We can talk about it later, when I’m feeling less… just less.”

“What about the egg hunt?” He asked with a hint of hope.

You scoffed and decided to stop being so polite, you had done enough of that tonight. You didn’t care if this action made him call you a brat, you wanted to drive home the fact that he had aggravated you.

You tossed the basket into the air, the chocolate eggs going flying as you aimed for the branches of the tree. You spun around and started to walk away before you felt the urge to show him both of your middle fingers. You walked in the direction of Mia and Antonio’s house, your breath coming in quicker than what was normal.

Your thoughts were racing as you tried to make sense of this swell of emotions. Why would he think it was okay to talk about kinks in relation to another woman? It was the wrong time for you to accept this as a harmless joke. It fed into your insecurities, festering beneath the surface, instead of being shrugged off.

When you returned to the house, you delivered your cover story of needing to use the bathroom. After visiting the toilet, you forced a smile onto your face and threw yourself into socialising with his friends. Everyone but Andrea.

You didn’t feel much like talking to him right now, either.

*** *** ***

The car ride home was filled with a lot of talking. You couldn’t walk away from him now. Potentially you could have shoved your fingers in your ears and refused to listen to him.

But your irritation with him had settled down enough that you were willing to hear him out. And you didn’t regret it, because he was seemingly done with thoughtless attempts at humour.

He opened with an apology and again stressed to you that he hadn’t meant to upset you. You nodded along as he explained how he had been able to tell that you were uncomfortable so he wanted to make a joke to cheer you up. His intentions had been good, even though he had fumbled the execution. He assured you there was no hidden meaning behind his words, telling you how much he wished he could take it back. He promised to never make another joke like it and you appreciated his sincerity.

But you couldn’t immediately snap yourself out of the way you were feeling. These negative emotions wouldn’t be so easily left behind, they would have to be worked out of your system. Time and distance from the situation would help you.

Crossing the threshold into your home, all that you were thinking of was taking off your makeup and going to bed. Maybe you would be able to put a positive spin on this whole thing in the morning.

But you didn’t get very far. Damiano wrapped a hand around your forearm, bringing you to a stop before you could get to the hallway. Your jaw was clenched as you turned back to him.

“I thought you accepted my apology.” He said.

“I did, I do. That’s what I said, are you calling me a liar?” You asked, quickly finding your way back to being fired up.

“No, I’m not. I’m just trying to figure you out right now, kitten. I don’t understand your energy. If you accepted my apology, then why are you still cranky?” He asked.

You snatched your arm out of his grasp, you were officially done with holding everything back. “Because I am. You don’t get to control my emotions. You get a lot of control, over a lot of things, Damiano. And I’m not complaining about it, I am more than happy with our dynamic. But my emotions are one thing that you don’t get to control.”

“I’m not trying to. Please, can you tell me what’s going on?” He asked, he wasn’t elevating his tone to match yours. “I am so confused and I just want to help make things better, but how can I do that when I have literally no idea what’s going on?”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Alright, we can talk about it.”

“Great.” He said with a little sigh of relief, taking a step back from you. “I’m gonna sit down, you don’t have to join me, but I think it would help us if you did.”

You walked into the lounge room with him. With how seriously he was taking this whole thing, it seemed highly unlikely that he was on the verge of cracking another unwelcome joke. You tried to let your guard down, telling yourself that he wasn’t going to give you any more reasons to feel sensitive. You sat on the couch with him, allowing a gap bigger than what was typical.

“I’m not that- at least, I don’t think that I’m terribly mad. I’m just in… a weird headspace.” You said. “And I’m sorry for ruining your night, that’s not how I wanted the night to end. But I don’t think anyone there could tell something was off with us…”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I accept your apology, I do and I listened to every word of your explanation. But it’s gonna take, like, a moment or two for me to not feel gross about it. Because you literally picked the worst time to say it.” You said.

“But why? What made my timing so bad? It’s gotta be more than just the Andrea thing.” He said.

“I’ve not been feeling so good today, just a lot of insecurities, being loud in my head and…” You said, starting to lose your ability to look him in the eye.

“How could I know that?” He asked. “Baby, I’m gonna start calling you Meryl Streep, ‘cause you’re way too good at acting like everything is fine.”

“Really, you had no idea that anything was wrong? Not even when I came up and was being all jealous and rubbing myself on you like a damn cat trying to get their scent on something?” You asked.

“Well I could tell that you were feeling a little jealous. But, I don’t know, the results were kind of cute to me, so I didn’t put any thought into it. I just assumed it was a superficial, non-serious thing.” He said.

“I was already comparing myself to her, how could I not? She’s so much more confident than me and why wouldn’t she be? She’s thinner than me, she has a cooler, more interesting, sexier job than me.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how sexy body piercing actually is. Punching holes in the ears of crying and restrained children- that doesn’t exactly sound like a picnic to me. Trying to keep people from fainting and cleaning up their messes after they don’t follow the aftercare instructions properly. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having a straight-forward career like yours.”

“She’s known you longer than I have.” You pointed out.

“Yeah, as her boyfriend’s geeky, pimple-covered baby brother. I was always just a loser, wannabe to them.” He said.

“Maybe back then, but she demanded to sit next to you tonight.” You said.

He cocked his head to the side. “Demanded, what are you talking about?”

“I overheard Mia saying it, she was talking about how Andrea wanted to sit next to you so badly that she demanded it. And that was Mia’s choice of words.” You said. “Demanded.”

He paused, he was without an immediate solution for you. “Okay, she demanded to sit next to me. Are you sure that wasn’t just to catch up with me? I mean, it has been years since we last saw-”

You jumped up to your feet, exasperation taking dominance over your other emotions. “She was flirting with you all night, Damiano. All of that teasing- if we were kids on the playground, she would have found some mud to push you into to get your attention.”

He remained seated, still maintaining his calm (you envied the logic and clarity he seemingly possessed right now). “Was I flirting back? Sincerely, did I give her any of that attention back? Because I have way more than a lame joke to apologise for, if that’s the case.”

“No, you didn’t flirt with her, but that’s not the point…”

“Actually, I think you’ll find that is the point.” He said, a hint of sternness coming into his tone now. “Just because someone flirts with me, it doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it or wishing I could flirt back.”

“But people just feel so damn entitled to you. And they’re not even shy about it. How am I supposed to not get jealous? When I’ve already got a bunch of insecurities.”

“What insecurities are loud in your head today, kitten?” He asked. “I really had no idea that you weren’t feeling at your best.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You half-mumbled your response.

“Don’t freeze me out, please.” He said. “It’s so obvious to say, but I can’t fix a problem if I don’t know what it is. We’re a great team, aren’t we? Let’s face this as a team.”

You fiddled with your fingers rather than looking at him. “I don’t wanna make you listen to me complain-... one day you’re gonna get over my insecurities, you’re gonna get sick of telling me not to believe my thoughts.”

“That’s not true.” He said but you just shrugged your shoulders. “Alright, if you’re allowed to say that like it has any basis in reality, then I’m allowed to say this: someday you’ll get over having a boyfriend that forces you to deal with a partially-long-distance relationship.” This succeeded in getting you to look up, shyly at first. “You’re gonna realise that you can have a guy with a nine-to-five, a fucking sane career. A guy that can be in bed beside you every night. You’ll get sick of sharing me with my job and you’ll find a more reliable guy.”

“You are a reliable guy. And I knew what your job was when we started dating, I knew what I was signing up for. It doesn’t take away from how much I love you, loving you isn’t a conditional thing, Damiano.” You told him.

He nodded his head. “That’s a lovely thing to hear, thank you. So what you’re saying is that my statement isn’t true, right?”

“Right.”

“Kinda like what I said about your statement. Actually, that's exactly what I said.”

“So we just cancel out each other’s insecurities and everything is great again?” You challenged.

“No, I know that it isn’t that simple.” He said. “I know Daddy is supposed to have all of the answers, but I don’t have them for this. My best guess is that we help each other with our insecurities and we get through it together. That whole team thing.”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to just make my bad mood stop.”

“I don’t expect you to.” He said and he extended his hands out to you, beginning to bridge the physical gap between the two of you. “Please don’t take this as me trying to control your feelings. But I wanna take care of you, as your daddy. Would you let me be in charge again?”

You met and held his gaze now. You had been too frazzled to come up with any solutions for yourself and you didn’t even try resisting how good it would feel to reconnect with him. You took the small steps over to him and placed both of your hands in his. “Yes, babe.”

He straightened his back, coming up a little higher now. He put one of his hands to your cheek and you allowed yourself to be drawn in for a kiss. It must have been hours since the last kiss you had shared and you felt just how much of your body responded, instantly telling you that this was the correct course of action.

“I heard you out, so now I would like you to hear me.” He said, a deep look into your eyes making his seriousness inescapably clear. “I want to help you get out of those thoughts and calm down. So I think the best thing will be for both of us to take our pants off, you’ll take your panties off too. And then you’re gonna put your pussy right here-” He gave his upper thigh a little pat. “And you’re not gonna think anymore thoughts, you’re just gonna feel good and listen to me.”

You were already undoing the fly of your jeans, but you almost rolled your eyes. “You’re gonna fuck the bad mood out of me- that’s your angle?”

He was taking his pants off as well. “You act sceptical and yet you’re going along with it, you’ve got free will, you could walk away and call me a moron.” He threw his pants aside. “And I wouldn’t phrase it that way. I just think you need to calm down and making your pussy feel good is the first step in that. We don’t have to do anything too crazy, we can go at your pace and you can safeword at literally any second.”

You dropped your underwear to the ground, looking in his eyes as you tried to not worry about the visibility of those new stretch marks (the overhead light was on, there weren’t enough shadows for you to hide in, you had to get okay with that). “Yes, Daddy.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders, ensuring stability before you moved in closer. You lowered yourself down, bringing your bare cunt to his exposed thigh - you couldn’t deny that you were feeling the beginnings of that wet eagerness before contact was made.

“I love you.” He said, he had wrapped one arm around you, holding you securely as he wanted.

You continued looking into his eyes as he gently brushed your hair away from your face. “I love you too.”

His fingers rested under your chin and he moved in for a kiss. “I love all of you, okay? I love this mouth, even when it’s saying unreasonable things.” He kissed you on the lips, then the next kiss went to the centre of your forehead. “And I love this mind, even when it’s being mean to you, I’ll still treat it with kindness.

“And your body, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life enjoying this gorgeous package that my kitty comes in.” He said, holding you in a way that eased you closer to him, briefly dragging your cunt across his skin, in a preview of the friction to come. “I want to make you feel it. Because you’ve gotta know it, you’ve gotta know that there is no part of you that I will ever get sick of. Even the bits that you don’t like, I’ll love them extra until you do.”

You couldn’t think of anything to say, so you expressed yourself by giving him more kisses. You didn’t want to dwell in your insecurities any longer and those thoughts felt like they were on the verge of floating away. He had been right - with so much blood rushing into your cunt, those cyclical emotions were getting interrupted. Of course he had been right, but you weren’t about to stall this kiss by pausing to tell him about it.

Instead you sought to deepen the kiss, placing your hand to his cheek and tilting your head. His lips parted for you and your tongue sought a deeper taste.

In his embrace, you were partially calming down. But another part of you was just getting started and you couldn’t resist working your hips. Gently, you rocked yourself back-and-forth, not rushing into any rhythm as you figured out your range of movement. You tested how steady you were, enjoying the feel of his thigh more with every rub.

He put his hands to your hips, encouraging and guiding you through more measured pumps. Your tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth and your fingers stroked his cheek as you enjoyed him beyond words.

You slipped into a momentum, a maintainable and promising tempo. As the tension in your body built, you settled more of your weight onto his leg, infusing a greater pressure into your cunt. He matched your passion with every kiss as you got his leg wetter.

He was short on breath when he broke the kiss. You kept your eyes shut, letting your head slump a little as you gripped the nape of his neck. You didn’t stop riding his thigh for a single second.

“God, you’re such a good girl.” He whispered. “Look at you go, you’re doing so well. Good girl, good-good-good girl. Do you notice how there’s only one good girl on that leg? That’s because you’re the only good girl for me.

“The only girl for me, period.” He said and when he kissed you on the cheek, your eyes began to flutter open. “The only one.” He was speaking directly into your ear now, and nothing could get in between you and his words. “Just ‘cause someone wants me, it doesn’t mean they get me. People can embarrass themselves trying to flirt with me, it doesn’t mean that they get me. People can grab me while I’m singing, they can rub my chest and treat me like a goddamn petting zoo- it’s nothing to me, they definitely don’t get to have me.

“You’re the only one that gets me. I’m yours.”

“Please don’t start singing that song.” You joked after his words had opened a direct connection to the Jason Mraz song from your childhood.

He laughed lightly. “No, you don’t want to hear it? You don’t think it suits the vibe that we’ve got going on?” You shook your head, a smile blossoming on your lips. “You don’t want me to sing for you?”

“Not right now.” You said and you reached your hand out for his crotch, where a stiff shape had been catching your eye. “I’d rather have you moan for me.”

He licked his lips, excitement flashing in his eyes as, over the material of his underwear, you wrapped your fingers around his erection. “Then I’ll moan for you.” He squirmed a little in his seat as you started to slowly move your hand up-and-down his length. “Mmn, I’ll moan for you all night, my toy.”

You matched the speed of your rocking to how you stroked his hot cock. You felt his fingers gripping your hips tighter and you watched the way his breathing was coming in quicker. He was invested in this build-up the same as you, everything feeling simpler when you allowed the desire to be your guide.

You adjusted the angle of your hips, moving yourself in a way that got your labia out of the way, applying your clit directly to his skin. You rubbed the hood against his firm thigh, picking up a little speed as the sensitivities stored in this spot soared into the centre of your attention. You kept the same tempo maintained on his dick, staying in sync with him.

He let out a heavy sigh. “You’re really showing off your multitasking skills, huh? I’m impressed, but not surprised, I’ve always known that you’re very talented. But concentrate on you, okay? That’s what I want- your pleasure comes first.”

“Mm-hmm.” This whine was the best response you could give as your throat clenched.

The heat was radiating out from your cunt as you kept going, inviting in more threats to your composure. The friction was so wonderful that you couldn’t help but recklessly chase after more of it. Even when your breath began to fail you, you kept bucking your hips. The sublime stimulation of your clitoral hood provided you with all of the inspiration you needed to continue in this momentum. Your breath left you in gasps and moans that betrayed just how needy you had become.

His dick had started to leak as you continued stroking and he appeared to be losing his ability to sit completely still. “You sound like you’re having fun.” He said and there was a noticeable strain in his voice that hadn’t been present before. “You sound like Daddy got you to calm down.”

“Yes.” You whimpered, leaning forward so you could give him a couple of kisses. “Daddy is always right.”

“Oh, I just wanna be inside of you real bad. I know I said that I want you to concentrate on yourself and I do, I truly do. But, fuck, I’m dying to feel your pussy.” He said.

“We can- I’m happy for us to fuck.” You said, bringing your swings to an end.

“Hell yes.” He said breathlessly as he rushed to get his briefs down. You readjusted, unable to resist kissing him some more as you were moved to be straddling his entire lap. “Can I keep you on top?”

“Yes.” You said, wrapping your arms around his neck as your bodies got wonderfully closer.

He had an arm secured around your waist and his hand was between the two of you, directing his dick. “I wanna hold you just like this, so that I can keep looking at you, ‘cause you’re so-... fuck, you’re so beautiful.” His tip effortlessly stretched your slicked entrance open, pressing between your keen walls. “You’re so beautiful, pet.”

Your eyelids fluttered and you gave yourself a moment as your cunt adjusted to this fullness. You took in a deep breath and raised your head again, looking him in the eye as he carefully watched you. “You’re beautiful.”

“Even though I’m a jerk?” He asked.

“It’s okay, I’m a jerk too.”

“We’ll be jerks together forever.” He said.

No further adjustments were necessary, your bodies knew what to do from here. His hand stroked the small of your back as you moved in, securing more kisses. As one passionate kiss led into another, he began to move, fucking deeper into you. You wrapped your arms tighter around him, feeling how your inner-walls were already clenching to him, your desperation soaring.

There wasn’t much time dedicated to building. He wanted it fast, he wanted friction. And you felt the same, enjoying the hunger present in his movements. As your gut tightened, you worked to match the reckless speed of his jolting.

“Forever.” He murmured against your lips.

“Forever.” You responded as fast as you could manage.

“Together forever.” He said, sending a tremor through you.

This developed into a quake that reached down to the core of your being, intensifying with each fervent collision of your bodies. You knew that when you fell apart, it would be on this deep level.

“Together forever.” You repeated.

Your fingernails pressed into his skin as you held him even tighter in response to the overwhelming pleasure rising up all around you. It was more powerful than anything else, ready to cripple you as you continued to quiver. Every bit of you was crying out for release and you shut your eyes, getting lost in it all.

“Ff-uck.” He burst out. “Ah, I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me come, babygirl.”

“Yes.” You whimpered, clenching your thighs against him in the face of his strengthening jerks.

You had no chance of matching his wild speed. All you could do was receive him as your own release came screaming at you.

He rocketed forward, almost launching himself off of the couch as he secured his orgasm. His dick was buried all the way in, colliding with your g-spot in a way that set off a series of spasms, which you followed to your own orgasm. Your cunt clamped around his leaking cock as you both fell out of the momentum, settling into silence.

He fell back upon the support of the couch, still holding you close to his body. You rested your head on his shoulder, keeping your eyes shut as everything faded away. You attempted to catch your breath as your heart continued to hammer.

He brought you gently out of your haze, his fingers slowly raking through your hair. “How do you feel?”

“Better, calmer. I’m really happy that we’re home.” You said.

“Yeah, me too.” He said. “Now it’s just you and me, and we can get started on your aftercare. Did you have anything already in mind?” He asked.

“Can I have a face mask? After I take my makeup off. And maybe we could burn some incense.”

“Of course baby, anything you want.” He said.

You got up from the couch, holding your hand out as you waited for him. “And cuddles. I’m ready for a lot of cuddles.”

“Sounds perfect to me.” He said. He took your hand in his and you left the room together.

Once in the bedroom, you took the rest of your clothes off, in favour of wearing only your luxurious black robe. You sat down with a cleansing wipe in hand, taking off what you had so carefully applied before leaving the house. He disappeared into the ensuite, his eyes on his phone as he went. Accompanying the sound of running water, you thought you could hear music playing, but you didn’t pay this much attention.

And it was gone by the time he opened the door. He stood in the doorway, a few different packets of sheet masks in hand. “Which one do you wanna use?”

“Well bring them over so I have a chance at reading what they are.” You pointed out.

He got the incense set up while you made your choice. He set the slowly-burning stick in its holder, beside the television. From the selection, you picked a strawberry-scented mask, it would match well with the vanilla incense gradually filling the room. You liked this process of curating the environment, it helped you feel more in control, most unlike how you had been feeling upon first arriving home.

“Hang on, I thought I would put that on for you.” He said when he noticed you opening the sheet masks packaging.

“Alright.” You said. As he approached the bed, you held a makeup wipe out to him. “For your leg, so you can get off any of the pussy still on there.”

“Thanks, but I cleaned it with water already.”

You laid down on your back as instructed by him. He brushed any strands of hair away from your face and took the chance to kiss you a couple of times. You smiled, slipping further into this feeling of contentment.

As he unfolded the thin, wet material, you noticed him humming a little. This developed into singing as he carefully applied the mask to your face.

“So I won’t hesitate no more, no more. It cannot wait, I’m sure. There’s no need to complicate…” He sang in a voice different from his typical, famous voice. There was none of that usual grit or power. This was breathier, potentially it could have fooled some into thinking another person was singing. “Our time is short. This is our fate…”

You recognised the tune and began giggling before he got to singing the title of the song. “I’m yours…”

“Dami.” You said, still laughing as more of the thin sheet covered your face.

“What, you don’t like your lullaby?” He asked. “You probably shouldn’t have brought the song up, then.” As he smoothed the mask across your chin, he went back to singing in that fake voice. “Do you want to come on, scooch on over closer, dear…”

“What is this voice you’re doing?” You asked.

“You don’t like it? I was trying to do something that suited the song.” He said.

“So this is your ‘indie-Damiano’ voice, or something?”

“I guess.” He said with a shrug. “...and I will nibble your ear…”

You couldn’t help laughing as he kept singing. “Are you doing an accent, are you trying to be Australian?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Am I?”

“I thought Jason Mraz was from America.”

Playfully, he rolled his eyes. “Well how would you have me sing it?” He changed his posture and when he sang again, it was in his natural, unrestrained and loud tone. “I’m your-oh-oh-uh-orss… ow…” He punctuated this by sticking his tongue out and making his eyebrows dance for you.

“Oh my God, baby.” You said through more laughter. “How do you still have so much energy?”

“Well, um, I went to, um, my friend’s house and they, like, let me eat, um, a lot of sugar and, um, yeah…” He briefly adopted the mannerisms of an enthusiastic child. A more serious expression came onto his face as he looked down at you. “I’m kind of obnoxious today, huh?”

You shook your head as you stroked his arm. “No, you’re adorable, not obnoxious. You’re also not a jerk.”

“Neither are you, kitty.”

“Andrea is the jerk and I’m sorry for letting her get to me so much.” You said.

“You have absolutely nothing to apologise for. I’m sorry that I wasn’t more perceptive to how you were reacting to her. But do you know what- we’re probably never gonna see her again, our paths aren’t likely to cross again. And if they do, I’ll be firmer with her, she isn’t allowed to demand a single thing from me.” He said.

“I love you.” You said, feeling confident that he was on the same page as you.

“I love you too.” He said and he picked up your hand, raising it towards his face. “I’m just gonna kiss you here while your lips are in slime city over there.”

You smiled as he kissed the back of your hand. You were perfectly happy to remain just like this through the rest of your treatment time, maybe longer than that.

»»————-　♡　————-««

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