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sublimecatgalaxy · 3 years ago

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Everything Has Changed- Part 1

Pairing: Faye (Euphoria) x Reader

Summary: Fezco and the reader have been friends since childhood. She watched Ash grow up and she watched Fez take over the (dangerous) family business, she's been around through it all. He was a leader and she was his side kick, his sounding board, his go-to person other than Ash. They were family and always have been. The reader wasn't familiar of Laurie and her relevance in her best friends life until one night, Fez get's an urgent call from his friend Custer. Everything that follows, let's just say is Custer's fault.

Song: "Woman" by Kesha and The Dap-King Horns

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of sex and abuse, swearing and heavy drug use.

A/n: I really loved planning this story and I've been genuinely tucking it away for a while. But I'm finally sitting down and doing it. Yay me! Also I have zero clue why some tags aren't tagging, it's a love hate relationship with me and tags lmao. I've emailed tumblr help a million times about it and they never have an answer.

I’ve always loved being a ‘Robin’.

I know people give him a lot of shit, being the sidekick and all but some could argue that Robin was one of the most important people in Batman’s life. Actually it’s pretty obvious that he’s one of the most integral parts of his violent, vigilante world. Robin’s are the intelligent ones, the ones who pick up the pieces, but Robin’s are also kind, a sounding board to their Batman. Batman wouldn’t be Batman without a Robin.

Just like Fezco wouldn’t be Fezco without me.

One could argue that his brother Ashtray is his Robin, that they have been together as long as Ash lived, the two of them practically two peas in a pod. What’s different there is that Ashtray, in the nicest way, is a spitting image of Fez, a copycat, if you will. Almost every trait that Fezco had, you could find in his younger brother and it made sense, Fez was all Ashtray knew. They were both loyal, like obedient dogs, strong-willed, level headed (sometimes, least of all on Ash’s part) and they were so, so, hesitant to trust.

I, on the other hand, differed from their type. I’m hotheaded, intelligent but I was an observer, less of a ‘doer’. I watched Ashtray and Fez, I watched them succeed and fuck up beyond belief, there when they needed to hear my heated words, reprimanding them as if they were children in need of a talking down. Sometimes they did, they were boys after all. They didn’t know everything, I knew that- they didn’t- but they learned eventually that even though they didn’t trust most, that they could trust me. That I would lead them straight and I would never lead them wrong.

Fezco was my Batman, and I, his Robin.

We went to school together, dropped out together, contemplated our future together, got high together, helped each other heal from our past. We’ve always been there for each other through thick and thin. He protected me and in return, I made sure Ashtray and him were taken care of in a way that no one had ever cared for them before.

We both lacked the proper parents growing up, mine completely MIA rendering me in the foster care for my whole childhood life and Fez’s parents, well…

There’s a lot to unpack there.

I never thought that I’d meet someone, or two people, with a more fucked family dynamic than I had. Between his strip club owning father, someone who regularly cheated on his wife, and his mother, who left Fez at a young age, Fez was in for a trip. Ash was lucky that he didn’t have to interact with Fez’s dad at all, though he did share the loss and abandonment that Fez went through with his mother.

I’m not exactly sure they were blessed with their grandmother and the way she was either.

She was a dynamo, for fucking sure. I had seen her in action, she was a crazy, spitfire of a woman. She had the world in a vice grip, her perfectly manicured nails tightly wrapped around the throats of egotistical men, and she had everyone around her on their knees. She was a wonderful woman but she was not a good caregiver. She was flighty and argumentative, violent, she cursed way too much for Fez and Ash’s young ears. I hated that her fate ended in the way it did, with Fez tied to her bed, taking care of her for the rest of his or her life.

I guess they’re lucky to have me, right?

“Yo, you good?” Fez’s deep voice snaps me out of my thoughts, my eyes glancing at him briefly before returning my attention to the quiet alley outside the car. The street lights flicker above us, the quiet crickets making my spine crawl as I reach over to instinctively lock the passenger door. “You didn’t have to come, ya know? Coulda just stayed with Ash.” He mutters, rubbing a hand over the top of his head before resting his forehead against the cool glass beside him. He looks ansty, his knees bobbing up and down anxiously as he watches the street out in front of us.

“I wouldn’t be a good sidekick if I did that, huh?” I laugh, reaching over to turn the music up a bit, watching as he rolls his eyes playfully, his hand reaching out to slap my thigh. He laughs, his chest rumbling as he relaxes a bit into the seat behind him.

I’m sure a lot of you are thinking, ‘well you’ve been friends for all this time and you’ve never hooked up?’ Yeah, I get it, man and woman, we stay over at each other’s houses, we grew up together, we went through puberty together. But no, we haven’t hooked up, we haven’t kissed, we haven’t done anything outside of the realm of being friends. Not to say that he hasn't thought about it, knowing him and his wild imagination. But we’ve done good on our not having ‘complicated feelings’ towards each other, not that it was hard for me. He’s been hopelessly in love with the wonderful Lexi Howard, and me? Well, men were never in the picture to begin with, if you know what I mean.

“You wanna tell me why we’re here?” I ask, kicking my feet up on the dash as Fez narrows his eyes at me. He doesn’t move to kick my feet off of his car, just huffs and rubs a tired hand over his face. “Because I could be on a date with any one of my options from Tinder.” I smirk, watching his eyes roll, his throat clearing in annoyance as he explains.

“A friend’a mine needed help with something- his girl. Needs her bunk with us.” He vaguely explains, his eyes flickering over to mine as my lips part in shock. Was he seriously about to harbor a, possible, fugitive and not run it by me or Ash. Did he even run this by Ash to begin with? “I know I didn’t tell you nothing and I know I’m wrong for that- trust me, Ash is gonna be fucking pissed-” well that explains that, “and I’ll fuckin’ explain why I had to do this, but later.” He waves me off, defensive right off the bat as my brows lift, shocked at his tense tone. “Just fucking behave and play nice.” He nods out the window, my head turning to see a young girl running towards us, tears running down her cheeks with a bag clutched tightly to her chest. She opens the door with a loud cry, my eyes wide as I look at Fez, waiting for some kind of explanation to her dramatic tears.

“Custer said that you pushed someone off a balcony-”

“Custer!?” I yell, slamming my hands on the middle console as I glare at Fez. He curses under his breath as I seethe, knowing that he would never hear the end of this after the mention of that ‘man’. I hate Custer with my whole being, everyone who knows me and knows Custer knows this. I hate that he exists, I hate the way he speaks, the way he acts. The last thing I would ever think of when I think of Custer is him having a girlfriend- a hot one at that. I turn back to look at her, watching as she reaches up to wipe her cheeks, letting out soft sniffles as her eyes flicker over my furious expression. She looks kind and soft, her blue eyes teary and red, I presume from drugs and heavy emotions. She doesn’t look like she’d push someone off a balcony, let alone hurt a fly, her frilly outfit and blushed cheeks almost making her look innocent- like a deer caught in the headlights.

“I’m Faye.” She politely waves, Fez sighing aggressively as he slams on the gas, Faye and I both letting out a groan as the car flies forward down the alley. I turn back to look at the girl, her eyes watching Fez timidly as she speaks up. “I wouldn’t have pushed him but he was just so mean to me.” She sniffles, her hands shaking in her lap as I pout, looking to Fez for support but he just stares forward, already tired of his situation he got himself into. “I’m Y/n.” I whisper to her, low enough to not bother Fez but loud enough to hear over the music that pounds through the car. She smiles softly, her plump lips forming the most beautiful smile. It was hard to think of someone as beautiful as her in a relationship with someone as vile as Custer, not understanding the appeal. Maybe it was out of convenience, maybe it was some drug thing or business thing that she really didn’t have a choice in. It seemed more likely than her opting to be with that snake.

“Fez, you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.” Faye looks at my friend, a laugh leaving my lips as I reach over to pat his shoulder, relaxing back into my seat as I look out the window, watching the street lights pass by, creating a haze in the dusty glass.

“Not my girlfriend, Faye.” He mutters, my shoulders shrugging teasingly.

“He wishes.” I snort, Faye’s quiet laugh making me smile as Fez glares at me, begging me to clarify so he doesn’t have to. “I don’t swing his way, sweetheart.” I laugh, reaching over to pluck the joint from behind Fez’s here, stealing his lighter too, hearing a quiet ‘oh’ from the backseat. My eyes flicker back to Faye through the rearview mirror, watching as she leans towards the back of my seat, tapping me on the shoulder.

“I’ve had like a really stressful night- wanna share?” She asks, referring to the weed as I chuckle, taking a hit before handing it back to her, her shaky fingers slipping it between her lips. I watch in awe as she seamlessly takes a hit, her eyes fluttering shut as my tongue sweeps out to wet my lips. She’s got a boyfriend, Y/n. “Thanks.” She mutters before leaning back against the seat, looking out the window as the smoke seeps from her and into the air. I take a cleansing breath, calming my hormones and thoughts as I sit back against the seat, my eyes wide as I stare at Fezco.

How did he expect me to be in the same vicinity as her? She was beyond my type and totally not within reach. She’s gorgeous, soft spoken, she’s obviously funny if Fez likes her enough to share his home with her, without running it by Ash or I. I practically lived at their house as it was so how was this going to work? Was she going to sleep on the couch? Was she going to share the guest room with me? Did Fez just assume that, because we’re girls, we could share a space together without it being weird? Was it weird? Or was that just me and my obviously dirty mind wandering to what would happen if we were to share a bed?

By the time we reach the house, stepping into the living room, Ash is on us.

“What the fuck do you think you doin’?” Ash steps up to his older brother, sizing him up as he shoots hateful glances at Faye. My eyebrows pull together in confusion as I reach forward, placing a hand on the boy's chest to push him back, silently reminding him to check himself. He grunts, his shoulders pulled back, almost in a territorial way as he avoids my mother-like, reprimanding glances.

“Don’t be a dog, Ash. We have a guest-” I start but he cuts me off, his eyes angry as he looks from me to Fez who just looks down to the ground, shutting the door silently behind him.

“Yeah a guest who’s a fucking junkie hooker who doesn’t know her place.” Ash snaps, my finger immediately pointing in his face, knowing that better be the last disrespectful thing to leave his mouth. I did not raise this fucker to talk to a woman like that. He steps back a bit as he shakes his head, rolling his eyes before storming out of the room. I force a breath out as I turn to Fez with my hands on my hips, confused, tired and angry at how this night is going.

“Can someone explain to me why he’s talking like that about someone he doesn’t even know?” I ask, tilting my head at Fez as he rubs the back of his neck, a telltale sign that he's hiding something from me. My eyes flicker over to Faye as she sighs sadly, her lips pulling down into a frown.

“The deal that went wrong a few months ago- Faye was the other girl with Rue in the car.” Fez grumbles, my lips parting in shock, immediately wondering why he never told me this and why it was such a big deal to hide it until now. “Custer knows some shit on Ash and I- things you don’t know and neither does she. I’d like it to fuckin’ stay that way, alright?” He nods sternly at me, my shoulders deflating in subtle betrayal as he sighs, realizing my disappointment. Stepping up to me quietly, he places his hands on my shoulders, his eyes sincere and shining with regret. “I’ll tell you eventually, ‘lright? For now I gotta make sure we good and safe. So fuckin’ behave and keep your head down.” He whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “I gotta go talk some fuckin’ sense into that kid on how to talk to a woman- show her around, please.” He mutters before slipping past me, Faye and I both watching as he exits the room, his footsteps heard from down the hall.

Turning back to Faye, she looks overall deflated, her eyes sad as she stares down emptily at her bag. Now that she’s upright, I can tell that my inference earlier about her and drugs was correct, little bruises lining her inner arms as she itches and picks at the skin.

“I can cover those for you.” I smile, motioning towards her arms as she snaps her hands to her sides, embarrassed that I caught her and pointed it out. I just shake my head, calming her worries with a simple look as I reach down, picking up her bag to sling it over my shoulder. “Follow me.”

She doesn’t seem to pay much attention as I give her the ‘grand tour’, probably aching to get into bed and fall fast asleep. She looks like she could drop at any second, her eyelids heavy and cheeks stained with dry tears. By the time we reach the guest bedroom, what’s designated as my room, she looks relieved.

“This is my room but you can stay in here if you want. I’m a more hospitable host than the two dickheads.” I wink, watching as her face relaxes into a smile, a bright laugh bubbling from her lips.

“I wouldn’t want to, like, kick you out or anything…” She trails off but I just step into the room, tossing her bag onto the bed as she laughs bashfully, understanding that I’m not giving her a choice.

“I’ll sleep on the couch or I’ll just hunker down on the floor in here or something. If you don’t mind. Fez wakes up super fucking early and has no remourse for how loud he is with the coffee maker.” I laugh, sitting down on the edge of the bed as I watch her slowly step around the room, taking everything in. Now that she's standing, I really get a good sense of her; her long legs, the bruises on her upper arms and knees, the dark bags around her eyes under the light. She looks almost skeleton-like, her lips in a permanent, resting frown when she’s not speaking. “So…” I trail off, gaining her attention as she sends me a soft look over her shoulder, my breath catching in my throat at the pretty sight. “Custer, huh?” I laugh, watching as she rolls her eyes playfully, leaning up against the wall with a teasing smile.

“Shut up.” She whispers, her blue eyes glistening with mischief as her eyes flicker to look at the ground with a shake of her head. “Too sober to talk about that since Fez made it clear I wasn’t allowed to have any of my fucking drugs.” She huffs, my head nodding slowly as I think back to the raid that occured in this very home not even six months ago. He had a point to be careful but if she was like any of his other customers, he knew better than to just cut her off. That it could be dangerous. I’ll chew his ear off later.

“Gotcha…” I whisper, my hands clasped in my lap as I clear my throat, wanting to keep the conversation going, wanting to learn anything about her that she would offer. Enticing wasn’t the word I’d use to describe her, maybe hypnotizing. “I’m sorry that Fez was kinda rude. Same with Ash.” I laugh nervously, watching as she shakes her head with a laugh.

“Could be worse.” She shrugs, my eyebrows raising as I silently urge her on, a smirk on her lips as she contemplates her next words. “Could be in a relationship with Custer… oh wait.” She jokes in a quiet voice, almost timid at her own joke, a shocked laugh leaving my lips as her eyes crinkle beautifully, my head bobbing in a proud nod.

“Wow, good burn.” I giggle, watching her, mesmerized, as she moves fluidly to sit next to me on the bed, her shoulders still bobbing with laughter.

“I know, I’m that good.” She brushes off, rolling her eyes as we relax into comfortable silence. The smile doesn’t leave my lips as she sighs slowly, my head tilting to look at her as she meets my gaze. She smiles sheepishly as my lips part but no words come out. “I’m really tired-”

“Shit, yeah, you should go to sleep.” I rise from the bed awkwardly as I clap my hands in front of me, motioning towards the door. She giggles nervously as I brush a piece of my hair behind my ear- like an idiot- watching as her legs curl up underneath her on the bed. “I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.” Ignoring her agreement to me sleeping on the floor, my embarrassment consumes me, urging me to put a good amount of distance between us before I do something idiodic. She sends me another nod and a soft wave as I step out into the hallway, my hand shaking against the doorknob as I pull it closed.

The image of her smile burns into my brain as I close my eyes with a foolish grin, beating myself up as I watch Fez leave Ash’s bedroom from down the hall. He looks at me with a confused look, his eyes squinting at me as I point behind me and to the guest bedroom.

“I offered her my bed. Like an idiot.” Fez laughs out loud as he walks towards me, patting my shoulder silently in quiet understanding. I run a hand through my hair as I watch him enter his bedroom, not before sending me a knowing wink over his shoulder. Asshole. “Fuck…” Leaning against the wall, I take a deep breath, my eyes locked on the door that separates me from, apparently, the woman of my dreams. Holy shit, this is possibly the most stereotypical thing that’s ever happened to me.

Is there ever a Batman comic where Robin gets a love interest?

If not, then I think I’m living it. ================================================

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years ago

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The Midnight Coconuts

Summary: Bucky and his girl take a trip to the grocery store. Several things are involved, including coconuts, a 25cent gum-ball machine, Avengers branded Jell-O, chocolate milk straight from the jug, and tampons. Characters: Bucky x Reader Words: 3k Warnings: Some swearing. Insane levels of fluff. Dangerously adorable Bucky. One (1) random reference to Not Another Teen Movie.

A/N: Listen, I will never be over silly domestic Bucky! I originally started this story before TFATWS came out and when I imagined Sam had a niece, so just go with it. Part of me wrote this, because I needed to convince myself that I love grocery shopping (one can only eat takeaway and Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken for so long) and the other part wrote this because I firmly believe domestic routines can be the most romantic adventures out there.

When the doors to the grocery store whoosh open with a gust of stale manufactured air, Bucky skids to an abrupt and dramatic stop.

“WAIT!”

Behind him, you stumble in panic, fumbling with an armful of reusable grocery bags. Instantly you’re imagining spilled blood and stab wounds and clean ups on aisle three and god dammit, how can there be a problem? This is a grocery store at midnight on a Wednesday. Shouldn’t the forces of evil be sleeping? Why is it so impossible to get a day off work? Don’t they know you need rest? And peanut butter? And that you’re dangerously low on toilet paper?

The forces of evil are the worst.

Raising weary fists, you huff.

“What? Where is it?”

Bucky sidesteps toward a row of small red and green machines beside the entrance, falling to his knees and smushing his nose eagerly against the glass. Reaching a hand behind him, there are several impatient grabby motions, before he glances back.

“Babe, can you give me a quarter? I need a gum-ball.”

Planting a sneaker clad foot on his ass, you shove. Hard.

“Bucky, we talked about this. Remember how you agreed to lower the drama and keep things in perspective? I thought we were under attack.”

“If I don’t get a green gum-ball,” he declares dramatically, “there will be an attack.”

Throwing the cloth bags at his face, you stomp off to retrieve a shopping cart, plunking your purse in the front and hunching over the handlebars.

“I thought you said you were a millionaire now. Buy your own gum-ball.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Like I carry loose change,” he scoffs. “C’mon, just one quarter. Please?”

This time, he gives you the Look. That patented Bucky Barnes stare, with the wide eyes and full pouty lips and faux innocent expression, and if this man wasn’t the love of your life you’d quite happily stab him in the heart.

Instead, you open your purse and fish out a quarter, flinging it at his frustratingly pretty face. It bounces off his forehead and he scoops it up with a grin.

“So just to clarify. You came to the grocery store covered in knives, but you forgot to bring money?”

Giving you an indulgent smile, he jams the quarter into the slot. With a twist and shake, a gum-ball rattles free, and Bucky crows with delight when he sees the green candy. He pops it in his mouth.

“I didn’t forget. I made a conscious decision to remove the temptation. If I bring cash, I’ll spend it. You know I ain’t great with that whole self control thing.”

“How encouraging to hear, from the man with knives pouring out his ass.”

Jumping to his feet, he throws an arm around your shoulders.

“Ass knives sound painful.”

“Depends on how sharp they are,” you mumble, pulling a carefully folded sheet of paper from your jacket.

“Excuse you? My knives are always perfectly sharpened, thank you very much. What kind of expert assassin runs around with dull knives? Damn baby, it’s like you don’t even know me.”

Ignoring him, you flatten out the paper and smooth the edges, sighing happily at the block letters and structured diagrams drawn in deep blue ink.

Here it is, your masterpiece. A monument to productivity. The gold standard by which all optimization models should be benchmarked. This isn’t just any list, this is The List.

Everything is grouped, first by aisle, then by product location within the aisle, and then from top to bottom shelf order, to maximize efficiency. This is the dream list. The kind that inspires jealousy. The kind people hold up at TED talks when they talk about time management techniques. Marie Kondo wishes she had this list.

Bucky snorts when he sees the carefully printed boxes.

“God, you’re such a square,” he says adoringly. He plants a sugary wet kiss on your temple and you grind an elbow into his ribs.

“We discussed this, Bucky. Don’t mock my lists.”

“Sorry babe, I ain’t mocking. Your lists are beautiful, they always get me all hot and bothered,” he agrees, dipping lower to lick behind your ear. “And I really love that list you keep with all those dirty, filthy, sex things you wanna do to me.”

“I don’t have a list like that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky sighs, “and I don’t know how many more hints I can drop here.”

Reaching under his shirt, you rub his belly consolingly. “Okay then. This weekend I’ll sit down and make you a special list. One so disgusting and dirty and depraved, it would make Wade Wilson cry.”

Bucky laughs and squeezes you tighter.

“About damn time honey. I’m equally parts terrified and horny. So where’re we headed first?”

“Produce,” you answer promptly, plowing forward, Bucky still chuckling beside you.

The whole scenario was ironic, actually. There was no need to grocery shop - automatic ordering mechanisms across the Avengers tower rendered the task meaningless - but sometimes it was a welcome relief to partake in such an ordinary thing. Unable to sleep after one particularly terrible mission, you found yourself wandering the aisles of your 24-hour supermarket, dressed in pineapple adorned pajama pants and one of Bucky’s rattier sweatshirts, searching for ice cream. The unexpected symmetry of products arranged along the shelves, the rainbow hued produce, the hint of baking bread wafting from the ovens, all those everyday trappings of normality, they washed over like a soothing balm. Soon enough, the boiling bad thoughts simmered to nothing more than a cache of blurry memories.

When you got home, sleep came fast, deep and dreamless.

One month later, the idea struck again.

After 36 hours of Bucky tossing and turning, dark shadows bruising beneath weary blue eyes, you took his hand and led him down the dark street for a midnight adventure. He was skeptical, disbelieving that something so simple could chase away the insomnia. But he dutifully followed you, strolling aimlessly through the aisles, throwing odds and ends into the cart.

The tension gradually eased, he began to relax, and suddenly?

He was hooked.

An hour later, after arguing the health benefits of frosted Cheerios over oatmeal, poking each hunk of cheese in the display, and loading the cart with every single flavor of spaghetti sauce on the shelf, the heavy weight of remembering began to ease. When he collapsed into bed, he slept for eight hours straight.

I don’t know what that was, he swore the next morning, munching through his third bowl of frosted Cheerios, but it was magic.

And with that, a midnight ritual was born. Sometimes you make the trek alone, sometimes Bucky does the same, but whenever life permits you go together. This small slice of domesticity brings a warm comfort to this strange life.

There is no doubt, this is your favorite area of the entire store.

Barrels filled with tart oranges and smooth red apples. Tables piled high with bananas, some just shy of yellow, others sunshine perfect, and a few with speckles of black (which are the best). Shelves lining the walls, overflowing with bundles of herbs and lettuce, all coated in a fine layer of mist.

Bliss.

Heading straight for the apples, you plunge into the Gala pile, rummaging until you come up with ten perfect ones. Peaches follow, fingers rubbing along the delicate pinky-orange fuzz. Squeeze, smell, squeeze, smell. Five are chosen for a pie (Sam pleaded shamelessly until you agreed to make him one), and in the cart they go. Heading toward the wall of herbs, you’re reaching for the basil when a metallic bang makes you jump. Spinning around, you find Bucky lobbing coconuts into the cart.

“We need these.”

“We really don’t, Buck. I hate coconut, it tastes like suntan lotion.”

“They’re not for eating,” he grabs an apple, wipes it on his shirt, and takes a juicy bite. “They’re for security.”

Sticky juice drips from his lip, catching in his beard. When you reach over to swipe it away, he nips your finger with a grin.

“Explain please.”

“See it’s like this. We’re just here shopping, doin’ our thang -”

“Don’t say thang.”

“- when someone attacks. What happens? BAM. One of these furry beauties breaks their face. Problem solved.”

Giving him a slow perusal, you raise an eyebrow.

“Were the 47 knives you’re carrying not enough to deflect this attack?”

Finishing off the apple in three sloppy bites, he carefully tucks the price sticker in his pocket so he can scan it before leaving and sets the mangled core beside your purse.

“Babe, these are my back-up plan. A good soldier always has a back-up plan.”

While you grab a bottle of extra-pulpy orange juice, Bucky picks two jugs of chocolate milk, snaps one open and takes a swing. Ever the thrifty shopper, he pulls a familiar bag from his back pocket, fishes out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and dangles it before you.

“Found a coupon for this,” he says gleefully. “Buy one, get one free. It’s called a BOGO. A BOGO. Hilarious, right? Fuck me, I love the future.”

Still laughing, he takes another long drink of chocolate milk and smacks his lips.

It was a lazy Sunday morning when you discovered this particular habit. Walking into the living room, you found Bucky buried in a sea of Sunday newspaper, tongue between his teeth and scissors in hand while he clipped coupons. He wasn’t picky, if it was remotely interesting, it went into the YES pile. It was one of those random things that brought him inordinate levels of joy, so of course you encouraged it. On his last birthday, you gifted him with a green zippered bag decorated with angry looking owls and official looking letters stitched across the front:

Bucky’s Coupon Bag Thriftn’ Machine Since 1917

He laughed for five straight minutes and then stuffed it full. The bag accompanies you on every trip and the sight of Bucky excitedly rifling through his wad of coupons still makes your heart swell.

Setting aside his BOGO, Bucky continues down the aisle, leaving you to pause in front of the yogurt. While you contemplate the merits of blackberry vs strawberry, Bucky slides over holding three cans of Reddi-Whip.

“Are you actually planning to eat that? I thought you said whipped air is for, and I quote, ‘spineless, tasteless trash heathens’?”

Bucky shakes the can of spray whipped cream and wiggles his eyebrows, leveling you with a sultry stare.

“Hell no I’m not eating it. This is for the bedroom. Last week I watched this god-awful movie where some blond guy - who looked exactly like Steve, by the way - made himself a whipped cream bikini for his girl. Decided I’m gonna do that for you. You’re welcome.”

“That sounds gross and unsanitary.”

“If by gross and unsanitary you mean spicy and sexy, then yes. Yes it does.”

Whistling what sounds like the theme music from a bad porn, he adds two tubs of honey swirled Greek yogurt, pats your butt, and strolls ahead, throwing a roughish wink over his shoulder. Imagining the melted whipped cream soaking into your bedsheets, you mentally add more laundry detergent to the list.

“Hang on, turn here.”

Tugging the cart behind him, Bucky stalks toward the feminine hygiene display. It takes him a minute to scan the products before squatting down to the bottom shelf. Grabbing two jumbo boxes of tampons, oddly enough the brand you prefer, he pops back to his feet.

“Dare I ask why you need these?”

A faint pink flush crawls up his neck.

“Well, you know, two reasons. They’re really great for stopping bloody noses, you know? Just poke ‘em up there and they soak it all up.”

He mimes the execution and adds a thumbs up.

“And the second reason?”

Squinting at his boots, he shuffles his feet a bit. The pink flush deepens.

“Um, you know - I know you’re out, since I stuck the last one up Steve’s nose last week, and yeah. Anyway. It’s about that time. Of the month. For you.”

Clearing his throat, he reaches for his chocolate milk, but you grab his wrist.

“You know when my period’s going to start?”

He shrugs self-consciously and fiddles with a loose thread on his shirt.

“Well yeah. You think it’s just a coincidence when all your favorite candy shows up every month?” Looking up, he shoots you a crooked smile and leans over the cart to kiss your forehead. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, you haul him in for a real kiss instead and his startled laughter tickles your lips. When you break away, those bright blue eyes are shining.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you murmur.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispers.

This is the aisle where the cart officially explodes.

Lasagna noodles.

Egg noodles.

Spaghetti noodles.

Penne.

Linguine.

Fettuccine.

Literally one of every noodle is selected, because Bucky Barnes is a self-proclaimed noodle slut.

As you organize the boxes and search for orzo, you see him furtively add an extra bag of elbow macaroni. A quiet cough hides your laughter.

The last time Sam’s four-year-old niece came to the tower, she and Bucky spent hours making glittery elbow macaroni necklaces, which they ceremoniously gifted to everyone. When Sam casually mentioned her enthusiastically telling everyone at pre-school about her friend Bucky and how much fun she had visiting him, Bucky ran to a craft store and bulk bought supplies of glue, string, paint, and glitter, just in case she comes over again.

Months later and the entire team are still finding puddles of glitter all over the tower, but the delight on Bucky’s face anytime someone mentions that arts and crafts afternoon?

It’s worth the mess.

Gathering up brown sugar, instant oats, and chocolate chips, you turn to drop them in the cart when Bucky makes a strangled noise. Glancing over, you find him bouncing on his toes, vibrating with excitement.

“Babe. Babe. Are you making monster cookies?”

Adding a can of raisins, you search for the good vanilla. The kind that actually tastes like vanilla, not a cheap car wash air freshener.

“I promised I would,” you remind him. Bucky plasters himself against your back, wrapping you in an enthusiastic hug and nuzzling his face against your neck.

“I love those fucking cookies,” he declares. “They’re my favorite thing ever. Next to you I mean.”

Finding the vanilla, you spin in his arms and return the squeeze.

“I know you do. But you have to share them this time, okay? You can’t just eat them all yourself like the last two times. Agree?”

“Agree…to disagree. They’re wasted on other people, no one else loves as much. It’s for the best when I eat them all, it’s proof how much I love you. I’m doing it for you. I’m supporting you. Because I love you.”

“You’re completely full of shit,” you reply.

“I swear I’m not! Just listen!”

The excuses grow longer and wilder as Bucky outlines his rationale against sharing, walking backward and dragging the cart with him as he pleads his case. He’s diving into the science of super soldier metabolism levels and caloric requirements and the fact that his sister never shared anything with him, when he bumps into a tall display.

He pulls up short, eyes narrowing. Plunking his fists on his hips, he growls a disgruntled sigh and glares at the rows of packaging.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Lined up in neat rows, you see boxes of Jell-O organized by color and flavor. On the cover of each are an assortment of familiar images.

“Are these Avengers themed Jell-O?” you ask, picking up a box with Sam’s image and the words Wild Berry Wilson. The rows extend further, filled with Lime Green Hulk and Blue Raspberry Rogers and Black Cherry Widow and Strawberry Lemon Stark. Exasperated, Bucky grabs the Sparkling Orange Spider flavor.

“Is this for real? The kid gets one and I didn’t? Someone in PR is getting fired.”

“Well there’re only so many flavors, Buck,” you point out practically, but Bucky’s not in the mood for logic. Instead, he swipes an entire shelf of Jell-O flavors into the cart.

“I swear to god, I have to do everything around here. Fine then. I’ll make my own flavor, Blackberry Kiwi Soldier or Winter Watermelon Rainbow, or something.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Anyway, I’ll work on the name. But I’m bringing it to dinner tomorrow night and everyone is gonna eat it.”

He dumps in a bag of mini-marshmallows and grabs sprinkles for topping, before marching down the aisle. Cringing at the volume of sugar in the cart, you make another mental note to schedule a dentist appointment.

“Go do your manly duty and find the meat. We need two 5lb rump roasts.”

“I like your rump roast,” he instantly responds and reaches over to smack your butt again. Anticipating the move, you catch his arm and twist it behind his back. He barks out a breathless laugh and you slap his ass in return.

“Your innuendos are tragic.”

Releasing him with a gentle shove, Bucky snatches up his three coconuts and ambles away, laughing while he juggles them. When he returns, he has the requested rump roasts, several packages of bacon, and a bundle of cocktail shrimp.

“If my innuendos get better, then can I touch your butt?”

“Maybe. But they better be real good.”

An added benefit to shopping at midnight? Not a soul in line.

Loading everything onto the conveyer belt, you automatically organize for bagging. Boxes together, produce together, meat together. Bucky adds a pack of batteries, a tin of mints, and some trashy magazines.

The last three items in the cart are his coconuts. They rattle around until you toss them at him, motioning back to the produce department.

“We made it out alive. Go put them back.”

Still chomping his tasteless green gum-ball, he shakes his head and plops them down.

“Nah, I have another idea for them. Got all those craft supplies at home, I’m gonna make you something.”

“Should I even ask?”

Bucky blows a huge, wet bubble and looks you up and down.

“Have you every worn one of those coconut bras? Like on TV, with the ladies in grass skirts? I’m gonna make you one. I already have string and glue. And glitter.”

“I think you may be overestimating your crafting abilities.” Digging out your credit card, you wait for the final tally.

“Well, if it’s terrible then you’ll just be naked. Either way, I win.”

Shaking out your grocery sacks, he packs everything with Tetris-like efficiency and slides all of them up the vibranium arm.

“How about I make you a deal. I’ll wear a coconut bra, if you’ll make yourself something to wear as well.”

Bucky blows another sugary bubble, pondering the idea.

“Like a coconut man thong?”

“Exactly like a coconut man thong.”

“Deal. Add it to that special dirty list you’re making me honey. We got loads to do.”

Outside, the night air smells sweet and cool, the barest hint of a spring rain and fresh grass lingering on the breeze. Already, your eyes are feeling heavy, tonight’s quiet adventure ushering in that sought after peace.

In your right hand, the three coconuts swing gently in their plastic sack. Humming under his breath, Bucky yawns, reaching for your other hand. His warm, calloused palm squeezes tight, his thumb stroking lightly over your skin.

He turns to you with a sleepy, lopsided smile.

Midnight and coconuts.

It always does the trick.

***

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine

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wkemeup · 4 years ago

Text

The Only Kindness

summary: In the early days of Bucky’s captivity in Hydra, the only comfort he knows is the kindhearted doctor assigned to mend his wounds. At least when he's with her, he knows he isn’t alone. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 9.7k warnings: torture, canon level violence, unwanted sexual advances, hydra's attempts to brainwash bucky, hella angst, a/n: this is meant to sit in the world of canon and what we know eventually happens to Bucky at Hydra sooo do with that what you will. I am genuinely really proud of this one so I hope you can forgive me for the pain I cause

The first thing Bucky remembered every morning when the sting of florescent lights woke him in a cold sweat was that the arm attached to his shoulder was not his own. The realization of it hurt worse than the day before; with unforgiving metal seared into his skin, leaving behind bubbled scars and a revolting, oozing smell.

It weighed him down, slumped on his spine, pulled at his neck, and he struggled to even push himself upright. Sitting upon the thin mattress laid amongst an otherwise baron room, Bucky supposed he might have preferred the floor if not for the dark red stain at the center of the concrete.

Then, the familiar clicking of locks echoed against the walls and Bucky gritted his teeth as a stout man with rounded features and an arrogant grin strolled into the room – no, the cell – alongside two men strapped with rifles.

He clutched to the solid metal of his arm as if holding it might take the pressure off his shoulder, might subside the pain as it spread through his veins, or stop the twitching in his cheek as he tried to stifle the pain, but it was no use. He held on anyway in favor of wrapping a hand around the scientist’s throat.

“Ah, good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola greeted, though there was something unpleasant in his tone. A threat, perhaps. A taunt. It was always something of the sort.

Bucky could barely muster the energy to look the man in the eye, but as he did, it was hidden under a dark, loathing glare. He spat on the floor by Zola’s feet.

“Go to hell.”

Zola jumped back and brushed at the toe of his shoe. It was amusing, at least, to see the rage boil in the man’s chest; all red faced and round and steaming from the ears. Though Bucky’s triumph was shorted lived as Zola waved a single hand at the armed guards beside him.

They lunged forward and with heavy hands, clawed Bucky into their grip by his biceps. He met concrete within seconds; the red stain laid beneath him. His knees barely had time to heal from the day before and they stung as he struggled under the guards’ grasp, raw skin and blistering burns shielded by paper thin fabric.

His face was pushed down into the stone and for a strange moment there was relief; it was cool to the touch, a break from the feverish heat on his brow.

But then, while a guard pinched at the nape of Bucky’s neck, nearly choking the air straight out of him and the other jabbed a knee to his spine, he remembered there was no relief within Hydra.

“You have a long day ahead of you,” Zola announced, a smirk growing upon his face as Bucky let out a hollowed whine. It slipped past his lips before he could smother it down. He knew then that he had lost whatever game they were playing; the win-lose of a man in chains to his captors with scalpels in their hands and venom on their tongues.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the fall; since icy waters and plummeting down to a ravine he wished most nights had swallowed him whole. He didn’t know how many times he was cut open in an unsterilized room, thrown onto a rusting metal table and operated on with cheap anesthetic. He didn’t know how many times he was strapped into a chair that set fire to his veins and left him feeling numb and empty, how many times he felt a lingering sense of dread he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t know much at all, really.

But he knew his name. He knew his serial number. He knew Steve would come for him like he did before. He knew he’d get through this. He had to. He didn’t have a choice.

“We have much to do,” Zola announced, admiring how Bucky’s face pressed down into the concrete, how the prickles in the stone scraped against his cheek and cut at his skin— pleased to see a man brought to his knees, bowing before the greatness of Hydra. It brought Zola a sense of pride whether the Sergeant resisted or not. He would give in soon enough.

The guards didn’t loosen their grip on Bucky’s arms as they yanked him back to his knees. They didn’t give him a chance to stand either before they started to drag him from the cell.

The grip on his right arm was sure to leave bruises behind, ones to accompany the mess of blue and purple coloring his skin, but it was the pain on his left that rendered him paralyzed. It felt like his arm was being ripped straight from his body, pulled at every nerve ending until they snapped. He could hardly move.

It wasn’t until Zola made a sharp left at the end of the hall that a familiar sense of dread dropped into Bucky’s stomach. Whether it was fear, panic, resilience, he wasn’t sure, but he started to fight back as they neared a dark red door with six locks running up the side.

“No,” he gaped, barely a whisper, but it caught Zola’s attention.

Bucky thrashed in the men’s grip, using his weight as leverage despite the searing pain in his shoulder and the blood trickling down his ribs from where metal fused to flesh. His heels dug into the concrete, trying to catch against the wall to slow them down, to stop what he knew was coming.

Zola merely smiled.

It was no use, and perhaps Bucky knew that from the start, but he couldn’t be strapped into that chair without a fight. He still didn’t know its purpose but he knew it brought him pain. It disoriented him, made him forget his own name and the monsters that chained him. It forced him to remember all over again that he was held prisoner, thousands of miles away from home, presumed dead, and he couldn’t -- he couldn’t do it anymore.

“Please,” Bucky gasped and it sounded foreign in his own voice – broken. He hated it. He despised how his voice cracked, how he fell to his knees in front of his captors and begged.

Zola grabbed a firm hold of Bucky's chin, stump fingers digging into his cheeks and demanding attention. As he pulled in closer, Bucky caught sight of something strange in the reflection of Zola’s glasses.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him; hair grown and wild, unkept beard on his face, dirt and blood covering most of his skin. Amongst the scratches in the glass and the clouds of dirt, the reflection of the man looked tired, with hallowed eyes and sunken cheeks. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back. He wouldn’t survive if he tired.

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

“That’s what I thought,” Zola jeered, a lingering chuckle etched into the trail of his voice. He waved a hand at the guards and Bucky was placed into the chair, all dead weight and positioned like a doll.

Thick, metal bars strapped down around Bucky’s wrists, his biceps, his ankles to hold him in place. He did his best to let go of himself, to find somewhere far beyond the walls of this room, away from the men who ripped him to pieces and broke him to the bare bones. He imagined something better, safer, where he was clean shaven and in fresh clothes, where Steve was waving from the end of the street and the war long behind them, but the dream was torn from him as soon as the panels clamped against his temples.

Electricity jolted through his system and his whole body tensed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

But he could scream.

It ripped through his lungs and he was certain he’d break straight through the mouth guard and shatter his teeth if they didn’t turn off the machine soon. The sound echoing through the room was strained, broken, and Bucky might have mistaken it for nails to a chalkboard if he didn’t feel the burn in the back of his throat.

He started to lose time, unsure if it was on for seconds or hours. It was blinding. It was all-consuming. It was swallowing him whole.

“Enough!” a voice broke through. A woman’s. It wasn’t one Bucky recognized.

“No, keep it on! He can take more.” Zola.

“Are you insane!” the voice shouted again. “You’ll kill him!”

Let them.

The thought startled Bucky but it slipped from him in the seconds it took to arrive; searing pain, white hot fire washing through every muscle down to his bones. His eyes began to flutter closed, a strange sort of emptiness pulling him under, a darkness he couldn’t place, and he welcomed the escape.

There was yelling again, though this time it was coming was across the room. The machine began to power down, the whirring sounds of electricity in his ears leaving him with a numbing silence. The dizziness took hold, the hollowness, and he was surprised to find a woman staring back at him, her hands wrapped around the lever that pulled him from the fire.

“What the hell are you doing!” Zola roared, accent thick and slurring his words together. He bounded forward, attempted to push past the woman but she held her ground, hands planted on her hips.

“I’m saving his life,” she grunted back, unfazed by Zola’s finger pointing up into her face. She swatted it away, ignoring the shock upon his rounded features. “You brought me here for a reason, didn’t you? Let me do my damn job.” She glanced around the room, eyed the men with guns aimed at the ready, barrels trained in her direction. “Give me the room.”

“Not going to happen,” Zola snapped but quickly silenced as she shot him a glare that had him cower several steps in retreat. His cheeks were burned red.

The woman turned back to the man in the chair and he slumped limply in its clutches, her narrowed eyes centering on the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She held up two fingers, eyeing him carefully before she slowly moved to press them against his throat.

He winced before she could even touch him, flinching at the air itself, and she paused, bringing her hand back to her chest. She gave him a minute to watch as she demonstrated what she was trying to do by pressing the tips of her fingers to her own neck.

She tried again and this time she held his stare; calming aura nestled between the vibrant shades in her eyes, a gentle kind of patience he didn’t expect, and he hardly noticed her fingertips against his skin as she felt for his pulse, feather light and paper thin. They were cool to the touch, a comfort in the burning heat of metal surrounding him and he caught himself before he could lean into her palm.

“His heart rate is through the roof,” she said tensely, turning back to Zola and withdrawing her hand. “Unless you want your multi-million-dollar project to go to waste, clear out before he has a goddamn heart attack.”

Zola eyed her suspiciously in what appeared to be a competition of wills. She straightened her back, arms folding over her chest, and she towered over the scientist’s small frame. He glared up at her and the fury was palatable on his face; upper lip twitching, eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists.

She held her ground.

“Fine,” Zola grumbled, waving a hand to the line of men behind him until they bring their weapons down to their sides. “Give the doctor the room.”

As if she were waiting for the men to leave, she exhaled a breath like she had been holding it for quite some time. When she let her hands come back to her sides, puncture marks were left in her palms.

“I’m leaving a man behind for your safety,” Zola threw over his shoulder at he reached the door, almost like a threat.

She swallowed; jaw clenched. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

The door locked shut behind him and a single guard remained by the door, positioned with his finger on the trigger.

“Finally,” she exhaled, turning back with a gentle smile on her face that felt almost unsettling to be in such a cold and unforgiving place. “Can you tell me your name, soldier?”

“Uhh,” was all that left his lips and he hardly recognized his own voice. He searched in the back of his head for the answer, felt it on the tip of his tongue, and still… nothing. He glanced back up at her with clenched teeth because he knew what would happen next, what always happened next.

But instead of a harsh hand to the side of his face or the blunt edge of a weapon to his crown, she nodded, offered him a sad sort of smile, and simply said, “that’s alright.”

She glanced down at the clamps restraining him to the chair. His skin was raw underneath, bleeding a little, and she frowned. It crinkled up into her forehead, pursed out at her lips, and he decided he liked it much better when she smiled.

“Your name is Sergeant James Barnes,” she said fondly and it sounded familiar as she said it, but it still felt distant— wrong in some way. She seemed to notice the contemplation on his face. “It’ll come back to you soon. Might take longer than the last time, but it will. They haven’t perfected the science of the chair yet, it seems.”

There was a resentment laced into her words as she glared back at the armed man standing guard with disgust. She softened as she turned back to face the man she called James. It was within that moment the anger washed from her features, a kindness replacing the hatred, and she ran her fingers on the edge of the chair before she pulled away.

“I’m going to undo these, okay?” she told him and he was surprised that she waited for his nod before adjusting the mechanics on the machine until the metal snapped open and a rush of cold air swept against the blistering skin. He hissed at the sting of it.

“Come,” she requested, gesturing to the examination table in the corner of the room. “Let’s get you out of this thing, huh?”

He was thankful for that. He couldn’t stand the sharp edges anymore or the blistering heat of the arm rests. Her touch was so gentle he wondered if it could push right through him as she bent down to help tug his right arm over her shoulders.

Just as she nearly had him positioned well enough to get him to his feet, the guard standing in the corner of the room stepped forward, gun raised.

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m fine. Let me work.”

“He’s dangerous,” the guard grunted back.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she argued. There wasn’t a trace of hesitancy in her voice, even as she turned to the man hanging off her arms. “Are you, Sergeant Barnes?”

He shook his head.

“See?” she gestured. “Now leave us be.”

The guard stepped back, lowered his weapon, and she smiled.

“Alright then, James,” she started, “think you can help me get you to that table over there? I know you’ve lost some muscle mass but you’re still pretty heavy.”

A short ghost of a laugh escape as he let himself lean on her shoulder, allowing her to guide him towards the table. It surprised him as it left his chest, the feeling of laughter, because he hadn’t so much as smiled since the fall. It hurt, almost. But it was a nice kind of hurt.

She helped him sit on the table, just high enough to give her decent leverage, and he spotted a bag filled with what appear to be medical supplies. It contained with what he would expect; a stethoscope, bandages, depressors, but there were also needles, and shiny metal tools that made him clench his hands around the lip of the table.

“I’m a doctor,” she said, noticing his stare. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Zola’s a doctor,” he muttered back feebly, sharp images of lying awake on a cold, metal table much like the one he currently sat upon plagued his mind, memories of scalpels in his shoulder and needles in his arms.

She nodded, contemplating what he said before she frowned and countered, “Zola’s a mad scientist with a God complex.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It broke a little, but it remained.

“You can call me Y/n if you like,” she said as she began digging through her bag. She found the stethoscope and placed the ends in her ears. “I’m going to press this to your chest, alright? It might be a little cold.”

She exhaled a breath on the side of it for a moment to try and warm it, rubbing it with the palm of her hand. He was mesmerized by the small details; how she positioned herself strategically between him and the armed guard behind her, how she told him exactly what she was doing before she did it, how she gave him time to prepare, how she hadn’t once touched him without asking first.

He didn’t understand her or why she was here, but he was thankful.

He nodded at her and she leaned in closer, pressing the piece to his sternum. It had a slight chill to it but he could still feel the warmth left behind from her breath. He took a deep breath in as she instructed. She took her time, slowly moving to his ribs, and then his back. He took more deep breaths, felt the pulsing of his heart steady under her touch.

“Looks good all things considering,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to the burn marks on his right wrist, fingers ghosting over the reddened marks and her lips tug down into a frown. She masked it as she faced him again, pushing out a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Might as well attend to this, too, don’t you think?”

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

He sat quietly while she worked, listening to her hum softly under her breath. She was impossibly gentle with him, so delicate he could hardly feel it until it was gone. Her hands were a little cold but he found them soothing against the burns. The alcohol she placed on the wound stung, made him grit his teeth and grip to the table’s edge, but she moved quickly, wincing at the way he sucked in a harsh breath as if his pain meant something to her.

When she was finished, she wrapped his wrist with a bandage from her bag and gently tapped on his knee.

“Not a lot my patients would have sat still through that without some kind of numbing agent,” she grinned, praise in her voice, smile on her lips, and it sent a flutter through his chest. “You did good, James.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he’d known worse, that the pain of alcohol to his wounds was nothing in comparison to the mutilation on his arm or the electricity of the chair. So, he focused on something else, a distant memory edging its way back to the surface, something that didn’t lie within the pages of Hydra’s files.

“Bucky,” he choked out, voice a little dry. She raised an eyebrow. “My name… it’s Bucky.”

She smiled at that.

“Bucky,” she repeated, testing it on her lips, “it’s nice to meet you.”

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

No, he found himself under her care more days than not. It was a simple system, it seemed. Hydra would do its best to break Bucky to pieces and they’d send in Y/n to stitch him back up; glue him together with needle and thread or scotch tape and paper mâché. She did her best to heal him and while she could not cure every wound on his body, she gave him something he didn’t have before – something to look forward to.

A kind smile. A gentle hand. A voice so soft it nestled deep into his chest and warmed the hollow ache that had made a home by his heart.

Even through the pain, through the chair, through the long hours he spent overworked in a boxing ring, he knew she’d be waiting on the other side. It didn’t hurt as much when he thought of her, he realized – the only kindness he knew within Hydra.

They hadn’t attempted to use the chair on him in a while and for that he was grateful. To save him from the pain of the electricity and the emptiness that followed, but lately, to allow him to hold onto her memory. He didn’t want to forget her name, her kindness, her light within the darkest corners of hell.

He only ever saw her in short glimpses, brief moments when the guards pushed the boundaries too far and cracked open a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding or dislocated his arm again or fractured another bone. They’d drag her into his room, rough hands on her wrists that made a knot form deep into Bucky’s stomach, and give her minutes to work before they hulled her away.

He healed quickly, he came to find. Certainly faster than he should. Maybe in another world he would have been pleased with this. A perfect soldier. Always ready for battle.

In this world, it meant shorter recovery between trainings. It meant pushing him beyond his limits and testing the extent of his newfound abilities. It meant few and distant meetings with the kind doctor whose smile made it impossibly difficult to despise every last ounce within Hydra.

***

A few weeks since their first meeting, Bucky found himself dragged by his wrists on a familiar path into what looked like a room much like his own, only there were a few small comforts inside; a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a series of books piled on a small dresser.

Y/n jumped up from the desk, pen falling to the concrete as she stared back at the guards, agape. “What the hell did you do to him?!”

They dropped Bucky to the ground, his own arms too weak to hold himself up, and felt the harsh crack of concrete to his jawline. Blood dripped down into his eyes, clouding his vision with crimson pools of red, but he could hear the quick patter of your bare feet as you slid down to the floor beside him, shooing away the guards.

Hands ghosted over his shoulders before you paused, watching the way he sighed into the cool embrace of concrete. She glared back up at the guards, waiting on their answer.

“He’s weak,” one of the guards spat, thick accent spewing down to land on Bucky’s bare skin. “The fist of Hydra is an embarrassment. He crumbles under pressure. He needs to be pushed, to be taught what he is.”

Bucky couldn’t quite register the way her hands curled up into fists or how a harsh exhale burned deep in her chest, but she swallowed it the best she could as she muttered, “get out.”

A toe nudged at Bucky’s leg – one of the guards behind him – and he groaned as it dug into a dark purple bruise from the days before.

“You’ve done enough,” she pressed again, swatting away his leg as he tried to push Bucky over to his back to see his good work. "Now leave.”

“You don’t give us orders, princess,” the other guard smirked, yellowed teeth bared.

“We’ll be back for him soon,” the first one said, nudging his friend to stand down. “Make sure he’s ready to go again tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut and within the echo, Bucky felt the cool touch of a breeze nestle against his skin. It was a relief, as kind as the concrete, that sat in sharp contrast to the burning heat on his skin.

“Are you alright, Sergeant Barnes?” an angelic voice called. It sounded muffled, and a bit distant, but it was one he recognized.

He nodded slowly, though the concrete scratched at his skin.

“You don’t look alright,” she countered, a touch of lightness in her tone and it came as a welcomed relief.

“You kidding? I look great,” Bucky teased, half muffled by the ground. She laughed, pressing a hand over her lips, and Bucky swore for the smallest of moments that all the pain had washed from his body completely.

He could hear her riffling around the room, gathering supplies and laying a blanket down by his side, then a pillow. She was talking to herself, words he couldn’t quite hear or understand, but they were a comfort nonetheless.

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

“Bucky,” he grumbled, just as she came down to kneel beside him again. “S’my name, remember? I’m supposed to be the one with the memory problems here.”

There came that laugh again, though she tried to suppress it. “That’s not very funny, Bucky.”

“Give me an ounce of humor here, doll,” Bucky smirked. It ached in his lips where the split tore through, burned in his cheeks from the swelling on his face, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t often he had much reason to smile these days. She seemed to bring it out of him.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. “Think you can turn onto your back? I’ve got some cushioning here for you. I’m sorry I can’t lift you to the bed.”

“Nah, this is perfect.”

Bucky summoned as much strength as his body could muster as he pushed down into the concrete with his right hand. He started to shake as pressure burned into his left shoulder and he gritted his teeth, face contorting in a wash of pain as his smirk faded away in an instant.

She must have noticed because her hands slipped gently onto his right bicep, gently easing him to turn over the metal shoulder and lay onto his back. Her touch was so feather light, he questioned for a moment if it was even there at all, but then he felt a soft squeeze, the cool press of her palms, and he sighed.

Her hands were the only ones who did not mean him harm. She healed. She nurtured. She cared.

“What are they doing to you...”

Her voice was hardly a whisper, the shock on her face evident enough of the damage on his own. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, but he knew it was bad. It hurt to speak, hurt to even part his lips, and his vision was tunneled and dark, cast over in shadows, and somehow, she was still clear as day.

“Dunno,” he responded, recognizing the slur in his voice. “Training me for something, I think.”

She stilled; muscles rigid as she reached into her bag for something to bandage his wounds. He could see the contemplation on her face, the worry, but she swallowed it back, pushed out that gentle, reassuring smile he’d come to rely on and began to work on the cut along his cheekbone.

“It can’t be anything good, Bucky,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to the door as if she were worried about what laid on the other side. He knew the feeling well.

***

He forgot her for the first time a few days later.

The scars were starting to heal; the gashes open on his face just days before nothing but a thin discoloration on his skin. He knew the look on Zola’s face as he emerged in his cell that morning - smug and grim, eager to wipe away the decorated prisoner of war and turn him into something empty and broken. The smirk that crept up his face was unsettling, jarring, as it crinkled lined into his forehead and a vile look in his eye.

They slammed him down into the chair, locked the restraints into place, and he only spotted her rush into the room as the machine powered on. The horror in her eyes as she met his, the quick transition to rage as she turned to Zola, and the pain took over until it consumed him whole.

He lost some time because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a metal table and the room had emptied, save for a single guard standing in the corner over the shoulder of a beautiful woman who eased a soothing gel onto the burns on his wrist.

He studied her as she worked, quietly humming to herself, telling him what she was doing before she dared to touch him in a voice so gentle it startled him. It was familiar, he realized, the delicate intricacies of her tone, the warmth in his chest when she touched him. He wasn’t afraid of her like he was the others. He didn’t flinch under her touch.

“Your heart rate is still pretty high,” she noted, her fingers pressed to the inside of his right wrist. “Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

She embellished her own, chest rising high as she inhaled, air blowing out from her mouth in the exhale. She nodded for him, something encouraging and kind, until he followed suit. But even through the tender smile upon her lips there was a sadness there, a disappointment, and it hurt him deep into his chest.

“I know you, don’t I?” he finally said after he mimicked a few of the breaths as she requested.

She smiled at that and he felt an instant relief. Something warm and gentle. Kind.

He narrowed his eyes upon the slight curve of her lips, drawing up to her eyes where he was met with a linger sense of calm, of peace, of reprieve. “Why don’t I remember you?”

She sighed, a cautious glance back at the guard behind her who seemed to be watching with the intent to overhear. Her eyes were downcast, a nervous brush of her tongue over her lower lip, and she pushed out a smile for him.

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

Bucky was barely tied together with string and tape, broken and bleeding and covered in bruises, and yet, a smile etched onto his broken lips as he turned to find Y/n stumbling into his cell. She shrugged off the grip of a guard with an aggravated huff before he slammed the door closed behind her.

She was no longer shocked by the state in which she often saw him. His accelerated healing made the brutal look of his mutilation a bit easier to swallow he supposed or perhaps he was getting used to it. It was like a mask he’d come to wear, fading in and out depending on the day, but always present. It didn’t seem to lessen the pain in her eyes as she sat down beside him, extending a hand towards his face to touch gently at the markings.

“I hate that they keep doing this to you,” she said softly, though there was a rage nestled into the crook of her tone. She shook her head, a tense breath exhaled as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a few swabs of gauze and alcohol wipes.

“M’alright,” Bucky slurred and it didn’t seem to help his case.

“They’re monsters.” Y/n dabbed at the gash on his forehead as gingerly as she could manage. Bucky didn’t mind the sting of it, not when she was touching him so tenderly, like she was handling something precious.

He’d figured out a while ago that she was just as much a part of Hydra as he was. He never dared to ask, but he’d seen the way she looked at Zola, how she despised him as an enemy. He’d seen the clothes she wore and how they were tattered on the seams, how they discolored with use, how she'd wear them over and over again while the men in the room wore pristine lab coats and freshly laundered suits. He’d seen the dark circles under her eyes, the knots in her hair, the way her collarbone began to protrude the longer he knew her.

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

“They’re monsters,” Y/n repeated, tears burning in her eyes and it warped deep into Bucky’s gut. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away. He wanted to make her smile again because she’d been nothing but a light for him and now, she was flickering and fading and he was certain it would destroy him completely until she uttered, “and... and so am I,” and his whole world fell apart.

“No,” Bucky shot back almost instantly. “Don’t say that. You’re not one of them.”

“I might as well be,” she said, brushing at the tears as they spilled down her cheeks. “I’m still complicit in what they’re doing to you – whatever that is. I’m still helping them.”

“They’d kill you,” Bucky argued. “They’d kill you if you tried to resist.”

“They’re practically killing you now! How is that any better?” She pressed her palms to her face, shielding herself from him and Bucky slid down onto the floor, kneeling on the concrete in front of her, and gently rested his hands on her knees. She struggled to catch her breath between the sobs. “I keep fixing you up just to send you back out there and—and—Bucky, I feel like I’m handing you over to slaughter and I can’t-- I can’t--”

“Stop, please,” Bucky begged. He could feel the splinter nestle into his heart, cracking at the edges as it tore a sliver down the center. It burned and ached and threatened to rip him to pieces worse than the foreign metal on his arm, worse than the guards on the other side of the door, worse than the chair that stole his name and his memories, because the woman who saved his life over and over again was crying and he simply couldn’t take it.

“Look at me,” he eased, drawing his hands up her thighs, along her arms, until he met her hands resting against her face. Gently, he pried his fingers under her palms and when he was met without resistance, he pulled them away from her face. “You are the only shred of good within this place. You are the only kindness I’ve known since they threw me on that table and remade me. You are the only thing keeping me going when they’re beating me within an inch of my life, the only thing I want to remember when they try to take away everything I know. Please, don’t think for a second that you’re one of them. You’re saving me, Y/n.”

Bucky wondered for a moment if he said too much as her lips parted into shock, her eyes staring at him shocked and wide. Her breaths were coming in slow and steady as she watched him, almost as if she were waiting for him to recant, but he held his ground.

“You are good, Y/n,” Bucky continued. He squeezed her hand in his right, letting his left fall down to his side to shield her from the evil from which it was born. “You're the reason I keep coming back.”

“I’m scared, Bucky,” she exhaled, voice so low, so shaken, he could barely hear it. She squeezed his hand back. “I’m scared of what they're going to do to you.”

“I’ll have you, won’t I?” he smiled, because it was all he had left. There were no guarantees, no promises he could make to ease her fears. “As long as I’ve got you with me, I’m okay.”

He just wanted her to smile again, to be the woman who fought against Zola in a crowded room of armed Hydra agents and won, who was fearless in the face of evil, and gentle and kind in her touch.

Bucky realized that the more time he spent with her, the more she’d grown to care for him, the more he’d found himself missing her— the more dangerous they were to one another. If Hydra knew...

“You have me,” she said suddenly, a stroke of confidence returning to her voice, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the door and the men that laid beyond it. Bucky met her eye and she raised a palm to his cheek, slow and steady, always giving him the time to prepare before she touched him even when it wasn’t necessary, even after he’d grown to trust her above anyone else. She cupped the side of his face, smiling sweetly for him, sadly, as she said, “as long as they’ll let me, Bucky. You’re not alone. You’ll have me.”

Her thumb traced over old scars she’d mended, over raised edges and dried blood from the mess left behind by the dozen Hydra agents he’d met earlier that day. The tenderness within her touch was unlike anything he knew how to quantify. It sat in such contrast to the hands of men who battered and beat him within an inch of his life, to the torture of the chair, to the scalpel in the hands of mad scientists with god complexes.

There was something in her touch. Something that felt a lot like love.

Bucky found himself leaning in closer, wanting to close the space between them because any space at all was simply too much. He wanted to engulf her into his arms, protect her from the evils that waited for them outside these walls, take her away to somewhere warm and safe, somewhere she didn’t have to check over her shoulder when she smiled. It terrified him how badly he wanted it because he knew there were no fantasies in Hydra, no dreams, no happy endings. He knew it would be taken from him eventually, she would be taken from him, but it didn’t stop him from clinging on as tight as he could.

His lips touched hers, broken and splintered, and still, beautiful. He could taste the salty tang of her tears against her lips, her fingers curling around his long, unkempt hair and twisting along his scalp, breathing him in. There was a sanctuary within her arms, under her touch, that seemed impossible within these walls, and yet, here she was.

Tangible. Real. Kissing him as if he could be ripped from her at any second.

And he was.

The door swung open and Bucky jolted away from her. Y/n jumped back against the bed frame, her head hitting the cement wall.

In the frame of the door stood a guard Bucky had become familiar with; blonde, broad, reminded him a bit of Steve if it weren’t for the cold, dead look in his eyes. The burn mark across his jawline helped to obstructed the similarities.

The guard’s eyes lingered a little longer on Y/n, focusing on the quick rise and fall of her chest, the slight swell in her lips, the mess in her hair, before he gritted his teeth and turned to Bucky.

“Times up, Soldat,” he grunted, wasting no time as he pulled a wand from his belt, flipped a switch at the end, and burned the jolts of electricity into Bucky’s side. He barely registered the desperate crack in Y/n’s voice as she begged for the guard to stop.

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

“They’ll find out how I feel for you and they'll hurt you.”

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

He couldn’t get the words out of his head. Familiar voices: a man’s and a woman’s. He’d heard them spoken aloud; of that he was certain. But they were distant, far away, as if he’d heard them uttered on a film screen in passing. They couldn’t be his own memories. He was a blank slate. He was empty.

A woman stood across from him, approaching him slowly as the machine powered down. It was loud in his ears, echoing enough to pulse tremors into the back of his head. He didn’t dare show an ounce of the pain he felt. He’d come to know the consequences of that, even if he couldn’t quite remember what they were.

“I’m going to help you to the table, alright?” the woman said, gesturing to the metal desk to her left. There it was again— that familiarity.

She smiled kindly at him, as if looking into the face of a man she knew, but he did not know her. She must have sensed his hesitancy because she held up her hands out for him to see.

“I just want to examine you. Make sure you’re okay. Can I do that?”

He narrowed his eyes on the woman, listening intently to her heartbeat. It was a strange sound, one he shouldn’t be privileged to hear, but he found the skill useful. He could listen for the inflections in the rhythm, pulse points and skips that told him when a person was lying.

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

He was surprised at how easily he allowed her to guide him to the table, how he didn’t question as he let her place a hand on his inner wrist to check his pulse, how he didn’t flinch when she approached the scars on his shoulder. It was like he knew the routine, understood the subtle intricacies in her gestures warning him of what she was about to do before she even laid a hand on him.

A relief was evident in his muscles. He felt a calmness wash over him the longer she stood at his side, recording his vitals, running a hand soothingly along his arm. It seemed personal, the way she touched him, like she was preserving something – or guiding something home.

He wanted to ask her name, why she was treating him so kindly when all he knew within these walls was the cruelty of violent men, when the guard who stood at the back corner of the room cleared his throat.

“You almost done, sweetheart?” The guard spat the pet name like an insult and the kind woman standing beside the Soldier flinched. She tensed quickly after that, mustering out a brave face as she turned back to the armed guard defiantly.

“I’ll be done when I’m done, Bronski.”

The Soldier wanted to smile, though he wasn’t sure why. A swell of pride beamed in his chest as Bronski’s smirk dissipated, replaced with something colder, darker; a bruise to his ego. The woman turned back to the Soldier, exhaled a heavy breath and offered him a short smile; calming, reassuring. The edges of his lips started to curve in response until –

Bronski crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed a tight hold of her arm and yanked her swiftly away from the Soldier. She collided against his chest, caged against him under the firm hold of his grip.

“You think you can mouth off to me, bitch?” Bronski sneered, shoving her against the desks at the far side of the room. Viles of serums and chemicals spilled over at the impact, glass shattering, and the Soldier began to stand from his position across the room, his hand curling into fists.

“Stop looking at him! He’s not going to help you,” Bronski taunted as her eyes flashed back at the Soldier, pleading at some unknown force he couldn’t quite understand, though he listened to its call. Bronski towered over her, easily overpowering her frame, and pinned her to the wall.

The Soldier took another step forward, another inch closer to what he was sure were near fatal consequences, but there was a voice screaming in the back of his head, an instinct he couldn’t drown out, a desperate need to protect a woman he didn’t know.

“You think we didn’t notice, huh?” Bronski growled, his hand sliding down her side, tracing over the curves at her waist and the Soldier felt a sudden twist in his stomach, a dead weight sinking him into the ground at the sight. “You think we can’t tell you got it hot for the asset? He’s weak. Pathetic. Why don’t you try being with a real man instead? I’ll show you a good time, princess...”

Her eyes were on the Soldier, holding his gaze though she was shaking; trembling and afraid. He didn’t like that.

“Get away from her.”

Bronski froze. He managed a slow glance over his shoulder to find the Soldier standing just a few feet away, hands clenched at his sides, fuming as his eyes flickered between the Hydra agent and the woman he held pinned to the wall.

“Don’t be a fucking hero, Soldat,” Bronski spat back.

But the Soldier did not move.

“Get away from her,” he repeated, his voice low, mechanical. He could feel the rush of adrenaline building in his veins, the chaos of the rapid thumping of his pulse. He wasn’t used to such reactions, such intensity, when all he’d come to know was a crippling emptiness. It was unpleasant.

“What are you going to do about it?” Bronski taunted, a sick smirk upon his face. He dismissed the Soldier, didn’t dare to think he’d disobey direct orders, and turned back to the woman.

She tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on her wrists was so tight his nails had dug puncture marks into her skin. She was shaking, tears burning into reflective lenses over the gentle hue of her eyes; kind eyes that should not bare such a weight.

Bronski leaned in closer, his mouth pressing against her neck, her whole body stiffening at the touch, and the Soldier snapped.

He rushed at them, his left hand clamping down around Bronski’s neck until he started to gag. Bronski released her wrists, allowing her to sink to the floor in a fallen heap. Bronski scratched at the hand at his neck, gasping for air as his skin turned bright red, then blue, but he was only met with metal. It could not feel. It could only maim.

There was a rage storming inside the Soldier, a mission he’d assigned for himself, as he threw Bronski across the room. It didn’t take much effort. The Soldier was stronger than most men. They underestimated him, believed him to be feeble and weak because he was submissive. But not now. Not when they threatened her.

“Soldat!” Bronski choked out, his voice damaged. Broken windpipe. The Soldier smiled.

Slowly, he took a knee at Bronski’s side, grabbed a firm hold of his collar for leverage, and barreled the closed end of his fist into the man’s face until he could no longer see the smirk that had pressed upon his mouth as he dared to touch his girl. He didn’t stop until Bronski was no longer begging, until he was silent, and blood caked between the panels of metal in his fist, until he heard a voice calling behind him—

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

He blinked a few times, a sharp piercing in the back of his head painful enough to obscure his vision and he dropped Bronski from his hold. A hand slid down over his shoulders, guiding him away from the body on the floor. It was that same familiar touch; one he knew well.

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

Her hand pressed sweetly to the side of his face, like she was trying to memorize him. He leaned into the touch, something he was sure he hadn’t done in years, and yet, within her arms it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like maybe he’d done it a dozen times before.

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

She nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms. She molded so perfectly against him, his healer, his savior. Bucky knew they wouldn’t have much time before the Hydra infantry arrived and discovered what he’d done. He didn’t dare spare a glance back at the body on the ground.

“Y/n... I—”

The doors swung open, slamming in echoing shocks against the walls, and chaos ensued. Swarms of armed Hydra agents ascended into the room and tore Y/n from his arms, separating them as they restrained Bucky back into the chair. It was the only thing that could hold him.

“Leave her alone!” Bucky roared, that same rage returning to him in fire as two guards pinned Y/n’s arms behind her back, holding her steady as she desperately fought against their hold. “Get your hands off of her!”

Zola appeared at the frame of the door, eyes narrowing on Bucky. The room fell silent.

“Impossible.” He followed Bucky’s eyes to where the guards were restraining Y/n. “The programming should not have failed so soon after he was wiped. How?”

“He’s got a crush on the doc, sir,” one of the guards reported snidely. Bucky recognized him from the many trips he spent dragged along the hallways smearing blood into the concrete before he was dropped off at Y/n’s door.

“Interesting.” Zola crossed the room, hands grasped behind his back as he paced. His eyes fell on Y/n, studying her. “And is it... mutual?”

She didn’t respond, though when her tear-filled eyes flashed over to Bucky, he had his answer.

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

The machine started to power up and Bucky found himself fighting against the restraints though he knew it would do no use. Tears were openly streaming down Y/n’s face as she watched him, his name on her lips as she desperately tried to break the guard’s hold on her.

Zola seemed unbothered by the scene. If anything, he was amused, like he was watching lab rats in a cage. “Separate them. I don’t want her interfering with his programming again. We’ll make use of her when the time is right.”

Bucky tried to call her name, but the electricity had already taken hold, submerging him into the darkness.

***

The Soldier was used to his routine. Breakfast at dawn. Then training. Dinner at sundown. Sleep. It was reliable. Simple. The Soldier found a peace in that.

It had been months since he’d seen anyone outside of the two guards at his cell, the parade of uncontrollable human experiments, and the short, stout scientist. It was better this way, they told him. Less stimulation. He was important, meant for incredible things to better humanity. They needed him focused and alert.

He had little room for anything else. Focus on the mission at hand. Complete the task. Reward will follow.

Something as trivial as memories got in the way of that. The Soldier could not afford such a distraction. He was not tied down by a name or a family, by relationships or desires. He was a weapon. Made to be used. He was not capable of more.

“I want to have you looked over before we send you out for your mission today, Soldat,” the scientist said as he examined the Soldier from across the room. The man carried power within Hydra but he was small, cowardly, and he would not dare enter a room with the Soldier without a guard in place. He gestured to the door and the guard with a thick burn down his jaw moved towards it. Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad. He seemed vaguely familiar, though it felt distasteful in his mouth.

A woman was pushed through the doors and into the baron room. She shook off the grip of a Hydra agent with a grunt before she realized where she was. Her eyes fell on the Soldier and he expected her to cower in fear; they all did upon seeing him. Word traveled fast of what he was capable of. And yet –

There was relief in her shoulders, a sigh. She almost smiled before Zola turned in her direction and she pushed it away into a tight frown. The Soldier narrowed his eyes.

“Get to work, Doctor,” he ordered, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded, stepping in closer to the Soldier though she was hesitant in her movements. She wore dark circles under her eyes, a redness within the whites. Her clothes were old, torn a little at the edges, and dirty with use. But still, she offered a kind smile as she approached.

“How are you feeling?”

The Soldier didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever bothered with his answer. He stayed silent.

“You can talk freely,” she encouraged gently as she approached his bedside. He sat on the edge of the cot, tension burning through his body as it always did when he wasn’t alone. One word out of turn resulted in punishment. He knew well enough not to tempt it.

She seemed to understand he would not fall into the trap, and she nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to take your vitals, alright? I’ll start with your heart rate.” She held up two fingers, gesturing as she pressed them against her own neck. Seemed harmless enough, though he suspected he didn’t have much of a choice anyway. It was strange she acted as if he did.

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

As she touched him, something seemed to break. She clenched her jaw tightly, trying to focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he could hear the distress in her own. Quick, pounding, uneven, and she pulled her fingers away before he questioned the slight tremble in her touch.

He wanted to ask if she were alright because something about seeing her upset was unpleasant for him. She wanted to say something, that much he could tell, but she bit her tongue.

“You’re here for a reason, Doctor,” Zola taunted from his position in the corner of the room. The woman flinched though she kept her back to him. Her eyes flickered to the Soldier as if he were an anchor. Zola smirked. “Go on. Test our programming. Why else do you think we kept you around?”

Then, he exited the room. The guard followed behind him until the Soldier was alone with the woman.

She swallowed; eyes cast down as if she were afraid to speak. For a while, she continued to take his vitals – checking his blood pressure, his eye movement, examining the mess of scars on his shoulder as they attempted to heal. All the while, so impossibly gentle, so kind in her touch, that he started to wonder if he’d felt it before.

When she was finished, she took a step back. It was only then that the Soldier noticed the reflective marks on her cheeks. Had she been crying? Why did the thought alone make his stomach twist into knots painful enough to nauseate him?

“Bucky?”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. She reached out for his hand, though she stopped herself before she could touch him. It seemed agonizing; the restraint visible on her features.

“Bucky, please tell me there’s still a of piece of you in there,” she begged. He found himself wanting to lie, to pretend to be this man she craved, just to make her happy. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why it bothered him to see her cry. She was a stranger.

“You don’t recognize me at all, do you?” Her voice was so small, so broken. She was never afraid of him, he realized. No – it seemed she was more afraid of his answer. He did not respond. He didn’t know how.

She nodded, clenching her jaw as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and the Soldier managed to break the heart of a woman he didn’t know. Another casualty in his wake.

“Excellent,” Zola sneered, appearing back in the doorway. The doctor took a step back and it surprised the Soldier when the space between them felt like an assault. Zola grinned as he moved closer to the woman. “Hydra thanks you for your service.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, just before she landed a closed fist against the bridge of the scientist’s nose.

The Soldier flinched, stunned by the woman’s brazen as she stared into the face of the mad scientist. The tears hadn’t yet dried and still – she was fearless. Zola laughed as the blood dripped down into his mouth. A guard wrapped a vicious hold around her wrist, beginning to drag her out of the room, but she turned back to the Soldier.

“Don’t give into them, Bucky! You have to fight this! You’re good, do you hear me? You’re not one of them!”

Her voice echoed in the room even as she was shoved through the door and down the hall. He listened for the last remaining vibrations of her voice, of her struggling, until it was silent. He wondered about this man she referred to, why she thought he was worth fighting for. He thought about whether he was the man she spoke of.

“Distractions, Soldat.” Zola tsked. “You are magnificent. You are the fist of Hydra. Do you understand?”

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

Zola explained the mission he was about to embark on at dawn. He listened to the instructions, the details, the purpose – all the while wondering about what became of the kind doctor who called him by a name he didn’t recognize.

Then, when he was finished, the scientist left and the Soldier was alone— just as he always had been.

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x female!reader #bucky barnes fluff

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samstree · 3 years ago

Text

Revenge Best Served (Right out of the Oven)

Sam does not have kind words for a certain witcher.

1k, also on AO3

“I think,” Sam says, placing Jaskier’s hand gently on his knee, palm up for easier access to the scar, “I wouldn’t like this friend of yours very much.”

“Well, Geralt is an acquired taste.” The cool touch of salve soothes the tingling in the tips of Jaskier’s finger. He adds, “for most people anyway. It takes a while to warm up to his grunts and hums, but you’ll see he’s quite good underneath all the coarseness—”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Sam cuts off, to Jaskier’s surprise, but his voice is gentle. Of course, the baker is always gentle no matter who he’s talking to, and he’s also applying a minty salve on Jaskier’s old wound carefully and blowing on it from time to time.

But there’s also something else in his voice, stiff and distant, which makes Jaskier pause.

“Sam, darling,” Jaskier turns his hand to grab the one cradling his, the burning sensation in his fingers now eased. “Look at me.”

Beautiful brown eyes lift to meet Jaskier’s, the warmth in them ever-present, but the hint of anger is unmistakable.

Hmm. That is a first.

“Let’s not talk about him anymore,” Sam says, holding Jaskier’s hand up and placing a kiss on his wrist. “It ruins the mood.”

“You are cross with me.” Jaskier frowns, not understanding how he could have provoked the kind-hearted baker. “Do I talk about Geralt too much? I can stop if you don’t like it. Although I’ve made telling his story my whole career and the habit is just a bit hard to break.”

“Jaskier.” Sam’s eyes go wide, taken aback. “It’s not you I’m angry at. It’s him.”

Jaskier blinks. “You’ve never even met him.”

His blood runs cold at the idea that Sam might be like everyone else, ready to throw stones at witchers despite everything, despite Jaskier. No, not Sam too. He won’t be able to recover if—

“I don’t need to meet him to know he’s a terrible friend.” A sad smile stretches across the baker’s face, and Jaskier finds those warm, strong hands he loves so much at his side, caressing the exposed skin under his untucked chemise. “You went away with him and came back hurt. You can’t even play the lute and your clothes are all ripped. You’ve—” Sam bites his lips, anguished, cupping the sharp line of Jaskier’s jaw. “—You’ve gotten thin, and I—I’m angry at the witcher for returning you like this.”

Oh.

Jaskier catches Sam’s hand, ready to defend Geralt by instinct. “It wasn’t his fault. It was the mage, and prison, and the mountains. He tried—”

“I think I hate him,” Sam says with finality.

Jaskier can only shake his head. “You don’t mean that. You don’t hate anyone. Even when you do you forgive them because you are you.”

Because Sam has a heart too big for his own good. Jaskier wouldn’t know what to do if he was the reason that those brown eyes darkened with hatred. He wouldn’t know if he’s worth it either.

“Hurting you is not something I can forgive.”

The silence that follows is unexpected. Jaskier tries to open his mouth several times but no words come out. In the end, he realizes his defeat—a bard is thoroughly rendered wordless by a baker.

“Well then,” Jaskier sucks in a breath, a pool of warmth gathering in his stomach. “What will you do if you ever see Geralt, my bravest defender and most generous lover?”

Sam does not back down. “I will certainly give him a piece of my mind! He should count himself lucky to have you at his side. If I had the honor of traveling with you for twenty years, I’d…”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “You’d…?”

“I’d treat you right,” Sam answers. “I don’t care if he’s a witcher, or can fight monsters taller than our bell tower. I’d fight him if this happens again.” He looks down at Jaskier’s fingers. “And if I lose, I lose.”

Somehow, Jaskier doubts that. Despite his gentle personality and soft appearances, Sam is incredibly strong in the arms. Jaskier has enjoyed watching him carry sacks of flour and flexing those muscles on many sunny afternoons. The image of him shoving Geralt in the chest—and very possibly succeeding in toppling the witcher over—makes Jaskier let out a choked laugh.

“I’ll introduce you one day, just so I can watch you kick Geralt’s ass, perhaps.”

“I mean it, Jaskier. No one should be so careless with you on my watch!”

“I have every faith in you, my sweet, sweet Sam.” Jaskier winks. “Now speaking of, it is true that I’ve not had a decent bread roll in months. Will you heat up some cinnamon buns for me?”

Just like that, all the warmth in Sam’s eyes returns, those brown eyes reminding Jaskier of the caramel melting in the oven. “Better. I’ll make fresh ones.”

“And lemon cakes?”

Sam nods. “And lemon cakes, with extra honey. I’ll make the fruit tea you like, just to complete the set.”

Jaskier clasps his hands together, letting out a squeal. “You truly know how to pamper your bard, my dearest. Have I told you how much I love your profession? Seriously, it was the most excellent career choice one can make at the age of thirteen if you ask me! Oh, how will I ever repay you?”

“Just…” Sam smiles softly, brushing away the hair at Jaskier’s temple and placing another kiss there, his beard tickling a bit. “Be careful. With him, with your heart.”

With you too.

Jaskier wants to add, but all he can manage is a simple promise. “I will.”

Sam seems satisfied at that, despite the light worry still at the corners of his lips.

Hunger takes over and Jaskier reluctantly lets go of Sam, resisting the urge to sneak into the kitchen and nibble on whatever he can find and distracting his baker with more kisses.

No, he can’t do that. The cakes will be ready much later and he’ll end up with flour all over his hair. He needs to be strong.

Two minutes later, Jaskier decides, maybe he’s not a strong man after all.

#sam the baker #jaskier x sam the baker #jam #jam fic #jaskier #jaskier x oc #hurt/comfort #sam does not like geralt that much #that has to be said

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bokuroskitten · 4 years ago

Note

your piece about oral fixation was just 🤤 so now im super curious as to what kinda of gags you think the haikyuu captains + iwa would use on their partners.

oh anon, truly I'm grateful for this one. Because as a rope bunny, I think about it constantly. I didn't do every single haikyuu captain, just ones I feel I know the best. Enjoy the filth. ❦

ℌℭ❦

〈what kind of gags would the haikyuu captains (Bokuto, Terushima, Ushijima, Oikawa, Daichi, Kuroo, Kita) + Iwa enjoy using on their partner.

⋆genre: 18+ NSFW (Minors DNI)

⋆warnings: BDSM themes (use of bondage and gags), dom/sub dynamics (daddy & master title used), oral (female receiving), spit, degradation & dumbification

Bokuto couldn’t be bothered with gags. He likes to hear you falling apart on his cock, the whimpers, the cries, the begging. It’s all music to Bokuto’s ears. Although if you do want to be gagged Bokuto just uses his thick fingers down your throat or slaps his palm across your lips. Both methods effectively render you silent and he still gets the joy of feeling your moans vibrating along his skin.

“You’re so fucking loud, Birdy. The whole neighbourhood is gonna know you’re a desperate little cock whore. Isn’t that right baby Bird?” Bokuto’s voice was nothing but a growl up against your ear, his heavy balls still slapping ruthlessly against your ass as he plunged himself faster into your tight cunt. He went in at the perfect angel this time, his cock head pressing to that sweet spot that would have you screaming. Before the sound could slip out Bokuto pushed three fingers into your mouth, grinning as he watched drool bubble between his knuckles, your cries getting muffled into his skin.

“Yeaaa, suck away baby and take what’s given to you.”

⋆⋆⋆

Terushima is a horny one, typically just wants to get the job done quickly and easily, so he likes to use what’s around. This typically means he’s using his tie. He usually wears one to his job, or sometimes finds himself keeping a spare in his back pocket when you’re being extra annoying. He always ties a knot in the middle first, pressing it between your teeth before knotting the material behind your head. It’s effective enough to keep you muffled but simple enough that he can still see your lips tremble, watch drool darken the fabric and dribble down your chin.

“Careful princess, you want the boys to know I’m stuffing you full of cock?” He spoke through a wicked grin, his lips pressed to your pulse as his hands held your hips in a death grip. The subtle slap of your ass into his pelvis kept him on beat, along with the muffled cries you let out into his tie. One of his hands slithered up your bent form, making sure to squeeze one of your breasts on the way up before taking hold of your jaw. His long fingers brushed over your chin, the drool already gathering there making him pick up his pace. He pressed the knot he made in his tie further between your teeth, making you whimper a plea that had him chuckling.

“Messy fuckin thing, by the time I fill you up there’s gonna be a mess on your face and between your thighs.”

⋆⋆⋆

Ushijima is a simple man with simple desires. Despite that, he actually enjoys using a gag on you because it gives him even more power over you than you already give him. He typically won’t use one unless other BDSM elements are in play (his favourite is ropes because he likes to make intricate patterns over your skin) but his favourite type to use is a deep throat gag. In every sense of the word, Ushi is big and wants to make sure your tight little throat is ready to be used when he wants it to use it. There’s a couple of different sizes he uses that he has you build up with, but each one comes with a reward when you’re able to swallow it down without gagging.

Although his face was usually calm during sessions today was an exception as he worked the length of the gag between your lips. “Baby, tap out if you need to—“ But you just furrowed your brows at him, fists tightening in determination which were currently bound above your head. It was a sign for him to keep going, so he did. He pushed the slick silicon between your lips until the hilt rested against your lips. He didn’t do up the leather strap just yet, waited to see if you’d gag or choke with such a big size being shoved down your throat. But there you were, sitting pretty with tears riming your lashes, the gag pressing snuggly down on your tongue. Ushijima hummed out, pleased with such progress as he was slow to buckle up the leather strap. He pressed kisses along your jaw, a small smile creeping its way onto his lips.

“I’m so proud of you, little one.”

⋆⋆⋆

Oikawa will only use ring gags because it keeps your mouth wide open and ready to use whenever he feels he needs it. Plus it allows for him to still be able to hear you when you moan and cry for him. He also loves the mess you make with a ring gag, helpless to the drool and bubbling spit that falls from your chin. Sometimes as a form of punishment he’ll leave you between his thighs, arms bound and a ring gag held snuggly between your lips. He’ll stroke his cock lazily while watching tv, only grabbing a fist full of your hair to shove that sloppy mouth of yours onto his cock when he feels the need.

The whines you let out are ignored completely by Oikawa, a little huff leaving his lips as his eyes slowly slip from the screen down to between his legs. There you sat, eyes wide and mascara streak marks down your cheeks. Your body was already trembling, sitting on your hunches for whenever Oikawa decided to take hold of your hair once more. He could see the way your tongue tried to pick up some of the drool that fell from the ring, only making matters worse as a new little stream of spit fell off your chin to continue to dampen your tank top. Oikawa just couldn’t help himself, and in one swift motion, his hips were pressing his cock back between the ring, burying deep within your throat that had it constricting. He hissed softly before a small flutter of laughter escaped him.

“Fuck, at least this fucking throat is good for something. Maybe I should keep this ring on all the time so you’ll always be ready for my dick? You like the sound of that baby?” He was only met by muffled whines and gags as he bobbed your head along this length.

⋆⋆⋆

Daichi hates when you talk back to him, it makes him so tense because all he does is treat you like his perfect little princess. So when you do get mouthy he has no problem getting you worked up whenever you are. He’ll tease, whisper into your ear about how naughty your being, grab handfuls of your ass until you make a mess of your panties. He’ll then shove the filthy material between your lips. Not only will get to humiliate you then, but he’ll also get to punish you properly without having to hear a single peep from you.

“You think good little girls talk back to their daddy’s like you do? No. They listen, and they behave. Since you wanna use such a filthy mouth I’ll keep it filthy for you.” Your previous cries were brought down to muffles as Daichi forced your damp panties between your lips. Balled up and soaked from your precious arousal you can’t even help but let your eyes flutter, the taste of your own desire making your cheeks burn bright pink. Daichi has to scoff, fingers pressing into your cheeks as giving your jaw a little shake. “Taste that? That’s your filthy little cum stains. Imagine staining your own panties from a few promises of punishment?” His cock was heavy as he quickly freed it from his boxers, making you Yelp softly as it slapped down against your already soaked slit. He rubbed it along you a few moments, pressing into your cheeks harder to keep your panties in place.

“Maybe if I just fuck you stupid, you’ll stop talking altogether?”

⋆⋆⋆

Kuroo likes to keep with the classics, and there’s nothing more classic than a ball gag. He started off with wiffleball first, wanting you to feel nothing but comfortable before he moved on to solid silicon, balls that would leave your jaw aching after sessions. He loved the way you looked, sitting on your knees for him on the bed with a bright red ball gag wedged in your mouth, already covered in spit. He would the type to put on you whenever you felt like it just so he could coo about how pretty you looked. He also took many many pictures of your mouth stuffed, keeping a secret folder just for it.

“Stay still kitten,” Kuroo mumbled close to your ear, pressing a couple playful kisses to your lobe as he secured the black leather behind your head. He slipped two fingers into the band, making sure it was loose enough to pull off if needed but tighten to hold. Once he was pleased he pulled away, the most satisfying groan leaving his lips as yours were stretched around the bright red. “Perfect, my perfect fucking kitten...” he spoke, his thumb pressing along the ball as you blinked up at him with wide, needy eyes. Your hands stay still on your lap exactly where he instructed them, a little whine coming out muffled only when Kuroo pulled away from you fully. He rose a brow at that, the flash of disappointment in his gaze enough to have you resting back down on your hunches.

“Ah, I said stay still, Kitty. I’ll play with you soon I promise. But Daddy needs a few pictures of his beautiful baby before we can get started. So keep sitting pretty for me.”

⋆⋆⋆

Kita only uses any form of BDSM with you because you’re interested in it. When you brought it up to him he was very much unaware but did as much research as possible. He decides to start off with a bite gag because, unlike ball gags, it allows for more relaxation of the jaw, as well as causes less mess in terms of drool. Plus he’s always enjoyed watching you bite down on the sheets when you're feeling a lot of pleasure, so the bite gag allows for him to watch your teeth sink on so perfectly into the rubber.

Kita’s thrusts slowed almost too much for you, your pussy desperately fluttering around his length to bring back that friction. You wanted to beg him to keep going, pick the pace back up but all you could do was let out muffled cries, press your teeth further into the bite forced between your lips. Kita watched it all, the way your face twisted up with need, the way your back arched, the way your hips jutted forwards in hopes to feel more of him. He just let out a soft little groan, planting a firm palm on your hip to keep you in place as he continued his slow, dragged out thrusts into your throbbing cunt.

“Just a little longer like this, kay Darlin? I love seeing you bite into that gag, we’re gonna have to use it more often.”

⋆⋆⋆

Iwaizumi was used to using his hand, slapping it over your lips when he found you were getting too loud. But he never knew what to do with all your squirming. Cuffs were too simple and ropes just weren’t his vibe, but when he discovered bondage tape it was a whole other ball game. Not only was it perfect because it only stuck to itself, resulting in safer play, but it was very much effective in shutting you up when he needed you quiet. His favourite part is watching you flinch when he rips a piece away from the roll, the way you shiver in anticipation as he hovers the piece over your lips. It only when you're about to whine at him that he presses it against your lips, a grin curling on his lips.

“Fuck Princess, you’re tighter than usual? Excited?” Iwaizumi murmured, his grin growing as he watched your eyes roll up in pleasure. He brought a large palm up to your cheek, bringing your blurry vision back to his own. His thrusts slowed, allowing his thick cock to drag along that throbbing spot within you. That had your back arching, muffled little pleas melting into the tape that was held firm over your lips. Iwaizumi sighed softly, his thumb rubbing over the tape to feel out the outline of your pretty lips. The action had you nuzzling into his palm, another string of muffled nonsense trying to escape the tape and failing miserably.

“I know you’re begging me to move faster under here... but remember princess, Master makes the rules. So let’s keep you quiet and I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow.”

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rae-gar-targaryen · 4 years ago

Text

loved you once [angel reyes x fem!reader]

A/N: So, this is NOT the Angel fic I previewed the other day. That one (and the EZ fic) is STILL COMING, I PROMISE! This just jumped into my head and wouldn’t leave. And I wrote it with a speed I am heretofore unfamiliar with (heretofore? Did I use that right?) I invented a tattoo and an ex-girlfriend for Angel, and I fudged the timeline a bit. So, apologies in advance for that.

As always, if you want a tag in anything I write for Angel, EZ, the Mayans fandom (or anything else), please feel free to send me a message or an ask, or add yourself to the taglist (link in profile).

Pairing: Angel Reyes x fem!tattoo artist!reader (as always, the appearance is ambiguous, but the reader is described as having female pronouns/parts. Also, the reader here speaks a bit of Spanish. I’m half Mexican, so I do imagine a latinx reader, but I hope I’ve written this so you can imagine yourself with no restriction.)

Word Count: 15.3K (HAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK all for a TWO AND A HALF MINUTE SONG, ARE YOU KIDDING ME????) of ANGST! (SERIOUSLY THIS IS SO ANGSTY) lyrical nonsense and the remnants of sticky, cotton-candy sadness … fluff that makes you feel empty.

Warnings: ANGST, non-explicit references to infidelity, sexual references and sexual content, oral (male receiving), fingering and other nastiness -- so 18+ ONLY, please! Canon-typical douchebaggery, references to a past relationship, song references and poetry. (It is me, so yeah, poetry.)

Summary: You and Angel may as well be strangers now. But why? After all, you loved him once. And he loved you, right? Based on the song “Loved you Once” by Clara Mae. Listen here.

We don't need to be best friends, we don't need to hang again. But tell me why we have to be strangers because I loved you once?

What were you doing here? You haven’t been back to the clubhouse in months. Not since -- well, you know. You hadn’t talked to him since then, either. But that wasn’t your own doing.

No, Angel had erected a veritable wall of silence, and you respected him enough not to breach it.

That was what relationships were all about, anyway, right? Mutual respect of the other’s needs? So when Angel had told you in no uncertain terms that your relationship was over, you were … upset. Understandably. You wanted to sit with him, talk about where this sudden insistence that you depart his life had come from, but he was resolute. With the absolute air of authority that comes with either a great deal of thought, or borne of virtually sudden external influence, with nothing in between. He clearly didn’t want to sit and talk about it.

And so you didn’t.

Ever mindful of his wellbeing, and when he was and was not receptive to communication.

"It ain't working," he had said. You had settled for merely imagining the faraway look in his large, oilslick eyes, since he was much more interested in staring at his boots and the grooves in his floor, his forearms laid over spread thighs, unmoving and resolute from his spot at the end of the bed. Refusing to meet your eyes.

From your seat next to him, you made to brush the arm closest to you with your fingers. When you touched, he gave no indication that you were even there. That he even felt you. Which you knew was bullshit. He always felt you.

"Angel, what --" you hated the way your voice cracked as you tried to ask him what the hell was going on. You hated how you had sounded so small and quavering to your own ears. That wasn't who you were. You were clear, outspoken. It was always one of the things Angel said he loved about you. Loved.

You didn't know this, of course, but Angel hated it, too. How you’d sounded in that moment. Hated that his words had taken the fire out of yours, your voice unfamiliar in its timidity.

"It ain't working," he repeated. "I can see it. Not my fault you can't."

That was it.

No "I'm sorry, querida."

No "I hope we can stay friends."

Not that you would expect an apology, or anything as cliché as a "let's be friends," from a steadfast man like Angel. Predictable in his volatility.

You should have pushed back. Demanded an answer. You hated that you didn’t, the shock and sudden sadness morphing you into a silent, crystalline girl you didn’t recognize. Your eyes welled with tears, turning your head away from where Angel sat -- at least you wouldn’t let him see you cry. Even if you knew he knew the tears had spilled over your lashes and down your cheeks were of his own doing.

You had arrived back at his place a day after your tense "conversation" to discover that your items you had come to reclaim were tossed into a box and left outside of the door.

You had knocked once, in the hope that if Angel was home, he’d at least come to the door to shout through it, or, heaven forbid, would open it so you could look him in the eyes just once more while he shattered you. Your knock was met with silence, though you could have sworn you felt Angel on the other side of the door.

In the months since then, you had cried (obviously), you had questioned (it was sudden, it wasn't just you; your friends were surprised, too), but most importantly, you had persevered.

You had taken a bunch of new clients and inked some pieces you were incredibly proud of. You had gone out with your friends a few times, always with a wary eye on the door of the local dive, ya know… you never knew who would walk in.

Santo Padre is a small town, after all. And the cracks in your soul were nowhere close to healed. No molten gold to spill in and repair the fissures of your heart, rendering metamorphosis of something broken to something flawed, but beautiful. You sat, alone, still just… flawed. You had never felt less beautiful. Even after all this time.

And your friend Aneesa, ever the supporter, would stop at nothing if it meant hyping you up enough to leave your cave of blankets, sheet masks, and comfort movies. Your only rule? All nights out with Aneesa were strictly girls’ nights. She was gracious and understanding of this rule, of course. She and Gilly had been together a touch longer than you and Angel.

And if Angel had ever asked Gilly to ask Aneesa about you? Well… you never heard about it.

Not that Angel would do any of that. Shit like that was so middle-school.

So, here you were. Back at the clubhouse after months of self-imposed exile for the sake of self-preservation.

Coco had texted you -- the first you’d directly heard from anyone within Angel’s circle, inviting you to a patch party for some nameless, faceless newbie. The invitation had a string attached to it, of course -- the tattoo artist’s chair in the corner of the clubhouse needed a resident for any partygoers jonesing for new ink. Certainly, the new patch would need something decidedly “Mayan” to show off his new status.

You had hesitantly agreed -- Aneesa would be in attendance of course, and offered herself as a human-sized buffer to separate you from people you were otherwise hoping to avoid.

Now, perched near the tattoo chair, you busied yourself with setting out your portfolio of completed pieces, sketches and most-requested designs. You wiped down the chair a few more times than strictly necessary, but you wanted to be ready for anyone who might plop themselves down for a new piece of art.

The main room of the clubhouse was sweltering -- a familiar blend of desert heat, cigarette smoke, citronella, and the smell of citrusy, foamy beer. The dim lighting and thundering bass giving everything a slightly blurry edge in your party-periphery. You glanced across the room at where Aneesa and Gilly sat together on a corner couch, thighs pressed together. Aneesa tossed her head back in a full-bodied laugh at something Gilly had whispered into her ear, swatting his arm -- Gilly’s reciprocal smile demonstrating his pleasure at having garnered such a reaction from his girl.

A wave of cheers and noise accompanied the thwack of the clubhouse door swinging open -- more Mayans pouring in, jostling one another's shoulders, slapping each other on the arms, and good-naturedly cajoling.

There was Coco, mid-pull of the cigarette between his lips, quicksilver eyes flashing around the room, taking stock of who was where. EZ followed, million-watt smile on full display as he gently guided a pretty girl with long, inky hair through the bottleneck at the entryway.

If EZ was ambling his way in, then, surely, not far behind ...

With an arm around a tall, broad guy you hadn’t seen before, was Angel. Midway through a joke with the guy you assumed was the new patch, you took the opportunity to study the man you had once considered the moonlit orbit of your entire world.

You hated to admit it to yourself, but he looked good… His arms still replete with thick, corded muscle. His hair was a tad longer on top than you remembered, slicked back and belied with cleanly-cropped sides. His smile as warm and blinding as the cruel light at the end of your better dreams, only for you to awake each day alone.

As you continued your silent study, you were surprised to see -- still adorning his left arm … the tattoo you had given him on the day you had first met. You had thought he would have blacked it out by now … a cover-up on top of a cover-up.

But there it was --- the soft, leafy greens creeping down his forearm on sharp vines, abutted with bursting blooms -- small, ornate gladiolus buds and a sprig of purpling rosemary. Such a flowery piece on the arm of someone like Angel might have been laughable. But if anyone dared, he would simply stare, stone-faced, with burning eyes and a set jaw, ready to ask just what they thought was so fucking funny.

To you? It was perfection. It was remembrance.

‘Cause I loved you, once…

---

You had moved to Santo Padre from Oakland. Hardly an axis-tilting move, but significant enough to you.

Your friend Oliver had offered you a seat at his tattoo shop. And you? You were positively itching to get out of the city. A few too many bad nights with a few people you could no longer in good conscience consider friends.

So, here you sat, resident of one of two chairs in this corner parlour off the so-called “main” drag in sweltering, dusty Santo Padre.

Your books were pretty clear … Not that you attributed much logic to the ebb and flow in any conceivable pattern of the tide that was tattoo shop patrons, but January seemed an agonizingly slow month. You filled the idle time with keeping the shop neat, disinfecting and re-disinfecting every surface, and organizing Oliver’s books.

And if you weren’t dreaming up new sketches and designs for the more adventurous prospective client, you were jotting idle lines of lyrical poetry in the margins of your sketchbook.

If the month dragged on like this, you were sure you could publish an entire book of moody, mid-winter prose that would make Charles Bukowski want to drown himself in stiff Cabernet.

The dinging of the bell above the parlour door yanked you from your doodling stupor. You looked up to see who had come in, your gaze met with a towering, golden-skinned man donned in a leather vest, his boots squeaking on the shop’s linoleum floor as he made his way to the front desk. He leaned over it and rapped his silver-ringed hand against the top with the ease and comfort of someone who had been in many times before. If the ink trailing his arms was any indication, he may as well be a regular, though you hadn’t seen him in before. There was no way you could forget that jawline, and those shoulders.

“Yo,” he called in greeting, eyes flashing to where you stood, walking to meet him at the counter. You swore you saw his gaze dart over your form, giving you the old up-down. An easy smile graced his full lips as he made himself comfortable leaning against the counter.

“Oliver here?”

You shook your head, the action serving to answer his question and --hopefully-- clear your head of the foggy spell this man was casting over you with his presence alone.

“Nah, sorry. He’s guest-chairing at his buddy’s shop in L.A. Did you have an appointment?”

“I look like the kind of guy with a datebook?” He chuckled at his own joke. “No appointment, corazón.”

“Walk-in? Always a risky strategy,” you lilted.

“What can I say? I’m a risk-taker,” he replied with the practiced ease of breezy flirtation.

You smiled softly, grabbing Oliver’s calendar from the desk, flipping to the following week. “He’ll be back in next week, if you want to wait?”

“That’s no good for me, babe, I’ll be out of town.”

“Ah.” You huffed a bit through your nose “Bike rally?” You asked, gesturing at his worn leather kutte, cringing internally a little at the teasing edge your voice had taken on. Were you always this bad of a flirt?

The man looked at you shrewdly for a beat -- seemingly trying to discern just how much fun you were making of him before taking mercy on you and peeling back the slight layer of awkwardness the conversation had taken. He scrubbed the back of his neck before confirming,

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he rumbled a chuckle. “Why? You wanna go?” He raised a full brow at you in a mild challenge.

Your eyes widened at his seemingly-serious invitation. You took in the quirk of his lips, causing the slightest crinkle at the corner of his warm eyes -- the look of a man borne of good humor and who smiled often. It was endearing, and if you were honest, made you melt a little. Even if you now realized he was teasing you.

“Sorry, guapo,” you cracked a smile of your own, gesturing at the empty shop. “As you can see, I’m a very busy girl. Highest of demand.”

“Claro,” he replied. “So, I better get in while the getting’s good, huh? Your chair open now?”

“Uhm,” you chewed your lower lip, now slightly nervous at the prospect of spending more time with this man. “¿Quieres esperar para Olí? I won’t be offended. You haven’t even seen any of my pieces.”

A beat of silence passed between you both, the man seemingly weighing his options.

"I mean," You broke the silence and leaned forward, lightly tapping a fingernail against his bicep. “What if my art style doesn’t suit the king of the bikers?”

"Something tells me you'll suit me just fine." His smirk was full-bore now. He didn't miss a beat, did he?

You were silent, probably for a few moments too long. Was he actually flirting with you? You blinked. He probably flirts with everyone ... get over yourself, you internally chided.

"Angel," the man said, recovering the moment and holding out a large, ringed hand for you to shake. You gave him your name, shaking his hand firmly.

You nodded your head over your shoulder, toward your chair.

"Well, come on back, Angel, you can tell me about what we're doing today."

Angel followed you back to your station, and you could swear you felt his dark eyes on your form as you walked, the thought that this man was looking at you with any kind of discerning attention made your cheeks warm a little. He folded his long body into the chair you gestured toward, and you took the rolling seat next to him. He proffered his left arm to you, tracing down a spot on his forearm.

"Just wanna cover this up," he paused, letting you observe the offending ink. "It's about time."

"'Clara Forever,' huh?" You took in the faded, loopy lettering down his forearm. "Who's Clara?" Your tone was gently teasing by nature, but he seemed to clam up a bit at the question, regarding your sharp tongue with sharper eyes.

"Well, it wasn't forever," he finally bit out, shoulders now a little more tense than before.

"Aw, cariño," you sighed in good-natured taunting. "Didn't anyone ever tell you the number one rule of tattoo? 'Forever' is a certain jinx. And a name is almost never a good idea… unless it's your dog's."

You made a sweeping hand gesture over the rest of his person, your eyes noticeably cataloguing the ink adorning most of the real estate on his arms and what little you could see of the top of his chest.

"How did anyone let you get this far without telling you the rules?"

He relaxed at the humor in your soft voice, comfortable now that he had confirmation that you were teasing him rather than seriously ridiculing. His posture relaxed once more, he waggled his eyebrows at you, also teasing,

"Le sorprendería saber que nunca fui uno para seguir las reglas?” He asked. Would it surprise you to learn that I was never one for rules?

"¿Tú?" Your eyes widened in mock surprise. “Para nada.” Not at all.

"Hey," he swatted your arm gently. "Cuidaté, niña. Insulting your customers? I can see why your chair is empty." He chuckled at his own little jab as you busied yourself gathering your supplies.

You turned and reached for him, holding his arm in one hand and running your now-gloved thumb over "Clara Forever."

"So?" You queried, "What are we doing with this? How do you want to cover it?"

Angel shrugged, the leather adorning his shoulders creaking ever-so-slightly with the movement.

"Figured I would just black it out. I've been putting it off long enough. To hell with her anyway, yaknow?"

"Hmm…" you considered his proposal. "I could do that, if that's what you really want. Easy enough. But…" you trailed.

He shifted in the chair, arching an eyebrow at you.

"But?" He pressed.

Now it was your turn to shrug. You released his arm from your grip and gestured to the booklet containing photos of your most prized work.

"Why waste the opportunity to give yourself something you really want?" You handed him the book. "Besides… from the looks of things, you have limited real estate left on this arm. May as well fill it with something… more you?” You made to hand him the scrapbook. “You can see what else I've done. See if anything sparks an idea."

Angel regarded you for a moment. Leaning forward in the chair and slightly more into your space, eyes never leaving yours. He took the edge of the book, deliberately brushing his fingers over yours as he did so, making you hold your breath a little. If Angel noticed, he had the decency not to say anything.

“Why not?”

You exhaled softly as he leaned away again, flipping his way through your book.

As he scrutinized the photographic renderings of your pieces, you took the chance to really take him in. His strong jaw and full lips were objectively pleasant, abutted by deliberately-shaped facial hair. He had a prominent brow, something that would surely give away his feelings, even if he decided not to verbalize them. There was no hiding a frown or a smile on that face. You fiddled with your fingers as he flipped through the pages.

“This is some seriously top-notch shit, querida,” he voiced his approval, followed by a warm smile. He flipped his way through your minimalist renderings, floral pieces, lines of script, and one particularly involved piece with a burgundy phoenix and lifelike flames...

“Yeah?” You couldn’t hide the pleasure in your voice that he might think of you in a positive light. “Which one do you like?”

He flipped the book to you, gesturing at a geometric planetary canvas piece you had etched down a prior client’s thigh.

“Did you think of that one?”

“The client had their ideas, I just execute, I guess… That was a fun one.” You shrugged, glancing at your shoes scuffing at the linoleum, suddenly feeling very shy under his scrutiny.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he leaned forward once more, his fingers gently brushing along your chin to bring your eyeline to his. “Don’t downplay your talent. You’re a badass. Own that shit.” He gave you a soft wink, releasing your chin from his grip.

Um, wow.

Was it always this hot in the back of the shop? Or were you just spontaneously combusting? Did that seriously just happen?

All you could do was nod.

“Aight,” he crossed his legs at the ankles, making himself comfortable in the chair. “I’ve decided.”

“Yeah?” You breathed, “What’ll it be?”

As if he was doing nothing more complicated than ordering fries, Angel pointed at your book. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Excuse me?” You couldn’t believe he was just going to trust you to cover up his ex’s name etched into his arm. “¡Oye! Did you hear nothing I said earlier about walk-ins being risky? Nothing about the rules?”

Angel scoffed. “About as well as you heard that I don’t give a shit about rules, babe,” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You like rules, huh?”

Oh. The rumbling tone his voice had taken on with his last question did not go unnoticed by you. If there was any heat to spare in this shithole desert-town, it was now one hundred percent flooding through your body.

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d had that effect on you… (although, let’s be real, he probably, definitely, already knew).

“Fine, Angelito,” the mocking tone had returned to your voice. “But unlike Clara, this one’s gonna be forever. If I find out you cover up my art, I’m gonna blacklist you at every shop in Southern California.” You raised an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “Can you live with that?”

Angel nodded.

“Do your worst, Vince.”

You wrinkled your nose at the moniker. “Vince?”

“Yeah,” he seemed so assured in his own cleverness. “Like Van Gogh?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Van Gogh!?” You feigned offense, hand-over-heart, lashes batting. “Not even Frida? Come oooon, Angelito.”

He chuckled. Shifting in the chair and offering his arm to you so you could get him ready.

“You gotta earn ‘Frida,’ dulcita.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” you sigh, shifting your focus and taking stock of the space on Angel’s arm and what you had learned of him so far.

Someone who was seemingly confident and breezy, whose rough exterior belied something softer that was just out of reach. Someone who clearly cherished things and people he adored, if the tribute you were now covering was anything to go by. And, by the same token, more than a little impulsive. He wore his heart on his sleeve, apparently literally.

You gathered your inks and began to work, your playlist and the buzzing of the tattoo gun filling the silence.

It’s not like you had any reason to know it, but Angel considered you as you were working, admiring your focus and the intensity with which you afforded your art. Was he a little nervous about the fact that you were free-handing a design for him off the top of your head? Maybe... But what was life without a little risk? And he certainly wouldn’t mind a little risk with you. You were, it was obvious to him, very pretty. It was more than a little off-putting how easily you traded quips with him, seemingly unaffected by his presence and everything that came with it. If it wasn’t for the little hitches in your breath when he gently flirted with you, he wouldn’t have anything to go off of in terms of your interest. Something that was both respectable and maddening to him.

He reached his other arm over to the side-table, grabbing your sketchbook and idly flipping through the etchings.

Not only was the book filled with little designs, splashes of watercolor mixing with pen and charcoal, but he noticed the cramped words in the margins, perusing at his leisure and ignoring the itching buzz of the needle on the skin of his other arm.

“So, not only a Vince, but a Frost,” he broke the silence.

You paused your work, wiping your brow with the back of your hand and looking at him with a question in your eyes.

He tapped his finger along the lines of prose in your book. “A poet,” he said.

“Ah,” you said. “Uhm, more like a bad poet,” you chuckled, embarrassed. You made to begin again, when Angel gently gripped the wrist of your free hand.

“The fuck did I just say?” He lightly tugged, forcing you to look into his maddeningly honey-dark eyes. “Don’t brush off your shit. Would Frida do that?”

You regarded his eyes for a moment longer, darting your gaze to his pouty lips, resolutely set in their mission of imparting some of his confidence onto you.

“Point taken, Angel,” you pulled your hand from his grip, which he released, trailing his fingertips over your hand as he did so. “I’m the greatest poet who ever lived, you’ve convinced me. Fuck William Shakespeare.”

“Yeah,” Angel boisterously agreed, pleased to be bolstering you but surprising you with the little barking shout, “Fuck that dude!”

You chuckled, shaking your head and silently returning to your work, the silence filled once more with the pleasant buzzing as you drew away.

When you were finished, you released Angel’s arm, allowing him to inspect the clean lines of the greenery that you had drawn out of his former-love tribute. What were once loopy, cursive letters were now vines creeping steadily along his forearm, soft, yellow and red gladiolus buds emerging from where Clara’s name had once sat, neatly finished with the clean lines of the purpling sprig of rosemary along the edge of the piece.

Angel was speechless, leaving you to marinate in your nerves.

“It’s …” he started, “... flowery,” he supplied, lamely.

“No shit it’s flowers,” you shot back, feeling a little defensive now, but wanting to make a quick recovery. “And they’re for you, Angel.”

He seemed puzzled.

“Gotta say, Vince, this is the first time a chick’s gotten me flowers,” he chuckled, “Guess they won’t die?”

“They won’t,” you assured. “They really are for you, you know? Look at you, the rest of your ink. What it covered. You’re clearly a man formed by your experiences. It only seemed right, si? Gladiolus? They’re for remembrance. Rosemary? Symbolizes thoughtfulness and memory.”

You continued as you began wipe the piece clean before wrapping it in new saran-wrap, “Your memories and choices make you who you are, sure. But you never know… something good could bloom from them, through the cracks."

His silence at the end of your little soliloquy was deafening. He hated it, you were sure of it. Fuck. Why did you have to get so fucking clever with him? You should’ve just done some black ink in something tribal, something masculine. What the fuck was wrong with you??

You dared to sneak a glance at his face, only to find that he was already staring at you, lips softly upturned in the hinting bloom of a smile, tarpit eyes twinkling with a good-natured mirth he would come to reserve just for you.

“Fuck Shakespeare. That was damn beautiful, Frida.”

The heat had returned to your cheeks, standing quickly.

You stripped off your gloves, and made to turn your way to the counter, gathering the aftercare sheet and balm for Angel to take with him.

You spun back toward him before he could get up.

“Oh! Can I take a picture?” You held up your phone, shaking it lightly. “For the ‘gram?”

“Sure thing,” Angel dutifully held his arm under the lamp you had used to work, letting the fresh ink and colors pop against the golden dunn of his skin.

You took a few photos, deciding to scroll through your camera roll later on and post your favorite. You made quick work of wrapping his arm in a sheet of clean plastic wrap before relinquishing your hold on his arm, turning to walk back to the counter.

“Uhm,” you trailed … the telltale squeak of Angel’s boots on the linoleum indicating he was following you back to the front of the shop. You assembled everything into a bag for Angel to take with him, grabbing one of your cards from the front card-holder, and quickly jotting your number on the back next to your where the instagram handle for your art page was neatly printed, hoping he didn’t notice your sneaky little move.

Angel resumed his comfortable lean against the counter, turning and tilting his forearm, scrutinizing your work.

“It’s gonna be a clean one-fifty, Angel.”

He looked slightly surprised at the figure, a light frown dusting his features.

“You sure about that? For the size, and the color, and time and everything? It’s been, like, hours.”

You shrugged.

“We’ll call it the friends-and-family rate.”

He gave you a long look, very clearly looking you up and down now, a prolonged edition of the greeting he had graced you with when he had entered your shop mere hours before.

“And is that what we are now, querida? Friends?”

How was it even possible for his voice to reach such a low register when he said these things to you?

While your insides flip-flopped at the flirtation, you hoped your face was the impassive mask you were trying to school it into. You subtly brushed your slightly-sweating palms against the frayed hem of your shorts before bringing an elbow up to the counter, resting your chin in your palm, lightly batting your lashes at him before responding...

“Sure,” you replied. There! Easy, breezy, cool-as-you-please. How does it feel, Angel?

“One day with you and friends already?” He rapped his ringed hand gently against the counter. “Can’t wait to see where we’re at tomorrow.”

He swiped the bag off of the counter, tossing a few crisp bills onto the countertop and a wink over his shoulder before exiting the shop.

You counted the bills on the counter, watching as Angel left the building.

Holy shit.

Three hundred bucks. He had tipped you 100 percent of what you charged him.

Cheeky.

Maybe Santo Padre wasn’t so bad, after all…

---

Now, staring at him from across the room made you feel like you were drowning in the sickly-sweet cotton candy of sugared dreams, now lost to time. The saccharine balm melted to acrid wax, leaving you with only the tinge of bitterness.

You were jostled out of your reverie by the sudden appearance of EZ’s blocky frame, ambling toward you with the same girl from before on his arm.

He greeted you with a slow wave and a soft smile.

“Hey, girl,” he greeted, clearly unsure of how much friendlier and closer he should approach you.

You took mercy on Angel’s sweet, (big) little brother, opening your arms slightly for a hug. EZ took to the gesture like an over-excited golden retriever, scooping you up and spinning you once, before putting you back where he found you, slightly dizzier than you were before.

He offered your name to the girl by his side, who looked pleasantly amused at the spectacle before her, her amusement melting to recognition at the name EZ had imparted to her.

Ah. So she knew who you were.

You tried not to let that realization sour your encounter, easing a practiced smile onto your features and offering your hand to the girl to shake.

“Oh!” EZ chuckled. “This is Gaby -- er, Gabriela.”

“Encantada,” you eased, gently shaking her hand before having a realization of your own. “Gaby, as in Leti’s friend?”

She nodded, a warm smile illuminating her already sunshiney features. You could see why EZ obviously liked her. She had the practiced social grace of a debutante, but the friendly aura of someone you had known for your entire life.

“I hope you’re keeping Ezekiel out of trouble,” you teased gently.

“Only as well as I can,” she replied. EZ rubbed the back of his neck as you two gossiped about him like he wasn’t standing right there.

“Listen, hermanita,” EZ began, swirling the dregs of his beer around the bottle clutched in his hand as the conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, “About Angel --”

That was a hard no.

“Coco!” You called as you spotted the lithe man prowling through the crowd after obtaining a drink from the bar, effectively shutting EZ up.

Coco sidled over, slinging an arm over your shoulder and nodding in greeting to EZ and Gaby.

“Wassup, chiquita? Over here with all the cool kids?”

“You know damn well I was never cool enough for the cool kids,” you knocked your shoulder into Coco’s good-naturedly.

“Dunno about that, pequeña,” Coco took a drag of his cigarette, sighing as he exhaled. “I’ve got some pretty cool body armour thanks to you.”

“All in a day's work,” you mock-saluted. You were doing great. Keep it light, keep it friendly. You may be able to make it out of this unscathed, after all.

Gaby and EZ were speaking softly to one another just to your side, as you and Coco continued your conversation.

“So, who’s the new guy?” You asked, nodding over to where Angel and the still-unnamed newbie were tossing back shots. You tried to ignore that each one had girls placed on each of their laps. Well, mostly you were trying to ignore one girl placed on one lap; tried to ignore as ringed fingers trailed up and down her thigh hypnotically as he howled in laughter at something the new guy had said.

The longer you stared at the way he was touching her, the more You thought you could feel it on your own skin. And you knew all too well how that touch felt. Memories, make you, right?

You blinked harshly, turning your face back to Coco’s, only to find his hawkish eyes trained on you as he continued to smoke. Now you were certain he had seen everything you had, and more. And you cursed yourself for slipping. Because nothing slipped past Coco.

He took mercy on you nevertheless.

“Andres. He’s aight. You may not remember him from before, when he was just a prospect.”

“Guess not,” you agreed, shrugging amiably, suddenly very interested in toying with the hem of your flowy little summertime skirt.

“Mierda,” you heard Coco hiss, glancing up to see none other than the new guy -- Andres -- walk over, his arm around the waist of the girl from his lap, accompanied by none other than Angel Reyes, furnished with his own lap-turned-arm candy. She was giggling in his ear, popping her gum and bumping her hips against Angel’s as she walked by his side.

You felt EZ stiffen from your other side.

Great.

The easy smile you’d had when conversing with Coco now felt positively screwed into place, settling unnaturally, a stranger's face made up of your own features.

Andres smirked at you in greeting, eyes trailing over you -- the most unwelcome iteration of that gesture in this context to-date.

“I hear you’re the girl to see about some ink.”

You bit back the snarky response that rose to your tongue. You see anyone else here, tonto?

“Sure am,” you replied, cool as you pleeeeaseeee. Maybe a little too cool. The ice in your voice was obvious to everyone except the strangers before you.

You really were doing great, weren’t you?

“Great,” the new meat brushed the girl off from his side, plopping unceremoniously into your chair. “You did that right?” He pointed behind you to where Angel was standing, gesturing at his arm and your miniscule mural of memorial greenery.

“Cierto.” You nodded, sparing Angel’s arm the barest of glances.

“Aight, well, none of that girly shit, alright, sweetheart? Angel may have had the good grace not to say anything, but flowers ain’t really my style, yeah?”

What the fuck.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Coco visibly tense next to you, obviously displeased at the uncalled-for critique of your work. Of a piece he himself had often admired. He would never admit it, but he thought the story behind it was even better. It’s like you had walked out of some shitty romcom Leti watched with her tittering friends and into Angel’s dreams, sinking yourself beneath Angel's skin like a dream he would recount to all of his friends. Coco knew the most about you by nature of Angel's second-hand stories when you were together. Although Coco thought, once he had met you, Angel's stories didn't do you justice. How wonderful and talented you were. How warm and welcoming.

Angel watched the exchange silently, clearly none too keen to defend the piece you had designed for him. That had come to mean so much to you.

That stung.

You winced, almost imperceptibly. But you were certain Coco saw it, not much escaping his sniper’s eyes. EZ, with his owlish perception and photographic memory, certainly would have seen it, too. If Angel saw it, it’s not like he was going to say anything now.

Where the fuck was Aneesa? Wasn’t she supposed to be heading this kind of shit off? You glanced over at the couches in the corner where your friend had previously been sitting with GIlly, and was now nowhere to be seen. Fuckin’ typical.

“Aight, no más flores." No more flowers. “What were you thinking, then?”

That was you, ever the professional.

Andres showed you his phone, a rendering of an old-style beastly cat, like a panther from an old folktale, pulled up in his image search.

“Something for a warrior,” he puffed his chest slightly. “I was thinking here,” he shrugged out of one side of his new kutte, tugging the button-up to expose one side of his chest.

“You got it.”

You set to work, cleaning the area to be inked and getting your tools ready. The rest of the group drifted as the project progressed, clearly not feeling the need to stand there for the entire duration of a tattoo.

You were acutely aware that Angel hadn’t stepped as far away as the others, circumventing the periphery of yours and Andres’ space, not close, but not far. And he still had yet to even look in your direction. Or acknowledge your existence.

You tried your best to ignore the icy shard of Angel’s indifference that was currently wedging its way between your ribs and lodging itself firmly once more into your heart. At this point, you guessed it would never heal.

“Sooooo,” Andres lolled his head to the side of his chair to face you, slinging back the beer from the bottle dangling in his free hand. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You were around a little bit when I was prospecting.”

You opted not to respond, aware that Angel was likely listening, and you would need to choose any words carefully. Andres had no such reservation, clearly uncaring about who might be listening. He pressed on, each word more infuriating than the last.

“You were Angel’s little sidepiece for a while, right?”

You tried to keep your despairing sigh to a quiet little nothing.

“Sure.” You offered lamely. “Sorry, man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really work better when I’m not talking.”

“S’alright, jaina. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

You hmm’d nonchalantly at that, lip imperceptibly curling over your teeth in distaste at the moniker. You chose instead to focus on the piece. You wouldn’t give a shitty tattoo, even if this guy was a douchebag. And the pleasant buzz of the tattoo gun. Maybe you were etching the lines a little sharper than strictly necessary. If he noticed, Andres gave no indication, continuing on with his diatribe:

“So, what happened? I mean, Angel knocked that other chick up? Ouch, right?”

You were now seeing red, the edges of your vision blurring slightly with angry, pinpricking tears. Thank fuck you were just about done with this.

“But that’s the life right? I mean, we’re not exactly known for being steady with just one chick. You know how it goes ...” He eyed you up and down again, lingering a little too long on your legs before finishing his thought with a smirk “... Clearly.”

You hated his use of “we,” like he was in any way, shape, or form worthy to be in the class of man EZ, Coco, Bishop, or, hell, even Angel, was. None of them would talk to you like this. No matter what Angel had done.

You shut off the gun, pushing back from the space with Andres, spinning in your chair, and grabbing the clean wipes for Andres’ fresh ink. As you dabbed the area and made to bandage it, the oblivious biker grabbed your wrist. None of the teasing fun or gentleness in the same gesture that Angel had imparted when you had first met. No, Andres’ grip hurt. It was all bruising possession and entitlement.

“I think we would have fun, you and I.” He leaned forward and far too into your space, the stale stink of warm beer heavy on his breath.

You wrenched your grip from his, standing quickly and offering him a tight smile, cheeks flaming with your anger and embarrassment. How dare he speak so trivially of your relationship with Angel. How dare he think you were so easily won with his kutte and shitty attitude.

“Uhm,” you tugged your fingers agitatedly through the ends of your hair, chewing your lip. “You’re all set, Andres. Aftercare sheet is on the table next to you. It’s on the house. Happy patch party!” Your voice sounded so shrill and fake in your own head, but you just didn’t have it in you to care at the moment.

With that, you quickly whirled on your heel, in a distressed flurry past the Angel-shaped blur who had been watching the entire encounter, and out of the clubhouse door into the cooler late-night air.

Getting heavy to breathe in this room together. It’s so awkward, we can’t seem to do it better. Can’t we just fake a smile and put our shit to the side?

---

Angel had waited a whopping 18 hours to text you after your clandestine tattooed meet-cute.

You were in the middle of exchanging consultation e-mails with a prospective client when your phone had buzzed.

“Vince?” The text read.

You bit back a smirk before responding,

“Vince? No Vince here. This is Frida’s phone.”

You watched as the little bubbles appeared in the corner, disappeared for a second, and then reappeared. You were grateful for the little manifestation of Angel’s hesitance. It made him seem more human. And it made you appreciative that he was clearly trying to choose his words with you, when words had seemed to come so easily to him when you had met.

“My bad. Oh, beautiful, talented Frida.”

You couldn’t hold back the smile on your features now. Grateful it was still you and only you in the shop so that no one could see your “obviously-texting-a-cute-guy” face.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Angel. Good thing you didn’t throw away the card.”

“That card was clearly a gift, querida. Much like the pretty flowers on my arm.” He snapped you a picture of his tattoo, the healing process underway.

“Looks great!” You sent, cringing at your lack of ability to effectively flirt via text. It was something that your friends had teased you relentlessly about back in the Town -- your notorious lack of game. No! New home, new you! Be cute. Be cute.

“So, if I’ve given you all the gifts, what do I get?” You sent with a “thinking” emoji.

Angel at least had the decency to wait a minute or two before replying, either thinking about his response or keeping you in suspense… you weren’t sure. But you were grateful for the little opportunity to catch your breath. How did he make you so speechless when he wasn’t even in the room with you? Some things just weren’t fair.

“Niña, I paid you for this ink. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Tricky Angel. Zorro. Like a little fox, he had effectively maneuvered the conversation back to you -- the ball was in your court. Would you tell him what you wanted?

You chewed the end of your fingernail thoughtfully before responding.

“You texted me, boy. Are you sure it isn’t you who wants something?”

If only your friends could see you now. That was damn smooth.

“Boy?”

You snorted to yourself. Trust a guy like Angel to get hung up on something small like that. The bubbles reappeared.

“I was thinking about this pretty girl I met the other day. Hell of an artist. But a shit poet. Thought I would see if she was free sometime?”

Angel was merciful. You could kiss him. Had he seriously just taken all the weight out of this conversation? Your heart felt a million pounds lighter in your chest, knowing he was asking you. The wave of relief that he wanted to see you again crashed through you, replaced in the tide with the backdraft of a feeling of mischievousness. You wouldn’t let him off so easily.

So you waited before responding. Let him sweat a little, right?

Only… you weren’t sure Angel was sweating as much as you were, fingers itching with the desire to text him back and accept immediately.

When what had felt like an eternity (but in reality had only been about seven minutes) had passed, you picked up your phone, opening the conversation with Angel.

“She’s free next Thursday … After your bike week, el rey de los bandoleros.”

You put your phone back down on the counter, grinning like an idiot, feeling like you had just swallowed a bunch of bubbles. You entertained the notion that if your combat boots weren’t keeping your feet weighted to the floor, you would have floated away.

Your phone dinged once more.

“See you then, mi reina.”

Time passes slowly the more you want it to go quickly. And whenever you have a deadline you’re dreading, it gallops ahead. Time really is that bitch, and she does not give a fuck about your feelings.

The following Thursday felt like it took a year to arrive. But it found you closing up the shop, your stomach fluttering with butterflies and pop rocks, adorned in your favorite pair of jeans and boots, a clean, flattering tank top that showed off your own ink. You hoped it was fine for whatever Angel had in mind.

Honestly, he hadn’t said anything about your date. A few flirtatious texts here and there? Obviously. You sent him photos of the pieces you had done for new clients. He sent you ridiculous selfies and a couple of group pics of him and his friends at the biker event. One guy who kept popping up in the photos, Angel had told you, was his “little” brother. But there was nothing “little” about that dude.

You loved seeing all of Angel’s goofy, smiling faces. Treasuring the photos in your small moments of quiet downtime.

The rumbling of a bike engine greeted your ears, like the seductive purr of a large cat. You glanced up, a full Cheshire grin alighting your features at the sight of Angel’s gorgeous, deep forest green bike, and the man of the hour looking very at home on the seat.

He rolled to a stop in front of you, unclipping his helmet and dismounting with his winning trademark smirk, ambling over to greet you.

“Frida,” he scooped you into a hug, his tall frame causing you to lift, your toes now barely brushing the ground as he brought you to his height. He pressed a soft kiss to your check, setting you down gently and letting you get your bearings, chuckling pleasantly at the obvious, dizzying effect his greeting had had on you.

“Angelito,” you returned. “Back in one piece?”

“Hail to the king, baby,” he countered.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, scuffing the toe of your boot into the gravel of the lot. “So, where are you taking me, o benevolent one?”

“Just gonna hafta find out.” He handed his helmet to you, helping you clip and tighten it beneath your chin. “Ever ridden before?”

“Uhm, well, sure” you replied too assuredly, quickly realizing your slip. “I mean, no. Not like that. I mean, yes, like that. But not on one of these.” Fuck. Could you be more embarrassing?

Angel released a full-bellied laugh at your response, his head tossing back a little.

“You’ll have to tell me more about alla that later, cielo.” You put your head in your palm willing the embarrassment to go away. Angel quickly pried your hands away, cupping your cheeks with his own warm hands, long fingers brushing your cheekbones reverently. “In the meantime, just hang on, okay?”

You nodded, still cursing your idiot-brain that had partnered with the dirtiest corners of your mind to take over your mouth. Shut the fuck up, dumb-dumb.

You clung to Angel as he drove, your hands roaming his firm torso probably a little too-familiarly. You enjoyed the way the wind whipped around you, tugging at yours and Angel’s clothes as you made your way up the canyon overlooking the desert that was Santo Padre.

Angel parked his bike on the ridge overlooking the town, the sun beginning its descent in the desert sky in swirling hues of pastels and cotton candy pink-purple-blue overtaking the orange hue.

You had never been up here before, and you told Angel as much. He looked pleased at that, pleased that he was the one to show you the best view of the Santo Padre sunset.

Angel busied himself unpacking the bags on the side of his bike while you enjoyed the scenery. Pulling out a couple of wrapped sandwiches and bottles of water, he handed yours to you, coming to stand next to you on the ridge.

"Thanks," you acknowledged, looking at the offerings. "What, no beer?"

Angel chuckled a little at that.

"I ain't tryna liquor you up, niña. Besides, you want warm beer that's been rattling around on my bike all afternoon?"

You crinkled your nose a little at that. "No," you decided. "Never mind. Besides, I'm more of a whiskey girl."

Angel glanced at you, sipping on his own water idly.

"Really?"

"Really," you confirmed. "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who thinks it's impressive when a girl drinks whiskey because it's such a 'man thing.' "

Angel held up one hand, defensively.

"Nunca. Just took you for more of a… dunno? Maybe a rum kinda girl?"

"Don't think so. For now, though? Water and sandwiches do me just fine. Whiskey can come later." You took a bite of the now-unwrapped sandwich. "This is good," you confirmed around a slightly-full mouth. "Did you make this?"

"Of course. Pop owns the butcher shop down the street from your parlour. Sliced the meat myself, an' all," he said, a little proudly now that he knew you approved of his sandwich-making skills.

"Bueno," you giggled. "Thank you for this, Angel. Really. This is one of the nicest nights I've had since moving here." You shuffled a little closer to where he was standing, looking in his eyes as you thanked him.

"Bah," he waved away your compliments, "it ain't alla that. This can't be the most exciting thing you've done since getting here."

"Maybe it is," you pressed. "I dunno. Maybe I'm too boring for the king of the bikers?"

"I doubt that very seriously, querida," he turned his body so he was facing you now, sandwich long gone, fiddling with the water bottle in his hands. "You play your cards right, I'll introduce you to the rest of the club. Then things'll get really exciting."

You blinked. One date and he already was thinking about introducing you to his friends? Your inner shy romantic (okay, not so "inner," right? You're pretty clear about who you are) was doing little somersaults in your chest.

You must've been silent a beat too long because Angel was quick to supplement, "Only if you want."

"I'd like that," you confirmed, nodding and smiling gently.

"So, are you gonna tell me what brings an East Bay girl here?"

You raised a brow. You didn't remember telling him where you moved from. He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck nervously, realizing you'd caught his slip.

"I maaaay have scrolled your Instagram?"

You finished your sandwich, thinking about how much you wanted to tell him.

"Just time for a change of scenery. Olí is an old friend, and he offered me a job. I think he wants to travel more." You shrugged, "It just felt like it was time. Plus, I dunno… I like it here. Much quieter."

Angel nodded at that, not having the heart to tell you that his club was not at all quiet and was the source of the disruption in the otherwise-quaint town.

You kept talking, telling him about the friends you'd left behind, your old shop, weekends spent in the park surrounding Lake Merritt, and going to Raiders games. Angel took in your features as you spoke, the golden light of the sunset making you glow like something out of a dream he'd had once. Your eyes sparkled as you talked about things you loved, the books and art that inspired your poetry. How you'd gone to art school. You were something.

"-- Sorry, I'm rambling," you breathed in a rush, flush with the amount of talking you'd been doing in a record amount of time. "What? Do I have something in my teeth?"

Angel realized he'd been staring as long as you'd been talking.

"No, querida. Nothing in your teeth." He gave you a dazzlingly white smile.

"Oh thank God," you returned his smile with a small one of your own, shying a little under his gaze, and wondering how long he had been looking at you like that as you'd talked.

He leaned over you now, his height giving him the definite advantage as he'd -- not unwelcomely-- invaded your space. He brought one hand up to cup your chin, his dark eyes revealing flecks of sparkling gold in the pastel wash of the sunset as his gaze once again met yours.

You saw his quick glance down at your lips, you unconsciously giving a small nod before his warm lips met yours.

Oh.

You had obviously been kissed before, been the recipient of past romantic attention. All of that paled in comparison, melting away as Angel's full lips maneuvered over yours, both of his large, calloused hands gently brushing your cheeks as he cupped your face, sliding one hand down to rest on the side of your neck.

You sighed lightly, one of your own hands twined into his shirt, the other resting on the side of his firm torso.

Angel took the opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips, your own brushing against his as the kiss deepened.

You were in no hurry for the kiss to end, enjoying the way everything about Angel was so warm, something that was surprisingly welcome, despite the ever-present desert heat of Santo Padre. You could get used to this.

You had only known Angel a short time, realistically. Your one meeting spawning a series of flirtatious texts and snaps, and now this date that, while low-key, felt almost too perfect to be real. He made you feel safe, desired.

You could already feel him slipping beneath your skin to rest in a special place in your heart. And while you as a person were generally reticent to share that part of yourself with anyone, you had a feeling Angel could take up permanent residence there. If he wanted.

You dropped from your tip-toes, effectively breaking the kiss.

Angel blinked, looking down at you and noting the pleasant glow on your skin, lips now slightly swollen from his kiss. He could get used to this.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant blur, trading quips and stories as the sun went down. Angel told you about his club, his brothers. About his pop and Ezekiel, and how at one time, he enjoyed being the bigger brother, teasing, pranking and lording over EZ until EZ had hit his growth spurt and could (and would) definitely hit back.

As he drove you home, you snuggled a little bit against him, pressing yourself into his back and enjoying the way you swore you could feel his heart pounding through the kutte and over the rumble of the bike and the road.

He'd dropped you off with a parting kiss and the promise of another date.

Another date turned into several. Time you weren't at the shop was now spent with Angel, showing him what you were working on, inviting him over for dinners and to watch mindless television while he told you what he could about his day.

The both of you were slowly peeling back the layers around your respectively guarded hearts, revealing more of yourselves only to be met with pure acceptance by the other. Even blindados had to take off their armour at some point.

You cherished your time with Angel, and he quickly found himself stumbling, head over his own biker-booted heels for you.

After a few months had passed, he had brought you to meet the club. You had manifested nothing but general acceptance of his lifestyle and were eager to meet the people Angel had so obviously cared for. Who had helped shape him into the brash but conscientious person he was with you.

And one sunny afternoon had found you bringing lunch you had made for the entire club over to the scrapyard, Angel agreeing with your plan. You never were one to show up empty-handed.

As you walked across the yard, past the gate, and into the clubhouse, your eyes adjusting to the dim interior from the blinding sun outdoors, Angel bounded over to greet you. Taking the bag full of homemade goodies from your arms, he pressed quick kisses to your cheeks, and one to your forehead.

He turned, met with the pleasantly-surprised stares of his brothers. He announced your name to the room before turning to you, pointing at each man and supplying a name. You nodded, smiling and offering a warm wave to each.

The man you knew to be EZ from all of Angel's initial texts and photos quickly strode over to you, shaking your hand in his impressively firm grip before bending down to press a quick kiss to your cheek with a,

"Bienvenido, hermanita. Angel's told me a lot about you. Won't shut up, really," giving you a sly wink as Angel swatted EZ's arm in annoyance at his brother's revelation.

Boys.

The smaller man with the sharp eyes and full curls you knew to be Coco made his way over to where you were now seated as Angel went to get you both drinks, the other men digging into your offerings as you made yourself comfortable.

He sat next to you, tossing you a, "You mind?" Lighting his cigarette after you’d shaken your head.

He studied you through his own plumes of smoke before leaning across the table and speaking to you, lowly and with an almost conspiratorial rasp to his voice,

"You did that cover-up for Angel?" He asked on a smooth exhale.

"Mhmm," you nodded. "He gave me free reign. I was nervous he'd hate it."

Coco seemed to chew over your words for a dragging moment. You shifted in your seat. He was definitely sizing you up.

"Bold move, pequeña, giving the secretario of a biker club a sleeve of flowers."

"I suppose it was," you sighed, more than a little uncertain now. "But it felt meaningful, right, I guess. I just sort of… started drawing. I… think it worked out, though?" You trailed off.

Coco nodded. "It's a fuckin' good piece, mami. Angel told me what you'd said about memories making you who you are." He snorted lightly through his nose. "It's funny. We've never even met before, and you're already sounding like me."

A small smile played across his lips, returning it with one of your own.

"I'm glad you approve," you nodded. "Angel's opinion obviously matters, and don't tell him I told you this, but it means alot coming from one of his family."

And that's what they were. His family. You could see it. The obvious camaraderie and care underlying each of their actions with the other. You admired the system of support, cushioned by good humor, despite being flung regularly into harsh reality. It was clear -- they were there for one another.

Coco's voice broke your train of thought,

"Maybe you got space for me in your books one-a these days?"

Your small smile was a full-blown, sunny grin now.

"Of course. Anytime you want to drop by, you're more than welcome."

"Gracias, chica." Coco leaned across the table and patted your shoulder before getting up and taking his leave.

And so it went. The boys would filter through your shop. Olí teasing you about his offense that all of his most lucrative, inked clients were now going to you.

You enjoyed the time working on pieces for them afforded you -- offering you a glimpse into their inner workings, what they felt was important enough to take up permanent residence along their skin. Making idle chit-chat with you while you worked. And always, always sharing embarrassing little anecdotes about Angel.

The months passed with you and Angel, finding comfort in your unpredictable, but welcome, respective routines.

One night in particular found Angel wrapped up in your embrace, the physical embodiment of your gradual and growing trust in one another.

He had arrived home more than a little rattled, his eyes wildly darting to the corners of the room before settling in you, exhaling a shaky breath before striding the length of the room and crushing you to him, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips.

You understood he probably couldn't tell you what had happened, but you asked anyway, needing him to know you would hear him.

"Angelito, everything okay?"

He shook his head softly in the negative, but didn't elaborate.

You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Okay. We don't have to talk about it," you wound your arms up and around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you. "But it's going to be okay. I've got you. I won't let go."

He gripped your wrists, pulling your hands from his neck and sliding your arms down, bringing them to rest around his waist. Once he had positioned you where he wanted, he brought his hands to cup your cheeks, eyes heavy and dark with the weight of his stormy thoughts.

He nodded at what you had said before bringing his lips back to yours.

You brought one hand up to meet his, where it rested along your cheek. You twined your fingers through, joining your hands while breaking the kiss. You lead him through the apartment, bringing him to the bedroom. You had music softly playing from your speaker in the corner, candles lit to bathe the room in ambient glow and a warm, honey smell, all in anticipation of Angel's eventual arrival home.

You silently gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bed, where you took your seat next to him.

You tugged the leather kutte from his shoulders, folding it reverently and placing it on the chair near the bed. He exhaled in relief, shoulders sagging once the leather manifestation of his obligation to a darker world had been removed. The weight of the world a little less on the mantle of his shoulders.

You turned your attention to his feet next, unlacing and tugging off his boots. Then, his belt.

Once he was just in his jeans and his t-shirt, you resumed your seat at his side, bringing him back into your embrace and carding your hands through his hair, as his head rested on your shoulder.

Angel spoke, voice cracking as he broke the seal of silence in the room.

"It was… it was awful, Frida." He sighed. "I do everything they ask. It's my job … Fuck. Sometimes I wonder how much more my heart can take. But then, I get to come home to you."

His breath was shuddering now.

And while you didn't always know what to say -- it was a rare sight to see Angel so rattled. But you were a caregiver by nature, ready to give him the pieces of yourself that would make him feel whole.

You guided him down so that he could recline, you came to rest at his side, winding your arms around his torso, your face turned into his neck, cuddling him as he came down from the mania of his emotional high.

The moments passed, Angel's breathing leveling again as you stroked his hair in time to the soft music.

He turned his head to look at you, admiring the flutter of your lashes as you blinked at him, your gaze warm and adoring, full of twinkling fairy light and starshine.

"Te amo, querida," Angel breathed. This was not the first time he had said it to you during your months together. But each time felt as momentous as the first, each declaration of love felt like the slip of something sweet, and you were determined to store it in your heart and mind forever.

"I love you too, Angel. More than anything," you murmured. "I love your smile, your sense of humor, your strength." You pressed kisses to his face and neck with each admission. "Mostly, I love your strength. And that you trust me enough to tell me when you don't always feel it."

He sucked in a shuddering breath before whispering to you,

"I love your mind. How creative you are. How you see everything so beautiful, just like you," he hmm’d. "Mostly I love your trust. And that you choose to give it to me."

You kissed him again, leaning over him with your entire body, pressing your palms gently into his shoulders.

As your kiss deepened, you each began to tug at the other. His hands carded through your hair, tugging gently, but firmly. You lifted his shirt from his torso, the kiss breaking so you could peel it away.

You divested one another of each layer, baring yourselves to the other, body and soul. Again, this wasn't the first time you had done this. But this felt momentous nonetheless.

Angel skimmed his hands over your form, running his hands softly down and over your breasts, loving your soft sigh at his touch.

You leaned over him once more, reluctantly removing his hands from you, and placing them gently down at his sides.

"Your heart is mine, mine to protect," You hummed softly, invading his senses and placing kisses down Angel's neck and to his chest, trailing your lips lovingly over Angel's heart, and pressing one last deliberate kiss there. "And I take my job very seriously."

As you kissed him, you lightly trailed your fingers down his torso, coming to rest at his hip.

Your declaration was met with silence; you glanced up at Angel through your lashes only to find him already looking down through heavy-lidded eyes at you, his now swirling with some unnamed, weighted emotion.

You trailed your hand across his hip, not breaking eye contact as you took his hardening length into your hand. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of your grip, but refused to look away as you began to pump him slowly, still pressing kisses to his hips, torso and thighs.

"Please, querida," Angel gasped.

"Please, what?" You murmured back, your voice taking a throaty register you reserved strictly for private moments with your beloved.

"Please… use your pretty mouth?"

You nodded.

"Relájate, baby, I've got you," you assured. Sweeping your hair back, the action washing Angel with the sweeping comfort of your scent as you made your way lower down his body.

Angel slumped back against the bedspread, glittering galaxy eyes still trained on you as you lavished him with attention.

You took the opportunity to flatten your tongue, licking a broad stripe up the length of him, one hand braced against his firm thigh, the other holding him gently at the base of his cock as you worked.

You swirled your tongue around the tip of him, delighted at his throaty moans, feeling the effect they had on you, making you feel like you were burning from the inside, feeling the slickness from your own center as your thighs rubbed together.

Taking Angel wholly into your mouth now, you bobbed over him, relishing in the heavy feel of him in your mouth and the throaty groans you received from Angel in response.

Before you could spend too long lavishing him with attention, Angel tugged on your hair at the base of your neck. Following his grip, you lifted your head and released him from, watching (a little greedily) as his thick length bobbed against him when you relinquished him from the confines of your mouth.

He guided you up his body, hand still knotted in your hair, pushing his mouth onto yours, uncaring of the saliva on your lips and chin, and the taste of himself on your tongue.

You straddled his hips, surging the rest of the way up his body and effectively deepening the kiss. The hand that was once in your hair now made its way to loosely grip at your throat, the other skimming his way down your breasts, across your ribs and toward your center.

As his fingers traced through your folds, you involuntarily rolled your hips into his hand, alight at his touch, and desperately seeking more.

Angel touching you was like the shock of a live wire. Every time felt just as electric as the last, goosebumps erupting across your flesh as his fingers traced across your skin.

He chuckled through your fused mouths, drawing back at your reaction and the wetness he found between your legs.

"Eager, amor?" Every word fell that fell from his lips sounded like a dangerous purr.

You nodded, drunk on the way Angel's hand gently squeezed your throat, while the other was teasingly making its way to-and-fro across your wet folds, occasionally making his way up to lightly circle and press his thumb over your clit, making your eyelids flutter. Your hips continued to rock against his hand, silently begging for more, his teasing touch making you more than a little crazy.

"Yeah?" Angel asked, his voice thick and syrupy, the timbre like dark clouds. "That shit turn you on? Sucking my cock?"

His words combined with his touch made another rush of heat flood through you. You were certain you would pass out, that your knees would buckle. And you were doing so well, holding your place up and over his hips while he played with you.

The hand on your throat gripped a little tighter, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

"Nuh-uh, baby," he shook you lightly, all mirth gone from his eyes, no more pleasant, smiling crinkles at the corners. His full lips pressed firmly together. "I asked you a question. You answer that shit"

He pressed two fingers teasingly against your entrance, refusing to insert them, despite the little roll of your hips.

"Y-yeaahh," you sighed, head tossed back, "I-I fucking love it -- love you, Angel."

He rewarded you by sliding a long finger into you, allowing you to ride his hand. The hand still around your throat guiding you forward, over him, allowing him to press hot, open-mouthed kisses, first to your lips, dirty and raw, like an exposed nerve in his unabashed want for you.

He relinquished his hold on your neck, allowing him to trail his lips and his tongue there, kissing you softly behind your ear, down and around your neck to your collarbones, all while his fingers continued their earnest treatment inside of you, his thumb now pressing to your clit, your warming crescendo building.

Using his height and the fact that you were straddling him, Angel encouraged you to lean forward, allowing him to capture one of your breasts in his grip, his mouth following. His warm tongue swirled around your nipple before he sucked the bud into his mouth, grazing his teeth ever so gently over your sensitive flesh.

Angel's attention was rewarded with your gasping sighs and breathy moans. How anyone could make you feel this good was beyond you. Angel had an uncanny ability to elicit responses and feelings like no other person before him.

You felt the thrumming hum and warm, sticky wave of your orgasm building as Angel worked his fingers inside of you, stroking that particular spot from within that he knew would be your undoing.

"O-oh," you whined, keening noises caught in your throat. "Please, baby, I n-need you. Need you inside."

The room was sweltering. Or was it just you? Angel withdrew his fingers smoothly, not sparing you the chance to be disappointed at the loss of feeling as he smoothly flipped the two of you, guiding you down to the mattress and hovering over your trembling form.

"Yeah?" Angel asked. "You ready for that, querida?"

You gazed up at him through your lashes, longingly. He would give everything, anything, that he had in the world if you only looked at him like that forever, gaze full of warmth, heat, and unfiltered, starry adoration.

"Mmm," you nodded, "Please? Angel?"

He was only a man, after all. Who was he to refuse when you asked so prettily for him?

He gently turned you over so that your back was to him, running his hands down the slope of your back and guiding you to your knees, propping your hips up.

Positioning himself behind you, Angel resumed his grip on your throat, using it to guide your head around so that he could kiss you again while he guided himself inside of you. You moaned into the kiss at the sensation, never tired of feeling every ridge of his thick cock sliding into you like he belonged there.

Angel groaned, breaking the kiss and shaking his head, chuckling darkly, his eyes flashing as he swore,

"Never fuckin' get tired of that shit," he began to move his hips, using his other hand that was gripping your hip to guide you along his lengthy, meeting his thrusts. "Never tired of your pussy … You're so … good."

Angel's words coupled with his thrusts were driving you crazy, causing you to eagerly meet him with the momentum of your own hips, the heat in the room spliced with the distinctive noise of his skin meeting yours.

Angel, leaning over your back, crowded your every sense, the taste of him, of his kisses still lingering on your tongue. Your ears met with the harmony of your two bodies and the filthy words and sounds coming from Angel's mouth. The sight of him was as intoxicating as ever, as you looked over your shoulder at him, the shadows of the room playing across his tawny skin, glimmering in the low light with the sheen of sweat you knew was also present on yours.

“Say my name,” Angel pants into the slick skin on your back, kissing a line down your spine, his body covering yours possessively.

You were too caught up in everything Angel, failing to respond quickly enough for his liking as you gasped at every thrust.

A crack of heat flashed across your ass, Angel swatting you there once. You should be annoyed, but you couldn't lie -- you fucking loved it when he was like this. Only for you.

"A-angel," you sighed, the crescendo of your orgasm climbing, threatening to burst any second, you tightening around Angel.

"Bueno," he purred. "You close? Yeah, you fucking are," Angel snarled, taking in the way you threw your hips back desperately to meet him, squirming one hand beneath you to touch yourself. "You can have it, baby, I'll make it good. You just gotta ask pretty for me."

You deepened the arch in your back, flexing your hips back toward Angel, and gripping the bedspread before you in your fingers, face pressed flush with the sheets, your other hand still pressed to your clit.

Angel tilted your head, leaning over further and gripping your jaw, squeezing to pucker your cheeks. He kissed you, sucking your lower lip between his. He kissed you gently, a deceptive contrast to the hand gripping your face, his hips snapping into yours at a now-brutish pace. He pecked another light kiss to your lips, followed by another, gently biting your lip and dragging it lightly as he drew his face from yours.

He released your lips as you whispered another plea into his mouth.

"Come on then, baby."

Your orgasm washed over you, pinpricks of striking matches splintering across your skin, followed by a euphoric wave of white-heat, blissfully soothing every nerve it had just lit.

Angel followed, emptying himself into you with a few final thrusts, groaning at the way you tightened just so around him.

He withdrew gently, collapsing next to you as you both caught your breath.

Your lashes fanned your cheeks as you blinked hazily at the form of your love through the soft glow of the room.

"I do love you, Angel," you told him, leaning across the sheets to rub your nose back and forth against his, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, grazing your soft fingers against the lines of his forehead, easing them away into an expression of soft serenity. "Always."

---

Now, you walked out of the clubhouse, around to the side of the porch, a quiet corner away from the noise. Willing yourself to calm down as small, hot tears trickled their way, uninvited, down your cheeks.

Your thoughts were moving a million miles a second, the battle of luck you were waging with the universe saw you quickly losing.

The year you spent with Angel replaying itself in your mind. Every word, every touch, that goddamn tattoo. Remembrance, my ass. How you would hold him when he came home too high-strung and strung-out emotionally for words. How you would save the best leftovers for him when you knew he had been away and would be craving the Chinese food from the place down the block when he got back. How he felt inside of you on the coldest nights and in the most tender mornings. How he would whisper enchanting endearments into the shell of your ear as he rolled his hips into yours, your mind and body completely his. How you would wear his shirts and overly-large socks around his apartment, leaving doodles and scribbled poems on sticky notes for him to find in his moments alone. How he kissed you warmly, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like syrupy possession that you never wanted to end.

How it did end. How he had thrown out your world, crumpled it into a crushed paper ball and tossing it away with the carelessness of a child. Ending things with seemingly no spare thought for your feelings. How EZ had let slip when he saw you in town that Angel was expecting a kid, the timing of everything suddenly making a little more sense. How it made you feel, now that you knew you were wholly his, but he was never entirely yours. How you had kept to yourself in the months that followed, the cracks in your heart widening until you felt like you would drown in them.

The pulse of your feelings for him, always strong; they warm you. But it was still you they all left behind.

Your thoughts were still swirling when, off to the side, you heard the porch door open and close again, and you prayed that whomever was coming outside was going to have a smoke out front, or that they were on their way out. That they wouldn’t find you.

But of course, these things never worked out how you wanted them. You cursed any god you could think of for just how un-fucking-lucky you were sometimes.

Because, really, who other than Angel was making his way around the porch to you? Taking in your hunched form as you leaned over the railing, looking anywhere but at him.

Of fucking course.

You kept your eyes down, focused in your clasped hands as you leaned over the railing, refusing to look at him.

And now? Now he was looking at you, and it's the one time you wished he wouldn't.

One thing you wouldn't do, now that he was here, was break the silence first. He didn't want to hear what you'd had to say, so why would you grace him with your thoughts now? Petty? Sure. But you weren't the one in there with your hands on some ass while a so-called friend harassed your ex.

A few uncomfortable beats dragged on before Angel broke the silence, shattering it like glass with a verbal hammer.

"What'd he say to you?"

You remained silent.

"What the fuck did he say, Frida?" His voice angry now, demanding. The same tone he used to break your heart.

"It ain't working. Not my fuckin’ fault you can't see it."

You rolled your eyes, another shard of icy glass painfully wedging into your heart at his use of the name. Still refusing to look in his direction when you replied, softly but sharply,

"You know exactly what he said. What I'm trying to figure out is why, exactly, you care."

"I care, Frida," was all he offered.

You snorted in response. Undignified, sure. But couldn't he see this was killing you? Where was his mercy?

"I do," he insisted, the thud of his boots across the wood of the porch indicating that he was crossing to you, coming to stand a ways behind you.

"I'm not going to do this with you. He said some shit. It's over. We move on. What more could you have to say about that?"

Keep it simple, keep yourself safe. You gave him nothing to say back. And then…

"And if I told you I wanted you? I wanted you back?"

You whipped your head around to -- finally -- meet Angel's eyes, which you did for a fleeting moment before zeroing in once more on your shoes, staring resolutely at the ground. You were not going to let him see you cry again, godfuckingdamnit.

The fleeting glimpse of his face, of his eyes meeting yours once more after all this time, was enough. He looked more tired up close than he had before. Still unfair in his striking beauty, his midnight eyes still enough to pull you in, drown you in their oceanic depths. You hated it. Hated that he still had that power over you. But try as you might, you couldn't hate him.

Your silence was killing Angel with the precision of a thousand miniscule cuts. Each deeper than the last. Until he couldn’t take it any longer. He reached through the space between, for where your hand rested on the railing. You saw the gesture coming, and whipped your hand away at the last moment, cradling it to your chest like he had burned you. You faced him fully now.

You chuckled softly, wryly, and devoid of any humor before you muttered, "You don't want me, baby. Please don't lie."

“And how do you know that’s a lie?” Angel mumbled thickly, working his tongue around the words, through his own emotion.

You scuffed your toe into the hewn wood of the deck, shrugging before you responded, simply,

“If I was what you wanted, you wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere. And you certainly wouldn't have found someone else. You wouldn’t have said what you said, ended it like you did, with everything on just your terms.” You sighed deeply, with the rattle of tears lodged into your chest before you spoke again, “You made up your mind and never even let me say a word. If you wanted anything to do with me, you could have at least given me a word.”

Angel blinked, hard. The familiar pressure of real tears building behind his eyes. You were right of course. And fuck, weren't you always? You'd always told him like it was, harsh truths that only you could cushion in your gentle, empathetic way.

"Please, querida, just let me explain what happened--"

You held up your hand, shaking your head firmly, effectively silencing Angel.

"No!" Much softer now, "No. I- I'm sorry, Angel, I don't mean to be rude. But, no." Your voice small, but clear, as you'd finally gotten your opportunity to say something back to him. "I, uh, I don't want to hear any explanation, and you really don't have to?"

You lilted the last part like it was a question, but continued on.

"You, um, you've had a lot of time to tell me something, anything, about what the fuck happened. And you didn't. You left me with nothing. Just confusion and hurt, and I've made peace with that. It's taken a while, but … I just… I don't need that from you. I gave you space, always respected your decisions and opinions, and now you won't do the same. You're still trying to take from me. Offering me an explanation now?" You scoffed. "That isn't for me, and don't fuckin’ act like it is -- it's for you. And I understand that, that's fine. I'm not angry at you for that, but I'm also not going to humor it."

You exhaled shakily, you couldn't believe you'd said all of that, that you had made it through.

Angel was speechless. It made your heart feel even sicker -- all of this silence from him for so long, and he'd offered to explain himself and you'd (gracefully) told him to fuck off. Why had you done that??

It was about time you'd stood up for yourself, that's why.

An explanation would be nice, sure. But where Angel's words, whispered affirmations and heady declarations of love, had once made your soul swell and sing… now, you knew, anything he'd had to say to you would only serve to do the opposite.

And your heart, perpetually bruised by nature of you being a hopeless romantic, just couldn't take it.

You hopped off the porch, spinning around to face Angel, finding his eyes on you still. Hadn't you wished for him to look at you? To really see you once more?

"I'm out," you tossed a thumb over your shoulder toward where you'd parked your car. "Sorry, I don't mean to abandon the old post, but uh, I'm sure you guys have someone to fill in. I'll text Aneesa to grab my stuff, don't worry about it."

Like he would, you thought.

You were mostly rambling to yourself, and not really to Angel, as you backed away, fleeing to your car.

Angel watched you go, the resonant ache in his chest that had been ever-present since tossing your stuff out, amplified when Luisa had left him, and now sure to be permanent, buried in cement beneath the weight of his every decision, and every word.

You looked good, he thought. Your hair was longer than when he'd seen you last. Your little skirt flouncing as you strode away. Your skin still glowed, full lips still twisted into that wry smile of yours that he had seen from across the room. All of that was true, but your eyes were also tired, and your smile never quite reached them.

The thought that he was responsible for dimming that sparkle made him feel sicker than he already had. The way you had brushed off Andres, despite his obnoxious insistence, and the things the cocky new patch had said to you -- may as well add those to the ever-growing pile of things stained and tainted by Angel's guilt.

And he was left alone with that guilt as you left the lot. He turned back to the party. His cool facade slipping back into place. Not ready to face the wrath of EZ and Coco, surely waiting inside to proverbially beat his ass.

What would you say if I come over? And we stand face to face now that we're older?

---

Angel shuffled into his apartment, the late hour catching up to his weary form as he ambled over to his bedside, flicking on the lamp.

Rubbing a large hand down his face, he sat on his bed in a huff of exhaustion. Your first encounter in months since he'd all-but tossed you from this very room was pricking him with a kind of nauseating nervous energy. But all he wanted to feel in that moment was you, whether he deserved it or not.

He'd still had it, didn't he? Where was it?

He pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, fishing through its contents for what he hoped was still in there.

His fingers curled over his prize -- a slip of paper adorned with your handwriting. Scrawled lines of poetry on a neon pink Post-It note, curled with age and disuse, something you had left for him while he slept in one morning.

“I was thinking of you,” you had said when he had asked you about it later, shrugging as if it were the most matter-of-fact thing in the world.

Your love for him was clean in its simplicity and forwardness, whenever he could wade his way through the mire of your shy demeanor. You had stuck the Post-It to his nightstand while he was sleeping and you made your way to work. Your words were cramped and crunched into the small paper square, but ready to greet him with the shining light of a sunny new day.

“I see your ardor through a pearlescent lense, and all is pleasantly pink and blurry with you-- Resplendent in your love's solar hope. You are so warm beneath the brush of my fingertips, and I burn. So in love with you, as I am and as I do."

Now, his eyes scanned the words for the millionth time since you had written them. He had committed it to memory by now, wishing he could hold you instead of this crumpled piece of paper, mocking him with its annoyingly bright pink hue.

But how could he? Angel was the kind of man who simmered in his emotion -- burning slowly, lowly, only to reach a pitch. He kept to himself until he couldn’t any longer -- and then it was all bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

He had done what he had thought was right. Cutting you out with all of the brutality and finesse of a battleaxe, to focus on Luisa and his unborn son. He thought she was what he wanted. But now, he didn’t even have them. He had nothing to show for his decisions but the lonely, sick feeling ever-present in his chest.

The you at the beginning of your relationship would have kissed each bruise in his soul, one by one, until they were better. Would have gifted him with the warmth of your time and attention until he was made whole again with the molten heat of your gracious heart. But the you now?

Angel could never, would never, cover the tattoo on his arm, though he had thought about it. Blacking it out once and for all, so the piece of you he wore on his sleeve would finally match the pitch, and emptiness inside. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was, as he’d said all that time ago, your gift to him. And he’d made you a promise that he wouldn’t.

All he wanted was to look you in the eyes so he could remember that he loved you once.

And not that he had any reason to know it, but across town, you had made it home. Your phone shoved to the bottom of your bag, lighting up with texts from Aneesa, EZ, and Coco. But the only person on your mind was Angel.

How much of what he had said was true? You weren't sure. But you were sure that you knew where you stood, still painfully alone and in love as ever, the cracks in your heart only fillable by the very person you had brushed off earlier.

And, while Angel readied himself for bed, snapping the lights off and attempting to cut through the oppressive darkness by staring at the ceiling with his own penetrative gaze, the empty side of the bed had never felt more cavernous, but more weighted. Mocking.

If Angel was being honest with himself -- something he was never too keen on being in his more sobering moments -- he didn't love you once. He still loved you.

Thinking after all this time, I just wanna meet your eyes so I can remember why... Why I loved you once.

Tagging:

@themarcusmoreno @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @steeeeeeeviebb @qveenbvtch @mxsamwilson @ifimayhaveaword @huliabitch @pettyprocrastination @phoenixhalliwell @flightlessangelwings @cinewhore @velvetmel0n @moonlight-prose @rebeccasficrecs @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @ciriswife @justanotherblonde23 @superhoeva @witching-hour @luckyharley1903

#angel reyes fic #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x fem!reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x oc #angel reyes angst #angel reyes smut #angel reyes #clayton cardenas #mayans mc #mayans fx #mayans #mayans mc fic #my writing #rachel writes #holy shittttt this boy is long #it just got away from me #sorry #loved you once

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mothandpidgeon · 4 years ago

Text

REPUTATION - Chapter 1

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Words: 3615

Rating: T

Warnings: slowest of burns, gender swapped characters, TOUCHING HANDS, no us of y/n

Summary: After scandal damages your reputation, you are finished with society. But a mysterious bachelor by the name of Mr. Djarin has a reputation of his own. And you are determined to keep yourself from getting mixed up with him.

A/N: So after THAT LOOK I know we are all working on our Darcy fics. I feel very intimidated to give it a go when so many talented writers are going to be doing it better but I really haven’t been able to think about anything else.

Also please forgive any historical inaccuracies. I hate those even when they’re on purpose so let’s just agree to ignore them.

And thanks @pascalslittlebrat for taking a look at this and listening to all of my feelings.

MASTERLIST

You used to enjoy going to balls. You used to feel excitement when you got dressed in a fine white gown, your hair set elegantly with little silk flowers. Your heart would race when you would arrive and see all of the gentlemen in their finery. And dancing. There was a time when you could stay on your feet all night, drinking in the attention of all the eligible bachelors.

Those days were long gone. Now you felt a rock in the pit of your stomach the entire time. You counted the moments until you could leave. You couldn’t even bother to put on a pleasant expression, spending entire evenings sullen and taciturn. But at least this was the last ball you had to drag yourself to this season.

You had been forced to spend yet another season in town. This time you had the company of your younger cousin Julia, though her older sister Emma was a difficult chaperone. And tonight you were being hosted by Captain Charles Dune and his wife Lady Georgiana Karga. They threw wonderful parties– at least you had enjoyed them when you enjoyed those things. It was a masquerade ball which meant Julia had picked out a dainty little mask for you to wear. You couldn’t be bothered to choose one yourself but Julia had an eye for this sort of thing. And you liked the creamy white bow that she tied into your hair.

Julia was looking forward to tonight. She was very popular despite being related to you, containing all of the traits a man would want in a wife– good looks, excellent conversational skills, and a talent at the piano forte. She had a number of young men constantly calling on her and her dance card was practically full before she had even gotten into the carriage.

“You look so pretty!” she insisted, though she was probably admiring the work she had done to make you presentable.

Emma was looking forward to being finished with you. She had been married for three years and fancied herself an authority on the subject. She spent much of her time lecturing you on the proper way to comport yourself. Tonight she was just trying to get you to quit sulking.

“Would you at least try to be sociable?” Emma requested with a frown.

“I don’t much see the point,” you huffed. “Do you really believe I’ll get a proposal at the last ball of the season?”

“Lady Georgiana has invited an old friend of the captain’s,” Emma encouraged. “Mr. Djarin. She says he’s quite admirable.”

You rolled your eyes. You both knew you were headed for spinsterhood. Emma had lost her mind if she thought that she was going to pawn you off on some aged, paunchy bachelor.

The ball went exactly as you had expected. You watched Julia dance and laugh. You stood by as Emma talked animatedly when she wasn’t giving you sharp looks. Though there were gentlemen without partners, no one asked you to dance aside from Captain Dune and a few of the unlucky young men he could press into service.

Even now at the end of the season, where so many engagements had been made, you could still feel the eyes on you, the whispers behind hands. It was as if they thought the masks covered their looks of derision. You knew what they were saying, why they snickered and turned away.

It was all because of your broken engagement to Mr. Vanth. There was no returning from a situation like that. You had been cast aside and all of the ton could enjoy surmising the reasons. Your reputation was in shambles.

But it wasn’t the fact that he had gone and married some heiress not two months after he’d given you up that made it all so painful. What had really destroyed you was the fact that you’d let yourself love him. He wasn’t the best choice though he was handsome and had enough income to keep you comfortable. But you had given your heart to him and he had crushed it. And you looked like an utter fool for it.

For some reason, tonight it all stung. You’d learned to drown out the comments and ignore the sideways glances. But here you were, closing yet another season, as single as the day you’d come out. You’d begged your poor mother to let you stay at home in the country so that you wouldn’t have to suffer these indignities. It was pathetic that you had even shown up in London. But she had insisted, had assured you that you were still desirable, still attractive and spirited.

You certainly didn’t feel that way now. You snatched up a glass of wine from a nearby valet and drank it down in nearly a single gulp. It did little to soothe your nerves.

You needed air. You took another glass and sped towards the garden. The noise and music floated out here but the fresh air was cool and the garden looked quite empty, the vacant pathways lit by torches.

You’d once been so much fun. You’d laughed and smiled. You’d had no worries about your future. Now, not only were you a laughing stock but you would be lucky if you could rely on your cousin’s generosity for the rest of your days lest you end up in the poor house.

Tears were welling up in your eyes. You tore the mask off of your face to wipe them away. With your vision clouded and in the dim of the garden, you didn’t see the man that was standing in the shadows until you’d run right into his back.

You’d hit him with enough force to knock you back a few paces but he hardly flinched. He was tall and broad shouldered and he turned to look at you with curiosity. He was alone, thank heavens. He wore a black tailcoat and under that a waist coat that looked like silver and shined like silk. You didn’t recognize him but, of course, he was wearing a mask like all of the other guests. His was rendered in the same silver fabric with a slim slit for his eyes. A scalloped piece of fabric fell from the bottom of the mask down to his chin so you couldn’t see anything of his face other than his dark eyes.

Once you’d regained your balance you began to stutter an apology.

“Forgive me, sir,” you stammered. “I must mind my step.”

The stranger didn’t say anything, he just continued to look you up and down, the torch light reflected in his eyes. His hair was a mess of dark curls. His stature was imposing and incredibly still. You were so shaken that you suddenly realized how you looked, your face stained with tears and eyes glassy. You felt your cheeks burn with even more embarrassment.

Just as you opened your mouth to give some explanation, a voice came from behind you.

“Djarin! There you are!” Captain Dune called out, as jovial as ever.

You did your best to wipe the tears from your cheeks while the masked man turned his attention away.

Captain Dune sauntered down the path with his wife on his elbow. He was a dark haired, stocky man who still looked quite dashing in his dress uniform. He had been a hero of the Nile and served with your father before his ship had been lost. His round face was adorned with a black mask.

“Ah! I see you’ve met the young lady I told you about,” Dune said.

Lady Georgiana’s bright eyes looked between the two of you from under her leather mask. She was a beautiful woman with dark skin and a wide smile. She had always been kind to you even after the disastrous affair with Mr. Vanth.

“My dear, allow me to introduce Mr. Djarin,” Lady Georgiana said. “He is a very good friend.”

Mr. Djarin gave a tight bow when she introduced you but barely murmured a, “How do you do?”

“What are you doing hiding out here, Djarin? The dancing is inside!” Dune teased.

Mr. Djarin gave a chuckle but he didn’t sound amused.

“Why don’t you ask this young lady for a dance? I’m sure she would lower herself to stand up with you,” the captain continued with a wink.

“I’d better not. Please, you’ll have to excuse me. I should retire,” Mr. Djarin said, his voice deep and raspy.

Your eyes fell to the ground and you swallowed hard. You hoped in the darkness of the garden, Lady Georgiana didn’t catch your upset. Clearly Captain Dune had told him everything about you. Why else would this man be so impolite?

“Oh come now. It’s early, yet,” the captain protested.

“Forgive me. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he bowed and took his leave.

“My dear,” Lady Georgiana tried, “you’ll have to forgive Mr. Djarin. He has lived alone for so long that he sometimes forgets his manners.”

You gave her a smile, clenching your jaw so that you would not cry.

“I just had a splendid idea!” Lady Georgiana exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You should come stay with us at Nevarro Hall. We leave next week. It would be great fun. I do find that part of the country so diverting.”

“You are too kind but I couldn’t impose,” you said politely. You had a feeling this offer only came because Georgiana felt responsible for her friend’s slight.

“Nonsense! You’re quite right that is a grand idea!” the captain agreed.

It was agreed that Lady Georgiana would write to your mother to inform her of the invitation. You knew she wouldn’t disagree considering how kind the Dunes were and how generous an invitation it was. Once the matter was settled, Captain Dune insisted you return to the party and you reluctantly slunk back inside.

Julia was with a gaggle of some friends when you returned to the ballroom. There was some excitement going on between them.

“Did you see him, Lucy?” one of the girls asked.

“I was introduced,” Lucy squealed. “It is a shame he was not here earlier in the season.”

You realized they were talking about Mr. Djarin and you felt yourself frowning.

“You’re not happy with Mr. Calican?” Julia laughed. Lucy had accepted his proposal just yesterday.

“No, of course!” she scoffed.

“What was he like?” Julia asked.

“I’ve heard he has a fine estate,” Lucy said.

“Oh, he was terribly handsome,” the first girl craned her neck to try and spot Mr. Djarin.

You wanted to laugh. You had also been introduced to Mr. Djarin but there was no way of knowing how handsome he was beneath that mask. You might have even ventured to tell them that but Emma joined the group looking disgruntled.

“I have learned some most unsettling news about Mr. Djarin,” she said. “He is traveling with a child who is in his care.”

“What about that offends you so?” Julia rolled her eyes.

“That is just it, Julia. I am told that this young boy is not merely Mr. Djarin’s ward. He is, in fact, his natural child.” This last part she said in a scandalized whisper.

This raised quite a few eyebrows but you furrowed your own.

“You are told?” You responded. “By whom?”

You knew the rumors that had circulated about yourself and had grown to absolutely despise and distrust gossip.

“I have it on good authority,” Emma said, which meant that some busybody had told her.

You shook your head. You hated that you felt the need to defend Mr. Djarin after he’d been so rude to you. If he had a child out of wedlock, one that he paraded around shamelessly, then what right did he have to rebuff you? You reminded yourself that this was merely hearsay. And no one deserved to be slandered like that.

But when you saw the way the other girls eyed you, you remembered yourself. If you protested too much, it would only speak to your own reputation. So you let them prattle on and as soon as you could slip away, you did, and spent the rest of the evening counting the minutes until you could leave and fall into bed.

After such an excruciating time in town, you were happy to be going anywhere else and, selfishly, you were glad that you didn’t need to spend a long carriage ride hearing Julia go on and on about how much she would miss being in town.

Nevarro Hall was situated on a gorgeous estate in a quiet part of the countryside. Lady Georgiana had given you a well appointed room with a view of the grounds. There was a beautiful garden with a fountain in the middle and, beyond that, a manicured lawn. You could see down to the lake and, past that, the tall trees. You spent a week walking the grounds with Lady Georgiana.

You loved to draw and you could set yourself in some corner of the garden and sketch the flowers for hours on end. It was such a wonderful change from the constant noise and hustle of town– the endless parties and calls, Emma herding you around like a prized cow. When the weather was fair, Lady Georgiana would have tea set outside and she and the captain would ask for a tour through your sketchbook and kindly remark on your talents.

“Perhaps you will create a likeness of the captain, my dear,” Lady Georgiana suggested. “If he will sit still enough for you.”

The captain laughed at that remark as the valet presented him with a letter.

“Very good! It seems Djarin will be joining us tomorrow! His business in town is finished,” he said.

You tried to hide your displeasure. You had no interest in sitting through dinners and excruciating evenings with Mr. Djarin. But you had little choice in the matter. And the captain and Lady Karga had been such generous hosts, you wouldn’t insult them by cutting your visit short.

You decided that you would be as polite as necessary but keep away from him as much as possible. This was wise, you told yourself, because your reputation couldn’t suffer any more difficulties. There were plenty of people that would jump at the chance to make even a passing association with Mr. Djarin into a scandal. But, of course, there was still a part of you that smarted at the way he had dismissed you in your very first encounter. You couldn’t be prevailed upon to be pleasant to a man that was so insulting. And so you would not.

Luckily, the first two days, it was easy to avoid Mr. Djarin entirely. The captain had taken him out riding or shooting or some such activity men enjoyed and they had dined out. Lady Georgiana had become a dear companion to you but she had begun to spend far too much time hinting at how much she liked the new guest. You would merely nod and smile and let your mind wander when she started to tell you how agreeable Mr. Djarin was or how he had been such a kind friend to her father.

On the third day, you had complained of a headache so you could excuse yourself from breakfast. After you had the tea and toast that Lady Georgiana had sent up to your room, you insisted a walk would be good for you and you set out across the grounds with your sketchbook.

You decided the stables were a good place to be left alone. It wasn’t like anyone would be looking for you there and, save the horses, there was nobody there. You found a little wooden chair and sat down to draw the horses and tack.

There was a beautiful black mare with white whiskers around her snout that you were sketching when you heard a noise. It was a funny little squeal. You thought you had imagined it until you heard it again. It had come from the empty horse stall at the very end and when you set down your sketchbook to investigate, you found a little boy sitting in the hay.

“Hello,” you said to him.

He smiled up at you. He looked incredibly sweet with chubby little cheeks. His ears seemed too big for his head and his eyes, too, were big and round. He wore a little brown suit with a delicate ruffle around the neck that was now covered in mud and hay.

“What are you doing in here?” you asked him, though he seemed too small to answer.

He babbled at you and held out something in his hand.

“What’s that?”

The child leaned forward, stretching towards you, and dropped it into your hand. It was a little silver ball that jingled like it had a bell within.

“Thank you,” you chuckled.

You shook it and it made a tinkling sound. He clapped his pudgy hands together, then planted them on the ground, and carefully got to his feet. He continued to yammer on as he tottered towards you, falling on his behind once, but determined to reach you on his own.

“Grogu!” You heard a voice from the path outside that you recognized. “Grogu!”

The boy scampered out of the stable and right up to the boot of Mr. Djarin.

“Where have you been, lad? They’re turning the whole house over looking for you,” he said.

He scooped the little boy up, holding his whole body in the crook of his arm, a wide hand grasping the boy’s calf. Grogu put a dirty hand up to Mr. Djarin’s chin and he laughed softly.

Now that you had the benefit of seeing him without a mask, you realized Mr. Djarin was, indeed, quite handsome. He had full lips and a prominent nose. His skin was a shade of gold that complimented his dark eyes. His starched collar met a square jaw that was dotted with stubble. In the sunlight, you could see that his soft curls and thick sideburns were threaded with grey hairs. The smile that spread over his features was so warm, you wished you could capture it in your sketchbook.

This was the infamous child, then. You saw little resemblance between Mr. Djarin and the lad but he held him so tenderly, it made you wonder if the rumors hadn’t been true.

That’s what you were pondering when the boy turned his attention back to you, pointing with a plump little finger. Mr. Djarin’s whole body stiffened when he saw you, his eyes turning sharp.

“Good morning,” you said with a curtsy.

His jaw clenched and he nodded.

“He was playing,” you tried, tilting your head back towards the stable.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I was drawing the horses,” you explained.

His head tilted just slightly.

“Is that his name? Grogu?” You asked when Mr. Djarin failed to speak.

“Yes,” he said.

You smiled. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Grogu.”

You put out your hand and the lad wrapped his fingers around one of yours.

“Ebba!” he cried.

You laughed. When you glanced at Mr. Djarin he was looking at you with an expression you could only describe as fear. Your smile faltered.

“I take it your business was concluded. In a satisfactory manner, I hope?” you inquired politely.

His brow furrowed momentarily and he opened his mouth and then set Grogu down at his feet.

“Yes. I-” he cleared his throat. “Please, you must forgive me for my behavior at the masquerade. Lady Georgiana said that I offended you. That was not my intention.”

You felt heat in your cheeks once again, embarrassment mixed with anger. You couldn’t believe he had to be told that he had acted like an ass. “Not to worry, sir. My pride has already been damaged so thoroughly, what is but one more slight?”

The look that crossed his face was absolute horror. You would have apologized for speaking so plainly but you frankly didn’t care. What right did he have to judge you? To apologize like you were so pitiful when here he was with his love child. You knew what men like Mr. Djarin were like and you’d learned to keep a wide berth.

“I- I should tell them that I’ve found him,” Mr. Djarin said. “Good day.”

He turned to go back up the path.

“Wait!” you called.

You blushed when you realized how impolite it sounded. Mr. Djarin turned carefully but said nothing. You approached him, painfully aware of the way he stared at you. It was difficult to meet his eye. You swallowed and held out the child’s ball to him. Mr. Djarin put out his hand and you placed it in his palm. As you did, your fingertips brushed his hand and you shivered. His skin felt rough and his palm was so large compared to your own. Your breath caught and, for some reason, you wished he would close his fingers around yours. You quickly withdrew your hand.

The boy reached out for the ball with a coo.

“Much obliged,” Mr Djarin managed. He was still looking at you with intense concentration.

Your chest felt tight.

“I’ll let them know at the house,” you stuttered and after a quick curtsy you were rushing back up the path.

--- Chapter 2

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