#captain's contrition au

[amonggtheestarss]

Racist edition of Homophobic Dog /J

[hollyethecurious]

CS AU: Pan Says... (8/?)

Summary: After waking up in a strange room with a naked stranger, Emma and Killian must endure the twisted game their kidnapper insists they play in order to gain provisions and avoid punishments.

A/N: Look at me getting another chapter up within a month of the previous update! I can't tell y'all how much your replies, reblogs, comments, likes, kudos have meant to me.

I have plotted out the remainder of this story and I believe we'll have 2-3 more chapters. It all depends on how wordy I get, lol. The muse has been very generous as of late, so fingers crossed that I can wrap this up before I need to work on my supernatural summer fic in earnest.

Lots of love to @ultraluckycatnd and @kmomof4 for their exceptional beta skills!

Rated E /Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!  

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six  / Part Seven

Chapter Prompts: I received a couple of prompts asking for the scenarios I've mentioned in this update. I have glanced over them a bit, though. I hope the prompters won't mind.

Warnings: Mentions of anal sex, edging, mutual masturbation, exhibitionism and voyeurism.

Part Eight

Killian collapsed back onto the bed, thoroughly spent and utterly exhausted. The mattress shook from the way Emma’s legs were quivering, her knees and upper body anchored to the bed with her ass in the air, still presented. The ass he’d just taken as a way of technically complying to Pan’s most recent command without actually doing the thing he knew Pan had meant for him to do.

Pan Says… come inside her this time.

The command had only been issued to Killian; a new twist to this particular round of the game. Instructions were given to only one of them at a time, usually when the other was in the lavatory or still asleep, and no longer delivered audibly. They were not permitted to share what the exact instruction was with each other, and had to therefore trust that their compliance to the other’s words was what Pan required.

The morning after their reunion was when it had all started. He’d come back from relieving himself to find Emma awake and looking slightly confused and distressed.

“Swan? What is it? What happened?”

“I… I can’t tell you,” she said. “He said I’m not supposed to tell you I just have to…”

Killian climbed back into bed and took her hand in his. “It’s alright, love,” he assured her. “Whatever it is he’s told you, you won’t have to go through it alone.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, swirling with contrition and a sense of determination. “I know,” she replied. Pushing against his chest, she forced him to lay back as she began to peel his pajama pants down his legs. “I need you to pay attention, because” she paused, swallowed hard, then wet her lips. “Swan says… everything I’m about to do to you, you will have to reciprocate in kind.”

Those next two days they had licked and kissed and sucked and branded and tongued every inch of each other. Exploring one another’s body with nothing more than their mouths.

The third day of Round Three had them experimenting with various toys and apparatus. He’d been told to edge her all day with the various wands and vibrators as she lay tied up from the four corners of the bed. It had been torture. Reducing her to a whimpering, begging, desperate collection of moans, tears, and sobs when all he wanted to do was alleviate the torment. But he’d dared not. Not after the last time they had disobeyed.

He was certain he would get his comeuppance on day four, especially when they woke to a basket of anal toys, in an assortment of styles and sizes. All Pan had required of them that day, however - delivered through a Swan Says… - was to shower and then fit each other with a plug, presumably to begin the process for more anal play later on.

Knowing they both had to be live wires of pent up sexual frustration by this point, day five had been mutual masturbation day.

“Your Captain says… touch yourself, love,” Killian instructed, stroking his cock as he watched Emma pleasure herself.

They had shared a total of eleven orgasms that day, and had become further acquainted with the various toys and butt plugs Pan insisted not go to waste.

Now, day six, Killian was allowed to penetrate his Swan with something other than his tongue or his fingers or a bit of vibrating silicone, but only under one condition… that he finish inside her.

Pan never said anything about it having to be in her cunt, so he’d taken advantage of the ambiguity by taking her ass instead, since they’d both been stretching and preparing themselves for anal play.

And fuck him if it hadn’t felt amazing - the defiance and the tight, forbidden depths in which he’d just spilled himself. Glancing over at Emma, her face shimmering from a sheen of sweat with an expression of sated and elated ecstasy, he knew she had enjoyed it too… but then of course, she did not know the full reason as to why he’d taken her ass and not her pussy.

She was no longer protected from the threat of an unwanted pregnancy.

“Wow,” Emma exhaled. “That was…”

“Don’t try and move too much,” he told her as he reached over and helped ease her into a more comfortable position. “Just rest. I’ll go get something to clean us up.”

“And some water,” she called out after him.

“Aye. And water,” he responded, as though he needed reminding.

He didn’t.

A week into Round Three and they had already settled into a routine. A week-long marathon of teasing, edging, training, and orgasms. A week of them taking orders from one another, of placing a new form of trust in the other’s hands. A week of them not talking about what had happened in the weeks before, or more to the point… the moments before this round had begun.

Swallowing thickly, he pulled back and softly whispered, “I love you, Emma.” Then captured her lips before she could reply.

“I think that’s enough sharing for one day,” Pan’s curt tone crackled over the speakers, forcing them apart. “In fact, Pan says no more talking until Round Three begins… which shall be first thing tomorrow morning. Sleep well.”

Killian’s jaw tightened as he watched Emma open and then close her mouth with longing and uncertainty swirling in her gaze. Squeezing his hand, she rolled off the bed and padded her way to the lav. Afterward, they both got dressed and curled up next to one another in bed, the silence between them deafening.

In the past week, she had not reciprocated those words and he had not uttered them again. Not because he hadn’t meant them, because he had. He did. He does. He regretted saying it, though. Regretted giving Pan more ammunition to use against them. Regretted having the memory of those words first said here, in this setting, under these circumstances. Regretted putting her on the spot when he knew, even if she felt the same, she couldn’t possibly be ready to say it back to him. And that was okay. He never wanted to push or pressure her, they had enough to contend with from the outside demands of their ‘host’. So, for now, all he wanted was to try and make things as easy for her as he could. To protect her and safeguard her to the best of his ability… even if that meant not talking about it and fucking her in the ass in order to keep her from getting pregnant.

“I have something special planned for you,” Pan said, startling him as they finished their aftercare routine. “But it requires a bit of a field trip.”

Confused, they both looked at one another then towards the door as it opened. Killian took her hand as they stood, placing himself in front of her as he always did when they were instructed to leave their cell.

“Pan says to follow the purple line until it ends, then wait for further instructions.”

The purple line? That was a new one. They’d never been instructed to follow that one before. He knew blue led to the showers, green to the rooftop terrace, and yellow to the room where he’d been injected with supposed poison after disobeying Pan’s rules. Emma had told him that she thought the Lost One had carried her along the red line when she’d been taken after their night of lovemaking, so Killian had deduced (and kept the knowledge to himself) that it had led to the medical procedure room.

Following the purple stripe to its unknown destination, Killian made a mental note of the route and cataloged it alongside the other colors. Of course, there was still an orange and black line. Their destination was also a mystery to him, which made making a mental map of the facility difficult, but he attempted to do so nonetheless.

The path ended in a narrow passageway in front of a pane of darkened glass. A hidden panel behind them slid closed, shutting them inside the dead end. Before either of them could question what was happening, the pane in front of them lit up. It wasn’t just glass. It was a window, looking out onto a circular room with tiers of seats that were shielded by thin, see-through screens, their occupants only noticeable in silhouette.

Emma reached out and banged on the window, trying to get someone’s attention, but her efforts were ignored. When someone did pass by - a woman donning an elaborate mask that hid her identity, but not her vanity - and paused to check her red hair, Killian realized…

“It’s a mirror,” he murmured. “A two-way mirror. They can’t see us.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Pan’s voice echoed through the small room. “Besides… their attention is focused elsewhere at the moment.”

Emma gasped, pulling Killian’s focus to where her wide eyes were trained. In the center, lowest level of the room was a rotating platform, and on that platform were two people engaging in various sex acts whilst the spectators behind the screens watched.

“What the fuck is this?”

“An intimate gathering I host one weekend of each month for like-minded friends. Three days of exhibitionist delights and debauched voyeuristic entertainment. This is the second night.”

He paused as dread rolled through Killian’s stomach. His next words made bile creep up his throat.

“You two will be night three’s entertainment.”

“Fuck that!”

“You can’t be bloody serious!”

“I am serious enough that I’m willing to offer you your reward before you meet the terms of my… request.”

Emma scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “There is nothing you could offer that would make either of us--”

“Not even a chance to reach out to your friends and family so you can inform them that you are not only alive, but also in need of their help?”

They both balked then stared at one another. He couldn’t be serious.

“Why would you let us do that?” Killian inquired.

“Because I require your full compliance so that my guests get the experience they’ve paid for. I am, therefore, prepared to compensate you accordingly.”

“In advance?” Emma clarified. “You’d risk us agreeing and notifying our loved ones of the truth only to back out later?”

Pan’s tone sent a chill up Killian’s spine and he knew Emma had been affected by the hushed warning as well.

“I would advise against such schemes. You do not wish to fathom how far I will go in punishing those who embarrass me in front of my guests.”

“What if we simply refuse all together?” Killian asked, knowing there had to be a penalty of equal weight to the reward being offered.

“Then your association with one another is of no further use to me, and I shall reassign you to partners with whom you might be a bit more agreeable to my requests.”

Emma pressed herself into Killian’s side as he protectively wrapped his arms around her waist. They clung to one another, each of them eyeing the door with the fear that it might open and Lost Ones would be waiting to pry them apart.

“The choice is yours,” Pan said. “I’ll give you some time to consider your options.” The panel slid open, revealing the corridor beyond. “Pan says to return to your room. Further information regarding tomorrow night’s entertainment will be waiting for you.”

~/~

Emma couldn’t stop the tremors coursing through her body. She wasn’t sure how she had made it back to their cell on such shaky legs, and the items awaiting them once they’d returned had done nothing to help alleviate her body’s physical response to the dread and anxiety overwhelming her.

In the center of the room was a table that held an old fashioned, corded phone. It had only three buttons on the dial panel; one labeled Nolan, one labeled Liam, and one labeled Decline. Next to the phone was a binder, and within it were the rules, expectations, and procedures for the night of entertainment she and Killian were meant to supply to Pan and his perverted guests.

A note also accompanied the binder. It read, Pan says to discuss the instructions in full before making your choice. Should you choose to comply, make your calls accordingly. Should you choose to decline, press the appropriate button and my Lost Ones will see to your reassignment.

“Say something,” Killian pleaded. Having read through the binder aloud, he’d tossed it over his shoulder then slumped forward with his head in his hands and his elbows braced against his knees.

“What is there to say?” she said, on the edge of panic. “We can’t refuse him. I can’t… I can’t lose you. I can’t let someone else… I can’t--”

“Hey. Hey, it’s alright,” he soothed, gathering her in his arms and cradling her against his chest. “I know.” His lips brushed the crown of her head and his chest rose and fell from a deep, fortifying breath. “But we have to discuss it. We have to talk it through. I won’t give him any reason to separate us. No loopholes.”

Emma nodded and pulled back so she could stare up into his face. “You’re right. We have to follow his instructions to the letter if we want to avoid penalty or punishment, and as much as I really don’t relish the idea of having to” -she gestured towards the binder- “do that. The idea of being forced apart makes me…”

“Aye. Me, too.” Reaching back he picked up the binder and opened it across his lap. “The good news is… none of the spectators are allowed to touch us or participate physically in any of the acts we perform on one another.”

“Yeah,” Emma groused. “They just get to dictate what acts we perform.”

Pan’s guests essentially got to be him for a night. Each of them would be able to make suggestions and vote on what sort of acts they wanted to see their entertainment perform on one another. Those requests would then be relayed to them through an ear bud or in some other manner.

Requests involving excessive violence or anything that might leave a permanent mark would not be permitted. She and Killian would have their identity obscured through the use of a domino mask and could opt to have an alias used in lieu of their actual names as well. Of course, they both had distinguishing features that could give away their identities, but what were the odds of them ever encountering these people again?

“Do you want to fill out the form first?” Killian asked, referring to the questionnaire Pan had provided, allowing them each to select up to ten items they absolutely would not consent to. “Or we could go over it together, if you’d prefer?”

If she’d prefer? Did it even matter anymore as to what she would prefer?

Emma’s chest tightened and her stomach dropped as the periphery of her vision darkened and blurred spots floated in her vision. A dull ringing began to develop in her ears, strengthening in its tone, pitch, and volume as the pressure in her lungs grew critical and she realized she’d been holding her breath. Rage bubbled up from her stomach and despair stung the corners of her eyes.

This was it, she realized. This was her breaking point. Emma had absolutely had enough.

Launching herself off the bed she stomped to the center of the room and rounded on Killian. “No! I don’t want to go over the questionnaire! I don’t want to discuss everything involved with tomorrow night’s entertainment! I don’t want to do any of this! I want to go home!”

Hysterics overtook her and she crumpled to the floor, but not before Killian wrapped her up in his arms to help break her fall. Clinging to him, she wept into his shoulder, her body practically convulsing from the release of pent up emotions and strain.

“I know, love,” Killian murmured, his voice tight and gravely from his own held back emotions. He continued to comfort her with soft words of nonsense as his hand caressed soothing circles over her back. After several long minutes, she could feel dampness against her hairline and when she pulled back to glance up, she found it was because Killian had started shedding tears of his own.

A few hiccups escaped her as she tried to calm herself. Killian’s hands cupped her face and he brushed away her tears with the pads of his thumbs before pressing his forehead to hers.

“Just you and me, love,” he whispered. “We will face this new degradation as we have all the others. Together.”

Pulling back, he brushed her hair away from her face, carding his fingers through the long strands and gently scratching her scalp in the way he knew she liked. “We will forget about Pan and those who have come to witness our debasement and focus only on one another. Aye?”

“Aye,” she replied in a sorry attempt to mimic his accent, which pulled a small smile from him. Flicking her gaze up to meet his, she said, “I’m sorry. I--”

“You never have to apologize to me, love,” he replied, wrapping her in his arms again and holding her tightly to his chest. “It’s a wonder we’ve both gone this long since our last breaking point.”

Emma laughed mirthlessly. He had a point. This certainly wasn’t the first time one of them had fallen to pieces and thrown a well deserved tantrum, allowing the homesickness, injustice, and despair to spill over from their boiling points. Allowing him to pick her up off the floor, she tried to bury the worry about whether or not it would be the last.

“What would you say,” Killian began, leading them back over to the bed and sitting them on the edge, “to us choosing our false names, our aliases as it were, and proceeding in those personas as a way of distancing ourselves from it?”

“You mean like… pretending this is all happening to someone else?”

“In a way.” Killian took her hand and threaded his fingers between hers. “It might allow us to… dissociate from having to fully experience it ourselves if we think about it happening to… The Captain and… whatever pseudonym you might select for yourself, instead.”

Emma rolled her bottom lips between her teeth and considered the suggestion. It would be like role play. The audience wouldn’t be seeing them, wouldn’t be controlling them, they’d be witnessing two characters crafted to play out a role that was separate from the actors themselves. The thought of that released a bit more of tension she was holding onto and an exhale passed over her lips, carrying her agreement.

“Yes. I like that idea.” Cocking her head to one side, she looked up at him with a teasing smirk and taunted, “The Captain?”

A blush bloomed across his cheeks and tinted the tips of his ears as he reached up to paw at the patch of skin behind his jawline. “Aye. Uh… I thought it might serve as a fitting moniker.”

“Hmmm,” Emma hummed with a coy glint in her eye. “I like it.” Wetting her lips, which almost always centered his focus on her mouth, Emma dipped her gaze then flicked it back up, peering at him from beneath her lashes as she sultrily inquired, “Would the Captain be agreeable to having a naughty Wench at his side for tomorrow’s night entertainment?”

A wicked smile stretched across his lips, and she could see the gleam of relief and pride flicker in his eyes before they turned dark and heated. “Oh, aye,” he replied in a deep timbre that damn near made her toes curl. “I think the Captain would enjoy a naughty Wench’s companionship very much indeed.” Plucking a paper from the binder, he held it out to her and with his Captain’s voice ordered, “Be a good little Wench and fill this out so your Captain knows all the deplorable things he’ll get to do to you.”

“Aye, aye… Captain.”

Part Nine

[omgpurplefattie]

WIP Wednesday

From the next instalment of my Star Trek AU: a Klingon with his hair full of corpse mud and a very contrite human take a bath together.

-----------------------------------------------

“You can stop eating humble pie,” A-Fei said, with a hint of his usual smirk, “and start scrubbing my back. That’ll be vastly more helpful.”

He took the small basket of posh lotus haircare the owner was offering them, and pushed Fang Duobing through the door to the small baths that would be exclusively theirs.

Fang Duobing was still a bit nonplussed when A-Fei put the basket down and ripped off his clothes as if they were truly contaminated, and not just soaked through with corpse mud.

Well, soaked through with corpse mud was bad enough.

Fang Duobing couldn’t keep himself from staring.

Yes, the Klingon looked liked the Klingons from the source material that Xiao Zijin had given him access to: he had a ridge running down his his back above his spine, accounting for the elongated dorsal processes they had seen on Shi Hun’s skeleton; and he had redundant organs. What Earth humans had two of, the Klingon had four. And yes, that included nipples. In the upper left one, he wore the trinket that Fang Duobing had seen Li Lianhua hold on to when they were all in bed together while the captain was sick. And yes, that included the penis -- it was obvious what Li Lianhua had meant when he had talked about Shi Hun’s anterior and posterior penis. They were in front of each other, forking where they emerged from the sac that sheltered the four testicles: a long, narrow one further back, a shorter, thicker one in front. The testicles were very round and compact, reinforced by cartilage. Kicking a Klingon in the balls was probably futile.

“You’re drooling,” A-Fei said. “Take off your clothes; how can you wash my hair properly if you don’t get in the bath with me?”

The bath was a steaming, shallow pool that could easily have accommodated ten people.

A-Fei stepped over the rim and made an impatient gesture for Fang Duobing to follow.

He sighed, and took off his jacket before stepping out of his boots and shedding his jumpsuit. Socks, tee-shirt and underwear followed, all under A-Fei’s watchful gaze.

“What?” he said, a bit uneasy at being watched so avidly.

“What?” A-Fei echoed. “You’ve never seen a naked Klingon; I have never seen a naked human. We both know your captain isn’t.”

Fang Duobing felt pale and insubstantial, compared to the Klingon’s rangy strength and beautiful light cinnamon coloured skin.

“It’s nothing special,” he said, shrugging.

“Speak for yourself,” A-Fei said. “I like how blunt and tubular your equipment is, and so soft and pendulous!”

Fang Duobing didn’t quite like the description, but then, they were probably both equally exotic to each other.

[primordialpaper]

Fairy Tail Avengers AU Random WIPs and Snippets, #5

<In the aftermath of the battle with Ultron, Wendy is presented with a choice. It's not the one she was expecting.>

At the sound of a throat being cleared, all eyes turned to find Wendy standing in the doorway. The Sokovian girl looked marginally better than she had a few hours prior; her various minor injuries bandaged, and her eyes a light hazel instead of gleaming red. What was more, the jacket of Erza's she had been wearing was tucked beneath her arm.

Slowly, as if conscious of the weight of the stares, she crossed over the room to the redhead, before holding out the appropriated article of clothing.

“Thank you for the loan.” she murmured, voice even and rehearsed.

Wordlessly, Erza accepted the jacket, looking incredibly confused. Before she could voice that bewilderment, however, Wendy took a deep breath, as if steeling herself.

“Captain Dragneel,” she turned to face Natsu, her expression solemn. “I am ready to be transferred to the authorities now. I’ll go quietly.”

Natsu's brows stitched together, giving her a look of equal parts confusion and worry.

“Marvell,” he began, before adjusting to, “Wendy… what are you talking about?”

Wendy’s eyes fell to her ring adorned hands, clasped together as if in contrition.

“All of this… I’m to blame for everything that’s happened.” she declared, voice barely a whisper. “I caused this. I deserve to pay for it.”

“That’s funny,” Sting suddenly remarked, putting on a mask of pensiveness as he began to pace from across the table. “because I don’t recall seeing you there when I built Ultron. Erza? Gray?” he spared them a befuddled glance. “Did you notice a blue-haired little girl around the tower?”

“You only created Ultron because of the vision I gave you.” Wendy insisted, fixing Sting with a look of confused irritation. “If I hadn’t-”

“Right, right,” Sting interrupted. “And we’ll definitely be having a talk about the time you spent in my head. However, there’s a reason I created Ultron- experimented with the scepter- in secret. I knew no one would be keen on taking that risk. Your little jaunt through my psyche might’ve given me the motivation, but the idea began with me. All you did was speed things up a bit.”

Wendy appeared flabbergasted. “I- I was part of Hydra-”

“Who tricked you, and used you for their own ends.” Erza informed her. “You joined them because they made you think they would change things for the better.” she managed to lock eyes with the girl, sympathetic brown against frightened hazel. “Trust me, just because they made you, it doesn’t mean they own you.”

“Besides,” Gray called from his place leaning back on the couch. A half grin crossed his face. “I told you, once you walked out that door, you were an Avenger. Don’t go backing out on us now.”

“As founder, I can assure you, the benefits are worth it.” Sting preened. “Health care, dental, we’ll even handle your immigration to Fiore!”

Wendy gazed, wide eyed, at the other occupants of the room. “I don’t understand…” she murmured faintly. “Why… why give me a second chance?”

“Because you earned it.” Natsu informed her. “No one in this room is without mistakes, or regrets. But we’ve all decided that any time spent dwelling on those mistakes is time wasted. Instead, we’d work together, to do what none of us could do alone, and try to actually fix things in this world. You made some bad decisions, but in the end, you chose to defend the world. That makes you an Avenger, if you choose to accept.”

“I do!” Wendy blurted suddenly, eyes wide and shining. “I accept! It’s what Mest-”

Her voice shook slightly at the name, and she paused. Then, she raised her head to gaze at Natsu head on, eyes glinting with resolve. “It’s what Mest would have wanted.”

Face pulling in a somber smile, Natsu reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Then let’s make him proud.” he proposed, to which Wendy nodded, a hint of a smile ghosting across her face. The group sat in silence for a moment, before Sting pulled up a holographic screen and keyboard.

“I hate to interrupt this touching scene,” he professed blithely, fingers flying across the screen at light speed. “but I have approximately three hours to institute a new Eucliffe Foundation scholarship visa program to award to our ‘exceptionally skilled, impoverished youth’ here-” he winked at Wendy. “and get cracking on a new suit design…” his face became contemplative as he cast her an appraising look, no doubt already envisioning several possibilities for the girl’s uniform. “How do you feel about corsets?”

[baylardo]

I keep thinking about threshold au Protectors/Acts of Contrition, maybe in between them,,,,, but premising with if Kathryn’s hiding her pregnancy for the four months she’s on earth, very likely she hasn’t gone to any examinations or anything regarding it… and maybe prior to the doctor’s departure they kinda went over what she needs to be monitoring herself for and whatnot……. but I was mainly thinking about how she wouldn’t have seen the baby in all of that time and likely the first time she DOES get to would be aboard the Vesta or Voyager or maybe the Galen with chakotay hehe :3

I was also mulling over likeeeee Yeah it makes sense that she’d hide a pregnancy especially one with chakotay with starfleet scrutinizing their relationship while serving together,,,,, but also rationally I was trying to think about why she’d still wanna put herself in harms way in this condition and everything after having the opportunity to remain on Earth hypothetically through its duration and like,,, FITTINGLY Kathryn IS conflicted about returning in the book by the time she concretely becomes fleet commander or whatever haha,,,,, HOWEVER 😏 there’s also a scene in Protectors where Kathryn gets to talk with Naomi of all people hehe,,, and while the conversation mostly circles around Naomi’s weariness to progress in starfleet,,,, it’d be fun in the context of our au if Kathryn’s internally like, idk reflecting on how Naomi’s turned out despite being born on a starship in the dangers of the delta quadrant,,,,, and thinking about her own kiddies as well hehe <3 EVEN MORE FITTINGLY like not only is that scene IM PRETTY SURE accompanied by her admiring the academy’s grounds and thinking about Boothby (LIAM!!!!!!!!) but I THINK it’s also followed up afterwords by her visiting her grave???? And unearthing chakotay’s captain pips and deciding that while her biological family is here on earth, her home (with chakotay) is in space ITS SUCH A GOOD LITTLE MOMENT 😭👌

I think all the little elements of Protectors are so convenient for our little au plot in it HAHA like Julia Paris’s fear of her son raising her grandchildren out there,,,,,, and Kathryn has to defend him but also in an indirect way, herself as well hehe,,,,,,, ITS ALL OOMFS

[hauntedwitch04]

Kiss this dead girl walking

Childhood friend!Steve Harrington x Childhood friend!Reader 

Heathers AU 

Words: About 1.5k words 

Warnings: mentions of sex, with some scene smutty?, Steve Harrington (and yes he is a warning), under age use of alcol (?)

Author’s note: Hi everybody! After what it feels a life I come back into writing. During this period I watch all Stranger Things and I littleraly fell il love with Steve Harrington, so here I am with a one shot about him. I decided to realize this in an AU of the Heather, the film of 1988, that I love deeply and I probably love the musical even more. I took inspiration from the song Dead girl walking, that I'll put at the end of the story. Hope you like this idea. I’m sorry for any eventual grammatical error, I just finished to write it! 

Requests are open I Ask

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The words of Tears for Fears fill your ears to the beat of "Everybody wants to rule the world," a song released just this year in 1989. You're running away from the one and only worst party ever. Heather, the one you consider for some strange reason a "friend," has dragged you to the party of Kurt Kelly, the captain of the rugby team. Of course, she was gone right away, doing god knows what with god knows who, while you were left drinking, crammed into a dimly lit hallway among couples making out, people drinking but who were already too drunk by then, and people smoking, so much so that it created a huge cloud of smoke that obscured everything. You have recently managed to become part of the school's most popular girl group, after years of suffering and being bullied by them, but immediately you are beginning to regret it, seeing their behavior, and slowly realizing that their world, is a place where you don't belong. 

The evening, however, is interrupted when, as yet another jerk hits on you, and you in response vomit your soul onto his shoes. The only thing you remember before you get into the car is Heather's contrite face at your gesture, to which you in response, thanks in part to some of the liquid courage you had drank, tell her to go to hell, and that you don't want to be friends with her anymore. 

Those words were the signature for your death sentence; you are now nothing more than a dead girl walking. 

You wake up from these thoughts that have numbed your mind so far, and you realize that you are standing in front of Steve Harrington's house. When you were kids you were close friends, then you sought the path to popularity, while he was happy in remaining labeled only as the odd boy, which was no longer enough for you. You don't know why but something is telling you to stop. You know he will definitely be alone at home, since his parents are always away on business. You park in the driveway, next to his car. You stop to think about what you are doing only when you are standing at the door, but at that moment you realize that you have nothing left to lose now and so you knock. It takes a few seconds before you hear someone on the other side, but eventually the door opens to reveal a glimpse of a sleepy Steve Harrington, who trots his eyes with a unique tenderness. He widens his eyes upon seeing you. 

The first to break that silence is you. 

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't have to break you just..." You say suddenly unsure, but he immediately stops you, as if he has finally woken up and understands what is going on. 

"No, no quiet meanwhile I was awake. Ehy but are you okay? You don't look so good." He asks, visibly concerned. You don't know why, but that gesture of his, that tone of his makes you burst into tears. He stands dumbfounded for a moment looking at you, then hugs you, and it's as if in a second you are again the little girl who falls down the Harringtons' driveway after getting tripped up, being hugged by that sweet little boy who is convinced that all it takes is a little affection and everything heals. 

He pulls away a little from the hug to look at your face and you look up. 

"Would you like to have a drink together? I know we haven't talked in years, and that this is all my fault because I've been a bitch, but I need to talk to someone and you're the first person who came to mind." You ask unsure, while tears are still drying on your cheeks. He nods and leads you into the kitchen. While he gets two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, you sit on the counter of the table. Once you send down a few sips of the ice-cold drink you begin to talk about everything inside, how much you suffered for Heathers, how much it hurt you to not be able to talk to him anymore, being afraid that he hated you, and what happened this very night a short time ago. Many times you apologized for your behavior, and every time he told you it was nothing. 

You talk for hours, the beer bottles meanwhile multiplying until now you're lying on the couch in hysterical laughter at reminding yourself of the ridiculous harpy device that would kill your public image at school on Monday, until Steve gets improvidently serious. 

"You know, I've always thought you were a fool in changing yourself and your appearance to join that group of snobs who think their biggest problem is the crease that came badly before school." The boy stops for a moment before continuing, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You were always perfect the way you were. Without this unattainable girl aura. To me you were already perfect as the girl who loved to read books, and wore those cute prescription glasses that made her big, curious eyes even bigger." You continue to remain silent, too overwhelmed by the alcohol in your system and the closeness of the boy. His scent is worse than dorga, and all you want to do is draw him to you and stick your nose into the crook of his neck as you run your hands through that perfect hair of his. 

You see him licking his lips as his eyes are on yours before you say. 

"I have a distraction in mind, if you'd like, to forget about all these bitches, this shitty life, my practically nonexistent family, everything. What do you say, are you ready to take a chance, Cherry?" You smile at that nickname, which reminds you of afternoons spent with a Cherry Sluchie in your hand, your favorite, in front of his pool, while he enjoyed swimming, and showing you when he was good at diving. 

Your smile turns into a gigno as you bring your hands to his shoulders. He instinctively comes closer and you feel him vibrating with excitement, as you whisper, with surprising courage for the second time that night. 

"And what would you have in mind Harrington?" He doesn't answer, on the contrary he shows you, rubbing his nose on your neck. After teasing you enough, he moves on to leave delicate, light kisses on your neck, which over time become more and more passionate and important, so much so that you are sure you will be left with the mark of those kisses, and this only increases your desire to rip him off that had been on for too long now. You feel his hands wander over your body, until he finally decides to unzip the zipper of the dress you're wearing, and before you know it you're both unclothed, invested with passion, with the desire to escape, taking refuge in each other's arms. Your moans, filling the room like the smell of sweat and alcohol, as you make love on the couch. 

It seems like it has happened a billion times before, and maybe it has in the minds of both of you, so much so that it seems like a dance whose steps everyone knows, and at the same time of a song that only you know. Your lips are like glued together, and they cannot stay away from each other. 

At one point, however, he pulls away and immediately you moan, pulling him back to you, wanting nothing more than his sweet kisses that taste of beer, tobacco and licorice. 

"Kiss this dead girl walking, you don't want her to die not remembering what your kisses taste like." You say as your lips lightly trace her jaw. He stiffens from the pleasure caused by that gesture, before responding. 

"I wouldn't want to kill this dead girl who walks with my kisses in my arms, while I make love to her on the couch in my house." 

"I see no better way to die." You retort before continuing your journey down the jaw. 

You spend most of the rest of the night this way. In the morning you wake up very late, still on that couch, with him lying beside you, still bare-chested and one of his arms around your waist, still traveling in the world of Morpheus, and all of a sudden Heather doesn't scare you anymore, because you finally understand where you really belong.

[krethes]

@wolfstarmicrofic Day Twenty-Four: popsicle

Part four of the firefighter AU (links to come oops). This one is much lighter, and ofc 18+.

Read: Part One (Wildfire), Part Two (Inhale), Part Three (Accident)

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm working!"

"The point remains."

"Bah! Remus, you just don't understand fine art."

"I hardly think sitting half-naked on the back of the fire engine deepthroating your THIRD melted popsicle qualifies as 'fine art'."

"See, that's where you're wrong. I'm mostly naked. And this is my fourth." Sirius, sitting shirtless and in a pair of indecently tiny white briefs, covered only by a helmet between his spread thighs wags the mostly-gone ice pop at him. His lips have been stained red by the popsicle, and if Remus wasn't so cross with him, he might actually find this is a little...hot.

"We're here to pose for a fundraising calendar, not...whatever it is you're doing!"

Sirius leans forward suddenly, pressing the helmet against his washboard torso, and fucking leers at him. "If you're confused, Lieutenant Lupin, maybe I can give you a play-by-play later?" he purrs.

Remus feels his face heat up and has to clench his thighs, willing his body to listen to him and not show, through the robe covering his own mostly-nakedness, the effect that Sirius has on him. Fucker. He advances on him with a little growl, and is pleased to see a flicker of excited apprehension flash across Sirius's face. "You little-

"Captain Potter! How good to see-"

"I leave you alone for three minutes to pee because I'm, if you haven't noticed, massively pregnant, and you're at this again?" Lily snaps as she comes back to the tripod (the camera, not either of them, though Remus thinks Sirius could give it a run for its money).

Sirius does his best to look contrite, but the overall effect is wholly ruined by the drip of cherry popsicle sliding down his wrists. Remus can't look away. He's spent the last half-hour watching Sirius put on this obscene display. Letting Sirius go first seemed like a good idea at the time, because when he gets bored, he gets a little (a lot) chaotic, and there is plenty of chaos to be made in the station. But now, his boxer briefs uncomfortably tight and his mind soaked with images of Sirius taking the ice pop down his throat, sucking and slurping and making the worst (best) sounds deep in his chest... Remus can see he miscalculated.

There's no way he can go on next, not like this. It's a shirtless fireman calendar, not X-rated pornography!

"Cover yourself back up, you menace," Lily scolds, waving vaguely at Sirius's very obvious and helmet-less bulge. "Save your foreplay for when you're off-duty."

"I AM off-duty, as a matter of fact. You're just jea-... Ah, hello, Chiefy."

Alastor somehow pins them both with his one good eye. "Captain Potter, is there a delay? Tweedledee and Tweedledum over there are getting restless and loosening all the caps to the pepper shakers."

Sure enough, Fabian and Gideon Prewett emerge from the cafeteria with shit-eating grins on their faces. They see Chief Moody and Lily and beat a hasty retreat.

Lily shoots Sirius a mutinous look from around the Chief's shoulder. "No, sir, I-"

"It's my fault, Chief Moody, sir," Remus interrupts. Alastor is a good Fire Chief, fair if a bit brusque, but he's had quite a lot to say about Lily still working as Captain during these late stages of her pregnancy. Remus doesn't want to draw any further heat to her than necessary. "Heckling my husband, sir, sorry."

Alastor doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's clearly bored with the whole affair. "You have eleven more to get through, Captain Potter," he says gruffly, and walks off.

In the end, Lily thanks Remus with the night off to match Sirius's, and Remus thinks, or as much as he can with his husband's head bobbing away between his spread thighs, that perhaps the popsicle fiasco wasn't so bad.

[nirikeehan]

Happy friday and dadwc!! For a prompt, I would like to submit: Raleigh Samson and, from the Tori Amos lyrics prompt list: "Just when you escape, you have yourself to fear."

WELP, this got unhinged.

This will probably go in a new chapter of nightmare au. Largely inspired by this dress I saw on Pinterest. And also the fact that red lyrium bath salts exist and I bought some.

WC: 1559

CW: Samson is a creepy mf

For @dadrunkwriting

---

Raleigh Samson had escaped many things in his life. 

He had come of age on the rough, mean streets of Lowtown. Beggars and cutpurses and scarlet women, those were his compatriots. He learned quick hands and quicker feet meant you’d eat tonight. He’d little prospects then, sitting on the docks with the scent of rotting fish in the air and wishing to be anywhere but here.

He’d thought the Templar Order would give him purpose. The day he accepted his sun shield from Knight-Commander Guylian was the proudest of his life. It meant he’d escaped the gutter, transformed himself into something better. It was a small price to pay, to swallow the glowing blue from their sacred vials. 

He’d escaped Meredith too, though not in the way he’d wanted. Standing in her office, refusing to look contrite, staring the bitch dead in the eye as she stripped him of rank and title, he imagined wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezing. It was her fault the Kirkwall Templars had fallen into ruin. He would not flinch.

Is there anything else you’d like to confess, aside from this abominable behavior? she’d asked. Officially, it was the letter incident that’d done him in, but Meredith wasn’t stupid. There were a dozen close calls leading up to this she couldn’t explain, but suspected Samson was to blame — the lyrium stores routinely coming up short chief among them. It might do your conscience some good.

Samson had laughed in her face and turned on his heels, head held high. How tempting it had been to tell her of the times he and her Knight-Captain had indulged in stolen lyrium and shot the shit late into the night, but he was no snitch. 

It was a pity. Maybe if he’d ratted, Cullen would have been toppled from his high horse. Maybe they’d have been ground down into the dirt together. Things could have been so different. Maybe they’d still be friends, allies in this glorious quest to remake the world. 

Cullen didn’t know what it was like, to have to scrape and crawl and bite for survival. That was the problem. 

Once a guttersnipe, always a guttersnipe. That’s what Samson’s mother had sneered at him as a child, when she cared to come round the shanty called home. At first he thought she meant his father, absent those many years, but slowly, he came to understand she meant him. That he could never outrun the lot he was born into. Well, he sure showed her. 

The years spent begging and whatever else, the lyrium hunger hounding his brain, those were the worst. But again, he’d prevailed. He recalled the brilliant night he met his current boss, in a dingy back room at the Hanged Man. Gripping a singing bottle of crimson in one hand, listening to the offer of a lifetime. 

Of course he’d taken it. Why wouldn’t he take it? What sort of fool would turn down an opportunity like that? 

Unbidden, the image of Cullen as he’d been the last time Samson had seen him floated amid the steam in the air: disheveled and dirty, eyes manic, huddled in the back of his cell. I’m going to kill you. A threat so earnest Samson had felt sorry for him.

Then, on Samson’s way out of the dungeon, Cullen’s demand: Where is she? WHERE IS SHE?

“You don’t deserve her,” Samson said aloud, to the wisps rising like blood-stained ghosts. 

Cullen vanished, replaced by the girl. Thalia. Thalia, whose name lilted off the tongue in soft syllables. Whose hair burned in the candlelight: a deep, wine red a man could get drunk on. Samson could see her, close enough to touch, in scraps of scarlet silk, strips of the gauzy skirt winding around her wrists like shackles. Yes, he thought. Yes, now she’s mine…

“Ser?” 

The beautiful mirage vanished, and Samson slapped the water angrily with his palm. The voice belonged to his simpering Dalish seneschal, clinging to the doorframe.  “I said I didn’t wish to be disturbed!”

Well, now his reverie was ruined. He was in his washroom at Skyhold, in a bath colored an opaque crimson. The water had been transformed by the red lyrium bath salts his servants had dissolved in there. The fumes created an intoxicating aroma, heady and haunting. Luxuriating in the circular tub sometimes played tricks on the mind. 

“I-I know that, ser,” the seneschal said, quaking. “But I’ve urgent news from your agents in the field…” 

“Yes, Meredith, what is it?”

The elf blinked his watery eyes and coughed. “My, ah, my name is Mareth, ser.” 

Samson glared. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“Er, no, not exactly—”

“Just get on with it,” Samson growled. 

His seneschal gripped the doorframe tighter, as if for protection. “There’s been a sighting. Of Lady Trevelyan.”

“What?” Samson leaned forward, suddenly rapt. He crossed his arms over the rim of the tub, dripping pink droplets onto the tile floor. He felt as though he’d conjured her himself from his imagination. “Where?”

“At the base of the Frostbacks, on the Orlesian side of the border. She vanished too quickly to be pursued, but they’re fairly certain it was her.” 

“And the Commander?” Samson demanded. It still infuriated him that they’d managed to escape together. It defied any and all logic, yet somehow it had happened. All the sympathy he’d wasted for the girl, thinking her a helpless mage like the sort who’d hurled themselves from the top of the Gallows. 

“No sign of him,” Mareth breathed. “At least, not from the report we received.”

Samson inhaled slowly. He could scarcely hope Cullen had died of exposure after their flight from Skyhold, but it was interesting that Thalia was alone. Had the red lyrium already overtaken him? The exposure time was minimal, but Samson had seen its effect spread rapidly. Or had some other misfortune befallen him? 

Samson raked his fingers through his wet hair — ever more receding on his forehead with every passing day, it seemed. “Where is she headed?” 

“It wasn’t clear, ser,” Mareth said hesitantly. “But the nearest settlement is a hamlet called Ville Frontiére. It’s well fortified, but not strategically relevant, so it’s been left alone for the time being.” 

“An excellent hiding spot, then,” Samson said, imbued with certainty. “Thalia must be there.” 

Mareth squinted in puzzlement. “How can you know, ser?” 

The red instilled a man with many virtues, Samson wanted to tell him, but his seneschal looked sickly pale underneath his facial markings. The crimson baths were always too much for him. “I know.” Samson rose to his full height, the water sluicing off his body. “Get me a towel, Meredith, would you?” 

“It’s… it’s Mareth, ser…” 

Samson glared. “Of course it is. What do you think I’m saying?”

The elf gulped in fresh air from the room beyond and scurried into the washroom, grabbing a towel off the rack and handing it to Samson. He stepped out of the bath, wrapping it around his waist. He dared not glance in the nearby looking glass — the man who stared back looked emaciated, eroded down to nothing — but that was never how he felt after one of his baths. He felt invigorated, and, for the first time since the girl had jumped, hopeful. 

The vision of Thalia floated in his mind’s eye once more. The blood-red dress, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, lounging in his bed with a coy smile. “Tell the lieutenant to ready my caravan.”

“What?” Mareth looked shocked. 

“You want something done right, ya better do it yourself,” Samson drawled, padding from the washroom into his bedroom. “I intend to pursue the Inquisitor on my own.” 

“Is that a good idea?” Mareth asked. “If Corypheus hears you’ve taken to the field—”

“Never mind Corypheus,” Samson snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s much too busy to worry himself over such trifling matters.” A good thing — because if Corypheus had bothered to check in and learned his precious anchor was missing, Samson would probably be dead already. It was a much better idea to take to the field himself and retrieve her. 

“Right, ser,” Mareth said, defeated. “Right away, ser.” 

Samson stepped over to his wardrobe and threw open the ornate doors. Inside hung many of his own splendid attires, but he reached into the back and pulled out a smaller, lighter garment. A green dress with gold threading, Samson had found the item strangely charming when he’d come upon it. For what reason had Thalia obtained this dress, and for whom did she wear it? 

He thrust the garment into the trembling hands of Mareth. “Take this to the tailor. Tell him I want a gown made from these measurements.” 

“A… gown?” Mareth looked nauseous, an oddity as the red lyrium fumes did not carry this far into the tower. 

“A gown,” Samson repeated. “With particular specifications. You might want to get out quill and parchment for this. I don’t intend to leave here without it, and I don’t want anyone fucking it up, you understand?” 

“Of course, ser!” chirped Mareth, scrambling off to find writing implements. 

Samson smirked, pleased. It felt good to see the correct course of action and take it. Soon this unpleasantness would be over, and Thalia would learn. Oh, he’d teach her a great many things.

[andypantsx3]

in cinders | 5 | conversations

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 24,362 words / 9 chapters

summary: You’re just trying to fairy godmother your best friend into a happily ever after. If only the prince would stop hanging around and cooperate.

tags: cinderella AU, prince!Shouto, romance, misunderstandings, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

You were uncharacteristically quiet in the days that followed.

Ochako watched you nervously like a mother with a newborn, sensitive to your every breath. You couldn’t take a step without her at your elbow, and every time you turned a corner it felt like you were bumping into her. You felt smothered, not only by her attentions, but by the thought that you’d failed her. More than that, you’d endangered her, as well as all the other kitchen servants, with your stupid mission to make her a princess.

Of course something in the prince’s food would turn the castle upside down. And of course he’d fixate on the courtier who’d offended him. Of course he’d seen the necklace as a pathway to the Lady Uraraka’s friend, to seek her out and punish her. He was a royal; they were just like that.

You thought sadly of Ochako and her moony-eyed affection for the prince. You’d been so certain he was looking for her. A lady of unusual tastes, Kamiko had said, and quite pretty. He’d certainly been looking for her at that point. Why had he instead questioned the staff about the Lady Ito?

The only person who wasn’t treating you like a porcelain doll in danger of shattering was Kamiko. She seemed convinced that your reticence was an effort to leave her out of the intrigue. She’d spent all her spare time hanging over you suspiciously like an uppity storm cloud.

Your irritation with her was doubled by the fact that you hadn’t been sleeping well, feeling like soldiers would barge into your rooms any moment and march you to the gallows. You’d wake early in the morning hours, sitting up in your bed and feeling the noose tighten around your neck.

It was on one such morning that you awoke in the dark with the thought that you couldn’t stand to go back to bed. You dressed and picked your way through the drafty halls into dark kitchens. Shivering to yourself, you lit the fires and put on milk to warm.

For something to do with your hands, you began to roll out the dough for the day’s bread, cutting it into pieces and weaving them together into thick braids. You shaped others into boules and washed them over with egg and another with a dusting of more flour. When your milk began to bubble, you took the pot off the fire, pouring it into a chipped mug and settling down against the warming stones of the oven.

As you waited for your milk to cool, you became aware of soft footsteps in the corridor. This was the hour that all servants laid abed, exhausted by the prior day’s work. Only the king’s guard patrolled the castle, and none would be in the servant’s halls, padding so quietly towards the kitchens.

Fear quickening your heart, you grabbed a coal iron.

But the broad-shouldered figure who appeared in the kitchens had you dropping the iron and sinking to your knees.

“Your highness!” you choked out, pressing your forehead to the cold stone.

“Apologies,” came a soft murmur. “I did not think anyone would be awake.”

Your brow furrowed against the floor. Did he often creep around the kitchens like a bandit in the dark? What purpose would a prince have for sneaking around his own castle?

“Please rise,” he intoned. “I did not mean to disrupt your work.”

His gaze fixed on the coal iron you’d dropped and a surprised look came into his eyes. His full mouth parted.

“Did you mean to strike me?” he asked.

You panicked. “No! I mean--well, yes, but not you. I thought you were a bandit.”

That wry curl of his mouth was back, the same as he’d worn that evening at the ball. “I must have really angered you with that show in my chambers. You were that girl, weren’t you?”

The bottom fell out of your stomach. He thought you were avenging yourself for the interrogation? “No! I wouldn’t! I mean, I didn’t! I wouldn’t hit you!”

A soft laugh escaped the prince and you stared in shock. Was he teasing you?

He waved an elegant hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bait you.” He took a breath. “You must have been terrified. Bakugou, he’s--well, he’s a good friend but he can be a lot. It must have been frightening for you.”

You climbed shakily to your feet, biting your lip. He sounded sincerely contrite and you hardly knew what to make of it.

In acknowledgement, you offered, “It must have been scarier finding that necklace in your food and knowing that it could have easily been poisoned. I....I am sorry for that.”

You made no mention of exactly how sorry you were.

He studied you intently. You noticed he was dressed plainly, a soft linen shirt, unadorned, tucked somewhat untidily into simple breeches. He looked as though he had not planned to be seen, none of his usual finery decorating his garments. You tried to ignore the way the fabric of his trousers skimmed closely to his powerful thighs.

He shrugged, drawing your eyes back up to his face. His scar looked fainter in the flickering lights of the oven flames.

“Please do not trouble yourself over it. It was hardly the most frightening thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You looked at him in question.

His grey and blue gaze flicked over your face. He seemed to consider you for a moment, then spoke quietly. “How long have you been at the castle?”

You thought for a minute. “Most of my life - fifteen years perhaps?”

Prince Shouto nodded. “You would not have known of this, then. When I was younger, my father’s enemies sent an operative to kidnap me. They sought to use me as a bargaining chip as they sued for peace.”

You gawped at him, aghast at the thought of anyone using a child as a tool of politics.

He continued, “I was young and did not yet understand my own power. I lost control - half of their fortress was swallowed by a sheet of ice so thick they could not break through. The other half burned.”

You gasped, “It’s true then!”

He stared at you, and you flushed pink.

“They, um--they say that you can bring down a fortress with a wave of your hand. They also say that Captain Bakugou has two heads, claws, and was borne to the castle on a wind from hell. I had thought your power only a rumor such as that.”

The corner of the prince’s mouth twitched. “Would you like to see?”

You leaned towards him in interest, unable to help yourself.

He held out his left hand. A soft flicker lit up the dark around his palm and a sharp breath escaped you as flame filled his open hand, licking over the skin but leaving it completely unblemished.

You smiled. “That’s incredible! It must be so useful.”

Prince Shouto let the flame build in his palm.

You stared, mesmerized, as it burned, wondering on the uses of a power like that. “You’d never have to find the matches in the dark. Your tea would never get cold.”

He laughed and his breath stirred the flames. “I suppose it is rather useful. You can read after hours without having to leave bed to fetch the candles.”

You quieted at that, and his sharp eyes quickly caught it.

“I’ve offended you. I apologize," he said.

You shook your head, stepping back from him. The cold stone of the kitchen floors burned under your thin shoes. “Not at all. It’s just -- I can’t read.”

A glimmer of surprise swam over his handsome face. “I didn’t realize. Forgive me.”

His eyes were bright in the dark of the kitchens and you felt horribly seen. You turned back to the bread on the counter, and an uncomfortable silence settled in the air between you. The flames in his broad hand guttered out.

Finally, you spoke. “Do--do you always sneak around in your own kitchens in the dead of night?”

You heard the fabric of his shirt rustle softly as he shifted. “If I can’t sleep.”

You set about piling the bread onto sheets for baking, not looking at him. “Why can’t you sleep, if I might ask?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I’ve been...looking for something.”

Despite yourself, your heartbeat picked up in your chest. Looking for something. Did he mean the Lady Ito? Or perhaps Ochako? It had been a few days, could he still be searching for her?

You considered what kind of question might lead you to answer without giving yourself away. What would a servant who hadn’t been there know of the situation?

Before you could ask, however, the sound of footsteps in the hall broke the quiet of the kitchens.

Prince Shouto straightened abruptly. “I should go. I’m afraid your reputation would suffer for being found alone with a man.”

You quickly curtsied, inclining your head to hide the blush that dusted your cheeks. Of course no one would think that the prince would deign to--with you--you couldn’t think it.

As you rose, he hesitated. The sound of footsteps drawing nearer, however, finally sent him dashing to the door to the palace courtyards. He sketched a quick bow, and was gone.

As the door shut behind him, Kamiko swept into the kitchens like a hurricane.

“Cinders. What an unfortunate surprise. Where’s your pet?”

You frowned, realizing she meant Ochako.

“Fuck off, Kamiko. It’s too early for me to deal with you.”

Kamiko sneered. “Careful with your tone, wench. Speak to me like that again and the housekeeper will have you crawling in the fireplaces for a week.”

All your anxiety and confusion from the last few days suddenly felt like it was boiling over. The words spilled out before you could stop them. “Try it, you spineless fucking flop.”

Kamiko’s eyes widened and she stepped back. “You disrespectful little bitch. I’ll have you on your knees in the ashes."

You growled, your mind going completely white with anger. Before you knew what you were doing, you found yourself picking up your forgotten glass of milk and heaving it in her direction. The milk arced through the air in a white wave, slapping over her neck and shoulders with a wet thump.

Kamiko screamed and rushed to the doorway, disappearing down the hall. “I will ruin you, cinders! You will regret ever crossing me.”

She sound of her quick steps faded down the hallway. All of a sudden, the reality of what you’d done rushed back to you and you stared at the empty mug in your hand in shock.

What had you done? You stood there, dumbfounded by your own actions.

It wasn’t long before the housekeeper was rushing into the kitchens, Kamiko in tow. You held still as she delivered your punishment, biting your lip to hold in the sounds that her lashings threatened to force from you. You wouldn’t give Kamiko the satisfaction.

Much later, as you scraped the ashes from the deadened hearth, you wondered what had gotten into you. You thought long into the night as you scrubbed the blackened stone of the fireplace, feeling the raw skin of your wounds twinge as your shoulder moved. One conversation with Prince Shouto and you thought you were queen of the kitchens?

You resolved to carry out your punishment and watch yourself carefully after.

After all, you could get through this. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t been in this position before. Your wounds would take a couple of weeks to heal, and it would take just as long for your sleep schedule and your sheets to recover, but they would. You’d be back to normal in no time.

But Kamiko...she had threatened to ruin you. You wondered at that. Scrubbing soot out of a fireplace again hardly seemed the ticket for a promise that foreboding.

But as you returned to your rooms that evening, the implications of her threat became clear. Ochako sat wide awake on her straw mattress, finger outstretched towards your pallet. Your heart leapt into your throat as you noticed its state. It had been violently overturned with straw stuffing spilling messily out of the sides to tumble down onto the floor in tufty piles. Underneath it, a notably empty space stared back at you.

Lady Utsushimi’s dress--which you had never had a chance to return to the laundry rooms--was gone.

[elizabear]

my home is your body, how can I stay away?

I WROTE MY FIRST FIC. And I was brave enough to post it. So, if you want to read a fake-friends-to-real-lovers Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes post-Endgame AU where we pretend that Steve and Natasha are still alive and well in the 21st century, you can check it out below or read it on AO3.

Title: my home is your body, how can i stay away?

Rating: Explicit

Category: M/M

Relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes (background Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff)

Additional tags: it’s like fake/pretend relationship, but it’s actually fake best friendship, fake friends to real lovers, post-Avengers Endgame, Epilogue What Epilogue, Natasha Romanoff Lives, Steve Rogers Stays, is everyone bi?, ambiguous barbershop quarter, bisexual Sam Wilson, bisexual Bucky Barnes, bisexual Steve Rogers, bisexual Natasha Romanoff, Captain America Sam Wilson

Words: 30,367

Link to AO3 here

Summary: "Anyway, I think if we team up, we can convince Steve that we’re best friends now. Then he’ll get jealous and remember how much more important we are to him than Natalia.”

Sam considers this carefully. He’s never been pressed so close to Bucky before, their faces only inches away from one another. From this distance Sam can see how long and thick Bucky’s eyelashes are. He can smell the pleasant scents of Bucky’s clean sweat and spicy aftershave. 

He wants to press his thumb into the cleft in Bucky’s chin.

“Yeah, that sounds like a great idea,” Sam hears himself say.

“Great!”

After they save the world, after Steve leaves and returns again with a smiling Natasha tucked tenderly underneath his arm, after all the happy and tearful reunions, after Tony Stark’s funeral, Sam Wilson takes a minute to sit his ass underneath a tree and freak the fuck out about the fact that he’s just been dead for the last five years.

He’s listening to a robot tell him for the fifth time that his mother’s number is “no longer in service,” his hand shaking as he presses redial on Steve’s borrowed cell phone. He wants to call his sister, wants to find out what happened to his niece, but he can’t remember his sister’s number and the only thing he can think of to do is just to keep calling his mom over and over again. He’s starting to really settle into the panic attack, gulping for air as his heart pounds wildly in his chest, when Bucky Barnes squats down beside him, perfectly balanced on those lean and powerful thighs.

“You OK?” Bucky asks quietly. Sam shakes his head silently, too overwhelmed to even begin to answer that question.

Like people are just OK after waking up five years in the future. Like people are just OK after turning to ash and then reforming into a human being. What is he even made of right now? Is he made of the same atoms and cells he was made of before he turned to dust? Is he even the same person? Did Sam Wilson die? Is he just a new Sam Wilson that Bruce Banner created out of thin air, a brand new body with the same memories as the first Sam Wilson? God, what is this Ship of Theseus nonsense, everything about this is so fucked up—

“OK, I need you to breathe,” Bucky says gently, interrupting Sam’s spiral into actual fucking madness. Bucky grabs Sam’s hand and pulls it to his chest. “Can you feel my chest moving? Feel me breathing in and out? Stop thinking, close your eyes, and match your breaths to mine.”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the feel of Bucky’s chest rising and falling underneath his hand. Bucky’s sternum is flat and bony underneath Sam’s palm, but he can feel the gentle rise of Bucky’s strong pectoral muscles underneath his fingers. Bucky’s skin is warm through his shirt, and Sam focuses on the solid feel of him as he follows Bucky’s slow and deep breathing. Bucky’s thumb presses firmly against the inside of Sam’s wrist. There’s an anxious tingling all over Sam’s skin, washing over him from head to toe, making Sam afraid that he’s going to buzz right out of his skin.

But Bucky is breathing deep and slow, and Sam lets himself relax into it, feels himself fall in sync with this not-quite-stranger, his best friend’s best friend, who is very considerately trying to keep Sam from falling apart.

“You’re doing great, Sam,” Bucky praises gently. “Just keep breathing, you’re doing great.”

“I hate this,” Sam mutters.

Bucky strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin of Sam’s wrist and leans closer, hesitating briefly before resting his forehead against Sam’s.

“Just breathe, Sam. You’re doing so good,” he murmurs softly.

Sam feels a warmth uncurling deep in his belly, reacting to Bucky’s closeness and his quiet praise. Is Bucky the most instinctually effective peer counselor in the world or is he actually seducing Sam right out of a panic attack? Sam absolutely cannot think about this now, he needs to focus on the original source of his practical and existential terror.

“I hate every part of this,” Sam admits, frustrated. “I hate that I can’t get in touch with my mom. I hate that I don’t know if my niece is OK. Bucky, who has been taking care of my niece?”

“Hey, it’s OK, Sam.” Bucky says, his tone gentle and reassuring. “We’ll find your niece. If she survived the Snap, Steve and Natalia would have kept track of her. They wouldn’t have just let her disappear into the system. You have friends.”

“Right,” Sam says, feeling that glacier sitting atop his chest begin to recede a little. “OK. Friends. Steve and Natasha will know how to find Michelle. I just need to ask Steve and Natasha how to find Sarah and Michelle.”

“Great! See, you have a plan now and everything,” Bucky says encouragingly. “Everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine, Sam.” Bucky leans back onto his heels, and Sam breathes a little deeper as the world comes into sharper focus.

Sam nods. This is all going to be fine. He’s alive, he’s breathing, and he has his hand on Bucky Barnes’s warm, firm chest. Bucky’s eyes are kind, and Sam can almost understand, maybe for the first time, why Steve cared so much about bringing Bucky home. Maybe Bucky isn’t so bad. Maybe everything is going to be fine. Sam can just about manage, now, to stuff all this panic inside his chest where it can’t hurt him. If he just stuffs it in there forever, he will never have to deal with it.

Sam takes a moment to congratulate himself on his healthy coping strategies.

“You’re not too bad at this, man,” Sam says. “Where did you learn to handle a panic attack like that?”

“Well, I mean, I had a lot of them after realizing that I was responsible for literally dozens of grisly murders,” Bucky replies dryly. “But also I spent like fifteen years obsessing over the state of Steve Rogers’s lungs and trying to keep him from dying of asthma so he could grow up and be Captain America.”

Right. Captain America. That’s the other thing he’s panicking about.

“Hey, what just happened?” Bucky asks gently. Bucky strokes his thumb over Sam’s wrist. “Your blood pressure just shot way up again.”

“Tell me you’re not some kind of human sphygmomanometer,” Sam says. “I don’t have the patience for that level of weird right now. Stop monitoring my blood pressure. That’s creepy.”

“OK,” Bucky says slowly. “Sorry. What’s going on?”

“Steve asked me to be Captain America. Says he’s not retiring, but he’s needed off-world for a while, and he thinks I should be the one to carry the shield.”

Suddenly, just like that, the strange, tentative peace between them shatters. Bucky’s face turns white, then flushes a deep red.

“Steve asked you to be Captain America,” Bucky repeats coldly. All traces of warmth are gone from Bucky’s face, and Bucky’s mouth settles into a grim line. “Excuse me a moment.”

Sam sighs as Bucky stalks off in Steve’s general direction.

Bucky returns a few moments later, Steve in tow, the two of them having some kind of whisper fight that Sam can’t really hear.

“Can’t believe you would do this—”

“—you know he’s a good choice—”

“—supposed to be your best friend—”

“—c’mon, Buck, you know I wouldn’t—”

Bucky yanks on Steve’s wrist as they approach Sam.

“OK, first of all, Steve, where the fuck is Sam’s family?” Bucky demands.

Steve pales, then looks genuinely contrite. “Oh, God, Sam, I’m sorry. I should have told you right away. Sarah and Michelle, they survived. They both survived the Snap. They’re living in your mom’s apartment in New York.” Steve hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Your mom was one of the ones who disappeared. She was at home watching Michelle when it happened. She should be safe. We’ll get a phone to her right away.”

Sam feels his stomach plunge at the knowledge that Michelle is five years older. He already missed two years of her life on the run with Steve after the Accords. Would she even remember him?

“Nat has your old phone stashed away. It should still have all your contacts in it. Natasha—she paid the bill. Every month you were gone. She never gave up hope we’d get you back,” Steve says, looking proud and a little teary-eyed.

While Sam works on processing the fact that his six-year-old niece is now his eleven-year-old niece, Steve rambles on about Natasha, and how brave she was, and what a rock she was, and how she kept everyone together, and how she sacrificed her life to save everyone, for kind of a while. Sam’s honestly kind of surprised. Steve and Natasha have always been close, but Sam’s never seen Steve as openly effusive about anyone other than James Buchanan Barnes Before The War, Steve’s most favorite person ever.

“OK, that’s great, Steve,” Bucky interrupts in a frosty tone. “But what’s this about Sam being the new Captain America?”

“Oh! Carol wants Natasha and me to go with her to a couple of planets that are struggling to organize after their populations suddenly doubled. Actually, I thought maybe you could come with us, Buck?” Steve offers. “I know how much you love space and—”

“No, Steve, I think I’ll stay here with Sam,” Bucky says stonily, glaring at Steve. Sam is a little stunned.

“What? Why?” Steve asks. He looks a bit like a confused golden retriever. “I thought you’d jump at this opportunity, Bucky, you really—”

“I really think I should stay here. Since I’m Captain America’s right hand man and all. And since Sam is Captain America now.”

Sam doesn’t really know what to do with all of this, because it seems like there’s really a lot going on here between Steve and Bucky that he doesn’t want to get involved with. And honestly, he’s not one hundred percent sold on the idea of working with Bucky at all, since they hardly even know each other. Today is the first time they’ve really interacted in a way that isn’t hostile or at the very least kind of pissy, and to be honest the uncomfortable sexual tension Sam felt earlier wasn’t exactly welcome.

But then a thought occurs to him, and Sam is instantly filled with delight. “So wait. What you’re saying is that you’re going to be my sidekick!”

“What, no, I’m not going to be your sidekick, I’m going to be your partner,” Bucky argues.

“Nuh uh, nope. It’s right there in the comics. Bucky Barnes was Captain America’s sidekick,” Sam says with a smirk. “Are you gonna wear the outfit?”

“What outfit?” asks Bucky, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh! The outfit with the little booty shorts?” Steve asks.

“I’m not wearing an outfit with little booty shorts,” Bucky says scornfully. “I’ll wear my regular outfit.”

“Leather bondage gear it is, then!” Sam replies. He feels more cheerful already.

***

“So what else did we miss?” Sam asks later, when they’re all settled in at one of the cabins on Tony’s property.

Steve and Natasha are tangled up together on the sofa, Natasha’s legs slung over Steve’s lap and her head resting against his chest. Steve and Nat have been trading inside jokes and finishing each other’s sentences all night, and it kind of seems like Sam and Bucky must have really missed a lot, because Sam doesn’t remember Steve and Nat being so telepathically linked before he got dusted.

Bucky is sitting alone, tense and uncomfortable-looking, in a chair near the fire. He must still be pretty pissed at Steve for choosing Sam over him as the next Captain America, because he keeps shooting murder glares at Steve through narrowed eyes. When Steve’s not gazing adoringly at Natasha, he’s busy having a silent argument with Bucky through a complicated series of expressions that include rolled eyes, pleading looks, clenched jaws, and prissy, pursed lips. Sam is honestly feeling pretty left out right now, because there’s a lot of unspoken communication going on here between basically everyone but him.

Steve heaves a frustrated sigh, tears his gaze away from Bucky, and responds, “Well, they built a giant wall between the United States and Mexico. It was a pretty big deal, lots of people were really unhappy.”

“Seriously? Half of the entire United States population disappears, and Americans are still freaking out about immigration from Mexico?” Sam asks incredulously.

“Oh, no, we didn’t build the wall. Mexico actually built the wall,” Natasha says. The wicked look in her eye suggests that this is going to be a good story.

“Wait, what? That stupid promise actually came true?” Bucky asks.

“Well, kind of?” Natasha says, giving a little so-so motion with her hand. “Mexico didn’t actually build the wall because of illegal immigration, though. They built it after a bunch of riots and border skirmishes in late 2020.”

“So, what? Gang violence? Drug cartels?” Sam asks.

“Nope. It was the season finale of a television show on the CW called Supernatural,” Steve explains, as if this doesn’t make the whole thing somehow even more confusing.

“You’re telling me that we were gone for five years and now CW shows are a source of tension between the United States and Mexico and they built an entire wall about it,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows.

Sam is dubious as hell about this new foolishness—he’s starting to feel a lot more sympathetic towards Steve’s frustration with all the impenetrable pop culture references people expected him to grasp—but Bucky visibly perks up at the mention of Supernatural. “Oh, how did that go? Is Destiel canon yet?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve responds at the same time that Natasha replies, “Si.” Then they both cackle wildly, as if this is some seriously comedic shit, and honestly, Sam’s getting a little annoyed with all their inside jokes. He sneaks a look over at Bucky to see how he’s responding to all this, and Sam is relieved to feel slightly less like an asshole when he sees that Bucky doesn’t look any more charmed by Steve and Natasha’s Abbott and Costello routine than Sam feels.

“OK,” Sam says slowly, really drawing the word out. “So I guess if I want to understand all of that”—here, Sam gestures broadly at Steve and Natasha, attempting to convey his incredulity at their unnecessary dramatics—“that you just did, and apparently also current U.S. foreign policy, I’m going to have to watch a TV show on the CW.”

“It’s fifteen seasons, it makes for great depression watching,” says Natasha, shrugging. Bucky nods in agreement. “And Steve was pretty genuinely moved by the relationship between the two brothers.”

Steve confirms this with a solemn nod. “They were brothers, but they were also best friends.”

“Anyway it was better than a lot of the junk we watched while you were gone,” Natasha continues. “Half the time Steve and I spent in bed together we were just binge watching trash tv and getting overly invested in the love lives of twenty-five year olds pretending to be teenagers pretending to be detectives.”

Bucky shoots Sam a significant glance at this, somehow communicating half the time they spent in bed together? with the tense raising of his eyebrows alone, and says, “Sam and I will watch Supernatural together. I’ll get him caught up.”

And yeah, maybe fifteen seasons sounds like an awful lot of time to commit to spite-watching a television show with Bucky just to handle how weird he feels about Steve and Natasha’s whole new bed sharing thing together, but then Bucky stretches his arms over his head and reveals a pale sliver of belly, little trail of hair drawing Sam’s eyes pleasingly downward.

“Yeah, all right,” Sam says. After all, this Supernatural show does sound pretty important to this sketchy new future Sam didn’t ask to find himself in.

Bucky turns to Steve. “So when do you and Natalia have to head out?”

“Probably in a week or two. We want to make sure everything’s settled here before we head out.”

“A week or two, Steve, really? You think Sam’s going to be ready to be Captain America in a week or two,” Bucky says flatly.

Sam thinks Bucky sort of has a point, but out of loyalty to Steve and his own sense of competence he keeps his mouth shut.

Steve’s shoulders hunch defensively. “It’s going to be fine, you’re going to do a great job supporting Sam.”

“I shouldn’t have to support Sam, Steve—”

“Bucky, c’mon, you know I wouldn’t have—”

“Not even a supersoldier, Steve—”

“Sam doesn’t have to be—”

Natasha is listening to this argument with a fond look on her face, like she actually missed this shit while they were gone.

“OK, listen,” Sam interrupts before Steve and Bucky get too distracted by their bullshit. “The Captain America thing is huge, yeah. But I feel like maybe we also need to be concerned about the world’s population suddenly doubling instantaneously? That’s kind of a big deal.”

“Oh!” Steve lights up. “Natasha’s had a plan set up for that since like a week after you guys disappeared. She’s spent the last five years preparing for every contingency, basically every scientific or magical possibility that might bring you guys back. In fact, phase one has already started, getting lines of communication open to reconnect families and arranging emergency housing.”

Steve beams down at Natasha, and then—Sam can’t even fucking believe this—Natasha actually blushes in response. Steve and Natasha are, respectively, the most repressed and tightly controlled people Sam knows, and now they’re acting like emotionally healthy people who express their feelings in front of other people? Sam is suspicious as hell, and when he looks over at Bucky, Bucky is bug-eyed, looking frantically and significantly at Sam with that unmistakable are you seeing this too, what the fuck expression on his face. Sam hates the fact that things are so weird now that he’s bonding with Bucky over this.

“Pepper Potts is coordinating everything through the Avengers Foundation,” Natasha says. “She needs something to do right now, and she’s basically the most frighteningly efficient person I know, so. Your only job right now is figuring out how to work together without killing each other.”

Natasha eyes them both a bit skeptically, and Sam is instantly offended at this implied slight to his professionalism.

“Bucky and I are going to do great,” Sam says. “We are definitely going to be absolutely fine at working together.” He shoots Bucky a hard look, daring him to disagree.

“Absolutely fine,” Bucky repeats dutifully, then hesitates. “You’re sure, though, right, Sam? You really want to do the Captain America thing?”

“Definitely,” Sam confirms. Bucky searches his eyes for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied with whatever he finds.

“Great!” Natasha says with a pleased smile, and shares a satisfied look with Steve.

“Anyway,” Sam says, changing the subject, before they can figure out Sam has no fucking clue how to be Captain America and definitely doesn’t feel certain about working with Bucky Barnes. “What else did we miss while we were gone? How did Brexit go?”

“Oh, God,” Steve says.

***

The next morning, Sam walks down to the cabin’s kitchen for breakfast and finds a disaster.

“Is this a murder board?” he asks, aghast.

The wall next to the kitchen table is absolutely covered in papers that have been hastily pinned up, and there are at least eleven different colors of string stretched together in a complicated web over top of them, forming a bizarre rainbow of crazy. Where did Bucky even find that many different colors of string in the middle of the night? Did he break into a Joann Fabrics?

The kitchen table is littered with papers as well, and Sam counts six different green tea bags sitting on a napkin next to Bucky’s mug. “Have you been up all night?”

“No! And yes!” Bucky answers, his eyes red rimmed and wild, looking simultaneously exhausted and absolutely frantic with energy. He cards his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Do you know how much money Stark was spending on the Avengers Initiative after you guys blew up SHIELD? The litigation team! The insurance premiums! The property damage settlements! Weapons and technology! Research and development! Sam, the cost was astronomical!”

“Wait, this is all financial stuff? I thought this was more of, like, a traditional murder board situation here.” Sam pauses, then struck with sudden uncertainty, he asks, “Is financial stuff part of Captain America stuff?”

“Well, I mean, kind of, yeah,” Bucky responds. He stands up and restlessly paces the tiny kitchen. “You didn’t think you were going to just run off with the shield and, like, live off the kindness of strangers or something, did you?”

“Obviously, no,” Sam says, offended. Actually, though—not that Sam is going to admit it—Sam hasn’t had a real job in so long that he sort of forgot that this was going to be an issue. “Wait, did you get all this stuff by hacking Stark Industries?”

“Well, yeah,” says Bucky, defensive now. “I didn’t want to be rude and ask Ms. Potts in the middle of the night. Also I killed her daughter’s grandparents.”

Sam considers this for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he says. “So what about the funding we had before? Is that gone?”

“It’s not gone, but there’s no way the money in Steve’s and my bank account will be enough.”

“Wait, you and Steve share a bank account?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

Bucky’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Well, yeah, of course. Why would Steve and I need separate bank accounts?” he asks, looking puzzled.

“Why would you...” Sam repeats faintly. “OK. Moving on from that codependent nonsense, you and Steve were the ones funding us while we were on the run? Steve never said.”

“Well, I mean, I did steal a bunch of money from HYDRA, and Steve had some backpay saved up. But there’s no way Steve and I have Captain America money. Stark barely had Captain America money. Sam, he was spending down his entire fortune on the Avengers Initiative. Did you guys know he was doing that?”

Sam closes his eyes, shaking off the waves of guilt and grief he felt at the mention of Tony’s generosity. “No, I didn’t,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky says grimly. “It’s bad. Like, really, really bad. You aren’t an international fugitive anymore. If you want to be Captain America, you won’t be able to just save people, destroy a few buildings, then dash off to the next country before the police catch up to you. You have to actually deal with the fallout afterward. And, most importantly, and I cannot stress this enough, you need actual income. Was Stark seriously the only one of you with a real job?”

“I mean, yeah?”

“Of course he was,” Bucky says, deflating and leaning back against the counter with a thud. “God, you’re all idiots. I went off to war in the 1940s and I left one Steve back at home. Then I fell off a train, woke up seventy years later, and found out that Steve managed to find an entire team full of Steves, and each one of you is just as beautiful and heroic and stupid and utterly impractical as he is.” Bucky raises his metal hand to massage his temples, apparently fighting a headache so powerful that even his serum-enhanced regular arm isn’t strong enough to deal with it.

Sam carefully ignores Bucky’s insinuation that he finds Sam beautiful and heroic. Instead he pours Bucky a glass of water and slides it over to him. “OK, so what do we do?”

“Well, you’re not going to like it.”

“I’m not, huh? Just tell me.”

“We have to rebuild SHIELD,” Bucky states firmly. “We have to get in touch with Nick Fury.”

“Absolutely not,” Sam says.

“Sam, it’s the only reasonable choice. We can’t afford to privately fund your career as a superhero, OK? I mean, the insurance? The legal team? I’ve drafted fifteen different budgets and there’s no way we can get this off the ground. But if we rebuild SHIELD, there’ll be funding and qualified immunity. You won’t even have to work directly for SHIELD. You could be an independent contractor.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know. But it’s the only way.”

“Is Fury even going to listen to us, though?” Sam asks skeptically. “Like, will he even hire you? You shot him, like, five times.”

Bucky grimaces. “Yeah, that wasn’t great. But listen, the man’s probably been waiting for this moment for years. If he can get Steve and Natalia’s public support behind SHIELD 2.0? He’ll seize the chance.”

“Shit,” Sam says.

***

When Steve and Natasha come downstairs, sleepy and happy looking, casually emerging from the same bedroom that Sam knows only has one queen size bed, like bed sharing is just a regular part of their regular lives now, Bucky introduces them to the financial murder board.

“So if you really want to do this, if you want Sam to be Captain America, we need to rebuild SHIELD,” Bucky concludes.

“SHIELD?” Natasha perks up. “We’re getting the old gang back together?”

“Natasha, like, 40% of the old gang were secret Nazis,” Steve says reproachfully. “And more importantly, Nick Fury didn’t notice they were secret Nazis.”

“He definitely started to suspect something was wrong near the end there, though,” says Natasha.

“Well, he’s our best shot at getting government funding, so unless you want to ask Tony Stark’s grieving widow for money, I think this is the best we can do.” Bucky turns to Natasha. “Natalia, you know how to get in touch with him, right?” he asks.

“I do. Pepper sent out working satellite phones via courier last night. They should have arrived by this morning. I’ll give him a call,” Natasha says. “He’s going to love this.”

“Your mom should have gotten a phone too, Sam,” Steve says. “I’ll text you her number so you can give her a call.”

“Thanks, man,” Sam says, relieved. While Steve works on sending Sam his mom’s contact info—does Steve’s phone have a holographic display? Does Old Man Steve know how to work a phone with a holographic display?—Sam asks Bucky, “How did you even pull all these records together, by the way? Are you like a secret accountant?”

“Bucky worked as an actuary before the war,” Steve responds absently, thumbing at some buttons on his phone screen. “He was getting his degree in mathematics before he dropped out to enlist.”

“An actuary?” Natasha asks thoughtfully. “I can see that. That actually makes a lot of sense.”

“It paid the bills,” Bucky allows.

When Sam receives Steve’s text with his mom’s contact info, he steps outside for a bit of privacy. Sam watches Steve and Natasha leaning together through the sliding glass window as he waits for his mom to answer the phone. Sam feels a pit growing deep in his belly, a black hole that’s been sucking in everything Sam could have lived and built and experienced in the past five years, leaving him empty and lonely and lost, missing parts of himself that he should have been gaining. Inside, Bucky is standing alone in front of murder board, his shoulders tense, while Steve and Natasha talk and smile and touch each other’s forearms.

“Sam? Sam, baby, are you OK?”

“Mom!” Sam exclaims. “Mom, I’m OK. I’m OK.”

“Thank God,” she says in relief. “We’re OK too. Sarah and Michelle, they’ve been living in my apartment. Michelle’s eleven years old now, Sam. We missed five years of her life. How did this happen?”

And Sam tells her how it happened. He tells her about the battle, and then the second battle, and then realizing that he had died and was resurrected by magical stones. He tells her about Bucky Barnes, standing there in disgruntled disbelief when Steve and Natasha explained that they’d woken up five years into the future, his only reaction to state flatly, “I was told that this wouldn’t happen to me again.”

When he tells her that Steve’s asked him to be the new Captain America, Sam’s mom gasps in surprise. “Captain America? Sam, are you sure?”

“Yeah, Mom. I am sure. I think I could really do some good,” Sam says softly.

“Do you have good people around you? Do you have people who will take care of you?”

Sam thinks of Steve and Natasha leaving for space in a few weeks, moving on to bigger and more complicated catastrophes, superheroes who’ve grown so powerful and competent and amazing that they’re needed elsewhere, on worlds larger than their own. And then he thinks of Bucky Barnes staying up all night to do superhero math so Sam can be Captain America, even though Bucky is apparently pissed that Steve chose Sam for the honor instead of him.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I have people who will take care of me.”

***

That evening, Sam and Bucky sit at the table and watch Steve and Natasha put together the most disgusting struggle dinner Sam has ever seen. Steve is piling gross stacks of bologna onto bread and seems to think condiments are optional, while Natasha has dumped a bag of iceberg lettuce into a bowl and poured an entire bottle of ranch dressing on top of it. This, she insists, is a “salad.” Steve and Natasha move expertly around each other in the kitchen like they’re performing a choreographed dance, casually touching each other’s shoulders and hips as they slide past each other. Obviously they’ve created this sort of repulsive dinner situation more than once. What have these two been eating for the last five years? Sam can’t resist glancing up at Bucky to catch a look of horror on Bucky’s face, his nose scrunched up in disgust.

When Steve sets their plates of dry bologna sandwiches and the soggy bowl of lettuce onto the table onto the table, Bucky suddenly announces that he’s vegan.

“You are?” Steve asks suspiciously. “Since when?”

Sensing an opportunity, Sam rushes to support Bucky’s desperate ploy to avoid this dinner. “Bucky and I are both vegan, actually. It’s new.”

“Really,” Natasha says. “You and Bucky do stuff together now. Stuff like going vegan.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says staunchly.

The best way to handle Natasha is just to brazen it out. She’ll suspect that you’re lying, but she won’t actually say anything until she has proof. Unfortunately, she’ll stoop to any and all means—however invasive or conniving—to catch you out. Sam guesses he and Bucky are both vegan forever now.

“Go ahead and eat your dinner,” Bucky says. “I’ll just make Sam and me something while you guys eat.”

While Steve and Natasha eat and trade inside jokes and talk about a bunch of political events Sam does not understand—did Michigan actually successfully secede from the Union?—Sam watches in astonishment as Bucky prepares the most incredible looking burrito bowls Sam’s ever seen in his life. In like twenty minutes, the dude whips up some chipotle lime black beans, diced tomatoes, corn, fajita veggies, and quinoa, then proceeds to make pineapple mango salsa from scratch using a mortar and pestle. Where did Bucky even get these ingredients? The last time Sam checked, the fridge was almost empty.

Bucky looks relaxed and capable, and Sam watches the muscles in Bucky’s back shift and move as he chops and grinds and sautés. Bucky’s got a kitchen towel slung casually over his shoulder, and a few strands of hair at his temples curl a bit in the steam coming off the stove top.

“So what else did y’all get up to in the last five years?” Sam asks.

“Oh! Should we tell them about the—” Natasha begins, her eyes lighting up.

“You mean the dude with the—”

“With the plastic fangs!” Natasha finishes, wheezing with laughter. “What was that guy’s name? Oh, God—”

“—Baron Blood!” they exclaim in unison, cackling.

Sam can’t help but feel a little annoyed by how easily Steve and Natasha finish each other’s sentences. Sam knows, intellectually, that Steve and Natasha lived each one of the five years that went by in seconds for him and Bucky. He knows that Steve and Natasha have always been close and that it makes sense for them to, like, trauma bond after everything they’ve gone through together. But he’s never felt so left out by his own best friends before. He looks over at Bucky, relieved when he sees his own feelings of frustration and isolation mirrored on Bucky’s face.

“Wait, you fought the Bloody Baron from Harry Potter?” Bucky asks.

“No, it was Baron Blood, not the Bloody Baron.”

“Was the guy an actual baron, or were his parents just rich and tacky? Was his first name Baron?” Sam asks, fascinated despite himself.

“I think it was, like, a self-appointed title?” Natasha says. “I don’t think he was a real baron. Anyway, Steve decapitated him with his shield.”

“He was a Nazi vampire,” Steve explains.

“Like an actual vampire? Are we fighting actual vampires now?” Sam asks.

“I think so,” Natasha says doubtfully. “Steve had to soak his shield in holy water blessed by the pope first. It was a whole thing.”

“Wait, are you guys talking about Todd?” Bucky asks. “Brown hair, red eyes, ranted a lot about what an important superpower echolocation was?”

“Yes! Did you know this guy?” Steve asks.

“Eh, we weren’t close or anything. But there were some weird ass HYDRA experiments in the eighties and nineties. Most people these days think the Satanic Panic was a myth, but actually HYDRA really did have agents trying to indoctrinate daycare kids into supernatural cults. Todd was one of the evil brainwashed HYDRA daycare kids, volunteered to get some really hinky stuff done to him to try to create a master race of genetically pure vampires. Oh, and he was super obsessed with you, Steve.”

“Oh, God, was he ever,” Natasha says. “Let me tell you what he did when he got Steve tied up in his gross dungeon—”

***

While Natasha says goodbye to Bucky, squeezing Bucky and muttering something in Russian in Bucky’s ear, Sam is startled to feel Steve grab him tightly and pull him into an aggressive hug. Sam takes a minute to breathe in Steve’s familiar, comforting smell—still wearing Bay Rum even after all this time—and rests his chin on Steve’s strong shoulder.

“We love you,” Steve says, then hands him off to Natasha.

Natasha gives him a sweet kiss on the mouth. “We’ll miss you,” she says.

When Steve and Natasha disappear into the distance, Sam looks over at Bucky. “We, we, we,” Bucky says wryly.

***

Six weeks later, Sam and Bucky have formed a pretty solid partnership. They’re still living in one of the cabins on Tony Stark’s property in upstate New York for now, but they’re scheduled to report for duty at the new SHIELD headquarters in New York City on Monday.

Steve and Natasha are coming back to Earth this evening, scheduled for security briefings and press events promoting the resurrection of SHIELD, promising the public that Sam is going to make a great Captain America and that there definitely aren’t any more secret Nazis in the upper echelons of power at SHIELD.

As far as Sam can tell, Bucky’s still pretty pissed at Steve for asking Sam to be Captain America instead of him, but fortunately that grudge doesn’t seem to be carrying over to Sam. Instead, Bucky is perfectly pleasant and helpful as hell, which is pretty terrific considering the fact that Sam could use all the help he can get right now. Learning how to use the shield—especially while flying—is complicated as fuck and Sam probably would have lost patience pretty quickly without Bucky reassuring him that Steve was shit at math and definitely was not doing trigonometric calculations in his head while he fought.

“Does Steve seem like the kind of guy who’s doing a lot of thinking while he’s fighting? No, this is all practice and muscle memory,” says Bucky, clapping Sam’s shoulder. “C’mon, Steve and Natalia are scheduled to get here in like an hour. Let’s take showers and get ready to meet them for dinner.”

It’s humid as fuck outside and Bucky’s shirt is drenched in sweat, clinging so tightly to his skin that Sam can count each one of his abdominal muscles individually. Bucky raises a water bottle to his mouth and takes a long pull. Sam watches a drip of sweat slide down Bucky’s throat.

“Yeah, good plan,” Sam says. A cool shower sounds really refreshing right now.

***

When they meet Steve and Natasha for dinner, Sam nearly forgets that he and Bucky are pretending to be vegan until Bucky orders a wheatberry salad and then kicks Sam underneath the table. Sam grimaces and reaches down to rub his shin, looking regretfully at the shiny picture of the giant burger and fries that Steve ordered on his menu.

“I’ll have the wheatberry salad too,” Sam says, trying not to sound too sad about it.

Steve and Natasha are bursting with stories about space. They’re happy and full of excitement, and if anything, they’re somehow even closer than when they left. They have very strong feelings about Kree politics, and they tell a lot of stories about famous people from space that Sam does not know. They touch each other constantly.

The wheatberry salad is amazing.

“So what else happened while we were gone?” Bucky asks, mercifully changing the subject from the boring Kree legislative process. “How did the last season of Game of Thrones go?”

“Oh, it was incredible,” Natasha raves, her eyes lighting up. “David Benioff and D. B. Weiss were taken in the Snap, so they had to hire this fantasy author named Brandon Sanderson to write it. Everyone was really skeptical about how it would go—especially with half of the cast gone—but he did an amazing job. It’s now considered one of the strongest finales of any show in history.”

“You know, I never could get into Game of Thrones,” Sam remarks. “All those big-budget fantasy dynastic political dramas are just so unrealistic.”

“See, that’s what Shuri said when I told her I was watching it to research living in a monarchy after I moved to Wakanda,” Bucky says. “But then her secret illegitimate cousin traveled from across the sea to claim her brother’s throne in a trial by combat. And then her supposedly slain brother dramatically returned from the dead with the help of a magical herb in order to defeat the usurper in battle, so.” Bucky lifts his shoulders and raises his hands in a sort of smug, so who turned out to be right there? kind of shrug.

“Yeah, OK,” Sam concedes, tipping his head to acknowledge the point.

“It’s crazy that we’ll never know how much better it could have been with Benioff and Weiss at the helm, though,” Steve says, and Sam’s stomach drops a bit as he’s hit by another wave of wrongness, that same ears-ringing, tunnel-vision-forming wrongness he’s been feeling since he dramatically returned from the dead. Because what’s the deal with Steve being so literate in pop culture that he not only watches hit prestige dramas but actually knows the names of the writers? To Sam, it was just a few weeks ago that Steve declared Star Trek: The Next Generation “a bit too flashy” for his taste.

“Hey, did George R. R. Martin ever finish the books?” Bucky asks hopefully.

“No, he died,” Steve says.

***

Later that night, after Steve and Natasha have conspicuously gone to bed together, Bucky grabs Sam’s hand, puts a finger to his lips, quirks an eyebrow, and leads Sam silently into a small closet on the first floor of the house. The closet is full of thick winter coats that push Sam and Bucky right up against a wall, their bodies pressed tightly together. Bucky turns on the flashlight app from his phone to give them some light.

“What are we doing in here?” Sam whispers.

“It’s the only place in the house where Steve won’t be able to hear us. Just keep your voice down,” Bucky explains.

“Oh, shit. We’re not plotting to overthrow SHIELD again, are we?”

“No!” Bucky says. “It’s been like six weeks. HYDRA won’t have a secret majority interest in SHIELD for another twenty years at least. Look, have you noticed how Steve and Natalia are, like, obsessed with each other now?”

“Yes! What is with that? I thought I was Steve’s best friend!” Sam hisses.

“Well, you and Steve are definitely close friends,” Bucky says skeptically. “But best friendship is an exclusive relationship. It’s the closest and most intimate connection you can have with someone. And you can only have one of them. Your best friend is someone you would kill for, someone that you would die for, someone you would come back from seventy years of brainwashing for. Someone you would drop the very symbol of everything you believe in for. So, I think we can all agree that I was Steve’s best friend.”

Bucky looks pretty self-satisfied after that whole speech.

“I don’t think we can all agree that you were Steve’s best friend,” Sam says, tilting his head skeptically.

“Well, I was, but the point is that I don’t think I am anymore. I think Natalia might be Steve’s best friend now,” Bucky whispers, irritated.

“I know! I hate it,” Sam confesses. “Steve and Nat and I used to all be best friends. Now they have all these inside jokes and I feel left out all the time.”

“Again, Sam, you can’t have two best friends,” Bucky corrects. “Anyway, I know we haven’t always gotten along in the past, and maybe some of us have made mistakes like kicking people off helicarriers or wrecking their cars, but I think if we want Steve back, we might be able to work together on this.”

“I’m listening,” Sam says.

“OK, so I think we need to try to make them jealous.”

“I don’t think Nat gets jealous. Does Steve get jealous?” Sam says doubtfully.

“Oh, Steve gets jealous,” Bucky confirms. “Did you know that like five seconds after I admitted that I remembered growing up with Steve, he immediately started getting passive aggressive about some redhead named Dot that I spent three dollars on back in 1937? It was like the very first thing he brought up.”

“Oh, God, was Dot short for Dolores?” Sam asks. “Steve complained about her all the time while we were out searching for you.”

“That was her!” Bucky says. “Steve was so jealous of Dolores. Anyway, I think if we team up, we can convince Steve that we’re best friends now. Then he’ll get jealous and remember how much more important we are to him than Natalia.”

Sam considers this carefully. He’s never been pressed so close to Bucky before, their faces only inches away from one another. From this distance Sam can see how long and thick Bucky’s eyelashes are. He can smell the pleasant scents of Bucky’s clean sweat and spicy aftershave.

He wants to press his thumb into the cleft in Bucky’s chin.

“Yeah, that sounds like a great idea,” Sam hears himself say.

“Great!”

***

The next day, while Steve and Natasha are busy in meetings with Rhodey and Fury, Sam moves into his new apartment in Brooklyn. It’s not actually so much his new apartment so much as it is Steve’s old apartment, but apparently Steve doesn’t need it anymore since he’s spending so much time out in space with Natasha and he “can always just stay with Nat while I’m in town, it’s no trouble, Sam, Natasha and I are used to bunking together.”

Sam actually has a lot of questions about how used to bunking together Steve and Natasha are.

Sam’s unpacking his clothes when he hears the doorbell ring. His spine stiffens and his fingers twitch for a weapon. Steve and Natasha are both scheduled to be out for hours still, and Steve’s a pretty private guy. Sam doubts many people know about his apartment.

He grabs a gun from his safe, loads it, and walks silently toward the front door.

“Sam, I know you’re in there.”

The muffled voice on the other side of the door is thankfully familiar. Sam feels the tension in his chest release and he lowers his gun. It’s just Bucky.

Unfortunately, all that tension in Sam’s chest immediately returns when Sam opens the door to discover that Bucky is, for some reason, carrying a duffel bag and surrounded by cardboard boxes. Sam’s stomach sinks.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Bucky complains, shoving past him into the entryway and setting down his bag. “You didn’t even look through the peephole to make sure no one was holding me at gunpoint? If we’re going to live together you’re going to have to be a lot more careful about security. I have a lot of enemies.”

“I’m sorry, if we’re going to live together?” Sam repeats, horrified. He puts the safety back on his gun and sets it down onto the counter.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Um, yes? Remember our whole fake-best-friends plan? You literally just agreed to it last night. Here, help me with these boxes.”

Bucky goes back into the hallway, where he bends over to lift a box labeled “pots and pans,” his skinny jeans stretching obscenely over his ass and thighs.

“Yeah, OK,” Sam says, and follows him out into the hallway.

***

“OK, so, explain this to me again: why does being fake best friends mean that we have to be actual roommates?” Sam asks later, passing Bucky a beer.

They’re sitting on Sam’s couch now, surrounded by fifteen boxes labeled, variously: “favorite grenade launchers,” “crossbows,” “guns (1 of 10),” “scopes and silencers,” “marijuana,” and “warm sweaters.”

“Is this beer vegan?” Bucky asks, checking the label. “Hold on, I’m gonna need to look this up.”

“Wait, are you actually vegan?” Sam asks, watching in astonishment as Bucky pulls up an app on his phone, types in the name of the beer Steve left in the fridge, frowns, and then gets up to put the beer back into the fridge. “I thought we were just pretending to be vegan to avoid Steve’s bologna sandwiches and that gross salad.”

“We were! But then I looked it up afterward to make sure I could pull this off in front of Natalia and I actually read a lot of really harrowing and kind of horrifying stuff about animal agriculture,” Bucky says, grimacing. “Anyway, if we want Steve and Natalia to believe that we’re best friends, we’re going to have to live together. Steve and I always lived together, and Steve moved in with you like five seconds after he met you.”

“To be fair to Steve, he did make it two very sad years living alone in the most depressing apartment I have ever seen, and he didn’t move in with me until you shot a man through his walls,” Sam says.

“That was just an excuse,” Bucky says, waving his hand airily. “Steve and I spent the entire winter of 1937 living in an uninsulated attic apartment with a broken window. If Steve didn’t want to live with you, he would have just slapped some duct tape over those bullet holes and gotten an extra blanket.”

Sam considers this and then reluctantly concedes the point. He’s seen Steve look unnervingly comfortable in some pretty horrific living situations over the past couple of years.

“All right, fine. But do we really need every gun ever made in our living room? I feel like surrounding yourself with this amount of weaponry has got to be an unhealthy coping strategy.”

Sam feels pretty confident about this—he’d been like three-quarters of the way through his Master’s coursework to become a licensed professional counselor when Steve Rogers bulldozed his way into his life.

“And what are we going to do if we need to take down SHIELD again, Sam?” Bucky demands. “How much do we really trust Nick Fury? Anyway, we aren’t storing these in the living room, Sam, that would be tacky.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says, his stomach sinking. “And where are we storing them?” He has a bad feeling about this.

“In the spare bedroom, of course.”

“What spare bedroom.”

“The spare bedroom-slash-armory! We only really need one bedroom, Sam. Steve and I always shared a bedroom.”

“Did you,” Sam says. “And I suppose you shared a bed too.”

“Of course we did. Why would Steve and I need separate beds? We were best friends.”

Bucky gives Sam an odd look, like he thinks Sam in the one being strange about this. As if indefinitely sharing a bed is just normal best friend stuff. Sam wants to believe that this is some kind of Depression era, growing-up-in-poverty sort of thing, but honestly Steve and Bucky are just so intensely weird about each other that Sam is pretty sure that it’s actually a Steve-and-Bucky thing.

Sam thinks about sharing a bed with Bucky every night. He wonders if Bucky wears a shirt to bed, or if Bucky slides into bed bare-chested, wearing only a pair of shorts or maybe even just some tightly fitted boxer briefs.

“All right,” Sam says, sighing.

***

Later that night, when they’re lying in bed catching up on Supernatural—he has got to know how this show somehow became relevant to international geopolitics—Bucky leans over to pull a huge bag of weed out of the nightstand. Then he slowly, carefully rolls the fattest joint Sam has ever seen. It’s somehow absolutely massive but still structurally sound and perfectly balanced. Sam puts the show on pause because he has a lot of questions about this.

“Where did you learn how to do that? Does marijuana even work on you?” Sam asks. “Did you learn how to do this as part of that whole Eat Pray Love thing you did while Steve and I were looking for you?”

“What? No. Steve taught me how to do this back in the thirties.”

“Excuse me, Steve Rogers taught you how to roll a joint in the thirties? Steve ‘Captain America’ Rogers knows how to roll a joint?” Sam asks, scandalized.

“Yes? I didn’t have any other friends named Steve—actually, Steve was always my only friend,” Bucky says offhandedly. “Anyway, Stevie started rolling his own asthma cigarettes when he was like twelve, had those perfect long-fingered artist hands even when he was little. Then when he started art school he started bringing home marijuana after class. He’d roll us a joint and we’d sit out on the fire escape and smoke before bed every night.”

“Steve Rogers,” Sam says, wonderingly. “What a little punk.”

“Right? I’m always saying that but no one ever believes me. Here,” Bucky says, passing the joint over to Sam. Sam hesitates for a moment—he hasn’t smoked pot since before he joined the Air Force—but then he gives a mental shrug, figuring that SHIELD probably isn’t going to drug test him. Yeah, Nick Fury is kind of a dick, but Sam doubts that he’d give a shit about a little recreational marijuana use.

Sam feels a little thrill when he raises Bucky’s joint to his lips, the paper still slightly damp from Bucky’s saliva. He seals his mouth around the end of the joint and sucks in deeply, sharing this wet vicarious kiss with Bucky, who watches Sam’s mouth with interest. Sam feels the sharp burn in his lungs as he holds in the smoke, then coughs violently when he exhales, passing the joint back to Bucky.

“Damn,” he says. “This stuff still works for you?”

“Yep,” Bucky says. “HYDRA wanted to make sure they’d still be able to drug the shit out of me when they were experimenting with their own version of the serum, so unlike some reckless assholes who actually volunteered to get the bona fide serum, I can still get stoned. Which is I guess some small consolation for spending seventy years on some pretty intense amphetamines and weird psychosis-inducing experimental drug cocktails.”

“Yikes. Well, that makes sense, I guess,” Sam says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Bucky pauses. “Well, it’s not fine fine. But I’m fine. Now.”

“I’m glad,” Sam says, and he realizes he means it.

***

The first time Sam fucks up as Captain America, he finds out the answer to a great personal mystery: why Steve Rogers was considered “the greatest tactician in American military history.”

It’s not because Steve is actually a great tactician—in fact, Steve is an instinctive fighter, brash and brave and most of all impulsive.

Apparently, the real reason Steve was considered the greatest tactician in American military history is because Peggy Carter was the greatest tactician in American military history, and Bucky Barnes was the greatest bullshitter in American military history.

When Maria Hill orders them to Fury’s office for debriefing after that disastrous mission, Bucky grabs Sam’s arm and digs his nails into the tender skin on the underside of Sam’s forearm.

“Whatever you do, do not say anything,” Bucky hisses. “Just shut the fuck up, and let me handle this. I mean it.”

“I need to take responsibility for this, Bucky. Steve would take responsibility for this.”

“Steve would absolutely not take responsibility for this,” Bucky states firmly. “Trust me, I’ve been bailing that little punk out of trouble for one hundred years. Do not say anything.”

When they get to Fury’s office, Sam witnesses an actual miracle. Fury begins by asking them a series of terse questions in a clipped tone that slowly grows more and more agreeable as Bucky’s answers—calm, thoughtful, and pleasant—make Sam’s actions sound both necessary and entirely reasonable. The tone shifts from an interrogation to a more customary debrief, and by the end Fury’s countenance is less thunderous and more just his sort of standard expression of grim disapproval.

The truly bewildering part is that Bucky’s explanations for Sam’s behavior are so convincing that Sam himself is now questioning whether he even fucked up at all. Nothing Bucky says is a lie, and Sam’s not even sure he would characterize anything as misleading, but nevertheless Sam slowly moves from the distinct impression that both he and Fury considered the mission a failure, to the cautious notion that maybe he’d actually made the best of a bad job after all.

When Fury dismisses them, he offers them a gruff, “Excellent work, gentlemen,” and then he actually claps Sam on the shoulder as Sam walks out the door.

What the fuck.

***

“Excuse me, are you some kind of hypnotist or sorcerer?” Sam hisses when they return to their office. “What the fuck was all that?”

“Should we get Thai food for lunch? I’m thinking pad see ew,” Bucky muses, scrolling through the menu on his phone. “What about you?”

“Get me the tofu pad thai,” Sam says. It turns out Bucky wasn’t wrong about the environmental impact of animal agriculture—that’s actually some deeply sobering shit, and Sam feels like he should probably try to be a good role model now that he’s Captain America. “Seriously, though, I did fuck up that mission, right? I wasn’t imagining that?”

Bucky sighs. “Sam, you made the right call. Maybe Fury wouldn’t have agreed immediately, but I didn’t spend my entire life justifying Steve’s aggressive self-sacrificing bullshit to people in positions of authority for no reason. Steve knew when to step up and do what was right, sure, but he also knew when to shut up and let me do the talking afterward.”

Everything about Steve’s career in the Army makes so much more sense now.

“Thanks, man,” Sam says, awkwardly. He hesitates a moment, then asks, “You really think Steve would have made the same decision today?”

Bucky gives Sam a long, considering look. His gaze is solemn and sympathetic, and his lips press together in a sad smile. “Sam, you’ve got to stop comparing yourself to Steve.”

***

Sam misses a lot about Steve, but he very specifically does not miss running with Steve. That’s because Steve is an asshole, and while Sam may enjoy the view from behind when Steve laps him for the fiftieth time, he definitely does not feel like Steve deserves to act as smug about it as he does when Steve is quite famously the recipient of performance enhancing drugs.

Sam and Bucky are running their usual route in Prospect Park, feet pounding together in rhythm as they listen to the dope ass Carly Rae Jepsen playlist Bucky made for them on their headphones. It turns out that Sam’s been putting up with a lot of shit from Steve that wasn’t actually necessary, because despite being a full year older than Steve—or is it four years younger, now, after the Snap?—Bucky has managed to develop some pretty cool taste in music. More importantly, Bucky seems mercifully content to run at a speed that is completely normal for unenhanced people who are still in fantastic shape and also have great legs.

Speaking of great legs, Sam’s having kind of a hard time handling the length of Bucky’s running shorts today. Bucky’s legs are long and strong, lightly muscled and flexing attractively as his steady stride eats up the pavement, and his thighs—

“So how come Steve won’t run like a regular person?” Sam asks, reluctantly dragging his gaze away from those lean, golden thighs.

“Did he try to give you some shit about how he has to run that fast to stay in shape as a supersoldier?” scoffs Bucky. “No, Steve runs that fast because Steve has anger issues and a high sex drive. Otherwise he’d be starting fights and jerking off four times a day.”

Sam’s breath catches a bit in his chest and he tries very hard not to stumble at that. “Oh?” Sam asks, trying to sound casual. “And you? You’re not jerking off four times a day?”

“Living with you, sweetheart?” Bucky says with a wink. “Of course I am.”

***

This isn’t actually Sam’s first time living with a Russian assassin, because he spent two years on the run with Natasha, so he’s used to a lot of weird ass habits. But one thing that confounds the shit out of him is why Bucky insists on navigating Brooklyn solely through a maze of gross alleyways that smell absolutely foul.

Steve and Natasha are finally home from their peacekeeping or worldbuilding or diplomatic journey through the stars—whatever the hell they’ve been doing for the past few months—and Sam and Bucky are on their way to meet them at a café for lunch.

“Man, are you sure we’re not going in circles? I could swear we’ve passed that blue dumpster at least twice already. Is this some kind of spy thing where we’re doubling back to lose a tail or something?” Sam asks.

“No. And this blue dumpster is the blue dumpster behind the hipster café with the oat milk latte that you hate, the one with too much cinnamon,” Bucky explains patiently. “The other two blue dumpsters are behind the artisanal pickle shop and the thrift store where the secondhand clothes actually cost more than they do when you buy them new.”

“Right,” Sam says with a heavy sigh. Then he perks up when he sees their favorite stray cat. “Oh, hey, it’s Steve the cat!”

“Aw! Hi, Steve!” Bucky coos. He reaches into his pocket to toss a few treats toward the skinny, ill-tempered cat, who eyes them suspiciously before hissing viciously, his scraggly hackles raising. Steve the cat ignores their treats, presumably offended by their insulting attempts at charity, and Sam and Bucky positively melt at this pointless and self-destructive display of spitefulness.

“He’s so cute!” Bucky says.

“I love him so much,” Sam agrees. “C’mon, let’s leave the treats here and keep going. Maybe he’ll eat them after we leave.”

“We should stop at the pet store on the way home and pick up a different brand. Maybe Steve has allergies,” Bucky suggests.

“Good idea,” Sam says, nodding.

As they head toward their lunch with Steve and Natasha, Sam’s surprised to realize that he feels pretty relaxed and confident about their whole fake-best-friends plan. Usually he’d be having some kind of heart palpitations at the thought of trying to pull one over on Natasha, an actual spy who actually lied to the actual God of Lies and actually succeeded at it, but instead Sam thinks that he and Bucky might really get away with this whole fake-best-friends thing. It helps that Bucky looks so cool and self-assured walking beside him, hips loose and easy and confident as those long legs lead them toward their whole best friends debut.

Eventually they weave their way out of Bucky’s trash labyrinth and make it to the café, where Steve and Natasha are waiting at a table along the sidewalk. Steve and Nat look happy, laughing and chatting animatedly, their body language intimate and relaxed. Sam feels a brief moment of apprehension, but Steve smiles broadly when he sees Sam and Bucky approach, and Steve and Nat both stand to offer hugs and kisses in greeting.

“We’re so glad to be home,” Natasha says, sitting back down with a sigh. “Do you know that after spending the past few months trying to navigate alien bureaucracy, I’ve actually missed filling out post-mission paperwork at SHIELD? Do not repeat that to Fury.”

“Fury’s already trying to convince Natasha to train as his replacement when he retires,” Steve brags, putting his arm around Natasha’s shoulders. The flash of envy Sam feels at Steve’s obvious pride in Natasha is swiftly overwhelmed by Sam’s genuine happiness for her. He can’t think of anyone he’d trust more than Natasha to be the next Director of SHIELD. Probably she wouldn’t let in any secret Nazis or mad scientist artificial intelligences at all.

“That’s great, Natalia,” Bucky says warmly. “How soon can you start? I already hate working for Fury.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure Fury has like three decoy replacements lined up and at least another decade of weird mind games in him before he’ll seriously consider retirement,” Natasha says, nodding her head approvingly. “And to be fair to Fury, he’s probably still pretty pissed about that time you nearly killed him.”

“Actually, Fury really likes Bucky,” says Sam defensively. “Just last week Fury even thanked him for giving him the chance to fake his own death—said he’d been looking for just the right opportunity for years.”

Bucky smirks and nudges his knee against Sam’s underneath the table. Sam deliberately doesn’t move his leg away, warmth spreading through him from the point of contact.

“I feel like I should be surprised that Bucky won Fury over that quickly, but honestly it makes sense. The nuns loved Bucky,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“Fury does have kind of a weird nun energy, doesn’t he,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “I’ve never really thought about it before but now I’m kind of obsessed with the idea.”

When they’ve finished ordering—bacon cheeseburgers for Steve and Natasha, falafel salads for Sam and Bucky—Natasha asks them how they’re enjoying their new vegan lifestyle.

“Have you been eating a lot of aquafaba?” Natasha asks, too innocent by half.

A surge of triumph wells up in Sam’s chest. He knows that Natasha is testing them, and he knows that they’re going to pass this test.

“Aquafaba’s actually more of a baking thing, sort of an egg white replacement,” Sam explains, biting his lip to resist shooting Bucky a smug grin. “And Bucky doesn’t eat anything with added sugar, so we don’t do a whole lot of baking.”

“And since when is Bucky such a healthy eater?” Steve asks incredulously.

“Some of us got hasty Nazi knockoff serums, Steve,” Bucky replies. “I’m like a hundred years old. How do I know if I can just eat whatever I want and still have perfect blood pressure and cholesterol like you? Also, do you know how much we’ve learned about nutrition since you and I were in school? When was the last time you even got a physical, Steve? Natalia ought to be making sure you take better care of yourself. I make sure Sam exercises and eats a sensible diet.”

“I stay fit,” Sam agrees.

Bucky smirks and lets his eyes travel along Sam’s biceps and shoulders. “Yeah, you do, sweetheart.”

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to get a physical, OK? But my primary care physician was taken in the Snap,” Steve says defensively. “I didn’t have time to find a new one. I’ve been very busy.”

“I’m actually finding this all very interesting,” Natasha says, her chin propped on her hand and her voice low and amused. “Has Bucky always been this fussy and meddlesome?”

“Only when it comes to my best friend,” Bucky explains with great apparent sincerity.

Steve chokes on his soda, coughing and sputtering violently, and Sam looks up from his salad to grin and catch Bucky’s eye. Natasha gives Steve a few strong thumps on the back.

When Steve recovers from his coughing fit, he narrows his eyes in disbelief. “I’m sorry, your best friend? Is Sam your best friend? Because I thought Sam was more like your best friend’s best friend.”

“We’ve gotten really close since we moved in together,” Sam says earnestly, slinging a friendly arm around Bucky’s shoulders.

It’s not even a lie, really. They’ve got a pretty great routine going, and Bucky’s an easy roommate. They wake up every morning and drag themselves out of their shared bed, sleepy and warm, and head out for an early run, letting Bucky’s bomb ass running playlist and the exertion of their run build up the physical and emotional energy they need for the day. They take Bucky’s weird secret assassin route through the alleys to and from the subway every day, and when they come home in the evenings they catch up on all the movies and music and weird political news they’ve missed in the past five years. They smoke a joint together in bed every night before they go to sleep, and they laugh and swap stories and usually make fun of Steve. It’s all very comfortable and cozy. It’s actually, Sam is startled to realize, the closest thing to home he’s felt in the past two-slash-seven years.

“So you moved in together,” Steve says, his voice awkward and high pitched. “That’s—so great!”

“Speaking of moving in together,” Bucky says innocently. “Have you guys decided where you’re going to live? We can move the weapons out of the spare room at our place if you want to move in with us.”

“I’m sorry, the spare room? It’s only a two bedroom apartment, Bucky!”

***

Sam is happy to be back in the field with Steve and Natasha, but he can’t shake the slight uneasiness that comes from thinking he’ll be able to predict their actions, that he’ll be able follow the rhythm of their fight together, only for the two of them to do something totally different than what he expects at the worst possible moment. It turns out that five years was just long enough for Steve and Natasha to fall perfectly in sync with one another and out of sync with Sam.

It’s Sam and Bucky’s first official SHIELD mission with Steve and Natasha, and everything is going mostly fine except for the fact that instead of turning into nice, clean piles of dust like in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, these gross ass vampires are exploding like giant bags of blood every time you slay them. It’s super nasty and definitely unhygienic.

The vampires are feral, mostly mindless leech-like creatures that don’t seem to have a lot going on in their probably decaying brains. So on top of dying in a rather revolting sort of fashion, they’re not even sexy or sophisticated or even European the way pop culture has promised him. The whole experience is a real letdown, and it isn’t even really dangerous so much as it is messy and tedious.

“Last one!” Bucky calls out, firing his crossbow straight into the heart of a vampire standing in front of Steve. The vampire explodes in a disgusting spray of borrowed blood, drenching Steve from head to toe in its recycled bodily fluids. Sam stifles a laugh.

“God damn it, Bucky,” Steve complains, his face twisting in distaste. “Just for that I’m taking first shower on the Quinjet.”

Sam gives Bucky a discreet fist bump when they climb aboard, whispering, “Nice shot, man.” Bucky snickers.

Steve is always so funny when he gets all prim and fussy, like some kind of stuffy Victorian schoolmarm. It’s kind of adorable.

In order to fit a full decontamination chamber and shower into the Quinjet, there’s only one of them, so they have to take turns showering. Sam and Bucky have a sort of medium amount of blood on them, while Natasha has somehow managed to escape the whole gory ordeal without a single drop of blood—or even sweat? Literally how is she so pristine?—anywhere on her. Since they’re only in New Jersey, not too far from home, Natasha decides she can wait until they get back to SHIELD headquarters to shower.

“So what’s the deal with all the vampires?” Sam asks. “I thought you and Steve killed that Bloody Baron guy.”

“We did,” Natasha replies, frowning. “It must have been a nest he left behind. Usually new vampires are too stupid or underdeveloped to feed themselves—they’re sort of like human babies that way—but I guess after their vampire dad guy died they must have gotten hungry enough to try to find something to eat on their own. I would have thought that they’d have all starved to death by now, though.”

When Steve finally exits the shower a thousand years later, he shoots them a smug smile. “Good luck fighting over who goes next, guys,” Steve taunts, in an irritating, self-satisfied sort of way. “There’s probably not enough hot water left for both of you.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Bucky says casually. “Sam and I always shower together anyway. We can share. C’mon, Sam.”

Bucky grabs Sam’s wrist and tugs him along toward the shower, and Sam uses every ounce of energy he has left in his body to keep his facial muscles firmly under control, refusing to offer any kind of reaction whatsoever to that frankly shocking claim. What the fuck, Bucky? On the plus side, though, Sam has the pleasure of watching Steve’s eyes widen and his stupid smirk fade as horror slowly sets in.

Natasha’s face, of course, lights up in surprise and then sheer fucking delight at this unexpected turn of events, because Natasha loves drama.

“What,” Steve says weakly.

“Yeah, it’s no big,” Sam says, nonchalant as hell. “We’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Steve and Natasha whisper furiously at each other as Bucky pulls him out of the room.

When Bucky shuts the door to the decontamination chamber behind them, Sam falls back against it, running an open hand down his face and groaning. “Bucky, man, what are you doing?”

“What?” Bucky asks, eyes wide and guileless. He’s unbuckling the chest fasteners on his uniform, and Sam decides to take a moment to indulge his purely intellectual curiosity about how exactly Bucky straps himself into all that tactical fetish gear.

“Steve and I always used to take baths together,” Bucky says. “Do you know how long it took to heat up buckets full of water on the stove just to take one bath? And by the time one person was finished, the bath water would be dirty and cold! And Stevie was so little, it was just easier to bathe together so we’d both stay warm, especially in the winter—”

While Bucky prattles on about Depression-era plumbing, filthy shared tenement showers, cold water apartments, the potential dangers of cold baths for people with weak lungs, and how extremely normal it is for best friends to shower together, Sam watches Bucky methodically strip down to bare, sweaty skin.

“Do you need help, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, amusement in his voice.

“What,” Sam says absently. His eyes are intently following the path of a bead of sweat that’s sliding slowly down the hills and valleys of Bucky’s well-defined abs.

“You’re still dressed.”

“Oh! Right. Yes. I mean no! I don’t need help.”

As Bucky turns on the water and adjusts the temperature, Sam undresses hurriedly, tossing his bloody uniform into the laundry container marked “BIOHAZARD” and stepping into the shower with Bucky.

“Now, Sam, I just want to say: it’s OK if you get hard,” Bucky says sincerely, clearly trying but then utterly failing to hold back a grin. He looks directly into Sam’s eyes and claps him on the shoulder. “You know, Steve and I always—”

“Don’t say it,” Sam interrupts. “Do not say it or I will kill you, I swear to God.” Literally the last thing Sam needs, as he desperately tries to redirect the flow of blood running to his cock, is to think about Steve and Bucky showering together with erections. Jesus Christ. Sam is not made of fucking stone.

“I’m just saying, it’s perfectly normal—”

“I will kill you, Barnes,” Sam warns.

“It’s the beauty of nature!” Bucky proclaims with a shit-eating grin, then easily dodges Sam’s half-hearted blow to the face. “And if it makes you feel better, I will be making literally no effort to avoid ogling you, so.”

Sam rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile. “Whatever, man. Help me wash my back.”

***

After they shower together on the Quinjet, Bucky apparently decides that there’s no reason for them to stop showering together now that they’ve started. So every morning when they finish their run, Bucky follows Sam into the bathroom, stripping off his sweaty clothes and just stepping right into the shower, waiting for Sam to join him. And at this point it feels like maybe it would be weird if Sam said something, like maybe he should have said something the first time Bucky decided they were the kind of friends who took showers together, but quite frankly the first time Sam was so distracted by the shift and pull of Bucky’s muscles as he tugged off his shirt that Sam didn’t think to protest.

So now they shower together every morning, and they share the same body wash and shampoo too, because Bucky says that they already smell just like each other from spending so much time together that it doesn’t really make sense for them to use different products. Plus, Bucky explains, with two full grown men in the shower at the same time, there’s just not enough room to clutter up the space with a bunch of different bottles.

Sam is pretty sure that Bucky just likes it that Sam smells like him, though. Bucky’s weirdly possessive that way, and it turns out that maybe Steve is too, because every time Sam gets up close in Steve’s space during training, Steve’s nostrils flare, the briefest look of jealousy crossing his face.

So, on the plus side, their plan is definitely working.

On the down side, however, Sam has exactly zero opportunities to jerk off now, and he’s about to spontaneously fucking combust out of what is probably fatal sexual tension. Because every morning, Sam wakes up to a soft, sleepy Bucky pressed against his back, hips grinding gently against Sam’s ass. And every morning, Sam watches Bucky get sweaty and breathless on their run, thin t-shirt growing slowly more transparent, clinging to those perfectly sculpted pectoral muscles. And then, after all that, Sam has to actually get naked and shower with the guy, who is not at all shy about the way his erection springs up out of his running shorts as he pulls them down his hips.

And all of this—this whole fucking blue balls-inducing, brain-melting, sexually frustrating journey into madness—happens before Sam can even get a goddamn cup of coffee. It is eight in the fucking morning and Sam is about to die from his boner.

“Hey, Sam?” Bucky asks, giving himself a critical look in the bathroom mirror. “Can you cut my hair?”

“Do I look like a barber,” Sam replies flatly.

“No, but I feel like if we’re going to your mom’s today, I should probably look sharp, right? And I just don’t feel like the long hair goes with a suit.” Bucky frowns. “There are probably plenty of videos about hair cutting on Youtube, right? I’ll bet you could figure it out.”

Sam does not remember inviting Bucky to his mom’s house with him today, and he has no idea why Bucky is planning on wearing a suit, but he does remember how Bucky Barnes had looked in those old photos, with that classic haircut highlighting his sharp cheekbones and that perfect fucking jawline. He’d looked like an old movie actor, like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck, and Sam has always had a weakness for handsome men who look like they could take you to church and then take you straight to bed so you’ll have something to confess about next week.

“Yeah, all right,” Sam agrees.

It turns out there are actually a bunch of tutorials on how to cut hair on Youtube—apparently there was a whole thing that happened in 2020 where everyone had to cut their own hair for a while?—and after two or three videos Sam feels reasonably prepared for this potential disaster.

He sits Bucky down on a chair in the kitchen, because Bucky’s hair is thick and long, and Sam wants to make sure he can sweep everything up nice and easy when they’re done. When Sam runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair to start trimming the length, Bucky groans softly, his eyelids fluttering closed.

“Forgot how much I like having my hair touched,” Bucky murmurs.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam says, biting his lip. He wonders if Bucky also likes to have his hair pulled, and for a moment he regrets ever letting Bucky talk him into this hair cut, because he thinks he’d like to see Bucky’s long hair twisted around his fist as he guides Bucky’s mouth down onto his cock.

“I never had a professional haircut before the Army,” Bucky confesses. “My mom always cut it for me when I was a kid, and then when I moved in with Steve we’d do it for each other. We always needed money back then, couldn’t afford a barber.”

“Hold still for a moment,” Sam says, touching Bucky’s jaw and gently guiding his head into the right position. He runs the clippers over the back of Bucky’s neck, fingers pressing lightly against Bucky’s temples to move him where he needs him. Heat blooms deep in Sam’s belly at the way Bucky shivers under his touch. When Sam finishes trimming the sides and back of Bucky’s head, he leans down to softly blow the excess hair off the nape of Bucky’s neck. Bucky moans quietly, biting his lip and arching his back almost imperceptibly. Pretty little goosebumps rise on the back of his neck.

“Take a look,” Sam says quietly, handing Bucky a mirror.

Bucky turns his head left and right, preening a bit as he admires the tidy cut Sam gave him. He looks gorgeous, hair neatly trimmed in a way that draws focus to that devastating bone structure.

“Not too bad for your first try, sweetheart,” Bucky says, grinning. “Think your mom will like it?”

“Oh, I think she will.”

***

When Sam’s mom opens her door to see that Sam has brought a friend to visit, she looks delighted at this unexpected turn of events.

“Sam, baby! It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in!” she exclaims, pulling Sam in for a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek before leading them into the living room. “And who is this handsome young man?”

“This is Bucky,” Sam replies, shooting his mom a warning glare. Do not embarrass me, he communicates silently. She widens her eyes in response, giving Sam an overly innocent look and covering her heart a touch dramatically with her hands. Moi? her body language says. Sam is not fooled. “Bucky is my co-worker. And my roommate. And my friend.”

“Hello, Mrs. Wilson,” Bucky says, smiling like a goddamn choir boy. “It’s so nice to meet you. I hope you don’t mind that Sam invited me along today.”

Sam most definitely did not invite Bucky along today, but he feels like it would be rude to point that out in front of his mom, who looks very impressed by Bucky’s whole general existence. She looks even more impressed when Bucky presents her with the vase of lilacs he insisted upon buying along the way.

“These are lovely, Bucky! I’m always happy to meet one of Sam’s co-workers slash roommates slash friends,” she says teasingly. “And don’t you look nice! Sam, doesn’t he look nice?”

“You didn’t have to wear a suit to meet my mom,” Sam says with a sigh, rolling his eyes.

They already had this whole argument before they left, but Bucky was adamant about wearing the suit, and honestly Sam didn’t work that hard to try to talk him out of it. Sam didn’t even know that Bucky owned a suit, let alone one that was so perfectly tailored to those shoulders and those slim hips and those long legs. Once Bucky actually put on the suit, Sam suddenly felt like all of his objections were a bit trivial and unnecessary. So now, like an idiot, Sam is also dressed up, wearing a button-down shirt and a navy blue blazer to visit his own mother.

“It’s a Sunday, Sam,” Bucky says reprovingly, in a tone that suggests that the day of the week is somehow relevant to his sartorial choices. Sam’s mom nods approvingly at this, so maybe it’s some kind of weird older generation thing that Sam is too young to understand.

Sam feels a bit ill at the unwelcome realization that Bucky is technically older than Sam’s mother.

Sam’s mom serves them tea and cookies while they catch up, and Bucky is unfailingly polite, charming in a sincere sort of way that Sam should have expected from all of Steve’s stories about growing up together in the neighborhood. It occurs to Sam that Bucky probably developed this skill as a self-defense mechanism against the inevitable havoc that Steve wreaked in their lives, using it to keep the two of them out of trouble with mothers and teachers and, eventually, commanding officers.

When the subject of Captain America comes up, Sam’s mother frowns disapprovingly and says, “I just don’t know why that boy asked you to take on this kind of burden. Is he even retired? Why couldn’t he be Captain America?”

Sam’s mother always refers to Steve as that boy.

“That’s what I said!” Bucky exclaims. “I was furious when Steve said he wanted to pass the shield on to Sam. Why did Sam need to be Captain America? Sam was already a superhero. I mean, he was the Falcon! He could actually fly. How cool is that? Steve could never fly—Steve just fell, usually without a parachute. Being Captain America just meant doing the same thing Sam was already doing, but with an unfamiliar weapon and a lot more attention from bad guys. It seemed so risky and unnecessary.”

Sam is a little stunned at this revelation. He thought the reason Bucky was mad at Steve about the whole Captain America thing was because Steve hadn’t chosen him to be Captain America, not because Bucky was worried about Sam.

Sam’s heart thumps a bit in his chest, warmth flowing through his veins to thaw out a part of him that he hadn’t even realized had been just a tiny bit frozen, an icy chunk he’s been carrying around inside of him ever since he’d accepted Steve’s offer to be the new Captain America. Bucky looks soft and sincere, and Sam didn’t know how much he needed to hear that someone believed in him just as he was—that there was someone who didn’t just think that he’d make a good Captain America but that he was already a pretty great superhero all on his own.

Sam’s mom nods enthusiastically. “Exactly,” she says, then turns to Sam. “I like this one, Sam. He seems so much more sensible than that other boy. That one was always getting you into trouble.”

Bucky chuckles. “Oh, Steve is good at getting people into trouble. But the thing about Steve is that Steve attracts people who are just like him, people who are good and brave and ready to stand up for what’s right no matter what the cost. Sam was fighting for what he believed in long before Steve ever came along. You raised a good man, Mrs. Wilson,” Bucky says, smiling softly at Sam.

And Sam’s heart breaks a little in his chest at this, because he doesn’t think that Bucky realizes that Bucky is the very first person Steve attracted who shared his innate goodness and integrity, because Bucky doesn’t think he’s a hero like Steve and Sam.

Sam’s mom is clearly pleased by Bucky’s compliment, and she looks proudly over at Sam. “Sam is the best man I know,” she says, her voice strong, full of conviction. “I’m glad he has a partner who understands that his heart is just as valuable as his training.”

“Sam’s heart is exactly why Steve chose him as Captain America,” Bucky says. And then he tells her stories about Sam’s new job, stories that are carefully edited to minimize the danger they had faced and to maximize Sam’s capability and competence in dispatching various minor villains. He tells her about all of the countries they’ve traveled to, all the little boys and girls who’ve looked at Sam with stars in their eyes. Bucky makes sure to include Steve in these stories too, subtly but effectively touting Steve’s unflagging loyalty and care and dependability.

Sam remembers Steve telling him that Bucky was the first to shout “Let’s hear it for Captain America!” when they returned from Kreischberg, successfully distracting Colonel Phillips from any disciplinary action he might have been contemplating against Steve for going MIA. It’s hard to throw the book at someone who’s actively being celebrated by hundreds of grateful, cheering soldiers.

Bucky, Sam is beginning to realize, is the greatest hype man Sam has ever seen.

“Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Wilson,” Bucky says with a kind smile. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“Come back next weekend!” Sam’s mom replies enthusiastically, giving Bucky a warm hug. “You can meet Sam’s sister Sarah and his niece Michelle. They’ll be sorry they missed you this week. Sam, dear, come give your mother a hug.”

When Sam pulls his mother in for a hug, she whispers, “I’m so proud of you” in his ear. Sam flushes a bit, feeling awkward and self-conscious.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says.

***

That night when they’re lying in bed, passing a joint back and forth, Sam makes a long overdue confession.

“I was mad at you, you know,” Sam says apologetically. “When you ran away. And when you didn’t come back after Peggy died. I thought you weren’t being a good friend to Steve. I don’t think—I don’t think I was being very fair to you. And I’m sorry.”

The thing is, Steve had told Sam a lot of stories about Bucky, about how charming and funny Bucky was, what a good friend he was, what a good sergeant he was. In Steve’s stories, Bucky was a giant, a larger-than-life sort of figure, a man who never gave up and never let anyone down.

And maybe Sam bought into all of that mythologizing, because when Bucky didn’t come back to Steve, Sam felt betrayed on Steve’s behalf. And he realizes now, with a sharp pang of regret, that this reaction was deeply unfair to Bucky, based on the legend of Bucky Barnes rather than the man. Because Bucky was supposed to be the loyal Howling Commando from Steve’s stories, Captain America’s Sergeant and Steve Rogers’s Best Friend, the hero who always rescued Steve when he needed it, even when Steve didn’t think he needed rescuing.

And Steve had so desperately, desperately needed rescuing, especially after Peggy’s death. Sam would never forget the sight of Steve Rogers, Captain America, tired and small and so very fragile, dipping under the weight of Peggy’s coffin as he carried her down the aisle.

When Bucky turns to face Sam, there are lines of grief in the corners of his eyes. “I was sorry about Peggy,” Bucky says quietly. “She was my friend too.”

Sam reaches out to brush his thumb along Bucky’s cheekbone, cupping Bucky’s face in his hand. Bucky raises his hand to cover Sam’s, cool metal against Sam’s skin, and Bucky shivers a little under his touch.

“You’re a good friend, Bucky. I’m sorry I thought you weren’t.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Bucky says with a tired smile.

***

When Steve knocks on their open office door, he looks with surprise at the sign on the doorway. “Sam Wilson and James Barnes?” Steve reads aloud, looking concerned. “Sam, they didn’t give you your own office? I feel like Captain America should get his own office. Do you want me to talk to Fury? Because you shouldn’t have to share with Bucky.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Sam says casually. “Fury gave us two offices, but we just figured it was easier to share since we’re always together anyway. Bucky’s office is our murder board room.”

Steve looks disconcerted by this. “OK,” he says, frowning. “Well, I just came by to let you know that Nat picked up another HYDRA facility on her radar, right near where we found those vampires in New Jersey. She sent you an e-mail with the details.”

Sam doesn’t know why Steve needs to stop by to tell him something that Natasha already sent him in an e-mail, but whatever. There’s something a little bit hesitant in Steve’s expression, a little bit lonely, and maybe Steve just came by because he wanted an excuse to see them.

“Thanks,” Sam says, with a warm smile. “C’mon, let’s go over to the spare office to tell Bucky to put it on our murder board. Make sure you tell him how great it looks, by the way. We spent like thirty minutes at Joann Fabrics picking out just the right shades of yarn to tie everything together. He actually has a whole color-coded system for it, with a key in an Excel spreadsheet and everything.”

While they walk down to go see the murder board, Steve tells Sam all about Bucky’s job as an actuary before the war. Apparently all those years doing informal risk assessment calculations to try to keep Steve from killing himself while they were growing up led to an actual career. “He was actually in college for mathematics when he dropped out to enlist.”

“I wonder if he put that on his resume when he applied for the job,” Sam says. “Actually now that I’m thinking about it I wonder how Bucky fit like 80 years of experience as an actuary, a commando, a brainwashed assassin, an international fugitive, and then a goat farmer on a one-page resume.”

“Wait, Fury actually made you two submit resumes?” Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Nah, just Bucky,” Sam replies, grinning. “I think Fury just wanted to give him a bit of a hard time after he shot him. Bucky actually wrote one up for him too. Wouldn’t let me see it, but if Natasha just so happens to find it anywhere on SHIELD’s servers at some point…”

“I’ll let you know,” Steve says, chuckling.

When they get to the spare office and see Bucky tacking up some new papers on the vampire murder board, Steve’s laughter catches abruptly in his throat. Bucky’s newly short hair is styled today in an appealing combination of his old, neatly parted look and a more modern fashion.

“Bucky?” Steve says breathlessly, his voice thick with emotion.

“Oh, hey, Steve,” Bucky replies awkwardly, raising his hand to his newly cut hair a bit self-consciously. “How does it look?”

“Great!” Steve says fervently, eyes shining. “You look—God, you look so great, Bucky.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, biting his lip shyly. “Sam cut it for me. Had to look respectable if I was going to meet his mom.”

Steve looks unexpectedly stricken for a moment, but then recovers quickly. “Well, it looks great,” he says. “And you met Sam’s mom! That’s—great. That’s also great.”

“She loved him, of course,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “He wore a suit. And he brought her flowers.”

“Bucky always did bring my mom a flower when he came to visit, even if he had to steal it from someone else,” Steve says wistfully. “That’s—that’s so great that he still does that.” Steve looks dreadfully, deeply jealous right now, although Sam honestly can’t tell if Steve is jealous of him, jealous of Bucky, or jealous of Sam’s mom. Probably a weird combination of all three.

“Well, it turns out Bucky is great with moms. Even put in a good word for your sorry ass while he was there,” Sam says cheerfully.

“Wow! Good! That’s—that’s so good,” Steve says, his voice a little weak now. “Wait, does your mom not like me? Actually never mind. We can talk about it later. I’ll just—I’ll just be going now. I can see that you two have a lot of work to do, so I’ll just—go.”

When Steve leaves, Bucky raises an eyebrow at Sam. “You think maybe the whole make-Steve-jealous plan is actually working?” Bucky says wryly, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a crooked smile.

Sam stifles a laugh. “Yeah, just a bit.”

***

Sam and Bucky are just getting out of the shower after their run on Saturday when they hear an unexpected knock on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Sam says, pulling on a t-shirt and a hoodie. Bucky’s still standing in front of the closet, clad only in a gratifyingly small towel as he takes his time deciding what to wear today.

When Sam gets to the door and opens it, he’s surprised to find Steve and Natasha standing in front of him. Steve looks a bit sheepish, but Natasha appears utterly relaxed, at ease in the way that she always is no matter what’s going on or how weird Steve is.

“Surprise!” Steve says awkwardly. He raises his hands briefly like he might be attempting some sort of jazz hands or something, then clearly thinks better of it and sticks his hands in his pockets where they can’t get him into trouble. “We’re here to take you guys out!”

“Sam, sweetheart, where’s our blue sweater?” Bucky calls out from the bedroom.

“Sweetheart?” Steve repeats thinly.

“Our blue sweater?” Natasha repeats gleefully.

Bucky emerges from the bedroom, hands smoothing out a few wrinkles in the aforementioned sweater as he tugs it into place. “Never mind, I found it,” Bucky announces. “Hey, guys.”

“Well, hello, Bucky. So you two share clothes now,” Natasha observes, the corner of her mouth curving blithely upward. “Isn’t that interesting?”

What’s particularly interesting, Sam thinks, is that he is ninety-nine percent certain that he saw Steve wearing that same white t-shirt Natasha has tied neatly at her waist just the other day.

“Of course we share clothes. Why would Sam and I need separate clothes? We wear basically the same size, even if Sam’s shoulders are a bit nicer than mine,” Bucky says, winking at Sam.

“Your waist is trimmer, though. You’ve got that nice lean look going on, it’s really working for you.”

“OK!” Steve interrupts, sounding a bit frantic. He and Natasha trade a few weird, indecipherable looks back and forth and Natasha rolls her eyes. “So we were thinking we would take you guys out this morning, have some best friend time.” Steve says this last part with particular emphasis.

“Great, where are we going?” Bucky asks.

“Actually,” Steve says, “we were thinking about splitting up. Sam, how do you feel about going to a ball game with me?”

“Sure,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “What are Natasha and Bucky going to do?”

Natasha and Bucky have a brief conversation in Russian, gesturing back and forth a bit before Natasha flatly states, “Bucky and I are gonna go to yoga and then get mani pedis.”

“OK,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow in skepticism. Honestly he probably doesn’t want to know whatever it is they’re really planning to do, if only for the sake of plausible deniability. Sam wonders if he and Bucky should think about getting married at some point so they don’t ever have to testify against each other. He should bring it up later, probably not in front of Steve.

***

Steve and Sam are sitting in the sun, relaxing at a Mets game, and Sam has missed this so much. It’s spring, still a bit chilly, but the sun is out and the day’s warming up quickly. Steve looks happy and relaxed, golden hair shining in the sunlight and a little bit of pink on his cheeks and forehead that will fade away before they’re even home from the game tonight.

“So you and Bucky are getting along well,” Steve says, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eyes.

Sam hums noncommittally, taking a sip of his water. He’d checked the app on his phone to see if any of the beers they had on tap were vegan, but unfortunately none of them were. Which is fine, really, because Bucky’s been nagging him to drink more water lately. In fact Bucky’ll probably ask Sam about it when he gets home, so now Sam will be able to tell Bucky yes, he had a bottle of water today, he’s staying hydrated.

“You don’t think Bucky’s a bit—much?” Steve asks uncertainly. “Some people used to think he was a bit overbearing.”

“Nah, he’s cool,” Sam says mildly, then hesitates. “But, well, he doesn’t have much use for privacy, does he? I mean, he’s always so—around. And so attractive! And sometimes a man needs some time to himself, for personal, intimate things. You know what I’m saying?”

“You’re dying of sexual frustration, aren’t you.” Steve smirks, with a knowing little glint in his eye.

“God, yes.”

“Old Bucky Barnacle. So that’s still his move, huh?” Steve says, his voice wry. “Well, good luck with that. If history repeats itself, I’m sure the situation will eventually come to a head one way or another.”

Sam doesn’t know what to do with that ominous remark, but since it’s such a nice day he decides to let it slide.

“Bucky did say something to me once, kind of struck me as odd. He said that you were his only friend growing up. Which—that’s not true, right? I mean, he’s so handsome and charming and—surprisingly sweet. I feel like a guy like that would have a lot of friends.”

Steve laughs ruefully. “You’d think so, right? But Bucky never really seemed to want other friends, and honestly a lot of people thought there was something a bit—funny, about him. And about me.”

“Funny like maybe you two were a little too close?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking a little flustered. “Yeah, maybe,” he admits. “We were always together. God, Bucky used to get so jealous when I’d make other friends. But he loved me, wanted me to be happy. I think he was happiest when we were a part of the Howling Commandos. He just wanted me to be around people who valued me and appreciated me, I think.”

“He liked Peggy a lot,” Sam says mildly, carefully.

“He talked to you about Peggy?” Steve’s eyes widen slightly in surprise.

“We talk,” Sam says, careful to keep his tone guarded. Sam doesn’t know how much Steve and Bucky have really had a chance to connect after Bucky came back from Wakanda, doesn’t know how much Bucky is comfortable with Sam revealing. He gets the feeling that Steve and Bucky have been dancing around a lot of things for about eighty-five years now. “He likes Natasha too.”

“Does he,” Steve says, with a small, speculative smile.

***

They’re sitting on the sofa, catching up on Riverdale, and Sam can’t believe how much better the show has gotten since the Decimation forced them to write out Archie Andrews. They’ve just finished the episode where Betty Cooper reveals that the murdered Jason Blossom was actually just a clone of the real Jason Blossom—who apparently was in the witness protection program the whole time—when Bucky suddenly announces, “I think we should practice kissing.”

“Yes, absolutely, one hundred percent,” Sam agrees immediately, then pauses. “Wait, why?”

“Well, Steve and I used to practice kissing all the time, so it’s obviously a pretty normal best friend thing to do,” Bucky reasons, gazing earnestly at Sam with wide, too-innocent eyes. “I feel like it would be suspicious if Steve found out I haven’t kissed anyone in almost eighty years and my so-called best friend didn’t help me get back into practice.”

Then Bucky pulls his right arm across his chest, casually stretching the strong muscle in his shoulder, the thin material of his t-shirt straining over his firm bicep. And wow, Bucky really should have been a lawyer or a politician or something, because Sam always finds his arguments extremely convincing. He’s honestly the most persuasive guy Sam has ever met.

“Yeah, OK,” Sam says. “C’mere.”

Bucky leans toward him, hand coming up to touch Sam’s face gently. Bucky’s so close that Sam can feel Bucky’s soft breath against his mouth, and Sam leans forward to rest his forehead against Bucky’s.

“OK?” Bucky murmurs.

Sam hums in response, leaning forward to touch his lips softly to Bucky’s. Bucky’s hand trembles a little on Sam’s face, nerves or anticipation, but then Bucky’s grip tightens and he pulls Sam closer, opening his mouth to capture Sam’s lips between his.

The kiss starts out soft and sweet, tentative, and then slowly grows more passionate. Sam gasps when Bucky’s teeth pull gently at his bottom lip, tugging his mouth open so Bucky can slip his tongue inside. Sam moans and strokes his tongue against Bucky’s, heating burning through his veins as their tongues slide wetly against each other. Sam can feel Bucky’s heart beating right against his own, through their shirts and their skin and their sternums, a pounding, frantic rhythm that matches the pulse of blood traveling directly to Sam’s cock.

Sam tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair, gripping the short strands in his fist and tugging gently, pulling Bucky’s head right where he needs him. Bucky pitches forward a bit, off-balance, bracing his hands on Sam’s thighs before climbing eagerly up onto Sam’s lap. Bucky is making sweet, urgent little sounds that send a shiver of want down Sam’s spine, and Sam has to pull back for a moment, take a minute to breathe and let his racing heart settle in his chest.

“Sam,” Bucky says, pupils dilated and dark. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, panting and fighting to keep his hips still, trying to keep from shifting them up against Bucky’s. “That was—.”

“Good?” Bucky asks, lips curving into a crooked, cocky grin.

“It was all right,” Sam replies casually, feigning nonchalance. “I think you still need more practice. C’mere.”

***

They practice kissing a lot after that, which is great, and also lucky, because when Bucky hisses “kiss me” to Sam in the middle of a HYDRA raid, Sam doesn’t even hesitate.

They’re sneaking into that New Jersey HYDRA facility Natasha found near the gross vampire lair, and Steve and Nat are breaking into one end of the facility while Sam and Bucky creep through the other. They’re trying to be quiet, don’t want to be caught before Steve and Natasha have a chance to get the data off HYDRA’s servers, so when a HYDRA goon stumbles into the hallway with them, Bucky hauls Sam right up against him and kisses him fiercely.

The HYDRA goon makes a noise of surprise and confusion, clearly baffled by the two heavily armed men making out in the middle of a research facility, but Sam’s having a hard time paying attention to him over the feel of Bucky’s lips, which are spit-slick and firm and insistent against Sam’s. When Bucky starts grinding his hips against him—wow, Bucky is really selling this—Sam lets out a low moan that Steve and Natasha will almost certainly hear over the comms.

“What’s going on here? You’re not supposed to be here!” the goon says.

Bucky releases Sam’s lower lip from between his teeth with a loud pop. “Huh? Oh, sorry, guess we got carried away,” Bucky says sheepishly.

“That’s OK, just—hey, wait! You’re the Winter Soldier!” the goon exclaims, apparently catching sight of Bucky’s metal arm.

Steve and Natasha burst into the hallway at that moment, and when the goon turns back around to face them Sam pulls his shield from its harness and throws it at the man, who falls to the floor like a sack of bricks. Sam catches the rebound.

“Oh, hey, guys,” Bucky says with a grin, casually reaching down to readjust the lines of his uniform from where Sam’s fists had wrinkled it during their makeout session. “You didn’t have to come help out. We had everything under control here.”

“Had everything under control here,” Steve repeats. “We saw you on the security cams necking right in front of a guard!”

“Well, sure, but the guy caught us red-handed sneaking down the corridors. Thank God Bucky’s such a quick thinker or that guard would have thought something was suspicious going on,” Sam says, shooting Bucky a grateful smile. Bucky grins back at him. “Using the old pretend-to-be-a-couple-making-out scam was a great call.”

“A great call?” Natasha says, raising her eyebrows. “You’re dressed as Captain America and the Winter Soldier and you’re right in the middle of their facility. In what way did you appear to be two passionate lovers out for an innocent stroll?”

“To be fair, that guard would have no idea if Captain America and the Winter Soldier had a more than professional relationship,” Bucky points out.

“And are you questioning Bucky’s professional judgment as a master of covert operations, Natasha?” Sam says reproachfully, shaking his head in disappointment. “Bucky was a ghost for over fifty years. I think the man knows how to keep from blowing a cover.”

Steve sighs heavily, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Look, let’s just do a quick sweep through the basement, OK? It’s the only place left that we haven’t checked out.”

When they make it down to the basement, Sam is surprised to find that the whole thing has a very distinct incel-with-a-sex-dungeon vibe to it. Which is not really an aesthetic that he thought HYDRA would be embracing, but he’s learned to roll with it when it comes to the weird shit that HYDRA gets up to. The room looks moldy and kind of wet, with a clammy cement wall that has an actual, albeit cheap-looking, coffin propped up against it, right next to some rusted metal chains that look like a serious tetanus hazard. There’s also a microwave and a pretty expensive gaming PC down here, screen turned on to one of those gryphons and gargoyles MMORPGs.

“Is someone living down here?” Bucky asks, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Or, even worse, is someone living in that coffin?”

There’s only one way to find out. Steve walks over to the coffin and yanks it open, jumping back in horror when a man wearing a neck brace and plastic fangs pops out and cries, “Steve! I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist coming back for me and my vampire babies. And you’ve found my new dungeon!”

His creepy red eyes are on fire with ecstasy.

“Ew, it’s Todd,” Bucky says, making a sour face. “I thought you killed that guy.”

“Yeah, me too,” Steve says with a frown.

“My name isn’t Todd,” Todd says peevishly. “It’s Baron Blood. How would you like it if everyone called you Bucky instead of the Winter Soldier?”

“Everyone does call me Bucky.”

When Todd has the nerve to look judgmental at this, Sam narrows his eyes and snaps, “Bucky is a great nickname.”

“It’s very cute,” Natasha agrees.

“I gave it to him,” Steve says, nodding proudly.

“Did you,” Todd says, eyes widening in alarm. “I didn’t mean to imply that Bucky was a bad nickname! Not at all! In fact, I love it. I was just—pointing out that it might be a tad unprofessional to use someone’s regular name in this kind of formal confrontation between a superhero and his archnemesis. I mean, this is really more like a work meeting, so I think it’s best if we just stick to titles, right, Captain America?”

“You called him Steve, earlier,” Natasha says.

“Well, the relationship between a superhero and his archnemesis really is such an intimate connection,” Todd purrs.

“Gross,” Bucky says.

“Anyway,” Steve says loudly, “Sam is Captain America now, I’m just a regular SHIELD agent. And I’m actually kind of in between call signs right now, so you can just—just call me Steve, I guess.” Steve looks a bit queasy at this.

“Wonderful, Steve,” Todd says smugly, his smile sharp and unnerving underneath those plastic fangs. Then he turns to Sam, looking him critically up and down before disdainfully stating, “I certainly won’t be calling him Captain America, though.”

“Why not? That’s pretty rude, Todd. We’re having a work meeting.” Natasha’s tone is disapproving.

“Well, for one, I’m racist,” Todd explains. “But also there will only ever be one Captain America, and that’s Steve Rogers. This guy’s just the Falcon.”

He says it scornfully, and Sam honestly might have felt a little insulted, but instead he remembers what Bucky said to his mother, that the Falcon was cool, that he could fly, that Sam was a superhero before he ever met Steve Rogers. And so Sam stands tall, raises his head high, and does his fucking job because he is a hero and a professional.

“Whatever, Todd,” Sam says. “I’m going to have to arrest you now.”

Unfortunately, Todd chooses this moment to reveal that he has the ability to transform into a swarm of bats, each of them wearing a tiny neck brace and plastic fangs as they form a small cluster and fly right out of the room and presumably away into the night.

Sam sighs in frustration. “You’re out there somewhere, Blood Baron, and I’ll find you!” he calls out after Todd.

“No, you won’t!” Todd shouts from a distance.

Sam puts his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes. “Yes, I will.”

“Nope!”

Bucky looks around the room, sighing in disgust as he takes in the mess and chaos from dozens of vampire bats flying about, leaving bat fur and guano everywhere.

“Great, now we’re all going to have to get rabies shots,” Bucky complains.

 ***

Sam and Bucky’s whole fake-best-friends plan is working phenomenally well, because ever since that Saturday Steve and Natasha had showed up unexpectedly to take them out, they’ve been regularly scheduling what Steve insists upon calling “best friend dates.” So long as they’re all in the same city, every Saturday they get together in pairs or as a foursome so that no one ever feels left out and everybody gets some quality time with each other.

When Steve and Sam hang out, they usually go to a game or to the gym—not to do any serious training, just to spar, getting sweaty and screwing around trying out new moves on each other. The best part is that for whatever reason the other SHIELD agents seem super reluctant to work out at the same time as them, so Sam and Steve always have plenty of room to wrestle and grapple around on the mats, pinning and taunting each other until someone gets frustrated enough to really slam the other one around a bit.

Sam has no idea what Bucky and Natasha do on their mysterious outings—they claim they’re going to drag brunches or yoga or spin class, but Sam can only guess what kind of sketchy shit a pair of formerly Russian former assassins might get up to together. Thankfully they’re always careful to mastermind their operations in Russian, presumably so that Sam will never be forced to reveal anything incriminating about them if he’s questioned. Bucky takes care of him like that.

Sam’s dates with Natasha are always super weird and fun—they usually end up going to see some kind of crazy conceptual art exhibit or avant-garde foreign film, then get coffee afterward and pretend to be fancy art critics. Or they’ll wander around old flea markets and antique stores and look for insensitive gifts for Steve and Bucky.

Sam is pretty sure that Steve spends his dates with Bucky doing something really homoerotic and intense like drawing semi-nude portraits of Bucky in 1940s military uniforms.

Actually, if they’re not already doing that, Sam should suggest it. He could probably try to pass it off as “healing” or “cathartic” or something, and maybe Steve will even show him the drawings afterward now that Sam has so much experience critiquing art with Natasha.

Today Sam and Natasha had planned on going to an outdoor art fair for their best friend date, because it’s funny to buy Steve tacky cat art and then watch him fumble for an appropriately gracious response, but this morning dawned with the sound of thunder rumbling ominously in the distance. By noon it’s pouring rain, a thick wall of icy water erupting from angry gray clouds, and Natasha is soaking wet when Sam answers the door.

“Jesus, Nat!” Sam says, ushering her into the apartment. “Let me grab you a towel for your hair. Do you want a change of clothes?”

“Sure, but don’t worry about the towel,” Natasha says with a careless wave of her hand. She opens the duffel bag she’s brought with her to reveal a barber’s cape and a pair of shears. “You’re going to cut my hair!”

“Oh, I’m going to cut your hair,” Sam grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Why does everyone seem to think I’m a barber?”

Sam leads Natasha into the kitchen and pulls out a chair for her before heading into the bedroom to try to find a pair of sweats that might fit. Natasha’s tiny, petite even when she wears heels, and it’s easy to forget that about her when she always stands so tall and confident. Sam wonders sometimes if that’s how Steve looked before he got the serum, all tiny and full of courage and swagger. Sam definitely does not think about how he and Bucky might have a type, and instead he grabs a t-shirt and the smallest pair of joggers they own, the ones that pull nice and tight over Bucky’s thighs and ass, before heading back into the kitchen.

Instead of waiting in the chair, Natasha’s standing in the nude, unselfconscious, wringing her clothes out over the sink. Her skin is pale and damp, glistening even in the dim, stormy light of the kitchen. Sam swallows and allows his eyes to trace the path of a drop of water sliding down the side of her neck only until it hits her collarbone, then looks away.

Sam clears his throat and tosses her the bundle of clothes. “Here, put these on,” he says, keeping his gaze averted while he grabs her wet clothes out of the sink. “I’ll put yours in the dryer.”

“Leave the bra out! If you put it in the dryer you’ll ruin it!” Natasha calls after him.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I have a sister, you know!”

Sam hangs Natasha’s bra up above the dryer, and damn, he can see why she doesn’t want him to ruin it. It’s gorgeous, black and lacy and expensive-looking—sexier than the three no-nonsense cotton bras that Natasha rotated between during those two years on the run. Sam smiles as he fingers the lace along the band, a gentle wave of happiness cresting over him at the thought of Natasha finally allowing herself to wear something beautiful.

When Sam returns to the kitchen, Natasha’s dressed, cozy and comfortable in Sam’s favorite t-shirt, joggers rolled up around her waist in an attempt to keep them from hanging onto the floor. Sam tries very hard not to feel any sort of way about how Natasha looks in Sam and Bucky’s clothing.

“So what am I doing here?” Sam asks. He flicks on the light and wraps the barber’s cape around Natasha, snapping it carefully at the back of her neck. Natasha’s hair is already damp, and Sam combs it straight, parting it just above her left eyebrow the way she likes. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s watched her straighten and style her hair this way over the years. “Do you want to keep any of the blonde?”

Natasha shrugs. “Nope, just lop it all off.”

“You’re lucky Bucky’s hair was long enough that I had to watch a bunch of videos on how to cut women’s hair too,” Sam says. He uses the comb to pull her hair taut and then trims off the bleached ends. “Actually, you’re lucky you’re beautiful enough that you can pull off an at-home hair cut from a dude with exactly one professional reference.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and reaches back to pinch Sam’s leg in response.

“Careful!” Sam warns, jerking back to dodge her unnecessarily strong fingers. “If I slip with these scissors, you’re gonna end up with the same haircut I gave Bucky. Do you want to be matching Russian murder twins? Steve and I won’t even be able to tell you two apart anymore.”

Natasha gives him a sly look from beneath her lashes. “Are you saying you and Steve would mind if Bucky and I switched places on you once in a while?”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek and ignores the massive trap Natasha has laid for him, all giant wooden spikes sticking out of a hole in the ground that Natasha’s barely even bothered to camouflage with leaves.

“You and Steve are nasty,” Sam says. “Don’t get me and Bucky involved in your business.”

“Sam,” Natasha teases in a sing-song voice.

Sam ignores her and focuses on trimming her hair, watching the blonde strands drift down to the tile floor. The kitchen is silent around them, quiet enough that Sam can hear the hum of the refrigerator over the soft sounds of the rain pitter-pattering outside, finally beginning to slow.

“Sam, ” Natasha says.

“I’m almost done,” Sam interrupts. He trims one last stray hair that’s escaped from the rest. “You like it just below your shoulders here? If you part it in the middle you’ll look just like you did when I met you.”

“Sam—”

“Here, take a look,” Sam says, handing over the mirror.

He unsnaps Natasha’s cape and busies himself with cleaning up, bringing Natasha’s scissors over to the sink to wash them. Sam soaps up the scissors and watches the storm move off into the distance through the kitchen window. There’s a ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds off to the west, just beginning to hint at the promise of a pretty day ahead.

When he’s done cleaning the scissors, he turns back to face Natasha and catches her smiling at herself in the mirror. “Sam!” she says, her eyes bright and sparkling. “I do look just like I did when you met me.”

“Yeah, Nat, you do,” Sam says with a fond smile, tugging on a lock of Natasha’s hair. “You look just like yourself again.”

The corner of Natasha’s lips tugs up in a wicked grin. “You think I’ve still got what it takes to bring down an entire secret government agency?”

“Nat, you don’t need to bring down an entire secret government agency. You’re gonna run one someday.”

***

The next Saturday Sam and Bucky are making their way through the alleys of Brooklyn on their way to lunch with Steve and Nat, and Sam can’t honestly say that the smell of dumpsters is really doing a lot for his appetite. He’s hopeful that they might run into Steve the cat, but otherwise it would really be nice to just go the regular way for once.

“Man, I don’t think we’re being followed,” Sam says. “Do we really have to go through the whole trash maze today? Can’t we just walk on the streets like regular people?”

Bucky looks concerned. “Wait, what do you mean being followed? Do you think we’re being followed?” Bucky’s spine stiffens and he looks alert, eyes darting back and forth to check the alley entrances for suspicious characters.

“No? But isn’t that why we walk through all these alleys every time we go somewhere?”

Bucky looks shifty for a moment, then embarrassed. “No? It’s really more like—OK, so the truth is—I don’t actually know my way around Brooklyn through the streets,” he mumbles.

“I’m sorry, you just said what now,” Sam says flatly. “Bucky, you grew up here.”

“I know, OK?” Bucky lifts his arm to scratch the back of his neck self-consciously. “But do you know how many fights Steve got into in these alleys? We didn’t have cell phones back then, Sam! The only way to make sure Steve was safe was just to take the alleys everywhere and hope I’d run across him before he got himself killed.”

“Oh my God, you really are the world’s best best friend,” Sam marvels. “No wonder Steve wouldn’t shut up about you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes and trying to hide a pleased grin. “All right, sweetheart, show me how to get there the fancy way. Lead on.”

So Sam leads Bucky out of his weird little warren full of dumpsters and feral cats and into the sunny streets of Brooklyn. Their shoulders and hands bump a bit as they walk along, and Sam’s heart beats a little faster when Bucky briefly tangles their pinky fingers together and gives him a little squeeze.

When they get to the restaurant they find Steve and Nat sitting close together, grinning and laughing and looking fondly at one another, and Sam is surprised to find that he doesn’t feel even the slightest burn of envy at their casual display of intimacy. Instead his heart swells with affection for them, his best friends, and Sam feels thankful that whatever trauma and heartache they’ve suffered over the last five years, at least they’ve finally learned how to express all those emotions they’d been keeping locked so tightly inside of them.

Steve and Nat seem lighter, happier, quicker to offer smiles and physical affection and verbal assurances of love. It’s kind of sweet really, Sam thinks.

Steve and Natasha look happy when they see Sam and Bucky arrive, standing up to give them big hugs and quick kisses on the cheek or the lips. The four of them chat for a while about what else Sam and Bucky have missed over the last five years—they’re still catching up, working their way now through the four legendary albums Taylor Swift released after her boyfriend was lost in the Decimation. She dropped all four albums at the same time, received massive public and critical acclaim, then disappeared for the next four years. Sam is profoundly unsurprised by the revelation that he and Bucky share an appreciation for hot, artistic blonds.

When the subject turns to work and thus to Todd, Sam groans. “So what’s the deal with that guy anyway? I thought you literally beheaded him.”

“I did,” Steve says with a grimace. “But he had that whole neck brace situation going on? So I guess he’s using it to just sort of—hold everything together.” Steve looks a little nauseated at the idea.

“Todd is so gross,” Bucky complains.

“You soaked the shield in holy water blessed by the pope, though, right?” Sam asks, frowning. “Todd’s Catholic, so it should have worked.”

“We did,” Natasha confirms. “Steve took a trip to Rome and went to a special mass and everything.”

Steve turns to Bucky, looking displeased. “Oh! Did you know that they do the mass with the priest facing you now? So now he can see if you’re goofing off in church. And they don’t do it in Latin anymore, so they expect you to actually listen too.”

“Remember when Father O’Connell caught us sneaking comic books into our hymnals and Ma wouldn’t let me see you for a month?” Bucky says, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle. “She always did think you were a bad influence.”

“I honestly thought you were going to die every single night when you snuck up that death trap of a fire escape to my bedroom in the pitch darkness.”

“Well, c’mon, like I was really going to go an entire month without seeing my best friend?” Bucky says, scoffing. “Plus that was like the same month we discovered masturbation so forgive me for being willing to risk death to come see you every night.”

Natasha snorts a little at that, and Sam makes sure to look directly in front of him at Steve so that he does not catch Natasha’s eye.

“Anyway,” Natasha says loudly, clearing her throat. “I think our mistake was in getting holy water blessed by the wrong pope.”

“The wrong pope?” Bucky lifts an eyebrow. “There’s only one pope, Natalia.”

“Not anymore!” Natasha says cheerfully. “After the Snap, there was a huge schism in the Catholic Church between the ‘faithful’ and a group of people who thought that what we actually experienced was the Rapture. There was this whole conspiracy theory that the old pope and a group of cardinals—who were all taken in the Decimation—deliberately suppressed information about the Rapture because it conflicted with Catholic teachings. So the remaining ‘faithful’ cardinals elected one pope, but then another group of cardinals broke off and elected a different pope.”

“What,” Sam says.

“Yup!” Natasha says, eyes alight with amusement. “So the schismatics moved their Holy See back to Avignon in France, but before they did, they—get this—collected the old pope’s ashes and put them on trial.”

“What,” Sam repeats, mouth dropping open in disbelief.

“It was the most batshit insane Medieval farce of a trial I have ever seen, and I grew up in the Soviet Union.” Natasha tips her head in reluctant approval at this lunacy. “So anyway, now there are two popes, and they’ve each ex-communicated the other.”

“So if Todd is a follower of the schismatic pope, then I guess we need to go get some holy water blessed by that guy instead?” Sam says.

“Natasha and I can go,” Steve offers.

Bucky narrows his eyes at this and bumps Sam’s knee under the table. “Nah, Sam and I can go. The last time I was in Avignon, I was in the infantry and it was being bombed by the Germans,” Bucky laments. He knows how guilty Steve feels about the horrors Bucky witnessed in the war before Steve rescued him from Kreischberg. “Plus Avignon is really beautiful this time of year.”

“It will be a healing trip,” Sam says earnestly.

***

One of Bucky’s many mysterious superpowers is that no matter where they are in the world, no matter what part of any city, no matter what language everybody is speaking and whether Bucky can speak it too, Bucky can disappear for fifteen minutes and magically return with the best weed Sam has ever smoked.

They’re at their hotel in Avignon, relaxing after a pretty tense dinner with Pope Stephen X—known apparently to “regular” Catholics as the Antipope of Avignon—and his loony band of schismatics. Sam has already expended the majority of today’s allotted emotional energy pretending that everything this guy did wasn’t deeply weird.

“Do you think he’s actually going to release a papal bull against Destiel?” Bucky asks. He sucks on the end of their joint, cheeks hollowing out attractively as he inhales, before he exhales and passes it back over to Sam.

They’re on the roof of the hotel, where they’re probably not technically allowed to be, but Sam used his wings to get them up here anyway and he’s sure they have some sort of diplomatic immunity or something, right? Probably. They have a gorgeous view of the Rhone, painted dark purple in the setting sun, and the Palais des Papes looks Gothic and romantic as hell surrounded by Medieval ramparts.

“I don’t know, man,” Sam says, shrugging. He feels warm and lazy. “I tried to tell him it’d be political or religious suicide or whatever if he did. Like 40% of the world’s Catholics live in Latin America and they’re all Destiel believers down there.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, and then Bucky says, “Hey, Sam? Do you ever think about submarines?”

“I mean, occasionally, I guess,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Bucky replies, leaning back and looking up at the sky. “It’s just so funny thinking about all the submarines floating out there, hiding from each other. Like, what a ridiculous thing we all decided to do. We just send people out for months at a time and tell them to find other submarines but not to let other submarines find them. And like every major superpower does this, and it costs billions of dollars.”

“That’s a good point, but also you’re high as fuck,” Sam replies, stifling a grin. “Where did you even get this weed?”

“French Mafia,” Bucky responds blithely.

Sam shakes his head in disbelief, wondering when that became a thing. He pours another glass of wine from the picnic basket they brought up with them and takes a sip. “This is a nice ass spread, by the way. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

Bucky grins in response, and oh, Sam knows that grin.

“C’mere, baby,” Sam says. “Let’s make out.”

***

It takes a while for Natasha to track Todd to his new lair, but eventually she finds it in the Free State of Michigan. Like everything else about the world after the Snap, everything about that situation is confusing as hell too, because when Michigan seceded from the Union, the Upper and Lower Peninsulas actually split apart from each other. It wasn’t even because one peninsula wanted to leave and the other wanted to stay either—they both wanted to leave, but the Lower Peninsula refused to let the Upper Peninsula tag along with them, arguing that they didn’t contribute enough to their tax base.

So now the Lower Peninsula is an independent country known as the Free State of Michigan, while the Upper Peninsula is still a part of the United States of America and is known simply as Michigan. They fought a lot over which peninsula got to keep the name Michigan, and the Upper Peninsula only narrowly won that battle after Ohio got its trashy ass involved.

Finally, after the Battle of Toledo and the total shit show that was the Second Michigan-Ohio War, the United States government finally agreed to let the Free State of Michigan leave so long as they got to keep the Upper Peninsula and call it Michigan. So now the Lower Peninsula is a libertarian hellhole called the Free State of Michigan and Sam has to use his passport to get there.

“Do you even need a passport?” Bucky asks. They’re in the middle of fighting Todd, who’s not actually that good at fighting but is very good at exploding into a group of bats every time they try to land a punch. “You’re Captain America. I feel like this is a situation like the Queen of England, where she doesn’t need a passport because all passports are issued by her.”

“I don’t think that all American passports are issued by me,” Sam says doubtfully. He should probably check with Nick Fury or maybe the President about that, though.

Todd re-forms back into a person just to be a dick and tell Sam he’ll never be the real Captain America.

“You’re an asshole, Todd,” Sam informs him. Then, before Todd can become bats again, Sam slings his shield, already coated in holy water blessed by the Antipope of Avignon, directly at Todd’s neck, busting through his brace and re-severing his head.

 “Nice hit,” Bucky says, whistling in admiration.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to do the trick, because Todd just stands up, gropes blindly for his head, and once he finds it, he poofs into a swarm of bats, each one cradling its little head in its right wing, flying off into the night at a distinctly wonky angle.

“Damn it, Todd!” Sam calls after him. “What the fuck do you even believe in, man?”

***

They don’t stay at a hotel in the Free State of Michigan because it’s a dystopian nightmare where every hotel room is a smoking room and Sam is genuinely concerned about being hunted for sport, so they take the Quinjet back to New York.

They get in late, showering perfunctorily and climbing into bed nude together, too tired to bother pulling on pajamas. When Sam wakes up in the morning, he can see that it’s really more like mid-afternoon, the sun streaming in through their curtains, filling the bedroom with soft, diffused light. Bucky is pressed up against his back, too hot and just a tiny bit sweaty, his hard cock nestled up against Sam’s ass.

When Sam shifts a bit against him, reluctantly considering the prospect of getting up and starting the day, Bucky makes a discontented little noise and wraps his arm around Sam’s chest to pull him back.

“No, come back here,” Bucky mumbles, voice rough with sleep. He throws his leg over Sam’s, trapping him into place, and drops a warm kiss onto the back of Sam’s neck. Sam shivers at the feel of Bucky’s lips against the sensitive skin at his nape, and Bucky’s hand wanders down Sam’s chest and along his flank as he subtly grinds his cock into Sam’s ass.

Sam lets out a low chuckle. “Oh, that’s what you want?” he asks with amusement.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Bucky breathes. “That’s what I want.”

Sam turns over to face him, capturing Bucky’s lips in a slow and dirty kiss. Bucky moans softly, and his hand slides down to blatantly grope Sam’s ass, fingers kneading into the hard muscle. Bucky’s cock is pressed against his, and Sam can’t resist grinding a bit against him.

When Sam pulls back from the kiss, he asks, “You sure about this? Sex changes things.”

“Sure I’m sure,” Bucky says, grinning. “I mean, it’s been awhile, but Steve and I always—”

“Do not tell me you and Steve used to fuck back in the day.” Sam groans, willing his brain not to indulge those mental images.

“Wait, did you and Steve not—”

“No!” Sam says defensively. “Steve and I were best friends, not boyfriends.”

“Sam, first of all, it’s totally normal to fuck your best friend, it’s called friends with benefits. I looked it up, and it’s a thing.” Bucky sounds placid, relaxed, his tone entirely too reasonable, his expression even and unbothered. “And second of all, you and I are only pretending to be best friends, so it’ll be even more fine for us.”

Bucky shifts his hips against Sam again, and Sam stifles a low moan. Sam is absolutely going to go along with this nonsense. God, all of his relationships with all of his friends have gotten so deeply weird ever since Steve came into his life. Steve’s boundary issues with Bucky are infecting the entire rest of the team.

“Yeah, OK,” Sam agrees, then gasps as Bucky leans down to lick and then gently bite Sam’s nipple. The sensation goes straight to Sam’s cock and he can’t resist thrusting his pelvis up against Bucky’s hard abs. “Fuck, baby.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Bucky says, licking his way down Sam’s chest, mouthing and sucking at the skin on Sam’s lower belly and thighs, soft and gentle and careful, like maybe he doesn’t want to leave any bruises. Sam wonders if that’s a leftover habit from fucking Steve, if Bucky hadn’t wanted to leave marks on Steve’s pale, delicate skin, still so quick to bloom purple even now that his bruises fade in a matter of hours. As Sam pictures Bucky’s mouth on Steve, licking and sucking at him the same way that he’s torturing Sam now, heat spreads through his entire body, his skin on fire.

Bucky spends an excruciatingly long time just teasing and kissing around Sam’s cock before he finally, finally runs his tongue slowly up Sam’s hard length.

“Fuck,” Sam curses, fighting to keep his hips still. Bucky looks up at him from beneath those long lashes, and Sam feels a sharp tug in his lower belly at the sight of those gorgeous gray eyes. “Fuck, please.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Bucky says soothingly.

He presses a soft kiss to the tip of Sam’s cock and then wraps his pretty lips around him and slides down, maintaining eye contact as he takes Sam deep into his mouth. Sam gasps at all that wet heat surrounding him, shocked by the fire racing down his spine as he feels Bucky swallow him down.

“Bucky,” Sam says helplessly, reaching down to put his hands in Bucky’s thick hair, soft and still messy from sleep.

Sam shifts restlessly, trying not to fuck Bucky’s mouth as Bucky leisurely drags his mouth up and down Sam’s cock, his pace maddeningly, frustratingly slow. When Bucky slides all the way down to the base of Sam’s cock, taking his entire length into his mouth, Sam’s hips jerk involuntarily and his fists clench in Bucky’s hair.

“Fuck, baby, I need—I need—”

Bucky pulls his mouth off Sam’s cock and Sam moans at the loss of that tight heat. Bucky’s eyes are knowing, his lips spit-slick and pink, so pretty and swollen.

“I know what you need, sweetheart,” Bucky says sympathetically, wickedly, his voice rough from Sam’s cock down his throat. “You gonna let me fuck you, Sam?”

“Yeah, God, yeah,” Sam says. Sam’s pulse leaps at the thought, and he takes a deep breath to try to force his racing heart to calm down, to steady his shaking hands.

Bucky kisses his way back up Sam’s chest, leaning over Sam to whisper in his ear, “So gorgeous, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good, Sam.”

Bucky reaches into the top drawer of the nightstand to pull out a condom and a bottle of lube. Sam starts to turn over, to bring himself up onto all fours, when Bucky stops him and says, “No, stay there, sweetheart. I wanna see you while I fuck you.”

Bucky grabs a pillow and slides it under Sam’s ass, pulling Sam’s knees up and spreading his legs apart so he can look at him. Sam trembles under Bucky’s gaze, his skin prickling as Bucky’s eyes roam greedily over Sam’s body.

“Fuck, Sam,” Bucky says reverently. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Sam gasps, arching his back when he feels the slick press of Bucky’s finger at his hole.

He tries not to clench up, tries to relax his muscles as Bucky slides a finger smoothly inside him. Bucky is sweet and soothing, praising Sam as he works his finger in and out of him, telling Sam how beautiful he is, how good he feels, how much Bucky can’t wait to be inside of him. Sam’s poor, neglected cock is dripping precome onto his lower belly, and Sam reaches down to take himself in hand, giving his cock a gentle stroke.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Bucky says, his eyes hot and admiring as they watch Sam’s fist moving over his cock.

Sam keeps at it, leisurely jerking himself off while Bucky works a second and then a third finger into him. Bucky’s eyes are dark and hungry, and Sam feels aroused and exposed and needy, desperate for more, ready for Bucky’s cock to fuck him open and fill him up. He’s panting and gasping, chanting, “Please, please, please” as Bucky’s fingers stretch and pull at his loosening rim.

“You want it?” Bucky says, ripping open the condom package, pulling out the condom and sliding it down the thick, flushed length of his cock.

“Please, yes, I need it,” Sam begs.

And Sam’s embarrassed by his eagerness, how desperate he is for it, but the humiliation only makes him more aroused, his cock hardening further under his hand. He’s always so quick to say yes to Bucky, so quick to be tempted even against his own common sense, and Jesus fuck is he grateful for that now because that is Bucky’s cock sliding into him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle at Sam’s entrance and filling him up.

Bucky grabs Sam’s legs and hitches them up around his waist, sliding another inch of his thick cock deep inside Sam, who’s gasping and panting beneath him. Sam’s knees tighten around Bucky’s sides, gripping him tight and using his leverage to pull Bucky deeper into him. Sweat begins to form at the small of Sam’s back and behind his knees, prickling at his overheated skin.

“Sam,” Bucky moans. “God, Sam, you feel so good, sweetheart.”

Bucky bends down to steal a wet, filthy kiss as he slides his cock deeper, pushing that last, final inch all the way into Sam. Bucky’s hips are flush against him, and Sam feels so connected to Bucky, with Bucky’s tongue sliding slickly into Sam’s mouth and Bucky’s cock thrusting deep into Sam’s ass, and Sam swears Bucky’s heart is beating in time with his, twin rhythms pounding faster and faster until Sam feels like they’ll both burst into flames.

“C’mon,” Sam urges. “I need it. Please, baby.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, leaning down to give Sam one last kiss before he braces himself on his arms and starts moving, slow and deep and dirty, into Sam. Sam’s head falls back as his back arches, and Bucky’s teeth nip gently at the exposed skin of Sam’s neck. Sam reaches down to grab Bucky’s ass, and Bucky inhales sharply when Sam pulls him, hard, so far inside him that Sam feels like he’ll choke on Bucky’s cock.

“Sam—Sam, you—”

“Yeah, baby, please—”

“God, Sam—”

Bucky fucks him so slowly, so sweetly, that Sam feels like he’s going to float off into space, lost in the feel of Bucky’s cock hitting that sensitive spot before dragging back out against his tender rim. Sam moans every time Bucky hits his prostate, feeling his balls begin to tighten and draw up against his body. Bucky’s pace slowly shifts from controlled and relentless to wild and irregular.

“Sam, Sam, look at me,” Bucky groans. Sam opens his eyes to find Bucky looking wrecked, his lips swollen, eyes dark and dazed, looking beautiful and so utterly focused on Sam. Their eyes meet and Bucky holds the contact, biting his lip and moaning. “Sam, Sam, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, c’mon, do it—”

Bucky comes with a choked cry, shuddering and thrusting his hips erratically against Sam. His body shakes and shivers, breath coming in heavy gasps against Sam’s mouth.

Sam groans and focuses his attention back to stroking his cock, his hand moving faster and faster as Bucky pants and recovers above him. Sam’s almost there, so close, when Bucky leans down to kiss him, teeth biting gently at Sam’s bottom lip, and stars explode behind Sam’s eyes as he spills over his fist.

Bucky is slow to pull out of Sam, kissing him lazily before removing the condom and then collapsing on top of him. Sam wraps his arms around Bucky as they breathe and let their hearts settle, pressed tightly against one another.

“God, Sam,” Bucky says, voice muffled by Sam’s neck, sounding happy and exhausted and overwhelmed.

Sam lets Bucky rest on top of him for a while until he begins to feel suffocated by the weight of an entire supersoldier resting on him. He nudges Bucky to the side a little, and Bucky rolls onto his back, pulling Sam over to rest his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

Sam wonders if Bucky understands that “friends with benefits” usually don’t make love to each other the way that Bucky just made love to him.

“Good, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, pressing a kiss to the top of Sam’s head.

“Yeah.” The corner of Sam’s mouth turns up in a grin. “You did all right.”

“You were pretty good yourself,” Bucky says appreciatively. “Thought I was going to die when I got inside you. Christ, sweetheart.”

They lapse into blissful silence for a moment, and Bucky reaches over to grab Sam’s hand and pull it onto his chest. He plays with Sam’s fingers idly, intertwining their fingers and then pulling back to stroke his thumb over Sam’s palm. Bucky seems utterly relaxed and content, and Sam hates to break the comfortable silence but he just has to ask.

“So,” Sam says casually, “is that always how you fuck? All slow and romantic and full of eye contact?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve only ever had sex with Steve, so I guess so?” Bucky says, frowning. Sam is a little stunned at this revelation, eyebrows shooting upward in shock, because Bucky is one of the most attractive men Sam has ever met and Sam now knows for a fact that Bucky knows how to seduce someone if he wants it. “I guess I’m not really sure how I’d fuck someone other than you or Steve. I mean, maybe Natalia—”

Sam decides to interrupt Bucky before he finishes that interesting thought. “Rumor has it that you were a real smooth operator back in the day, though, taking ladies out on the town and double dating with Steve and going out dancing all night. You’re saying you never seriously tried it on with anybody else?” Sam asks in disbelief.

“Well, I mean, there were girls,” Bucky says slowly. “But I sorta got the feeling that they didn’t really take me seriously? Like, they were happy to go dancing with me, and they’d give me a sweet kiss at the end of the night, but if I tried for anything more they’d just pat me on the cheek and tell me to say hi to Steve for them and I really should take out their friend Betty next week.”

Bucky shrugs, obviously baffled by this behavior, but Sam suddenly understands exactly why Bucky wasn’t very successful with the ladies, and Sam really should have been way less surprised by the fact that even the sheltered Catholic girls of 1940s Brooklyn could tell that Bucky and Steve were deeply weird about each other and Bucky wasn’t exactly available.

“Did you ever want to get married and have a family?”

“Sure, someday,” Bucky says carelessly. “But Steve and I were still young when the war hit. I thought we’d have more time together. And then we didn’t, and Steve met Peggy, and you know how everything went after that.”

“It didn’t bother you when Steve found Peggy?”

“No, of course not,” Bucky says, his eyes shining and earnest. “Peggy was a doll. And I’ve been in love with Steve my whole life. I knew we’d always be best friends. It never even occurred to me that I could ever really lose Steve, not in a way that mattered. After all, who can ever really come between someone and their best friend?”

And that—explains a lot about Bucky’s near fanatical devotion to the very concept of best friendship. Sam shakes his head at this, knowing that there’s probably no point in trying to shake Steve and Bucky out of the wacky coping mechanisms they’ve developed for 1940s homophobia. After over a hundred years that shit has got to be way too deeply entrenched in their psyches.

Sam resigns himself to embracing their crazy on this particular issue. At least Bucky is hot.

***

Sam and Bucky are visiting Sam’s mom, and Sam doesn’t know how his mom knows, but somehow she definitely does know that something is different between Sam and Bucky, and boy does she look thrilled about it.

“Thank you so much for the lovely flowers, Bucky!” Sam’s mom gushes. “And you thought to bring a dish for dinner! Sam never used to bring a dish with him to dinner.” She beams at Bucky, so clearly approving of all of the changes Bucky has brought to Sam’s life, then looks meaningfully over at Sarah and Michelle. “And don’t they look handsome!”

Michelle simply nods obediently at this, because she’s eleven and not particularly impressed by Sam’s too-formal attire, but Sarah gives him a quick once over and then raises her eyebrows in mild surprise at his tailored blazer.

Sam and Sarah have a quick conversation through facial expressions, communicating “What’s all this then, Sam?” and “Don’t make a big thing about it, Sarah,” and “Is he your boyfriend?” and “Shut up, Sarah!” through a series of suggestively waggled eyebrows and narrowed eyes and teasing smirks.

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you to plan a meal without meat, Mrs. Wilson,” Bucky says with concern. “If it’s too much or you don’t want the hassle of meal planning, you’re all more than welcome to come to our apartment for dinner on Sunday nights.”

And the thing is, Bucky’s not being smarmy or insincere about it at all. He would be genuinely happy to have Sam’s family over for dinner every Sunday night, because Bucky likes cooking and he likes Sam and he likes families, and maybe Sam’s starting to feel some kind of way about all of Bucky’s effortless charm and openhanded generosity and muscular thighs.

“So you and Sam are living together,” Sarah says with interest. Even Michelle perks up at this, finally glancing up from her phone, where she’s been texting rapidly or possibly live tweeting this entire embarrassing conversation.

Bucky puts a casual arm around Sam’s shoulders, and come on, Bucky has to know how this looks to Sam’s family, right? “Yep, for probably around six months now, right, sweetheart?” Bucky says, smiling at Sam.

And suddenly Sam realizes that maybe Bucky doesn’t know how this looks to Sam’s family, because Bucky has such an extreme lack of awareness regarding normal friendship boundaries, and also because they’re so far deep into this whole fake-best-friends thing that this is just the way that the two of them act now, all the time.

And, really, Sam has to blame Steve and Natasha for this too, because the two of them are only encouraging this madness with all the “best friends dates” and the excessive physical affection and their own overly invested relationship. Literally no one in Bucky’s life is modeling basic relationship boundaries for him, no wonder he slipped through the cracks of normal human friendship behavior.

And Sam must be crazy too, because he just smiles back at Bucky and says, “Yep, that sounds about right, baby.” Because Sam isn’t really all that concerned about normal human friendship behavior when Bucky looks at him like that, gray eyes all warm and soft and pleased, like Sam’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

Sam’s heart beats a little faster in his chest, warmth traveling through his veins, and oh, this is a thing.

“You know, when you and Steve were living together, he never invited us over to your place,” Sam’s mother points out. Thanks to all of Bucky’s hard work rehabbing Steve’s tarnished image in Sam’s mother’s eyes, Steve has been upgraded from that boy to Steve, always stated with a faint moue of distaste.

“Steve and I were international fugitives, Mom,” Sam replies, his tone patient. “We didn’t have a stable place to invite you to.”

“And whose fault was that!” Sam’s mom says triumphantly.

“Mom, I made my own choices when it came to the Accords.”

“Sam’s not a follower,” Bucky agrees, and it’s sweet that Bucky thinks so but Sam realizes now that that is a complete lie, because Sam has done nothing but follow Bucky along in this foolishness ever since he felt Bucky’s body pressed up against him in a closet. “And if anything it’s probably my fault how everything went down. I was the one they blamed for that bombing—Steve and Sam were just trying to help me. They really are the best friends I could ever ask for, and I’m still not sure I was worth everything they went through for it.’”

And maybe it’s just a fluke of the phrasing, maybe Bucky didn’t really mean it, but Sam can’t help but notice that this is the first time Bucky has ever used the plural form of the term best friend.

“Oh, dear, that wasn’t your fault!” Sam’s mother protests. “You were framed for that bombing!”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Steve’s fault either, Mom.”

Sam’s mother sniffs. “Well, I still think Steve could have made more of an effort to get to know your family.”

“I’m still friends with Steve, Mom,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Our friendship is not past tense, we’re not, like, broken up or something.”

“Then why isn’t Steve here for Sunday dinner with the rest of the family?” Sam’s mother gestures around the table at the five of them, and Sam’s heart skips a beat as he realizes that his mother is including Bucky in the family.

Sarah and Michelle are observing this conversation with ill-concealed glee, unabashedly enjoying Sam’s friendship-slash-relationship-slash-familial drama. Bucky’s arm is still wrapped around Sam, his thumb rubbing absent little circles on Sam’s shoulder, and Michelle is tapping away on her phone as she watches. Sam doesn’t have high hopes for this staying off the internet when he catches Michelle snapping a surreptitious photo of Sam tucked in snugly under Bucky’s arm.

It’s Bucky’s metal arm, too, so no chance of passing Bucky off as some random dude.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, Sam thinks. He leans over and gives Bucky a soft kiss on the mouth right in front of his family.

***

Sam and Bucky are fooling around on the sofa after finishing season one of The Mandalorian—apparently Pedro Pascal’s bedroom voice really does it for both of them—and Sam is finally getting the chance to trace Bucky’s abs with his tongue the way he imagined every single time he jerked off in the shower back before Bucky started taking showers with him.

Sam shifts down to suck a bruise into the sharp jut of Bucky’s hip bone, and Bucky moans underneath him. Bruises don’t last any longer on Bucky than they do on Steve, but Sam still likes seeing Bucky’s fair skin mottled with fresh marks, likes the possessive little thrill it sends through him to see Bucky’s perfect flesh marred by Sam’s mouth and teeth.

“Sam, please, suck me, sweetheart,” Bucky begs.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, pulling Bucky’s boxer-briefs down his hips and watching in satisfaction when Bucky’s hard cock springs forward, flushed and thick and perfect. Sam is impatient tonight, wants Bucky’s cock in his mouth now, and he leans forward to swallow Bucky down in one long, slick slide.

“Fuck, Sam,” Bucky moans.

Sam grabs Bucky’s hips as he bobs his head up and down, fingers digging in tight, bruising, to keep Bucky from thrusting into Sam’s mouth. Bucky is strong enough that he could easily break Sam’s hold but he doesn’t, squirming restlessly underneath Sam, frustrated and needy and desperate.

Sam pulls off Bucky’s cock long enough to take in a big gulp of air before he slides back down, taking Bucky as far back into his throat as he can, and Bucky moans brokenly when Sam tightens his mouth and lips around him. Sam sets a steady rhythm, swirling his tongue around the head of Bucky’s cock and then sucking him back down again, spit slicking up the way. Sam reaches up to roll Bucky’s balls between his fingers, squeezing and tugging gently, admiring the heft of them in his hand.

“God, Sam, Sam,” Bucky chants, hands fisting in the sheets to keep from grabbing Sam’s head and fucking his face. “Sam, sweetheart, I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

Sam moans around Bucky’s cock, and Bucky cries out, tapping Sam’s shoulder in a desperate warning before he breaks Sam’s hold on his hips and thrusts forward, flooding Sam’s mouth with come. Sam swallows him down, bitter and salty, and then leans forward to rest his head against Bucky’s pelvis and catch his breath.

“God, Sam,” Bucky says, panting. He looks flushed and beautiful, and Sam’s heart feels like it’s going to explode in his chest.

“I love you too,” Sam says helplessly.

Bucky looks awestruck for a moment, then says, “C’mere,” in a rough voice.

He pulls Sam up and gives him a quick, hard kiss, then reaches down to unbutton Sam’s jeans and slide his hand around Sam’s cock. He strokes Sam firmly, a brutal pace that drives Sam half out of his mind. Sam’s already so hard from sucking Bucky’s cock, can still taste Bucky’s come in his mouth, and he won’t need much to get there.

“Baby, please, I need—”

“I know what you need, sweetheart,” Bucky says comfortingly. He buries his head in Sam’s neck, biting down on the thick cord of muscle that leads to Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s back arches in pleasure. Bucky strokes him just a little faster, almost enough, thumb rubbing at that sensitive spot right beneath Sam’s glans. “C’mon, sweetheart, come for me.”

And Sam does, come splattering over his lower belly, mind going blissfully blank and toes curling in pleasure. While Sam comes down from his high, Bucky reaches up to cup Sam’s face in his hand, stroking his thumb tenderly over Sam’s cheek. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Sam leans forward to kiss him, losing himself in the warm heat of Bucky’s mouth, their lips moving in a slow, gentle slide against each other. They make out lazily for a while, hands roaming appreciatively over each other’s bodies, until Sam reluctantly pulls away to clean up.

When Sam returns to the living room, Bucky is sitting in the dim light of the television, chewing anxiously at his lower lip. Sam plops down next to him, turning on his side to face him and putting his feet in Bucky’s lap.

“Did you mean it?” Bucky asks uncertainly. “It wasn’t just, like, a heat of the moment thing?”

“I did,” Sam confirms, his voice sure and steady. “Did you mean it?”

“God, yes, Sam. I love you.”

They look at each other dopily for a while, then Bucky tugs at Sam’s legs to urge him further down the sofa, closer to Bucky. They curl up together and enjoy the comfortable silence until Bucky says, “Tell me something you’ve never told Steve.”

Sam thinks for a moment, then groans. He covers his face with his hands, peeking embarrassedly through his fingers, and says, “OK, so I went through a phase, when I first got out of high school, where I told everybody to call me Snap Wilson.”

Bucky laughs incredulously, then claps a hand over his mouth to stifle it, mostly unsuccessfully. “I’m sorry, you told them to call you what now?” he asks gleefully.

“I told them to call me Snap Wilson,” Sam grits out. He is already regretting this, but Bucky looks so fucking elated that Sam can’t bring himself to care too much about the inevitable teasing he’s going to receive. And it’s Bucky, not Steve or Natasha, so Sam knows that the ribbing won’t be too savage.

Bucky is already trying to suppress his wild grin, pressing his lips together until they turn almost white. “So was this like a rough time you were going through, like trouble at home or something, or did you just think Snap Wilson sounded cool?” His voice is a mixture of genuine concern and barely concealed amusement.

“I just thought it sounded cool,” Sam confesses.

Bucky laughs in delight, and Sam gives him a sour look, poking him in the side. “Yeah, yeah, your turn now, buddy,” Sam says. “Tell me something you’ve never told Steve.”

Bucky sobers up, clears his throat and says, “I didn’t enlist in the Army.”

“What?”

“I let Steve think that I enlisted, because I didn’t want him to know that I had to drop out of college to pay for his medical bills when he got sick the winter of ’41. Got called up shortly after, told him that I enlisted.”

Sam’s heart breaks a little at that, for Bucky, because he would have done anything to take care of Steve, and for Steve, who never would have forgiven himself if Bucky had gotten drafted and sent home in a body bag on his account. To this day Steve still feels guilty about leaving Bucky behind in that ravine, even though he had no reason to believe that Bucky could have survived the fall, and anyway Steve drove a plane straight into the Arctic like a week later and couldn’t have rescued Bucky anyway.

“So wait, how does Steve think you paid for his medical bills?”

“I told him I got paid to pose for some dirty pictures,” Bucky says with a saucy grin. “Then he asked to see them and I had to beg one of his photographer friends to take some for me to try to sell the whole embarrassing lie. Honestly I was a little flattered that Steve had exactly zero questions about the whole thing, like of course someone would pay to see me jerking off wearing a pair of women’s stockings.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at that. “Any chance those pictures are still around somewhere?”

“I’m pretty sure Steve burned them all before he headed out on the bond circuit,” Bucky says with regret, then brightens. “But on the plus side, I think I just came up with a great idea for the erotic portrait series Steve’s been working on during all of our best friend dates.”

Sam grins cheerfully at this. “Nice.”

***

A month later, they’re in Eastern Washington with Steve and Natasha, fighting off a horde of formerly human white nationalist cult members who are now a group of largely mindless but probably still racist vampires.

The vampires aren’t much of a threat, but there are a bunch of them and they’re good at causing enough chaos that it’s hard to get close to Todd, who’s in a neck brace again and back on his bullshit.

Sam’s done a ton of research on Catholicism since the last time they met and he’s still not sure how to finally kill this guy. The holy water blessed by the Roman pope didn’t work, and the holy or possibly unholy water blessed by the Antipope of Avignon didn’t work, and Sam’s pretty much run out of popes to get holy water from. Out of a commitment to preparedness Sam’s brought along vials of leftover holy water from each pope, but he’s honestly not sure if they’ll be much help to them if neither of them even works.

Sam, Bucky, and Steve are all covered in blood from the vampires they’ve slain so far, but as usual Natasha still looks perfectly pristine as she lectures Todd on his many sins and hypocrisies. God, she even had the audacity to wear a white uniform to this. Sam’s heart swells with affection for her.

“I thought you were supposed to be Catholic, Todd. It’s not very pro-life of you to create all these vampires,” Natasha says, shaking her head in disapproval.

“I’m just trying to make humanity great again,” Todd snaps defensively through his ridiculous plastic fangs. “Society works best when there are a few strong leaders and many weak, dependent followers. HYDRA believes in order. The Catholic Church used to believe in order too—it used to understand the value of an authoritarian system of governing its followers.”

And just like that, Sam understands Todd’s belief system. “He’s a Sedevacant!” Sam announces, pointing a finger in triumph.

“What?” Bucky asks, firing a crossbow into a vampire trying to latch its fangs into Steve’s calf. The vampire explodes in a shower of red, and Steve wrinkles his nose in disgust but keeps fighting. At this point there’s not very much of Steve that isn’t covered in blood, and Sam hopes they aren’t all going to have to worry about bloodborne diseases from this whole gross situation.

“Remember all those changes in the Catholic Church since you and Steve were kids? Those all came about after the Second Vatican Council in the 1960s. Sedevacants believe that the church lost its way and fell into heresy when it embraced modernism. So according to them there is no valid pope—the seat of the pope is actually vacant,” Sam explains, tossing his shield off to behead a vampire looming over Bucky.

“Thanks, sweetheart!” Bucky calls, blowing him a kiss.

“Great,” Natasha says, irritated. “And how are we supposed to get holy water blessed by no one? Wouldn’t that just be regular water?”

Sam frowns in dismay at this terrible, zany loophole Todd has apparently discovered.

Todd cackles triumphantly. “You can’t! You’ll never be able to kill me—there’s no holy water on earth that’s been blessed by no one,” Todd boasts. “I’m invincible!”

“Not so fast,” Bucky says, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Sam, do you still have both vials of holy water?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Mix them together!” Bucky says. “Holy water blessed by the pope plus holy water blessed by the antipope will cancel each other out.”

Todd’s eyes widen in horror. “No, that won’t work!”

“It’s simple math, Todd,” Bucky says smugly. “Sam, do it, I’ll cover you!”

Sam’s hands are steady as he unscrews the tops of the bottles, sure in the knowledge that Bucky will have his back if any vampires try to latch onto him while he’s busy. He coats the shield in holy water from each of the vials, making sure to cover every square inch. Then, with a mighty throw, he launches the shield toward Todd, nailing him directly in the throat.

When Todd’s head is blown back off his body, he explodes into a bloody, disgusting mess.

“Gross,” Steve says.

The baby vampires stumble around, confused and lost without their leader, and it only takes about twenty minutes for Sam and the others to slay the rest of them now that Todd’s dead.

 Sam makes a mental note to use all of his influence as Captain America to get Bucky an honorary doctorate in mathematics from Harvard or Yale or something after all this.

***

Sam and Bucky spend forty-five long minutes showering off all the blood after their showdown with Todd and his racist vampire gang, the last fifteen of which are spent with Bucky pressed up against the shower wall with Sam’s tongue in his ass.

“Fuck, sweetheart, please,” Bucky begs. He’s trembling and squirming, spreading his legs shamelessly for Sam. “Fuck me, Sam, please.”

Sam reaches down to squeeze the base of his cock, liquid heat pooling in his belly at the thought of sliding his cock into that tight hole he’s been eagerly, methodically loosening. Bucky’s hands are pulling at his own ass, spreading his cheeks so sweetly, so obediently for Sam’s mouth. Sam traces a finger around Bucky’s wet rim, poking in just a bit to test him out, and Bucky’s thighs twitch and shake around Sam’s face.

“You think you can take it standing up?” Sam asks, giving Bucky an assessing look.

Bucky bites his lip and sobs a bit, panting and gasping, his face pressed up against the shower wall. Bucky looks wrecked already, so pretty, and Sam decides to take pity on him.

“C’mon, baby, let’s go to the bedroom,” Sam says, standing up and shutting off the shower.

He wraps Bucky in a towel and leads him to the hotel bedroom, and Bucky shivers prettily in the cool air, goosebumps rising on his clean, damp skin. Sam crowds Bucky against the mattress to warm him up, leaning his head down to dip into the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth, sliding his tongue against Bucky’s in a dirty kiss that leaves them both moaning.

Sam grabs the lube and Bucky spreads his legs eagerly, obscenely, and the sight is so erotic that Sam feels like he’s been punched in the gut, breathless with desire and desperate to plunge his cock into all that tight, willing heat. His hands shake a bit as he fumbles with the lube, and he coats his fingers until they’re nice and slick, ready to slide right in with just the slightest amount of pressure.

Bucky gasps when Sam slips one long finger into him, biting his lip and arching his back. “Sam, more—I need—”

“I got you, baby,” Sam says, sliding another finger in next to the first. Bucky’s mouth gapes open, his throat emitting a choked off little cry, and Sam’s cock is achingly hard at the sound, weeping messily against Sam’s belly, dripping little trails of precome. Bucky’s a quivering mess underneath him, and Sam presses wet kisses between Bucky’s thighs as he ruthlessly opens him up. “God, look at you, baby.”

Sam gives him another finger, and Bucky takes it, keening and begging. “More—please—Sam, I want your cock.”

“Oh, you think you’re ready for it, baby?”

“Yes, please, Sam,” Bucky whines, and Sam reluctantly removes his fingers, climbing up to settle his body over Bucky’s, letting gravity pull him down so they’re pressed tightly together. Bucky may be sweet and pliant underneath him now, but Sam knows how strong he really is, how easily he can bear Sam’s weight.

When Sam starts pushing his cock inside of him, Bucky gasps, mouth opening in a small o of pleasure. Sam fucks Bucky shallowly until he grows impatient, needs to go deeper, grabbing Bucky’s thighs to pull them up so he can bend Bucky in half underneath him. Bucky’s limbs are long and flexible, moving easily as Sam moves him right where he needs him. Sam bites his own lip, hard, as Bucky’s hole pulls him in, clutching greedily at Sam’s throbbing cock.

When Sam slides all the way home, Bucky gasps and says, “Sam, Sam, wait—”

Sam pauses, his cock buried fully inside Bucky, panting harshly at the effort of keeping his hips still.

“Yeah, baby,” Sam says, voice straining. “What do you need?”

“Sam,” Bucky says, and he sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes and visibly working to control himself. “Sam, I need to tell you something.”

Sam looks down at Bucky and waits, letting Bucky take the time he needs to settle. Sam’s hips are flush against Bucky’s ass, his cock seated fully inside of him, and he feels so connected to Bucky, like they’re two parts of the same whole.

Bucky pants raggedly for a few moments, squirming and restless under Sam, until he calms again, opening his eyes to look at Sam. Bucky’s lashes are long and gorgeous and damp, his pupils dark and dilated.

“Sam, I have to tell you,” Bucky says, flushing prettily, his wide eyes so earnest and sweet. “I—somewhere along the way, I want you to know, everything became real for me. You—you really are my best friend.”

Sam closes his eyes, heart so achingly full in his chest.

“You’re my best friend too,” Sam says softly, seriously, because he knows this is important to Bucky. “I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” Bucky’s eyes are wet and shining.

Sam grinds his hips against Bucky’s ass, his lips curving up in a dirty grin. “You gonna let me fuck you now?” Sam asks. Bucky gasps, hands coming up to grip Sam’s back, fingers digging in bruisingly hard.

“Yeah, Sam, yeah, fuck me,” Bucky breathes.

Sam pulls out and then slams his hips back into Bucky, who gasps in surprise, spine arching in pleasure. Sam sets a hard and deep rhythm, letting loose all of the leftover tension and stress from the fight earlier, taking all that frustrated energy out on Bucky’s willing body. When Sam nails Bucky’s prostate, Bucky’s hands scrabble over Sam’s back, clutching and pulling at him frantically. “Yes, there, there,” Bucky says, voice desperate and breathy.

Sam drives his cock into Bucky faster, pounding harder as he feels his balls tighten and heat race up his spine. He’s close, so close, and he leans down to brace himself on one elbow so he can reach down to grab Bucky’s hard cock. He can tell from the noises Bucky’s making, those sweet, high whimpers, that Bucky isn’t far behind him. When he strokes Bucky hard, his fist sliding brutally up and down Bucky’s cock, Bucky arches his back and comes, spilling all over his sweaty chest.

The sight of Bucky’s come, pearly and glistening over his taut abs, sends Sam over the edge. Sam’s hips jerk and stutter, his thrusts erratic, shuddering as he feels his balls empty into Bucky’s tight hole. He wants to collapse, wants to let go and fall onto Bucky, let Bucky catch him and hold him, but instead he pulls out. Bucky whines quietly at the loss, and Sam can’t resist reaching down to rub his fingers against Bucky’s wet, puffy hole, admiring the slow trickle of Sam’s come dripping out of him. Bucky shivers at the touch of Sam’s fingers to his abused hole, probably raw and oversensitive, and Sam reluctantly drops his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, kissing Bucky’s knee in apology.

“S’ok,” Bucky slurs. “Like it when you get all vulgar and possessive on me.”

“Speaking of possessive,” Sam says, heaving out a heavy sigh and collapsing back onto the bed next to Bucky, hooking his ankle over Bucky’s. “Can we talk about the whole fake-best-friends thing? Like, where are we with that and what was our endgame there?”

“Well, I guess I was wrong about only having one best friend,” Bucky admits, looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye and grinning bashfully. “And I guess the plan was just—make Steve jealous.”

“And?” Sam prompts.

“And—I think that was it? I’m not really sure where I saw it all working out,” Bucky confesses.

“I feel like maybe you’re not all that great at planning without a murder board.”

“I’m a visual planner,” Bucky says defensively. “And it seemed kind of disrespectful to make a murder board about Steve given the fact that I did, in fact, try to murder him several times as the Winter Soldier.”

“That’s fair,” Sam concedes, tipping his head to acknowledge the point. “But we’re good now, right? I mean, we’re best friends with each other, we’re best friends with Steve and Natasha, Steve and Natasha are also best friends—and I’m kind of crazy in love with you.”

“What I’m hearing you say here is that my crazy plan worked.”

“Yeah, OK,” Sam says, hiding a smile. “Maybe it did.”

***

It’s a Saturday, and Sam and Steve are on their best friend date, and Steve is kicking Sam’s ass in the gym. Sam knows, intellectually, that he’s in fantastic shape and that there’s no shame in being beaten by a scientifically enhanced human being. That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still hurt his pride—and his back, motherfucker—when Steve manages to take him down hard without even having the decency to break a sweat.

“I think that’s about enough for today. I feel like I’ve done a pretty good job wearing you out,” Steve says, smirking like an asshole, because he is an asshole. “Let’s hit the showers.”

When they get to the SHIELD locker room, it’s nearly empty, the way it usually is on Saturdays. There are still a few particularly dedicated SHIELD employees roaming about, mostly new guys. For whatever reason most of the seasoned employees stay away from the gym locker room on Saturday afternoons when Sam and Steve work out. Today, when people catch sight of Sam and Steve walking in, they blanch and immediately speed up with whatever they’re doing, hustling out of the locker room like it’s on fire or something. In under two minutes, Sam and Steve are the only ones left.

“It’s weird how everybody always leaves when they see us coming in to shower together,” Sam remarks, stripping off his sweaty shirt and tossing it in his locker.

“I wonder if they’re intimidated by us,” Steve muses, then takes a moment to admire Sam’s bare chest. Steve’s eyes are hot and appreciative as they travel lazily up and down Sam’s torso.

Sam shrugs in response, then winces as he feels a muscle tighten up in his back. “Ouch,” Sam hisses. “Man, I know I’m not twenty-five anymore, but damn, I really don’t need the reminder, you know?”

Steve’s brow furrows in concern. “Here, let me take a look at that when we get in the shower.”

They finish undressing and then get into the shower together. They share a stall, because Steve read an article about water conservation that he apparently found very inspiring, and also because sometimes it’s nice having a buddy with you. Sam lathers himself up, and then out of habit he reaches over to spin Steve around so he can wash Steve’s back too.

“God, that feels good,” Steve moans, the sound of it echoing in the strangely empty locker room. Sam spends a good few minutes really working Steve over as he scrubs Steve’s back, groping and kneading at Steve’s lats and traps while Steve moans and arches his back in pleasure.

When Sam finishes, he gives Steve a little pat and says, “OK, you do me.” Obligingly, Steve turns around to rub Sam’s back, massaging the tight muscles, his hands sliding easily over Sam’s skin with the slick of Sam’s body wash.

“This where it hurts?” Steve murmurs, digging his fingers into Sam’s lower back. “God, you’re really tight here.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, groaning at the pleasure-pain of Steve working at the sore point in his lower back. He huffs a frustrated, petulant sigh. “You know, sometimes I feel like the more I lift, the tighter I get.”

“Maybe you should start going to yoga with Bucky and Natasha,” Steve suggests. “Actually, they’re starting a class in about twenty minutes. If we hurry up in here, we could probably meet them there if you want.”

“Wait, Bucky and Natasha are at yoga today?” Sam asks in disbelief. “You’re telling me that Bucky and Natasha go to yoga? That’s what they’re doing on their best friend dates?”

Suddenly, Steve looks very anxious and very guilty.

“Wait,” Steve says slowly, apprehensively, “Bucky does tell you what he does on his best friend dates, right? He—I mean, you do know—”

“Yeah, Steve, I know,” Sam says, his tone dry. “I just thought yoga was, like, a cover for something. I didn’t think they were actually going to yoga.”

“Oh!” Steve brightens. “Yeah, it’s doing some really amazing things for Bucky’s flexibility. And for Natasha’s ass.”

Sam shrugs. “All right, then, let’s head over.”

Sam and Steve finish up in the shower, moving more quickly than their usual leisurely Saturday afternoon locker room shower pace. Sam’s skin is still a bit damp under his fresh gym clothes, but the air outside is warm, and he’ll be sweating again soon anyway once he starts working out in the humid yoga studio.

When Bucky and Natasha see Sam and Steve, their faces light up with big smiles.

“Hey, sweetheart!” Bucky says, coming over to give Sam a hug and a kiss while Natasha does the same to Steve. “You and Steve are done earlier than usual.”

“Yeah, he whooped my ass,” Sam admits, scratching his jaw.

Sam and Steve switch hugging partners, and Nat’s body feels small and strong in Sam’s arms when she goes up onto her tiptoes to give him a warm hug and a kiss on the lips. And when Sam sneaks a look downward, he notices that Steve was not lying about all the great things yoga’s been doing for Natasha’s ass.

Sam lets go of Natasha and turns back to Bucky. “So you and Nat really do yoga,” Sam says, shaking his head ruefully. “You know, all this time, I thought you two were doing some secret spy shit that you were trying to keep me from having to answer questions about? I was half-convinced that we should be thinking about getting married just so we wouldn’t have to testify against each other.”

Steve and Natasha raise their eyebrows in surprise, but Bucky looks pleased at that. “Well,” Bucky says, lips curving up in a crooked grin, “let’s not take that marriage idea off the table just yet.”

Natasha clearly aims for a sober expression, but the corner of her lip twitches and her eyes sparkle with mirth. “You know, I can’t say that we’ll definitely never get up to any secret spy shit, Sam. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to keep that in your back pocket.”

Steve raises an eyebrow and nods thoughtfully. “Plus, do we even know if Bucky’s still considered an American citizen?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Bucky admits. “But being married to Captain American should grant me automatic citizenship, probably.”

Sam shrugs placidly and slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

After all, Sam’s mom always did say that happiness was being married to your best friend.

[amonggtheestarss]

Alternate Universe Dump

(WILL BE UPDATED AS IS ADDED)

Inverted AU: Self explanatory. Colors and personalities are inverted.

Captain's Contrition AU: Green gets turned into an imposter after snatching the Sabotool from Glitch.Y's hands.

Fortetwo AU: Must suck having your Imposter Ghost Clone follow you for the rest of your life.

Safe Space AU: Generic "AU where nothing goes wrong and everyone has a happy ending." Everyone is alive and are one big batch of friends!

Fanart is encouraged and appreciated! Please @ me if you ever make any!!!

[ad1thi]

the one where steve discovers new york

 (insp)

/ 

set sometime after tws, established relationship, harley keener and tony stark feels, fluff and crack, au where tony knows everything because he and steve are mature adults who discuss shit and don’t keep secrets. ive also aged up harley just go with it please

//

Tony’s excited when he finally confirms that Harley’s coming to town. So excited that he plans out the entire weekend, clearing his schedule so that he can be free to take his newly legal not-son around to the best haunts and give him the true tourist experience - and completely forgets that Steve is going to be in town for the first time in almost three months.

Which is why when he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist while he’s in the middle of a project in his workshop, he does the reasonable thing and puts the wrench in his hand to good use.

“Ouch!” Steve stumbles back, clutching his head morosely, and Tony is caught between comforting him and looking for the closest ice pack. 

Fortunately, DUM-E takes the decision out of his hands, wheeling towards Steve and dropping an icepack into his hands, which he presses to his forehead instantly.

Tony helps him over to the couch, pressing kisses to the side of his head and muttering a string of apologies everytime he winces. Once they’re both settled on the couch, he takes over ice-pack duty from it, sitting half across his lap and cupping his face with his free palm so he can angle his face just right.

“I really am sorry,” he says, lifting the ice pack intermittently to check the swelling, “I just, completely forgot that I was supposed to see you this weekend”

“It’s fine honey,” Steve says, attempting a smile but it comes out more like a grimace, “give it a few hours and it would’ve healed up. Perks of the serum. Plus, you’ve got all weekend to make it up to me”

“About that,” Tony says, stretching out his words, “So you remember how I forgot you were coming this weekend?”

“Yeah,” Steve says hesitantly, and Tony might truly be the worst boyfriend around.

“So, under this misguided belief that you weren’t coming this weekend and I was therefore, free, I might’ve accidentally made plans for this weekend. Of the non-refundable variety”

“Do you have another boyfriend I should know about?” Steve says with a smirk, and Tony pinches him in response.

“No you oaf,” he pulls off the ice pack to check the bruising again, relaxing when he sees its turned into a slightly yellow-ish hue instead of its earlier purple, “You remember Harley Keener? The kid from Tennessee?”

“The one with the potato gun right?” Tony nods, “What about him?”

“Well it was his 18th birthday a couple months back, and I promised him I’d fly him out to New York for a couple of days the first chance that I got free -”

“- and that happened to be this weekend,” Steve finishes up. Tony nods contritely, eyes cast downward as if not looking at Steve would somehow better the situation.

“Hey,” Steve tips his chin up, forcing Tony to look at him, “hey I’m not mad babe. It’s a mistake, these things happen. This is the kid that Jim swears is like your child, right?”

Tony nods, unsure of where Steve’s going with this. It would quite frankly be better for the both of them if he just got his yelling over with so he can move onto the ‘making it up to you’ portion of the evening.

“Well then I’d be happy to meet him. Who knows, it could be fun. Never really got a chance to see New York after I got out of the ice, and now I finally have a reason to”

Tony tries to keep his surprise to himself, he does, but it must show on his face because something in Steve’s gaze softens.

“I’m not mad at you sweetheart,” he says in an earnest tone and Tony would really appreciate it if his boyfriend would stop reading his like an open book, “mistakes happen. It isn’t like you purposely went out of your way to make yourself busy, and I don’t care how we spend our time together, just that we spend our time together”

“I don’t deserve you,” Tony says in a hushed tone, but Steve shakes his head in response, “you deserve a lot better than me. But I’m never going to stop trying to show you how much I love you”

/

Steve isn’t one to judge people based on their looks, but he definitely had an, image in mind whenever Tony described the child that he’d pseudo adopted from Tennessee. Tony had made him out to be fiercely brave and resourceful, and Steve had imagined - well the essence of it was that he certainly hadn’t pictured the stick thin brooding teenager that was currently standing in the Common Room, bag slung across his shoulder.

“You must be Harley,” he says, sticking out his hand in hello and trying his very best to not take it personally when Harley just glares at it mutinously.

“You must be the centurion that’s taking advantage of the mechanic,” he replies with a glare and Steve is saved from replying by Tony’s appearance.

“Harls!” he shouts, and Steve watches as his face changes, splitting open into a smile.

Somehow, Steve gets the feeling that the teenager doesn’t smile all that much.

Harley squirms under Tony’s embrace but doesn’t try and pull out of his hug; instead letting his hands fall to the side like he doesn’t know what do with them as he pulls him in and ruffles his hair, pressing absent kisses to his face and fussing over him like he’s truly his child.

“How was your flight?” Tony’s voice brings him out of his musings, “Did you get in okay?”

“It’s remarkably hard to complain about the flight when you’ve been upgraded to first class,” Harley drawls with a raised eyebrow and Tony looks back at him defiantly, “but the food was questionable. I think I prefer economy”

Tony pinches his sides, “you just don’t know what luxury feels like,” he says with a huff - before noticing Steve standing in front of them.

“Oh!” Tony gestures Steve over, “Harley - this is Steve. Steve, this is Harley”

“We’ve met,” Steve says with a tight smile before Harley can get a word in, “I’m glad you could make the trip this weekend, and I’m sorry for crashing in on your hands”

“I was hoping to get the mechanic to myself,” Harley says with an expression that Steve can swear he’s seen on Tony’s face before, “but I suppose having Captain America around isn’t the worst thing ever”

“Don’t be a grouch kid,” Tony says, before leading him down towards the workshop, “now let me show you all my new toys”

He’s almost towards the lift before he turns back to Steve with a frown, “Babe? Aren’t you coming?”

Steve waves him off, “you two have fun, I’m going to be cramping on your style tomorrow when we explore New York anyway”

Tony looks like he wants to argue, but the lift dings open, and Harley pulls his aside. If Steve was a betting man, he would say that he just earned a morsel of respect with his boyfriend’s not-son.

If nothing else, this weekend was definitely going to be interesting.

/

“Well,” Tony says as the elevator dings open, “I’m glad you like New York Harls but I swear, I wasn’t expecting Steve to react like that”

Behind them, Steve ambles in with his bags of merchandise, eyes gleaming with excitement.

“How is it,” he says with a huff, “that I’ve liked in New York for this long and never been able to appreciate how amazing it is?”

He points a finger at Tony with a glare, “I blame you for not introducing me to the wonders of this city”

“That hardly seems fair,” Tony sniffs delicately, “you don’t technically live in New York, you just visit. And when you do visit you’re too busy with, other activities to be gallivanting around New York like a tourist that just hopped off the boat”

“Too many details,” Harley says with a wrinkled nose, “I don’t need to know what you and your geriatric boyfriend get up to”

“I wouldn’t say he’s geriatric,” Tony says, smirking, “not when -”

He gets cut off by Steve cupping his mouth, and it's a testament to his strength that he manages to do that despite all the bags adorning his forearms. 

“I apologise for him,” Steve says to Harley, “we’re still working on getting him house-trained. Why don’t you freshen up, and we’ll meet you back down here for dinner?”

He removes his hand with a yelp when Tony licks his palm, and Harley looks for the quickest route away from them because he no longer wants to be anywhere near them. One whole day of barely disguised flirting on the streets of New York was more than enough.

“If I may Young Sir,” JARVIS pipes up, and Harley looks up to the ceiling despite himself, “there’s a staircase on the left corner that you might find of use since Sir and Captain Rogers are currently blocking the lift”

Harley looks back at Tony and Steve, at the bags abandoned at their feet now that Steve’s hands have found other things to grab onto, and then turns back towards the stairs - sending a salute to the ceiling.

“Appreciate it JARVIS,” he says as he pushes open the door, smiling when he hears the AI demurely reply, “Anytime”

Fin

[nejitenforlife]

Nejiten Month 2020

Day 15 - Pirate AU (Final Part)

I am so late with the final part of this little story. I sort of lost my groove, and gave up on many of the AU prompts (which I really wanted to do at first), but I’m back! I hope you like the final rendition of my little pirate AU. I’ll be posting a couple of things tomorrow to get back on track.

Word Count: 2,906

.

Despite the warm day, Tenten shivered against the breeze, her clothes soaked through from the seawater. One of the crew members hauled both her and the captain up and she found herself once again on the deck of the pirate ship. Which, after almost dying by both her fiancé’s hand as well as the sea, Tenten wasn’t in the mood to complain. These people—these supposedly barbarian people—had been kind to her. The kindest anyone had been in a very long time.

The fighting had stopped some time while Tenten was in the water, and pirates were binding their enemies with rope before sending them back to their ship by means of a plank set up between them. Tenten was curious to know how the pirates had won, but she was too cold to ask. Instead, she let herself be led by the captain as he escorted her across the deck.

At first, she thought he might be taking her back to the brig, but surely not, with the hole gaping in the middle of it. She would freeze to death if she had to spend any more time there. But when he steered her towards what she suspected was the captain’s quarters, Tenten began to worry that he might want something in exchange for saving her life. She was still his captive, after all, and he had every right—at least in his mind—to demand compensation. Especially once he found out that the attack had happened because of her. She had no idea how many men he had lost in that battle, and what feelings and emotions were swirling around inside his head.

Neji opened the door and she walked inside to a spacious room. It contained a desk near the entrance along with a bookshelf that she suspected was bolted into the floor. Further inside, a bed leaned against a wall with a small window above it. Just beyond that lay a door where Tenten figured held the bathroom.

The room was significantly warmer than outside, and Tenten shivered at the abrupt change in temperature, but was grateful for the warmth. She wouldn’t be surprised if her lips had started turning blue by this point. She had been in the water for longer than she would have liked, and she was exhausted from treading water for so long.

Neji spoke to a cabin boy at the door before turning back to face her. His own clothes were drenched, his long dark hair plastered to his skin, and he didn’t look any better than she felt. No doubt the last thing he wanted to do was look after her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his soft voice loud in the quiet room.

Tenten shook her head in response. “No, just cold.”

“Konohamaru is fetching some water for a bath, so you can warm yourself soon.”

Not expecting that comment, Tenten was shocked. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but why are you drawing a bath for me?” She figured he would give her a change of clothes at best. She hadn’t even contemplated receiving a bath from him, especially since he had refused every time she had asked him up until this point.

“If you do not get warm soon, you will become sick.”

Tenten didn’t doubt it. Already she could feel her nose starting to run. She was extremely grateful for being allowed a bath, but she didn’t quite know how to tell him that. It wasn’t as though they were suddenly best friends after surviving such a harrowing ordeal. She stepped aside as a boy, no older than twelve, walked in and out of the cabin, carrying buckets of water to fill the tub as he went.

“While it is getting ready,” Neji said, opening a trunk by his bed and pulling two small towels from it. He threw one to her. “I believe you owe me an explanation. Why were you running from your fiancé?”

Tenten wrapped the towel around her shoulders, her heart sinking at the topic of conversation he chose to go with. But she supposed she owed him an explanation. “He was a cruel man. He hid it well and he was respected by many within the navy, but he had an evil about him that my father noticed straight away. He quickly became my father’s right-hand man, doing many of the dirty jobs a mayor would never do himself. Amongst other things, he killed people.”

Neji was sitting at the edge of his bed, listening quietly, but he didn’t look convinced. “Many of us kill people. That does not necessarily make a person cruel.”

“No, that’s true. But enjoying it does. I heard him speaking to my father about how much he enjoyed planning his kills, of how he relished the blank look of death on people’s faces when the deed was completed. He was a man unhinged, though he hid it well from much of the populace.”

Tenten fidgeted where she stood, eyeing the bath through the open door to the bathroom as it continued to rise with each bucket the cabin boy poured in. She could see the steam rising from the tub and absentmindedly wondered how they were able to heat the water so much. She was grateful for being able to bathe, to get truly warm and clean, but she was still wary of her pirate captain. What would he do with her now that the danger had passed?

Neji caught her looking at him and he frowned. “You are looking pale. Are you unwell?”

.

.

.

Neji hurried Konohamaru along in his mind, knowing his cabin boy could only go so fast. Thankfully, the bath was almost ready, and Tenten could soon warm her chilled bones. Her lips were blue, and she had gone pale in the last few moments, making him worry for her wellbeing.

She shuffled from foot to foot, her hands wringing in front of her, and Neji got the impression she wanted to say something but was too scared to ask. “What is it?”

“What are your plans for me now? Are you going to demand money from my father? Are you going to kill me? Or—” she glanced towards the bed quickly, “—do you want something else from me?”

“Why should I demand ransom from your father?” If she believed he would harm her now, after he had saved her life, she was dafter than he thought.

His captive had the gall to glare at him, much to his relief. If she still had spirit, she must be feeling better.

“Surely you must know who I am, now that I’ve told you my name.”

Neji pondered over her name, having brushed it aside when she had first told him, having had more important things to focus on. Her family name was familiar, and it only took him a few moments to realize why. Neji had once considered plundering the mayor’s storehouses, having had heard the man’s habit of demanding more tax from the people than was needed. He was incredibly wealthy, so much so that Neji knew he could afford losing some coin. In the end, though, he had decided to pass on that endeavour, since the risk, if the job had gone south, would have outweighed the reward.

“You have no need to fear,” Neji assured her, trying to keep his voice placating. “No harm will come to you on my ship. Nor will you be held for ransom.” Even if the coin was tempting, Neji wouldn’t want her to find her way back to her father. No doubt, he had been the one to orchestrate the marriage alliance between her fiancé and her, and anyone who would pair a woman such as she with a beast didn’t deserve her in their life.

Neji saw the tension fall away from her shoulders and when she met his gaze, the relief shining in her eyes was evident. “Thank you. Though, even if you were to demand ransom, he wouldn’t have paid. The only loss he will mourn will be the loss of an alliance of any kind, not the loss of his only daughter. I am glad to be away from him and his violent tendencies.” She smiled, but Neji could tell the words hurt her to say, and he felt anger rise in his chest that she had experienced such cruelness in her life.

“The bath is ready, Cap’n,” Konohamaru informed him, the boy’s small frame gazing up at him with admiration. Neji gave him a brief smile, nodding his thanks, and Konohamaru left the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

Neji walked back to the chest by his bed and picked out a plain white long-sleeved shirt before handing it to Tenten.

“Two baths in one day? I feel like I’m getting the royal treatment.” Her voice was amused but her smile was shy, and Neji found he enjoyed the combination.

His smile was brief but genuine. He wanted to continue the banter, say something to make her laugh, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Lee would know, but Neji wasn’t known for his sense of humour. Instead, he only said, “Take your time,” and turned towards his desk.

.

.

.

The bath was heavenly. Tenten had only been at sea for about a week, but already she had forgotten just how amazing a hot bath was. She took her time, washing her hair twice with some soap she found, as well as her aching body. She leaned against the edge of the tub, enjoying the way the heat soothed her sore muscles and warmed her from the inside out.

It was only when the water had cooled that Tenten pulled herself out and dried off. She slipped the shirt over her head, thankful for the captain for providing it for her. If only she had asked for pants, though. The shirt didn’t quite reach her knees, and Tenten suddenly felt very self-conscience. She had never been in the presence of the opposite sex with so little on.

Opening the door slowly, she peeked out into the cabin. Neji was sitting at his desk, concentrating on something he was writing. Tenten took a deep breath and walked into the cabin, but immediately became shy when he looked up and ran his gaze over her.

She wasn’t sure why, but his gaze heated her skin more than the bath had, and she quickly averted her eyes from his, finding the knickknacks on his shelf extremely interesting.

“Konohamaru will arrive soon with some food,” Neji said, causing her to glance at him again. “You may eat while I bathe.”

He stood up and made his way to the bathing room, and Tenten suddenly felt contrite.

“Will he not fill it again for you?” she asked. She hadn’t even been thinking of the captain, and she hoped she hadn’t just selfishly used all the hot water on him.

“Hot baths are a luxury on a ship. It would be a waste to use more water than necessary by emptying the tub and filling it again.”

“I’m really sorry,” Tenten apologised. “You should have told me. I wouldn’t have spent so long in there. The water will be cold by now.”

“It is fine. I am used to cold baths. Besides,” he added, that small smile gracing his lips again briefly. “You needed it, after the ordeal you have gone through.”

Tenten felt her heart warm at his words, at this unexpected gift from this pirate captain. “Thank you. I’m very grateful.”

They gazed at each other, unmoving, until a knock at the door made Tenten jump. Neji closed the bathroom door behind him and Tenten opened the cabin door to see the young boy with two trays of food in his hands.

“Food for you and the Cap’n, miss,” he said, squeezing past her into the room. He set them down on Neji’s desk before giving her a small bow and leaving again.

The smell of stew—yes, stew!—made Tenten salivate. She was sitting at the desk in a heartbeat with the bowl in her hands, breathing in the delicious smell. She ate ravenously, and the food was gone much too soon for her liking. She eyed the captain’s meal longingly, her stomach still rumbling pathetically.

“You are welcome to mine.”

Tenten whipped her head up and around, her cheeks pinkening at both his words and the sight before her. His hair was damp, and his pants rode low on his waistband. He was shirtless, and Tenten tried not to ogle his muscular build.

She shook her head and pushed the bowl towards him. “I couldn’t possibly. I already stole all the hot water. Besides, I’ve had my fill.”

On cue, her belly rumbled and Tenten flushed, embarrassed. Neji’s lips tipped upwards at the noise, and he pushed the bowl back to her. “I insist. Eat.”

She did as she was told, though she ate the second bowl with more etiquette. While she ate, Neji leaned against the door of the cabin, in front of her, watching. After some time, he asked, “What are your plans now?”

“My plans?” Tenten glanced at him, a frown on her lips. “What do you mean?”

“Now that your fiancé is dead and you no longer live with your father, what do you plan on doing? What was your objective when you came aboard my ship?”

Tenten worried her lip, thinking. “My plans were to get off at the next port you stopped at and start a new life. Though, I admit I don’t have much in the means of money. Or clothes,” she added with a glance at her attire.

Neji nodded. “You are welcome to leave the ship at the next port if that is your wish. Although, our next port will be Kirigakure, and I have to warn you that it is not the safest place for a young woman by herself.”

Tenten had heard of Kirigakure, and nothing she heard had been pleasant. If she were to set up in a new town, she didn’t want to start a new life in a town rampant with violence and theft. “Maybe I should wait for a friendlier town,” she murmured.

“You are welcome to stay onboard until we make port at a more suitable village.”

“Would I be welcome to…” she let her words peter out, knowing she would be insane to voice them. But if she was going to be staying onboard for the foreseeable future as it was, maybe the captain wouldn’t mind. Taking a deep breath, Tenten asked, “Would I be welcome to stay and work onboard? I think I would enjoy some time at sea after my sheltered life at home.”

Neji’s eyebrows had raised almost to his hairline as she spoke, but he managed to school his features back into a blank line. “I do not hire women.”

Her heart dropped and she looked down at her lap. “Of course, forgive me for asking. I know about the superstition about women on ships.”

She felt him push off against the door and walk towards her, but she didn’t look up. “I do not care for superstitions, Tenten.” Her name on his lips made her heart race and she glanced up at him, who was now directly in front of her on the other side of the desk. “I will not hire you, but you are welcome to stay onboard.” His lips tipped up, just slightly. “If you wish for adventure, you will see plenty of it aboard my ship.”

“I can stay?” Tenten couldn’t quite believe her ears. “Can I help with the chores? Learn how to use a sword?” Her father had refused to let her learn, though she had wanted to since she was a little girl. She had held a sword, only once, and Tenten had known in her gut that she would have an affinity for the weapon if only she was given the opportunity to learn how to wield it.

“You wish to work with my men and learn to fight?” He looked at her, incredulous.

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes please. Even if you don’t hire me, I will work. I’m not going to sit around doing nothing while others work. I’ve spent my whole life bored in a house that was much too large for me, so this will be a pleasant change of pace.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you forget that we are pirates?”

Of course, Tenten had loathed him and his crew when she first came aboard—not just them, but all pirates. And she had no doubt that there were pirates out there that were truly horrible, but Neji and his men had shown they were decent people. They killed when necessary, but not excessively, and the few she had met had been kind to her. If the captain was a good person at heart, she had no doubt he chose similar men to work with him.

She smiled. “Yes, but I also believe you are good people. I would very much like to stay onboard for as long as you will have me.”

“Very well. He nodded his acceptance, a smile playing on his lips. “Welcome to the Crimson Night, Tenten,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

[redrobin-detective]

I would love it if you wrote something with Billy in the identity reveal AU! Maybe with him while he's still in the adjustment period a bit after the reveal and has to deal with adults who don't understand, either as Billy or as Captain Marvel.

The sound of an explosion followed by the dull rumble of a collapsing building; the citizens screams loud enough to be heard for blocks. What more invitation did a hero need? In an instant, Captain Marvel took to the skies to help. He was still a hero, even if most of the world disagreed and he would never turn his back on people who needed him.

The building was coming down fast, he needed to get the people inside to safety even faster. He flew through a broken window and looked at every terrified face.

“I’m here to help, how many of there are you?” He asked already scooping as many as he could into his arms.

“There’s three floors,” an older woman said, her brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t you wait for help, young man?” With the building literally crumbling under their feet?

“No time, ma’am,” he said curtly as he dropped the small group off before using the Speed of Mercury to whiz back up methodically searching each and every floor for signs on life. Even to the people he hadn’t made it to in time, he gingerly picked up their bodies and brought them safely below. Finally, the building caved in on itself and collapsed with no people inside, just 120 seconds from when the first boom had sounded. Captain Marvel grinned, surveying the scene. He bets even the Flash couldn’t have done it that fast.

“Alright, everyone step back away from the site so I can start in on the debris, if you’re hurt there’s ambulances back there. Please help each other out, I’m sure we’ll start working on getting a place for you to stay in the meantime.”

“Thank you, thank you so much,” a young man asked with broken glasses. “Oh God I thought I was dead back there, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Marvel smiled, being happy and content and as tall as the Gods right now. Which is predictably when the media showed up.

“Captain Marvel! Were you scared going into the collapsing building all by yourself?” One reporter questioned.

“No Ma’am, I have the Courage of Achilles on my side, it takes a lot more than that to scare me,” he responded, moving some rubble so emergency service could help finish of the fires. 

“Marvel! The city has requested you turn yourself back over to social services? What sort of message do you send to your fans by not cooperating.” Another asked and the part of Billy deep inside the hero sighed. 

“My personal life has nothing to do with my hero work,” he said professionally even though he wanted to scream that he could barely walk outside anymore as Billy Batson. That he had to hide in his own city from more people who just want to use and abuse his power. Instead, he held his tongue and continued to move the rubble.

“Mr. Batson! You are aware that the government has placed your membership with the Justice League on hold given the recent revelation of your true age? Are you voicing your disapproval of the government by continuing to fight?” One demanded. 

“When I’m at work I expect to be referred to by my hero name,” He said with more venom than he really needed to. “And no, I was blessed with my powers from the Gods which means the government nor the League speaks for me. I do what I can and no one will ever stop me from helping those in need.”

“William, why don’t you leave all this to the grown-ups?” Another asked softly and Billy felt so very exposed, so very human, in his godly body. He truly felt like Atlas, carrying the weight of not just the World on his shoulders, but Billy’s smaller world. It wasn’t much but it felt so very heavy in that moment.

“Because I have the power to help, to effect good change. I was blessed with these abilities and I will not let something so inconsequential stop me from doing what’s right,” he frowned before staring down the reporters. “In this form, I am an adult in mind and body and expect to be addressed as such. I will answer no personal questions, is that understood?” For a beautiful, blissful moment, the reporters in the crowd looked most contrite. He could almost pretend that his identity was still a secret, that he could still a hero people looked up to and respected. That he could be more than just a dirty, lost kid. And then Superman showed up.

“Bill, I heard there was trouble, is there anything I can help with?” Superman asked, floating gently to the ground. Great, the Babysitting Brigade was here. 

“No, Superman,” Marvel said because Billy wasn’t so impolite as to call a hero by their first name in public, “as you can see I have it all wrapped up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish cleaning up.” He announced turning away from the group to do some real work.

“Let me help,” Superman said, following. “It’s like my Ma always says, Many Hands Make Light Work.”

“I don’t-” Marvel snapped before taking a deep breath and speaking more calmly. “I appreciate the thought, as always, but I’m just as strong as you and I can take care of my city by myself.”

“Yes well,” Superman said, not agreeing or disagreeing on the sentiment. “We just worry about you, son. We’ve having a helluva oh pardon me a heckuva time trying to keep you in the League which means we have to be careful. If you were to get hurt, well, just try to see it from our perspective.” Marvel clenched his fists and went to work. No one ever bothered to see from his point of view or to ask his opinions anymore. Because no matter how strong or fast or wise he was, from here on out, he’d always be the little kid playing superhero. If only he could click his heels and turn 18 already. 

“Fine,” Marvel said, “Let’s get this done but I’m serious about all this coddling. I am a hero the same as the rest of you and I don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

“Of course, Billy, of course,” Superman said but the gentle, placating tone said otherwise. Billy had a feeling the next 6 years were going to pass awfully slowly. 

[fericita-s]

All is Found: New Earth (4/4)

Read the first three chapters first: 

Genesis by @the-spastic-fantastic

Exodus by me @fericita-s

New Birth by @the-spastic-fantastic

The conclusion to the Agnarr/Iduna roleswap AU, but we plan to expand on this world more with some one-shots. Let us know  if there is anything you want to see!

@the-spastic-fantastic I loved writing this with you! Your writing is gorgeous and your editing and revision suggestions are always great. Hooray for giving these two a happy ending (spoiler? sort of? we did promise it was happy).

Captain Mattias did not know why he’d been kicked in the stomach, punched in the face, and tied up. There was a blizzard raging outside; surely Lemek didn’t think he would be stupid enough to stage an uprising in this kind of weather.  

Mattias had tried to earn the trust of Yelana, devising new ways of bringing down the mist or attempting to create an opening in it.  Once his leg had healed, he’d scaled trees to see how far it spread and walked the perimeter of the forest to plot the boundaries of their confinement, all under the watchful eyes of Northuldra. Other Arendellians were always in different groupings or scouting parties, none of them allowed to interact. 

 Mattias had suggested and then supervised the building of a catapult to fling willing volunteers into the mist.  He had led charging reindeer to the border in an attempt to break it open.  He had even started controlled fires aimed at the edge of the boundary, hoping it would create an opening. Nothing had worked.

 He supposed it was fair that they didn’t trust him yet despite all of this work.  As soon as he found a way through the mist, his plan was to find Agnarr and bring the rightful king of Arendelle home to his kingdom.  King Runeard had died committing a despicable act, but Mattias’ allegiance had always been to Agnarr and Arendelle, and he couldn’t give up on either easily. 

 He had come to respect the Northuldra and their ability to live in the forest and use its resources without exhausting them, unlike the sugar plantations his father had told him about that clear cut trees and used up both men and land.  Mattias had come to realize that the dam was not helping the Northuldra in the ways King Runeard had promised.  Mattias admitted to himself it could have been another deception. He had not taken Runeard to be a murderer, but he had seen the king kill the Northuldra leader with his own eyes. What else might he have missed?

 Despite the heartbreak of being separated from Halima, and not knowing where Agnarr was, he had days where the new skills he was learning were a delight. Catching his own dinner in the river, participating in the village-wide construction of new kotas...it gave him brief reprieves from the twist in his heart and gut at the thought that he had served an unworthy king, that the new king was missing, and that Halima knew nothing of where he was or how he longed to be home with her.

 His reverie came to an end with the arrival of Lemek and Yelana, Lemek kicking him again. Mattias shot him a glare, letting him know what he thought of beating a man who was already tied up.

��“Why is he back? What are you planning?” Lemek spit the words at him, and Yelana put a firm, restraining hand on his shoulder, not allowing him any further violence against Mattias. 

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”  Mattias ran his tongue over his teeth, turned his head and spit some blood onto the dirt floor.  “Maybe fill me in a bit before you demand answers. And stop punching me in the face if you want to be able to understand what I say.” 

 Yelana spoke. “Agnarr has returned with Iduna, who is giving birth.  Did you communicate with him? Did you know he was returning?”

 Mattias stared at them for a moment, taking in what he was hearing, and then shook his head slowly.  “No, I didn’t know. But I’m sure he’s doing it to help his wife. The Arendelle royalty has a sad tradition of losing women in childbirth.” He was sure Agnarr was frantic with worry if he was risking his life to bring Iduna to safety.  He wished he could comfort him like he used to when Agnarr was a boy and his father’s sharply worded rebukes had sent Agnarr to the barracks or the stables, looking for Mattias and a round of chess or a ride in the woods.

 Lemek and Yelana looked at one another, then departed in silence, leaving him alone. As they opened and closed the flap to the shelter, he saw that the blizzard had stopped and everything looked bright and still outside. 

 ***

They came back in, perhaps twenty minutes later.  Mattias’ arms were tingling in their position tied above his head.  Yelana took out a knife and cut him down roughly, over Lemek’s protests. 

 “What are you doing? Keep him tied up! Surely this is part of a plot to hurt us! To kill more of us!”

 Yelana answered sharply.  “I’ve had enough of your hysterics.  Go elsewhere if you want to complain about the blessings of this day.”

 Mattias ran his hands along his arms, trying to speed up the process of getting feeling back in them. “Blessings? Did everything go well with Iduna and the baby?”

 Yelana looked at him and smiled.  It startled him.  He had never seen her smile before. “Yes.  The baby is born, the blizzard is over, and the mist has lifted.  I want you to take your soldiers and be sure.”

 Lemek scowled.  “You want him to go? He won’t tell us the truth! They’re liars, the lot of them!”

 Yelana shot him a look that had Lemek bowing his head contritely.  “They want to leave more than any of us want to get out of the mist.  Let them look and see.  Then we’ll know if it’s safe. This imprisonment might be over for all of us.”

 ***

Agnarr fell asleep next to Iduna, exhausted from the journey to the winter encampment, the beating, and presumably from the strenuous five minutes he had spent holding baby Elsa.  Iduna sighed and kissed Elsa on the top of her head, nestled as she was between her two parents, swaddled in the shawl made by Iduna’s grandmother. 

 Iduna was exhausted as well but too much emotion was flowing through her for her to calm herself and sleep.  In the span of a day, she had been forcibly taken back to her people, given birth, thought her husband would be killed, and then told by Yelana that the spirits had lifted the curse and the mist was gone.  And with it, the death sentence on her husband.

 “The love you showed to your people’s enemy was seen as betrayal by myself and by your family.  But the spirits saw it differently.  They have rewarded you with a child whose birth broke the curse and healed our land.”

 Lemek shuffled in, the anger on his face no longer in sharp angles and scowls.  He seemed more like the brother she remembered from girlhood; the one who caught her when she threw herself out of trees, who carried her on his back as they laughed and raced among reindeer. 

 He took off his hat and held it, worrying it in his hands. “I came to find you last winter, to be sure he was treating you well.  And I saw how well he was treating you.  How much you had given yourself to him.”

 Iduna looked at him, incredulous.  Was this an apology? “You're angry I married him? Do you forget that I was forced to marry him?” She whispered her answer, not wanting to wake Elsa. 

 His answer was loud and Elsa began to stir. “You betrayed your people by helping a murderer!’

 “His father was a murderer! Not him!” Iduna whisper-shouted, turning a bit towards Elsa so she could soothe her with the steady hum of a lullaby in her ear.

 “His people are all the same.  Greedy and clueless. And with all the power. You should have let us kill him that first day of the battle.” Lemek’s voice was pleading, but Iduna would not let herself be moved.  She shook her head.

 “Lemek, you're wrong.  He is a good man who had a bad father.  Leave him alone.  You don’t get to impose more punishment than the spirits themselves.” Elsa was now crying, and Iduna felt a shiver of cold.  Her desire  to cover herself with warm blankets and sleep had the sudden intensity of a contraction.  “Now hold this baby so I can sleep. I’m exhausted and you’ve beaten my husband too badly for him to be of much use.” 

 She lifted Elsa up gently and handed him to Lemek, who took her as carefully as he had his own sons when they were this small. In spite of himself, he smiled. 

 “The weight of her,” he said. “I remember when you were this small.  It seems impossible a whole person can be this tiny. She’s no bigger than a salmon, though she’s a sight more beautiful.” Iduna smiled and thought of a retort about comparing her perfect baby to a fish, but she was too tired. She was so tired she thought she saw snow falling inside, covering Agnarr’s swollen face and Lemek’s surprised one, coating Elsa’s eyelashes and dusting her shawl. 

 Lemek held Elsa with one hand, his other out catching the flurries surrounding him like a swarm of curious insects.  “Iduna, do you see - “ but his words caught in his mouth, and he saw his sister was already asleep, curled into the man who he wanted to hate, but who seemed to love Iduna deeply and without regard for his own safety. 

 ***

 “Born with the gift of magic.” Agnarr shook his head and then winced, his face still too bruised and swollen from the beating he received four days ago to be able to move without pain. “All of those fairy tales I’ve read and loved; I never thought I’d get to live in one. But here we are, a lifted curse, a magical snow princess, and me the happiest of men to have you both safe and healthy here with me.”

 Iduna smiled and took Elsa from her spot in the blankets, unwrapping her a little to wake her up enough to feed her.  She could feel the fullness of her breasts and knew Elsa’s need to eat was probably as great as her need to feed her. She guided Elsa to her, and then sighed in relief as her milk came out. Agnarr raised himself up and sat behind Iduna, pulling her into him and running his hands up and down her shoulders, giving her his warmth. 

 Iduna relaxed into him, her sigh of content matched by Elsa’s contented suckle. “You were a prince! Surely you always felt like you lived in a fairy tale.”

 He tilted his head down to kiss her cheek and cupped his hand over Elsa’s head. “Never, my love, not until I became your husband.” 

 “And do you want to be king now? We could go to Arendelle.  I’m sure they eagerly await your return. “ Iduna kept her words light, trying to make it seem as if staying here among her people or going to live among his was of no consequence to her. As if after coming home to her people after a year of banishment, she wouldn’t be heart-sore to leave them so soon.

 Agnarr moved his hand to Elsa’s, splayed on Iduna’s breast. Icicles were forming on the tips of her tiny fingers.  He gently pulled the ice from where it touched Iduna’s skin and left his hand between Elsa’s small one and Iduna’s breast, protecting her from the formation of new ice and snow.

 “My father killed your uncle because he thought magic was evil.  I don’t think it will be safe for a magical child in Arendelle. There is much my father kept from me, and I don’t want to bet our daughter’s life - or your life - on my ability to change a long-held fear.”

 Iduna sighed again, relieved. “I’d like to stay here in the forest.  The spirits are awake again and I’m sure Elsa’s magic is connected to them.”  She nestled her head under his chin and closed her eyes. “My scarf shows the four spirits connected by a fifth.  Yelana thinks it could be Elsa, that her birth is more than the lifting of a curse.  She thinks her birth is the beginning of something new.  A fifth element that binds them all together and to our world.”

 Agnarr ran his fingers on Elsa’s cheek, her nose, her closed eyelids, tracing the shape of her and marveling at her features; Iduna in miniature and rendered in white.  It wasn’t just the magic that made her miraculous. “Whether or not she is, she is the beginning of something new for us.” 

 When Elsa was again settled down to sleep, Agnarr curved his body around Iduna. And when she woke in the night, breasts leaking milk and her body aching from the birth, he helped her dry off with the blanket they shared and hugged her tightly to warm her.  He thought again of the fairy tales he had read as a child and recently with Iduna in their cave, and didn’t think he had ever read of a happier ending than this.

 ***

 “King Agnarr!” Mattias entered the dwelling and bowed deeply.  Agnarr rushed to him and they embraced. “You look awful!”

 Agnarr pulled away and clapped his hands on Mattias’ shoulders. “Me? You don’t look so great either.”

 Mattias rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s nothing. Got worse from you when you were a bratty child, kicking and screaming because the kitchens were out of chocolate.”

 Agnarr laughed and and led Mattias to a place to sit. Lemek and his sons had hurriedly dug them an earthen house in the winter encampment; a peace offering.  Agnarr accepted it warily, and Lemek accepted his presence warily.  They reminded Iduna of two rock ptarmigans, circling each other and showing their combs. While Lemek was no longer openly hostile, he wasn’t openly joyous about Agnarr’s acceptance into the family.

 “Congratulations on the birth!” He bowed towards Iduna “Lady Iduna, Princess Elsa. You can count on my protection.”

 Iduna smiled at Mattias. “Thank you.” She looked at Agnarr and saw his nod.  It was time. “We think there might be some challenges to keeping this child safe outside of the forest.”

 Mattias tilted his head, waiting for her to explain. She said nothing, but pulled the ball Elsa had been gnawing on out of her hands and showed it to him. “She makes ice.”

 Mattias looked at the icy ball, and then at the baby’s hands, even now growing tendrils of ice. He shook his head. “Earth Giants that move mountains, wind that answers to your call, water that flows and stops on command. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see a baby with ice magic.”

 Agnarr took Elsa from Iduna and cradled her in one arm against his chest. “Even with your watchful presence, I don’t think leaving this forest is a good idea for a magical child right now.  People will be afraid, and you know better than most what happens when people fear magic. My father was wrong in his beliefs but not alone in them.”

 “So you’ll stay here. With your family.” Mattias put a finger out for Elsa to grasp and watched as she curled her fingers around it, opening and closing them. 

 “And you’ll go home to yours,” Agnarr said. “I have the power to create articles of succession to name a ruler in my stead.” Mattias turned his head to look at Agnarr, his mouth opening in surprise. “And you already have the unwavering support of most of the Arendelle Army.”

 “Your Majesty - “

 “No, not anymore. That’s you now.  King Mattias of Arendelle.  Long may you reign.” Agnarr bowed to him and Iduna curtsied.

 Elsa grabbed his finger once more, coating it in ice, like a scepter, bright as a diamond. 

 ***

 “Are you happy here?” Iduna asked quietly. The fires were out, Elsa was asleep and they lay under the furs and blankets, spent.  The cool air of spring was turning into the warm air of summer and it had been months since King Mattias and some Arendellian soldiers returned south. 

 Agnarr covered her body with his, his hands feeling this new shape of hers, one that gave birth and fed a hungry baby and everyday taught him how to love. “I thought I just showed you how happy I was to be here with you.  Shall we go again?”

 She put her hand on his chest and laughed. “No, that’s not what I mean.  Are you happy living here when you could be king a bit further south? Are you happy here when you have given up so much?” She thought of his trying to learn the ways of her people, and how he still struggled to do tasks that most found simple. How he had attempted to prepare lutefisk, an Arendellian treat and tradition, but ended up just making the village reek of fish guts for three days. A man born a prince might grow weary of being a foreigner, of having to learn so much. 

 He kissed her head and stroked her hair. “I’ve given up nothing.  I gained a family who loves me, and that’s more than I ever had before.  I don’t need to be king, I just need you to be my queen.”

 He buried his face in her neck and kissed her until she believed him.

 ***

Elsa had already started to use her ice magic purposefully by the time Anna was born three years later. She would sit near the cook fire with Bruni, and they would take turns lighting the fire and putting it out. Iduna stopped hanging strips of cloth nearby, choosing other, more predictable fires to dry her bandages over instead.

 Elsa would sit by the river and look for the Nokk just below the surface, stroking its mane with icy fingers that could reach below the surface and not get cold. Agnarr delighted in her love of the water horse and taught her all the terms for riding, hoping she one day would ride her equine companion. 

 Horses were one of the few things he missed from his life in Arendelle  And though a spirit water horse might be different from the Arabian that had been his, he liked to think that Nokk would be as good of a friend to Elsa as Solv had been to him.

 When Anna could walk, she and Elsa climbed mountains by making ice stairs, and the Earth Giants liked to race them by building with boulders. Elsa liked to climb up as high as she could, and Anna liked to skate on the surface of the ice, joyous with the feel of continuous motion, the North Wind always rescuing her just before she teetered off the edge.

 As the girls grew older, Bruni would follow them around, asking Elsa for a snowball to cool himself down by hopping on her shoulder.  Nokk would now come out of the water when Elsa beckoned, and she and Anna were learning to ride, the North Wind pushing them back onto the animal’s back if they slid too far. 

 Anna was born a month after Anja had died. Iduna named her for her friend and teacher, and hoped she could care for her people as well as Anja had.  

 Anna did not control ice or fire and no earth or wind bent to her will. 

 Her power was love. 

 When injured reindeer were brought to Iduna for healing, Anna was called with an urgency just as great to stroke the beast’s muzzle, whisper in its ear, help if feel safe while its wound was stitched or its leg was set.  

 When the Earth Giants tore up trees and threw boulders too close to the village, Anna would sing to quiet them or tell them a story holding them rapt and still with attention.  She could even make them laugh with deep rumbles that churned the waters of the rivers, driving the fish upstream so the fisherman raced to empty their nets and cast them in again.  

 And it was Anna who, at the age of four, sat with her mother as she translated in a meeting with Arendellian engineers and Northuldra fishermen, arguing about the best way to dismantle the dam that was strangling the Northuldra river. “You could ask the Giants to do it.  They like moving stones.” And so they did with Anna as the lead expert in Earth Giants relations. Anna told the Earth Giants which stones to please move where, and thank you so much for stacking them so neatly, maybe now we can build a house out of them.

 “A better diplomat than any ten times her age!” Agnarr exclaimed proudly to Elias, as they introduced their families to each other during the celebration of the newly freed river. Anna saw her father cry as he hugged his friend, and told him that night “He loves you just as much as you love him.  I can tell.” Agnarr cried harder at her words, and she knew they were happy tears.  She could tell. 

 When new babies were born, Anna was the favorite to bring the shawl to the mother and babe.  Her presence in the kota made tears turn to calm, her joy and charm bringing warmth and love back to the exhausted mother.

 Anna asked Lemek if he wanted to make her happy and he said “Of course, my sweet.” She took his hand and said “Uncle Lemek, it hurts my heart that you don't love Papa like you love me." That night Lemek ate with them in their kota, seated between Anna and Agnarr, and the two men clasped hands at the end of the meal, much to her delight.

 When the visits with Arendelle began, and King Mattias and Queen Halima brought her father books and her mother dresses so she could do something called a “waltz,” Anna was the one who led her Uncle Lemek by the hand and told him how much she wanted to meet the people who came from the same place as her father.  She and Lemek watched the meeting, and as Anna spoke with Lady Wollen afterwards, admiring her dress and the fancy way she talked, Anna introduced her uncle by saying “This is my uncle.  His wife died and he needs a new one.  Will you be her?” 

 And like a prophecy, Lady Wollen’s answering blush and Lemek’s surprised stammer turned into a friendship that culminated with Lemek moving to Arendelle, ostensibly for better relations between the two nations, but clearly in order to court the delighted Lady Wollen. 

 Anna and Elsa played together often, usually with the children of the village, Ryder and Honeymaren especially.  They made up games of tag, calling “No Fair!” when the North Wind intervened to push someone just out of reach of the chaser. They raced reindeer down the sides of mountains, the Earth Giants smoothing the way to keep the children from harming themselves or the herd. They made bets about who could ride Nokk the longest before getting too cold to continue and Elsa always won.  When Elias and his family came for visits, Anna patiently and gently explained how to play with the spirits to his curious and cautious children.  

 Bruni would light their fires for nighttime stories by the campfire, the children huddled around it and making each other scared while Agnarr and Iduna sat a few paces back, cuddled under one blanket and watching the stars.

 Agnarr never wanted to go back to Arendelle to live, though he thought he might take the girls to visit.  Perhaps when they were both of age, they could travel there together and he would show them the castle of his youth, the portraits of their ancestors, and the large, lonely rooms of his childhood.  He laughed to think there were so many things they didn’t know about – scepters and crowns, doors and gates - and he laughed to think those things had once seemed important. But watching Anna and Elsa playing with friends, with each other, and with the spirits of the forest, and watching his wife as she smiled at him from her place in their bed, he knew he was already home. He thought of his family like a bridge, linking Northuldra and Arendelle.  They made a place where the two nations could be linked through love instead of bound in pain. 

 And he had found a way of helping his home, his adopted nation. He was teaching his native language and its written form to the Northuldra, and was devising a way for their language to be written instead of only spoken. It was a puzzle he enjoyed, and one Yelana agreed would benefit their nation. Though Iduna smiled to hear him speak her native tongue, loving the way the words sounded slightly garbled in his mouth, their daughters spoke both languages fluently.

 Agnarr slowly created a library of sorts for Northuldra, eagerly accepting books from Mattias on each visit, and translating them into the Northuldra language.  He read them aloud at night to his family, Iduna curled next to him with his hand on her knee, Anna in his lap with her hand above her head stroking his beard, and Elsa on Iduna’s lap, sometimes making the scenes and characters they were reading about out of ice. Agnarr had always loved stories but he thought he was living in the best one.

 Children and adults who wanted to learn to read and write did so easily after lessons with Agnarr. He loved to tease Iduna about what it signified. 

 "Admit it. Say I'm a better teacher than you! Look at all of my successful students, reading and writing. And me, still unable to walk quietly in the woods or tan a hide." He grinned at her, enjoying the look of amused exasperation on her face.

 "You're a better teacher than you are a student, certainly. Or maybe Northuldra are smarter than Arendellians if you're so slow to learn and we are so quick."

 We drew closer to her, putting his hands on her cheeks and leaning in for a kiss. Against her mouth, he whispered "Was I so slow at learning this?"

 Before he covered his mouth with hers she smiled into him and said "No, but I'm a great teacher."

 ***

 From high on the hill, Anna could see the new herd approach before she could see the people accompanying them.

 “They’re here!” She scrambled down the incline, jumping off the ledge and thanking the North Wind for taking her safely the rest of the way. When she was younger she worried she might grow too heavy to travel in this way, but now at eighteen she was fully grown, and still able to fling herself off great heights and feel the rush of the North Wind rushing up to meet her.

 Elsa saw the motion and said “Maybe don’t do your crazy trust exercises when they first arrive. I don’t think these people have a wind spirit in their woods; you don’t want to frighten them.”

 “Aw, Elsa, that’s no fun! Besides, how exactly would you even hide your powers, at all? You’ll be shooting out ice and snow before you can remember not to!”

 Elsa laughed. “Well, I might try to explain it first.”

 “From astride your magical water horse?  They’ll figure everything out very quickly, or run screaming. And since Ryder says we need to mix up our herd with theirs for a year of good breeding, let’s hope they don’t scare easily.”

 Honeymaren joined them, talking hold of Elsa’s hand as they walked towards the visitors. 

Yelana was already stationed at the stones, her staff firm in her hand as she raised the other in greeting.

 “Welcome to Northuldra. The People of the Sun invite you to enter the forest.”

 A young man with light hair and heavy furs walked up to Yelana and extended his hand to shake hers.  “Thank you, Yelana of Northuldra. I am Kristoff, and we are the people of the Black Mountain.”

 Anna nudged Elsa. “Mine.  He’s all mine.”

[northeasternwind]

Black Gate AU 4/?

I.... might.... have to post this on AO3

Talibrimbor AU where Celebrimbor flees his (living!) family to go live on the Black Gate and they fall in love. LaCE-compliant, with all the drama that implies l o l

part one, two, three

---

There aren’t very many young ones on the Black Gate, which Celebrimbor considers a blessing. It grieves him to see so many families deprived of such a gift, but at least there are few children here to suffer for it.

The exceptions have fewer duties, and less to distract them from the novelty of their only elven neighbor. They watch surreptitiously as he outshoots all others at archery practice, and rather less surreptitiously as he smiths. Once Captain Talion persuades him to eat with the others the younger residents quickly make a habit of taking seats nearby, the better to listen to the stories he has to tell.

The captain’s son Dirhael is determined to become a ranger, much to his mother’s chagrin and his father’s uneasy pride. He is most interested in Celebrimbor’s skill as a warrior, which Celebrimbor tries to use for the benefit of the others: drawing a bow is exhausting, but Dirhael complains less when he knows Celebrimbor can hear.

“Do you think elves struggle as we do,” Dirhael asks one day, watching him at the forge. “And are simply better at it? Or are we truly like children to you?”

Celebrimbor considers his answer carefully; he does not wish to make Dirhael feel inadequate, or for an ill-conceived response to spread to the rest of the Black Gate.

“I do find myself wondering at what seems like the fragility of your kind,” he says. “I find simple many things others struggle with.”

“Why create one set of people to be so obviously greater than the other?” Dirhael asks irritably. “Why bother creating humans when we could instead be elves?”

This is not an uncommon question among men, Celebrimbor has found. He knows the answers the Valar would give by rote: that variety and weaknesses are all part of the Iluvatar’s design, and that they must have faith in His intentions for both elves and men.

His family rejected that answer, and in doing so have condemned their people and all of Endor to face the Shadow alone. But even knowing this, Celebrimbor still cannot fault those who find this answer unsatisfying. Perhaps it is the right answer, but he suspects it will not bring comfort to Dirhael.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly instead. “If birds may fly, then why not us as well?”

“Do elves not know? I thought the elves had an answer for everything.”

“We do,” Celebrimbor says sardonically. “But some say that elves do not value people, or their feelings— that what we cherish is the theory of lofty ideals, and not the reality of them. We value honesty, even when it is brutal and needless; generosity, even at the cost of one’s health; contentment, even if it means giving up the chance to improve. We have no interest in consequences, and so many find our immortal wisdom to be hurtful and contrite.”

Dirhael frowns. “So why do elves say that humans are weak?”

“They say that your weaknesses are a blessing,” Celebrimbor says simply. “That age and death are gifts, and that those who do not want them simply do not understand them yet, or are ungrateful to the Iluvatar for His generosity.”

Dirhael deadpans. “You know, I kind of like your non-answer better.”

Celebrimbor smiles. “I thought you might.”