#quicksand trope

[lineycantdance]

The Rings of Power S2E4 "Eldest" (2024) Hotel del Luna E3 "In a Dream" (2019)

[darkisrising]

Here's one for the fic writers out there:

[pojkflata]

Tumblr user from the 70s who posts "I'm fucking shaking this is so cursed it's so obviously a thinly veiled fetish" every time a cartoon has quicksand as an obstacle

[vunblr]

Terms of Attraction

Pairing: CEO! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning. Mention of sexual activities.

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Word Count: 13.2k.

notes: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "CEO AU".

Also, this piece is to participate in Grem's 20 Characters with 20 Questions for 20 Tropes Challenge by @gremlin-girly Using Bucky Barnes' character, "When were you going to tell me about this?" question, and mutual pining trope.

Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here.

He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore they’d never become.

The room was dim since the heavy curtains were drawn shut to block out the midday sun. The only light came from the glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the polished surface of his desk. He sat hunched over it, resting his forehead against his crossed arms.

A soft sigh broke the silence.

“Again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“This is the fourth migraine this week,” she continued, with an edge of exasperation. “I’m making you an appointment with a neurologist. You like it or not.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, mixing a scoff and a tired chuckle. “You’re overstepping.”

“Oh, it is not in your best interest to start talking about overstepping,” she shot back, arching a brow. “Want me to make a list? Ten years under you, since you were a manager, mind you. It will take a couple of pages.”

Bucky grunted in response, looking for the right words, but she was already moving, pushing the coffee table aside and clearing a space on the plush carpet.

“Come on,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You have the meeting with Schwarz in forty minutes. You know, the one I had to postpone twice already?”

Yeah. He knew. He just didn’t care.

He stayed put for a second longer, staring at the dark wood of his desk. His head throbbed, and the pressure behind his eyes seemed to crush everything. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his head “Headaches? You think I got to where I am by whining about a fucking headache?” but right now, George Barnes could go to hell.

With a slow, resigned sigh, Bucky pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the open space she’d cleared. Lowering himself onto the rug, he sprawled out on his back, letting his arms rest loosely at his sides. As the exhaustion dragged him down like quicksand, he closed his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment.

She knelt behind him, pressing her cool fingers into the pressure points at the base of his skull. He tensed on instinct, prepared to anticipate pain, even from something meant to help.

“Jesus,” she muttered, working her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his neck. “You’re tense as concrete again.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, letting her hands do their work. The pain sharpened for a moment before it started to dull, releasing the pressure just enough to make his migraine a little more bearable.

“Speaking of overstepping,” she continued, “you should really hire a professional masseuse, Bucky. Have them come in three times a week and-”

“I don’t want a stranger rubbing me up and down while I’m ass-up and vulnerable on a pansy cot.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bother correcting her. If she was talking, it meant she wasn’t hovering with that worried look in her eyes.

She worked his knots, kneading the tension from his neck and shoulders before her fingers traveled upward. With a gentler touch, she started rubbing slow circles into his temples, easing the pressure that had settled deep in his skull.

“Rebecca called, again.” She said casually, but he could hear the warning under her words. “Says you had her bloc-”

“Not now,” he groaned.

She sighed but didn’t stop. “I know you don’t want to, but just meet with the guy for ten minutes, and you’ll get her off your back.”

“I won’t waste even five minutes listening to her new fucktoy ramble about some ‘revolutionary’ idea for industrial inputs,” Bucky muttered. “I know it’s going to be some half-baked high school powerpoint with stock photos and shit. That’s the kind of man she likes to have around.”

She scoffed, still working her fingers against his scalp. “He is cute, though.”

His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move or say anything right away, but his gaze was locked on her now, sharp, unreadable, and just a little too intense. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way she said it.

“Is he, now?” His voice came out pretty even, but there was something underneath it. Something edged.

She smirked, unbothered. “Not my type, but I can see why she’s… fond of him.”

His jaw ticked, and he exhaled slowly through his nose before letting his eyes fall shut again, but the tension in his body didn’t relent in the way it had before.

Yeah. The headache wasn’t going anywhere.

Just as he was starting to relax again, the door creaked open without so much as a knock, and a head popped inside: the new intern. The kid was his father’s friend’s grandson or something, which meant he had about three functioning brain cells and the audacity to use them in the worst ways.

“Sorry to interrupt your… erm-”

“Get out,” Bucky muttered, not even opening his eyes.

“But I just wanted to know-”

Bucky sat up so fast that the guy flinched. “Get the fuck out and close that door before I send you to count staple hooks in a basement, kid.”

The intern squeaked, stumbling back before the door shut behind him in a not-very-subtle way.

"Moody, aren’t we?” she sighed, shifting her weight as she sat back on her heels. “You’re still a Sarge at heart, it seems. Poor kid almost pissed his pants.”

His jaw worked slightly at the title, but he ignored it.

“The door is there for a reason. Besides…” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, shifting his gaze away.

He didn’t say what else he was thinking, but didn’t have to. She already knew. The way the intern had found them -he sprawled out on the floor, and she knelt behind him, hands on his body- it was enough to set off the office rumor mill.

“Don’t worry. Even if you don’t get out of your dungeon very often,” she mused, stretching her arms over her head, “you do know there’ve been rumors for a couple of years now, don’t you?”

Bucky turned fully toward her, narrowing his gaze. “What?”

“Come on, like the one where I was sucking your cock on that video call with that Japanese exec from the thermoplastics deal? With the guy watching it all because the camera was badly angled?”

His face twisted, and he waved his hands. “You weren’t even there that-”

“Or, my personal favorite” she continued, “that a window cleaner saw us on full display as you rammed my ass against the glass one afternoon?”

Bucky’s expression darkened into something truly menacing. “Bullshit. The cleaning crew comes on fucking weekends-”

She snorted. “People who gossip don’t care much about facts, Bucky. That’s just how things are.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he asked with irritation.

She smirked, unfazed. “What for? It’s not like it was going to change anything. And you firing people left and right over some rumor no one even knows where it started… Not a good look.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, ready to argue with her, but before he could, she glanced at the clock.

“Ten more minutes, and Schwarz will be here.” Her tone was all business now, but then her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and assessing. “How’s your arm?”

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line.

She sighed. “That bad, huh? Lemme see.”

“You don’t-”

“I do,” she cut him off, already shifting. “It’s probably one of the things that’s got you so moody lately. And the reason I’ll probably have to send the Germans a very nice basket of goodies after you mistreat their guy.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, but when she just stood there on her knees, arms crossed, waiting, he reluctantly popped open a few buttons of his expensive shirt. As he slid it off his shoulders, the scent of his cologne -warm, woodsy, with an edge of spice- assaulted her senses.

Beneath, he wore a pristine white tank top. And, his bad arm.

Irregular scars marred the skin in a twisted canvas that sprawled up to his shoulder, a reminder of the Syrian shrapnel that had nearly cost him the limb entirely. Inside, a lattice of titanium plates and screws that held together shattered bones and torn muscle.

Bucky exhaled sharply as he rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar grind of metal and bone, and the fucking pain. Most days, he could push past it. Ignore it. But some days, like today, it devoured him, made everything sharper, his patience thinner, and his temper shorter.

She reached out. He could see the way her gaze softened slightly as she took in the limb, hovering her fingers just above the scars. She was softer, yes, but never pitied him.

He let his head tip back against the edge of the couch, closing his eyes as her hands worked their magic over the worst knots of his upper arm, easing some of the strain. He hated how easy it was for her to do this, to get him. To handle him. It should piss him off. Maybe it did.

But he didn’t tell her to stop.

As she gently rubbed on the offending limb, his mind drifted to the hospital bed, to his suspended arm buried in a mix of cast, pipes, and pulleys.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the cold bite of metal restraining his ruined arm, the dull pain buried beneath layers of medication. His mother crumpled at the foot of his hospital bed, clasping her hands in silent prayer. And his father… standing rigid, arms crossed, and a voice edged with finality.

"Well, now that you’ve had your share of independence and adventure, I assume you understand that you are meant to be with us. To serve the family the way we prepared you to."

Not a “You’ll be ok”. Not a “We’re glad you made it home alive”. Just “You’ve learned your lesson.” A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched as he stared at the ceiling, willing the memory away.

Her fingers pressed into a tight knot near his bicep, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled through his nose.

“Where’d you go?” she asked, softly.

His lips parted, with the instinctive lie ready on them -Nowhere-. But when he turned his head to look at her, he caught the way she was watching him, with that usual awareness, so he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. “Nowhere important.”

She hummed and started pulling his shirt back into place, her touch lingering a second too long on him as she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders.

“Well, master,” she teased, the title laced with mockery, “it’s almost time to see the Germans.”

Bucky huffed, dragging his hands down his face before starting to button his shirt. She moved to stand, but before she could, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Firm, warm, just enough pressure to make her breath catch.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She swallowed, willing her face to stay neutral, to ignore the way warmth curled in her stomach at the roughness in his tone.

“You know there’s no need,” she said, carefully measured, as if saying anything more might give too much away.

His grip loosened, and she pulled back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. If he noticed the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, he didn’t say a word. Once she finished straightening her clothes, she turned on her heel and strode toward the office door.

“I’ll let them in in ten, okay?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder once more before nodding. “Yeah.”

----

She had suspected it wouldn’t go smoothly, but even so, when the heavy wooden door finally clicked open, the Germans’ expressions were unreadable, stern and tense.

She cursed inwardly.

Even if the meeting had been rocky, she hoped they’d at least reached an agreement. Otherwise, in ten minutes, her phone would be ringing with George Barnes on the other end, barking at her because Bucky refused to pick up. And, as always, she’d have to endure his tirade until he inevitably demanded she put his son on the line.

With a sigh, she pulled open a drawer, curling her fingers around a blister pack of Tylenol.

Then, smoothing her expression, she knocked gently on his office door.

A low, muffled groan was the only response she got before she stepped inside.

The sight wasn’t unfamiliar. Bucky sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, covering his face with a cushion like it could somehow block out the world. She knew how this went. If the headache was bad enough, it wouldn’t be long before he was hunched over the bathroom sink, pale and nauseous, cursing under his breath. And, as she suspected, he hadn’t brought anything to help.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Should I expect a call from Barnes Senior in the next few minutes, or can I focus on other chores?”

Another groan. “I think he won’t call, but who the fuck knows? Nothing’s ever enough for him. Maybe he has a few things to say about the deal, things even a fresh graduate should know.” His voice was thick with irritation, but there was something else underneath. Resignation.

She tsked. “Good thing you don’t listen to him. Much.”

“Hmm.”

She stepped forward, holding up the blister pack between two fingers. “Here. I bring an offering that might change your mood.”

“Whatever it is, leave it on the desk. And don’t give me any calls.”

“Are you really rejecting Tylenol?”

A single half-lidded eye peeked out from behind the cushion, scrutinizing her like she’d just asked him to sign over the company. Then, he muttered, “Fuck, what would I do without you?”

She smirked. “Probably chomp the heads off the few people who still have the balls to speak to you.” She leaned against his desk, watching him sprawl across the couch, with the cushion still covering his face. “Speaking of your stellar social skills,” she said, The signing for the Research & Development Collaboration deal with Prescott got moved from Tuesday to Friday. You still haven’t told me which day you want your plane ticket booked.”

Silence.

She frowned. “Bucky?”

He exhaled sharply against the cushion before finally shifting it just enough to mutter, “About that.”

That tone set off a flicker of suspicion in her chest.

“I know a couple of the board members are going just to play court jesters,” he continued, voice still thick with exhaustion. “But…I want you there.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

He let the cushion fall away just enough to glance at her. “I want you there.” A beat. “I need you there.”

Something in her stomach twisted. Not at his words -no, she was used to being indispensable- but at the tone he used.

“I need to see-”

“You handle logistics, and you filter out unnecessary conversations. I'd rather not waste my time listening to a bunch of suits trying to kiss my ass. You keep people in check.” He sighed, tilting his head back onto the couch.

She raised a brow. “So you need me as a buffer?”

He shot her a dry look. "I need you to make sure I don’t tell the wrong person to go fuck themselves."

A flicker of something -something warm- stirred in her chest before she pushed it aside.

“Fine. I’ll book my ticket too.” she said, trying to sound unaffected. “But I want juicy compensation for being away from home in non-working hours. And, I won't babysit you the whole trip".

Bucky huffed a laugh, still sprawled on the couch, with the cushion resting against his temple instead of covering his face. “You’ll do it anyway, even when it’s not part of your job.” He gestured vaguely toward the blister of Tylenol still sitting in her hand. “You’re like a mother hen.”

And fuck, how did he like that? How much did he like her, always two steps ahead of him, anticipating his worst moods and dealing with them before they could ruin his day completely? It should drive him insane, how easily she handled him, read him, but instead, he was perfectly fine with it. He craved it.

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “Well, this time mama is getting a compensation, James,” she shot back, drawing out his name like a warning. “Because I had plans for Friday night.”

He schooled his expression, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Just like that, something in his chest twisted, sharp and possessive.

“Must I remind you that you signed an availability clause two years ago?” His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. “You agreed to be available if the firm needed you.”

If I need you. His eyes seemed to say it, even if he didn’t.

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. This is the first time you’ve ever thrown that in my face. But don’t worry, I don’t need the reminder.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m pretty sure availability doesn’t mean ownership, Bucky. But it’s fine, I’ll see my godson another day.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the cushion.

Her godson.

He exhaled through his nose, and his voice came out controlled. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You know, you could’ve just asked nicely instead of throwing corporate fine print at me.”

He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the dull ache still throbbing behind his eyes. “I know.” A pause. His fingers dragged over his temple. “Sorry, I… this is killing me.”

She hesitated for a beat, caught off guard by the unusual admission.

“I’ll approve the extra compensation,” he muttered, reaching for the Tylenol she still hadn’t handed over.

“Nah,” she waved him off. “As you said, it’s already covered in the clause. That’s why my salary was increased in the first place. I was just messing with you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “Not many people can get away with that, you know.”

“Oh, but this mother hen knows she can.” She smirked. “Just a little.”

He huffed, watching as she poured a glass of water and handed him the blister pack.

“None of that scotch after taking these, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, amused despite himself.

She squeezed his good shoulder before heading for the door, and the warmth of her touch persisted where her fingers had pressed against him.

----

The lobby was a mess of tired travelers and frazzled staff, as the storm outside cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind howled, rattling the glass as Bucky ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “A place with this many stars and a price tag that could feed a small country, and they can’t even keep track of reservations?”

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. “It’s just one night, Bucky.”

He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that we’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight, and I’d rather not spend the next hour arguing with the poor guy at the front desk when we both know they’re fully booked because of the storm.” She gestured toward the rain hammering against the glass. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the lobby, in which case, be my guest.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed the key card off the counter with a glare, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the elevator.

She sighed again, following. This was going to be a long night.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching as she took in the room with wide eyes. The Renaissance-style decor, the heavy carved furniture, the ridiculous four-poster bed with actual curtains… it was over the top, even for a place like this.

“Well, this is… something,” she murmured, slowly turning in place before making a beeline for the bathroom.

He heard her sharp inhale, then -God help him- a pleased little hum that was dangerously close to a moan.

His bad mood tempered just a little.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped further inside, glancing at the coffee table stacked with neatly packaged luxury treats. He had no doubt they came with a price tag steep enough to make even him scoff.

She poked her head out from the bathroom, grinning. “You think they’d notice if I just sat in the tub and refused to leave?”

For the first time since the airport delays, he almost smiled. Almost. Then he sat in an oversized armchair. The long flight, the delays, and the cold air outside had worsened the stiffness in his arm.

She eyed him knowingly, arms crossing. “Speaking of the tub, why don’t you take a shower? Or an immersive bath? Heat those bones a little. You’re tensing the arm a lot, you know.”

He seemed to consider it for a second, rolling his shoulder slightly. But then he shook his head. “After you. You’re cold too. Ladies first.”

She arched a brow. “I appreciate the chivalry, but you need it more-”

“All I hear right now is a hen clucking.” He cut her off, smirking as he kicked off his shoes and sank deeper into the chair.

Her eyes narrowed. “Endearing.”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, since you offered,” she huffed, “I’m going to test the tub. And don’t expect me to be out in less than thirty minutes because I won’t. If you need the bathroom, I don’t know, use a vase or something.” She said as she started to rummage on her suitcase, looking for her nightgown.

Bucky snorted, “So regal, just what this place needs.”

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped as she finally dropped the facade. Out there, she had to keep up the usual push and pull, the teasing deflections, the confidence that made it seem like sharing a room with him -sharing space with him- was just another minor inconvenience.

But alone in here, she could let herself feel the weight of the situation.

She set her nightgown on the counter, running her hands over the silky fabric before reaching for the faucet. The deep tub groaned as steaming water rushed in, the sound filling the room as she braced herself against the edge of the sink.

This shouldn’t be affecting her so much. It wasn’t the first time they’d traveled together, and it wasn’t even the first time she’d seen him this exhausted, this raw from the day. But something about tonight, about his request for her to be here, about the way his voice softened when he said he needed her there -it’s killing me- stirred something deep and restless inside her.

She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them slowly. He didn’t mean it the way she wanted him to. He never did.

She reminded herself of that fact as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, shivering slightly at the rush of cooler air against her skin. Bucky was… Bucky. Intense. Guarded. Possessive, sometimes, in ways he didn’t even realize.

But never hers.

She sighed, pushing down the stupid, persisting ache in her chest as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. This wasn’t new. She’d spent years training herself not to hope for something that wasn’t there. And yet, every now and then, he’d let something slip -a look, a word, a need- and it would take everything in her not to lean into it.

The tub was nearly full now, and the steam curled in soft ribbons toward the mirror. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her body, soothing and distracting all at once.

Bucky wasn’t doing any better.

He sat in the oversized armchair, socked feet planted firmly on the carpet,  drumming his fingers idly against his knee. The tension in his shoulder hadn’t eased, not even a little. He rolled it again, flinching at the dull throb radiating from his arm.

Maybe he should’ve taken the damn bath first. Maybe the heat would’ve helped more than sitting here, stewing, staring at the closed bathroom door like some lovesick idiot.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t into him.

He knew that much.

Women who wanted something more -who wanted him- they left hints, like breadcrumbs leading straight to their intentions. He’d seen it a thousand times in the circles he frequented. The way they gravitated toward him, playing coy with soft laughs and lingering looks. Subtle touches under the table, fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. The way they’d beam at the expensive gifts, their smiles slipping the second he showed more interest in his bed than in whatever designer bag they were parading around.

And then there was her.

She didn’t play coy. She didn’t bat her lashes or leave accidental touches to test the waters. Instead, she petted him. Nursed him. Brought him Tylenol like it was her goddamn job -which, technically, it was-. And he liked it. At first, it had been enough, her dependable presence that kept him from losing his mind when everything else was chaos.

But eventually, it wasn’t.

Eventually, he started watching for the crumbs, the hints, waiting for something, anything, that told him she saw him as more than just her boss or her friend.

And he found nothing.

Because a woman who wanted something more wouldn’t massage the knots from his arm like it was second nature, without hesitating, without blinking. Wouldn’t press her fingers into the scarred muscles like she wasn’t touching the part of him that made most people flinch.

He huffed, rubbing his palm over his face.

She was comfortable with him. Too comfortable.

And fuck, it was funny, in a twisted way, how every other woman he’d been with tried not to look at his arm -careful not to let their revulsion show- but she touched it like it was just another part of him.

Because that’s all he was to her. Just another favor.

Nothing more.

----

After exiting the bathroom in her red silk nightgown -a gift from her friends- she thanked her past self for not just throwing in an old cotton camisole.

“Well, I emptied the tub and started filling it again,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “Maybe you should go check the temperature. It’s one of the last things I don’t know about you.” She tried to keep it light, casual.

Bucky stared at her longer than necessary. He had seen her in professional clothes, casual clothes, even bundled up in thick sweaters during late nights at the office, but never in something like this. It wasn’t even that revealing, but the way the silk fell against her body, catching the dim light, made his thoughts go places they shouldn’t.

He forced his gaze away, scoffing.

“Bucky, don’t tell me you didn’t even unpack pajamas.”

“Don’t use ’em,” he said, watching her expression shift.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

His smirk deepened. “Nope. I’m more of a… natural type of guy.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to suppress a reaction. Interesting.

“Well, I hope you at least brought sweatpants or-”

“Wasn’t supposed to be sharing a room, remember?” He shrugged, stretching out in his chair. “Didn’t think about it. But don’t worry, I still have underwear. Are boxers still scandalous to you?”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I can manage a slutty pair of boxers, thank you very much”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, turning to his suitcase. He rifled through his things, pulling out the garment in question. “Relax. I was planning on wearing a robe -there are always robes in these places- to protect your maidenhood.” He smirked, but his fingers tightened around the fabric.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.

“Take the bed. You’ll probably be dead asleep by the time I get out.” He suggested.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand in a dismissive tome. “That couch is too damn small for you. You take the bed.”

Bucky frowned, standing up straight. “How the fuck could I send you to the couch? It’s irritating that you could even consider me capable of that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t be stubborn, your body-”

His expression darkened, and his voice cut in sharp. “I’m not crippled, doll. I let you play mama all you want, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown man who can sleep on a damn couch without whining like a bitch.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw her expression shift. Surprise, hurt, and something more guarded sliding into place. He had sounded exactly like his father just now, and the realization made his stomach churn. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Just… don’t be stubborn, okay?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

And as soon as he was alone, he cursed himself.

----

As she slipped under the covers, feeling the crisp hotel sheets' cool against her skin, her mind replayed the moment over and over.

The sharpness in his tone. The way his eyes darkened, his jaw set tight like he was bracing for a fight that wasn’t even there. She had only meant to be practical; his body did take more strain, whether he liked it or not. And yet, the way he snapped felt like she had crossed some invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

She stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. I’m not crippled, doll. Had she made him feel like that? She had never pitied him, and he knew it. Bucky was the strongest person she knew, even when he was constantly grumpy and in pain.

Maybe that was why she did it. The taking care of him. Because no one else did. No one else noticed the stiffness in his shoulder after long days hunched on his desk or the way he rubbed at his temple when a migraine was creeping in. People either feared him, admired him, or wanted something from him. But who was actually in his corner, making sure he was okay without expecting anything in return?

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe, to him, she was just another person putting him in a box he didn’t want to be in. She had assumed he liked it, the way she doted him, the way she noticed him. But what if, in his mind, it only confirmed that she didn’t see him the way he wanted to be seen?

----

The water lapped at his collarbones as he sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat work through the persistent tension in his muscles. His head tipped back against the cool porcelain, and he closed his eyes.

He shouldn’t have snapped at her. She hadn’t meant anything by it; she never did. She was just looking out for him, the way she always did, and he’d thrown it back in her face like an ungrateful asshole.

With a sigh, he dragged a hand over his face, water dripping from his fingertips and wetting his scruffed face. He wasn’t mad at her, had never been mad at her. He was mad at himself. Mad at the way the frustration curled in his gut over things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t deserve that. He’d make it up to her in the morning. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he would.

----

At 3 a.m., she stirred awake, blinking against the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. Her gaze landed on his silhouette, sitting rigid on the couch, outlined by the streetlights below.

She frowned, pushing the covers aside and padding toward him. “Hey.”

He startled slightly as if he hadn’t heard her coming, too lost in his thoughts. “Hey.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Rough night?” she asked, quirking a brow, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glanced at her, then quickly averted his gaze. “Yeah.” A beat passed before he exhaled heavily. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Normally, she would’ve brushed it off, waved away his apology like she always did. But this time, she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my tantrums,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. “Seems like it’s becoming a habit lately, having to apologize for them. But really, doll, I’m sorry.”

Something in her chest softened. It was unfair how easily those simple words soothed the discomfort that had been eating her since their argument. She wanted to reach for him, reassure him. “I know you’re nervou-”

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head. “I’m nervous and frustrated by this deal, yeah, but that’s not an excuse to be an asshole. At least not with you.” He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand down his face. “So don’t do that. Don’t… justify me the way my mother did with my father when he beat her up on a weekly basis.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Well, you were kind of an asshole, if that’s what you want to hear.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but she wasn’t done.

“But you also know we have the kind of relationship where I call you out when that happens. How many times have I told you to fuck off?”

His lips twitched. “Never.”

“Okay, not in those exact words, but you know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass now.”

Bucky bit his lip, letting her continue.

“I know you’ve been working on this deal for over a year. I also know your father’s been breathing down your neck about it, just waiting for you to slip up so he can shove his twisted version of ‘tough love’ down your throat. And on top of that, I know this damn weather is making your arm and shoulder miserable. So, I’m letting it pass. You already apologized; why wouldn’t I accept it?”

His face was unreadable now, all traces of amusement gone as he nursed his glass of scotch.

She quirked a brow, aiming for levity. “Or what? You got some kind of kink? Want to be punished for being a bad boy?”

Bucky choked mid-sip, coughing as the liquor went straight up his nose.

“Oh my God, you do!” she gasped, grinning like she’d just uncovered some deep, dark secret.

“No!” Bucky spluttered, still coughing, his face red as a beet. He barely managed to set his glass down without spilling it.

She knew he was probably telling the truth, but she also knew how easily he embarrassed over certain things, and there was no way she was letting this pass.

“You couldn’t sleep because you were craving a spanking? A little pinching, maybe?” she cooed.

His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with horror. “My God, woman, stop it.”

She smirked. “Tell you what: I’ll stop if you take the bed.”

“I told you I-”

“I’m still taking it too.”

That shut him up. He blinked at her, clearly thrown back.

“It’s so big my whole damn living room could fit on it,” she pointed out. “We can share, so you don’t have to hurt your masculine pride, and mother hen here gets to be happy knowing you’re not miserable on that fancy couch.”

Bucky exhaled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know…”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Tell me one good reason why this is a bad idea. We’re both exhausted, and there’s enough space on that mattress to fit two more people between us.” She raised a brow. “I promise I won’t steal your virtue.” She winked, and he nearly groaned.

Oh, but he wanted her to take it, not his damn virtue, but something else. And that was the problem.

He couldn’t even use the excuse of propriety, he was already sitting there in just his boxers, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before. Hell, she’d been massaging his arm and back for years without batting an eye.

So, really, what was he holding onto?

“Will you shut it if I say yes?” he muttered.

“Just for tonight.” She grinned.

----

She climbed into bed, doing her best to act casual, like this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Like she wasn’t hyperaware of the fact that Bucky was standing just a few feet away, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, no robe in sight.

“We have to be there at nine,” she said, adjusting the blankets around her. “So we’ve got, what… maybe four hours of sleep?”

The mattress dipped as he sat down, and she felt the shift beneath her. She told herself not to look. But when he moved to lie down, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and ended up on her side.

He hesitated for a moment before mirroring her, rolling onto his side so they were facing each other in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Even with the shadows softening his features, she could still see it, the stress in his brow, the weight pressing down on him. The doubt.

So she leaped.

Hesitating, she reached across the space between them, palm up. “You’ve got this, Bucky,” she said, in a soft but firm tone. “You’re going to do great.”

His eyes flicked to her hand, and surprise flashed across his face, but it only lasted a second. Without hesitation, he reached out with his scarred hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, and gave a small squeeze. “Thanks.”

----

The deal with Prescott went just as expected, some rough patches here and there, but overall, both sides walked away satisfied.

As requested, she had sorted through the attendees beforehand, making sure Bucky knew exactly who he could afford to ignore and who required his attention. Not that he always followed her lead, but to her surprise, he was in a much better mood than the night before.

Maybe it was the decent night’s sleep. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his nerves, he had handled the negotiations flawlessly. Or maybe it was just that he finally let himself lean on someone for just a little.

Bucky stepped out of the conference room, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension from the negotiations. His gaze landed on her instantly, curled up in one of the lounge chairs, with a coffee cup in her hands, looking perfectly calm. She raised a brow when she noticed him watching her.

“We have a cocktail party tonight,” he announced, coming to stand beside her chair.

She took a sip before answering. “We?”

“Me. The board jesters. A bunch of industrial guys.”

“Right. So, you,” she corrected, setting her cup down.

He huffed. “I want you to come.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Are you sure it’s not just for you and the board members?”

“I’m sure.”

She leaned back, studying him. “Bucky, I don’t exactly have cocktail-party-appropriate clothes lying around.”

He shrugged. “Neither do I.”

That made her snort. “Yeah, somehow, I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he said. “I didn’t pack for this, which means I gotta go get something to impress a bunch of snobs. You might as well come with me.” He caught the hesitation in her body language instantly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “That’s your only reason for doubting, right?”

She exhaled, knowing there was no way to wiggle out of it. “Yeah, that’s the only reason. But…” She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain that their budgets were galaxies apart? That the tie he’d pick out probably would cost as much as her monthly groceries?

“But what?” he pressed.

Fuck it.

“But, we are almost at month’s end, and I still have to pay the-”

“Wait. No, no,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not expecting you to buy a fucking dress, doll. The company will.”

She frowned. “Bucky, I don’t think that’s appropriate-”

“I, the director, am the one making you attend this shitty event,” he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Obviously, it’s a company expense that my secretary looks good there, because if she doesn’t, the company image looks bad too.”

She gave him a flat look. “Did you just say I dress poorly in a roundabout way?”

His jaw dropped. “That is not what I said.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Mmhmm.”

Bucky groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just let me do something nice without fighting me on it?”

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Great,” he said, already dialing a number. “We leave in an hour.”

----

The last thing she expected when he said they were going shopping was to find herself standing inside a Prada store. She had anticipated something fancy, sure, but Prada? This was a whole different level. She was almost afraid to breathe too hard, worried she’d somehow stain or break something just by existing.

A perfectly dressed clerk approached them, and the moment the woman’s eyes landed on Bucky, her posture shifted: poised, interested, appreciative. She on the other hand, might as well have been invisible.

“What can I do for you?” the clerk asked, with a voice all smooth with professionalism and something more.

Bucky barely glanced at her. “We need a cocktail dress for her and a suit for me.”

Immediately, the woman waved over a co-worker, passing her off while keeping Bucky’s attention firmly on herself.

“Were you looking for something specific?” the second clerk asked her while signaling her to follow.

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking an empire dress with a V neckline.”

“Let me show you what we have.”

----

After trying on two options that didn’t feel quite right, she slipped into the third dress. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, elegant but not over-the-top, and when she pulled the curtain open, she froze.

Bucky was standing there, dressed in a black suit so well-fitted it might as well have been tailored for him on the spot. His ivory dress shirt contrasted against his sharp features, and there was something about the way he wore the suit -confident and powerful- that made her stare.

What she didn’t realize was that he was staring right back, caught off guard as he discreetly bit at his bottom lip.

“Guess that’s the dress,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

“You think so?” She did a slow spin, letting the fabric swirl around her.

“Definitely.” He managed to say.

She grinned. “Guess that’s the suit?”

He didn’t say anything, just gave her a pleased half-smile that sent warmth curling into her chest.

After purchasing the medium heels and the purse that she tried hard not to think about the cost of, they had lunch at an upscale restaurant.

----

By the time they reached the hotel, she was still reeling a little from the whole shopping trip. The Prada bags felt almost radioactive in her hands, she could barely process the fact that she now owned something so expensive, let alone the fact that Bucky had made the entire thing seem as casual as buying a cup of coffee.

As they approached the front desk, the receptionist greeted them with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. We have the second room available now if the lady would like to move in.”

Before Bucky could respond, she beat him to it. “Good. Can I take it now?”

“Of course, ma’am,” the receptionist said, eyes flickering to Bucky for a moment, then back to her. “I’ll send someone up to move your belongings.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” she replied quickly, trying to play it off with a small smile. “It’s just a small suitcase and is already upstairs.”

“Very well, ma’am. Please enjoy your stay,” the woman said, giving her the magnetic card.

As the elevator ascended, Bucky crossed his arms and shot her a dry look. "That was fast."

"Huh?" she blinked, shifting the shopping bags in her grip.

"You practically threw yourself over the door card." He chuckled, but there was something almost edgy beneath it.

"Well," she shrugged, "I was supposed to be there from the start, Bucky. Now you won’t have to miss my… how do you call it? Clucking?" She winked.

Bucky scoffed, but his jaw worked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something. And maybe he was. Because the truth was, he would miss it.

He had no business getting used to her presence, to the way she looked after him. But those few hours they’d shared in the same bed? Dreamless. The first time in a long time his mind had given him peace. And now, standing here, the thought of losing that -even just the simple comfort of her being near- felt… wrong.

He glanced at her and found her watching him with an amused tilt of her head. He swallowed down whatever mess of thoughts he was having and shrugged instead. "I’ll survive."

----

The message came through: "Ready?"

She took a breath, smoothing her hands down the dress that still didn’t feel entirely real. "Yeah, coming out now."

Stepping into the hallway, she turned and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Bucky stood there, waiting, a few doors down. The same suit from earlier, yes, but now fully put together. His hair was neatly combed back, his scruff freshly trimmed, and the addition of a sleek watch and cufflinks only added to the devastating effect. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a high-end catalog, the kind of man people turned to look at the moment he entered a room.

Her pulse stuttered.

He caught her staring, but he didn’t call her out for it, probably because he was doing the exact same thing.

She looked stunning. That dress had already been perfect in the store, but now, with her makeup done, her hair styled just so, and the soft glow of the hotel lighting catching on her skin? He was fucking dying to close the space between them, to inhale and find out which perfume she’d chosen tonight. Would it be the one he liked the most?

His eyes briefly dipped to her neckline before he could stop himself, and his traitorous cock twitched in interest. Damn it. He forced his gaze back up, schooling his face into something composed just as she started toward him.

"You look good, sweetheart," he managed to say.

She smirked, sliding her hand into the arm he offered. "You cleaned up good yourself, boss."

----

The ride in the limo was... interesting.

The board members who had come along were in high spirits, congratulating themselves and Bucky on the deal, clinking their glasses of expensive whiskey as they rehashed key moments from the negotiation.

And yet, somehow, she was left out of the conversation entirely.

Not just the business talk, that she understood. She wasn’t part of the board. But even the petty, circumstantial chatter, the kind of polite small talk that people filled silence with, never once included her. It was as if she were just there, a piece of decoration beside Bucky, an accessory rather than a person.

Of course, to them, that’s exactly what she was.

Just his secretary. The one everybody knew he was fucking.

Now, he’d simply taken it a step further and brought her to the cocktail party, dressed up in Prada and heels, just like a good mistress should be.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

He was fully engaged in conversation with the others, discussing projections, potential expansions, and other things that weren’t meant for her ears.

She knew this would happen. The moment he asked her to come, she’d known she’d feel out of place. And yet, some naïve part of her had thought -hoped- it wouldn’t be this bad.

She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way the man across from her kept glancing up from his phone, barely acknowledging her except for those quick, assessing looks, made her stomach turn. His fingers moved smoothly over the screen, typing something, then pausing -another glance, another smirk- before resuming.

She forced herself to sit still, to smooth her dress over her lap, to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something about this moment would come back to haunt her.

----

As they stepped into the reception, they blended seamlessly into the elegant crowd. The board members exchanged greetings with familiar faces, shaking hands and making small talk. A few acquaintances took notice of her, flickering their gazes between her and Bucky before curiosity got the better of them.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” one of them asked with a polite smile.

Bucky barely hesitated. “My dutiful secretary.”

There was always a beat after that -just a split second of realization- before the inevitable, knowing oh followed.

If he noticed the shift in people’s expressions, he didn’t show it. Either he was oblivious to it or, more likely, he just didn’t care. He was too used to these circles, to their assumptions, to their judgments. But she felt it. Every curious glance, every subtle flick of the eyes that said, so, he finally brought her along.

At some point, he made a passing joke “Ten years dealing with me, just for that, someone should give her an award,” which earned a few chuckles from the men around him. She mustered a polite smile, but inside, she could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.

She needed a drink. Or a few.

Slipping away, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a Gancia cocktail, sitting in one of the fancy stools.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still deep in conversation when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. His brows furrowed immediately -he wasn’t fond of being touched- but as he turned, his irritation sharpened into something heavier.

His father.

George Barnes stood there, exuding effortless charm as always, but he knew better. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Good job, son.”

For a moment, it almost sounded… honest, proud. But then, just as predictably as the sun rising, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice lowering so only Bucky could hear the next part. “You managed not to ruin it.”

Bucky's jaw ticked. But he exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression neutral.

George straightened, turning back to the small group with a practiced smile. “Gentlemen, if you don’t oppose, I’d like to steal my son for a moment.” The group murmured their good-natured agreements, stepping aside as the older man clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder again, making his muscles coil with irritation.

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked, words laced with aggression but softened enough to avoid drawing attention.

His father’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head slightly. "It's a corporate party. Why wouldn’t I be here?"

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and his tone grew colder. "Because it's three states away, and you have no business here."

George chuckled lightly, as if this conversation was little more than a minor inconvenience. "Oh, but you are wrong, I do have business here. I have shares in Prescot & Co. Surprised?"

"In the bare minimum," Bucky replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waitress, keeping his expression carefully neutral, tightening his grip around the delicate glass as his eyes remained fixed on his father.

George’s lips quirked into something like a smirk, clearly unfazed by the tension. "I know I gave you the industrial input branch to play with, James. And you’ve been doing a decent job. But it’s never bad to be aware of what’s going on there."

Bucky’s gaze flickered momentarily to the crowd around them, trying to gauge how much of this was being overheard. He wasn’t sure if his father’s presence here was meant to make some kind of point or just another round of his usual subtle power moves. Either way, he hated the feeling that his every step was being watched and scrutinized.

"Well, I’m doing just fine without your input," Bucky said, taking a sip of his champagne, trying to sound controlled.

His father’s eyes never left him, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. "Hm, and speaking of knowing what’s going on the firm..." George drawled, glancing toward the bar where she sat. "When were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, with a casual tone but loaded with implication.

Bucky’s body went rigid at the mention of her. His eyes shot toward her, but he quickly masked the tension creeping through his body. "What is it to tell?" he shot back, trying to downplay the situation.

George sighed, like he was explaining something to a child. "Some little birds keep me informed about your affairs on the firm, son. And they’ve been signing songs about you two for years now." His gaze flickered over to her, still perched at the bar, before he looked back at his son with a smug expression.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of being patronized, and it fueled his growing irritation. He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm but laced with the growing sharpness of his frustration. "It’s all bullshit, Dad. Maybe you’ll need to pick better your little spies." He hated the insinuations, the familiar condescension that George always slipped into conversations like these. The man always had a way of making his son feel small, of making everything seem like some petty game.

George didn’t flinch. His smirk only deepened. “Oh, I know about your escapades, James. Those bimbos you dated, the ones you dared to bring home. That last one, Mandy, or Marney...” he waved a hand. “But always, always, the songs about you and that ‘secretary’ of yours remained.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he fought to keep his composure. “Jesus, Dad. It’s my fucking secretary. At this level, it’s like having a work-wife. We never asked or told you anything about Esther in what, forty years working with her?” his voice was tight, defensive.

The old man quirked a brow, looking almost amused. “Exactly.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve been fucking Esther on my desk for the last thirty of those forty years, and no one had said a word or suspected anything. Why? Because I have brains, son.” His expression hardened. “It seems I keep overestimating you, thinking you could mask an office affair as it should be.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

His father smiled. “I know more than you think.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Then you’d know that if we were a thing, I wouldn’t hide her,” he stated in a low but firm tone. “I’d parade her at every opportunity, make damn sure everyone knew she was mine.” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, more like a warning. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”

George scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d be the talk-”

Bucky cut him off with a sharp smile. “Your last name would be the talk. And that’s what concerns you, isn’t it, Father?” His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. “But since you know me so well, you already know that I couldn’t care less about the tabloids, your social circle, and, lastly, your opinion on this matter.”

His father’s expression flickered, and something dark flashed in his eyes, but Bucky didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he drew on that well-practiced smile, the kind that could fool any onlooker into thinking this was just a polite conversation between father and son. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the crowd, leaving George standing alone in the wake of his words.

----

As she nursed her drink at the bar, she became aware of someone approaching. A tall man with a confident, almost cocky stance settled beside her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, flagging down the bartender without even glancing at her.

She turned slightly, taking in the sharp suit, the perfectly styled blond hair, the smug air about him. John Walker. She recognized him from a few previous company functions, one of George Barnes’s people. He wasn’t part of Bucky’s branch of the company, but he had enough pull to be a nuisance when he wanted to be.

“Well, here I am,” she replied coolly, lifting her glass to her lips.

John smirked. “Must be nice. Traveling in style, all expenses paid…” His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, then the Prada bag she’d set down by her feet. “Guess it pays to be the boss’s favorite.”

Before she could respond, another voice cut in.

“There you are.”

Bucky.

His presence was commanding. He stepped between them, close enough that John had to shift back, barely masking his irritation. Bucky didn’t acknowledge him, his eyes were only on her.

“I need you to reschedule the Montgomery call for next week, now.” he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue easily. A perfect excuse, a simple reason to pull her away.

She blinked, catching on quickly. “Of course, boss.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, Barnes. You really don’t let her out of your sight, huh?” He took a slow sip of his drink, then added, “You should loosen the leash a little.”

Bucky went still.

It was subtle, the tic on his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides but she could feel the shift in the air.

John had no idea how close he was to getting his teeth knocked in.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I was just thinking about tightening yours.” His voice was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.

John’s smirk faltered, but before he could respond, Bucky turned to her and offered his elbow. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

He barely spared Walker another glance as he guided her toward one of the balcony doors. The noise of the party dulled as they stepped outside, and the cool night air contrasted with the heat simmering beneath his skin.

"What did he tell you?" His voice was low and measured, but she knew better. He was seething.

She let out a small sigh. "Ah, just some silly banter we usually have," she tried to deflect, stepping closer to the railing.

Bucky stayed near, and his gaze flicked to hers. “Which consists of…?” he pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp.

She sighed, realizing there was no way he was going to let it go. “God, Bucky, it’s just stupid.”

“If it’s stupid, you can tell me.” He pushed.

She hesitated, but under the weight of his stare, she relented. “Some stupid thing about being the boss’s favorite.”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, and the muscle in his jaw ticked again. "That fucking bastard," he muttered. He started to turn back toward the party, and she recognized the intent in his posture. He was going to find Walker and probably, without subtlety, give him a piece of his mind.

She reached out instinctively, wrapping her fingers around his inner elbow. "Don’t you dare cause a scene over some juvenile taunt."

"He disrespected you," Bucky bit out with restrained anger.

She exhaled, trying for humor. "Did he lie? Am I not your favorite employee?"

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “You know what he meant by that.”

She smiled a little. "I do. But I just don’t care, Bucky." Her fingers lightly curled against his arm. "I know who I am and the place I occupy. John Walker’s opinions are not relevant to me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The place you occupy?"

“Yes. As your secretary, as a friend.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest truth. “You and I both know there’s nothing between us. It’s just so stupid. He’s seen the women you associate with; how could he even presume-”

Bucky’s chest did something stupid. He wasn’t sure what, only that it felt tight and hot and made him irrationally irritated. “What kind of women?”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come on, Bucky. The Vogue cover type.”

Bucky stared at her. “The Vogue cover type?” he echoed, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter.

She let out a small laugh. “You know what I mean. The ones with the perfect hair, the designer wardrobes, the endless legs-” She gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “The ones people expect a man like you to be with.”

Bucky scoffed. “A man like me?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re rich, successful, powerful, and on top of that, handsome. It’s not exactly shocking that you’d go for-”

Bucky let out a sharp breath. “For what?” he interrupted, voice edged with something dangerously close to frustration. “A goddamn mannequin?”

She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “Bucky, that’s the only kind of woman I’ve ever seen enter or exit your office in ten years. The only kind you arrange dates with. The only kind you send flowers to,” she pointed out, her tone laced with incredulity. “Did you never notice a pattern in your partners?”

He said nothing. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He couldn't deny it. Couldn’t, because that was the kind of woman that always approached him. The kind of woman that fit neatly into the world he operated in. The kind of woman he was expected to have perched on his arm. The kind of woman who made sense.

And the kind of woman who was so different from her.

Because he couldn’t dare to be with someone who even resembled her. To be what? A cheap replacement for the luscious body and sharp tongue he really wanted in his bed? No. That would’ve been pathetic. Even for him.

And maybe he was delusional, but he could’ve sworn there was something there, an edge in her voice when she spoke about his so-called type, as if she had already decided for the both of them that they could never be a thing.

And God, he was tired.

So tired of this stupid dance that had lasted years of what-ifs, blurred lines, untold truths, and all the office gossip that never seemed to die.

His patience snapped.

“What, do you think it’s so impossible for us to be something more?”

She froze, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Well, I never perceived anything resembling -um- interest from you,” she stammered.

Bucky let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Do you think I would let anyone touch me the way you do if I didn’t feel something?”

She went speechless for a second, parting her lips, scrambling for an answer. “Well, maybe-”

“No,” he cut her off, low and heated. “And you know it. Tell me one person you’ve seen me with who has that level of intimacy with me. One person who can approach me, who can touch me, who can nurse me like a fucking child and I let them.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his words, the frustration thick in every syllable. “You won’t find anyone.”

Because there was no one else. Only her.

Bucky moved in, crowding her against the cool balcony railing, his body was a wall of heat and tension. His hands weren’t on her -yet- but he was close enough that she could feel his breath, the scent of his cologne mixed with champagne, wrapping around her like a slow burn.

His voice was low, almost rough. “The question here is… do you feel anything else besides ‘friendly’ empathy when you touch me?” His blue eyes were searching, desperate for something he wasn’t sure she could give. “Have you ever wanted this to be something more?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

His jaw flexed, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. “Am I the only one who thinks that- fuck.” His head dipped for half a second, as if frustrated with himself, before he looked at her again, with a dark, unreadable gaze. “The only one of us that feels like us could be a thing?”

His words were a shock to her system, leaving the air thick, charged between them. His hands found the railing on either side of her body, bracketing her in without touching her.

And she was also tired, so goddamn tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of thinking about what was proper.

Tired of believing she could be nothing more to him than his dutiful secretary.

Tired of swimming through dates and relationships that, even with effort, never felt fulfilling.

She looked up at him, the man she had spent endless hours working for, hours that seemed to pass in a blink. The man marked by scars, both physical and psychological. The ruthless wolf who ruled a company he never truly wanted, yet refused to let go of. The man who, in the deepest corner of his mind -even if he never admitted it- wanted to be seen by his father.

The man she had learned to read so many years ago, whose moods, silences, and tells she knew by heart.

The man she couldn’t stop caring for because no one else did. Not even himself.

The man she was in love with.

And she couldn’t deny him.

"You are not the only one who feels all of those things," she heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly aware of the distant noise of voices and clinking glasses behind them. But before she could step away, he leaned in, still caging her against the balcony railing.

Bucky turned his head slightly, scanning their surroundings. There was no one. And fuck if he cared if there was.

His intense gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you mean it?" His voice was low, almost rough. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply and took a fraction of a step back, and his hands ghosted over her arms as if forcing himself to give her space. "Aren’t you feeling pressured right now? By my position? By our… dynamic?"

She scoffed, shaking her head, "You know me well enough to know I don’t let myself be pressured. I think my first week under you made that clear."

A dry chuckle left his lips. "God. You dared to lecture me about not being a servant just for asking for a coffee."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "Oh, don’t you dare play the victim here," she shot back, jabbing a finger lightly against his chest. "You barked at me to walk eight blocks in those fucking heels just because you wanted that petroleum filth they called gourmet espresso. You had five excellent coffee shops between here and there, but no, you had to have that one, which charged you double for dirty water."

Bucky let out a low, amused hum, catching her hand before she could retreat. His grip was firm but soft, and his thumb glided absentmindedly over her knuckles. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

"I thought of firing you on the spot," he admitted, almost reflectively.

Her brows lifted. "Oh, how gracious of you not to."

His smirk deepened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his other hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb.

"But then I realized," he murmured, tilting his head, "I got so fucking turned on when you didn’t cower and spoke your mind."

Her breath caught as his fingers slid back, cupping lightly the base of her neck.

"It’s so goddamn rare," he continued, dipping his voice into something huskier, "to find someone in these circles who actually says what they mean. Who doesn’t just… bend."

His grip tightened at the back of her head, and his fingers fisted in her hair, undoing part of her hairstyle as he tugged just enough to tilt her face up toward his. His pupils were blown wide, dark and consuming, the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the heat behind them.

"But I'd be lying," he murmured, as his breath brushed against her lips, "if I said I haven’t thought about bending you in other… more pleasurable ways."

A tingle ran down her spine, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The heat rushed to her face, completely unaccustomed to this side of him, this raw, unveiled hunger. The daily life they shared, the comfort they had built over years of working side by side, had nothing to do with the way he looked at her now.

Like a predator.

A handsome, fucked-up predator, ready to consume her whole.

And she was going to let him.

Far in the back of her mind, the worries of what this would mean, of the implications of crossing this line, of the scandal and gossip if anyone found them like this, all of it faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his body crowded hers against the railing, and the way his gaze locked her in place like she was something he had no intention of letting slip through his fingers.

She tried to feign a little nonchalance. "Is this your pickup line for fancy cocktail parties? Telling a lady you want to bend her?"

His low chuckle rumbled against her, his amusement laced with something far more dangerous. He didn’t pull away when she tried to call him out. No, he attacked.

"Oh, I think this lady enjoyed it very much," he murmured, brushing the shell of her ear with his lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The way she squirms under my gaze tells me everything I need to know."

The warmth of his breath made her shiver as his manicured stubble grazed her cheek, rough against the softness of her skin. Strands of his loosened hair tickled under her chin as he slowly turned his face, skimming his lips over hers, just the ghost of a touch, but it set her entire body on fire. Without thinking, she pressed the softest peck to the corner of his mouth.

And that was all it took.

He let go.

To hell with the party. To hell with his father, the endless charade of appearances, and whoever might walk through those balcony doors.

His other hand fisted the fabric at her lower back, yanking her against him as his lips crashed onto hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, deep, possessive, and unrelenting. His expensive suit wrinkled under her desperate grasp as her fingers clawed at his lapels.

Her purse tumbled from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when Bucky was pressing her against the railing, caging her in, one large hand tightening its grip on her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.

He kissed her like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. Like he was sealing something between them, something untold but inevitable. His tongue parted her lips and swallowed the soft gasp that escaped her own.

Her knees weakened, but he was there, securing his grip as if daring gravity to try and take her from him. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against her mouth as she arched into him, digging her nails into his shoulders.

Without even thinking, he pressed a thick thigh between hers, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.

Bucky felt it, her body’s reaction, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened their hold on him. His grip on her waist grew firmer, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to imprint himself on her, to make sure she felt him everywhere.

"That’s it, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, his lips barely leaving hers as he spoke. "I can feel how much you want this."

His thigh flexed, pressing up against her just right, and she bit down a whimper, tilting back her head against the railing. Bucky took advantage, latching his mouth onto her exposed throat, scraping over the delicate skin with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

Her hands fisted his suit, wrinkling the pristine fabric even further, but he couldn’t care less. Not when she was trembling against him, not when she was letting him take control, letting him push, pull, and claim in ways neither of them had dared to acknowledge before tonight.

His breath was uneven when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils blown wide, hunger and something far more dangerous swirling in that stormy blue. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled, his grip constricting on her waist as if he might just drag her away.

For a moment, she teetered on the edge of saying yes, of letting him whisk her away and finish what they started. But then reality seeped in: the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, the weight of eyes that could turn at any moment.

She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to press against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. “We… we can’t.”

“Like hell we don’t,” he countered, as he dragged his thigh between hers again. The friction made her bite her lip, shifting her hips instinctively toward him, betraying her resolve.

“Don’t be a brat,” she murmured. “You’re here to make connections, to pretend you give a damn about these people. Not to mention your father’s just waiting for you to slip.”

“I don’t give a fuck-”

“Bucky.” She exhaled, calming herself. “This is good for you. A couple of hours, and then we can go.”

His exhalation was sharp, and his grip faltered for just a second before his forehead came to rest against hers. He felt dejected. She let her fingers trail down his lapels, smoothing out the wrinkles she had put there.

“Honey,” she murmured, softer now, “I want this as much as you do.”

His lips parted, ready to argue, but she pressed a finger to them, shaking her head. “No. You told me you wanted me on this trip as a buffer, to help figure out who you can be a dick to and who you can’t.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Maybe I just wanted you close.”

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it. Instead, she dragged her hands down his arms, squeezing his wrists before stepping back just enough to force some distance. “Shush. I’m doing what I’m supposed to.” She smirked, playful now, tilting her head. “Don’t be stubborn. Be a good boy and talk to those people. We have plenty of time for ourselves once this ends.”

His nostrils flared, and for a second, she thought he might argue. But then, with one last lingering touch along her waist, he huffed a quiet curse and pulled away.

She was right. He knew she was right. But seeing her all disheveled against the railing, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in uneven little gasps, none of it helped his restraint.

Which was exactly why, instead of stepping back into the party like a man with self-control, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a darker corner of the balcony.

“Bucky! What-”

She barely had time to protest before her back met the cool stone wall, and his body caged hers in, shielding her from view.

“I’m being a good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You failed to perceive how you -and probably I- look right now.” His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tilting her chin up, and his eyes swept over her face and down her neck, to where her dress was slightly askew from his hands. “We can’t walk back in there looking like two horny teenagers who made out while the adults were talking,” he said, ghosting his lips over her temple, in a teasing but firm tone.

She swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver as his hands roamed her body, smoothing over the wrinkles in her dress and fixing his own tie with a frustrated sigh.

“And whose fault is that?” she muttered, smoothing out the lapels of his suit jacket before reaching lower to straighten the part of his shirt that had somehow come untucked during their little ordeal.

Bucky chuckled, watching her fuss over him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare throw this on me when we both know you were pretty damn excited a minute ago,” he teased.

Her hands stilled, lips parting in protest, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as one of his hands abandoned its pretense of decorum and slid down to cup her ass, squeezing with deliberate firmness.

She yelped, smacking his chest, but his smirk only widened.

“Now stop being so bossy and help us look mildly demure,” he murmured, all mock innocence, though the way his hand rubbed slowly at her rear said otherwise.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she batted his hand away, not that it did much, considering he was still crowding her against the wall like he had every intention of misbehaving again, and his scent clung to her like a second skin.

“Demure? After what you just pulled?” she scoffed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on her dress. “The nerve you have,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to regain some composure.

Bucky chuckled, slow and smug, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as he watched her. “And yet, you let me and enjoyed it. And… you’re still here,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

She exhaled, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “For now.”

His eyes darkened, and his amusement flickered into something deeper as he leaned in, fanning his warm breath against her temple. “For good.”

Taglist: @civilbucky

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

[clairdelunelove]

it's the way that having itadori yuuji as your best friend would be disastrous if you ever dated someone else. it's not glaringly obvious the first couple of times your significant other spots you with the blushy haired male; waiting for you outside the shop's fitting room, surprising you with a freshly baked dessert from the local bakery, or ruffling your hair when you announce some positive news. but it's the tiny details that are automatically picked at and asked about first.

'we're just super close, that's all,' you once confessed to them when they confronted you about it.

and sure, the word close was an understatement when (on more than one occasion) your partner caught yuuji's gleaming eyes fixated on your glossy lips. or how, when the three of you are eating out at a restaurant, yuuji intentionally reaches over the table to swipe at the corner of your mouth due to your messy eating. only to bring his thumb back to his lips to lick it off with a light-hearted hum. it certainly doesn't sit too well with the new boyfriend you managed to woo. thus, questions are raised, arguments get heated, and you've given the exact same reasoning every time they interrogate you.

'he's naturally friendly to everyone.'

'he's just a nice guy!'

because who was your new partner to say that you couldn't spend time with yuuji? what would that make them? the villain, obviously. because yuuji's extremely likable. he laughs at cliche jokes, only makes promises he can keep, and goes the extra mile to include everyone in conversation. his character is unmatched. there are many that aim to be a fraction of the man that yuuji is. he even goes out of his way to guide the elderly across the street or helps carry the grocery bags for single mothers. and the notion that all your exes can agree on is that, it's crazy, but yuuji's almost too perfect. equipped with a beaming grin and boyish charm that captivates the hearts of others. not to mention the ripples of raw muscle that he conceals beneath layers of clothes; don't even get your previous boyfriends started on that.

because, for some odd reason, there’s always a scenario that comes up where yuuji has to strip in front of you. he spills water on his hoodie or you’re cold so he gives you his jacket; whatever happens and suddenly your gaze shifts greedily to the expanse of skin that’s unveiled to you. the golden, veiny physique that he rarely flaunts despite how much you unknowingly hint towards appreciating. 

and they just can’t fathom how to compete. this guy is the epitome of the trope ‘the boy next door.’ yet, there are some that set out to outdo yuuji. the ones that refuse to give up due to pride and jealousy. they tell themselves that they won’t lose to some wide-eyed, blushy haired friend. and it’s that hot, boiling pride that later comes back to bite them. 

because like the descent of quicksand, once it starts– it doesn’t stop. as in, yuuji completely outshines them in every way. 

like the time where your boyfriend invited you out to the newest bar that just opened up in town. it’s preppy with their illuminated, colorful ceiling lights and booming music– the perfect place for sprightly young adults to relax and enjoy the evening. and perhaps it would’ve been enjoyable if you were in the right mood to revel in the electric energy. but you weren’t. 

“I’m just not feeling up for it,” you explain while sheepishly biting your lip, “kinda just wanted to stay in tonight. can we do that instead?” 

yet your boyfriend dismisses your suggestion with a wave of his hand and reassures you that you’ll love it. this place had an incredible rating, after all. you’ll enjoy it and it’ll be better if the two of you leave early to get decent parking. plus it was in the busiest part of town so it was bound to be popular. ‘they have a lot of new drinks you can try,’ he spurs, ‘just suck it up this time and we can do something at my place next weekend.’ 

so like the people pleaser you are, you agree. perhaps you’d find it in you to live it up. bask in the thrill of a long night. but you find out rather quickly that you’re on the verge of being blinded by the flashing lights and decor. you can’t move without bumping shoulders with a stranger. you can’t think without your thoughts being rudely interrupted by drunk individuals that hiccup through an apology. you can’t even spot where your boyfriend went in this mess. and you’re just so overstimulated; head ringing with the promise of an oncoming migraine. cupping your hands over your ears, you attempt to block out the deafening music in order to actually formulate some logic on what you should do in this situation. how could he just leave you alone in this crowd? you weren’t expecting to be separated from him, let alone be left in the corner of the room. you didn’t even want to come. all your effort was for nothing. your chest feels heavy and your heart drops at the realization that you wouldn’t even be in this turmoil if he’d just listened to your unease. to put aside his own personal pleasure and attend to yours instead. your fingers are shaking. and in situations like these, where you’re on the verge of breaking down, you pull out your phone and dial the first contact that pops up. 

-

“comin’ through!” 

you hear his voice before you spot him. a crisp, clear tone that causes you to lift your gaze in desperation. and he’s on the move. wide shoulders pushing through the crowd of scantily dressed bar-goers, he curses beneath his breath and bulldozes his way to you. his soft, pink hair bobs at the rate he’s moving and the revelation that he genuinely came hits you like a freight train. because he’s here— here to rescue you from this overpriced, overcrowded bar. still, he looks out of place. clad in a loose jacket and loungewear, he certainly doesn’t fit the criteria of coming to an expensive bar. in fact, his outfit gives the impression that he haphazardly threw on whatever he could get his hands on before sprinting out the door. and little do you know, that’s exactly what he did. though, his sharp features and built physique don’t go unnoticed. there are a couple teasing remarks that leave the painted lips of women occupying the dance floor. their gaze dips to survey the bar’s newcomer. your ears burn at their advances as you shift on your feet. their words are flirtatious, frisky, and bold– saying the right compliments that’d charm typical men so they could have their way with them. 

yet he treads through, undeterred, his tender gaze never leaving yours as he passes by them. 

“you okay?” 

it’s the first inquiry that leaves yuuji upon making his way to you. always the type to ask about someone else’s well-being before assessing his own. his brows are knitted in a frown as his soft whisper almost causes your composure to crack. and even through the bar’s blaring music you can pick up his voice from anywhere because you search for him in everything. he scours your face, shiny eyes pinballing across your soft features to check in on you. 

“you actually came here for me?” 

the observation leaves your lips in a breath of disbelief. on a weekend, a time where many were called into the promises of a long slumber, your best friend shows up in accordance with your plea for help. like how a superhero rescues the vulnerable civilian in those comic books that yuuji adored reading when he was younger. the tears that welled up in your reddened eyes have dried due to his arrival and your fingers itch to reach out in a need to hold him. 

he blinks owlishly and scratches the back of his head, “‘course I did! you called.” 

and he says it so simply; like his life’s purpose was to fulfill your happiness and beckon to your every word. crossing your arms over your chest, you’re abruptly reminded of the outfit you’re wearing. while he’s clad in clothes that are so inherently yuuji, you’re dressed in an overly extravagant getup that drapes along your curves. it’s different from the typical wardrobe that’s in your closet that he’d recognized. he steps closer to you, his comfort automatically enveloping you in warmth, and instantly starts to unzip his jacket. 

“yuu,” you begin to say while glancing around, “what are you–”

“you look good.” 

you freeze. it’s not the first time yuuji’s given you a compliment before, of course not. he’s an affectionate person by nature. but it’s always been said in passing— the occasional murmur before you walk out of the door or a hushed whisper as he’s leaving. the words are uttered in secrecy. he respects you and is aware that the flattering remarks are too intimate to verbalize when you’re with someone else. 

doesn’t mean what he says is any less true, though. 

“too much? sorry but,” he lightheartedly chuckles as he fiddles with the jacket around your shoulders, “jus’ don't like the idea of everyone seeing you like this.” 

and you’re stumped, burning to the tips of your ears due to his rather endearing words. feels like fuzz is sticking to your tongue because he’s so honest. and you know he is, that’s why you adore spending time with him– you admire him for it. yuuji wouldn’t mention something so significant if it wasn’t true. and the gaze that he’s fixed upon you is like there’s nothing in the world that he finds more beautiful than you. not the sun that hangs in the morning to brighten the day. not the moon that’s barely visible from outside the building’s windows. not even the entirety of the galaxy can compare to the light that you radiate tonight. so perhaps your effort to show up wasn’t entirely in vain.

“let’s go.” 

lifting his hand, he rests it against the back of your neck and starts to part the crowd for you. he’s made up his mind. enough of this stuffy, raucous club. once you called him, he already knew that this wasn’t the type of activity you wished to spend your money and time on. but don’t worry, he’ll make it all better. leave it to him. and there’s a glimmer of determination in his honeyed eyes. his fingers graze the strip of your soft skin, a sort of gentle protectiveness conveyed in his touch. 

and naturally you follow him. how could you not when his grip on you is comforting yet exhilarating? enraptured by his sweet words and warmth, you erupt in goosebumps whenever he’s around. yet he’s completely unaware. instead, he cutely mumbles to himself on where the exit is, glancing at the neon illuminated signs for a clue. he was comfort, security, and need– all in one. 

you let him guide you closer. 

on your way out, however, the two of you end up crossing paths with your boyfriend. busy chatting up a group of distinguished, young partygoers with an amber drink in his hand. his face is flushed bright red, most likely from the alcohol and perspiration from the humidity within the room. yet, there’s a carefree grin on his face as he gossips with a girl that’s hanging by his side. the whole night you were frantically waiting for him and he was here– cozying up with people you’ve never seen. and at first, it’s anger that courses through your veins. until it morphs into confused regret. a part of you thought it was strange to spot him just as you were leaving.

yuuji notices where your dazed stare drifted off to and he carefully treads over to your boyfriend with you following his trail. 

“I’m taking her home,” yuuji says. 

it’s a declaration. a statement. yuuji won’t listen to any half-baked excuse or alibi that your partner might come up with. 

your partner’s eyes widen at your unexpected arrival and he immediately stands up from his chair. his eyes bounce from yuuji to you, disbelief written on his face. can feel the beginnings of embarrassment lashing at him. he knows he’s messed up and gotten caught. so he does what he does best. glancing at the way yuuji’s hand is splayed on the back of your neck and the dark jacket draped on your shoulders, his brow knowingly raises towards you. 

“uh, I’m surprised you’re here,” your partner acknowledges yuuji’s presence with a quick once over, “did she call you?” 

and there’s no remorse in his voice. not an ounce of concern for your well-being despite the way you stand in front of him. he’s just worried about his own wounded pride due to the fact that yuuji’s upstaging him in every way. there isn’t any time to cry a river though because your brain suddenly short-circuits when yuuji’s thumb starts to absentmindedly stroke at the sensitive part of your neck. an act of comfort that causes warmth to spread throughout your body. using his grasp as leverage, he tugs you closer to him until you’re desperately gripping onto the front of his shirt and you let out a yelp of revelation. because from this angle, there’s a sharp glint in yuuji’s eyes that you've never seen before. a huff bordering a chuckle escapes from his lips. 

“are you surprised? really?” yuuji asks rather rhetorically before smoothly shrugging, “I’m not surprised.” 

and yuuji’s hand falls to wrap around the curve of your waist to prove his point. a knowing grin twists on his face when you instinctively curl yourself against him, a blush dusting your cheeks. your partner or rather, ex-partner, clicks his tongue while turning away. the exchange was over. and just like that, it’s obvious that yuuji’s dedication towards you has won again. he’s rescued, comforted, and bandaged up all your troubles tonight. shown you the image of reliability and trust. you’re familiar with the nature of his devotion for you is always growing and never-ending. and you might’ve made a new realization.

you’re in love with your best friend. 

[itsapipedream]

Welcome welcome to my vey messy aftg fic master post *cheers*

Okay okay okay so this will be all my fav fics and then some, I'll be uploading it from time to time with the new things I read <3

Ah also also I will be put the authors' names from AO3 to have some consistency

Series

I Will Always Choose You series by NikNak22 miscommunication, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort

Travelers series by unrise_and_death uncompleted, AU, kind of soulmates

best thing ever writen I'm still crying about it not being finished...

Lessons in cartography series by profenity post-canon, the best characterization of Andreil I've ever read

Shut Up, This is Love series by lady_flash first long part post-canon, LDR, angst, one shots for the rest of the series

Healing series by Lostintheuniverseslies post-canon, Neil goes to therapy, healing, incredible work probably my fav post canon series

New Tricks series by likearecord AU, rommates Kevin-Alli-Neil

on the tip of my tongue (say something) series by Willow_bird post-canon, recovery, selective mutism, ASL, comfort

The Manny series by orphan_account AU, dad Andrew, past character death

progress comes in small steps series by Ominous multiple POV, kind of post-canon, twinyards shenanigans

Branches of Solace series by Lostintheuniverseslies AU, small town, plant store owner Neil, bookstore owner Andrew, PTSD

SW AU series by Punkin_Carcass explicit, sex worker Andrew, porn with plot

Tales From Foxhole Aquarium series by Fortheloveofexy merman Andrew, human Neil

AUs

Fell for a match made in hell by yourinsomnia reality show, strangers to lovers, this was SO GOOD, they also play exy but Neil never went to plameto

under the kitchen lights (you still look like dynamite) by ephemeralsky neighbors, disabled character

in another life by bazookajo94 Neil writes letters to a "fake" person that ends up being Andrew, no exy

quicksand by likearecord no exy

Firelight by sundowne camp, second chances

If You Love Me, Come Clean by sundowne exchange student, soft, FWB

Why do we feel alone? by Leocante writer Andrew, translator Neil, disabled character

i'll be seeing you (wherever i go) by melopeya, TeoMoy musicians, getting back together

does the dog die at the end? by stillmadaboutpetra disabled character, slice of life, fucking fantastic

The Heat is On by NikNak22 A/B/O, alfa Andrew, omega Neil

Flavors of Fall by NikNak22 small town, slice of life

12 Ways to Woo a Minyard by NikNak22 college, all the romantic tropes

Take This Lonely Heart by simonsrosebud highschool, not mafia but Nathan is still a piece of shit, soft Andreil

Such a Fool for Sacrifice by likearecord Author Neil, bodyguard Andrew, canon torture

Andrew's Kill List by sundowne 5+1, friends to lovers, explicit

The Sun Still Rises by mordax Neil has a little brother, follows canon general plot

Dear Advice Guy by fuzzballsheltiepants paramedic Neil, advice column, manic pixie dream girl Andrew

Point Nemo by moonix one shot, disabled character

Odd Eye by tdashshirts one shot, angst, hurt/comfort

Act Of A Life Time by chaoticas_hell actor Andrew, agorapgobic Neil, flufiest shit ever, ansgt, self harm, lots of comfort

Finders keepers by honeyyghostt childhood friends to lovers, the best thing that ever happened to me

Post-canon / canon compliant

never fallen (from quite this high) by crystalcrow THEE Andrew POV of the OG trilogy

Unbiased and Reliable Results by yourinsomnia explicit, roommates

Kiss My Skin (Burn Me Baby) by Ma_Dude one shot

the right words by rwnjun one shot, 5+1

body count by gay_irl one shot, trading truths

knee socks by tamarsilan one shot, smut

if you really love nothing by seasy33 post-canon, angst, secrets, forgiveness

Feverish Minds by Ficswithcloud Sick Andrew

Call Me By Your Name by Fortheloveofexy petnames, explicit

Baltimore Blues by SpangleBangle Andrew's POV Baltimore

eidetic by hitchups explicit, bottom Andrew

deep down (i'm still just a wreck) by hitchups post-canon, trauma, bottom Andrew

Tell Me Where To Touch You by Fortheloveofexy one shot, comfort, shot Andreil, massage

Paint me a picture of you by Ficswithcloud post-canon, healing an injury, injured Neil

Blooming (Only For You) by NikNak22 post-canon, angst, gardening, miscommunication, Andrew's POV

If Only I Were Enough by Lostintheuniverseslies post-canon, long distance relationship, break up, angst with a happy ending

flashes of intimacy by mostly_maudlin post-canon, introspection, intimacy, comfort

No straighter path than to struggle by otatop post-canon, sick character, sick Neil, PTSD, ansgt

Not Nothing by TheRainbowElectric one shot, 5+1, post-canon

i only need the working of my hands by allyasavedtheday post-canon, temporary amnesia

people problems by loveroulettes one shot, post-canon, LDR, angst, miscommunication, OOC

Deep pressure by Kingfluffkinss one shot, post-canon, slef-harm

Muscle Memory by elesary post-canon, amnesia

lazy, fractured pieces by flitwickslittlebrotha post-canon, explicit, emotional hurt/comfort

Got Me All Choked Up by pistolpidge one shot, explicit

Pretty Boy by Justthislazy 5+1, miscommunication, hurt/comfort

[moonshynecybin]

my second entry for motogp rpf summer camp!!! this time for the prompt “only one bed.” now i perhaps did not respond to this in the spirit of the traditional trope but nonetheless there’s a bed. and there’s only one of them. and i felt like writing some angst. yayy

Marc knows it isn’t him. He knows that.

Because Alex had explained it to him gently, pulling the covers up around Marc’s shoulders as he curls into bed, knees up around his chest. Marc— it's not real, he had said, and smoothed the hair back from Marc’s clammy forehead with the soft hand of a mother. Marc’s shaking, joints stiff and coltish, weaker than they should be. Just can’t seem to get warm these days.

“He’s, it isn’t him— you're seeing things. You’re exhausted, you’ve been up for days. Marc, you need to sleep.” Please. Alex is saying, in a voice that starts tight and close like it does when he’s upset. Alex doesn’t like other people to know when he’s emotional, but Marc can always tell anyways. It’s usually because of him.

Alex is speaking nonsense, though—- because its right there watching them, tilting its head and squinting its eyes with its arms crossed. Alex, unlike Marc, is not a liar, though. And he looks and sounds very scared, and Marc gets things wrong about stuff like this, sometimes. Doesn’t realize the dog isn't friendly until it bites him.

So he tries to take care of his brother. He ignores the blue eyes darting fast around the room like silver fish flashing in water. He listens to Alex. He takes the little white pill he gives him, swallowing around the chemical taste it leaves as it works its way down his cottony throat. Obediently, he slumps into the dreary tangle of the bed.

When Alex leaves, the door is not closed all the way, a nervous habit from the days Marc’s arm was at its worst. He must really be worried.

Like then, Marc doesn’t sleep, and time slips.

Blood pools in his veins, sluggish and lazy in the way it moves around his body. It’s a chore, for the time being— staying alive. Flickers weakly like a flame with too little wax. He's heard things get better, but that's hard to think about when you’re in the thick of it and reality is like quicksand. Easy to sink into if you try to move.

The air changes. It knows Alex is gone. Reality slinks in like a cat.

He doesn’t open his eyes, because he already knows what he’ll see, and because Alex told him to sleep.

“Ah, what an actor.”

Marc doesn’t move, sinks further.

“You are not sleeping, I can tell, so stop pretending. You know, you used to sleep more, all the time I remember—after we fucked you would always flop over on the other half of the bed and bam! Like the dead. I would always wonder– how does he do it so easy?” A snap of fingers and Marc flinches. “Like a switch.”

A pause. It pangs through Marc. Maybe the hallucination has remembered what it is. Maybe it is going to leave, and stop haunting him.

Like the dead. Is he allowed to say that? Marc wonders, absently. It's a little funny.

“I am asleep right now.” He answers. He has to be, this a nightmare.

“Ha, no you’re not, I can tell.” Smug repetition. Marc can picture it— hands on its hips probably, a jaunty lean to its posture. When– before— Marc would pretend to be asleep in the morning, he would lean over Marc and start peeling covers off of him as he lay there, limp, and when that didn't work, he would start on Marc’s underwear until Marc cracked open an eye. Then he would always start to laugh, the sound bursting between them like the juice of an orange, sweet and sharp.

Flayed out of him, Marc makes a harsh, pained noise that the thing across the room mistakes for disagreement.

“I can! I've watched you do it, enough.”

Marc swallows around the hot lump in his throat. He hasn’t cried yet. Maybe today he will.

“You haven’t watched me sleep in a long time.” He hasn't watched him at all in a long time. He'll never watch him again. It shudders through him, ice-numb at the ends of his fingers.

The presence draws closer.

“Tell me then—why can’t you sleep?”

“I'm mad at you.” He spits. He is– he’s furious, out of his head with it. So mad it can’t compute in his brain, can’t be processed as anything that makes sense. This wound takes a different shape then the others, with the option to hope so firmly bolted shut against him, and it swirls in him in frigid, churning waves.

“What for, this time?” It says, sardonic, snorting loudly. Marc hears footsteps, right next to him. It’s not like all the other times, Marc wants to scream. This can’t be fixed with enough time. This is forever.

“You can’t do anything about it.”

“Have I done anything worse than this?”

���No.”

“Then what did I do?” An impossible weight on the bed. His smell.

“Don’t.”

The pressure doesn’t stop, creeping up behind Marc’s back to where they’re almost touching. Marc covers his arm, protective, and pushes his face into the cloying fabric of the pillow.

“Why not?” The words are soft, worn out— old fabric that made him up. That used to be one of his favorite phrases— why not? It's a good impression, stitched neatly across its mouth.

“This isn’t real,” Alex said so.

“Marc, please, hm?” He sounds thinner now, weary and threadbare. “I'm tired. I want to lay down.”

“You can’t.” Marc begins to cry, face twisting out of the carefully arranged mold he had it in, safe in the shield of the pillow.

“Why not?” A whisper. Fingers, maybe. On the back of his neck. Taking comfort or offering it, Marc can’t decide. His chest heaves.

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

There’s a second of quiet. The fingers— are they fingers? Or another thing he’s wishing into existence, just like he always did with him. They smooth the hair behind his ears. It arranges itself around Marc, cradling him close.

“Marc?”

A pause. Marc thinks— if I don't answer, he might go away, and it bolts through him hard, a gut instinct pull towards him that he’s never quite been able to shake. His mouth, open, breath ragged:

“Yes?”

“I don't remember getting here.”

Marc swallows, thick and painful. Nods slowly.

“This— it is your house, yes? In Madrid?”

Its tone of voice— it’s new. Clearer, Marc thinks, and— scared, maybe.

Another nod. Watery.

“What happened?”

It laughs weekly. Marc doesn't, he’s freezing, the joint where his skull meets his spine frosted over and heavy, his jaw thick and clumsy. His stomach sits like lead in his body.

“Why am I here? Why— are you crying?”

He opens his mouth to say his name and finds that he can’t.

“Why didn’t your brother talk to me?”

He squeezes his hands into fists. Fingers— hands now, solid ones, deadly cold, move to grip his shoulder.

“Am I dead?”

Marc turns over and opens his eyes.

Vale trembles against him.

“Yes.” Marc croaks.

[artbyblastweave]

what, in your mind, is the difference between a story being predictable (solid foreshadowing, well constructed and clearly telegraphed story arcs, early and solid establishment of themes) and "predictable" (trite, cliched, overreliant on stereotypes). because sometimes it really feels like a case of "our glorious tropes" vs "their barbarous cliches" where the only real differenc is just "well i like this one more so i dont care if i can see where the story is going"

I've never really come up with a satisfying answer to the "their barbarous cliches, our glorious tropes" thing, and I don't really think I'm going to; my respect for a story's execution is often bound up in my respect for the overall project, which is often contingent and vibes based.

An example of this- around Easter, I was doing a review (since on the backburner) of a bad pulp sci-fi novel from the 60s called The Day They H-bombed Los Angeles, which is, basically, the exact kind of referent fiction for the pastiches present in Fallout. I found it interesting as a time capsule but not good in any meaningful way- but the thing is that it did contain a plot twist, right. Well telegraphed, logical within the rules set up within the story, more visible on a second readthrough (although still pretty visible on the first readthrough.) It borders on active genre commentary, even! But it's embedded in a book so thoroughly mediocre and of-its-time in its prose and politics that I can't bring myself to be enthusiastic about or even fair in my assessment of the solidly workmanlike elements. And on the other hand, I know for a fact, right, that if I'd encountered this book as a small child, if it had been a formative read rather than a curiosity, I'd be running defense for the exact same elements that I'm writing off right now, scrambling to find something worthwhile to latch onto and elevate in order to validate my one-time tastes, in order to escape the sense that I've built my entire sense of aesthetics on a foundation of quicksand. Which is what I think a lot of people are doing a lot of the time.

So, you know. It is what it is.

[jame7t]

Have you ever seen a red eyed tree frog?

Despite the beauty and rarity of this jubilant beast I really thought I’d see more of them when I was a kid. It’s like quicksand. Jungles and sand attack are such common tropes in juvenile media that were training our youth to expect the red eyed tree frog aground every corner. But that’s not true. It’s swiper

[mercy-thompson-fanfiction]

Master Post of my Leah/Bran fics as of 6/18/2025

Aka As Of When I Queued It

Concrete Hearts SERIES: https://archiveofourown.org/series/4635409

A little bit of emotion from Bran. Some motherhood tropes/Grandma Leah. Currently finished up with Leah musing a little bit. They are “separated” and pretending to work on it but really neither of them knows what to do.

Gifted and Talented: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62898625

Started as humor. Turned to light angst and came back. Mentions of Sherwood and sibling dynamics that aren’t quite-canon but nonetheless.

Blow a Fuse: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62276659

I have been told that this one makes people sick, so I guess that’s something. I guess it’s angst. It hurt to write but was also lowkey therapeutic.

When No One’s Around: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62271229

Lighter. Bran on a slight ego trip. It’s sweet, really.

Seem’s The Devil’s Always Winning SERIES: https://archiveofourown.org/series/4548778

This is a little angsty, I suppose. The third part is arguably the worst part. Per the tags, if you’re a woman who has ever been called hysterical or crazy for no good reason, then you probably don’t want to read it. Or do. It was therapeutic to write for a reason, I suppose.

How the Mighty Fall: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63653101

I mean it’s depressing as shit. I don’t know what else to say, but Bran is trying. He’s not very good at it, but he’s trying.

Keeping Time https://archiveofourown.org/works/63833080

For Bad Things Happen Bingo card spot "Journal/Diary Entry"

Cetirizine https://archiveofourown.org/works/63900664

For Bad Things Happen Bingo card spot “Bleeding Out” which happens in the first five seconds. And then it’s just lack of communication. Warning for NSFW dub con

To Die Upon a Kiss https://archiveofourown.org/works/64133899/chapters/164564800

Sherwood makes an appearance. Leah regains her memories. It’s kind of funny.

A Quicksand Trap https://archiveofourown.org/works/64789720/chapters/166491610

Rated E with some Irish Catholic guilt version of smut. Bran pretends to lore dump but he’s shit at it.

With the Seasons https://archiveofourown.org/works/64629898

Bran reflecting on all of his shit communication skills that fucked life up.

Venom https://archiveofourown.org/works/66524746/chapters/171580165

Leah trying to end herself. Bran planning for his demise. Asil being a jackass.

[quinloki]

quin-uhhh:

would you?!

Fic authors self rec! When you receive this, reply with favorite five fics you've written (include links, and if you want- a few thoughts about each one), then pass on to at least five other writers if you're up for it. Spread the self-love ✨

If you don't, I'll just... I'll just... well I won't do a thing but please?!

many fist pumps,

▲ I'm a symbol now

\o/ Tri, my sweet friend, you are - if anything - a symbol of good cheer =D ♥

Let's see, five favorite fics I've written. That's much easier than trying to pick just one ^_^

Birds of a Feather Marco/Reader ( tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - This is my most recently completed fic, at least at the time of this post, but I love it so much. My passion for Marco feels like it came out of nowhere and has made itself reigning champion in my thoughts. But a story I expected to be relatively short, ended up almost twice as long as I expected, and it was so easy. It was fun to write, and I think it goes down smooth, despite being nearly 90k words people consistently devour it in a single sitting.

Quicksand Sir Crocodile/Reader ( tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - Not sure if you're a fan of the sandy crocodile-themed warlord? Tread carefully, reading this title is statistically likely to convert you. Quicksand has an alternative ending because the story was originally intended to be a very dark Yandere - to the point that Doflamingo would've been the "good" guy. That's not how things went, and I'm quite glad for it. Quicksand going its own direction is what helped seal the deal in creating the Tales of the Grandline Metropolis, which is currently 3.8 completed stories. (it'll be at least 8 before it's done).

A Light Touch Eustass Kid/Reader ( Ao3 / Wattpad ) - My first Eustass Kid/Reader story. Set in the same AU as Quicksand, it was started from a pun, of all things. I figured Kid would be fancy tech stuff like neural-linked prosthetics, and the idea that would make a prosthetic for the reader after they lost a hand was something I wanted to write. Creating something like that would take a light touch, and if it glowed, that would be a different kind of light touch and getting close to Kid requires a light-- you get the point. Like I said, it's all based off a pun, but I'm really proud of the story, it's one of my favorite re-reads.

Some Direction Zoro/Reader (tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - A Modern AU where the government mandates who you marry. I have to give thanks to @lyndsyh24 for not only inspiring me to write this one (start to finish in a single month, I was obsessed!) but also for allowing my to play in the AU she'd built up. From Matchbook to the laws themselves, it's all thanks to Lyn. Zoro started out as one of my favorite characters in the series - I still have love for him, and I'm always happy to write him, but he's taken a bit of a back seat to my top three. Still Some Direction is a story I'm really proud of - even if I worry there'll be a mob after me for who the antagonist is 😅

Family Ties Doflamingo/Reader ( Ao3 / Wattpad ) - I was torn on this last choice - even with five slots it's hard to decide between stories I suppose ^^; Also, oops, apparently I only put the first ten chapters on tumblr... I need to fix that >.> Ahem, anyway, Family Ties is the first fic I wrote after over ten years of not writing at all. It's my first reader insert, my first true multi-chapter too. When I wrote it, it was the longest fic I'd written by nearly 50k words. I wrote it because I wanted a more morally ambiguous reader compared to what I'd been reading. It's not a dark fic though, it's pretty tooth-achingly sweet, honestly, but it's currently the only fic I have where the reader is a murderer in a very undisputed and direct manner.

Honorable mention I almost posted as piece 5 - The Dragon's Clause - my Sabo/Reader Noble/Fantasy/Magic AU, and also the only title I mention that's incomplete. But it's a an ode to my favorite genre, and a great many of my favorite tropes.

[cornyonmains]

On season 3 episode 15. I was wondering when we were getting a 'Timmy is stuck in the well' episode and here we are. I love that America can't let go of this trope. Getting stuck in quicksand? A passing fad of the 90s. But putting a small child in a well? Timeless.

Sidenote: As a queer person, I need to validate all the shippers in the audience right now. That scene where Josh insinuated Maddie was trying to set him up with Buck was crazy work. It's hard to miss the fact the host of the Throwing Shade podcast was the one who delivered that line. At this point, I am 100% viewing this character as queer until the narrative says otherwise. Because that scene was more than subtext. That was a very culturally queer crew behind the scenes trying to find a way to confirm Buck was queer in a way they could slip past the censors.

[reddeadsredhead]

I think you've mentioned John & Sean having a more sibling relationship than what the game showcased? If so than would you be alright with sharing what shenanigans you see the two getting up to?

I don't mind that! I feel like Sean and John bicker a lot, more than Sean and Arthur do. They do love each other, but John can't stand Sean at times, and there are things Sean can't stand about John either. I actually see Sean having a bit of resentment towards John for not being a better father to his son like Arthur. The main difference here being Sean had a good or at least caring and engaging father and knows what it's like, and Arthur did not. Though Sean is younger than John and responsibility isn't his biggest thing, family is very important to him, at least in my opinion. Thus I see Sean nagging John about this in his own way, and it being another one of the things that makes John groan.

I always liked to imagine the trope of "two bickering idiots are stuck together and they're forced to work together and realize they have more in common than they thought" with those two. At the end they'd share some whiskey by the fire and John goes "you ain't so bad" which Sean can't help but smile at.

Maybe an incident where one of their wagons got stolen in the night and those two were in charge of it. They'd try to track it down and they'd be fighting each other on whose fault it is in the first place. Sean accidentally steps in quicksand and panics; John has to pull him out, then of course John's guns goes off by mistake and Old Boy kicks him off into some brambles, silly stuff like that. They laugh at each other's misfortune, but are quick to help. If portable cameras existed back then, you bet they'd have been taking pictures of each other in their most embarrassing moments.

I also imagine when they were younger, like in their late teens/early twenties respectively and Sean had just joined the gang, Sean would blame John for a few of his fuck-ups, sometimes starting fights, and sometimes they'd have some disagreements on how things went down when something went wrong due to them. They'd try to beat each other to Hosea or Arthur or Dutch so their version of how things happened would be heard first. They're not very far apart in age so to me they'd have the vibes of siblings that are only a few years apart.

Sorry if this isn't great, but it's what I came up with :)

[sxrrandomfanfics]

100 Different Media To Write For in 2025

Current Status - Fics: 31 Media Pieces: 23

January 2nd - Psychonauts "One-Shot" January 2nd - Death's Door "I am a Reaper" January 5th - Psychonauts "Baby Talking to Animals is Completely Normal No Matter the Circumstances" January 11th - Helluva Boss "A New Argument" January 11th - Mouthwashing "Fish in a Birdcage" January 13th - Psychonauts "Precognition" January 23rd - Slay the Princess "Diary of Jane" January 25th - Psychonauts "Love Hurts (you and me and everyone around us)" January 26th - No Straight Roads "You Don't Regret Me, But I Regret You" January 27th - Sky: Children of the Light "Stone Cold" January 27th - Rain World "Oh. That'll do it."

February 15th - Psychonauts "Earth and Sea Chapter 24" February 16th - OK K.O. Let's Be Heroes!"Sweet as Candy Chapter 42" February 17th - The Owl House "Weight of the World" February 18th - Tangled "Wash Day" February 19th - Pokemon "Don't Forget, You Still Can Fight" February 20th - Vampire Husband "Aren't You Tired?" February 21st - Digimon "That One Trope Where they Fall for the Pet and Not for You" Frebruary 22nd - DC Comics "Baby, it's Cold Outside" February 23rd - Steven Universe "Let Me Serenade You" February 24th - Abrahamic Religions "Immortal Curse Means Forever (But at Least You're a Bandage)" February 25th - My Ghost Friend "Can't a Woman Have Cleaning Boy Fantasies?" February 26th - Fire Emblem "Sorry, You Can Go" February 27th - Detective Grimoire "I Think Scars are Kind of Badass"

March 11th - Slay the Princess "Quicksand" March 15th - Psychonauts/The Wizard of Oz "In Which a Witch Loves a Witch" March 17th - Dark Cloud "Understanding Something Incomprehensible"

April 6th - Psychonauts "Glass House" April 15th - Limbus Company "Dude, Your Mom Fucking Sucks." April 16th - Psychonauts "Hazel Nuss AUs"

May 1st - Limbus Company "Please Come to Bed"

June 21st - Limbus Company "How Does One Comfort a Droplet?"

Things I could Write For

Sonic

Shining Force

Jentry Chau Vs. The Underworld

Dan da Dan

Undertale

Gravity Falls

Amphibia

Inside Job

Kill la Kill

Shin Megami Tensei

Ace Attorney

My Little Pony

Secret Saturdays

Generator Rex

The Pretender

Dungeons and Dragons

Cult of the Lamb

Powerpuff Girls

Dexter's Laboratory

Star Vs. The Forces of Evil

My Hero Academia

Yu-Gi-Oh!

Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts

Villainous Flags- All Paths Lead to Doom!

Scissor Seven

DragonTales

Clifford

Pucca

Crash Bandicoot

Spyro the Dragon

American Dragon Jake Long

Danny Phantom

Kim Possible

Courage, The Cowardly Dog

iCarly

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Ernest and Celestine

Spirit - Stallion of the Cimmaron

Watership Down

Second Hand Lions

Jumanji

Zuthura

The Little Mermaid

Aladdin

Hercules

Shrek

Madigascar

How to Train Your Dragon

Rise of the Guardians

Grimm

Xiaolin Showdown

Lili & Stitch

Atlantis: The Lost Empire

Treasure Planet

Dinosaur King

The Great Mouse Detective

The Rescuers

Up Up and Away

Sky High

The Princess Protection Program

The Wizards of Waverly Place

The Suite Life of Zack and Cody

Anastasia

Land Before Time

Adventure Time

Regular Show

Teen Titans

Static Shock

Batman

Flash

Superman

Law and Order

Grimm Adventures

Jimmy Neutron

Fairly Odd Parents

Spongebob

50 First Dates

The Princess Bride

Johnny Test

Dragon Ball

Code: Lyoko

Miraculous Ladybug

Avatar the Last Airbender

Totally Spies

Big Bang Theory

The Simpsons

Futurama

Terraforming Mars

Centaurworld

Maya and the Three

The Book of Life

Coco

The Bible

Genesis's Discography

Mitski's Discography

6Teen

Total Drama

Mao Mao: Heroes of Pure Heart

Big Hero 6

Baby Mouse

Calvin and Hobbes

Cavetown's Discography

Captain Planet

Ben 10

The Incredibles

Moomin

Spot the Dog

Between the Lions

Pinocchio

Snow White

Sleeping Beauty

Cinderella

Foreigner's Discography

Nightmare Before Christmas

The Santa Clause

Rankin & Bass

Warrior Cats

Wings of Fire

Yes's Discography

Chowder

Tom and Jerry

Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack

Spirited Away

Kiki's Delivery Service

My Neighbor Totoro

Howl's Moving Castle

Castle in the Sky

Sailor Moon

Ducktales

Chopped

Kirby

Blue's Clues

7 Deadly Sins

Little Witch Academia

Delcious in Dungeon

Spy x Family

Kingdom Hearts

Frozen

Ancient Magus Bride

Inside Out

Star Wars

The Lord of the Rings (Rankin and Bass movie)

Aggretsuko

Klaus

Chess

Checkers

Star Trek

The Amazing World of Gumball

Cells at Work

Ouran High School Host Club

Hilda

Dead Endia

Bomberman

Theory Channels (YouTube)

Mario

Umbrella Academy

Phineas and Ferb

Full Metal Alchemist

Muppets

Song of the Sea

Wolfwalkers

Breadwinner

Meet the Robinsons

Beauty and the Beast

Fairytail

Splatoon

Project Moon

The Gregory Horror Show

Ever After High

Monster High

School for Good and Evil

Cursed Princess Club

He-Man & She-Ra

Legends of Chima

Smiling Friends

The Lion King

Mrs. Dalloway

Chikn Nuggit

Encanto

Infinity Train

Hero: 108

Golden Sun

Over the Garden Wall

Codename: Kids Next Door

The Frog Princess

My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry

5 Nights at Freddy's

Among the Sleep

Voltron

Bendy And the Ink Machine

Power Ranger

Super Monkey Ball

101 Dalmations

Hello Kitty

Hatsune Miku

Creepypastas

Camp Camp

Odin Sphere

Shakespeare

Dragon Quest

League of Legends

Hero Wars

Battlecats

Marry My Husband

The Thief and the Cobbler

Arthur

Fighting Fudons

Hotel Transylvania

Beware the Villainess

Overlord

That One Time I was Reincarnated as a Slime

Soul Eater

Hajime de no Aku

Supernatural

Naruto

The Wrong Way to Use Healing Magic

The World God Only Knows

Devilman Crybaby

Blue Exorcist

HunterXHunter

Bob's Burgers

Geek Girl

Jane the Virgin

Emily in Paris

Jurassic Park

Jaws

Tremors

Friend's Fanfiction

My Own Fanfictions

[timeagainreviews]

Mining Gold

In his 2012 stand-up special “New In Town,” John Mulaney quipped that he “always thought quicksand was going to be a much bigger problem than it turned out to be.” This sentiment seems to have rung true with people online. Quicksand was such a big deal in media in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Who could forget Westley jumping headlong into quicksand to save Buttercup in “The Princess Bride?” Remember the first time you saved Mario from sinking deep into golden sands? Yet in real life, very little quicksand. While I am sure there are parts of the world that grapple with quicksand, it’s more of a trope than anything. Trapping our heroes allows storytellers to show who these characters are under pressure. While Doctor Who has its share of great escapes, it’s also prone to using capture to pad time. But isn’t that a cynical view? Can’t trapping our heroes also give the narrative a moment to breathe?

Quicksand is the perfect type of trap because it’s a ticking clock that must be treated with attention and care. Characters must slow down and assess their situation. It’s odd then that Doctor Who has never used quicksand in the show proper. But it’s just a placeholder. You could throw someone into the Timelash. The Fourth Doctor had to shoot a rope while standing over a pit of horda. Or again with the Fourth Doctor when he stepped on a landmine. But that last one is different, isn’t it? The horda and Timelash are as real as the Swamp of Sandness and the Bog of Eternal Stench. But landmines are very real. And in some parts of the world, a horrific day-to-day reality.

Returning after a seven-year absence, Steven Moffat brings the Doctor back into the minefield with “Boom.” But unlike Doctor Who’s last episode named after an explosive onomatopoeia, “Kerblam!”, this episode aims to chastise capitalism’s role in atrocity, not give it a free pass. Also making a comeback are a few Moffat staples- Villengard, the Anglican Marines, and stupid children. Each does their part to build a narrative mirroring the current political climate. But have any of Moffat’s less celebrated qualities returned along with him? Will he fall into his own trappings as a writer? Is this trope just padding out time? Or can a bottle episode become an instant classic?

Coming off the heels of last week’s manic “The Devil’s Chord,” the show was due a bit of a breather. While I’m all for bombast it’s nice to know this thing has an off switch. I already saw someone on Instagram who disagrees wholeheartedly. In their words “Boom? More like BORING,” so I imagine this one won’t be popular among dullards and the chronically contrarian crowd. But as an old, I appreciated the slower pacing and the emphasis on emotion. If you need a constant source of laser swords and loud noises, allow me to quote the Third Doctor- “Don't worry, Brigadier. People will be shooting at you soon.” Luckily, Billy No-Mates and his five Instagram followers appear to be in the minority. Most everyone I’ve talked to absolutely loved this episode.

The one issue I’ve seen fans bring up that holds any kind of water has been the conversation around faith. The inclusion of the Anglican Marines introduces a religious angle that some have criticised as preachy and offensive. In the past Moffat has used the Anglicans to various ends. Spanning across two centuries, the Anglicans we’ve met so far have come in numerous forms. Sometimes they’re allies of the Doctor, and at other times, they’re a fanatic organisation hellbent on stopping the Doctor at every turn. This time, however, the Doctor and they cross paths presumably by happenstance. (More on why I say presumably later.) This group of Marines are already in a deep conflict with an elusive enemy, which they appear to be losing. Despite these losses, they keep their faith. But it’s hard to keep faith when your enemy is as invisible as your god.

The two soldiers we’re introduced to are Carson and John Francis Vater. Not as in they’re married like the Fat One and the Thin One couple from “A Good Man Goes To War,” but rather that Carson only gets the one name. As names go, John Francis Vater is akin to purple hair in an anime- total protagonist vibes. Vater even has a daughter named Splice living back on base. He has a cute “save the cat,” moment when he tells Splice to brush her manky teeth. Which is why when he dies, it feels like there’s still more to his story. Unfortunately for Carson, he exists to illustrate the way the Villengard smartmines on Kastarion 3 operate. As it turns out, it’s pretty quick, rather violent, and kind of pretty. Even more unfortunately for Vader, he is now essentially lost as Carson was acting as his eyes due to temporary blindness.

It’s never really explained why the Doctor and Ruby are parked on the planet. Presumably, it’s the Doctor doing his usual “land wherever and explore,” approach. But it’s the death of Vater that draws the Doctor and Ruby into the action. After lifting the veil from his injured eyes, Vater’s injury draws the attention of a Villengard Automated Ambulance Unit with the video face of Susan Twist. Having assessed that Vater’s recovery time would be too big of a drain on resources the ambulance terminates him. The Doctor comes running at the sound of Vater’s scream but finds nothing but an empty crater and a smartmine under his right foot. It’s the inclusion of Susan Twist here that makes me wonder if this isn’t part of some greater plan. Pretty obvious, really. Also, didn’t a big portion of Moffat’s last episode also take place in a crater?

The Doctor’s voice carries out along the horizon with a mournful rendition of “The Skye Boat Song.” It tells of the journey Bonnie Prince Charles took from Benbecula to Skye after his defeat at the Battle of Culloden, thus spelling the end for the Jacobites. This worked for me on several fronts. As a fan of the Second Doctor, I admired the nod to his past. I also enjoyed the reference to Ncuti Gatwa’s Scottish identity. The forlorn quality of his singing reminded me of the Master playing the Skye Boat Song in “The Power of the Doctor,” which was one of the better parts of that story. I was also grateful that they didn’t undercut the tension with a pop song, or something truly cringe, like quoting from Harry Potter.

The Doctor is singing to calm himself and hopefully delay the bomb until he can come up with a new plan. But it’s this singing that draws Ruby to his location. Together the two of them must move their bodies in sync to a rhythm so the Doctor can rest his leg. In yet another contrast to “The Devil’s Chord,” music is being used in an entirely different manner. But this time, the Doctor’s dance partner, Ruby Sunday, is less complimentary and more complicated. The Doctor faces death all the time, but seeing Ruby put in harm’s way raises the Doctor’s blood pressure. The adrenaline becomes harder to control. And his bio-signs become easier for the smartmine to detect. Because of this, the Doctor’s emotions are raw and prickly, another stark contrast from last week. He chastises Ruby for not doing as he tells her, but she ignores him because she’s got her own ideas about what she is and isn’t allowed to do. I was getting shades of Amy Pond from Ruby in this one, and considering the author, that makes sense.

If you’ve ever heard me say that I wanted the chance for Jodie Whittaker to get mean, or show anger, this is precisely the kind of depiction of the Doctor I meant. In many ways, Ncuti is the same brand of golden retriever adorable as Whittaker, only here they’ve allowed him to show that he’s capable of a depth of emotion. The Doctor has an authoritarian streak that he hides well, but in times of stress, the walls begin to fall away and you see the complicated Time Lord underneath the fish fingers and custard, the floppy hair, and the eccentric fit. This is exactly the kind of episode I wanted to see Ncuti get to do. I’ve seen him deal with heavy subjects in “Sex Education,” I’m glad they didn’t just hire him because he’s hot and dripping charisma. He’s also incredibly capable of going into dark places.

While looking for a rock to help the Doctor balance his dangling left leg, Ruby happens upon the “smelted,” remains of Vater. The Ambulance sort of formed and condensed Vater’s body into a tube shape topped with a nameplate and a hologram projector containing an AI facsimile of Vater’s consciousness. And I’ll say it because everyone’s waiting for me to say it- it’s an actual fleshlight. There, I said the thing. Are you happy? Is this what you wanted from me? Are you not entertained? I’d like to pretend I was so wrapped up in the episode that I didn’t think it, but I absolutely did. It’s VOR all over again. I got over it pretty fast.

That’s the way good Doctor Who goes, really. The little hang-ups are more like snags when you’re moving along. It’s easier to look past the nitpicks and grievances when there’s so much more at play. When Doctor Who is bad, all it has are its nitpicks and grievances and that’s a real sadness when that happens because we’re no longer watching Doctor Who, we’re watching the background go by. We’re admiring the wallpaper because just because the writers phoned it in, doesn’t mean the set designers did. But this is Doctor Who firing on all cylinders.

We are however getting into the realm of one of my nitpicks about this episode and that’s Splice. Because she lost her mother, her dad, Vater, has special permission to let her live on base. The issue I have is that I wasn’t joking earlier when I said she’s stupid. I don’t say this to badmouth the little girl playing her, as she was good. I also don’t mean to denigrate the script. What I don’t understand is why is she so old? That may seem like a weird question because kids come in all sorts of ages, but this one is little kids stupid. I found it hard to believe that a girl of her age would confuse a hologram for her father. I get that she might be fooled by the voice and I can even believe that she would be foolish enough to wander into a battlefield to find him, but I’ve never once seen my dad looking like a translucent blue hologram. This is why I say she’s too old. An older kid would have figured it out. They should have either changed her dialogue or cast someone younger. Otherwise, she’s a perfectly fine character.

Splice’s emotional reaction draws the attention of another Anglican Marine named Mundy Flynn. Immediately my Whovian brain was doing backflips at the sudden appearance of Varada Sethu. For those of you not in the know, Sethu is planned to be a companion in season 2 next year. Seeing her this early was very exciting. Was this an Oswin Oswald scenario or a Martha’s cousin dying at Canary Warf scenario? Did they enjoy working with Varada so much that they created a character for her in the next season or is this some wibbly wobbly sort of thing? Well, as it turns out, it’s a wibbly wobbly thing. I didn’t learn this from the show, however. I learned it from Doctor Who’s social media. And honestly, I really wish they’d have just left us to wonder on this one. Would it have killed them to leave an air of mystery around her character? There’s still a bit of mystery, but I feel like they’re holding people’s hands a bit too much. I guess they’re afraid people’s imaginations will run too wild and we’ll set ourselves up for disappointment. They know who their audience is. But still, I like the not knowing part. I like the speculation.

Mundy sees the Doctor holding the remains of Vater and commands him to drop them. But if the Doctor drops the remains, he risks setting off the mine. But even worse, if the mine goes off, it will turn him into the explosion. The Doctor refers to himself as a ”complex spacetime event,” indicating that if he were to explode, it could take out half of the planet. But Mundy isn’t convinced and tries to shoot the Doctor’s arm to make him drop the tube. Sensing combat, the Ambulance bots start looking for the injured to either heal or put out of their misery. Releasing her mistake, Mundy commands Ruby to shoot her in the arm in order to draw the ambulance away from the Doctor, but in her hesitation, Ruby is mistaken for an enemy and shot by Mundy’s comrade Canto who arrives late on the scene.

While we’re on the subject of Ruby, I wanted to point out that I found it a bit odd that Kastarion 3 was her first experience on an alien planet. Sure this is only her fourth adventure onscreen, but we were told in The Devil’s Chord that six months had passed. Granted, Rose Tyler spent an entire season having earthbound adventures with the Ninth Doctor, so there’s an explanation. I have to tip my hat to their attention to detail here as not even the Doctor Who Magazine comics have taken her off-world. I guess “Space Babies,” kind of counts. Just something I felt worth mentioning.

Not only has Ruby now died, but the Doctor learns that even if he does dupe the smartmine into thinking he’s not a living person, it will eventually detonate by default. The only way to stop this is now outside of the Doctor’s control, sort of. He must convince Mundy to surrender. Since the mine belongs to the Anglican Marines, only their surrender will disarm the device. Otherwise- boom. The Doctor explains to Mundy that the war they’re fighting is with themselves. The Villengard algorithm has been tricking the Marines into attacking themselves to keep them buying their product. It’s a war being waged against nothing all in the pursuit of profit.

Mundy asks the Doctor for proof which is where the Doctor’s stance on faith comes into play. But I feel like the actual conversation the Doctor is having in that moment is that faith is both a good and a bad thing. It’s not that he’s saying it’s bad for someone to have faith in God, but that it’s bad to let faith do your thinking for you. Splice has faith in her daddy. The Doctor and Ruby have faith in one another. Faith can strengthen us as people. But when it’s used to justify not considering deeper truths, it’s a hindrance. I feel like this is very in line with things we’ve heard the Fourth and Tenth Doctor’s say about religion in the past. I will admit though, I am an atheist, so I can’t speak from the perspective of a person with faith.

When Mundy tries to send evidence back to command, it’s intercepted by the algorithm and overruled. The machine has taken over and the smirking face of Susan Twist shows no signs of compassion leaking through. But with the Doctor connected to the machine and his hand connected to the remains of Vater, he’s able to send Vater into the algorithm. As Vater battles the ghost in the machine, I was reminded of “The Doctor’s Wife,” when the TARDIS re-enters her body and destroys House from the inside. In fact, lots of this episode reminded me of previous Doctor Who. The short war fought on the basis of a lie reminded me of “The Doctor’s Daughter.” The message about unchecked capitalism reminded me of “Oxygen.”  And of course there’s the mine calling back to Tom Baker in “Genesis of the Daleks.” Lots of what Ncuti was doing this week reminded me of Tom Baker and I mean that as the utmost compliment. He was doing stellar work here.

This episode had me grinning from ear to ear for the entirety of its runtime. But it wasn’t until after that I realised what it was that had me so happy. Sure, the episode was good, but I realised that it was the first time in the last 5 or 6 years that I had enjoyed a new Doctor Who episode without a giant asterisk hanging overhead. I cried tears of joy during “The Woman Who Fell to Earth,” but that was excitement for Jodie. My opinion of the episode itself was quite low. I enjoyed “The Witchfinders,” (also how cool was that reference to it in this episode?) and I enjoyed “It Takes You Away,” but I loved “Boom.” Without any hesitation, I absolutely loved it.

While the RTD2 era has been a marked improvement, I have had a few reservations. Mostly that it has so far felt like they’ve been trying way too hard. Trying too hard to have fun. Trying too hard to be funny. Trying too hard to be action-packed. I hope that the people in charge have seen the fan reaction to Boom for what it is. You don’t need massive budgets. You can do smaller stories with simple sets. The fans will respond well when you nail the tone and writing. Even Ncuti Gatwa said that while he was confused the entire time shotting the episode, it ended up being his favourite of the season. This felt like the most Doctor Who episode of Doctor Who that I’ve watched since Moffat left, and I’m including the new Davies stuff in there. This is what I meant when I said I wish Davies would chill the fuck out. Stop trying so hard.

Where this falls short for me is it highlights how insular the show has been since it returned. Eight episodes, six by the same writer, one by a former showrunner, and the remaining one is shared by two new authors. Why? I’ll be honest, Davies has never been my favourite Doctor Who writer. He’s a strong producer who writes people well. But when it comes to his episodes, other than “Midnight,” he’s never written one I would call a favourite. This is just a personal preference. When they announced his return, I was more excited for a return to competence than a return to classic writing. We could use new blood in the writer’s room. Even Chris Chibnall could see that, and he did hire some pretty good talent. My two favourite episodes from his era are written by people new to the show. More of that, please.

In truth, bringing Moffat back was a good choice. Unlike Davies, Moffat has written some of my favourite Doctor Who. And as with most anyone who has written the shear volume of Doctor Who as he has, he’s also written some of my least favourite Doctor Who. It’s bound to happen at that level of output. He’s not a writer without problems. His writing of female characters leaves something to be desired. But Moffat writing under a different showrunner, with an editor? Total Chad material. Some of the best. If they kept bringing him back like this every year or so, I would absolutely love it. Especially because it would continue to leave room for new talent.

With Vater in the machine, the ambulance revives Ruby. Sadly, Mundy’s love, Canto, dies just as he proclaims his love for her. This part was a bit shallow in that it was barely set up and felt like loss for the sake of loss. As Jean Cocteau once said “Emotion resulting from a work of art is only of value when it is not obtained by sentimental blackmail.” So it’s a bit difficult to feel sorry for Mundy here, but it’s not completely void of an emotional core. It’s nice that Splice has a new caretaker in Mundy, and that’s as happy an ending as we need. What’s more important is the emotional depths we’ve experienced with the Fifteenth Doctor and Ruby. This was the moment when they were solidified for me as characters. I needed this episode. Not so much to show me that the Ncuti and Millie could do it, I knew they could. But rather to show me that the show could still do it. That RTD was still up to the task of delivering us something more than progressive happy fun. We’re not beyond the realm of complexity. And with that, I can relax a little. What else ya got, Davies?

[iamaine]

quicksand was a popular trope in 80s films that died off pretty completely, but it spawned a generation of kinksters. Without this trope they have no new generation to follow them. A dying culture. Cultivating a quicksand kink is noble like learning an endangered language is noble