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pleasantanathema · 3 years

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Graves into Gardens | Reiner Braun x Reader | Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven: Blinding Pleasures

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Modern AU, spoilers up to season four, slight manga spoilers (only by including characters met later), captivity, mentions of death, violence enemies to lovers, angst, smut, rough sex, hate sex,

Word Count: 6.5k

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He hadn’t let you go, not completely, fingers still timid and loose against your skin, in your hair. But your palms on his cheeks were so solid, warm, like you were grounding him, fingertips molded against his face with purpose.

Your lips were plump, swollen, parted like they were begging for a bit of mercy from his brutishness.

He needed more. He wanted to pour more apologies into your mouth and have you drink them down like they were sacrament.

Thoughts of you consumed him. He hadn’t even realized it until this moment—every waking thought, every dream, every nightmare, even the flashes when he slipped away into a state of unreality; it all orbited around you. Ever since you fell back into his life again, nothing else had mattered. He’d gone from wishing for your death to dying to feel your breath against him.

“Reiner…” you purred, the desperation from before now bleeding into desire, “I want more .”

“More?” he felt your thumbs at the edge of his smirk, a thrum of confidence building in his chest, “What was it you called me? Pathetic, miserable, deplorable…and now you want more?”

He was grinning, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to hear you acknowledge how your tongue had tried to wound his pride the night he found you behind bars; he wanted to hear you admit to wanting, needing him, despite his wickedness. Or maybe because of it.

“Please.”

Your voice was soft, simple.

The power between the two of you shifted, he could feel it. Your hatred was still simmering in the air, your earlier screams still caught in silent echoes of the room, but he’d shifted the tides when he’d claimed your mouth.

He knew you hated him for countless reasons: his arrogance, his deceit, his bloodied hands, but more than anything you hated him because you wanted him . You craved for him to shatter you and take up residence in your remains, to fill the cracks with his presence, to both destroy and become the mirror you saw in one another.

“Please,” you whispered the word again like it was shameful, and it was.

He pulled your hands away from his face.

“I never thought you’d be one to beg.”

“I’m not—,” you scoffed, an indignant little huff into the air.

“If that’s not what you call begging, then I can’t wait to see what you’re like when you’re desperate.”

His full grin was back, something bubbling inside of him that had gone dormant for years. That happiness he felt back in Paradis, that pride that had once gotten him into so much trouble. It was surfacing again—paler in comparison, but still present nonetheless.

You caught his infectious confidence, something devious flashing in your eyes.

“Then make me desperate,” your tongue was coy, fingers pulling at his shirt. He’d always liked those words: make me . He enjoyed them because they were an easy command. The strength in his hands and his body allowed for him to break anything he wanted. Even if his mind was poisoned, he could still dominate you like he wanted to. He could control you under the weight of his hands.

He stepped back toward his bed, capturing your wrist to have you follow. The mattress was silent under his weight, the springs too accustomed to nights of fitful sleep to complain. You stood between his spread thighs, still clad in Annie’s clothing, still wearing that white armband that had been forced onto you.

“I’ve seen you wear so many things,” his hands were on your hips, pads of his fingers already dipping beneath the worn shirt, tracing patterns onto your stomach, “but this is the worst.”

“Then take it off.”

He had half a mind to make you say please, but he was too eager to finally see you naked.

Slowly, he peeled away your layers, taking his time to brush his knuckles across every fresh piece of hot skin that was revealed. When your breasts fell in front of his face, when the curve of your thighs melted into his hands, he suddenly wished he had claws to scour you, mark you, carve his name into your skin and own you.

He knew you were having the same thoughts, could feel your nails gliding, nicking at his skin as you tore his own threads away. His hands met yours as you both worked to pull his pants down his thighs, his hard-earned muscle making the endeavor slightly difficult.

Then, he was pulling you into his lap, his mouth greedy against your skin. He peppered kisses along your neck, your shoulders, sinking his teeth into the slope of your throat. You were moaning, body settling against his, your too-hot breasts bouncing against his chest, slick pussy pressing against his briefs. He slid a palm up your back, fingers spread wide, eager to twist in your hair again.

“I’ll make you mine,” he mumbled against spit-slick skin, his mouth biting into your neck, sucking until delicate vessels burst and spread into dark colors of his creation.

“I’m not something you can own,” you punctuated your words by knotting your fingers into his hair, mimicking him and tugging at the soft blonde roots, guiding him to patches of virgin flesh still left unmarked by his mouth.

He took special care to kiss and lave over the circular scar on your shoulder. His brain felt like flickering again as he traced over that forgotten memory of yours with his fingers, but you were centering him, your nails were biting into the sinews of his back, pulling him closer, hips rolling in his lap.

“But you’re something I can take.”

“Fuck,” you sounded breathless, head tipping forward so you could scatter wet, open-mouthed kisses along his cheekbones, his temples, his ears. It was like you couldn’t get enough of him. He groaned when he felt your hot tongue dip into the muscle of his shoulder, only to gasp when you bit him more viciously than he had you.

“Easy, princess, you don’t have to hurt me.”

He wrapped his fist in your hair to tug you away, hissing with a mixture of pain and pleasure when your teeth scraped across his skin.

“Don’t call me—” his other hand engulfed your breast, thumb rolling and pinching at your nipple, causing your complaint to be caught between your teeth as you hissed, “—I want to hurt you.”

There was an intensity steaming within your eyes as you looked down upon him. You meant those words, and he couldn’t blame you for it. He’d hurt you so many times, the hands on your body were stained with blood and steeped in apologies he owed you.

“I’m always hurting for you.”

He bucked his hips, letting his aching cock slide against the folds of your bare sex through his briefs. His stomach was in knots; he still couldn’t believe this was happening, he was anxious, but lust and pride were making his brain foggy, making his body hurt.

“I…” he kneaded at the soft flesh of your tit in his palm, encouraging some jolts of pleasure to race under your skin as you decided on your words.

“I like it when you’re speechless, princess. ” He put emphasis on the pet name, reminding you that he could call you whatever he fucking wanted when he had you on his lap, in his arms, in his hands.

Ferocity was revving inside you. He knew you didn’t like that moniker, it was something he used to call you years ago. He did it to knock you down a notch, to get under your nerves and pull at the frayed ends because he had an inkling you were just a little princess who liked to be spoiled underneath all your pride.

You were like him; you enjoyed putting up a fight, but in the end, you wanted to be broken.

Your fist wound itself around his throat, your thumb putting pressure on the fragile column of muscle and bone. He could feel his chest tighten as his breath was caught under your hand.

“Fuck me before I change my mind.”

He would’ve laughed if you weren’t bearing down on his neck.

Reiner let you push him onto his back, grunted when you continued to pull the breath from his body when your mouth crushed against his. He felt your thumb pet at a raised scar on the left side of his throat.

“What’s that?” you mumbled it more to yourself, lips moving between your fingers to kiss and suck at the offending piece of flesh.

He was harder than he’d ever been, cock straining toward his stomach because you just had to have your hot little mouth sucking at that spot—

“It’s where you fucking cut me.”

“Oh.”

He took in a deep breath when you released his airway, only to have it pour out in a groan as your tongue traced the familiar scar. It wasn’t long, but it had been deep, enough to leave his skin pink in the wake of healing. Normally the collar of his shirts kept it hidden away; it was small enough to forget, but sometimes he’d touch it just to make his heart hurt.

You’d been in nearly the same position when you’d given it to him. You’d knocked him down, kept him pinned under your fighting body, threatening to slice him open and watch him bleed out before your eyes. But those had been empty words, only cut off when you’d been commanded to retreat from Zeke’s onslaught on Shiganshina. Your blade had still nicked him, however, your wrist purposely digging the tip end into his skin.

He deserved that cut far more than he deserved to feel your plump lips pressing against its scar.

You’d both already branded each other in the past.

Quickly, his hands found your hips, smoothly rolling to where he was on top of you so he could gain more of the control he desired.

Reiner loved how you molded against him, back arched, legs searching for a way to loop around and keep him closer. He loved it because he knew you hated it; your eyes were squeezed shut, lips pressed together like you were trying to muffle sounds, like you were still so full of shame and conflict.

He pressed his fingers to your cheeks, thumb and index fingers settling back into the same spots they held before when you’d been fighting.

“Look at me,” he coaxed, bracing his weight on his elbow so as not to crush your delicate body beneath his.

Your pupils were blown and so, so dark as your lashes lifted toward him. It was the same look you gave him the first time he found you awake in your cell. It sent a shiver racing down his back, spreading up to his neck. Had you wanted him then, too?

Reiner brushed his lips against yours, gentle, reverent, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he was lost in the slant of your mouth, your tongue teasing him, “have you thought about me?”

He was already trailing down your body, taking his time to revisit the swollen spots and dark bruises he already left on your neck and shoulders. Heat hit his cheeks as he realized the marks would be hard for you to hide—people would know what he’d done to you, and he wanted them to. There was no rule that he couldn’t fuck you; he could even say he was just following his orders of making you comfortable enough to spill Paradisian secrets.

“Sometimes,” you admitted, head dipping back against his pillow as you moaned, “I’ve wondered what those big fingers would feel like inside me.”

His hand slid down to your chest, wrapping itself around your breast so he could feel the weight of it within his palm. Then he enveloped it within the warmth of his mouth. Your lips fell open as you whined for him, desperate for more, the sounds racing between his legs.. His tongue swirled around the peaked bud of your nipple, his hand mimicking the actions of his mouth upon your other breast. Your hips pressed up against his firm body, reacting to every little touch or scrape of teeth. He groaned against the sensitive skin; he could feel gooseflesh trickling down your sides. His lips left your nipple, only to be placed on the top curve of your breast. He sucked at the soft flesh roughly, causing you to jump at the sudden influx of pain and pleasure. He growled, biting at your tit, littering it with dark red and purple bruises just like the rest of you.

But he was too impatient, quickly abandoning your beautiful tits to move further down your body. He pressed kisses into your stomach, already imagining how pretty you were going to look stuffed with his cock.

He hooked his arms around your thighs, reveling in how loudly you moaned when he spread your legs even further apart so he could drape them over his shoulders.

“I always knew you’d have the prettiest pussy.”

“Fuck —Reiner, just, shut up and put your mouth to good use.”

He arched an eyebrow as he looked up the expanse of your body to find one of your hands gripping the pillow above your head, the other digging into his sheets like you were holding on for dear life.

He kept his eyes on your face as he dug his fingers into the fat of your thigh, bringing it to his mouth like it was a delicacy to be revered. He took too much delight in watching how your mouth parted as he sunk his teeth into your thigh, just enough to abuse the sensitive skin and make you squirm. He then ran his tongue across the sore flesh, knowing that his spit would cool and cause your skin to prickle. He repeated this a few more times, slowly inching his way toward your alluring, soaked pussy.

“Reiner…”

God his name sounded so good in your mouth.

He didn’t answer you, just dipped his head lower, tongue now tracing a path at the juncture of your hip and thigh.

That hand of yours that was twisted in the sheets suddenly found its way into his hair, your fingers lost in the shaggy locks.

“ Reiner , please, please I want more .”

But you’d already said those words; he’d heard them earlier when you begged for more of his kiss.

“You can do better than that.”

He let your thighs rest against his shoulders, his too-strong hands moving to where his thumbs could spread that pretty pussy of yours apart. He bit back a groan at the sight, practically salivating at the sight of your wet, weeping cunt just begging for him to dip his tongue into you.

You sucked in a very deep breath, “I think about your mouth, your hands, on my pussy all the time, I-I’ve wanted to sit on your face for years, so please, please, do something before I—!”

A low, deep growl left his throat as he licked a long, hot stripe up your quivering cunt. He heard you slap your hand over your mouth, muffling a loud moan.

“Ah, ah,” his arm was long enough to reach the crux of your elbow on the bed, jerking your palm away from your cheeks, “I want to hear everything that comes from the filthy little mouth of yours.”

“But, your neighbors…”

“I thought you didn’t give a fuck about my neighbors? Or do you only want to scream for me when you’re angry?”

He grinned against your folds as your thighs pressed against his cheekbones, your poor skin still so hot from all the hickeys he left behind.

You used the fingers in his hair to tug him forward, but he resisted, instead electing to just repeat the motion of slowly sliding his flattened tongue up the middle of your pussy, your folds hemming around the wet muscle. He could already tell he was going to get addicted to your taste, to the way you kept gasping at his touch.

Quickly, he dove between your thighs, mouth eager and insatiable. He was messy because he wanted you dripping, wanted you needy and whiny and begging and crying for him like he’d always imagined. He kept you spread open with his fingers, tongue assaulting your sensitive clit. He moved the tip of his tongue in tight circles, feeling your lower stomach and thighs clenching and shivering beneath his ministrations.

He relished in the power he had with his mouth between your legs, but at the same time, he was here to repent. He hadn’t forgotten the raw emotions that had poured from your chest earlier.

Reiner mumbled apologies against your pussy, the words lost within the sloppy sounds of his tongue and lips against your wet folds.

He would make you feel lost; make you forget everything if only for a moment.

“You taste so good,” he praised, purring against you before dipping his tongue lower, prodding at your tight hole. Your fingers in his hair turned into a fist, your hips rolling up and encouraging him to plunge into you. Sweat was beading at the nape of his neck, his cock so hard he felt like he was going to burst. He kept his hips pressed to the mattress, trying to keep his mind between your legs instead of on his own body. He needed to prep you first, needed to award you the fingers you’d admitted to thinking about.

Soon, he shifted his mouth upwards again, filling your needy pussy with two of his fingers as his mouth continued to work at your clit.

The most exquisite little moan left your lips, followed by a whispered, “yes, yes, yes, yes,” your gummy walls tightening around his digits as they pumped into you a little recklessly. Initially, he’d wanted to take his time with you, to drag out your pleasure and have you aching for him, but you were already so wet, so willing, mouth open with quick, breathy pants and your pussy clenching and drawing him in closer. You were already so needy, your slick staining the hair on his cheeks and pooling into his mouth.

“You like that?” He curled his fingers inside you, quickly finding that sensitive and spongy spot inside of you that had your eyes rolling back and your hands grasping at your tits for some semblance of stability.

“S-so good, feels so good , just a- ah, a little more.”

He spread his fingers as he curled and pumped them, taking a moment to marvel at how your pussy wrapped around them.

“A little more and what, princess? You’ll cum for me?”

Your head snapped up, blinking like you’d be snapped out of a dream.

“D-don’t call me—”

He silenced you by stuffing his fingers deeper inside of your cunt, thumb taking over for his mouth and drawing heated, sloppy circles around your clit. Your whole body was rocking, hips bucking down against his hand as you sought your release. He felt like he was watching something forbidden; you were not supposed to have his name on your breath, you shouldn’t be naked, writhing in his sheets, squeezing at your divine tits while you prepared and shuddered as your orgasm prepared to release from his hands.

But there you were, a blessed sight before him, his apologies and his fingers stuffed inside of your pussy.

Your thighs clenched closer than before, your whole body tightening. He kept his face close to your sex, admiring how you well you took in the onslaught of his greedy fingers.

“Fu-uck,” he heard you rasp, your body stilling. He ceased his motions, cupping his mouth around your pulsing pussy so he could lap up what leaked from inside of you. You looked beautiful, spent, like you’d been swept out to sea but floated home to safety.

Next time you came for him, he was going to make sure his name was on your tongue.

━━━─── • ───━━━

You watched with watery eyes as Reiner sat up between your thighs, bringing his dripping fingers to his mouth. He dragged the digits along his tongue, cleaning them with a cocky grin tugging at his cheeks.

Your chest felt so heavy after your orgasm; it had torn through you like an arrow pierces flesh, hot and fast and pointed, like you were ripping apart in ecstasy. And all because of him, because of Reiner Braun. Not that long ago you were desperate to wrap your fists around his neck and kill him, and now you were just desperate to feel him take you, to use your body and make you feel that blinding pleasure all over again.

That urge to hurt him was still present, still lingering underneath your composure, but it was being battled by your lust and the years you’d spent wanting to fuck him. You’d never allowed yourself to when you were both back home; Reiner always seemed like trouble, especially to you. You were worried if you opened your legs for him, he’d worm his way into your heart, into all your hurt.

But everything was different now—you didn’t know if you would ever see home again, but this man whom the gods and whatever celestial beings existed kept tying and binding you to was here, and he wanted you, and you were so ready to let him have you, hold you, break you.

You felt your mouth open as you watched him finally rid himself of his boxer briefs.

His cock was thick and long, curving ever so slightly up towards his stomach. A few veins were throbbing up his length, plump and enticing. His cock even looked big in comparison to his mighty palm, the red, swollen head leaking out over his thumb. He had the kind of cock you thought only existed in porn, so fucking thick that you wonder if coke-can cock would even be an apprioprate descriptor.

“Oh my god, if you had fucking told me you have such a fat cock…” you trailed off, feeling saliva pool under your tongue. God you wanted him in your mouth.

“Impressed?”

“Very.”

“Then beg for it.”

You couldn’t believe it, but you loved seeing that ego of his come back to life. You loved seeing confidence brewing behind his honey eyes again, loved seeing him proudly wrap his hand around his cock and pump it for you.

“Haven’t I done enough begging, Reiner?”

“You’ll beg as much as I want you to.”

He held a playful smile on his face as he spread your legs again, this time keeping them around his waist as he settled back on top of your body. He wrapped his fists around your wrists that were lying by your face, keeping you pinned below him. Your pussy was still singing from your orgasm, but a new string of pleasure was coursing down your spine at his words.

“Pretty please,” you moaned into his ear, “please fuck me, you’re all I want.”

And you meant those words too; the world could start ending and the only thing on your mind would be how good his weight felt between your hips.

His cockhead brushed against your slippery folds, your body shivering as he made contact with your swollen clit before pressing gently against your tight entrance.

He was bigger than— no , you didn’t need to be thinking about anyone else. Just him.

“Please fuck me, fuck me hard. Fuck me so I forget what you’ve done.”

He released your wrists, his hands molding to your hips, pushing you down.

You could feel his groan rumble up your own chest from where your bodies were pressed together. Your hands were gripping at his back, nail already sinking into the rolling muscle of his shoulders. He felt heavy, solid. He smelled familiar, like nostalgia was bubbling at the surface of his skin, enveloping your senses as you took in a deep breath. He felt like home.

White-hot heat spread over every nerve ending as he pushed himself inside of you. He was rough, quick, hips snapping so he could plunge into your depths in one swift motion. You were wet enough to accept him, but still you burned from the intense stretch. You whined his name as you felt yourself slipping away into that headspace of sex.

He kept himself sheathed deep inside of you for a moment, letting you feel the thickness of his cock, the heaviness of his thighs against yours. He was panting into the curve of your collarbone, like he was steadying himself, or perhaps he was preparing.

“Move,” you demanded, trying to roll your hips that were pinned under his might.

You both moaned and hissed as he followed your order, drawing himself in and out of your compliant pussy. The thick veins of his cock dragged against your walls as he moved, making your lashes flutter from the sizzling pleasure of it all. He’d barely started and you were already falling into a delirium. It was like the first taste of an addiction; heavy, sweet, all encompassing, like his cock between your legs was all you ever needed.

He set a slow pace, a purposeful one, each thrust causing primal sounds to erupt from your throat. All worries were gone —you couldn’t think about his past, your future, if anyone was looking for you, if you were in danger. All that mattered was him, was this moment.

Soon his tempo changed. He sped up, hands still locked around your hips, fingers mean and bruising. Every mark he’d left on your body suddenly began to sing with the ecstasy of him pounding away inside of you. Your nails were helpless, scratching lines you knew would bleed red down his back.

“How does it feel?” He whispered your name against your neck; you could feel him smirk against your skin.

“S-so good,” your breaths were quick, hot, “so full .”

You whined when he pulled his body away from you, seamlessly settling on his knees so he could look down at you as his cock pumped away inside your clenching cunt.

“Yeah? Like being stuffed full of my cock?”

You merely nodded your head, lips pressing together as your hands fisted the pillow next to your head. All your shame was gone, instead filled with delight as you watched how his eyes raked over your bouncing body, over all the damage he’d done to it for the sake of claiming you.

Those shining, golden orbs of his landed on where your bodies were conjoined. It was like a fire was lit behind them as he marveled at your tight pussy sucking him in, perfect flesh wrapped around him, cream pooling at the base of his cock showing how much your body wanted him.

“I hate you...so much,” he whispered it into the heat of the air, his confession encouraging him to grip tighter, push harder. You felt the change in the atmosphere, like something darker was brewing between you.

You were tempted to spit the hatred back at him, but any words you were thinking of were lost when he flipped you over far too-easily.

It was a shock, to suddenly have your face smashed into his pillow, his leftover scent invading your nose. And it was wicked to feel him maneuver you like a little rag doll, heavy paws gripping at your waist and pulling your ass up to meet him.

He shoved his cock into you wickedly, roughly big hands holding your ass and pulling you back against him as he began a ruthless pace. It felt like a punishment. You screwed your eyes shut, a cry erupting from your throat at his brutality. Your fingers fisted into the sheets, your back arching from his force. Your world narrowed; all you could focus on was Reiner inside of you, using your pussy like it truly belonged to him, like he had a right to treat you however he wanted.

You felt a sick, twisted satisfaction of feeling him come alive behind you. You did this to him, made him go nearly feral and lose control. Or maybe it was the opposite. With you, he could have all the control he wanted, needed. Your body reacted to every touch, every suck, every plunge of his hips. You moaned, whined, bucked, shivered, like an instrument being played by vicious hands.

His heavy balls were slapping against your clit, making your body twitch with little shocks of bliss with every movement. You could feel every splayed finger upon your ass and hips, each one digging and pressing into you, pulling you in closer, deeper upon his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” his curses kissed your ears.

You didn’t have the mind to speak, his depraved pace had you drooling against the sheets. Little gasps and groans of pleasure were the only things able to escape your mouth.

He was like an elemental force taking over you, and you wanted him to. You wanted to fall prey to him, wanted to get lost in the gravitational well that was Reiner Braun.

One of his hands began to glide up your back, fisting in your hair and jerking you back. A small scream fell from your lips as your head was pulled from the pillow, pain blooming from your scalp. It changed the angle, had his cock hitting a new, softer spot inside you that had your vision blurring.

Your hands were barely able to keep their grip on his sheets, making your thighs slip back against his.

“I like watching you struggle,” he purred, yanking his hold on your hair. You whimpered in response, starting to become overwhelmed by the pain and the pleasure. Your body was aching, from lust and discomfort, from ecstasy and weakness. You knew you were entirely in his hands. He could drop you, he could stop giving you the bliss that was burning between your legs and around his cock. But he kept pumping inside of you, deep groans spilling over your naked back and soaking into your skin.

H e pulled you up higher, leaning forward to capture your shoulder between his teeth. You could feel his massive body rocking against yours, over, and over, and over again, a sinful rhythm. His cock ramming so deep inside of you that you felt it deep within your throat. His hand on your hip slid to the front of your body, fingertips circling over your clit and making you cry. Tears were pricking your lashes —you were full of emotions you couldn’t name, full of him.

“Reiner, fuck, oh god,” one of your hands flew to your breast, the other landing on the merciless fingers that toyed with your pussy. It was a weak effort to keep him there, to have some semblance of control.

“You’re getting tighter,” he grunted, hand leaving your hair so he could wrap it around your belly, brawny arm caging you against his solid body, “gonna cum?”

Your head leaned back against his shoulder, salty, burning tears now streaming down your cheeks.

Your cunt was throbbing with every wicked plunge of his cock. He was reckless, fucking you like an animal, like man both in and out of control.

“Please, please, please, please,” you were back to begging, so close to release that it was almost painful.

“Please what, princess?”

“Please, let me cum.”

Let me , like he had dominion over your pleasure. And he did, you knew he did.

He kept his fingers on your clit, ruthlessly swirling through the wetness, keeping you close and shaking around his cock. Your stomach muscles were tightening, fresh heat creeping over your skin. It was like each thrust was taking you up a ladder to heavenly pleasure, each one sending you higher, but making you fall harder at the same time.

“Cum for me,” it was a hushed command, pressed into your neck, “say my name when you do.”

Your mouth opened, pretty, pained sounds falling down onto your bodies. He somehow pulled you closer, cinching your back against his chest with that heavy arm beneath your breasts.

You were too hot, you were losing yourself, lost to the indurate thumping of him inside your pussy.

“Gonna... fuck , I’m…” your head hung low, waves of pure bliss already creeping up on you, “ Rei-ner! ”

You weren’t sure if it was the sound of his name or the sucking of your cunt that sent him over the edge with you. Hot, thick ropes of cum coated your insides as you completely fell apart. Your orgasm was more intense than before, lasting longer, like the thick stretch of his cock kept you open for more ecstasy to keep rolling over your body. You were screaming silently.

Though his body was still, he was solid and kept you in place as you both rode out the intensities that your bodies were craving. Your hands clung to his forearm, head now so heavy you could barely think.

But soon the cloud of lust was lifted, your forms crumpling into the mess of sheets below you. Reiner landed on his back, chest heaving with breaths. You were still on your knees, palms spread onto the bed as you tried to regain your senses. You could feel his cum sliding down your thighs, sticky and slow.

You were used, spent. But suddenly the weight of the world was back on your shoulders.

You glanced over to him, straightening your back and sitting up. He looked as wasted as you were, drunk but coming back to life, face flushed with those glorious arms of his above his head.

Reiner brought one of his arms down, hand upturned and offered before you on the bed. He looked like some muted, tired god within his sheets, looked like he was giving you an offering.

What waited for you within his hands after this?

Peace? Forgiveness? Or was it judgement? Pain?

“You okay?”

You nodded solemnly, taking his outstretched hand and bringing it up to your face. He cupped your cheek, thumb wiping away the remnants of tears that he wasn’t quite sure why you shed.

“What now?”

It was one of those loaded questions, you knew that. It held too much meaning for him to answer. What would come of the two of you now? What feelings were brewing after this? Where did you go from here, physically and mentally?

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. His eyes were trailing over the carnage he’d brought upon your body; years of pent of anger painted all over your skin.

You pulled away from him, even though the hormones in your body, your emotions , were begging for you to curl up next to him and be coddled.

You turned your back, sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers plucking at the sweaty sheets. You gazed out the window, found the moon trying to show her face behind snow clouds. The same moon you gazed at from your home, now presenting herself to you in a new, foreign place. Kind of like the man behind you, who offered you pieces of himself to fill your voids.

The bed moved as he did, an open palm finding your back, running down your spine. He stayed behind you, kissing at your ruined shoulders with the mouth that had hurt them.

“I’m tired,” you admitted, feeling little bits of heaviness pulling from your chest, “tired of everything .”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m tired of just surviving. Here, home, it’s always just steps to live another day, to not get caught up in wars that aren’t of our making.”

He hummed knowingly.

“We could run away.”

That was a thought you’d had before. But running gets tiresome too, you supposed. This time you might not have to think about doing it on your own. You’d collided with him again, the fates had tied you together once more. Perhaps it was to start a new trajectory.

“We could,” you smiled then, a little flame of hope, of happiness, licking its way into your still hazy mind.

You turned around to catch him in an unsuspecting kiss. Your grin was still present and infectious, making him laugh as you pressed your mouth eagerly to his.

“I don’t know if we like each other enough to run away together, you know.”

You pushed him back into the mattress, leaning over him to plant little, messy kisses upon his cheeks.

“True,” he chuckled, moving your hair out of your face to give you a proper kiss before settling back into his pillows, “we’ll have to learn how to treat each other better.”

You took a moment to look at him. He looked so much the same as when you were younger, his beautiful smile crinkling the edges of honey eyes. But there was more etched within his features, more prominent cheekbones begging to be touched and kissed, a softness lingering within his lips.

“We’ll find a way to make gardens out of the graves we’ve made.”

━━━─── • ───━━━

You didn’t move again until he was fast asleep, the barest hint of a snore escaping his nose.

There was a growing soreness in your limbs as you silently removed yourself from the bed, feet cold against the floor. Your whole body ached, those bruises and hickeys stinging as you carefully moved the strewn desk chair back in front of his computers.

God he was a fucking animal , but you couldn’t complain. You’d wanted it far too much. You rubbed at the painful heat in your naked shoulders as you turned on the monitor that had gone dormant. Blue light filled the small space, making you glance over your shoulder to make sure he was still sleeping. His chest was still rising and falling peacefully, the light illuminating his hulking figure in the bed sheets.

Your mind was so heavy, having carried the memory of his password up until this moment. You’d been sure to watch him type it in earlier, just in case. Though, it wasn’t that hard to remember—it was the name of his first dog that he’d talked about while on his mission in Paradis, and of course Bertholdt’s birthday. You typed it in quickly, Honey1230 , and sighed with relief as his desktop flashed to life.

You knew this was a risk. But it was one you had to take.

You knew the email by heart. It was the one that always sent you photos and love notes, a non-government one that you knew would still be checked.

You didn’t take long, just typed out the words that had been playing in the back of your mind when the world went silent; when you weren’t wrapped up in the mess that you’d created with Reiner.

It took an awkwardly long moment to send, all the files you’d attached to it slowing it down. You sat there naked, dripping, a mess, heart pounding like you were worried sirens would start blaring at any moment.

After the email blinked away from the sent box, you deleted it, watching the name it was addressed to disappear.

Next Chapter

#reiner smut #reiner x reader #reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner x you #reiner braun x you #reiner fanfic #snk #snk fanfic #snk reiner #aot #aot reiner #attack on titan fanfiction

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shimmershae · 4 years

Text

So. I have some more thoughts. Shocking? Yeah, I know, lol.

Let’s see if I can figure out how to purge what’s inside of my overactive brain and have it make some semblance of sense, shall we?

Hmm.

Where to start, where to start?

Okay. So I think it’s safe to say that the flashbacks pretty quickly establish that Daryl has essentially been set adrift. He’s been cast back, in some ways by his own choosing, into a solitary searching life that speaks to his past. He has no anchor anymore, no touching stone--whether that be Rick, who’s presumed dead, or Carol, who’s chosen by default to leave him behind and try to make a new family in Ezekiel and Henry.

That’s important. Because until this season? Until he really matured and assumed, grudgingly or otherwise, the mantle of leadership of the communities?

Daryl was a follower. He took his cues from other stronger personalities. Other people more quick to voice and own their opinions, right or wrong. Like Rick. And Merle before him.

That’s not to say Daryl hasn’t had anything of value to say or add to the communities or to his relationships. He has and he did. Remember back at the Prison how Carol told him he was going to have to live with the love? Daryl was just beginning to find his voice, so to speak. He was emerging, even if they were only baby steps at first, from other seemingly more formidable shadows, and learning even then how to be more of a leader that people looked up to even if he was still content to be a follower.

Being a follower was what he was comfortable with and I’m making some assumptions here, but I’d wager that in his abusive past with his old man, in that household first with Merle then on his own, being a follower and sticking to the safety of the periphery is probably what kept him alive. Being a follower minimized conflict then, I’m sure. Being a follower when he met up with and eventually connected with Rick and the rest of Team Family was probably the safest way for him to make emotional connections.

I’m rambling. I know it and I’m sorry. It’s what I do. Ramble, lol.

Here. I’m going to place the rest of this underneath a cut because I got more winding words than I have wind and most of ya’ll have patience.

With Rick gone, with Carol off trying her damndest to live a fairy tale, Daryl floundered. For all intents and purposes, he was left without any direction, nobody to take his cues from emotionally or otherwise.

I mean, he literally made ever-widening circles searching for Rick, didn’t he? Circles have no end point. They have no real destination. Not really. Daryl essentially lived in a spin cycle of pain and regret and inability to really and truly connect with anybody during those years spent searching for Rick--especially since the person he arguably felt closest to and most comfortable with, Carol, basically decided those past connections Daryl was so desperate to find again were too painful for her and attempted to move on.

He wasn’t emotionally equipped to or stable enough (perhaps still internally dealing with his anger and angst over his torture and imprisonment by Negan at that point in time) to put in the hard work to reestablish those fraying bonds on his own and the man basically lost the plot. His world narrowed down to this latest search. This search for a body. For closure. For a new purpose perhaps?

And you know, the man had to be tired. In some way or another? He’s probably been searching his entire life. It’s kind of what followers do. They look for meaning outside themselves because they don’t feel like they’re enough.

So then Dog, in the form of this happy, accepting, affectionate puppy appears out of nowhere. He’s a welcome distraction and knowing Daryl’s propensity to try to reunite the lost with those they love, he started a new little search.

That led him to Leah.

Leah, who was alone. Like him. Leah, who knew how to survive. Like him. Leah, who was stuck in a place of grief. Like him.

Leah, who--and I don’t really feel like I’m going out on too far or precarious limb here considering how many parallels they literally slapped us in the face with during this episode--reminded him of someone he felt he couldn’t have, not even her friendship anymore because by her choosing to ‘be there’ for Ezekiel and Henry and the Kingdom she was always leaving Daryl behind and that’s a pattern we’ve all long suspected has really caused hurt for Daryl even if he’s long ‘accepted’ and dealt with it with stoicism.

Boy, they really blew the lid off that issue didn’t they? Oh, it was done rather quietly and in a surprisingly controlled manner, but the hurt it caused? The tears and emotion it elicited was brought about with an almost surgical precision that stunned Carol, but I digress.

My point is? Daryl? Innate follower that he is? Daryl had grown accustomed to the human connection he found with Team Family. He was never 100% comfortable with it but he missed it. He craved it. And Rick? Well, deep down Daryl knew the likelihood of finding his ‘brother’ was minimal. And with Carol pulling away and putting more and more distance between them--how deep and wide was that river, ya’ll, before the episode was done? when it started off looking like a small trickle of a stream? how wide was that chasm these two idiots in painfully unspoken love allowed to be formed between them?--essentially the two closest people to him were lost to him, leaving him lost.

So he stumbles upon this woman who is very reminiscent of people that he’s known. He’s figured out, even though he keeps trying to buck the trend, that you really can’t make it alone in the world anymore. And when she shows him some small measure of trust by letting him go? That part of him that didn’t want to be alone kept drifting back into her sphere.

Now I’m not going to go so far as saying Daryl fell in love with this Leah. Because, shipping biases aside? I really don’t feel like he did.

Daryl found solace with Leah.

Companionship.

Remember another time when Daryl was lost? When he felt he had failed another member of his family? Lost what he thought was the last of his family? How alone he was at a crossroads when Joe’s group of Claimers came along?

I’m not equating Leah with the Claimers in any other way except saying Daryl was in a similar headspace when he met her, okay? Before anybody goes off on me. I’m just saying that Leah? She represented what Daryl felt was his one chance NOT TO BE ALONE.

Daryl’s emotionally stunted, ya’ll. He’s made great strides, but trauma always seems to regress him. Thankfully, it seems to regress him less and less as he really and truly matures, but it still has a habit of reverting him back to the Daryl we first met. The Daryl we can easily see growing up in Merle’s shadow.

When he threw that damn fish at her door, I literally laughed for ten straight minutes because that was funny as hell. But honestly? The more I thought about it, the more it dwelled in my mind? The sadder it actually made me because here’s a grown man essentially trying to connect with another human being on an adolescent level.

So much of what we were shown in this episode really just reinforced what I’d already suspected to be true--Daryl Dixon just doesn’t ‘get’ the basics of interpersonal relationships. At least those that could be perceived as romantic. For all that Carol mused it was like he had become a man back in Atlanta, during Consumed and their search for Beth? That man is still very much trying to fumble his way out of the starting gate so far as pursuing a woman in any form or fashion.

This is just my opinion and we all know what they say about those, lol, but Daryl has longed for an even deeper connection with Carol since the Prison. Maybe even before that. I think at the Farm his eyes were opened to her and he started trying to be a better person to match what he perceived as her goodness. Before he even knew she wanted one, he was trying to be a man of honor. Then stuff and thangs happened and shit, like Daryl once told Abe, just never settled. Carol drifted out of Daryl’s reach because he wasn’t equipped with the emotional tools to really go after what he wanted--her in a deeper, different capacity than he’d ever wanted or asked for before--and shit, ya’ll. If loneliness is a choice then Daryl Dixon was sick and damn tired of it.

Do I think there’s even really a choice between Leah and Carol in Daryl’s mind though? A true choice were he to absolutely, 100% realize and know that Carol’s heart was earmarked for him from the very beginning and that she’s suffering from the same delusions that she’s not good enough or deserving of him?

Absolutely not.

Leah knew that even if Daryl never divulged any specifics about Carol. She knew the answer to her ultimatum before she even made it.

And that ultimatum, ya’ll.

Maybe it’s weird, but it put me in mind of when Merle pressed Daryl to make a choice between him and Team Family.

Merle was blood family but like Carol and others said, he wasn’t good for Daryl.

Leah might have offered Daryl some solace from his loneliness but ultimately staying isolated with her and not reconnecting with those he identifies as family is just as damaging as Daryl choosing to follow in Merle’s wake again. Similarly to that situation, Daryl was clearly torn as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Between loyalty to family and unspoken love.

In case there’s any confusion here, the unspoken love I’m talking about is his love for Carol. He felt something for her back at that Prison. Fight me. He knew she’d be hurt by him going back with Merle, but obligation and family loyalty led him to make the decision all the same.

Still. He knew she’d understand. And she did, even if his choice hurt her.

My thought is that this time? At least initially? Daryl didn’t completely separate his loyalty to family (searching for Rick) and his unspoken love (for Carol) when he made his decision. They’re hopelessly entwined because Carol is a little bit of everything to Daryl--friend, family, the woman he loves and has been halfway in love with for so many years. Initially, he chose the hope that both would come back to him if he just kept searching. Because searching’s what he does. From Sophia to Connie, he’s always searched in the hope of bringing the lost back to those that love them. He’s always searched because nobody searched for him.

Daryl is the ultimate lost boy who grew to be a man and still feels like he hasn’t been found.

But how can he be found if the one person he wants to find him keeps running away?

Daryl didn’t choose Leah.

Not from his heart.

Daryl turned back to Leah because he felt Carol slipping away to where he couldn’t follow her.

If it can even be argued that Daryl chose Leah, it was by default. Of course, he feels guilty. Daryl wouldn’t be Daryl without guilt. He wouldn��t be Carol’s man of honor.

And he is Carol’s man.

She may not be in the place to see it--YET--but she’s getting there. She’s fighting hard against her natural inclination to run. She’s trying. She knows what she wants, even if she doesn’t believe she has the hope of getting it.

Daryl knows what he wants, too. He knows, once and for all, where he belongs. He’s stopped searching. He knows she’s right there. There’s no more circles. There’s just a final destination if he can convince the love of his fucking life to stop running from what they both want.

He may have left that note for Leah, but you can’t convince this viewer that he didn’t write those words for Carol.

And that’s all I got to say about that.

For now anyway.

Omigosh, lovelies.

So sorry for the emotional word vomit but thank you so much for indulging me even if I did lose my original point somewhere up there, lol.

#The Walking Dead #Season 10C spoilers #Caryl #Carol x Daryl #Carol Peletier #Daryl Dixon #Melissa McBride #Norman Reedus #gorgeous people #my precious babies in love #things that make me smile and cry #for reasons #my heart

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tripleaxeldiaz · 4 years

Text

maybe one day i’ll fly next to you

chapter 7/8

read on ao3

start from the beginning

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

The balcony door slides shut behind Maddie, muffling the laughter and chatter coming from her apartment.

“Just like last time,” Buck says. He smiles as she sits down next to him on the bench, throws an arm around her shoulders as she curls into his side. It’s a cool night, but he’s warm from the apartment and the champagne they’ve been drinking (“no liquor during the season” rule be damned), so it’s nice. Nicer still now that Maddie’s here.

“Yeah, but this time is a lot happier,” she says.

It’s true. Four years ago, they were in this same spot at the opposite end of the emotional spectrum — neither going to the Games, Buck with a busted leg, and Maddie without a partner after Doug placed full blame on her for not making the team and dropped her. They’d stayed out all night talking, saying their worst fears and insecurities — about the offseason, the next Olympic cycle, the rest of their careers — into the night, hoping the breeze would take them away and make them feel better. It didn’t, not once the sun came up, but for a while, they could pretend.

Now they sit in the silence that they so often find themselves in together, washed in the lights hanging around the balcony and the sounds of their friends — their family — celebrating inside. They’re in a bubble of happiness now that neither of them wants to break before they have to.

“It doesn’t feel real yet,” Buck says finally. “It still feels like tomorrow Bobby’s gonna call me into his office and say that there’s been a mistake.”

Maddie shakes her head. “There’s no mistake. You earned that spot. We all did.”

Buck rests his cheek on the top of her head. “I’m really proud of you.” She’s been his inspiration for as long as he can remember, the reason he stumbled into this sport that’s become his everything, and to see her dreams finally come true is in some ways better than his own. She was there for everything, exponentially more than their parents ever were, and he can’t even begin to think of how to repay her.

“I’m really proud of you too,” she says. “For everything, not just making the team.”

He blames the stinging in his eyes on the wind and kisses the top of her head as they fall back into quiet, enjoying the peace of the night for a little while longer before rejoining the party inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck basically lives at the rink for the next 15 days, even manages to sleep there a couple nights in a row before Eddie drags him back to his place for actual rest. Every day there’s something new he finds — a jump that needs a cleaner landing, an edge that needs to be deeper, a spin that needs to go faster. Little bits that add up to less than perfect, and they’re putting him more and more on edge as the days tick by. He’s got other responsibilities too — press packages, photoshoots, commercials, interviews — and it’s all a whirlwind, flying past him before he can get a chance to really wrap his head around it all. He’s dreamed of this moment for years, of being able to represent his country and see his face in commercials credited as Olympian, and it’s every bit as gratifying and incredible as he’d hoped, he just wishes everything would slow down for a minute so he can actually enjoy it.

But it all just keeps moving, so he takes everything as it comes and tries to live in the moments as much as he can, to live in the positives instead of worrying about the negatives that are threatening to crack him if he thinks about them for too long.

The whirlwind turns into a hurricane once they land in Beijing — as soon as they’re through customs, there’s flashbulbs and reporters shouting at them in multiple languages, fans pushing through the crowd for their own photo ops. Eddie’s got that caged animal look in his eyes again as they make their way to the exit, so Buck grabs his hand and squeezes, lets him know he’s still here, they’re here together, and he’ll shove through the crowd to get them out if he has to.

He hopes someone gets a picture of the smile Eddie gives him. He wants it printed and framed and hung on his wall where he can always see it.

The Olympic Village itself is like a luxury apartment complex — 15 high rise buildings with smaller ones around them, housing dorms for every athlete, cafeterias, workout rooms, a general store, even a post office. They have just enough time after the tour to drop their bags in their rooms before they’re whisked off to the Olympic Park to get their credentials and a first look at the skating arena. It looks like any other arena on the outside — big, industrial, a looming presence over the rest of the buildings — but it’s what’s going to happen inside, or what might not happen, that makes it feel all the more imposing, like it’s waiting to swallow everyone whole.

They’re all at dinner when he really starts to feel overwhelmed. As much as he wants to talk with the team and mingle with friends and acquaintances he hasn’t seen in years, he feels twitchy and uncomfortable and everything is just the wrong side of loud. He excuses himself, blaming jet lag and an early workout session, and he ignores Eddie’s concerned gaze as he makes his way back to their room. He flops onto the bed, the only light coming from the dim lamp on the nightstand and the view of the city skyline from their balcony, and he tries to get himself to relax, to settle the electricity jumping all over him.

He doesn’t notice Eddie come in the room until he feels the bed shift, sees him crawl up his body until they’re face to face, Eddie’s arms bracketing his head as he gently rests his weight on Buck.

“You okay?” he asks.

Buck shrugs, hands coming up to rest on Eddie’s hips. “None of this felt real before today, and now we’re here and...I don’t know, it’s almost too real. It’s a lot to take in.”

Eddie hums and leans down, places a feather light kiss in between Buck’s eyebrows where he knows he scrunches up when he’s upset. “Do you need anything from me?”

Buck threads a hand through Eddie’s hair, firm so he doesn’t go too far. “You,” he says, because it’s true — Eddie’s the only thing he wants to see or feel or think about until he feels settled in his own skin again. “Just need you.” He pulls Eddie down and kisses him, unhurried, wanting to take his time and get lost in it, will his brain to shut off and just be. Eddie drops down to his elbows, pushing them even closer together, and Buck gasps softly as their cocks brush together, both of them well on their way to hard. Eddie takes the opportunity to lick into Buck’s mouth and Buck melts, sure it’ll only take a few minutes like this for him to come in his pants like a teenager.

But that’s the opposite of what he wants right now, so he flips them both over until he’s straddling Eddie’s hips and starts kissing down his neck, his hands finding the hem of his t-shirt and slowly pulling it up and off. He takes his time, savors the way Eddie’s breath stutters as Buck swirls a tongue around his nipple, chases the blush moving down his chest with open mouth kisses. Eddie tugs at his shirt, and Buck is more than happy to oblige, stripping it as he moves back up to kiss Eddie again, deeply, soundly, relieved that he can feel the crackling anxiety tone itself down, turn into simmering want instead as he tastes more and more of Eddie.

“Lube?” Buck asks, because Eddie’s hot under his hands and his pants are feeling more than tight and he needs to be in Eddie right now or he’s going to lose it.

“In my bag,” Eddie says, kissing down Buck’s jaw and working his pants down.

“And condoms?”

He feels Eddie smirk into his skin. “I think there are some in that welcome basket they gave us.”

Buck thanks whoever’s listening that those rumors were true. He only trips a little bit as he gets up and grabs everything and strips the rest of the way. When he turns back, Eddie’s stripped too, miles and miles of skin laid out on the bed and Buck’s certain he’s glowing and it’s not just his imagination this time and—

“God you’re gorgeous.” It’s worth it to see Eddie’s blush get impossibly deeper and move further down his chest.

He kisses Eddie again, a little more frantic, slicking up his fingers and swallowing the moan Eddie lets out when he starts rubbing at his entrance. He works his way in slowly, with every intention of still taking his time, but Eddie’s sighing into his mouth, an unconscious string of “please please please” tumbling out with it, and Buck doesn’t want to deny Eddie anything, ever, as long as he can help it. He moves faster, working in a second finger, then a third, scissoring Eddie open until he’s shaking and panting underneath him.

“Come on, Buck, please—” Buck cuts him off with a searing kiss, pulling away long enough to tear the condom open and roll it on, and then he’s kissing Eddie again and pushing into him, and he’s hot and tight and perfect, and Buck almost blacks out. He picks up a rhythm, steady but not teasing, and tastes every part of Eddie he can reach — his jaw, his neck, his chest, his shoulders and back again. Eddie’s everywhere, completely surrounding him, and he chases his orgasm as it builds in his gut, finesse and any attempt at taking his time quickly forgotten. He can tell Eddie’s close too, feels him clenching down around him, and Buck gets a hand on Eddie’s cock between them, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Eddie bites down on Buck’s shoulder as he comes, spilling hot onto Buck’s hands and on their stomachs, and it only takes a few more thrusts for Buck to follow, the edges of his vision whiting out with the force of it.

He drops down just enough to bury his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck as they both come down, still wanting — needing — to be surrounded by him. When he can finally breathe again, he pulls out and makes his way to the bathroom, throwing out the condom before finding a washcloth in a cabinet. Eddie’s half asleep when he gets back, but perks up as Buck cleans them both up and manhandles him until they're both under the covers. The bed is on the smaller side to fit two full grown men, but it’s all the more excuse for Buck to plaster himself to Eddie, an arm thrown firmly over his chest and their legs tangled together.

They lay in the quiet, the only sounds coming from the city below, and Buck finally feels calm, or at least calm enough that his mind’s not racing. His eyes get heavier and heavier, lulled by Eddie’s breathing underneath him and the random shapes he can feel him trace on his back.

“Still okay?” Eddie whispers, stopping his drawing and wrapping his arm around Buck fully.

Buck nods and closes his eyes. “Still just need you.”

Eddie kisses his forehead and whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.” Buck falls asleep with a smile on his face and I love you echoing in his head.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Team USA, get ready, you’re up next!”

Everyone around Buck starts jumping and cheering, hustling toward the exit to get ready for their march in the Parade of Nations. It was almost easy to forget that’s why they’ve been waiting in the bowels of the stadium for two hours in the first place — watching the performances on TV screens placed around the room didn’t quite translate to the fact that they too would be out there soon enough, decked out in full red, white, and blue, waving at the fans and supporters that have traveled from all over the world to watch them compete. It’s how Buck’s watched the opening ceremony ever since he was a kid anyway — glued to the TV, trying to pick out his favorite skaters from other countries as they marched through, picturing himself there so clearly he could practically feel the wind on his face, hear the roar of the crowd so loudly it was like the were in his living room.

It was a fantasy then, but it’s reality now, and Buck wishes he could go back and tell his six year old self that he will get here, and it will feel every bit as amazing as he imagined it would.

By the time they make it to their seats, Buck’s arms feel heavy from waving for five straight minutes, his cheeks hurt from smiling in a million different selfies, and he’s shivering in his designer Team USA uniform.

He wishes he could stay in this moment forever.

There’s some more performances about unity and peace and everything else the Olympics are supposed to represent, until finally, a torchbearer runs into the stadium, carrying the Olympic flame that’s made its way here all the way from Athens. They pass it to the final torchbearer, a decorated Chinese speed skater, who runs it up the short hill to the cauldron, lighting it from below. The flames grow and fireworks go off, people start cheering and dancing around him again, and for all the pinching himself he’s had to do since they announced the team, this is the most real thing he’s felt and may ever feel. The flame in him is blazing too, ready to be set free, and it burns brighter still when he looks to Eddie, his smile wide and his eyes sparkling. In all his wildest dreams, he never imagined being at the Olympics with someone who makes him feel like he’s already won something, but now that he is, that desire to win just keeps growing, fueling the flame more and more.

He kisses Eddie’s cheek and joins in on the celebration. They’ll party tonight and into the morning, but then, it’s back to business.

He’s here for a medal, and whatever the next two weeks try to throw his way, he is not going home empty handed.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“There’s still four teams before they skate, Buck.”

“Perfect, plenty of time to throw up.”

Eddie just shakes his head and focuses back on the ice as the Russian team hits their final pose. As each team gets their scores and doesn’t monumentally fuck up, Buck gets more and more nervous for Maddie and Chim. It’s not that he doubts them, it’s more like he doubts the entire scoring system — they’re only in first by two tenths of a point after the rhythm dance, and anyone could pull ahead enough to beat them at the last minute.

He knows they’ll be amazing. They’re always amazing. Their win just depends on whether or not the judges agree with him today.

The final group comes out to warm up, and Buck and Eddie are on their feet, flags waving high above their heads and cheering with the rest of the supporters’ section. Maddie and Chim spot them from the ice and wave before quickly schooling themselves back into performance mode. They look incredible — Chim in all black and Maddie sparkling in her gold dress — and Buck’s stomach clenches again in the hope that she’ll have a matching medal when it’s all over.

He feels Eddie nudge him as they sit back down. “You still with me?”

Buck smiles at him and it’s easy, real, despite the nerves still swimming around in him. “Just thinking about how this reminds me of our first date.”

Eddie scrunches his nose. “Autumn Classic was not our first date.”

“It kind of was,” Buck says, shrugging.

“You barely wanted me there, if I remember correctly. Plus May was there too.”

“Okay, so it wasn’t perfect.”

“No,” Eddie says, slipping his hand into Buck’s. “But I think this date makes up for it.”

They fall into an easy running commentary after that, and it’s enough to distract Buck and keep his anxiety at bay. If he tries, he can pretend they are at Autumn Classic again, where the stakes were lower and anything felt possible. It makes him a little less nervous for Maddie and Chim, and a little less nervous for himself, too. The mens’ event starts tomorrow, and it’ll be his turn to get on the ice and prove himself to the judges and most of the world watching from home. If he just keeps pretending it’s the beginning of the season — and not the potentially crushing end — maybe he’ll be able to keep it together.

The announcer introduces Maddie and Chim, and seeing them on the ice, looking confident and excited and ready, settles Buck even more. Their program is classic — classic music, classic costumes — but still fun and technically top notch and undeniably them, and the audience is mesmerized from the very first steps. They hit every line, every pose, every lift, and by the time they transition from the soft tones of “Fever” to the ripping guitar of “Burning Love”, the audience is all in, clapping along to the beat and loudly cheering them on. They hit their final pose, and the whole arena is on their feet, and louder still once they get their final score.

Buck’s not great at math, but he’s pretty sure the last team will need a miracle to beat them.

He holds his breath anyway, right up until the end, until the final team’s score is announced, and Maddie and Chim are officially gold medalists. It’s a blur of celebrating after that, but everything clears enough for Buck to get a perfect view of the medal ceremony and Maddie and Chim’s faces, beaming with joy and slight disbelief, even as the medals are slipped over their heads.

Buck’s proud, unbelievably so, and happy beyond belief for his sister, but the nerves are churning in him even faster, because now it feels like there’s a precedent, an expectation that he and the rest of Bobby’s skaters will do as well as their teammates. He’s always aiming for gold, but now it feels like it’s necessary, like anything less will be devastating instead of just disappointing. And then what about Eddie? He wants to win just as much as Buck, and Buck wants him to do well, but they can’t have a tie, one of them is going to do better than the other. And won’t that make it all the more heartbreaking when it’s not Buck that comes out on top?

He shoves all that away for now as he and Eddie fight their way through the crowd and down to the green room, because it’s too much and it doesn’t matter, at least not today. What matters is that Maddie is running into his arms, still happy crying, and he lets himself be completely wrapped up in her joy.

He’s proud of her. That’s one thing he knows for sure. That’s what he focuses on and hopes it’s enough to keep the voices quiet until tomorrow.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 fox #buddie fic #911 fic #9-1-1 #the last chapter got LONG so here's part 1 #i can't believe it's almost over!!#ficcery

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barnesandco · 5 years

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Little Hands (2)

Bucky is woken one morning by a small girl hammering on his door and crying her eyes out. He takes her to Child Protective Services only to be called back and informed that he is in fact, the father, and the mother a murder victim from the night before. What happens when he now finds himself a father, and the daughter in question becomes inexplicably, irrevocably attached to his neighbor who lives across the hall?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of murder, war injuries.

A/N: Thank you for the tremendous response on this series! I’m so excited that so many people are enjoying it. Tags are open, let me know if you want to be added. I’d love to hear what you think!

“I'm glad you came, Buck. Everyone's been trying to get to know you better, and hopefully this will help. You need to get out of your apartment more.” Steve murmurs across the table to Bucky, leaving the boisterous collective conversation momentarily. Bucky doesn't know how he got roped into team lunch at the Barton farm, but here he is. Eating apple pie at the table that is meant to fit half the people it's currently accommodating, as some Christmas musical rerun plays in the background. If it weren't for Nate dancing in front of the TV and singing at the top of his little lungs, someone would have asked to turn it down or off already - it's not even Thanksgiving yet.

Grateful that Steve has stopped the mother-henning for now, Bucky turns back to the pie, and then to the other Avengers. Some of them, at least. Clint looks immeasurably happy as Nat discusses target practice with his daughter, Lila. On his other side, Laura and Sam are engaged in a fierce debate on the best sides for Thanksgiving meals. The Avengers with families of their own - Scott and Tony - are notably absent, spending free time with their children, making it seem as though Clint has taken in a collection of strays.

He looks past the table and out the window, where the remaining few leaves are falling down in an early winter breeze. It's grey, but then, everything feels grey compared to Wakanda. Ironic coming from a man raised in the smog and fog of Brooklyn, he knows, but his life is just one color after the other. Phases passing like the seasons.

After Brooklyn, it was the trenches of the war, where Bucky knew nothing but brown for months on end. Then the sterile silver of Zola's equipment, followed by the consuming black of his cell. When he finally got out, the most dominant color was white. Agent Carter's perfect teeth, his cold knuckles around a rifle, the snow-clad mountains he fell between during that awful train-ride. Red followed - the bloody stump where his left arm used to be, the gunshot wounds that blossomed wherever he went, the star on his shoulder. His stupid fucking Henley, even the robe in green, green Wakanda. He's sick of red, longs for blue, now.

That's the crux of his problem, at present. Those blue eyes from yesterday, glittering like the moon, distant, but ever present. And oh, so familiar. Unrecognizable, whenever he tries, and he doesn't think any of his memory lapses have frustrated him like this one. He should know where he's seen Nina's eyes before. He doesn't, though, cannot. Pressing his brain has yielded no answer, not as he saw her staring at him from the rearview mirror on the way to drop her off. Not when she started tearing up again when it was time to leave, not when she watched you as you reassured as she clung on to you. Not when she almost glared at him, as if for a betrayal, over the shoulder of a social worker that carried her way. He thanks God that childcare workers have weekend shifts, because he wouldn't have known what to do with Nina for a second longer, with or without your help.

He had dropped you at your intended grocery store with too many thank-you's and awkward blushes and red stutters. Almost smacked himself in the forehead after you left the car for his total and utter inability to be coherent around you. He knows he isn't who he used to be, doesn't expect to be the ladies' man Steve tells him about, but he wishes he could at least put on a facade. At least appear sane and capable of basic human interaction. You never seem to mind, though, always offering a friendly giggle and gentle patience as he stumbles over his words. He wonders if that's a facade, too. If you're not as willing to put up with him as you appear to be, the way you were with Nina yesterday.

He could tell you were out of your depth, but you handled it like a champ. Handled her, rather. All his thought processes are circling back to Nina, and he doesn't understand it. One child, left alone on his doorstep in the dead of night. The mystery of it is most inconvenient. Bucky shakes all thought of it out, and decides to participate in the conversation at the table, and jumps, to find Wanda staring at him.

She smiles as if it's not an issue, as if she hasn't been watching him for who knows how long, and reaches for another piece of pie.

"Are you okay, Mr. Barnes?" She asks when he doesn't stop looking at her and Steve looks over. Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes at the concern that immediately overtakes his features.

"Yeah, Buck, you look a little out of it. Everything alright?" Steve leans on his forearms, ready to do whatever is required to put Bucky at ease. The others start to get up as lunch is now over. Bucky begins to answer Steve as he makes his way past him with a plate to put away.

"I'm fine, Stevie. Don't wor-" Ring. Saved by the bell. Bucky puts the plate down and pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at the caller ID; it's an unsaved number. His teammates are bustling about, getting ready to settle down in the living room, and he mutters a generic excuse me and answers the call. While holding the phone to his ear, he accidentally presses the speaker button.

"Hello?" He says gruffly, standing in the foyer.

"Is this Sergeant Barnes?" A woman asks from the other end. The TV has been turned off, Nate's attention diverted. The four-year-old runs out of the room, barely missing Bucky's legs, and rushes up the stairs.

"Yeah, who's askin' ?" Everyone in the next room has gone quiet, and he - super senses and all - does not know it yet, back to the door, eyes on his socks scuffing against the worn floorboards, and ears on the professional, straight-cut voice on the phone.

"It's about the girl you brought in to our Brooklyn office yesterday morning. Nina?" Bucky holds his breath. He had given the CPS office his number to let him know when they found her parents. Something in him, maybe the forgotten big brother part that still holds on to Becca, feels a responsibility towards the girl. And he can't get rid of the niggling question that asks: why would someone go to all that trouble to leave her on his doorstep?

"Yeah? What about her?" He shifts his weight, tucks a hand in his pocket, clenches and opens his fist. "Have you found her parents?"

"Sir, you're the father." Bucky's heart stops. He freezes, blood turning to stone and muscles to glass. The anger floods his cheeks red. Steve stands, cup of coffee neglected on the table.

"Is this some kinda joke? 'Cause I don't find it funny. That's impossible." He fumes, now pacing, assassin-silent stalk abandoned in favor of heavy treading across the planks. His hair curtains his face and he pushes it back as he listens closely to her response.

"Sir, we conducted a DNA test to see if there was a match in the system, and you are the father." Bucky ceases pacing when he meets Steve's eyes through the doorway, tunnel vision excluding the others' stares.

"Did you find the mother?" He asks, hand no longer raking through his hair, but pulling at the strands.

"That's the second cause of concern, Sergeant Barnes. The mother was found murdered in Bushwick on Saturday morning." She replies, apology now saturating her tone. Bucky can taste the sympathy through the phone, and he doesn't know whether to swallow it up or vomit.

"What's her name?" He manages.

"Irene Petrov."

"What's going to happen to Nina?" Bucky asks, not accepting this result, but retaining some semblance of pragmatism. He doesn't have a daughter. He can't have a daughter. The name Irene rings no bells, and there's no way, even with his bruised, battered memory, that he would forget making a child with someone. The idea that she's dead sends a jolt to his gut, and he staggers. The nausea that comes with the gut feeling that something is not right tastes like metal and bile in his throat, and he heaves in deep breaths of clean country air in order to listen to the woman answer his question.

"You have custody, unless you decide to give it up, in which case she'll enter the foster system." Clint is now on his feet, too; Wanda's taken to biting her nails.

"Okay. Okay, alright. Can you send me the results? I'll pick her up soon." Bucky wrings his free hand, asking for some sort of verification. He needs proof. Evidence. Something to hold onto as the world swims around him, buzzing ears barely perceiving the woman's promise to send him the documents, and subsequent good-bye. A headache builds between his eyes as he turns back to Steve, holding his phone like he doesn't know what it is, or what it does.

"Buck? What was that all about?" Steve speaks first, walking up to him, audience forgotten. Bucky looks over his shoulder to realize they heard the entire conversation, but finds that he doesn't fully care. He told them about finding Nina earlier, and now they know everything. Just as well, he would have had to tell them anyway.

"You heard everything, Steve. Don't know what more there is to say." He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief at the phone in his hand. The phone buzzes, signaling an email.

"These are the DNA test results. Got no idea how that's possible, but there you go." He shows Steve the phone screen, still shaking his head, unsure whether to laugh or scream. A daughter.

An hour later sees him standing inside the reception he dropped Nina off at yesterday, not knowing that her mother was dead in a proverbial ditch a stone's throw away. Irene Petrov. The name means nothing to him, but he can't trust his mind, based on the events of late.

Sam is standing on his right, and Steve to his left, both silent and in wait. After verification of the results through a quick phone call with F.R.I.D.A.Y., they had left Clint's house together in Sam's car. Both men had insisted on joining him, noticing his evident despair, and wanted to be by his side. A social worker holding Nina’s hand emerges from a hallway, and Bucky moves forward. It’s the same woman who coaxed Nina away yesterday when he dropped her off.

“Sergeant Barnes. Nice to see you again.” She says, smiling, but Bucky suspects she’s disgusted. Suspects that he tried to abandon his daughter - his daughter? - and was found out. He forces a stiff nod in response.

“Hi.” He says, then looks at Nina, whose gaze is defiant, chin turned up. She’s angry, as angry as a child can be, anyhow.

Before he can address her, however, the social worker gestures for him to follow her to a seating area nearby, still holding Nina’s hand. They sit, and she opens a slim manila folder, showing him the documents within. Rather, the alarming lack thereof.

“Nina has no record, Sergeant Barnes. No birth certificate, in the US or otherwise, as far as we can see. No passport, medical records, any official documents of registration. We’ve just registered her here, though, and it’s on the basis of that registration that we’ve made the papers assigning you to have her full custody. Please sign here.” She hands him a pen, turns the page towards him, and he reads through it. Lifts the paper to see copies of the DNA report underneath. After mere moments of deliberation - wasted moments, it’s not like he has a choice - he signs the fateful paper. Wipes his palms on his thighs anxiously, looks at Nina but talks to the social worker.

“Can we go now?” He asks, like a teenager excusing themselves from the dinner table. Nina’s watching him, curious, piercing blue eyes fixated on him. Perhaps he recognizes them because they’re her mother’s, who he doesn’t recall meeting, but his subconscious does. Is that why they’re so startingly familiar? He shakes the query out of his head, once again, and stands when the woman does. She nods, wishes him well, and hands Nina over, points out the car seat and backpack that has now been brought out. She waves goodbye, and Nina watches her go, patiently, unmoving. Bucky bends down, rests one knee on the beige carpet, and looks at her.

“Hey, Nina, remember me? I’m-”

“Bucky.” She blurts out, and he is taken aback. Didn’t expect her to remember his name, and he knows she only does because of the conversation between you and him on the way here. You had introduced him. This is my friend, Bucky. He’s nice. He smiles at Nina, nods, and holds out his hand out to shake hers. Almost withdraws it when her eyes widen, and he prays she doesn’t cry again. Calmer than yesterday, having had time to come to terms with this horrible predicament, she doesn’t cry. Instead she shakes his hand, and he releases the breath he was holding hostage in his chest, pressure from his lungs relieved but the pressure on his hand remains. She has a firm handshake.

“Yeah, I’m gonna be taking care of you. Is that okay?” He asks, fully aware of Steve and Sam’s stares burning into him. He can see a smirk and a dropped jaw from his peripherals, and feels like pumping a fist in the air just for Sam’s awestruck gaze. Internally thanks Steve for having more faith in him than he does himself. He’s not the only one, because it seems that Nina is starting to trust him, too.

“Yes.” She says, voice a whisper, gliding around him. He stands, and holds out his hand. The feeling of her small fingers wrapping around his large, calloused ones is indescribable. Soft, warm, they fit in his perfectly, and unbelievably, inexplicably, Bucky’s heart soars. His stomach is still in knots, the thought of Irene Petrov doing somersaults in his abdomen, but for the first time since yesterday morning, he thinks something feels right. Her hand in his is comfortable, and he doesn’t want to let go. Stifling the smile, he finally gets to where Steve and Sam are.

“Nina, these are my friends.” She doesn’t respond, looks up at the men unimpressed, and he smiles again. “This is Steve, and this is Sam.” He says as each man kneels down to say hello.

“Where is the lady?” She asks, her r and l pronounced as w’s, and Bucky blanches. Thinks of you, doing more than you should have, kind mind and sound heart, helping him drop Nina off with your shy smile and glinting eyes. Wonders if you’ll understand his situation, even though he knows he has bigger fish to fry than worry about his chances at taking you on a date when he now has a girl, a whole person, to take care of. So he tells that girl the only thing that comes to mind.

“She was busy, honey, I’m sorry. Hey, do you want to get ice-cream on the way home?” He says, and changes the subject before she can react. She frowns, then perks up slightly, nods for ice-cream. Unfortunately-

“Ice-cream in November, Buck? She’ll get sick before you’ve even brought her home” Steve points out, and she glares at him. Bucky very nearly laughs at the look on her face, and Sam grins.

“Okay, okay, ice-cream in November.” Steve actually laughs, holding his hands up in surrender, waving away the distrust on Nina’s tiny, chubby face. Bucky’s gaze goes to her little hands unclenching from the fists they were in.

“Alright, man, let’s go.” Sam says, picking up the car seat and patting Bucky on the shoulder as he leads them out. Bucky grins, if only for a moment, watches the beginnings of a smile on Nina’s face as they leave the building.

---

Kamenev holds two empty glass vials up to the flickering lightbulb suspended from the ceiling. One used to contain hairs belonging to the Fist of Hydra, proof of DNA just in case. The other held a fingerprint mold of the same man - biometric identity. He smashes the vials in a tissue, flushes it all down the toilet of another dirty motel bathroom.

He’s sick of these dingy, disgusting places, knows he deserves better. He deserves the world at his feet, after his scientific accomplishment, the only evidence of which is the child itself. The child that has been slipping out of his grasp like sand through his fingers. She manages to evade him, even when her mother could not. However, he is sure he will find her soon. He must.

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#ayesha writes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #dad!bucky #bucky x reader angst #bucky x reader fluff

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joaquinfeed · 4 years

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Wouldn't It Be Nice? (Arthur Fleck x Reader)

Prompt: Snapshots from your developing relationship with your neighbor Arthur—friends to lovers. + A little bit of Sophie friendship

Hello! I haven't posted a fanfic in a HOT minute. I know I can take my time, and you all are so sweet. But I did write this up. Thanks for being patient! It’s not my favorite, but it will do. :) Hope you all are staying safe and well.

Word Count: 4,300

Warnings: An extra amount of fluff? Um, cursing. A small fight?

You spend more time at Arthur's than ever before. You even mention to Sophie, the girl down the hall, that he is your best friend in a passing conversation you have with her. She just shoots you a weird look and mutters something like, "I didn't think Arthur had any friends."

But now, as you enter Arthur's apartment, you question what type of person wouldn't want to befriend him. The man was sitting on the couch, a cigarette in one hand and a blue lego in the other. Your eyes travel to the coffee table where scattered legos lie around the surface, waiting to be pieced together.

His eyes narrow in concentration as he carefully sticks the blue lego onto his developing house. Your gaze follows his other hand as he lifts the cigarette up to his lips to take a puff. A satisfied smile tugs at the sides of his mouth as he takes in his plastic creation.

Yeah, you really didn't understand how someone could pass up the chance to be his friend.

When Arthur finally notices you standing in the doorway, he doesn't hesitate to invite you in by patting the seat next to him.

You recount the events of your day, and Arthur watches you, hanging on to every detail that escapes your lips. You, in turn, do the same for him. You don't mind, though; hearing about Carnival's adventures at the children's hospital could easily be the best part of your day.

"This little boy, Nicholas, said that I was his favorite clown that has visited him," Arthur smiles triumphantly at you, and you have to force yourself not to hug him right there.

"I'm not even surprised," you tell him, genuinely. "Although, I am rather shocked I haven't gotten a VIP performance from Carnival. I mean, we've been friends for a while now."

His eyes dart around nervously before they land on yours. "You think we're friends?"

You pause. "Do you not?"

He shrugs, and you chalk it up to his lack of experience. "I'd like to be."

"Okay, then."

Shy smiles get passed between the two of you before you settle back into the couch. The night moves on like any other, and you eventually end up pressed against him while watching the Murray Franklin Show.

When winter nears, and snow starts falling from the skies of Gotham, you make it a priority to buy Arthur some gear for the season. You don't buy him anything too extravagant—only some gloves and a new coat. You notice he lacks in those departments; his jacket was becoming mangled, and his gloves were nonexistent. So, at every chance you get, you save up a few extra bucks and put them in your Arthur fund.

When you present the gifts to him, his reaction was not what you were expecting.

"I am not a child," he tells you with a little venom in his words. "I don't need you to buy me things. You need to save your money for yourself."

"I just wanted to do something nice for you," you reply, shrugging half-heartedly. "I wasn't trying to make you feel like a child, Arthur. It was only supposed to be a friend helping out another friend. I want you to be safe and warm out there."

He gives you a look, almost like he's trying to judge your real intentions. You stay silent, waiting for him to take the lead. He finally gives a small nod, and the right side of his mouth twitches up.

"Thank you," he says, picking up the coat and looking it over. "I don't want you to feel like you need to buy me anything, though."

"Don't worry so much. I wanted to. I promise."

The next time you see Arthur, he's holding the door open for you to slip into the elevator. You glance at his slender frame and see he's sporting the coat and gloves. You smile to yourself, and shoot him a small wave after the doors spring open, heading out to finish your daily errands.

"What's going on with you and Arthur?"

You look up from your spot by the mailboxes to see Sophie's eyes peering at you with curiosity.

"What do you mean?"

She shrugs in response, reaching to open her mailbox that's next to yours.

"I don't mean anything by it. I'm just wondering. You two seem," she pauses, "close."

It's your turn to shrug. You wanted to tell Sophie just how close you truly felt to Arthur, but you didn't know the woman well enough to do that. You two have started to talk more, and you would even consider her to be a friend—or at least, on the verge of becoming one.

You shift the mail around in your hands, looking to see if there is anything important. You keep your eyes trained on the bill in front of you, your finger gently grazing over the name of your electric company.

"I told you he was my best friend," you offer. "He's really sweet, Sophie. He's not like anybody else I've been friends with. He listens to me, you know? He actually likes hearing the same old boring stuff I do every single day. Even when I tell him there's nothing new that's happened, he insists that I still talk about my day."

"Really? Arthur?"

Your lips fix into a tight line, and almost as if she can sense your displeasure, Sophie quickly throws her hands up in innocence.

"I didn't mean anything by that, Y/N," she says. "I clearly just don't know him well enough. I'm sure he can be charming."

"I'm telling you, Soph. The man is an angel."

She laughs like you just told a joke, and you laugh along with her even though you're reasonably sure it was the truth.

"Maybe it's just you that brings it out in him," she wiggles her eyebrows slightly, chuckling to herself before moving to the elevator. "See ya tomorrow, Y/N."

Your head was spinning. You just got done visiting Arthur at HaHa's, and the visit didn't go quite as planned. Randall, a coworker of Arthur's, wouldn't stop making crude passes at you. You watched the scene unfold—Arthur stepped up and asked Randall to stop, shouting and laughter could be heard from every clown as Randall made one one last comment about your looks. You don't know who threw the first punch, but Arthur sure threw the last one.

Your concern for your neighbor overran your pride. It wasn't like him at all to be risking his job like that for a few comments. You have comforted him enough after a long day of Randall's bullshit to know that Arthur took every bit of it just to keep his career.

As you wait outside of HaHa's for Arthur, who's cleaning himself up in the bathroom, you see the door swing open and out walks Hoyt.

"Hey," he stops when he sees you. "I know a lot of those guys in there don't really like Arthur, but I do. He just can't be getting into fights in the middle of the fuckin' workday."

"But Randall said," you start, but Hoyt shakes his head.

"I don't care what that fat son of a bitch said. You need to tell ya' boyfriend that he has one more chance to do what he's supposed to."

You inhale through your nose and exhale slowly through your mouth, trying to keep your anger at bay. You despise every single person that Arthur had the displeasure of knowing, but you were going to keep that to yourself—for Arthur's sake.

"I'll make sure to let him know," you say. "He's not my boyfriend, though." You add, weakly.

"Well, that's not what he told us."

Your eyebrows furrow together. "He told you that he was my boyfriend?"

"Yeah, that's been the word around funny town."

Hoyt dismisses himself after you keep silent, but you barely notice him walking away. Arthur has been telling people that you're dating? Did he think that you were? You ransacked your brain to try and recall a time where Arthur may have picked up that impression; you didn't find one.

It's entirely possible Hoyt’s just talking out of his ass; from the couple times you've met the man, he tended to be loose and careless with his words. The only way to know for sure is to talk to Arthur himself. And so, you keep waiting.

When Arthur finally pushes open the door, you wave him over.

"Let's go out and get some food," you say as soon as he's next to you. "My treat."

He nods, a little surprised, but falls in step with you as you walk to a small café nearby called "Gotham's Goodies." You keep your eyes ahead, trying not to stare too long at the ever-present black eye that was starting to form from Randall's hands.

Once your destination is in sight, Arthur quickens his pace a step in order to hold the door open for you. You murmur a "thanks" while offering him a small smile.

The aroma of the little café was a mixture of hot cocoa and assorted cookies that are lining the counter. You move to the glass case next to the cash register and run your eyes over the desserts staring back at you.

You feel Arthur come up behind you before his words filter into your ears. "What do you want?"

"Maybe that one," you give a noncommittal point towards one of the desserts sitting on the top shelf. If you were honest, your mind really wasn't on any type of pastry; it was still on Arthur and the prospect of him being your boyfriend. It's not that you are against the idea of dating your neighbor; you simply want to know why Arthur thinks that you are.

You tell him to pick something out for you, and he falters for a second. He looks at you like he can tell something's on your mind but does as you say. You fish a few bills out of your pocket to hand to him, but before you can, he's already giving the cashier some cash.

It's not hard to find a table, seeing that the café was nearly empty apart from an older couple sitting near the entrance. You follow Arthur to a small table furthest from the front and sit down with him. With your seat in front of his, you are finally able to see the bruise forming around his eye.

Your heart clenches in concern. "Does it hurt?"

He doesn't ask what you mean. Instead, he shakes his head. "It's not my first time."

"Ah, so you get in a lot of fights for other people, huh? Is that your way of reeling them in?"

Arthur smirks. "Did it work?"

Despite yourself, you smile at him. You still manage to shake your head while attempting to look stern. "No, absolutely not. You could have been really hurt, Arthur."

"But he said so many mean things to you," he reasoned. "It just—it made me so angry."

You scoot your stool over until it's right next to Arthur's. "I appreciate that, but I don't want you to lose your job. Hoyt said—"

"Who cares what Hoyt says."

"Listen to me. Hoyt said you have one last chance, okay? Please don't waste it on me."

Arthur's eyes widen, and he lets out a huff. "Waste? Y/N, you're never a waste."

"Just promise me, Arthur."

He looks like he wants to keep arguing, but he reluctantly nods. "I promise."

"There's also something else that Hoyt told me," you say, picking at a loose string on your pants. "I just want to let you know that I'm not mad or anything, I just want to know.."

You trail off, not really knowing what to say. He waits patiently for you to continue, and when you actually mask up the courage, it's all spilling out at once.

"Hoyt called you my boyfriend," you blurt out. "And when I corrected him, he said he was just telling me what you told everyone. That means you told everyone that you were my boyfriend? Why did you tell people that you were my boyfriend?"

Arthur suddenly looks more uncomfortable than you have ever seen him before. The café seems deadly quiet as you wait for him to speak. Soft chatter can be heard from the few other patrons, but your heart is beating so fast in your chest, you could hardly concentrate on anything else.

"I wanted everybody to lay off," he answers. "I thought they wouldn't be so mean if they knew I had somebody."

"Oh, well, you could have told- wait," you pause. "Does that mean that Randall was still talking to me like that even though he knew you were my "boyfriend?""

Arthur nods. "That's why I was so angry. He knew, and he still did it."

"Asshole," you spit out, and Arthur hums in agreement.

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," he says. "I'll tell them the truth."

"Hey," you frown, resting a hand on top of his bouncing knee. "You didn't embarrass me at all. I was simply curious. I'm your friend because I want to be Arthur, and I would be lucky to call someone like you, my boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Really."

Nothing changes after your conversation with Arthur—not really. Nothing that would potentially rock the ship that you both have built for yourselves over the months. Except, a few small things have shifted in your relationship.

When Arthur's slumped into his couch to watch an old movie or a new episode of Murray Franklin, your sides are pushed together even closer than before, not leaving an inch of space between you. When you're helping him make dinner or clean the kitchen after a meal, he'll casually let his fingers ghost over yours as you both reach for an item on the counter.

Your hands swing dangerously close together as you walk through the streets of Gotham. You shiver, and he mutters something sarcastic about you "not having a good enough coat, but thank God, you bought one for him." Before you know it, his coat is wrapped around you for the remainder of your walk; this happens nearly every time.

The prospect of Arthur being your boyfriend was never brought up again. You know you could tell him right now as you walk down the snowy sidewalk together towards your Gotham apartments, that he needs to stop bumping his side against yours. He needs to stop brushing his hand against your shoulder or placing hesitant kisses on your forehead after a long day. He's not your boyfriend, and you could tell him that. But you don't. Instead, you lean into him as another gust of bitter wind hits you like a slap in the face.

"I told you to bring a real coat," he grumbles, even though you know he's not really angry. "You're going to get sick one of these days."

"You keep me warm," you say playfully as you reach for his tan winter hat and yank it off his head, only to pull it over yours. You smile innocently at him.

Arthur tries to narrow his eyes in a glare, but you can see a smile peeking through. He sighs. "Somehow, I don't think I'm going to get that back."

Before you can blink, Christmas is already arriving. You insist that Arthur doesn't have to get you a gift; you know money is tight. In turn, he tells you he expects nothing from you too.

"The coat and the gloves were enough," he says.

You didn't listen to him, but to be fair, he didn't listen to you either. When you get to Arthur's apartment, the door swings open, and you see his smiling face. The corners of his mouth start to fall as he sees the small wrapped gift in your hand.

"Oh, stop frowning," you roll your eyes at him, before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Artie."

He looks down at the blue, rectangle-shaped package that is covered in snowmen. His eyes drift up to yours, and he shakes his head in amusement. "You never listen."

"You should know that by now."

As soon as you move from the doorway and into the house, Arthur makes a show of rushing to the kitchen and pulling out a plate of cookies he baked for you. You chuckle to yourself as he dashes around the apartment to get everything ready.

You migrate to the couch and watch as he drops a paper sack in front of you on the table.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "Is this a Christmas gift?"

"You aren't the only one who doesn't listen."

"Arthur!"

"Just open it," he smiles shyly, as he shifts from foot to foot. You tear open the paper sack and inside is a notebook. It looks similar to Arthur's joke diary, but a little less worn down. "It's nothing special, but I figured you- you might like it."

You flip open the first page to see a polaroid picture of you and Arthur taped to the top, followed by a list titled: "My favrite things about Y/N." As you turn the pages, more lists, notes, and little doodles fill the blank papers. Everything from "how Y/N and I met" to "Y/N and I are friends becus…"

You are almost as shocked by Arthur's gift as he is with yours. He tears open the snowmen wrapping paper to find a photo album you put together with your collection of "friendship" photographs. You took every polaroid shot that you have been saving and stuck them into the album for your neighbor. Well, almost all of them. There are a few pictures of Arthur that you saved just for yourself.

You don't waste any time in showing your appreciation to Arthur. You wrap your arms around his delicate frame and soon feel his arms do the same.

"Thank you for the present," you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "It was probably the most meaningful gift I've ever gotten."

"Mine was too," he whispers back, arms tightening around you. "Thank you."

"It's no big deal."

"Not for the gift," he pulls back. "For being here."

You smile softly at him. "Thank you for inviting me."

You see Arthur's lips twitch up, and before you can ask him why, he's talking—voice still quite in the otherwise silent room. "Why does Santa hate being stuck in the chimney?"

Your eyes twinkle with amusement. "Why?"

"Because he's clause-trophobic."

"Oh, Arthur," you shake your head, chuckling. "That was just a sad joke. You better tell me another one for good measure."

"How much did Santa pay for his sleigh?"

"How much?"

"Nothing. It was on the house."

Arthur broke out into a smile, and you couldn't help but laugh. You're not sure what exactly happened next, but somehow you were leaning in, and your lips met Arthur's. It surely was not a rom-com ready kiss—your mouth was merely pressed against his. But you could feel the raw emotion radiating from his touch as his fingers slid up to cup your cheek.

Your heart pounds in your chest; you could taste the remnants of oven-baked cookies and cigarettes still on his lips. It only makes heat wash over you like a wave. When you break apart, Arthur's cheeks are flushed red, and he looks as if he's weighing his options to kiss you again or dart out of the room.

Instead of saying anything about it, you try to ease Arthur's apparent anxiety by offering his hand a small squeeze. "Merry Christmas, Arthur."

A few days later, you walk into Arthur's apartment to see the photo album open on the table, and a few more pictures of you lying beside it. You feel a pleasing warmth settle in your chest; Arthur liked the gift.

New Year comes and goes faster than Christmas did. You spent the holiday over at Sophie's after Arthur was requested to work a New Years party through HaHa's. Although you are not best friends, it was good to spend time with another person in Gotham. Plus, you finally had someone to vent to about your other neighbor.

"And then we kissed," you say, watching Sophie's face to gauge a reaction.

A sly smile creeps up onto her face and she nods. "I knew something was going on."

"But nothing is! That's the thing," you sigh. "He hasn't kissed me again or even talked to me about it. I don't know if it was bad, or if he's just shy. I don't want to ask him."

"I'm sure he's just nervous," she shrugs. "He hasn't had many other experiences like this, right? He probably just doesn't want to mess things up."

"I guess so," you trail off, thinking.

Sophie smirks. "Do you like him?"

"Shut up, Sophie," you roll your eyes. "What are we, twelve?"

"Come on," she laughs. "Does Mr. clown man get you going? Do you some sort of kink?"

"I'm so not answering this," you cover your face with your hand, and Sophie continues to laugh. You uncover your face, and meet her gaze. "I'm never telling you anything again."

You make it through the rest of the night—or year—with only a couple more Arthur related jokes. Sophie may have been amused, but your heart only fluttered every time she uttered his name.

You've got it bad.

The days and weeks continue to pass, and neither you or Arthur bring up the kiss. It's no secret—at least to Sophie—that you have feelings for him. You are willing to never bring it up if your friendship stays the same. But that's the thing. Your friendship with Arthur has not been the same. In fact, gentle touches, loving glances, and warm snuggles have morphed into lingering silence and nervous laughter—or laughter from Arthur that was not always welcomed.

Winter starts to inch away, and traces of Spring begin appearing outside— birds chirping, slightly warmer weather, and snow melting into puddles on the ground. On the first sunny day of the season, you and Arthur walk down the streets of Gotham, ignoring every rude city-dweller that passes by you.

The silence that has been dragging on between you is unusually thick in the air. Your hand swings slightly as you walk, brushing against Arthur's occasionally. When you near the end of the city limits, and the residents of Gotham start becoming scarce, you turn to him.

"I think we should talk."

He stays quiet for a beat. "About what?"

"I think you know," you slow your pace, spotting a bench sitting outside the front of a little mom-and-pop restaurant. You grab Arthur's arm and cross the street, leading him to the bench to sit down.

"Things have been kind of weird," you say after you're both settled. He nods silently.

"I'm sorry," you both blurt out.

He gives you a bewildered look. "Why are you sorry, Y/N?"

"I don't know. I never wanted our friendship to get like this—uncomfortable. It's not you! It's just- well, we kissed. You never brought it up again, and I talked to Sophie-"

"You told Sophie?"

You chew at your bottom lip, remembering every question and joke Sophie said to you that night. God, I ought to kill her, you think to yourself. "I did, but it was only because I wanted to get her opinion. I didn't know if I freaked you out or…"

"You didn't," Arthur's voice is small as he taps his fingers against his legs. "I wasn't sure if you meant it. I was giving you time to change your mind, and you never said anything either, so I assumed you did."

You let out a puff of breath, moving your hands to his upper arms to make him look at you. "No, no, Arthur. That's not it at all. For two people who mostly communicate with only each other, we really had a misunderstanding here."

"So," Arthur gives you a look of hesitance, insecurity still flickering in his eyes. "You don't regret it?"

"No," you say to him as genuinely as you could. "Not even a little."

Not even a second passes by before Arthur is leaning in. He still pauses before he reaches your mouth, looking at you for permission. You just bunch his maroon sweater up in your hand and pull him forward.

Now that you both know where the other stands, nothing stops you from keeping your lips pressed together.

Not even the snide remarks from passerby's as they leave their wholesome dinner at the mom-and-pop shop to see you kissing and laughing with Arthur on the tiny bench.

Not even the voice of an older lady walking by muttering for you both to "get a room." Because you intend to, and you intend to real soon.

The following Christmas, Arthur tells more Santa jokes that make you roll your eyes, and you buy more gifts even though he told you not to. He watches Murray Franklin instead of hanging lights with you, and you eat his cookies that he baked even though they're labeled "Arthur's."

But you both know that neither of you actually mind. At the end of the day, he's still your best friend. You just get to kiss him now too.

#joaquin phoenix joker #joaquin phoenix #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x you #joker x reader #joker x you #arthur fleck imagine #joker imagine

108 notes · View notes

cake-writes · 5 years

Text

Simplicity

Pairing: Steve x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Breeding Kink, Fluff, 18+

Word Count: 1.7k

I wanted to write some fluff for our favourite Captain’s birthday, as per @sherrybaby14′s challenge! So I did. ✌️

It started with a simple comment.

“Our kids would never act up like that.”

You and Steve had gone shopping like a normal, domestic couple for once. You needed some new t-shirts because your favourites had been ripped up during the latest mission, and he thought it might be nice to make a date of it. Steve wasn’t too fond of large crowds, but it was lunchtime on a Tuesday and the shopping mall was pretty quiet.

Not quiet enough, unfortunately.

After you checked out a few stores, you stopped at a little café for a coffee break. He ordered a plain black iced coffee because it was a hot day, and you selected some weird seasonal concoction. Something about pumpkins and spice. Didn��t make much sense to him.

It was a relaxing break when you first sat down, but then a lady with three unruly children in tow came in. The kids kept popping their heads under (and over) seats, bothering patrons, and one of them was playing a too-loud game on dear mommy’s cell phone.

You weren’t normally one to judge. She was by herself, so maybe she was a single mother and that gig was certainly tough as hell. Maybe something bad had happened to her today. Maybe she was sick, or worrying over something – there were plenty of reasons for it, but the snide comment escaped you nonetheless because the kids were noisy and you were trying to enjoy a date with your boyfriend.

Steve didn’t respond, and for a minute you thought he’d been offended by what you said. His thoughts were usually pretty similar to yours: did his best not to judge, did what was right, had good morals – so maybe it upset him that you weren’t really as understanding as he’d come to believe.

When you glanced over at him, though, the breath hitched in your throat. He wasn’t upset at all.

No, instead Steve slowly took your hand in his and leaned in to whisper into your ear, “Our kids?”

His breath was hot on the shell of your ear and it sent a shiver down your spine. You immediately forgot about the three obnoxious brats wreaking havoc in the café. All you could focus on was the carnal implication in his words.

Your words.

His thumb gently stroked the skin on the underside of your wrist as you responded breathily, “Yeah, Stevie. Our kids.”

The idea of it turned you on like crazy, and it was ridiculous because this was absolutely not a good time to have them. You and Steve were Avengers, for fuck’s sake, and you had a duty to uphold, let alone the fact that you’d been dating for a little more than a year – but it clearly turned him on, too.

You’d barely made it back to his room in the compound before he had you up against his bedroom wall, two fingers deep in your cunt, his lips and tongue assaulting your neck as he muttered some of the filthiest things he’d ever said to you.

“Gotta get you ready, doll,” he breathed, hooking his fingers up into your g-spot in just the way that made you see stars. You knew what he was getting you ready for. Neither of you had actually tried before, but you were on birth control, so it was harmless either way.

“Want you, Stevie,” you whimpered, bucking your hips against his hand. “Need you.”

The desperation in your tone was enough to get him to remove his fingers, and then he quickly replaced them with his cock. Even having two of his fingers still wasn’t enough to completely ease the stretch, but it was a pleasant burn, the way he filled you so, so well. Your hiss of pleasure did nothing to hide the fact that you were absolutely soaked for him.

Once he was fully sheathed inside your slick heat, he kissed you again – messy and wet, all lips and teeth and tongues. He wasn’t making love to you tonight, no, not now. Not when the two of you were so worked up by the goal you were inadvertently working towards.

Steve broke away to press sloppy kisses your throat, and you laced your fingers with his as he held one of your hands up above your head against the wall. You slung your other arm around his neck and held onto him desperately as he thrust up into you, his movements slowly becoming more and more erratic.

He was already so close. You were too.

“Come inside me,” you gasped, and he squeezed your hand in response.

“Gonna fill you up,” Steve groaned against the sweat-slicked skin on your neck. “Gonna make you mine.”

The whine that escaped your throat brought him even closer to the edge. “Give me a baby, Stevie, please—”

“Love you, sweetheart, fuckin’ love you,” he babbled like a prayer, quickly unlacing your fingers to fist the hair at the back of your head and kiss you again. He wasn’t gentle, and you didn’t want him to be; his tongue swept into your mouth with a certain dominance that sent you reeling.

Steve had you so pinned to the wall that you couldn’t get away even if you wanted to – and of course you didn’t want to, but just knowing that he was going to fill you up, knowing that he could hold you there and just make you take every fucking drop of his cum whether you wanted to or not was what finally pushed you over the edge.

You came with a strangled cry just as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling hot inside you. He groaned against your lips as you milked him dry, your walls clenching down on him so hard that you could actually feel each spurt of him inside of you. It made you feel so ridiculously satisfied, like you’d fulfilled whatever primal duty the two of you were meant to do. You loved it.

You felt boneless in his arms as he gently eased you onto the bed, leaving just for a moment to fetch a wet washcloth to help clean you up just like he always did. You barely even noticed until he came back and gathered you in his arms, pulling your back against his chest with the rest of your body in between his spread legs.

When he offered you the washcloth, you looked up at him with a dazed smile and shook your head.

You didn’t want to clean up. You wanted to leave every bit of him inside of you, on the off-chance that something actually worked. It was stupid and impulsive, but in the heat of the moment, you wanted it – and when his cock twitched against your back, you knew that he did too.

“I love you,” you told him, bringing your hand up to the side of his face to pull him down for another kiss. It was gentle and leisurely this time, like the two of you had all the time in the world together to savour it.

When the two of you finally broke away, Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead and then buried his face in your hair. He couldn’t help but rest his hands on your abdomen, right above where he’d emptied himself inside of you.

“I love you too.”

Another simple comment.

“Man, I’m exhausted. This baby’s gonna be a real fighter.”

It slipped out so easily, so casually from your lips that it felt natural – like you’d already told him. You didn’t even realize, though, until you didn’t get a response – then you looked up from the sofa to where your now-fiancé was standing.

Steve was looking at you so, so tenderly, his blue eyes wide and full of love.

Oh.

Recently, your period was a week late, and you took a couple of tests that gave a positive result. Then you asked Dr. Banner run some bloodwork, and it was officially confirmed: you were five weeks pregnant.

You hadn’t figured out how to tell him yet, and it was difficult to even decide on anything because your brain was a hazy mess from the hormones and extra energy expenditure. The last couple of days, you’d been absolutely exhausted – blamed it on the late nights at work, or maybe food poisoning or the flu that’s been going around. You’d only been taking extra vitamins for the last few days, and your diet and sleep weren’t exactly the greatest when you kept having to get up to vomit in the middle of the night.

It wasn’t that you weren’t happy for it, because you were. It was just – sudden. Despite the fact that you and Steve had discovered a mutual breeding kink almost a year ago, the two of you weren’t actively trying for a baby - but you weren’t not, either. You weren’t terribly consistent with your birth control, and both of you loved it most when he finished inside. He didn’t always, but definitely more often than not, and who even knew if his swimmers were actually, well, swimming to begin with?

Tonight was a particularly tiring evening. You were still getting used to it all, and you hadn’t slept a wink the night before. Steve, on the other hand, slept like a log just like he always did. In recent nights you almost started to resent him for it.

You’d just laid down on the sofa with a soft, satisfied groan when you said it – accidentally told him that you were pregnant.

Steve was at your side in an instant, sitting down next to you as you settled into the sofa. His palm came to rest upon your thigh when he asked, hesitantly, “Are you–?”

You offered him a weary smile. “Six weeks tomorrow.”

His hands were soft and warm on the sides of your neck as he pressed kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, and then your mouth – gentle, tender, and full of love. When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were almost sparkling with his adoration for you. “We’re gonna have a baby?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and brought your lips to his again for a slower, sweeter kiss. Then you whispered against his lips, “Yeah, Stevie. We are.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again, and that night he made love to you in a way that shook you both to the core. The love that the two of you shared was incomparable.

(If you like my work, please consider donating to my Patreon or my Ko-Fi!)

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers #simplicity

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need-a-fugue · 4 years

Text

We Grow Together (14)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tessa Sullivan (OFC)

Chapter Summary: Domestic Bucky at his finest. That’s really it.

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right?

Their first Christmas together was great. Neither of them really had any family outside of the tower, so it’s not as though they had to stress out about meeting parents or splitting time between different parties or traveling during the worst travel time of the year. Instead, they got to stay at home, wrapped in a cocoon of new relationship splendor. They were just starting to realize who they were to each other then, or who they could be. They were just starting to fall in love. So, yeah, last Christmas was pretty damn near perfect.

But this year, things were… different. They had just made the move to the new Avengers facility upstate and the entire campus was still in a bit of upheaval. Tessa’s lab was understaffed, she was wholly unaware of how to troubleshoot the new computer system that Tony had installed, and her lack of organized filing had finally caught up to her. Even her wonderful, amazing, always capable assistant was pulling her hair out trying to track down everything that was misplaced in the move.

Bucky was faring better. It’s not like he had much stuff to pack or unpack, let alone to keep track of. And he wasn’t tasked with running a lab while also prepping an entire medical unit. All he had to do was help Steve choose new potential recruits. And they weren’t even going to officially contact anyone until the campus was up and running, so even that job wasn’t exactly a priority.

He kept himself busy, and just tried to be helpful, by assisting workers around the buildings. But half the time, that damn disembodied voice would turn on and tell him that his services weren’t required. He had never gotten used to Jarvis communicating through the walls, but there was something even weirder about hearing Friday. Maybe it was feminine, slightly sensual Irish drawl.

Because he didn’t have much to do, and because Tessa was typically overwhelmed with all she had going on, he’d turned into a bit of a house-husband. That’s what Natasha had called him. Sam referred to him as a bang-maid – though only once.

Bucky wasn’t fond of people calling him anything. He wasn’t fond of them knowing his business at all. And he certainly wasn’t fond of playing a non-traditional gender role. At least not in theory. In practice, however, he actually enjoyed making breakfast and dinner. And he really didn’t mind doing laundry. And his time in the Army had given him an appreciation for spotless spaces, crisp military corners, and precise organization. So unpacking and cleaning wasn’t too bad either. He had a feeling that, while his father would’ve chided him for spending his days doing women’s work, his mother would’ve been proud. And really, Bucky never did care much for what his father thought of him anyway.

But it did sometimes feel like he had stepped into someone else’s life. Just two years ago he had been a largely unstable former assassin who was being kept hidden away from the Hydra foes he’d unwittingly helped to take down. His days were spent trying to separate fantasy from reality and past from present, all while trying to help Steve and his new friends root out remaining Hydra supporters.

But recently things had changed. Sure, they still kept a close eye out in case anything Hydra-related popped. But a near cataclysmic event helped to put some things into perspective. Bucky wanted to help. He wanted to be part of a team again, a team that strived to do right and worked to save the world.

And on a personal note, he’d realized that he didn’t want to take a single moment with Tessa for granted. Over the last year and a half or so, she had somehow managed to show him what it meant to be cared for, to be loved. Hydra had wiped that concept from his brain, along with so much else. He’s not really sure how she was able to salvage whatever human remnants were left inside of him, let alone how she managed to piece them all together to create the man he is today. But he’s more than grateful to her for doing it. And he’s honestly not sure where he’d be right now – or who he’d be – if she hadn’t come into his life.

Just after Ultron, when Tony first told them all about the upcoming move upstate, it felt like a forgone conclusion that he and Tessa would bunk together, as he’d put it when broaching the subject with Steve. After all, at that point, he’d been spending most of his nights at her place anyway. In fact, Tony had put them together in this two bedroom apartment when he first drew up the plans for the living quarters. Leave it to Tony to just assume.

“That’s still a really big step, Buck,” Steve had told him with that patronizing look on his face. “I mean, are you gonna marry her?”

What Bucky had wanted to say was something along the lines of, of course I’m going to marry her, you idiot. But what came out was the far more rational, “We’ve only been together a year. We’re still getting to know each other. Hell, I’m still getting to know me.” He had actually mentally patted himself on the back for giving such a mature response.

But then Steve let out a long sigh and slowly shook his head, his eyes just brimming over with a look of I’m Captain America, and I know what’s best for everyone! “Maybe you shouldn’t move into together then.” He’d put a strong hand on Bucky’s shoulder and gave him a quick squeeze. “Maybe it’s just too soon.”

“Nah,” Bucky told him simply, “I’ll think we’ll take our chances.”

Steve was still jokingly referring to their relationship as pure sin.

Of course, all of that happened before he woke in the middle of the night with his hands tightly clenched around her throat. He’s not sure that he’ll ever forgive himself for that. He’s not sure that he wants to. But if one good thing did come from that night, it was the feeling that they truly were meant to be together. She loved him so fiercely that she could forgive him for nearly killing her in her sleep. And he needed her so desperately that he couldn’t keep himself away, even though he worried constantly that it might happen again.

In the last few months, they’d become more than just… whatever it was people were calling them – boyfriend and girlfriend, lovers, partners. They’d survived the end of the world together. They made it through that incident together. And they’d been managing this horrendous move together. They may not be married, but they did now officially have a home together. And that made them a family.

So this Christmas had to be something special.

Tessa was already talking about getting a tree, a thing that neither of them had done in years. And after last year’s Christmas dinner success, he felt like the pressure was on to up his game in the kitchen too. All of the Avengers, and Avengers-adjacent personnel, seemed way more into the holiday season this year. Maybe it was because they had already received nearly a foot of snow in their new upstate abode. Maybe it was because they were eager to really welcome Wanda to the family and give her a good holiday, and also show Vision what Christmas was really all about. Maybe it was because everyone was just now getting settled after a long and arduous uprooting. Or maybe it was because the world almost ended less than half a year ago. No matter the cause, there was one thing for sure, this Christmas had to be perfect.

“So what are you getting me?” she asks, her voice heady with near sleep as she lays her head on the armrest of the couch.

He’s massaging her feet, as he has been for the past five minutes, since she stumbled in and splayed out on the couch in a pathetic-looking heap. “We’re doing presents?” he asks, a coy smile on his face. “I thought you were too busy for that?”

She raises her head and gives him a suspicious glare. “I can make time. I have an assistant you know.”

“So I should thank Claire for whatever I get come Christmas morning?”

“Probably,” she shrugs, flopping her head back down and closing her eyes. “It just feels different this year,” she says after a long moment. “Like… I want to do stuff… celebrate… like when I was a kid.”

“Yeah?” He sets down her foot and reaches out to take hold of her hand. Then he gives a little tug to haul her up next to him. She lets out a dramatic whine as he sits her up, and then she snuggles into the cushions along the back of the sofa. “What do you want to do?” he asks, his bright eyes locked onto hers.

“Well…” she smiles and softly bites her bottom lip as she thinks. “I want to get a tree.”

“You mentioned that, and I’m on board.”

“And I want you to make another apple pie.”

“Done.”

“Oh!” She jolts upright, excitement taking over. “We could have a snowball fight. With everyone! Or at least everyone who’s staying in town.”

He smiles and laughs. “That sounds pretty great.”

She lets out a sigh, her head falling back into the cushions once again. “I think something like that would be good. A morale booster. Or just… you know… a break. For everyone.”

He brings his left hand over to her face, tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear, and opens his hand up so that she can nuzzle into the metal palm. There’s something about the clean, smooth coolness of the metal that calms her nerves. He places the pad of his thumb between her eyes and rubs slow, deep circles into her forehead, and she hums with contentment.

“You’ve got a headache,” he says, a statement, not a question. He’d discovered a few months into their relationship that Tessa sometimes gets migraines. She liked to blame it on her mutation, though there was no explanation for how that would cause them. It didn’t take long for him to figure out that they were usually caused by stress and just plain working too damn hard. But the strong, cold pressure of his thumb on her forehead, and his fingertips along her temple, seemed to help. It was one of the only things he actually liked about that stupid metal arm.

“Everyone’s working so hard to get the med floor up and going. And my team in the lab is dealing with those stupid new machines that hardly ever work. And Tony won’t admit that they’re pieces of shit, which is making me crazy. And so much of the day-to-day stuff is still in the city…” She lets out a miserable sort of huff. “I’m just tired.”

“How long do you have to keep going into the city?” She’d been commuting at least three days a week since they’d moved into the new compound, sometimes more if the systems in the lab went down. She’d always worked too hard for too long… being so dedicated to her job was one of the things he loved about her, actually. Like it or not, Tessa was all in when it came to the things she was passionate about. But this was getting to be too much. “I’m worried about you,” he says softly, when she doesn’t answer. She gives him a sad puppy dog look, complete with pouty bottom lip. “I’m serious,” he says, a no-nonsense stare taking over his face.

“Well, the business side of Stark Industries is still in the city. So board meetings, budget meetings, whatever other kind of meetings Tony makes me go to, will all still be there. But he promises the lab will be fully transitioned by the spring.” She reaches out and places her palm on his cheek, then runs her fingertips through his hair. “Don’t worry. It makes you look older than your 99 years.”

He takes her hand and brings her palm down to his lips, kisses it gently. “I’ll always worry about you.” They connect eyes and a big, sly smile takes his over as he secures his grip on her hand and blows a giant, messy raspberry into her palm.

“Uh,” she groans, struggling to pull away. “You’re so gross!” He slips his grip down to her wrist and catches her other arm with his right hand. “No!” she squeals as he hauls her over on top of him. He scoots his bottom down the couch a bit so that he’s laying beneath her. “Boys are nasty,” she says, settling her head onto his chest.

“My mom used to say that boys were made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails,” he says into her hair.

“I know that,” she breathes into him, dreamily. “And girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.” She tilts her head and looks up at him with a shit-eating grin.

“God, I love you,” he says with a laugh. Then, giving her another stern look, “But I’m not going to stop worrying about you. Not ever.”

She shifts on top of him and rolls off to the side so she’s largely sandwiched between the back of the couch and his strong, warm body. “Such a mama bear,” she yawns out.

“You need to work less.”

“I need to work more efficiently,” she counters. “I need a new car.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Nothing. But if I could get to and from the city faster…”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Ah, I see. You won’t cut back on work, so you plan to shave time by breaking traffic laws.”

“You think Tony would give me a suit?” she asks, tilting her face up again to look him in the eye. “That would cut my commute to next to nothing. And I’d have a suit. I’d be Iron Maiden!”

He raises his eyebrows and nods, clearly not getting her word play.

She just shakes her head and snuggles back into his side. “You’re so old,” she tells him. “Sometimes I think you don’t understand anything.”

He picks up her hand, which she’d been using to softly tap out a rhythm on his sternum, and intertwines their fingers. “That’s rich coming from someone who drinks Ensure.”

“You took away my power bars.”

“Yeah, because they’re filled with sugar.”

“Which sustains me.”

“For what, an hour?”

She nods into him. “And then I eat some candy.”

He laughs softly and she beams as it reverberates through his chest and into her. “How are you a doctor?” They lay in silence for several minutes, Tessa curled into Bucky’s side, his metal arm draped lazily over her. It isn’t long before she’s warm and heavy next to him and he can hear her breathing deepen steadily. “You want to go bed?” he asks, barely a whisper.

She hums in response, only partially awake, before shifting and rolling her face into his shoulder. Her words are a muffled mess when she mumbles something to the effect of, “Noemnottired.”

He drops his left hand down to her bottom and gives her butt a sharp couple of pats. “C’mon,” he says as he sits up, urging her to come with him. “If you go to bed, I’ll get on the computer and start shopping for your Christmas present.”

Her eyes are already glazed, but they still light up as she takes in a sharp breath and says, “You’d online shop for me?!”

“Only for you, doll face,” he tells with a peck on the cheek and a quick slap on the ass. “Now get to bed.”

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x original female character #marvel fanfic #bucky imagine #avengers fanfiction #avengersau #marvelau #bucky barnes au #Supernova

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marvelandimagine · 5 years

Text

Framework (Part Two)

Summary: Request - Bucky x reader songfic where he pushes her away and they break up but he’s miserable without her and it all ends in fluff and apologies

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: This was literally the hardest chapter I’ve ever written idk why but I should probably start outlining instead of winging it 25/7 lol anywho sorry this took forever and hopefully p3 will come to my brain faster! / based on Framework by The Story So Far

Taglist: @firefly-in-darkness @emptynote @buckysgoddess

How’d this happen?

Found your way in

So distracting

Splitting me in half again

Can’t ever sever the ties I made

The knots are strong

The framework’s laid

No matter how many things I say

The tangible will always be what I crave

Six agonizing days pass, with Bucky coming to the conclusion that he actually can’t live with his decision. He feels like he’s drowning in regret, his anxiety is off the charts, and, plainly, he’s just fucking miserable.

Despite everything he said to you, to himself, to Sam, it’s become crystal clear that not having you in his life is hurting him way more than confronting his trust issues and fear of impermanence.

He misses you like hell. The scent of your clothes, the way you laugh, the warmth in your eyes and on your fingertips. How perfectly your bodies fit together, the way you gasp and growl his name. How you would hold him to your chest, tracing soothing patterns across his skin when he couldn’t stop shaking from the nightmares and the flashbacks. How funny and beautiful and kind you are. Even things that had irritated him, your reiterated suggestions of different therapies and mindfulness techniques (some that had helped you personally), how you never tried to hide rolling your eyes, you constantly misplacing your keys/phone/wallet and him finding it within seconds -- he missed it all. All of you, the good and bad, had somehow become woven into his being. He could sooner get rid of how he felt about you than get rid of himself.

He told himself he wouldn’t do it, but he’s been repeatedly checking your Instagram page, heart thudding each time as he anticipates seeing the pictures of the two of you together deleted -- or worse, seeing you with another guy’s arm wrapped around you. So far, though, there’s been nothing except a video post of your dog, Balto, howling and grinning at your TV screen when Ghost appears on the latest Game of Thrones. It just makes his heart ache more, that he chose to remove himself from these small, wonderful little moments in your life, and for what?

He keeps staring at your number, his thumb hovering above the screen before he chucks the phone to the side, rubbing his eyes as he once again chickens out of contacting you.

He reaches the breaking point when he starts reading back through old texts from around the time when you two first started dating.

“I know we just said bye five minutes ago but I just wanted to say how happy I am that I met you. And you are definitely cuter than I am. That is all! Night, Buck.” And now the same blushing smile emoji that had him grinning from ear to ear makes his heart twinge.

“What the fuck did you do, Barnes?” he asks himself, letting the phone drop to his forehead with a dull thunk.

He knows he wants—needs—you back, but he doesn’t know where to even begin.

He sighs, grimacing as he rolls himself out of bed and trudges out toward the living room. There’s only one thing to do.

Bucky can already hear Sam’s voice emanating down the hall as he approaches:

“You call THAT avant garde?! That silhouette is as bland as toast. TOAST, Nina!”

Bucky sits himself down in the ottoman in the corner, careful not to walk in front of Sam — he thought he’d never hear the end of it when he accidentally blocked the screen during the last Grey’s Anatomy season finale.

“Project Runway again?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Hey, don’t you be getting all judgey now.” Sam smirks at Bucky, taking in his disheveled state. “You need to be jotting down notes, Kurt Cobain, wearing the same grungey-ass flannel three days in a row.”

Bucky shrugs.

“Not like I have anyone to impress.”

“You had someone to impress, but remember, you broke up with her, you cowardly fucking jackass.”

Bucky clenches his teeth as his scathing tone rattles in his head. He tries his best to ignore it and sound nonchalant as he swallows his pride to do something that normally sets his skin on edge: reach out to another person.

“Anyways, you busy?”

“Nah, I’ve had enough disappointment for today.” Sam grabs the remote, shutting off the screen and shifting to look at Bucky. “What’s up?”

Bucky exhales deeply, and he can practically feel the apprehension settling on his face, his habitual reluctance to open up kicking in.

“Um …”

He bites the corner of his lip, trying to think over his words when his gut just wants him to yell, “I FUCKED UP please tell me how to get Y/N back.”

He’s spared having to, though, as Sam cuts through the silence:

“You want to get back together with Y/N, don’t you?”

Bucky stares at him.

“Is my misery that obvious?”

“Painfully.”

Despite his deadpan tone, the corner of Sam’s mouth twitches, and the two find themselves chuckling together. While he’ll never admit it to him, this is why Bucky views him as his best friend, why he trusts him -- he always knows how to make him laugh when he needs it. He knows Sam has his back.

Bucky shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

“So, what do I do?”

“Before I can try to answer that, you need to tell me why you broke up with her in the first place.”

Thought I’d burn the seams if they frayed

Thought I’d prove the point that I made

“I thought if I ended things, I’d be able to stop caring and feeling so vulnerable, I guess. That it’d be better for her, because she deserved better anyways, and maybe it’d be better for me … I don’t think I really believed that, deep down, but … I was scared. Scared of getting hurt, not being enough.”

Bucky pauses and sighs, staring at the ground as he wrings his hands, running his flesh thumb back and forth over the smooth metal.

His voice is quiet, apprehensive.

“I was scared of how I felt about her.”

Bucky glances up after a few moments of silence and is met with Sam looking at him more seriously than he can ever remember.

“Do you love her?”

Normally Bucky would flinch at such a direct question, but now, finally facing the consequences of keeping himself so guarded, he hesitates only for a fraction of a second before he nods, and it feels like a weight has left his chest in acknowledging how he feels.

He loves you. And he doesn’t have to run from that.

Sam nods back in response, running his hand along the dark stubble on his face as he begins in earnest.

“Look … you have a lot of regret in your life, right? I know it’s over things you didn’t choose, but now, you can choose. So what’s your choice gonna be? The way I see it, A) You can keep doing what you’re doing and let fear run you into the ground, or, B) you can tell that fear to go to hell, reach out to Y/N, buy her the nicest apology flowers you can, and tell her everything you just told me.”

“And if she tells me to go to hell?”

Sam sighs.

“I mean, she’s probably going to be pretty pissed at you —and rightfully so— but,” he pauses, his tone lightening, “God knows why, she seemed to really be into you. And nobody gets over a breakup that fast unless the relationship was already dead for awhile. You guys looked like you were solid until -”

“I blew everything to pieces, yeah.”

Bucky sits quietly for a few seconds, pausing to sit and feel the knowing. The alignment in both his heart and mind, what he wants moving forward.

“I think choice B is the clear winner, here.”

Sam waves his fist back and forth.

“Ding ding ding!”

Bucky nods.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice earnest as his eyes lock on Sam’s.

Sam’s returning smile is full of encouragement.

“Hey man, I got you. And I know this ain’t easy for you, opening up about stuff. Just know there’s always a seat at the VA group just waiting for your supersoldier ass to sit down, if you ever want to talk more.”

“Nah I’m-” Bucky physically stops himself from finishing his default “nah, I’m good for now, but thanks” response, because if he’s realized anything throughout this entire ordeal, it’s that he is most definitely not “good,” or at least not doing as good as he’d like to be.

“Yeah, ok, I’ll do it.”

“For real?”

Bucky exhales deeply, his sadness hanging on every syllable.

“With all this … I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t have acted the way I did with Y/N if I had started dealing with this sooner, getting more okay with talking and being honest with people,” he muses. “Like you said, if I really do want a normal life, I kinda need to find a better way to handle what’s going on in here,” he taps his temple and then his chest, “than just shutting people out.”

Incredulity is all over Sam’s face, coupled that something Bucky could swear looks like a glimmer of pride.

“Wow, yeah, that’s great, that’s the kind of perspective that’ll help you move forward.” He grins. “You sure you’re feeling ok? This isn’t some fever-induced thing, right?”

Bucky flips him off while Sam chuckles.

“Hilarious.”

“You know I’m playin.’” Sam nods vigorously. “Seriously, it’ll be good for you. Anyways, though, back to choice B.”

Bucky feels the rise and fall of his chest pick up in nervous anticipation, but he slides the phone out from the pocket of his jeans anyways, thumbs tapping away on its surface.

“Hey. Can we meet up?”

Before he can second guess himself, he hits send, promptly hurling the phone onto the opposite corner of the couch where Sam is perched.

“Watch it!”

“You tell me what she says back. I don’t wanna see it first.”

However long you’re gone, I will wait, I will wait.

And then an agonizing, crawling two hours pass, with Bucky finding himself unable to focus on the National Geographic moon landing documentary that would normally absorb him entirely, his eyes constantly straying from the screen to the phone sitting silently in the corner. You never took this long to answer a text when you were dating, so he knows you’re ignoring him.

“Maybe she blocked you and didn’t even see it.”

He’s just about to ask Sam for the phone back to message you on Instagram, past the point of caring how desperate he looks because it’s the truth, when it pings.

Sam snaps out from his half-napping state at the sound, stretching across the couch and grabbing the phone. He pulls a face and Bucky’s heart sinks -- Sam might as well have said “yikes” out loud.

“What’d she say?”

Sam looks at him with the tiniest bit of pity, tossing the phone back.

“Why.”

“Why? That’s it?” Bucky looks down at the screen in disbelief, and there it is, the one-word response.

“Yup.”

Bucky buries his head in the throw pillow closest to him, muffling his yell.

“What do I even say to that?! She’s pissed off, and I don’t wanna do this over text.”

“You don’t have to do it all over text, but you gotta give her something. The last thing you said to her was that you wanted to break up, and now you want to see her. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to assume you want to get back together, but if you do, she wants you to know she’s still upset.” Sam shrugs. “You messed up, now you gotta work for it.”

Bucky takes the pillow off his face, grimacing.

“Goddammit.”

He takes a minute to craft his reply, staring down at the screen.

“Because you were right about everything. I never should have ended us, I’m an idiot and miss you like hell. I just want to talk.” He hits send and turns the phone over, heart thumping inside his chest.

Ten minutes pass before you answer:

“I’ll be home until 7, I have plans after.”

Bucky’s stomach drops as his brain conjures images of you dressed up but not for him, for some other guy, his metal hand clenching involuntarily.

“You don’t know that you don’t know that, c’mon. It’s only been six days.”

He replies immediately:

“Can I come see you at 5?”

“Ok.”

Even with the realization that it’s already 4:10 and he’s gonna have to haul ass to Adams Morgan while still finding the time to get you the nicest flowers he can, Bucky already feels lighter with hope. You agreed to see him. You’re giving him at least a fraction of a chance to put things back together.

He flies up off the couch and takes off down the hall.

“I’m meeting her at her place at 5!”

Sam calls out to his retreating back, and Bucky allows himself a small smile.

“Hey, go get her. But you go shower first!”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes #bucky barnes and sam wilson #james bucky barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky angst #bucky and sam #avengers fic #avengers imagine #the story so far #bucky barnes songfic #Sebastian Stan

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thisislizheather · 5 years

Text

January Jewels 2020

I’ve purposely put off writing this monthly wrap-up because, well, christ. January was a terrible month. I don’t need to go into the details of why, but the consensus from everyone that I’ve talked to fully agrees with me on this. What the hell happened? Starting a new decade is supposed to be great. In any case, I’ll always have high hopes for the future. And I’m just thankful to begin a new month. Here’s what went down in the pit that was January 2020.

First things first, I recapped how my 2019 resolutions turned out. Why don’t more people do this? Where’s the accountability in reviewing your past resolutions? They’re not fucking birthday wishes, they’re intentions! More people need to follow through with this, even if the results aren’t what you hoped for.

I made my 2020 resolutions.

I fell absolutely in love with this sketch.

I did two podcasts with Nathan - one where we talked about the pope incident and one where I absolutely scream at him about Hillary.

I read Jenny Slate’s new book as well as a tiny little book about how to live a good life.

I ended up buying another J. Crew swimsuit (the same one I bought a few months ago, but this time in red) and I have no regrets.

In love with Trader Joe’s (dairy free) coconut whipped cream, I can’t stop using it in hot chocolate.

I rewatched (or watched for the first time, I truly can’t remember) The Staircase and it’s so good. I’m pretty sure Marla got me MP3 copies of this years ago and I did watch it, but I completely forgot about it in detail. Such a good watch. If you’ve already seen it, do you know about the owl theory? It’s a wild one, but, like, I think an owl did it now?

I’ve been using a small bottle of OUAI’s Wave Spray and if I can figure out how to not overspray it, it’s a great product. Once you use it though, your hair only looks good that day. After you sleep on it, your hair looks like shit. (Is that true of all hair products? I have absolutely no idea.)

Bought this Banana Republic top for $13 on sale and I love it because it does not feel like it cost so little.

I don’t know if it’s a Canadian brand but I have found a wicked alternative to Dollarama: Buck or Two. I went to one in Brampton and they’ve got everything.

I watched most of the SNL with Jennifer Lopez and wow did it suck. 99% of the sketches were basically “She’s pretty. That’s the joke.” Fucking hated it. They do this a lot of the time with certain actresses and I can’t ever tell if it’s because the actress loves doing these sketches or they’re afraid she can’t be funny. Whatever the reason is, blow my brains out, please.

I went to the Ear Inn in the city and it was lovely! Super old place. Service was great. Burger was great.

I went to Glossier with the intention of buying the cheek stain and then decided against it. It’s not a good product. I literally pinched my cheeks and got a better rosiness.

I came across probably my favourite winter children’s book of all time, The Snowman by Raymond Briggs. Look at one page of this magic.

I was so happy to hear about this matter finally being settled in New York.

I went to The Dutch again for Restaurant Week for their steak tartare and it’s just heaven on a plate.

I rewatched the great What Lies Beneath and man, it’s still just such a great movie.

As you may have heard, Papyrus is going out of business, so I’ve popped in twice to see what the closing deals are and they aren’t worth it yet (only 30% off! C’mon! I won’t get out of bed for at least 60%), so I’ll keep stopping in every so often until they’ve become desperate.

Love this part of a recent SNL (below). (If you can’t see it in Canada, search for “white male rage SNL.”

youtube

I finally went to Boulud Sud for their pasta happy hour and man was it not worth it. The place has a terrible setup if you’re sitting at the bar, the food was absolutely nothing special and had ridiculous portion sizes. It’s also a bad sign when the bread is tastier than the entree. Super disappointing.

I tried on the bras and underwear from LIVELY in Soho and even though it’s priced reasonably, I couldn’t find anything I loved. I have a feeling that I could be into it though, so I’ll go again sometime in the future for sure.

I’ll forever love the lunch special at Pil Pil on the Upper East Side. I know I probably bring this up too much, but man. Love tapas.

I can’t stop buying sunglasses for sale at ALDO. And I won’t.

I finished season one of The West Wing and it was really good. I keep forgetting about it, but I should stick with it. People, like, loved that show, didn’t they?

I started using Sol De Janeiro’s Bum Bum Cream… on my butt. That’s what it’s for, no? So far, I mean… it feels smooth? It’s not at all greasy, which I like. Seems weird to have a cream just for your butt, but who am I to criticize.

Ate the fish tacos at Summer Salt and they’re good! It’s insane and great that they sell margaritas at a fast casual place, too.

Very into this Pat McGrath mascara that I got as a Sephora reward.

Love this Wells For Boys sketch (below) from a few years ago that I just saw for the first time (thanks for showing me, Irene!)

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I haven’t been there in years, but I went to Sweet Afton for happy hour in Astoria the other day and had the pickle martini which actually wasn’t terrible. Love that place.

Tried the lunch burger at Peter Luger finally! And yes it was a good burger (love that they use American cheese and the bun was very good even though it's not a potato bun). Steakhouse burgers are always hard for me to rate since a steakhouse burger is a real *entree* unlike the regular, everyday burgers that other places have which are not as big and overwhelming. An everyday burger is easy to rate since it's either great, overrated or shit. A steakhouse burger has nuances, how juicy is too juicy? How's the quality of the meat? What are the ideal toppings? Should someone shoot me for my extensive burger thoughts? Yes.

I went to see a free orchestral performance put on by Julliard at Lincoln Center and it was great. It reminded me so much of going to my brother Gary’s recitals when I was a kid, just loved it.

Had dinner at Portale. The pasta was insane. This place might be a rival for L’Artusi! Dare I say it! Every bite was phenomenal. MUST return. (Noteworthy: it also just got two stars in the Times.)

LOVED this piece about Ricky Gervais and the Golden Globes. Favourite line: “The least risky thing in the world is announced apathy.“

Maybe you don’t know this, but 90% of post offices in the U.S. have bulletproof glass between the workers and the customers. It’s obviously because awful things have happened, but I’ve been going to this one post office in the city on 23rd street that doesn’t have the glass and the workers are SO MUCH MORE PLEASANT. I wish all locations were like this one. Just a thought.

Just bought another one of these UNIQLO shirts that I love in dark grey.

Every January I make sure to:

Mark down all holidays/birthdays/anniversaries (Valentine’s Day, Daylight Saving Times, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving)

Check expiration dates for passport/license/health card/insurance and write down any important renewal dates

I’ve watched the first two new episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm and it fucking blows. There was only one thing I laughed at (when a server thought Larry was “oggling” her but he was really just keeping an eye on her tray with pigs in blankets) but OTHER THAN THAT, what a piece of shit season so far! I fucking hated the part in one episode where he videotapes the consent given between him and some woman as they’re making out. ALSO, and this has happened a few times over the seasons, he’s recycling fucking Seinfeld jokes. FROM THE SHOW. Talking about when it’s too late to get “Happy New Year-ed”? Are we kidding here?! Fucking lazy as hell. I might just stop watching.

I watched the new Taylor Swift documentary on Netflix and it’s really good. Even if you have zero opinion on her, I really liked it. (It also introduced me to this great song.)

Things that I’m looking forward to this month: seeing a Raptors game at Barclays Center, finally sitting down and watching season two of Shrill in its entirety, reading Joan Rivers’ book Enter Talking and and maybe going to another Restaurant Week lunch before the end date. February, please oh please don’t be as terrible as January.

If you’ve got any interest in reading last month’s roundup, you can see what went down in December over here!

#this is liz heather #Liz Heather #Curb Your Enthusiasm #Taylor Swift #Netflix

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soulbranded · 5 years

Note

drunk - from @cptsrogers

@cptsrogers – one word prompts

drunk : my muse takes care of your muse while they are in a drunken state. (I reversed this since Steve can’t get drunk.)

Christ, Rachel missed Denver. She missed the mountains and the hint of wildness that was always in the air, like the city couldn’t ever quite tame the land it occupied. She missed the Blue Moon where Will gave her free drinks and saved her a booth in the corner, she missed her Unabomber cabin, she missed the weird ass art downtown, she missed the yellows of the aspens and the way the city glittered against the yawning darkness.

Most of all, she missed good whiskey. Whatever this was, it tasted like shit.

Rachel sat in some dive bar in…well, she didn’t know precisely where she was, because everything in New York looked the same to her. It was one never-ending hellscape of skyscrapers and people, pushing in on her until she couldn’t breathe. Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan–it was all the fucking same. She hated it. It made her shoulder blades itch and her magic taste like gasoline, but she was needed here. Here was where the fight was, a fight with no weapons, no soldiers, no fists. Only victims.

“Hey, another,” she said, a little more harshly than she intended, and the bartender refilled her glass. She knocked it back in one drink. It was her sixth, or maybe seventh, and her face was going numb and the world was starting to blur at the edges. Paranoia crept at the edges of her mind, disguising itself as violence, but there weren’t any takers. Guess nobody thought a pocket-sized redhead was worth the effort. They certainly wouldn’t be the first.

“Didn’t take you for a day drinker.”

She didn’t look at him, only signaled the bartender for another round. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Add it to the list.”

Steve slid onto the barstool next to her, sitting sideways with his elbow on the counter so he was facing her. She pointedly ignored him.

“What happened?”

Rachel scowled. Couldn’t he go be Mr. Fantastic somewhere else? “What makes you think anything happened?”

“You’re drunk in public, when you don’t get drunk, in the South Bronx, which is pretty much asking for someone to mug you. Call it an educated guess,” he said.

She finally looked at him–sideways, half glaring. “Is this because you’re, like, a million years old? Some folksy wisdom from the Greatest Generation?” God, she was such an asshole. Pushing at sore spots because she didn’t want to be questioned herself, trying to turn the spotlight to anything other than her own bullshit behavior. Get away from me and let me be miserable, Captain Do Right.

Steve swiveled around on the barstool so he was looking at the bar and clasped his hands. “Yeah, I’m not buying your bullshit, Rachel. Whatever it is, you’re not going to find it at the bottom of a bottle. So how about we take a walk?”

“If I say no?”

“I’m a super soldier and you weigh a buck twenty. I’ll carry you out of here like a sack of potatoes.”

What pissed her off was that he was right. It wasn’t safe for her to stay here, for a lot of reasons, especially now, and even though she wasn’t sure he’d make good on this threat–Steve never forced anyone into anything–she was sure he’d outlive God sitting there next to her until she talked. She regretted becoming friends with him. He could see her, she felt it. She’d lost her shield. And he was bullheaded enough that no matter how much abuse she heaped on him, he wasn’t going to leave a friend down and out. Goddammit.

With a noise of annoyance, she snatched up her jacket from the neighboring seat and tossed some money on the counter. Only when she stood up did the alcohol really hit her. She wobbled, her feet not connecting to her brain, and tripped over thin air to crash right into Steve. He caught her easily, and wordlessly kept an arm around her waist to guide her across the sticky (what the fuck was that?) floor and up the stairs. A walk was clearly not happening, so he hailed a cab, and they rode in silence back to his apartment. Rachel thought if she just didn’t say anything, maybe he’d forget about it. Her head was spinning and panic was curdling in her chest–she couldn’t fight like this, she couldn’t protect herself, she was vulnerable, she was open to attack–

“It’s okay,” Steve said, sitting down on the couch beside her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She stared at him. Had she said that out loud? Could he read minds? What the fuck? He sat a glass of water on the table in front of her, and after a minute she picked it up and took a drink. The gasoline-whiskey was swarming in her stomach and the whole room was out of focus, and it would feel so good just to set everything down, if for only a moment. Her paranoia reared up again, whispering that Steve wasn’t like her, that he wasn’t safe, that he could use it against her. But it was Steve. He’d opened his door to her, allied with her, fought beside her. He was the fucking dictionary definition of Lawful Good. He’d come down to a seedy neighborhood to drag her drunk ass out of danger just because he cared.

“The Council signed the Accords,” she finally said after a long silence. She sounded so tired. “They’re gonna put me and everyone like me on a list, and once they do that, they’ll–” She stopped and closed her eyes, tipped her head. “I refused to round up those who wouldn’t sign. They stripped my badge and put a warrant on me.” Semi-hysterical laughter bubbled up and she sagged back against the couch. “Oh Steve. You’re aiding and abetting a criminal. That’s not very patriotic of you.”

“Let me worry about me. What does that mean for you?”

“That I’m hunted by my own people. That I’ve lost my family. That I can’t go home.” Tears burned her eyes, and she swiped angrily at them. “People are gonna get hurt, and I can’t do a fucking thing to stop it. I lost everything, and for what? Because I didn’t want to play by the rules?”

A look flashed over Steve’s face. “The Accords are more than that. You did the right thing.”

“Then why do i feel like shit?”

“Because doing the right thing is rarely easy.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, like he’d done it a million times, and for some reason, she didn’t push it off.

“You know nobody really talks like that, right?” she said, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “You sound like you write these lines down at night just to whip them out at opportune moments.”

He chuckled. “You’re drunk. C’mon.” He stood up and held out his hands. She took them and he pulled her to her feet like she weighed nothing. Right. Super soldier. Gently, he guided her down the hall. “You’re staying here for now. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out the next steps. Take the bed–I’ll take the couch.”

Rachel careened even under the firm guidance of his hands, and she almost collided with a wall. “It’s not safe. I’m dangerous to you now.”

“I think I’ll survive.”

The world went askew and she fell against him, and he half carried her into the bedroom. He pulled off her boots and set them aside, then folded back the covers of his neatly made bed. It didn’t take much for him to get her laying down, and he disappeared for a moment only to return with another glass of water.

“If you need anything, I’m just down the hall,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

Rachel rubbed at her eyes and tried to focus on him. Everything was so goddamned blurry. “Why’re you helping me?” she asked miserably. Every old haunt, every pain, every insecurity had escaped the lead-lined box she kept them in and were on parade, and all she could think about was the feeling of cold steel between her ribs. That’s what the Accords meant. Exposure. Vulnerability. Open season on anyone who was different. She’d been a target once before, and the bullseye painted squarely on her back now left her feeling small and powerless.

He looked like he was about to say something, and then just smiled. It was a warm thing, and it settled the demons dancing in her skull. “Because you’re my friend, and you’re not alone. Now go to sleep.”

“It’s still light out.”

“Sleep.” He said it like an order, and she stuck her tongue out at him. Not one of her more brilliant responses, but it encapsulated her feelings pretty well. But the bed was comfortable and the sheets soft, smelling lightly of that clean scent of detergent, and the world slowed its spinning once she let herself relax and close her eyes. Steve was there. He was good. He didn’t know about Ryan, but she thought he would probably understand her fear. Yeah, he was good. Her paranoia subsided, and she let herself just drift in an alcohol haze for a while. Just before she dozed off, she thought, Steve’s here. You’re safe. You’re safe.

#memes: answered #cptsrogers #re: freedom dorito; steve #v: heroes fall with broken hearts;#CHRIST THIS IS LONG #I'M SORRY #tw: alcohol #i guess #rachel stories #rachel is such a little shit #and apparently that's amplified by alcohol #illfatedvoyage #asks: answered

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language-rxgers · 7 years

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Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had (Bucky x Reader)- Part 6

Summary: You and Bucky share a moment that completely affects your mindset, Bucky tries a pumpkin spice latte for the first time, and an unexpected visitor from your past may spell some trouble for the future...

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Reader, OFC Trish, OFC Catherine, OMC Thomas, {OMC Brandon, OMC Jesse, OMC Ben, OMC Mike, OMC Max}- mentioned, OMC Ryan

Warnings: angst, self-doubt, conflicting thoughts, maybe a few swears

Word Count: 3343

A/N: This took so long, I am soo sorry! Please enjoy, lovelies!

Masterlist

Part 5 (Previous) / Part 7

*not my gif, credit goes to the rightful owner*

Drumroll.

The moment seemed to last forever, the drumroll just rolling and rolling and rolling. However, instead of the giddiness and anticipation you should have been feeling, you only felt the crushing pressure welling up in your chest, every expectation and thought that had flown through your mind when it came to Bucky now whirling around like a rampant flurry in your head. It was too much, too much pressure for it to be perfect, too much pressure for it to lead to more, too much pressure for you to meet all of his own expectations. It was just too much.

Almost as if an electric shock had sparked between the two of you, you and Bucky sprang apart in almost perfect unison, both panting hard. “I’m sorry, Bucky, it’s too much pressure,” you started, but Bucky spoke at the same time as you.

“This is too intense!” You both met each other’s eyes, suddenly breaking into chuckles of relief. “So I’m not crazy for feeling like my brain is about to explode from the pressure?” Bucky gave you an apologetic grin. You pushed your hair out of your face, shaking your head.

“No, that was insane. It was just too much, y’know?” Bucky nodded in agreement. You ran your hands over your face.

“How about this,” the brunette started. “What if we just do it really quickly? Like a quick peck or something to get rid of the pressure?” You barked out a laugh.

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid?”

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” he agreed. “And then the pressure of the first kiss is gone, ‘cause we already had one. Don’t get me wrong, doll, I really want to kiss ya, but I want it to be easy and without pressure. I want it to be great.” A deep flush spread through your cheeks.

“Well, you certainly are a dedicated fake boyfriend.” You whispered it more to remind yourself that it was all for show, but it still reached Bucky’s ears. He spread a smile across his cheeks.

“Only the best for my girl,” he replied. You shook your head to clear your thoughts.

“Okay, let’s do this. We’ll do a quick kiss on the count of three. But maybe we just need to do more couple-y things, get into the swing of it first, before we can kiss more naturally. How about tomorrow we have a date-day. Go out in the city, get coffee, lunch, go shopping or something.”

Bucky nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Okay, here we go,” he placed his hands on your waist, taking a big breath and shimmying. You laughed.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the ants outta my pants, let’s go.” You mouthed out an amused ‘okay’ at his initiative. “One,” he started.

“Two,” you continued.

“Three,” he finished, and the two of you swooped forward, meeting brilliantly with teeth on lips and noses knocking together. The two of you groaned in pain, hands flying to sore mouths. You felt shock shake through you. You’d expected something fleeting, too quick to remember, maybe a little chaste. This was worse than any first kiss you’d imagined with Bucky. “Oh, my God. That was the worst kiss I’ve ever given,” Bucky whispered. You chuckled. He composed himself again. “Retry.”

You shook your head in amusement, preparing yourself again.

“One, two, three.” You both leaned forward again, only to knock foreheads. “What the fuck?!” Bucky groaned out. “I’m sorry, doll, I swear that I can do better, I guess I’m just more nervous than I thought,” the blue-eyed soldier shook his head, an embarrassed smile gracing his lips. You put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t worry about it, Buck. I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. I’m nervous too.” You felt a surge of courage swell in your chest, and you took a leap. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Barnes.”

He chuckled, and his icy blue eyes disappeared under his long dark lashes as he closed his lids. You took a deep breath, placing a hand on his cheek and the other on his chest. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward, closing your own eyes in the process.

Your lips met his in a gentle embrace, and in the moment you realized how long it had been since you’d kissed someone. You forgot how inexplicably wonderful it was, feeling soft lips moving against your own, sharing a breath, a thought, a moment frozen in time. You squeezed your eyes tighter shut before breaking away, feeling a rush of adrenaline shoot through your veins at your sudden boldness. Your lips still tingled with the feel of Bucky’s lips ghosted over yours, the slight scratch of his stubble and the press of his nose against your cheek. While the kiss had been unlike any you’d had before, the best part was immediately after, seeing Bucky’s lips slightly parted and eyes still closed in a daze. He was still leaning forward, and his hands were still on your waist, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.

You watched Bucky in anticipation, suddenly terrified that the kiss hadn’t been as beautiful for him as it had for you. “Wow…” he whispered. “I think you’re a lot better at this than I am, doll.” You breathed out a laugh, resting your head against his chest. “I definitely think that I’ll need some more practice.” You smacked his arm, laughing at your best friend as he circled his arms around you. “Okay,” he sighed. “I think this has been enough intensity for one day. What do you say we get settled in bed and watch a movie?” You smiled up at him.

“Sounds like a plan, Bucky-O-Boy.” As Bucky went to change in the bathroom across the hall, you replayed the kiss again in your head. You could feel yourself flushing, a giddy smile undying on your features as your fingers ghosted over your lips. Oh God, if you weren’t in deep before, you were six feet under by now.

“So, m’lady, where to on this fine day?” You hooked an arm with Bucky’s, strolling down the main streets of your hometown.

“Well, this is downtown from where I lived, so I didn’t come here too often growing up since it was such a hassle, but there is one café I always loved to visit when I was in this part of the city. They’ve got these unbelievable pastries, Bucky, you won’t believe it.” Your eyes took in the bustling downtown area around you as you spoke, feeling as though while it had obviously changed, the atmosphere was still as lively as ever. “And their hot chocolate is just to die for. Their coffee’s great too, but I’ve always personally been more of a chocolate fan. Anyways, we can go there for lunch- they had a really good tomato spinach panini sandwich when I still lived here, hopefully they still have them.” Bucky combed his gloved fingers through his hair, ruffling it a bit before tucking the loose strands behind his ear.

“That sounds great, doll. Lead me away.”

The café was still tucked in the small corner it had always been, between a bookstore and what had once been an antique store but was now a wedding dress shop, go figure. You snorted at the café’s new neighbour, walking up to the door. Bucky reached for the brass handle and pulled it open, jingling a bell inside. You thanked him as he stepped back and allowed you to enter first. When you first stepped in, your senses were comforted by the aroma of ground coffee beans and fresh baked pastries, the soft and calm chatter of patrons filling the atmosphere with a comforting separation from the busy streets outside. You and Bucky waited behind a short, stout woman who was ordering in front of you. Your eyes scanned the menu board above the counter, neat handwriting listing different beverages both hot and cold, sandwiches and desserts galore. Your attention was immediately drawn to their famous tomato spinach panini, which was now available with mozzarella cheese, which had you nearly salivating. You turned to Bucky, who was still expressively reading the menu, eyebrows shooting up in interest at certain options and furrowing at others.

He leaned towards you, frowning in confusion. “What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He asked quietly, as if embarrassed that he didn’t know. You rubbed his arm absentmindedly as you explained.

“It’s a latte- espresso and steamed milk- that’s flavored with different spices that give it a fall-type pumpkin-y taste. Like cinnamon, nutmeg, so and so, and it’s topped with whipped cream and pumpkin purée. It’s a classic fall drink, everyone goes crazy for them because they’re seasonal. Unfortunately, it’s come to be branded a ‘white-girl drink’ which ruins the enjoyment of them because they’ve become so basic.”

Bucky pondered this information, shrugging. “I can be a basic white girl.” You burst out laughing, clutching your chest and stomach.

“Oh, you sweet smol bean, of course you can.” The till opened for you to order, and Bucky once again stepped back to let you order first. You smiled graciously and approached the counter, ordering a hot chocolate and tomato spinach panini with mozzarella cheese. Bucky then stepped up behind you.

“Hi, could I please have a pumpkin spice latte, a bacon tomato sandwich and a bear claw? Thank you.” You opened your wallet to pay when Bucky gasped dramatically and plucked the cash from your hand, shoving it back in your purse.

“What the hell are you doing? I’m treating my girl to lunch, that doesn’t really work very well when she thinks she’s gonna pay.” He took out his own wallet and handed the barista his money, dropping the change in the tips jar without a second thought. “Jeez, (Y/N), you’re gonna make me look bad here.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt your heart flutter at his action- however minimal, it was very chivalrous. You found a table by the window and sat down, eagerly watching Bucky in anticipation. He raised an eyebrow at you. “What? Something on my face, doll? Because the last time I ate was at brunch this morning with your family, so if you’ve been letting me walk around like a jackass with syrup on my face all morning-“ you shook your head, laughing.

“No, I want to see your reaction when you try a PSL.” You made a goofy face as you used the slang ironically.

Bucky froze. “P-S-L?” He sounded out each letter, incredulous. “What the hell is that?”

“A pumpkin spice latte, dumbass. It’s what all the basic white girls call it, and if you’re gonna be basic, you gotta call it by its basic name.” The blue eyed soldier narrowed his eyes at you.

“Saying I’m getting a PSL sounds like I’m undergoing an invasive medical procedure. I’m drinking a pumpkin spice latte, not getting a lobotomy.” You pursed your lips and gestured for him to taste it. He rolled his eyes and brought the cup to his lips, sniffing it before taking a cautious sip. He smacked his lips tastefully a few times, as if tasting an aged wine, and then his faux-concentrating expression melted away into incredulity. “It’s like fall threw up in my mouth,” he said in disbelief, taking another sip. You laughed.

“So you like it?”

“Doll, I don’t even know, but I can’t stop drinking it.” You watched fondly as he took a deep sip, disregarding its hot temperature, and set it back down, revealing a frothy whipped cream moustache coating his upper lip and the tip of his nose. You chuckled, and his attention was turned to you. “What now?”

“Now you really do have something on your face, soldier,” you quipped. He groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, removing most of the whipped cream save for the bit on his nose. You gestured to your own nose to show him where it still was, and he wiped just under it. You shook your head. “Here, may I?” He simply nodded, and you cupped the side of his face, swiping your thumb across the tip of his nose, wiping off the remaining whipped cream. You wiped off your thumb and took a sip of your hot chocolate before digging into your sandwich, completely oblivious to the adoring look in Bucky’s baby blue eyes.

Over the next week, you and Bucky went on outings every day, exploring different parts of the city. Bucky was never less than a gentleman, holding open doors, pulling out chairs, and always keeping an arm around you in the more questionable parts of town despite your familiarity with them. With each outing, you saw a different part of Bucky, like the cuts of a diamond, which all fit together perfectly to expose the man you now knew you loved. You couldn’t help it, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself it was just the wedding messing with your brain. But that excuse didn’t work too well considering the trip had only confirmed the feelings you’d already had festering inside since the day you’d met the blue-eyed brunette. His face showed more expression and feeling than you’d ever seen as you showed him the parts of the city that reflected who you were, and you saw more and more of the bright-eyed, free-spirited boy Steve had known him as before the ice.

Every time you closed your eyes, you experienced that kiss you’d shared in your room over and over again, and every time, all you felt was a comforting warmth you’d never known before, spreading through your veins right down to your toes. You wanted to kiss him again, so bad, just to see if there really had been a spark or if you had imagined it after building it up so much in your mind. You hadn’t kissed since then, but every now and then Bucky would plant a soft kiss in your hair or on your cheek while around your family.

(just to keep up the ruse)

(don’t get any ideas, (y/n/n) this is all just for show for him)

In the week leading up to your sister’s wedding, you were busier than ever helping her prepare, which meant you rarely had Bucky to yourself after lunch and before 7 in the evening. But he had settled in quite nicely with your family, getting on well with your father and Thomas. The three of them were often off doing “man bonding or whatever,” as your father so endearingly called it. Usually playing darts or pool in the garage- your dad’s man cave, working on your father’s ancient motorcycle, or helping Thomas finish some of the errands Catherine had assigned him. Thomas’s groomsmen, whom you’d met at brunch at the beginning of your visit, consisted of his three brothers, cousin and best friend, and were all nice enough but rambunctious as ever when together.

Bucky seemed to be slightly more wary of this group, often sticking closer to your side when you were all together. You caught on after the first few times he had done this, and you had a good idea as to why. Thomas’ younger twin brothers, Brandon and Jesse, were still very much bachelors and were quite the pranksters. However, the eldest brother, Ben, was happily married and every inch the father-figure of the family, and Thomas’ best friend Max had been around since they were kids, so they were quite good at keeping the twins in line. The wild card was the cousin, Mike, who was not only the instigator of many of the twins’ shenanigans, but was a playboy to boot.

It was hard to miss the way Bucky’s metal arm found its way around your waist whenever Mike was around, the way he’d shuffle his vibranium digits to catch the light and remind Mike to back off when he was being a little too charming with you. You, of course, thought it was hilarious the way Mike’s eyes would shift from smug to uneasy whenever the dark haired soldier did this, but you also found it intriguing that Bucky was acting this way in the first place. Mike’s flirting was harmless; Thomas had assured you that while he was naturally inclined to playfully flirt, it wasn’t serious and he respected that you were with Bucky. You had to give Buck props though, he was really killing the whole ‘jealous boyfriend’ thing. Last week’s ‘dates’ had certainly paid off for getting the fake relationship down to a T. This thought occurred to you with a fleeting reminder of the impermanence of this arrangement.

At this point, you were in so deep with these impossibly consuming feelings for Bucky that you longed for the end of the wedding. It was torture to be so close to him with that glass wall still keeping him out of your reach, a cruel reminder that for him it was still all for show. It wasn’t fun and games for you anymore, but you knew it was your fault in the first place. You never should have let your feelings for him get this far. You should have nipped it in the bud and conditioned yourself to see him as only your friend from the beginning. Now, here you were, faking yet another laugh as your father recounted a childhood memory to your family around the dinner table, Bucky’s warm and calloused hand gripping yours on the table between your dinner plates. How could his touch burn agonizingly hot and be so freezing cold at the same time?

The wedding was in two days, and all you could think about as you watched the blue eyed soldier take a sip of his water was how wonderful those lips had felt on your own last week. You chastised yourself. Why couldn’t you just let it go? It had been nothing but practice for Bucky, an exercise to really nail this fake relationship front. It was probably a distant memory in his mind by now, but for you it was the only thought in your head. You cleared your throat quietly as you took another bite of the lasagna you had helped your mother make that evening.

Your brain hurt

(two more days)

nearly as much as your heart, but you shoved it down and kept up your smile.

The doorbell rang as you all started cleaning up after dinner, and you sprang up from your seat to go answer it. “Oh, I think that’s Thomas’s friend from college, he said he’d be stopping by to say hi tonight,” Catherine called from the kitchen.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open, only to have the wind knocked out of you at who stood on the front porch. The bright hazel eyes, light freckles dancing across a soft-sculpted nose. It took you a moment to process the sight before you, having been certain you’d never see him again after the incident all those years ago.

“Ryan?” You breathed out. The man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, full lips forming a hint of a smile.

“(Y/N), I didn’t expect to see you here. Thomas didn’t mention you were in town…” He let out a soft, hesitant laugh, almost apologetic, as if he were still apprehensive around you after all those years. “You look really beautiful. Well, you still do, you always did.”

You had no idea how to react to this. Here, standing in front of you, was the last man you had ever considered yourself to love.

(look how well that turned out)

The man who, right now, deserved a door in the face, if not more. But you steeled your expression, straightening your shoulders.

“Hi, Ryan. It’s been a while. Yeah, I flew in last week. It is my sister’s wedding after all. I didn’t know you knew Thomas.”

Ryan nodded, a few strands of light brown hair falling against his forehead. “Yeah, we went to college together. What a small world.”

What a small world indeed.

Part 5 / Part 7

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tripleaxeldiaz · 4 years

Text

maybe one day i’ll fly next to you

chapter 5/8

read on ao3

start from the beginning

The Final is a big deal. Even more so this year since it’s the last international competition before the Olympics — the last chance to show the world that you’re worthy of their attention come February. Buck’s been to five of the last eight Finals, and usually all the extra attention from press and fans, even during non-Olympic seasons, make him giddy with excitement, adrenaline pumping through him for almost a solid week before he actually competes.

This time, however, it’s been a week of feeling like he’s going to throw up any second.

It’s not because he’s doing bad at practices — in fact, he’s feeling better than ever, even got to work out his shaky landing on his quad flip that’s been haunting him for weeks. Ice looks the same no matter where you are, so it’s easy for him to get lost in the two hours he’s out there and forget everything and everyone else around him while he works.

When he steps off the ice, though, he’s thrust right back into a world where everyone is keeping an eye on him, watching him to see if he’ll live up to the expectations of being one of the best US skaters a top Olympic hopeful, or if he’ll crumble under the pressure of trying to be the best but always falling a little bit short, especially since the last Games. He’s always viewed it as a redemption — overcoming his injury and clawing his way back to the top — but he can’t control how outsiders view it, has no idea if they feel the same way or have counted him out all together. ESPN can do as many pieces on him as they want, but they can’t guarantee that people are still rooting for him. He’s sure people are talking about him, but he’s steered clear of social media knowing that even if there are nice things about him floating around, it’ll still make him feel worse, crushed by more and more expectations that he’s still not sure he’s going to live up to.

He misses when all that attention would make him feel like he was invincible.

The biggest thing keeping him sane — despite the 6,000 miles between LA and Turin — is Eddie. They’d seen each other plenty before Buck left, Eddie still coming to the rink every day for PT and light workouts so he could stay in shape while he recovered. It was good, it was normal, even if Eddie wasn’t skating.

But the night before his flight to Italy, the prospect of being at one of the most important competitions of the season, of his life, without most of his other teammates had hit him hard once again, sucking all the air out of his lungs and making the room spin.

He called Eddie without even thinking and barely heard him say “Hello?” before he was spilling everything, letting out all the fears and worries he had been trying to keep under control since Bobby told him he was going to the Final. Despite being caught very off guard at 12:30 in the morning, Eddie had listened to it all — really listened, Buck could tell even over the phone. He sympathized with his fears and doubts and didn’t try to downplay them with empty platitudes. And somehow, in those frantic moments, to be heard like that was enough. Enough for the worries in Buck’s head to quiet down and retreat back into the shadows, enough for him to finally be able to breathe. They kept talking afterwards, the smooth timbre of Eddie’s voice making his eyes feel heavier and heavier, until they close and open again to sunlight filtering into his room, his phone on the pillow next to him with a disconnected call and a text that says You’re going to be amazing. Call me whenever you need me.

Buck didn’t think he’d take Eddie up on that, but he’s called him every day since he arrived and every time, no matter what time it is, Eddie picks up and listens to him.

On the last day of practice before short programs, dread settles heavy in Buck’s stomach and doesn’t get any lighter as the day wears on. He skates at the practice rink until his fingers feel numb with cold, and works out after even longer, blasting music in his headphones so he’s not alone with his thoughts for too long. He’s exhausted when he gets back to his room, the quiet that’s become so unfamiliar mixing with the dread and weighing down Buck’s entire body, feeling like it’s trying to push him straight down into the earth. Sinking onto the bed, he dials Eddie’s number.

Five rings, and no answer. He tries again. Nothing.

He tosses his phone to the side and sighs. The dread had lightened ever so slightly at the mere prospect of getting to talk to Eddie, but now it’s back in full force. If he lays here for too long, he’s worried he might melt right into the bedspread.

There’s a knock at the door, and takes every ounce of mental and physical strength he has to get him up. He has a brief, delusional thought that maybe the person on the other side of the door is the same one who didn’t answer his phone, but it’s quickly squashed when there’s another knock, followed by a voice that’s definitely not Eddie’s.

“Buck? I know you’re in there, and I can get my hands on a master key if you don’t let me in right now.”

Hen.

He opens the door quickly, because he thinks she’s bluffing, but there’s also a very real chance that she’s not. He stands at his full height, pushing back against the dread, and plasters on a smile. “Don’t tell me you have notes 12 hours before the competition starts?”

She looks him up and down, looks through him it seems, judging by the way he suddenly wants to curl in on himself, hide whatever it is she’s looking for. She finds it, he guesses, because she nods decisively and pushes into his room. She grabs his still packed skating bag from the foot of the bed and tosses him his jacket as she goes back into the hallway.

“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’re going for a drive.”

It takes a minute for Buck’s brain to catch up with everything, but when it does, he hustles to meet her at the elevators. They make their way to the parking lot next to the hotel, where Hen unlocks the Fiat Bobby had rented for the week to get them around. “Bobby’s cool with you taking the car?”

She shrugs. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

“So I’m basically being kidnapped right now.”

“You would’ve stayed in your room if you really didn’t want to come.”

He smiles a real smile at that — she knows him too well.

Turin is beautiful at night. The city bustles with energy as people mill around, window shopping and filling up tables outside of cafes despite the early December chill. Christmas decorations have already been hung in windows and strung over rooftops, thousands of lights washing the streets in twinkling colors. Buck lets his eyes relax as he stares out the window, losing himself in the colors that pass by, hoping they’ll burn the heaviness right out of him. They stop outside the Palavela, standing out in its shadowy height among the brightness, decked out in ISU flags in anticipation for the start of competition tomorrow. Hen turns off the car and gets out, walking into the shadows of the arena and almost disappearing before Buck catches up. They make their way to the service entrance at the back of the building, where Hen pulls a key out of her coat pocket and unlocks the door.

Buck’s jaw drops. “I believed you about the hotel, but how did you get a key to this place?”

“A lot of people owe me a lot of favors,” she says, leading the way through the back hallways.

It occurs to Buck that he doesn’t even know why they’re here, didn’t bother to ask, but regardless, he follows her deeper into the belly of the building. Hallways twist and turn as they follow them seemingly at random, until they finally make it to a set of double doors. Hen pushes them open, and Buck has a moment of panic when he sees what’s on the other side.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see the main rink the day before a competition?”

Hen rolls her eyes and walks inside. “You’re not getting married, Buck. And we’re not just here for the ice.” She keeps moving, up into the stands and further up the stairs to the mid-level walkway. It’s a former Olympic venue, so there’s thousands and thousands of seats, and the reminder that in a few short hours, they’ll be filled with people waiting to see Buck thrive or fail spectacularly weighs him down even more, coming down on his shoulders and threatening to make him stumble. He does stumble when he runs into Hen, who’s stopped dead center of the walkway, eyes warm and bright as she nods towards the other side of the rink.

Tears swim into his vision, but not because of shot nerves or worry this time (though those may be contributing to how quickly this is making him emotional).

Fans bring posters to events all the time — beautiful, handmade posters emblazoned with flags and encouraging quotes, showing their love for their favorite skaters and teams. They’re made of cardboard or printed on fabric, but are usually small, hard to see unless you’re watching on TV or very close to the boards. Sometimes, though — with special permission from the venue, usually — they go big, creating huge tarps that get hung up on the banisters surrounding the seats and stay there all week, loudly cheering for their favorites even when they may not be in the stands.

Which is exactly what Buck comes face to face with — two banners hung across part of the middle banister, covering at least 15 seats. One has a picture of him from Autumn Classic, smiling with his gold medal, with “Go Buck Go!” in big block letters over his head, all on a deep red background and surrounded by golden fireworks. The other — the one that really takes his breath away — is a collage of pictures from his programs over the years, some of his more memorable spins and poses emblazoned across the dark blue fabric. His final pose from his short this season, reaching toward the crowd and looking off into the distance, is featured most prominently, with an ornate script next to it that reads “Evan Buckley: Future Olympic Champion”.

He grips the railing a little tighter to keep himself steady, feels Hen’s hand rubbing up and down his back.

“How—” he starts, voice a little raw.

“Bobby and I saw them when we came by earlier to get our credentials. We think someone hung them up after the short dance today so they’d be ready for tomorrow.”

“Wow,” is all Buck can manage. He’s seen his face on plenty of posters, but never like this, never something that he could see from anywhere in the arena, loudly proclaiming that there are fans in his corner, people beyond himself and his sister that see him at the top of the Olympic podium. He knows they're out there, rationally, when he’s not riddled with nerves and self doubt, but still. It’s nice to be reminded. And what a reminder this is.

“I know it’s been a rough week for you,” Hen says quietly, hand still on his back. “But just...take this in. Let it push you through the next few months. They’re rooting for you, Buck. We all are. You’ve got to keep rooting for yourself too.”

As usual, she’s right — Buck went into this season as his own biggest fan, with one goal in mind that felt like it had been slipping farther and farther away with every fall and every less than perfect score. That drive to win gold becoming more and more desperate as the weeks wore on — like if he didn’t get back to where he should be, where he needed to be, he might not survive. But he has people — his team, his family, and fans like this — who are still envisioning that success for him, who believe in him no matter what. Who will still be in his corner even if he doesn’t make it to the top. Who he wants to prove right for believing in him.

Hen pats his back one last time and heads back down the stairs. Buck lingers a little longer, taking in every detail of the banners that he can, since he won’t be able to appreciate them properly tomorrow. He sneaks a few pictures on his phone, quickly shooting them off to Maddie and Eddie. It doesn’t feel like bragging — they’re at the very top of the list of people that have constantly pulled him up when he falls down the hardest. He knows they’ll appreciate this for him, just like Hen did. They’ll understand how much this means to him.

As he follows Hen’s path down the stairs, the heaviness he had convinced himself was etched into his bones feels like it stays behind, making it easier to breathe, easier to be.

Hen’s next to the boards holding his skates out to him. “You’ve got like 30 minutes — skate it out. I’ll stand watch by the door.” He takes them and sets them on the bench before enveloping her in a hug, rocking back and forth as she laughs into his shoulder. She ruffles his hair and pats his cheek before going to her post.

He feels at peace on the ice, finally. The cold isn’t harsh, it’s invigorating. The fluorescent lights aren’t too bright, they’re comforting, lighting up the grooves and divots of the ice, showing all the paths Buck can follow. A couple of laps gets his blood pumping, roaring in his ears and blocking out everything else. He starts with some easy steps — rockers and three turns, over and over like he did in skating lessons when he was a kid, losing himself in the repetition. When he feels good, really good, he goes for a quad flip, confidence flowing into every stroke as he gets in position. He takes off, and he feels light again — right again — like he’s flying, not falling, not sinking.

Figuratively and literally rising.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s two missed calls from Eddie when he gets back to his room, and still riding the high of his good mood, he FaceTimes him.

“Wow, I really missed that smile,” Eddie says when the call connects, and Buck rolls his eyes, not even bothering to hide the blush he can feel warm his cheeks. Eddie must have just gotten back from PT — his hair is falling in swoops over his forehead, damp with sweat, his tank top sticking to what little Buck can see of his chest. His blush gets a couple of shades darker, he’s sure, as he tries not to let his eyes linger anywhere for too long.

Buck flops onto the bed on his back, holding his phone in front of his face. “I had a pretty good night,” he says with feigned nonchalance.

“Seeing banners of your giant face already proclaiming you the next gold medalist will do that to you.” Buck laughs and Eddie laughs with him, the sound like pure happiness, burning out the very last of the dread that had been following him since he arrived. It stops quickly when Eddie sits down on his couch and hisses, wincing as he shuffles to get comfortable.

“Rough day with Lena?” He saw her every day for two months straight once upon a time, he knows how hard she can push.

“Rough couple of days.”

“Are you feeling better, at least? Do the doctors think it’s healing okay?”

“I have a check-up tomorrow, but it’s fine. Just sore.” He finally settles but he still looks like he’s in pain. Buck wants to press, wants to know every detail of his last few days — what exercises he’s done, when the pain really got worse, if he’s resting enough. But this isn’t his injury, and everyone heals differently. And he trusts Eddie, trusts him to know how to take care of himself like he promised he would.

“Anyway,” Eddie says lightly, clearly trying to change the subject. Buck lets him. “I’m sure this good night will make for a good day tomorrow, too. You feel ready?”

“I do,” Buck answers. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that he actually means it.

“Good. I know you’ll be great. And you’ll have my sleep deprived text commentary to look forward to when you finish.”

Buck winces. “I’m not gonna be skating until like 4AM your time, you really don’t—”

“I really do. I really want to. And there’s not a whole lot you can do to stop me.” Eddie flashes his crowd-charming smile and Buck feels like he’s melting into the mattress again. He tries for a snappy comeback, anything to keep Eddie talking, but he cuts himself off with a yawn, the exhaustion from the week seeming to catch up with him all at once.

Eddie’s smile gets a little softer. “Go to sleep, Buck. I’m gonna take a nap too so I make sure I wake up on time.”

“Okay, okay. Goodnight Eds.”

“Goodnight. Knock ‘em dead tomorrow.”

After they hang up, Buck gives himself a minute, just a minute, to really bask in that, in Eddie’s active support of him from halfway across the world. It’s one thing to have your teammates watch your programs from the stands, but to find competitions on TV, if they’re being shown at all? To figure out time zones and wake up at ungodly hours just to watch you skate live? It may not seem like much, but it’s everything to Buck. He’s only gotten this kind of commitment from one other person in his life — even his parents stopped keeping up once he started competing abroad more. And it’s different with Maddie — they’ve been on this road together for almost two decades, so intertwined with each other’s successes and failures that they’re hard to differentiate sometimes. Sure, Eddie’s been a part of his life for years now too, but as competition, an obstacle he kept trying and failing to overcome. It’s different now that they’re...whatever they are. Friends. Almost something else.

For the second time tonight, Buck’s reminded of how grateful he is to have another solid, supportive presence in his corner. The last lingering bits of heaviness and loneliness evaporate from within him, and he knows this weekend will be good for him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Second place.

Second place is fine. Second place is great, actually. Second place is enough to show the USFSA that he’s still a contender, that he can still keep up with the best of the best despite a rocky first half of the season.

But second place is not first place. Even if it’s only six points away.

Overall, Buck is happy with his performance. He was clean on his step sequences, attacked every jump, and didn’t fall once. And six points behind the skater from Japan that everyone considers Eddie’s biggest international rival, his biggest threat against his potential Olympic gold, would make most other people ecstatic.

He’s not most other people, though. This past week has reignited the fire in his belly and it’s burning brighter than it has in a while. The medal ceremony, the interviews, the gala, everything flashes by because all he can think about is getting back to work, changing transitions and tweaking spins until even the smallest gap between him and any other skater is erased. Until he knows his programs are undoubtedly gold medal worthy.

It’s refreshing — a relief — to be back in this headspace, being pushed forward by obstacles and less-than-perfection instead of dragged into spiraling sadness.

He almost loses it a couple of times, especially when he decides to take an innocent peek at Twitter to see what fans had to say about the Final, the words “overscored” and “inconsistent” swimming in front of him until they don’t mean anything anymore, just leave doubt lingering, trying to find the home in Buck’s brain that it had just vacated. In those moments, he goes back to his messages and rereads the live texts he’d gotten all weekend, and one in particular that makes his heart skip two beats every time he sees it:

[from: Eddie] I think you make everyone fall a little bit in love with you every time you skate

Eddie sent it in the middle of his free skate, in the middle of dozens of other compliments and criticism of other skaters, and Buck’s sure he was half awake when he sent it, but it fills him with something he doesn’t quite have a name for. Something that makes all of the harsh words and doubts disappear, because none of those matter when Eddie is here telling him that he’s good, that he deserves all of his scores and praises. That he’s loved, no matter how often he may forget.

Another fire is burning in him, a little above the one in his gut, but it’s pushing him just as hard to prove his worth.

~~~~~~~~~

There’s four weeks left until Nationals, and Eddie still isn’t better.

Buck can tell he’s getting frustrated too — the tension in his shoulders gets tighter and tighter, the set of his mouth harder and harder each day he comes to the rink still wearing his air cast, only able to work in the gym and with Lena, far away from the ice and the excited chatter of preparing for the second half of the season. Buck tries to be there, a shoulder to lean on, someone to listen, but he also knows how Eddie operates — he’ll slap on a smile and say he’s fine until he’s really not, until he cracks from the inside out and finally explodes with everything he’s been holding in so he keeps up this air of perfection he’s made for himself. Buck used to think it was annoying, that perfect facade, but now he knows it’s more defensive than anything, Eddie just trying to protect himself from the world and maybe from himself.

Buck doesn’t take it personally anymore, and he’s going to do his damned best to be there to keep the cracks from spreading.

It’s after 10pm when he walks into the gym, still breathing heavily from practice, his muscles burning from overuse and the need to be stretched. He was certain he was alone, so he just about jumps out of his skin when he sees someone lying on the padded floor in front of the mirrors. When he gets closer, his blood runs cold for an entirely different reason.

It’s Eddie.

Buck’s first thought is to call for an ambulance, because why else would Eddie be lying on the floor if he hadn’t hurt himself again? But as he gets closer still, Buck thinks this might be intentional. He’s on his back, headphones on, eyes closed, rhythmically tapping his hands to whatever song he’s listening to on his stomach. As Buck's shadow passes over his face, he opens his eyes and blinks at him for a minute before giving a half-hearted smile and closing his eyes again. He looks sadder, somehow, than he has in the past weeks, dark circles under his eyes and none of the golden glow that seems to follow him wherever he goes (though that may be coming just from Buck’s own imagination anyway).

Buck’s not really sure what to do here, how to fix whatever it is that’s making Eddie feel so bad.

So he lays down right next to him and waits.

The headphones come off after 10 minutes, and Eddie doesn’t open his eyes for another five. When he does, he looks over to Buck, and rather than something supportive or sweet or literally anything else, he says the first dumb thing that comes to his head:

“Are we meditating?”

But he gets an actual smile out of it from Eddie, so he takes it as a win.

Eddie scrubs his hands over his face. “Trying to, I think.” He turns onto his side, facing Buck, and Buck turns to mirror him. He can tell Eddie is searching for his words, the right phrasing to get his point across, and he’s willing to wait as long as he needs to for Eddie to share.

Finally, he takes a long, steadying breath. “My doctor said I might not be able to skate until the end of January, which means I might miss Nats, which means I might not—” he gestures vaguely at that, like he expects Buck to know what his silence means. Buck knows exactly what he means, and it makes him ache for Eddie, makes him reach out and squeeze his wrist when his eyes start to shine, thumb tracing over his pulse point trying to soothe him. “I’ve worked my ass off for weeks now to get better, and it still might not be good enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Buck says quietly. “I know it sucks. More than anything.”

Eddie goes quiet again, eyes drifting to where Buck is still holding his wrist. He pulls away for just a second before slotting their fingers together properly and gently squeezing. Like always, Buck marvels at how right it feels, to be holding Eddie’s hand.

“Did you know they’ve been saying I’m the favorite to win gold for three years now? Not to brag, but—” he says quickly, eyes wide. Buck chuckles because he knows — knows now — that Eddie doesn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. He squeezes his hand back and waits for him to keep going. “It’s all I can think about. Every time I fuck up a level or finish off podium, it just stays with me, makes me feel like I’m about to crash and burn and everyone is going to be disappointed in me because I’m not actually as good as they think.” Eddie’s trembling, squeezing his hand tighter to try and stop it. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I tricked everyone into believing in me, and this stupid busted ankle is—”

“Hey, hey, no,” Buck says, pulling them up to sitting and cupping Eddie’s face in his hands as his tears threaten to spill over, slipping through the cracks. “You don’t deserve this, Eddie, no one deserves to be injured. Believe me, I know what it’s like to put all of your worth into this, and I still do it, but...you’re worth so much more than just your skating. To the fans, to the team. To me.” Eddie’s eyes drift away from his, trying to find an escape, but Buck holds firm until they drift back. “You are good. Not just a good skater, but a good person. You’ll always have that, gold medals or not. And if no one else believes in you, I do.”

Eddie stares at him, looking dumbstruck, and he’s quiet for so long that Buck worries he went too far, bared himself a little too much. He’s about to backtrack, save both of them whatever awkwardness might come, but Eddie surges forward before he can and kisses him so fiercely he swears the earth stands still.

He pushes away just as quickly, eyes wide in panic. “Shit, Buck, I’m sorry, I know we—” but Buck cuts him off, kissing him slow and deep, hands tangling into Eddie’s hair trying to pull him as close as possible. Eddie’s everywhere, his taste, his smell, his touch, and when he feels Eddie’s smile against his mouth, a smile that he put there, he feels like flying.

It finally clicks for Buck that he doesn’t have to — doesn’t want to — compartmentalize his life so much anymore. Skating and Eddie make him happier than pretty much anything. Why shouldn’t he have both?

They break apart slowly and rest their foreheads together. Buck ended up in Eddie’s lap at some point, and from here he can’t see anything but Eddie, gets lost in the curve of his cheekbones and the pout of his lips, and mentally smacks himself for thinking it was really better not having all of this. Eddie is in his corner, always, and he wants to be in Eddie’s too. Wants him to know he’s there, to remember even at his lowest points that he’s not alone, ever.

Eddie finally opens his eyes and smiles at Buck, soft but absolutely breathtaking. He squeezes his arms a little tighter around Buck’s waist, and Buck is more than happy to get as close as he can, would crawl into Eddie’s chest and stay there forever if he could.

“What are you thinking?” Eddie asks quietly.

Buck’s thinking a lot of things, or at least he was, but now that he’s focused on honey brown eyes so full of affection he could drown in them, his only real thought is Eddie Eddie Eddie.

“I think we’re stupid,” he says after a minute, and Eddie’s laugh echos around the empty gym.

“We’re stupid?”

“Okay, I’m stupid. But I think I want to fix that.”

“Oh really?”

“I think I want to be here for you, for everything.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“I think I want to remind you how amazing you are whenever I can.”

“Buck—”

“I think I want to convince you of how incredible you are whenever you stop believing it.”

Eddie’s eyes are shining again, but his smile could also put the sun to shame.

“And I think I really, really want to keep kissing you.”

Eddie shakes his head, smile getting bigger and somehow pulling Buck even closer. “I think we can make that happen,” he whispers.

He kisses him again, and Buck is soaring.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 fox #buddie fic #911 fic #9-1-1 #fs au #ficcery #there's still so much figure skating drama left i hope y'all are psyched

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gadgetsrevv · 5 years

Text

Barcelona are in crisis. Here’s how Valverde can turn Messi, Suarez & Co. around

Hands up if you’re loving every second of Barcelona’s ever-deepening crisis of faith, hapless away form and evident bewilderment, as every rival now plays them with the conviction that Spain’s champions are there for the taking.

You’re not alone. It’s one of sport’s most enduring storylines, as teams that have lain waste to all opponents before them with absolute inevitability then wane, decline and get pulverised. It’s not a matter of “maybe,” only a matter of how well you prepare and cope. “Nothing’s more certain than death, taxes and the collapse of possession football if it’s not properly cared for,” as Benjamin Franklin surely meant to say.

For that reason there will be widespread glee about Barcelona’s sudden vulnerability, far further than among Madridistas, Espanyol fans and anyone of a Manchester United, Juventus or Arsenal persuasion who still resents either the manner or just the pain of those three Champions League final defeats since 2006.

– Hunter: Ansu Fati proves ‘Barca DNA’ as strong as ever – Marcotti’s Musings: Catch up with the weekend action – Ogden: Why Man United’s owners won’t care about bad results

People find it fascinating, even enjoyable, when mighty edifices crumble and fall. They call it “Schadenfreude” in German, a deliciously malicious enjoyment of someone else’s woes. Football has, metaphorically, become such a bloodlust sport that there will be many who think that the only feasible remedy is to accept Ernesto Valverde’s mea culpa on Saturday night after Barca lost in Granada for the first time since 1972 and sack him.

(A fun stat: Barça has lost there five times in club history, and every time it happened, they failed to win La Liga that season.)

During the buildup to Tuesday’s Camp Nou meeting between La Liga’s highest scoring teams thus far, with Villarreal matching Barca’s 12 goals after five games, Valverde accepted the reality of his side’s malaise. “Coaches are always fighting against the sack. That’s not a novelty for me or any of my peers. Given the job I’ve got, it’s results that dictate [my fate]. If Barca aren’t leaders, then the manager’s under intense scrutiny. But two good results can end a ‘crisis.'”

A couple of weeks ago Messi admitted, “I think everyone worried that the coach might be sacked at the end of last season because we didn’t meet our objectives, but it was more the players’ fault than his.”

The problems with Valverde

Three things are true of Valverde. First, while Barcelona were bristling with steely ambition and their key leaders were fit and on form, his “light hand on the tiller” approach to management was perfect. Just look at the good haul of trophies since he took over.

Secondly, now that the seas are extremely stormy, his style of coaching — specifically the “pact” he struck with the squad leaders that rather than him being the outright boss (like an Alex Ferguson), he’d be primus inter pares, aka “first among equals” — will need an upgrade. That he struck such a deal with Messi, Sergio Busquets, Gerard Pique and Luis Suarez made sense: His was the ultimate responsibility, but it was an extremely benign, consultative dictatorship.

It’s a long way of saying that Valverde reckoned, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” It worked a treat … up to a point. Now it’s out of date. Things are broken. They’re fixable but cracked.

The third thing that’s true of Valverde, I’d argue, is that he isn’t enjoying his work as much as he once did.

Yeah, I hear you: boo-hoo-hoo. He’s well paid, and he knew the stresses and potential indignities of managing a huge, often self-destructive and deeply divided club such as FC Barcelona. You’re playing the world’s smallest violin in sympathy for him, right? But this is a decent, hard-working guy who’s respected by the large majority of his squad, simply doing the same things that won him six trophies (and a UEFA Cup runners-up medal with Espanyol) before he took over at Barca.

He’s not a dud. He is not someone to be dissed lightly, nor is sacking him the real solution to what’s been going wrong.

Ernesto Valverde needs to change his tactics to get the best out of his team.

The flaws are easy to list and interdependent. Fundamental to Barcelona’s producing a brand of football that was hellish to combat and made them if not unique then brand leaders was positional play. Intricate, demanding and intelligent play that required both discipline and intelligence. Yet it has been abandoned by the club, in the first team at least, for some considerable time.

Eventually, under someone such as Xavi perhaps, it’ll be restored, but will there be competent students to impose it?

That’s an intriguing question for the future. Positional play helps possession play, as does the availability of Xavi and Andres Iniesta. Gradually, Barcelona’s actual amounts of possession have declined, but much more startling has been the decline in strategy for why possession is important: what you can do with it to punish the opposition. In the cases of some players, “possession” has begun to mean “running with the ball” rather than letting the ball do the work. It’s anathema to the Frank Rijkaard, Johan Cruyff, Pep Guardiola and Tito Vilanova school of thought.

Barcelona are not anywhere near as tough — whether physically, spiritually, athletically or competitively — as they were in the era when they could count on Puyol, David Villa, Samuel Eto’o, Iniesta, Xavi, Dani Alves, Pedro, Seydou Keita, Yaya Toure or Eric Abidal. Gradually — and I think this is an inescapable truth — they’ve gotten a little softer. The mix of technique, brains, character, strength, athleticism and height declined across the first-team squad.

There’s also less pace. Several of those players who would feature in most people’s “best XI” of the current squad are actively short of pace, either in explosive sprints or over a foot race. When the ball isn’t moving quickly, this becomes a far greater Achilles’ heel.

President Josep Bartomeu has been pretty obsessed with passing the buck, whether it existed or not, to the guys who did his football planning: Andoni Zubizarreta, Robert Fernandez, Pep Segura and the exceptional Joan Vila, three of whom should have been retained. Now he’s left with an imbalanced squad in which two of the three full-backs, Junior Firpo and Nelson Semedo, aren’t good enough, in which there’s that lack of pace and in which no one seems to have planned for the fact that the only centre-forward turns 33 in January, carries extra weight, struggles to get away from defenders and hasn’t scored away from home in the Champions League in four years.

Luis Suarez remains an astonishingly clever, competitive and successful footballer, but the lack of strategy to replace him or make him compete for his place has shown either incompetence or fear of upsetting his major stakeholder, Messi.

Barcelona need to change formations

Let me propose a solution for Barcelona supporters. It’s a good one too. Hopefully Valverde is reading this.

Apart from the instincts that Pique, Busquets, Jordi Alba and perhaps Arthur are still imbued with, the whole position-possession-pressing thing that made the modern Barca famous, admired and successful has pretty much departed, meaning that the 4-3-3 they currently play is out-of-date. It’s a touchstone of the philosophy that, in due course, Victor Valdes, Puyol, Xavi and perhaps even Jordi Cruyff could reinstate, but right now, it’s a relic.

Barcelona, away from home, simply do not possess the means to make that formation effective. It’s a strength turned weakness. The solution is a 4-2-3-1. That formation is not a magical formula in itself but is a good fit for Barca’s playing staff while addressing current weaknesses and turning them into strengths.

Frenkie De Jong would benefit from a switch in formation at Barcelona as he continues to gel with his new team.

Frenkie De Jong was always going to require time to settle in and develop. He’s 22 with only 12 Champions League matches and fewer international caps. But most of his impressive football at Ajax was part of the pivotal partnership in a 4-2-3-1. Let him enjoy that role next to Busquets (on rotation with Arthur/Rakitic and so on).

Busquets benefitted hugely from Ivan Rakitic playing as a “double-pivot” next to him for large parts of the past two seasons. In fact, Valverde’s Barcelona were often lined up in a 4-4-2 last term. De Jong can be Busquets’ bodyguard now.

Another new signing, Antoine Griezmann, doesn’t like playing as a winger or very much as centre-forward. But right now, he could easily play as a No. 9 in front of Ousmane Dembele, Messi and Fati Ansu until Suarez trains away a kilo or two. After that, Barca could run Suarez at No. 9 with permutations of Messi coming in off the right, Griezmann in the middle of the three and Ansu or Dembele on the left. That not only could augment the chance creation but also would offer Valverde the option of installing a high press.

The 4-2-3-1 formation probably asks the full-backs to fly forward far less than, say, Alba currently does. But with Alba and Roberto edging forward into midfield to flank Busquets and De Jong, a mixture of Pique, Jean-Clair Todibo, Clement Lenglet and Samuel Umtiti as the alert, high-line centre-backs and Marc-Andre ter Stegen happy to play the “sweeper-keeper” role, there are far more solutions than new problems.

Valverde has had the chutzpah to try to find solutions by dropping Busquets, promoting Ansu and Carles Perez and mysteriously giving Rakitic the kind of limited minutes that suggest he was either caught swearing in church or singing the Real Madrid anthem in the showers.

The burning question now is whether Valverde also the chutzpah to accept that 4-3-3 is now making his team weaker and change formation.

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#Articles #Barcelona #Spanish Primera División Barcelona are in crisis. Here’s how Valverde can turn

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