#i love that style of shot. it’s so good

[artficlly]

hey so i think i'm in love w you. this is my confession of love. holy shit ??? i'm gnawing at the bars of my cage, positively crying in the clurb reading this oh my god?? i love when i get reblogs like this i'm actually??? sobbing. SPEECHLESS. this fic took me like 4 days of fucking mania to write, like genuinely i was going crazy. at one point in ending near the end i just got up and went for a walk for like 40 mins and looked at some trees i was actually going fully insane.

anyway pls keep all limbs inside the vehicle bc i am about to drive the yap train bc omg. i am not beating the i am going to be so normal about this allegations.

my reaction to the beginning was me just marveling at how well done the dialogue was and how real the exchange between reader and Yelena was as friends. You also communicated the sharp and intentional movements we've seen from Yelena very well.

oh my god tysm?? i love writing yelena, she's my fave girlie. i'm so happi happi that you thought that !?!? i always fear that i have over-exaggerated her character or whateva. i'm so bad for like... not being normal when it comes to one-shots. i can't just write a scene like a normal person. must establish a whole lore and how the reader interacts with the other characters. this fic could've been so much shorter, but it also could've been so much longer because i cut myself off writing more unplotted scenes after about 8k words. no more world-building! bad!

The way you write is so fucking good, I’m literally in awe. You have one of the most immersive writing styles I’ve ever read I'm not fucking kidding. And I've been reading Bucky for literally ever bro. He's my bottom bitch fr, and I think I'm hailing you as the best Bucky writer I've come across-like ever.

hey so i'm crying rn. sobbing actucally?/ what the hell. thank you so much?? i've been trying to improve my writing a lot recently so it genuinely means sm to me. i've been enjoying writing more modern stuff recently where i can be kinda unserious about it. i sit down with legit the vaguest of vague ideas, maybe some dialogue and then just kinda word vomit on the doc until it works out. like i'm legit attaching u a screenshot of my plotting for the beginning of this fic so u can understand how whimsical and barebones my plotting is. 80% it just ends up being dialogue bc i write it in my notes app when i cant sleep looool.

The other thing I love about your writing is how colloquial it is. I don’t even know if that makes sense, or if that's the best descriptor but I'm gonna use it from now on. I just mean you write the same way I think. It’s quippy, it’s funny, it’s evocative, it’s clever, and it makes perfect sense.

i'm glad u enjoy it bc i worry so much some times that it's too unserious LMAO. i mean, it's fanfic, how serious does a bitch gotta be ?? i also struggle a bit reading flowery language at times or finding the meaning or theme in something bc i'm stupid so i fear my writing is just a string of thoughts somehow made into a story lol

The way you get the MCU. Except the erection comment—disney wouldn’t like that one lol but I loved it—this sounds exactly like some idle conversation Natasha would make in a cap movie as she decodes shit on a computer.

i hate brutalism <3 i'm sorry i just do and EVERY MOVIE THE HYDRA BASES ARE JUST A CONCRETE BOX AND I'M LIKE PLSS?? they must have more money??? show me HYDRA biblical greed plsss

Maybe one of the funniest bucky-centric lines I’ve ever read in a bucky fic. Idk if that makes sense but it's a fucking funny quip that only works in a Bucky fic because this bitch knows no other emotion than: brood.

glad u enjoyed that line, it was a last second addition as i descended into mania <3

It feels like he wants to be punished.

hehe <3

I FUCKING KNEW IT. I FUCKING KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. THAT DIRTY FUCKER. SLY MOTHER FUCKING COPING PICK ME. Also, fabulous way to convey that plot twist <3 I wonder if it would be too far to theorize that she became his mentee under the same circumstances. Idk, it’d be embarrassing to theorize that and then be blatantly wrong when I finish the fic lmfao. 

hehe i'm so glad u liked that twist. it came to me while i was toasting a bagel and i was like on god what if he requesTED TO BE PAIRED WITH HER SO HE COULD 'PROTECT' HER BUT ALSO BE NEAR HER AND anyway if the reveal had been that he requested to be her mentor would've also been crazy. i think it's more fun thinking about him suffering being paired w her and panicking, yet still denying all of her mentor transfer requests. i also fear that mayhaps bucky was secretly pleased about and liked training her, not only bc he could be around her bc he's in looooove but also bc he knows that she can defend herself? teaching her skills to become better? bc he's protective like that i think it would bring him joy knowing that she could take down a mf using what HE TAUGHT her.

Holy shit, do I wish I could be a fly on the wall for that shit show. Also, he relayed like three separate sentiments from the slut shaming debacle and I’m sitting here like, ‘okay, one was enough lmfao. I get the picture. Thank you. They think I’m a slut, got it.’ Just gut punch after gut punch after gut punch LMFAO

he was festering on that FOR SURE. i also think the reader would've been mad if he didn't explain the full severity and extend of what they said yk. ALSO i did have thoughts about her witnessing him going off on them etc, but i decided it was kinda more impacyful to be an off-screen thing? idk.. just smth about him silently defending and protecting her without her knowledge is sooooo... ugh idek the words. like theres no tryna prove himself or having an ego about it (maybe only internally lol) but just genuine care for that person.

Although, I would like to point out: Bucky made a comment earlier about how she’s always bouncing between men. I’d like to know what his thinking is there. Other men can’t call it out but he can? I’m not actually criticizing him (and definitely not your writing-I'm not trying to poke holes or anything, I firmly trust everything was intentional and am taking it as such-bucky be a complicated bitch) because I love complicated men and messy drama

okay so, i did have some thoughts on that 4 u. i can understand it is kinda confusing and weird but in my mind while i was writing, from HIS perspective i don't think he realised he was slut shaming. from his perspective he was critcising the men, maybe even trying to draw attention to it bc he's a jealous, whiny bitch who wants the reader for himself. i think in his eyes he was just trying to point out the obvious, while also struggling to navigate these concepts of modern dating etc.

he's like i would NEVER call you a slut. you're just a BEAUTIFUL AMAZING WOMAN who is a VICTIM TO THESE EVIL MEN. i am NOT an evil man. pls pls pls pls. honestly, I should've made him beg in this fic. ON UR KNEES SIR! BEG FOR FORGIVENESS!

OOP! Gag it. I forgot to say it somewhere earlier but he so badly wants to be more for her. He wants to be her peace. He wants to be the last guy she dates, because this time it won’t end in a shit show. He wants to show her what real love is from a real man. Oh he’s so rotten and evil I love him.

u got it spot on there. he doesn't think she's a slut, he just thinks all the men around her suck bc he's OBVIOUSLY the one for her and could do sooo much better and treat her right etc etc blah blah blah this man is down so bad and also full of himself LOL/

I’m so glad smut didn’t ensure right after the confession because one) it adds more drama and two) I think it aligns better with the story, the flow, the pacing, and also how you’ve written the Reader so far 

i def wanted the reader to think about it for awhile and kinda weigh up the situation in her own time. also bouncing on it when bucky has a bullet wound (super soldier or not) does not seem healthy loool.

I don't even think I'd give him props for caring about her reputation despite him lumping her in on the fear of embarrassment from colleagues comment. I think he's solely thinking of himself and how vulnerable his feelings make him. He's an exposed vein and she's poking and prodding at him for fun in front of everyone, loving the way he bleeds for her. I think your choice to write that comment in gives such a great insight into how insecure and mad he is over her. He's dealing with such confusing feelings, not to mention he can't stop berating himself for them, he's just a huge complicated ball of exposed nerves.

once again, hit the nail on the head! he's so shy <3 i think he knows the reader would be confident and chill enough to rock them having a relationship, while hes all like oh god oh fuck what if people know i have feelings?? not to angst this bitch up but a lot of this could be traced into the whole fear of HYDRA getting control of him again and exploiting those feelings/memories/relationships. he's so used to positive interactions and relationships being used against him that he fears getting close to people. plus consequences of what could, not only happen to him, but to the people he cares about if they are used to hurt him.

i didn't really get much into his trauma throughout this one-shot because on god it would've ended up like 20k words and i feel like i would be repeating a lot of things i've tied into my series lessons in lovemaking but trust me it was on the brain while writing.

SHE KISSED HIM DURING GROUP SPAR ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING ARE YOU JOSHING ME RN

i think if i had the patience i would've had her beating theo & co's ass first, then all sweaty take down bucky with a kiss but i was fully manic and insane and way over my usual word count so i didn't end up doing that. pretend i did, that wouldve been fire. 'i can look after myself bucky xoxox'

You can't just kiss me and then walk away (wants more), you kissed me to mess with me (wants her to divulge her boundaries and finally reject him)

hehe <3 man is shook to his core and desperate! wdym if i just communicated like a normal person we wouldn't have needed to do this dance and i could've been with you a lot sooner???

Oh fuck I love him and I love you for writing this masterpiece. I'm in awe of your brain and all the little intricacies you've added. I'm a fic writer myself, so I think it gives me an even deeper appreciation for the world and story you've built here. Everything was carefully thought up in your gorgeous brain and you executed it so well.

SOB tysm??!?! i hope i haven't ruined the magic w my ramblings in this reblog.

But also you’re crushing this fic. So many things are happening that I wouldn’t have expected, such as this sequence right now. You’re really drawing out the impending climax, building really fucking good tension. It’s so delicious how she’s making him wait. Holy fuck the way she’s just stripping in front of him and he’s too busy bitching oh hes so dead.

hehehe when i started plotting this fic, the only concrete scenes i KNEW i wanted was a. the intro scene where she's slamming back shots and everyone is horrified and b. bucky too busy bickering while she's stripping and getting in the shower. i had the "i think you need to cool down :)" ENGRAINED into my BRAIN.

Fantastic fic, you always come through in that department. This is going under my fav tag

thank you so so soooo much <333 literally have experienced every emotion reading ur comments. im like so emotional fr deadass. theres just something so sweet about having someone care that much about your project to break down their thoughts on it like i genuinely appreciate it so much, tysm for reading my silly ass fics <3

the art of pretending [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x agent!reader

being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, forced proximity, one bed, kissing, enemies to lovers-ish?, sexual tension, sparring, mentor bucky, bickering, insults, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, bucky has issues, protective bucky, slut shaming (not from bucky), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 12.4k

A/N: hi! this is for some requests i received (one and two). i combined two of the requests because they were pretty similar, hope thats okay and i hope you enjoy! this took me... so long to write. i hope it doesn't flop <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You had two goals for the night: get shitfaced and get railed. So, catching your asshole boyfriend wrist-deep in some girl’s panties, doing the kind of finger work he never even bothered to learn for you, wasn’t part of your itinerary.

You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day.

Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.

You just had to get in, get drunk, and avoid eye contact with your co-workers long enough to pull off a quiet mental breakdown and ignore the fact that you were rather underdressed for the type of party Stark was hosting. Scantily clad club clothing clashed hard with the pearls and Prada crowd.

A few raised brows and vague greetings followed you as you slithered through the gathering. 

But you held back a groan when you spotted the trio parked at the bar: Yelena, Steve, and Bucky. Great. The Greek god chorus of shame, in all their sculpted, judgmental glory. They looked just as uncomfortable as you felt, loitering by the bar instead of mingling with Stark’s circus.

You ignored their stares and made a beeline for the shelves behind the bartender—some poor kid who looked far too green for this gig. He gave you a look of dismay as you grabbed a bottle of tequila without asking. Slamming down a shot glass, you poured with shaky hands and knocked it back with the elegance of a car crash.

You barely registered the silence that followed until you glanced up and saw the stunned expressions staring back at you.

Yelena was the first to speak. “What happened to you? You never come to these things.”

You poured another shot. “Free drinks,” you muttered, then downed it, already lining up the next. No salt. No lime. Just pain, raw and unfiltered, sliding down your throat.

“I thought you were going out with your boyfriend?” She continued to press, while Steve looked rather scandalised as he watched you swallow back your third shot in a row with a shudder. 

Yelena reached over and snatched the bottle from your hand before you could pour again. “You should slow down.”

​​You blinked at her, teeth gritted, blood thrumming loud in your ears. She meant well. Of course she did. You’d always gotten along—ever since she’d been assigned as your mentor in your early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. You two had clicked effortlessly. It was all a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s long-term strategy to make field missions run smoother and reduce casualties. Avengers were paired with up-and-coming agents to pass down their experience and training, with the hope that one day, those hard-earned skills would save lives.

But everything changed when they reassigned you.

You’d been told it was to ‘broaden your skillset’, that it was about growth, adaptability, and learning from different leadership styles. What they didn’t say was that it would mean training under James Buchanan Barnes, aka Mr. No-Praise-All-Pain.

You’d tried. Really. At first, you gave it your all. Took his criticism, bit your tongue, pushed harder. But Bucky didn’t bend. He didn’t compliment. Didn’t guide. He just judged, cold and final, like every failure confirmed whatever low expectations he had of you.

Five months of that, and you were drowning. You begged for reassignment—back to Yelena, to Natasha, to anyone—but were denied every time. Some higher-up probably thought your mutual disdain was ‘motivating’, like locking two angry wolves in a cage and expecting them not to rip each other’s throats out.

And now here he was. Bucky Barnes. His suit jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his bar stool, his tie loosened just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His dress shirt clung to his muscular frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those unfairly defined forearms and the gleam of vibranium wrapped around a bottle of beer. His expression was stony, but familiar—stern brow, mouth set in a tight line, like he was already displeased with you and you hadn’t even said a word yet.

That look. That look you couldn’t stand.

Disappointment, or maybe pity. You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your skin itch.

You wanted to punch him in his sullen, pouty face.

Instead, you laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle again, only for Yelena to hold it further away, firm.

“I said slow down,” she warned.

You made a face at Yelena. “Uh, you can’t talk. I saw you do shots out of a candle holder once.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Yes. And you called me messy. So I stopped.” She turned away just long enough to vanish the tequila bottle from sight like some sleight-of-hand magician. “This is me returning the favour. Stop it. You’re being messy.”

You barked out a harsh laugh and rubbed a hand down your face, smearing frustration across your cheeks. “You know what’s messy? My boyfriend. Well—ex-boyfriend.”

Across the bar, Bucky shook his head and muttered something low under his breath. You didn’t catch it, but you were sure it was vile because even Steve glanced over at him in disbelief, his eyebrows climbing high. Great. Judgment from Captain Morality and the Tin Soldier. Just what you needed.

Yelena sighed, already exhausted. “What did he do this time?”

You could tell she was reaching the end of her patience, and honestly, it was fair. She’d been your reluctant witness through the entire tragic saga of your love life. Two and a half years of emotional landmines and loser boyfriends who all somehow managed to be worse than the last. It was impressive, in a bleak kind of way.

You gestured vaguely, your expression somewhere between rage and disbelief. “I was supposed to meet him at some sleazy club downtown, his buddy was DJing—-fucking terrible DJ by the way. I’d barely walked in the door when I caught him in a back booth, fingering some girl who wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it!”

Yelena’s lips pursed. Steve stared like he’d never heard someone use the word ‘fingering’ out loud before.

“What did you do?” Yelena asked, her voice low, careful.

“Oh, the usual,” you said sweetly. “I punched him. Hard. He hit the floor like a sack of shit. Then I stepped on his hand until I felt something snap.”

Steve choked on his beer, coughing violently into his elbow. Bucky just watched you with the world's best poker face, a slight clench in his jaw muscles. 

You smiled at Steve, feral and unbothered. “Don’t worry, Cap. He won’t be playing DJ with anyone’s body parts anytime soon.”

Yelena gave a low whistle, somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “You actually broke his hand?”

“Felt like justice.” You shrugged. “Plus, he was always texting with that hand. Two birds, one stomp.”

“That’s assault,” Steve managed, his voice slightly strangled.

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “We’ve all done worse.”

Across the bar, Bucky finally spoke, his voice gravel-edged and unimpressed. “And now you’re here, drinking like a lunatic in front of half the team. Real graceful recovery.”

Your shoulders tensed, that familiar heat creeping up your spine.

“I’m not showing up for training tomorrow,” you said flatly. “Hell, I don’t plan on being conscious tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s going on your report.”

Your mid-year report. Just another excuse for Bucky to publicly drag you, whining to the higher-ups about what a terrible mentee you were. How you needed to ‘apply yourself’, ‘show initiative’, or whatever corporate nonsense they lapped up. And of course, those same higher-ups were always looking for a reason to cut dead weight. One misstep, and you were done.

“Of course it is,” you snapped, spinning on your heel. “You miserable, ancient cunt.”

Steve choked on his beer again.

Without another word, you reached behind the overwhelmed bartender, who looked about five seconds from quitting, and grabbed the nearest bottle. You didn’t even look at the label. You stormed off with tequila already burning in your veins and spite lighting the way. 

—

You were leaning casually against the wall outside the gym’s changing rooms, dressed in workout gear that was probably a little more flattering than necessary. Tight enough to flatter your waist, breathable enough to pass as practical. Around you, the low hum of chatter buzzed from a small group of fellow agents. You were killing time before your dreaded one-on-one training session with Barnes.

Theo leaned a shoulder beside yours, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. He’d been an agent about as long as you had—charming, competent, and a little too easy to get along with. The two of you were part of that unofficial after-hours crew: drinks on Fridays, complaints about the job, stumbling home tipsy and hungover texts on Saturday mornings.

“You’re on sparring duty all week too?” Theo asked, glancing at you with mock pity. “I swear Rogers gets off on making me eat mat.”

“I know what you mean. Barnes definitely loves making me suffer,” you replied with a grimace. “That man has a personal vendetta against me.”

Theo grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder, and he gave you a playful sidelong look. “When I get knocked on my ass, promise you’ll kiss it better?”

You arched a brow, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”

“Starting to?” he shot back, unfazed. “Let me make it clearer. If I don’t get my ass handed to me by Rogers, I’ll buy you a drink Friday.”

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding over your chest. “And if Rogers wins?”

Theo leaned in, voice low and smooth as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a moment too long. “Then I’ll buy you two,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to respond. Flattered, a little surprised, already mentally debating whether it was worth shaving your legs, when a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

“Agent. You’re late.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That gravel-edged tone, sharpened with disapproval, could only belong to one man.

Bucky stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, jaw set like granite. His black compression shirt clung to every sculpted line of his chest, joggers slung low on his hips in a way that really shouldn't have been legal. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a combat simulation and into a fitness magazine.

But the expression on his face? Full-on battlefield.

That signature scowl was locked in place, thunderclouds brewing behind his eyes as he stared straight past you, straight at Theo. Typical. You hadn’t even done anything, yet somehow, he already looked pissed.

“Training doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.” You reminded him.

He didn’t seem interested in whatever argument you were about to make, and he turned on his heel without another word.

You sighed, uncrossing your arms as you pushed off the wall and flashed Theo an apologetic smile. 

Jogging to catch up, your boots thudding against the hallway floor, you called after Bucky. “You know, there’s this really neat thing called a schedule. Maybe try sticking to it?”

He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “You could use the extra time.”

You scoffed in disbelief at his audacity. Classic Barnes, gruelling, joyless, always ready with a critique and never a compliment. He’d made it his mission to grind you down, one scathing remark at a time. And yet, you knew you were one of the top agents. The higher-ups had told you as much in your mid-year review, even going so far as to say that your mentorship with Barnes was working brilliantly. You hadn’t bothered correcting them, though it irritated more than you liked to admit. All your hard work, and somehow, he got the credit.

Bucky didn’t stop until you were both inside one of the gym’s private sparring rooms. The door clicked shut behind you. No audience. No distractions. Just him and you and the electric tension that always seemed to spark the moment you were alone together.

“Seriously, Barnes, what’s your problem today?”

Bucky stepped onto the mat, gesturing for you to follow.

“You’re here to train, not flirt in the hallway.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bucky always had a problem whenever your love life even breathed into the conversation. Said it was irrelevant. Unprofessional. A distraction.

Back when Yelena was your partner, the two of you used to spar and gossip at the same time, her dodging your punches while you gave dramatic play-by-plays of whatever your latest fling had done to you in bed the night before. She lived for it. Bucky? Not so much.

He’d cut the conversation short every time. Couldn’t even stand the sight of you laughing a little too long with someone else. He’d yank you away with some bullshit excuse like, ‘distractions on the field will get you killed’, or ‘do I need to report you for slacking off?’ Like you were breaking protocol instead of just being a human being.

You stepped into position across from him, tightening your stance, heat already prickling beneath your skin. From the glare he was giving you, he looked ready to fight. Good. So were you.

“Are you always such an asshole,” you said, voice flat, “or is that just a special little treat you save for me?”

He gave you a look, deadpan and infuriating. “Only when I’m working with someone who’s constantly late, distracted, or hungover.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and threw a lazy jab, just to shut him up. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist like he could’ve done it in his sleep.

“And yet,” you muttered, circling to your right, “you wrote me a glowing mid-year report.”

His hand faltered for a split second. It was brief, but you caught it, a crack in the armour he hid behind.

“So you read it,” he replied, already shifting back into motion.

“Hard not to. Maria practically quoted it word for word at me in the hallway.”

His mouth flattened. “It was accurate.”

You scoffed and came at him again, this time with more force, a blow aimed at his jaw. He blocked with ease, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting just enough to tip your balance. You staggered, caught yourself, then stepped back with a glare.

“‘Most adaptive mentee in the current program,’” you quoted, circling him again.

A jab. He blocked it.

“‘Performs under pressure.’”

You followed up with a low kick aimed at his calf. He side-stepped like you were moving in slow motion.

“‘Good instincts in the field.’”

Another punch, this one he met palm to palm, stopping your momentum cold. You grit your teeth and shoved him off.

“‘Promising.’” You swept your foot in a feint and then struck at his ribs. He pivoted out of reach, breath barely changed. “‘Capable.’”

He lunged this time, arm out, trying to lock your elbow, but you twisted under it, ducking away, the mat skimming under your feet.

“‘Excellent recall.’” 

You squared off again, eyes locked on his.

“Why the hell,” you asked, low and angry, “are you always such an asshole to my face when you’re singing my praises behind my back?”

He didn’t answer right away, moving like a shadow around you, eyes locked on yours. 

“As much as it pains me,” he finally spoke, tone flat, “you are my best mentee. Even if I dislike you personally, I felt your report should reflect that.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. That was… probably the most praise you’d ever got from him—buried beneath the usual bullshit, sure, but praise nonetheless. On a good day, you might get a grunted ‘good’ if you were lucky. Most of the time, training with Bucky was just an endless list of everything you were doing wrong, punctuated by a jab to the ribs for emphasis.

“Do you always make your compliments sound like insults?”

“It wasn’t a compliment. Just the truth.”

You threw a kick toward his side, fast and impulsive. He caught your ankle and held it, grip firm around your calf for a second too long. His vibranium fingers were cold, even through the fabric of your leggings. You could’ve sworn they tightened around the muscle just a fraction as your eyes swept up to give him a look of disbelief. But instead of pulling away, you leaned into the moment and used the hold for balance. You pivoted hard on your grounded foot, letting the captured leg swing inward. Then you launched yourself forward, hooking your other leg around his waist, aiming to bring him down with you.

For a half-second, it worked. His balance shifted. Your hips were flush against him, legs locked tight around his torso as you twisted your weight, trying to drag him off his feet.

With a grunt, he straightened, twisted, and you suddenly found yourself airborne.

You hit the mat hard, slamming against it with a thud that knocked the breath out of you. The ceiling lights above blurred for a second as the impact rattled through your spine. His shadow hovered for a beat, chest rising with exertion, jaw clenched.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you, maybe it was the oncoming concussion you probably just suffered, but you could’ve sworn there was a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Next time, I won’t let it slide if you don’t turn up because you’re hungover.” He wiped a forearm across his brow.

“How do you know my heart wasn’t broken?” You asked, shaking off the blow as you rose to your feet once more, feet finding their usual stance.

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Don’t you have sympathy for me?” you asked, somewhere between a joke and a challenge.

“I wouldn’t call it sympathy,” he said coolly. “More like pity.”

That stung more than you cared to admit. You rolled your shoulders, stepping in again. Your guard was up, but there was a crack in it now, frustration flaring under your skin.

“I can’t imagine you were actually that sad about it.” Bucky bit out, not even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “Don’t you have a new fling every other week? Sure sounded like you were lining up another one in the hallway.”

“Oh wow,” you drawled, voice harsh. “Slut shaming? This isn’t the 1940s, Barnes.”

“It’s not my fault who you choose to date.”

You exhaled, long and low. The tension between you had teeth now, gnawing at the air. “Y’know, for someone who hates me, you sure pay a lot of attention.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, poker-faced.

You waited, ready to shoulder any insult he laid on you. You could see irritation simmering under his skin, jaw ticking, knuckles white.

“I think you should take a lap or two around the room.” He huffed finally. “Your blocks are late, your punches are soft, and your stance is a joke. Try warming up before you embarrass both of us.”

You grinned back at him, though it was closer to baring your teeth than a show of amusement. “But I’m still your best mentee, huh?”

“Let’s make it five laps then.”

You gave him a lazy salute and turned for the edge of the mat.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

As you jogged the first lap, footsteps echoing lightly in the private room, you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement and watching you like a hawk, like a fuse lit, waiting.

And damn it, you ran a little faster because of it.

—

If you’d known how this mission was going to turn out, you would’ve called in sick. Faked a family emergency. Broken your own damn leg. Anything to avoid being stuck alone with Bucky Barnes in a freezing H.Y.D.R.A. bunker from hell. You’d even considered whispering a desperate prayer to whatever all-seeing god might be listening—or hell, maybe begging Stephen Strange to yank you into an alternate universe where this wasn’t your reality.

Gunfire rattled somewhere outside the cement walls, and you imagined your fellow agents in the middle of all the fun, chucking grenades, dodging bullets, living the dream. Meanwhile, you were practically glued at the hip with Sergeant Sunshine, babysitting an ancient Soviet-era computer that looked like it still ran on dial-up.

You were perched on the edge of a desk, legs swinging, having shoved aside a mountain of dusty files scribbled in Russian. All completely useless to you.

“What is it with H.Y.D.R.A. and brutalist architecture?” you muttered, eyeing the thick ceiling. “Why does concrete get them so hard?”

“I can’t concentrate with all your whining.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s literally the first thing I’ve said in ten minutes, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even throw you one of his signature grunts. Just kept clicking away like the keyboard had wronged him personally, eyes narrowed at the screen as if trying to decode the goddamn Rosetta Stone.

You groaned and rolled your head back, staring up at the ceiling.

More concrete.

You weren’t usually this unbearable on missions, but this? This whole situation felt like a personal attack. You’d been mid-flirt with Theo on the quinjet (who had been very committed to making bedroom eyes at you) when they’d called out team assignments. The second you heard your name paired with Barnes, tasked with data extraction while everyone else got to blow things up, you’d spun around to glare at him.

He’d been sitting there in his usual cold, statue-like stillness beside Steve, as if this wasn’t a death sentence. You’d stormed over, demanded if he knew anything. He just shrugged and muttered something about ‘higher-ups’.

The walls shook suddenly—another explosion—and dust drifted from the ceiling. You blinked it out of your lashes and slid lazily off the desk, sauntering over to where Bucky hunched at the terminal.

“Can you hurry it up? At this rate, they’re going to bury us alive in here.”

“Give me a second,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

You leaned in slightly, eyeing the screen. A wall of Cyrillic met you, completely unreadable. You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that left your lips.

“Remind me again why we’re the ones doing this? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send someone who actually speaks Russian to help you? Or, I don’t know, someone who has the patience to teach you how to use a flash drive?”

He didn’t answer, just kept typing and clicking, as if the keys owed him money.

You crossed your arms, scowling. The only thing more miserable than being stuck in a concrete crypt was being stuck in one with him. When he was distracted, like now, he forgot to wear that usual look of thinly veiled disappointment. His brow furrowed in focus, lips twitching as he muttered to himself in low, clipped Russian. He looked—God help you—human. Not like the cold-hearted pain-in-your-ass who’d spent the last six months tearing you down. But like someone thoughtful. Careful. Quietly brilliant.

And stupidly, stupidly attractive.

You hated how your eyes lingered on the way his rolled-up sleeves hugged his forearms. The way the shadows danced over his cheekbones and the little groove between his brows. The way that little furrow deepened when something didn’t go his way, like he was trying to wrestle the entire world into submission with sheer concentration alone.

It would’ve been easier if he were just awful. Easier if you didn’t catch glimpses of something else beneath the gruffness. Something that made your chest tighten a little when you weren’t focusing. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to the screen. What was wrong with you?

The download bar finally appeared on the screen, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. You exhaled loudly, half in relief, half in impatience. 

“About time,” you muttered.

He shot you a look, cold and flat. “You wanna do it?”

You turned your back on him, pacing the room. Your nerves were coiled tight, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The base was a pressure cooker and the damn download bar still hovered at 34%.

While you were busy taking your own turn brooding, the heavy metal door at the far end of the room slammed open with a deafening clang, nearly launching you out of your skin. Three armed H.Y.D.R.A. agents stormed in, rifles raised, eyes locked on target.

So much for the diversion. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough—or worse, H.Y.D.R.A. had seen through it. They must’ve realised it wasn’t a full-blown William-the-Conqueror-style invasion, just a cleverly dressed-up distraction.

“Company,” Bucky muttered, pulling his sidearm in one smooth motion.

You were already moving, instincts kicking in before your brain could catch up. You dove low, sliding across the slick concrete floor as a hail of bullets tore through the room. You grabbed the nearest overturned chair, dragging it into place just in time as metal pinged and sparked against it.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. A single, precise shot rang out, dropping the first H.Y.D.R.A. agent without a flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You surged forward, catching the second agent by surprise, your knee slamming into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He doubled over, right into the crack of your gun butt across his temple. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

Then you saw the third.

Rifle up.

Aimed right at you.

“Get down!”

The shout was raw, sharp enough to slice through the chaos. You barely had time to turn your head before a body crashed into yours. His arm slammed into your torso, hurling you sideways just as the trigger was pulled.

The shot cracked like thunder.

Your back hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor. Pain flared along your shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the sound that followed, the harsh, guttural grunt that tore out of Bucky’s throat.

You twisted around.

He was down, gasping, clutching at his side and blood already soaking through the black fabric of his suit.

You scrambled back to him just as the final agent aimed again. Snarling, you fired three quick shots into the bastard’s chest before he collapsed in a heap.

The air went still for only a moment, then the ground trembled violently before you had a chance to assess the damage done to Bucky. Chunks of the ceiling cracked and began to rain down. Concrete groaned like a beast waking from a long sleep.

You turned to the computer, some unreadable symbols flashing across the screen, but you were quick enough to decipher that it meant the download was complete. Snatching the flash drive, you spun back to Bucky, who was trying to sit up, blood spilling between his fingers as he pressed them hard against the wound in his side.

“Get up,” you barked, crouching beside him. “We need to move, Barnes!”

—

The two of you had spent nearly two damn hours stumbling through the snow-blanketed mountainside, following the rough coordinates burned into your mind from the mission briefing. By the time the cabin finally came into view—half-buried in the snow, smoke long gone from the chimney—you were soaked to the bone and one more smart comment away from throttling him.

The escape had been messy, the H.Y.D.R.A base nearly becoming your tomb. You’d been forced to bolt through a collapsing back corridor, dragging the injured super soldier along with the last of your adrenaline. Between the debris, the gunfire, and the growing dark stain across his side, you weren’t sure how either of you had made it out. Worse still, you’d missed the quinjet extraction window by twenty minutes. The skies had turned black with storm clouds, wind howling across the range as ice and snow stung your cheeks. The base had finally picked up your call for aid on the mission-assigned satellite phone, but due to zero visibility and increased H.Y.D.R.A activity in the area, the replacement quinjet wouldn’t arrive until first light.

Which meant you were stuck together. In the cold. For the whole night.

The safehouse, at least, was still intact. A small timber cabin tucked between trees, barely standing but just enough. It had a lounge no bigger than a broom closet, a wood-burning stove long dead and cold, a bathroom you prayed had running water, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looked like it had seen better decades.

Your breath misted in the air as you slammed the door behind you, the wind nearly ripping the handle from your grip. Bucky collapsed onto the torn couch by the stove without a word, letting out a low groan that he probably thought you didn’t hear.

You should’ve made starting the fire your first priority. But one look at the blood soaking through Bucky’s side made that choice for you.

Now, kneeling between his legs with the remnants of the first-aid kit splayed out on the coffee table, whoever had been here last hadn’t restocked it properly. You glared up at Bucky as he shifted under your touch again. “Stop squirming.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you hissed, dabbing antiseptic across the wound with a gauze pad. “You keep flinching.”

“Because you’re digging in like you’re trying to punish me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” you muttered.

He scoffed, muscles twitching beneath your hands as you pressed down. “Are you always this demanding?”

“Are you always this whiny?”

His glare was instant, eyes narrowed. “Is it your goal to piss everyone off?”

“I’m a fucking delight, and you know that.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “I think you’re mistaken. I definitely don’t like you.”

You lifted your brows, trying to keep your voice light despite the roiling mix of emotions spilling out. “You say that like you didn’t just take a bullet for me.”

You hadn’t even had the time to process it when it happened. The crash of his body slamming into yours, the sound of the gunshot, and the sickening thud of him hitting the ground. But now, with him sitting across from you, shirt dark with blood and a fresh gash still weeping crimson, the weight of it began to settle in.

He took a bullet for you.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Part of you expected him to twist it somehow, to throw it back in your face as some kind of lesson that you were careless. That you’d left an opening. That he had to clean up your mess. You were already bracing for it, the sting of snide remarks spread over weeks like salt in a wound, little digs during training about how you ‘owe him one’ or how ‘distractions get people killed’.

And yet... he hadn’t said any of that.

Instead, he just shrugged, wincing slightly. “I heal faster because of the serum,” he muttered, voice gruff but quieter than usual. “I’ll be back on the field faster than you ever could.”

You stared at him.

At the stubborn line of his jaw, the tight press of his lips as he tried not to show how much pain he was in. The way his hand gripped his side was too tight. The blood beneath his fingernails.

Why had he done that?

You weren’t always the easiest to get along with. You’d spent months pushing each other’s buttons, arguing, fighting, constantly locked in a cold war of insults and bruises. So why? Why would he throw himself into a bullet’s path for you?

It was hard not to feel... something. Flattered, maybe. A little shocked. And, against your better judgment, grateful. You didn’t want to be grateful—not to him, of all people—but your stomach wrenched every time you replayed the moment in your head.

You didn’t ask him to do it. And yet, he did.

And now he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t made a split-second decision to put your life before his own. What if that bullet had hit a little higher? His heart? His throat? His skull?

“Sure,” you drawled, trying to cover for your sudden silence. “Great excuse.”

“It’s the truth.” He muttered. 

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing.

Which, somehow, said everything.

You stared at him for a moment longer, shaking your head as you tossed the bloodied gauze into the small bin beside the couch. The cold was starting to settle into your bones, your fingers stiff with it.

“Whatever. I’m going to try to find some firewood before we freeze to death.”

He glanced toward the boarded-up window, ice clinging to the edges. “You sure there’s any left out there?”

“Nope.” You pulled on your jacket. “But I’d rather get eaten by a bear than stay in here with you.”

You were halfway to the door before you paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“Can you get to that bed yourself, or do you need me to do that for you, too, super soldier?”

His answer came quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

You couldn’t deny the nausea in your stomach. Not from worry. Definitely not that. Just frustration. That’s all it was.

The wind nearly ripped the door from your hands as you stepped outside. Snow came in sideways, biting at your skin the second you crossed the threshold. You tugged your jacket tighter and trudged into the blizzard, squinting against the blur of white.

The woodshed was exactly where the briefing had said it’d be, about ten feet from the side of the cabin, half-hidden by trees. Or at least, had been. What you found instead was a crooked mess of collapsed timber and broken beams. Snow had settled deep into the heap, and every piece of wood you managed to drag free was soaked, the logs heavy with ice and rot.

You swore, breath clouding in the air.

You searched anyway, fingers numb, arms shaking. You tried the back of the cabin. Nothing. Even the branches scattered beneath the trees were too damp. No kindling, no dry bark, not even a damn pinecone. The cold was sinking deeper now, crawling down your spine and settling like an anchor in your chest. You didn’t want to push further into the wilderness, not in this weather and not with H.Y.D.R.A. agents crawling all over the mountainside. 

By the time you stumbled back inside and forced the door closed again, you could hardly feel your fingers or toes. Every limb ached like they were five seconds away from turning purple and black from frostbite. The cabin felt just as cold as the outside, but it was a momentary relief to be out of the wind that cut through your thick layers.

Bucky was on the bed, half-sitting up against the wall, the blanket pulled low across his hips. His eyes flicked up as you entered, taking in your dripping hair and shaking hands.

"Let me guess," he muttered. "No luck?"

You didn’t answer right away, just peeled your jacket off and dropped it near the door with a wet splat. “Everything’s soaked. The shed’s collapsed.”

He exhaled through his nose, chest deflating with the effort. “You’re freezing.”

You ignored him, stomping the snow off your boots. “I’ll live.”

“Not if you keep acting like a damn idiot.”

You turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, which one of us got shot again?”

You crouched down, your knees protesting as you bent to untie your boots, but your fingers were too stiff, trembling from the cold. The laces had frozen slightly, the knots tight and uncooperative. You hissed through your teeth, fumbling and cursing under your breath as you tugged uselessly at them.

Bucky watched from the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t move to help, but you could feel his eyes on you. He tilted his head slightly and gave you a look that was half-concerned, half-exasperated, like you did this to yourself.

With a final frustrated yank, you freed your boot and kicked it off, followed quickly by the other. A damp string of muttered profanities trailed from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. 

“Which one of us,” Bucky spoke pointedly, breath fogging in the air between you, “went outside to play in a blizzard and came back looking like a drowned rat?”

You were shivering now, teeth on the verge of chattering, but you still squared your shoulders and stared him down, as defiant as ever. A bead of melted snow trailed down your temple. He stared right back.

“Get over here,” he said finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to warm up.” His tone was flat, too practical. “And the bed’s the only warm place in this shithole.”

“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just lifted the edge of the blanket.

You hesitated, eyeing the small mattress like it might bite you. "You’re the worst."

"And you’re still standing in wet clothes. Take them off and get in."

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Not all of them,” he said, eyes rolling. “Just the top layer before you die of hypothermia. Stop being dramatic.”

With a theatrical sigh for good measure, you peeled off your wet sweater, leaving the thermal shirt beneath and then your pants. You did not check to see if he was watching you shivering in your underwear, cheeks flushed. You padded toward the bed like it was a walk to your own execution, hesitating again at the edge.

You tried—really tried—not to let your eyes linger on the broad plane of his chest, but it was impossible not to. His shirt was rumpled and half-untucked, the hem tugged up where he’d peeled it back to expose the bandage on his side. The white gauze was already marred with deep red, blooming in uneven patches that made you pause with something halfway between guilt and concern. Your gaze drifted to the sharp curve of his waist, the ridge of muscle visible beneath the bloodied wrappings. 

It was distracting. 

He was distracting.

But what you tried hardest not to think about was the bed. Specifically, how absurdly small the mattress looked with him sitting on it, shoulders nearly brushing both edges. There was no way you’d both fit. You’d be pressed against him. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to thigh. 

You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it.

But you were already thinking about it.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bucky muttered.

“I’m not making it weird.”

He let out a low, tired huff, the kind that told you he was in pain but too stubborn to say it. You rolled your eyes in reply, more at yourself than him, and climbed in carefully, slipping beneath the blanket with a reluctant shiver. The bed was warmer than expected. Or rather, he was. Bucky radiated heat like a furnace, the kind that seeped into your skin and made your limbs relax before your mind could catch up. You hovered near the edge of the mattress, body stiff, spine straight like it might help you keep your distance. But it was a hopeless attempt. The bed was tiny—criminally small, really—and with him taking up so much space, there was nowhere to go but closer. One wrong move and you’d be on the floor.

“God, you’re warm,” you muttered into the pillow, trying not to sound too affected.

“Serum,” he replied shortly, his voice rough with exhaustion.

Slowly, inch by inch, you gave in. The chill in the air made it too easy to justify. You shifted toward him, the blanket tugging between you as your arm brushed against his. Then your hip. Then your thigh. Until, somehow, your bodies were nearly flush. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word.

And that somehow made it worse.

The silence settled between you, heavy and warm and intimate, like the air itself had thickened. You could hear his breathing, steady, but a little too deliberate. You could see his chest rise and fall from the corner of your eye. And worse, you could feel him. Every inch of him. The solid line of muscle at your side. The way your knees had somehow locked together under the blanket. How your forearm grazed his with every breath you took.

You needed a distraction. Desperately.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you snatched up the battered satellite phone, almost too quickly. The cold metal was jarring against your palm. For a moment, you considered activating the self-destruct protocol and blowing both of you up to end your shared misery. You flicked it on, the screen’s pale light casting long shadows across the room and across him.

Your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.

He was already staring at the ceiling, the faint furrow between his brows still present even in rest. His profile was defined in the low light, long lashes, strong nose, and the stubble on his jaw catching just a hint of light.

You forced yourself to look back at the tiny screen to check for any new updates.

Nothing. You were well and truly in for the night.

You scrolled to the mission briefing instead, flicking through the files to pass time, anything to distract you.

And then you saw it.

There, buried under the pre-mission notes, weather expectations, and extraction protocol, was a small addendum in the personnel request section.

Operation HARVEST: Agent Barnes, James B.Requested field partner: Agent 00149. Request approved.

You stared at it, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all night. 

That was your agent number.

He asked for you.

The same man who had spent the last six months grunting his way through every interaction, who seemed perpetually annoyed by your existence, who had made a point never to give you more than an ounce of credit, had explicitly asked to be paired with you.

You felt your throat tighten.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, as if he could sense your world shattering around you. His voice was low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion 

You didn’t answer right away. You sat there, still curled under the heavy covers. The warmth of his body was helping, yes—but your blood was starting to simmer for a very different reason.

You turned slowly, holding the satellite phone up between your fingers.

“You want to tell me why it says on the briefing notes that you requested me as your partner for this mission?”

Bucky blinked once. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“I asked you on the quinjet if you knew anything,” you went on, voice harsh now. “You told me it was a higher-up’s decision. You lied to my face.”

Bucky sighed through his nose, already bracing himself as he sat up straighter against the headboard. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t matter?” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your knees to face him, ignoring the goosebumps that rose as the blankets fell from your shoulders. “You picked me. You had me assigned to a mission with you, just the two of us, didn’t tell me, and then lied about it.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You did lie.”

He dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, but there was tension in the movement, an edge of frustration barely restrained. “I didn’t want you partnered with the other guys, alright?”

You faltered, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“No, you can’t just say that and not explain—”

“Fine!” He groaned, exasperated. His eyes dropped away from yours, fixing instead on a knot in the cabin’s dark wood wall. “I heard them talking. Theo and a few of the other agents.”

“What?” you asked, voice tight. “What were they saying about me?”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and awful.

“Just say it,” you bit out.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And it hit you square in the chest, something dark and protective burning behind his eyes. But it was reluctant, too, as if he hated that he was about to say it out loud.

His voice was low and rough when it came. “That you’re easy. That it’d be simple to get you into bed because you’re always asking for it. That you’re a slut. I gave them a piece of my mind and reported them, but I still don’t want you around them.”

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

Your breath caught, the sting behind your eyes immediate and hot. You blinked once. Twice. The words echoed, raw and ugly, and for a second, all you could do was try not to let them settle too deep. Not to let them stick.

You weren’t naïve. You knew you didn’t sleep around any more than anyone else your age. You knew that if the situation were flipped, if you were a man, no one would bat an eye. And still, the weight of it settled heavy in your gut, all twisted up with something darker. Dread. Shame. Fury. And under it all… that sick, crawling feeling that maybe Bucky had said something. Given them reason to think they could say it. That maybe he thought the same thing deep down.

That, maybe, to him, you were just some mess he had to clean up.

The words came fast, your voice shaking. “And what, you thought you’d ride in and defend me like some white knight? You know I could easily drop Theo, I could easily drop any of those assholes!” Bucky blinked, caught off guard, but you were already going, bitter heat rising in your throat like bile.

“You thought that would make it better?” you snapped. “You think that helps? They’re probably all laughing behind my back about how I can’t defend myself—”

“I wasn’t going to stand there and let them talk about you like that!”

“Why?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t want to hear it? Or because you’ve thought the same fucking thing?”

His eyes flared with disbelief, maybe even insult.

“I would never think of you that way,” he barked, and his voice cracked like thunder. “Let alone say it out loud. Because I’m not an asshole. Not like those guys you date.”

You laughed, blunt and hollow. “Why do you care who I date?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t come up with any words, but to your surprise, he exploded before you. “Maybe because you deserve better!” he shouted, the words ripping out of him before he could take them back.

The silence after that was suffocating.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, a strange cocktail of feelings in your stomach that you didn’t care to identify. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.

“Jesus,” you muttered. You weren’t foolish enough to believe him, to fall victim to whatever joke he was trying to play. “Give me a break.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled this time. 

You turned your face away. “Oh yeah? Like you could do any better? Don’t be ridiculous.”

His breath hitched, like you’d slapped him. You could feel him shift beside you under the covers.

“You really think that?” Bucky asked in disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Bucky didn’t let it stay quiet.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and rough, as if the words had been caged for too long in his throat. “Fine.”

You turned back toward him, uncertain what expression you were even wearing anymore.

“I’ve liked you since the first damn time I saw you,” he said. “Group training. You were paired with some agent twice your size, and you still knocked him on his ass.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I thought you were… brilliant. And sharp. And confident. And yeah, beautiful too. You had this way of looking right through people—through me—and it scared the shit out of me. When they assigned me to mentor you, I panicked,” he said, with a dry, bitter laugh. “I thought if I pretended, if I was distant, if I acted cold, I could make it go away. Trick myself out of it.”

“But it just got worse,” he went on. “Every time I saw you smiling at some sleaze who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, every time I had to watch you flirt with some smug asshole agents, I wanted to break something. Because it should’ve been me.”

You shook your head slowly, stunned. “Bucky…”

“I hated watching you get your heart broken over and over again,” he said. “Hated seeing you walk into training after pretending like nothing happened. You didn’t deserve that. Not when I knew I could treat you better if I just had the fucking guts to say something.”

Your ribs felt suddenly too small for your body, bones pressing into your lungs.

“And now we’re stuck on a mountainside,” he said, his voice softer, hoarser, “and I’m here bleeding in a bed with you, still lying to you, still trying to act like it doesn’t kill me every time you look at me like I’m just your mentor who you hate.”

You gaped in stunned silence, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bucky watched you expectantly.

No. No, that couldn’t be what he meant. Not really.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke you’re playing on me,” you finally said, voice shaking, fingers knotted in the sheets. “I don’t get it. You’ve spent this whole time being…”

“I’m being serious,” he said, eyes locked on you. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ve fucked this up too many times. But I swear on my life, I’m not playing a game.”

You stared at him, blinking hard. “So what, this entire time you’ve been an asshole because you were what, pretending? Pretending that you didn’t like me, pretending that you weren’t jealous, when you could’ve just talked to me?”

His silence was immediate. Heavy. It told you everything you needed to know.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your mind was spinning, flipping through every memory like a film reel: his cold shoulder, his clipped instructions, the scowls when you joked with someone else, the way he always hovered a few steps too close in combat zones. The way he always caught you when you fell. There had been moments. Tiny fractures in his mask. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The time he bandaged your hand without a word, but so gently it had made your throat tighten. The night you caught him staring at you across the gym like he was in pain.

How had you missed it?

“I need to…” You whispered, slumping back under the sheets, pulling the blanket higher around yourself as if it might guard you from the ache in your ribs. “We should sleep. It’s late. Evac’s coming once the sun is up.”

He didn’t protest. He just nodded once, jaw tight.

Neither of you said another word.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

—

You hadn’t seen much of Bucky since you were both airlifted off the mountain.

He’d been recovering from his wound, officially. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding you. No texts. No nods in the hallway. No eye contact across the cafeteria. Just cold silence.

Coward.

You’d spent the past week half-waiting for him to come to his senses. The other half had been consumed wondering what the hell you’d do if he did. Because yes, you found him infuriating. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and moody and had the charm of a brick wall. But he was also gorgeous in that tortured-soul, sharp-jawed, arms-too-big-for-his-shirts kind of way. He cared about you, in his own twisted Bucky way. He’d taken a bullet for you. Defended you. Chose you.

And now he was just… gone.

You were leaning against the wall at the edge of the main gym, arms crossed, purposefully not looking at Theo and the other assholes you had suspected Bucky had been right about, when you heard footsteps and someone cleared their throat beside you.

Yelena stood beside you, her smirk suspiciously wider than usual.

You turned, brows knitting in apprehension. “Hey.”

“Congratulations,” 

“For what?” You replied hesitantly, watching as her brows lifted in delighted surprise. 

“You haven’t heard?” Her voice was alarmingly gleeful, like she was especially thrilled to be the bearer of whatever news she was about to lay upon you. “Barnes finally accepted your mentor transfer request.”

Your heart flatlined for a second. 

“What?”

Yelena, oblivious to your distress, continued to dig further. “I don’t know what you did to him up on that mountain, but… damn. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“I didn’t ask for a mentor transfer,” you muttered, dread settling in your chest.

Yelena’s expression faltered. “Oh. Well, you have one now. You’re with Thor. They tried to pawn you off onto me, but you know, got my hands busy with the new group coming in—”

“Thor?!” You snapped, interrupting her spiel, “He’s a drunk! And he’s not even here half the time, too busy in Asgard—”

Yelena gave you a helpless shrug, and that’s when the doors to the gym opened and in walked the ghost of your week-long frustration.

Bucky was in full training gear, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was ruffled, pushed back half-heartedly like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, a few strands falling into his eyes. The corded muscles of his arms were on full display, the glint of his vibranium arm catching the light with every step. He looked unfairly good, carved from grief and sleepless nights. But it was the way he wouldn’t look at you that struck harder than anything else. His jaw was tight, lips set in a permanent pout, that brooding scowl etched so deep it felt deliberate. He looked everywhere but at you, like you weren’t even there. 

Your blood boiled.

Without a word, you peeled yourself from the wall and marched toward him. He spotted you mid-stride, his posture tensing like he was preparing for impact.

“Hey—” he started.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, voice low and venom-laced.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the other agents filtering in behind you. A few of them had already glanced over curiously, settling in for whatever show was about to unfold.

“Too late,” you hissed. “You requested a mentor transfer for me without even telling me?”

“I thought it was what you wanted.” You both knew he was lying, and he refused to meet your eye. This wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about him feeling embarrassed after his outburst on the mountain. 

“Oh, really?” You stepped closer. “Because I don’t remember asking you to make my career decisions for me.”

“I was doing you a favour.”

“Yeah? Maybe try talking to me like a normal fucking person, and then I’ll tell you what I want.”

His eyes flickered up, stormy blues locking onto your face. “And what is it you want?”

You stared him down, tilting your head slightly, weighing the war going on inside you.

You.

I want you.

The thought was immediate, impulsive, and so painfully real it made your chest ache. But you shoved it down, crushed it before it could breathe. No. That was stupid. Why the hell would you want him—this man-child who’d ghosted you for a week, who’d spent the last six months acting like every word out of your mouth was a personal offence, who seemed to find joy in making you feel like nothing?

But then again… maybe you both had been trying so hard to deny the truth, burying something under six months of thinly veiled insults and sparring matches that got too rough. Maybe he was pushing you away because he didn’t trust himself to keep it professional. And maybe you were just as bad, biting back, rising to the bait, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered or the way his voice softened when you were actually hurt.

You had to know if it was real.

The shuffle of movement and muffled chatter around you signalled the start of group training, slicing through your heated stand-off. Agents around you began to pair off, leaving you and Bucky still locked in place, face to face, breath mingling.

You lifted your chin. “Be my sparring partner?” you asked, voice loud enough for the others to hear, but eyes fixed solely on him.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, tight-lipped, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

You squared off on the mat, bouncing on your toes, adrenaline already coiling in your veins. Bucky moved like a soldier, controlled, fluid, annoyingly graceful.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he muttered as you circled.

“I’m not,” you said, “Just testing a theory.”

He raised a brow. “What theory?”

You lunged, caught his arm, and twisted into a low grapple—just enough to draw him in.

His chest brushed yours. His breath hitched.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Your lips crashed against his mid-motion, stealing the next move right off his tongue. You felt him freeze, just for a heartbeat, before his hands twitched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you in. You felt the tension roll off him in waves. The way his body reacted was instinct. Shock. Hunger. 

His movements hesitated, and to your delight, despite the entire gym watching, he began to kiss you back. 

And that hesitation?

It was all you needed.

You shifted fast, breaking the kiss, then ducking low, hooking your leg behind his knee as you spun. In one fluid motion, you swept his legs out from under him and used the twist of your momentum to pull him down with you. He stumbled, off-balance, and you moved like lightning, hips snapping around his waist, thighs locking tight. You rotated with the drop, forcing him onto his back as you rolled with the momentum.

He hit the mat hard.

You were straddling him, thighs clamped around his ribs, palms flat on his chest. You smirked down at him, panting. 

Bucky stared up at you, winded, stunned, and very, very pinned. “That was dirty.”

You leaned down, your face just inches from his again. “So was your little mentor stunt. Call it even.”

Throughout the room, the entire gym was dead silent, staring. You gracefully dismounted him and marched off the mat, but Bucky scrambled up and followed you.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” you snapped as he caught up beside you.

“You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like that!”

“Why not?”

“You kissed me to mess with me.”

“I kissed you to see if you meant what you said on the mountain.”

The two of you burst through the gym doors and into the hallway. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Bucky’s heavy footsteps were right behind you, his presence unmistakable, all coiled frustration and breathless anger.

A few agents stood frozen near the water station, others lingering by the mission board, all of them caught mid-conversation as they turned to witness the fallout. You were aware of the eyes on you, the awkward silence that followed, but you didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them gossip.

You stormed past them without pause as Bucky chased you like a dog on a leash that was just about to snap.

“You just kissed me in the middle of sparring,” he shouted after you, voice ragged and accusing. “In front of everyone. Is this a joke to you?” 

You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The elevator was too slow, too exposed. Instead, you veered to the stairwell and shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall. The clanging echo followed you as you started up, two steps at a time.

“Oh my god, would you just shut up already?” you snapped over your shoulder, breath catching as your hand slid along the metal railing, spiralling up the concrete stairwell. 

Behind you, Bucky cursed under his breath. “It was unfair.”

He reached for you and just missed your wrist. You yanked it away before he could try again, your skin buzzing with the ghost of contact.

“Isn’t that what you taught me to do? Use anything to my advantage?” you bit out, pushing through the next door as you reached your floor. The hall here was quieter and dimmer. You passed rows of familiar doors. Your apartment was at the end of the corridor, and every step toward it made your pulse throb louder in your ears. “What, you have a problem with me using my assets against you?

“Assets, huh? You know, you really are unbelievable—”

You let out an exasperated groan, cutting him back. “You kissed me back.”

That stopped him.

His boots scraped the floor as he slowed a few paces behind you, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.

“What?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your key in the door. The metal clicked, and you pushed it open with a little more care this time.

“You kissed me back,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself this time and stepped inside. 

Bucky barged in after you.

“You don’t understand—I’m… I’m trying to protect you!” His voice followed you into the room, desperate. 

You kicked off your shoes without looking at him. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Would you just listen for once—” he snapped, shutting the door behind him. 

You rolled your eyes and started pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto your bed and turned to face him, arms crossed. “I am listening, you’re the one not listening to me.”

Bucky stood just inside the door, like he hadn’t decided whether to walk out or burn the whole damn building down. 

“I shouldn’t have told you that on the mountain, it was unprofessional of me.” His voice cracked as his words poured out faster than it seemed he could stop them, emotion thick in every syllable. “I requested the mentor switch because I don’t trust myself to keep pretending. I can’t control myself around you!”

You padded barefoot across the room to the small bathroom.

“How am I supposed to go on training you?” He muttered, gesturing vaguely in your direction. He was repeating himself now, rambling like a crazed man completely oblivious to your actions. “You pull that stunt in the middle of training, humiliate both of us in front of the others, and then act like it meant nothing? Jesus, I can’t even think straight when you—”

You peeled your leggings off and let it fall to the floor behind you.

“—and don’t even get me started on that assets comment! What the hell does that even mean? You can’t just go around weaponising your—”

You unclasped your bra and bent to turn on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam already curling up the mirror.

“—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You just, what? Decided to tackle and kiss me like it was some kind of training tactic?! That’s not even…Are you using my confession against me? God, you’re impossible, I swear—”

He looked up.

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath.

There you were, back turned, steam catching on the bare curve of your spine and trailing over the lines of your thighs, standing in nothing but your underwear.

His words died in his throat like a car slamming into a wall.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes locked. 

You glanced at him over your shoulder, saw the exact moment it hit him and raised a brow, feigning casual curiosity as you stepped toward the open shower door, letting the foggy heat billow around your legs.

“You joining me?” you asked sweetly. “Sure sounds like you need to cool off.”

He said nothing.

Just stared.

Like you’d just knocked the wind out of him for the second time that day. Just that haunted, hungry look in his eyes like he was trying to figure out if he’d died and gone to hell. Or heaven.

His mouth opened, like he had something to say, some half-assed rebuttal, some snarky comeback.

But no words came out.

Only a low, helpless breath.

“I wasn’t using it against you.” You clarified as you dragged your underwear down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room. “I was seeing if you meant what you said.”

You stepped nto the shower, leaving him stood stunned in the bathroom doorway. A soft sigh slipped from your lips as warm water poured down your shoulders and back, washing away the dull ache in your muscles. For a moment, you simply stood there, facing the stream, eyes closed, the patter of droplets against your scalp soothing like white noise in a storm.

Then came the soft rattle of the shower door behind you. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was him.

The subtle swish of movement was followed by the cool press of metal against your waist, his vibranium arm snaking around you, cool against the heat of the water and your flushed skin. Goosebumps prickled instantly across your stomach, nipples peaking at the contrast.

You turned slowly, steam swirling around you in thick waves as you met Bucky’s eyes. His wet hair was slicked against his neck, droplets clinging to the dark strands and sliding down his jawline. Beads of water traced the line of his throat and the rise of his Adam’s apple, disappearing over the muscle of his chest. His hands found your hips, warm and solid, the grip almost possessive.

You tried not to look down, tried not to let your eyes drift to the answer to a question you’d been too proud to ask. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you stepped into him, letting your palms slide up the hard planes of his chest, past his dogtags and looped around the back of his neck.

“I think this is going to do the opposite of cooling me down,” he muttered, voice husky, half-lost beneath the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, and then you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

Your mouths crashed together like you’d both been holding back for too long. Hungry. Desperate. Sloppy. The water only made it messier, lips sliding, catching, breath hissing as teeth grazed. He kissed like he needed to claim this moment before the world snapped back into place. You returned the kiss with equal urgency, fingers threading into his wet hair, tugging, needing more.

His hands slid down your back, firm, sure, guiding you until your spine pressed against the slick wall of the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip, instinctive, needy, and he growled softly into your mouth as his hand dropped to support your thigh, holding you steady. You ground your hips into him, once, twice. His grip tightened, and the next thing you knew, he was lifting you, hands firm on your ass as he carried you effortlessly from the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, fog curling along the edges of the mirror and dripping from the ceiling. Water trailed down both of you, soaking the tiles as he strode across the room.

Your back met the edge of the counter with a soft thud, followed by the chill of the fogged-up mirror behind you. The coolness shocked your skin and made your spine arch sharply, drawing a low noise from your throat. Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He was still kissing you, still swallowing your gasp as his hands ran down your thighs and urged them further apart.

He stepped in, slotting himself between your legs, his body flush against yours. The sensation of him made your head spin. Water from the still-running shower continued to hiss in the background, steam billowing out and filling the room like a cocoon. You were both soaked, skin slick and glistening, lips swollen, breaths short. Your fingers found the back of his neck again, anchoring yourself as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was savouring every second.

His hands slid down your hips and tugged you forward until your thighs bracketed his waist. You felt his cock, solid and insistent, pulsing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your breath caught.

“I think I’ve dreamt of this moment.” He confessed between kisses, before consuming you again.

It took little resistance for him to push into you in one smooth motion. You weren’t just drenched from the shower. Your whole body sang from the shock of it, a strangled sound tearing from your throat as your fingers fisted in his wet hair. His mouth tore from yours with a ragged gasp, trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving fire in his wake. Bucky braced a hand behind you on the counter, the other gripping your thigh, steadying you as his hips began to move precise and relentless.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” he muttered into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. His lips brushed against your pulse, the edge of his teeth grazing the skin like he was half a second from losing control. “How many nights I told myself I couldn’t touch you... shouldn’t want you, couldn’t have you.”

You let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as his hips snapped forward again. 

“Keep going,” you rasped, one hand clawing up the curve of his back, the other buried in his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His only reply was a low, broken groan against your skin, like he was coming apart just from the feel of you wrapped around him. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked your hips forward, drawing him deeper. A spark of pleasure flared up your spine, making your head fall back against the fogged-up mirror..

“I tried so fucking hard to keep my distance.” He chuckled low against your collarbone, though the sound was strained, caught between shallow pants and a raw groan of need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His vibranium hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with gentle strokes, and your body jolted in response. An uncontrollable whimper left you as your thighs trembled around him.

“I’ve been dying to hear those sounds from you.” Bucky panted against your ear. 

You pressed closer to him, shaking legs tightening around his waist as you pursued his fingers. He chuckled at your poorly hidden desperation, chest vibrating from the sound. As his fingers swirled, cock pumping in and out, you felt your body clench involuntarily around him, drawing a moan from him. 

“Fuck, Bucky, ” you breathed, barely able to form the word as your pleasure surged, unrelenting and dizzying. “If I’d known this was what you were holding back, I would’ve pushed harder.”

Bucky’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming uneven and desperate, chasing the high he could feel coiling tighter in both of you. Your raw moans echoed around the small bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower and the frantic beat of the slap of wet skin. Your climax broke over you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, legs trembling as you whimpered, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure tore through you like lightning, leaving your nerves sparking in its wake.

With a guttural groan muffled against your neck, Bucky followed you over the edge. You felt him twitch inside you, warmth spreading as he spilt into you, his hips stuttering erratically as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His arms tightened around you, as though he needed to hold you close to keep himself grounded.

For a long, breathless moment, you stayed like that. Tangled together, trembling, the heat of the afterglow. The water still rained behind you, forgotten, as you both came down slowly, limbs heavy and slick with sweat and steam. Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head to look at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands, water trailing down the lines of his cheekbones and along his jaw. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched yours with a mix of dazed satisfaction and something else. A flicker of awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

You gave him a slow, wicked smirk and reached up to brush a dripping lock of hair off his brow, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I need you to pull that transfer request, by the way,” you murmured, voice low and rough with breath. “There is no way in hell I’m training with Thor.”

His lips twitched, a hoarse laugh escaping him, short and surprised. But the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I’ll pull it…” he said, voice thick with promise as his hands slid back down to your waist, “…when I’m done with you.”

From the way his fingers gripped your hips, you had a feeling that wouldn’t be anytime soon. 

---

hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to be notified when i post please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications!

[yelenasbraid]

Do you have any fav Joe writers you can recommend? I love your writing style and have read all your works. I want someone you think is similar preferably short works like one shots or blurbs I can read when I’m bored or stressed. Thanks 💕

oh do i have some

tbf these writers have written some long fics BUT they also have blurbs so feel free to indulge :)

@starsinthesky5

specifically YAIL blurbs or just YAIL in general because that series slaps

@v6quewrlds

she’s got a super cute dr!wifey series that has tiny blurbs and fics

@honeyncherry

not a series (that i know of???) but ‘all good things’ is a good little fic that’ll rip your heart out :))) (PART TWO WHEN LEXI)

@joeyfranchise

has some of the CUTEST little blurbs ever of both justin and joe :))

@joeyb1989

movie night??? SO STUPID CUTE OML I CANNOT.

i literally adore all of these writers so stinkin much like they’re so so talented. PLEASE go and check them out. their talent and their kindness is to die for :))

i’m probably missing some because i read so much (let me live) but honestly all of the writers in this community are amazing. these lovelies are just my routinely read!

[babyangelsky]

Hi Leah!!!!! I think your man is trying to set up shop in the penthouse of my brain because I saw this shot of Boat and was blown away by how pretty he looks. Also whoever feathered his hair here deserves the coolest pillow available.

Eboniiiiiiiii he’s so pretty it makes me feel fucking deranged like—I’m about to forgive Sorn for every batshit insane thing he does just because he has Boat’s face.

He looked really good in My Secret Love too (and I lowkey wanted Earth Teerapat’s character to pick him instead of the other guy) but I don’t remember feeling THIS insane about him when I watched that so what is it about him in THIS show that’s got me climbing the walls?!?!?

Is it really just the hair? It’s gotta be the hair. The long hair looks soooooo good on him and it looks soft and perfect. The styling team deserves a raise!

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Before & After (M, flu)

You guys ready for a big, contagion-filled behemoth of a fic? Well, get ready because that's what this is lmao. Everyone gets to be sick for this one! It's written in kind of the same style as Then & Now, where we're flashing back to moments in time pre-Elliot's (the 'befores' are all 'before they all worked at Elliot's' and the 'afters' are the main story, they all happen in the same week), but this time all the guys get a fun lil flashback lol. This was a really fun write, I don't love every single part of it but I do really love some moments. Found family, my beloved.

CW: Male snz, CONTAGION (like... like a lot), flu (nothing scary happens though, they're just all extra-sick. maybe less flu, more cold-plus lmao), coughing, fevers. Also maybe a little TW for family problems, neglect, etc. Nothing crazy, but everyone gets a little familial gut punch.

Okay, enough chitchat. 6K words (oops) under the cut! I hope you like it if you decide to read it! It's crazy long, so I understand if no one wants to work their way through this one lmao, but if you do I'd love to hear any feedback, good, bad, or otherwise :)

Before & After

After

This year, like all the years before it, Greyson was the one who brought the flu into the restaurant.

“Oh, Christ,” Elijah moaned the moment the chef walked into the office. “C’mon man, it’s March. I figured we’d finally broken the curse.”

Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed past his boss, and slammed himself into the second rolling chair. “I’mb fine,” he said, his voice breaking on the second syllable. “Also, Mbarch is still winter, in mby defense. Hh-! Huhh… hnnn.” The chef rubbed under his nose, an attempt to coax the sneeze out that – “Hhh! Hh – guhhh, fuck mbe” – did not work.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, a dig that prompted a watery glare from Greyson. “March is not still winter.”

Annoyed, Greyson pulled out his phone and typed ‘when does winter end’ into google. When he got the answer he was hoping for, he pushed the phone to the other side of the desk – March 20 shone bold on the screen. Elijah pushed the phone with a pen back towards Greyson. “I’m not interested in touching your infected phone, thanks.”

“Just wanted to prove I was riiii – hh… hh -? Huh – hhhh. Snf.” Once again, Greyson raised an arm to catch a sneeze that staunchly refused to come. He glanced over at Elijah with watering, irritated eyes; the other man’s face was a mix between pity and disgust. “What?” he snapped.

Both of Elijah’s hands shot up; poking the bear was obviously not the right call today. “Nothing,” he said. “That just sounds fairly miserable. Can’t wait for all of us to be in the same boat. Definitely one of my favorite traditions you’ve bestowed on us.”

Greyson sighed, which prompted a flurry of barking, painful coughs. It was only eleven in the morning, but he felt as defeated as though he’d already worked a brutal shift. “It’s too busy for mbe to leave,” he said once he’d regained control of his spasming lungs. “It’s restaurant week, for God’s sake. Any other Tuesday, I’d just go home,” Greyson glanced up at his boss and shrugged, apologetic. “Sorry, Lij.”

Elijah pulled a weary hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Since this literally happens every single fucking year. But god, Grey, you certainly could’ve picked a better week.”

“Do you thingk I want to feel like shi – hh! Huh – HRRTSHHZCH-ue! Fucking finally,” Greyson nearly moaned in relief. He grabbed the tissue box that Elijah had placed on his side of the desk and tore into it. “In mby defense,” he said once he’d thrown the used tissues away, “at least this year I haven’t brought ndearly as much shit into the restaurant. I feel like mbaybe you should congratulate mbe on that. Hh...hhITSZCHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said, rolling his chair more towards the door to try and avoid the worst of the backsplash. “Yeah, Grey, you’re absolutely right, I should absolutely thank you for not bringing a thousand illnesses a month into the restaurant. What a normal and hinged thing to think.”

This prompted a stuffy laugh from the chef. “Whatever,” he said. “Ndot mby fault that Reed picked up sombe airport flu. What do you expect mbe to do, sequester mbyself fromb him? It’s a thousand-square-foot apartment, Lij. Sequestering isn’t exactly its selling point.”

“Mmm,” Elijah murmured, clicking his computer off. “Are you okay to work, honestly?” He placed a rough hand onto Greyson’s forehead, frowned at what he felt. “You’re hot.”

“Aww, see that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear fromb you,” Greyson placed a hand on his heart as he pushed his boss’s hand off his head. “I’ll mbake it through,” he said, standing to put a chef coat on. “Try ndot to get too close. HRRSZCH-ue! Hh -! HUHESTZHH-ue!”

Try not to get too close. As if any of them stood a chance in hell.

Before

When he moved there, everyone had told him Chicago is cold, as though that weren’t the most obvious fucking thing on the planet. He’d rolled his eyes; he knew cold. Hell, he’d grown up in Minnesota – if anyone knew cold it was him.

As the months went on, though, and the muggy summer turned to blustery autumn, which turned to the frigid, bone-chilling winds of winter, Greyson realized what everyone meant. Yeah, the weather was icy and the wind could cut through you to the bone – but he figured when people said Chicago is cold, they just meant the weather.

They did not.

“Chef, you’re twenty minutes late.” It was the first thing he heard when he trudged into work that morning; not a ‘good morning’, not a ‘how are you’, not even a ‘hey, you look like shit, is that why you’re twenty minutes late?’. With effort, Greyson pushed his hood off his head and blinked his superior into focus. The older chef was quite literally holding his watch up to Greyson’s face, as though he thought this may be the first he’d ever heard of the concept of time.

“Sorry, Chef,” Greyson managed, his voice a mangled knot of congestion. “The train was runnding behind. Hh-! HhhNGTSXCH-ue!” In an attempt to stifle the sneeze, Greyson managed to pop one of his ears open; the sudden clarity of sound made his head spin. Do not pass out, he chided himself silently, grabbing onto the wall for stability. The executive chef rolled his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking sick,” the older chef sneered. If he wasn’t already flushed from fever, Greyson’s face would have flamed in embarrassment. He shook his head.

“I’mb good, Chef,” he said, swallowing hard to keep from coughing. “Just… the wind mbakes mbe… sneeze. Sorry for being late.”

His boss sighed through his nose, annoyed. “I have three projects I need you to finish by the time service starts. Do not sneeze on my fucking food, Abbott, you hear me?” Greyson nodded. “Great. Now get to the prep kitchen, and don’t let me see or hear you until service. Don’t be late again.”

The executive chef turned on his heels and slammed the office door, leaving Greyson shivering in his heavy winter coat in the middle of the kitchen. Thoroughly chided and markedly ashamed, the sous chef slunk to the prep kitchen to begin his projects; each one took longer than the last, as his health rapidly deteriorated. By the time service had begun, Greyson’s lungs burned, his head throbbed, and he had no voice to speak of – instead of having family meal with the rest of the cooks, Greyson stepped outside into the freezing alleyway and lit a cigarette, a bad idea but this comforting ritual was all he had to keep going at this point. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. No new messages.

Instead of taking a puff of the cigarette, Greyson let out a single, choked sob; he hadn’t felt this shitty in years. What was the point of all this, of suffering for his career, of dealing with asshole, piece-of-shit chefs who didn’t give a fuck about anyone, of living in big, cold cities where everyone was just out for them-fucking-selves? He’d lived in Chicago for nearly a year and had exactly zero friends, had been on zero dates, and had exactly zero creative drive. Desperate for any connection, Greyson pulled up his messages and typed one out.

Greyson

4:37PM

hey, mom. how are you doing?

The wind howled around him while he waited for a response. The sun was already set, and darkness had settled over the alleyway; Greyson tried to remember the last time he saw the sun, without luck. Please respond, a tiny voice in his head begged. Please.

A minute passed, then two, then ten. Service was about to start; if he didn’t get inside to the middle station soon, his chef would come looking for him – and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Greyson pressed his lips together, coughed painfully into his coat, and stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette. One last time, he checked his phone: no new messages.

After

Per the usual, Matt was the first to succumb to Greyson’s illness.

“Already?” Elijah groaned. The two chefs were in the back kitchen, though to say they were prepping would have been a stretch. “It’s literally been one day, Greyson, how did you already manage to get Matt sick?”

The question went unanswered; Greyson was a bit preoccupied. “Hhh-! Huh...hnghh. Fugck,” he groaned, sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket. “God, that’s getti’g old. Hh-!”

“Hh’IGTSZH-ue!” Behind him, Matt pitched forward, suddenly, into both hands. “Ew, gross – HRRTSH-uhh! Hh...ITSZHH-ue!”

“Stop fuckigg stealing fromb mbe,” Greyson growled, turning towards his sous chef. “It’s rude.”

“I’mb rude?” Matt balked, snatching the box of tissues from the table that separated him from both his bosses. “You’re the one who mbade mbe like thi-ihh… HTSZHH-ue! RRSHH-ue!” This time, he managed to cover his mouth with a handful of tissues. “God, I can’t stop fuckigg sndeezing. HHITSCHH-ue!”

“Don’t rub it in,” Greyson muttered, pawing at his nose. Beside him, Elijah’s eyes were closed, his lips pressed into a hard line of annoyance. “Mbaybe we should start taking bets,” Greyson said, elbowing his boss playfully to keep the man from completely losing it. “Who goes downd first, who goes down last… mbight be a fun activity for the whole fam-”

On the last syllable of ‘family’, Greyson’s voice – which was mangled to begin with – fell off completely. Elijah swung to look at his counterpart, as Greyson’s hand flew to his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Greyson whispered.

“Did you just lose your voice?” Elijah’s voice verged on the edge of mania. “Tell me you didn’t just lose your fucking voice.”

“Umb,” Greyson wheezed, with effort. “I didn’t just lose mby voice.”

Elijah groaned. Greyson let out a small, painful cough. Across the prep table, Matt was stuck in his own personal hell.

“HRRSHH-uhh! Fu – NGTXSH-ue! Hh-! Hh’ITSZCH-ue!”

The two older men shared a concerned glance – normally, it would have been Greyson who asked, but since apparently speaking was no longer an option for him, Elijah regarded the younger chef. “Matt… are you -”

“HRRSHH-ue!”

“-okay?” Elijah finished, as Matt succumbed to a fit of ticklish coughs. He blew his nose, then tossed the tissues and nodded at his bosses.

“I’mb okay,” he said, near-panting post-fit. The heel of his hand found his eye, rubbed until both Elijah and Greyson winced on his behalf. “Christ, Chef, where do you pick this shit up,” Matt muttered, more to himself than anything. As if in response, Greyson doubled over, coughing into his sleeve until his eyes watered with the effort.

Elijah looked from one chef to the other, unsure of what to do or say; what Greyson said yesterday held true. It was restaurant week, one of their busiest weeks of the year, and no matter how much he wanted to send these two idiots home, it just wasn’t in the cards. He checked his watch – 2:55PM. Almost two hours until service.

“Okay, listen up you sick fucks,” Elijah regarded the two chefs. “It’s time to take a nap.”

At the word nap, both chefs visibly deflated. “Lij,” Greyson whispered, “mbuch as I love that idea, like ten out of ten, would a thousand percent love to participate… we just have so mbuch prep to do for restaurant week.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Like, we haven’t even gotten to half the mbenu. Hh-!”

“HHUHETSZCHH-ue!” This time, it was Greyson who doubled over to sneeze – a sound so harsh, Elijah was sure he wouldn’t even be able to whisper after it.

“Ndow who’s stealing,” Matt muttered, his sneeze obviously lost. They both glared at one another, then turned when Elijah began speaking again.

“Par the menu down,” he said. “It was choice of? Now it’s not. You two need to take some medicine and lay down, at least for an hour. I wish I could send you home, but I can’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair; obviously, this wasn’t a decision he wanted to make, but he had to do something. Otherwise there was just no way Greyson and Matt would make it through service.

“You’re sure, boss?” Matt asked, desperation painted on his face. If he could have made a sound, Elijah was sure Greyson would push back on this idea – as it stood, the executive chef just pressed his lips together, swallowed painfully. Elijah nodded, one curt, small nod.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Now, let’s get you two medicated.”

Before

Night was coming.

During the day, being sick with nowhere to go was not ideal, but ultimately it was fine. Matt would pick up extra hours at the diner – washing dishes, bussing tables, anything that didn’t involve having to speak – and stay there from open at four a.m. until they closed at six in the evening. It was hard to work while ill, yes, but it was easier than roaming the streets of New York with nothing to think about except how shitty he felt.

At night, though, the diner was closed. On normal days, Matt would crash at a friend or coworker’s house; he’d buy beer, or dinner, or weed and in return, he’d be granted a night on their couch, or their floor or – if he was lucky – a night pressed up against them in their bed. But those rare times when he was under the weather, he didn’t get invites to anyone’s home, no matter how close he thought they were. His weed and beer money never seemed to be enough to get any of his coworkers to bring an ailing Matt to their apartments, heat him up a can of soup, allow him a quiet night in a warm bed.

“NTSHZH-ue!” Matt sneezed painfully into his too-light jacket and shivered in the cold of the Manhattan evening. This was the third time he’d been sick since he was kicked out of his final foster home the day he turned eighteen, and each time went the same: he couldn’t manage to swing an evening at a friend’s house. The shelter turned him away – if we let you in, we get everyone sick, and then we’re taking care of a hundred sick homeless people. Sorry, it’s just policy. – and all his former foster parents let his calls go to voicemail. When it was finally too late to try anything else, Matt would find a bench in the park, put his backpack on his front with his jacket zipped up backwards over it to keep anyone from stealing it, and try to get some fitful rest until it was time to work again.

Eventually, just like every other time he’d been sick while living on the street, the cold and the elements would catch up with him. He’d end up with walking pneumonia, end up sleeping for at least one night in a bed in the ER. When the accounting department would ask where to send the medical bills after he’d been pumped full of antibiotics, he’d give them the address of one of his former foster families. Serves them fucking right, he’d think as he walked out of the emergency room.

Then, he would wait. He would go to work, get back to crashing on couches and sleeping with people he had no interest in just to get the sweet relief of one night in a bed, and he’d wait for the inevitable next illness to strike. Wait for the cold night to overtake him once again.

After

In the past, it had always been a toss-up as to whether Mark would fall victim to the yearly Greyson Flu. There were some years where he’d be the last to get it – usually a week or so after everyone else had recovered, which was exactly Mark’s style. Hold it together until everyone else is okay, he’d tell himself when he woke up with a sore throat and aching joints, and hold it together he would, until it was safe to take a day off. Then there were years where Mark was the only one to avoid the flu; his immune system tended to be better than the other manager’s, and he was the best at taking care of himself, though that wasn’t exactly a hard prize to win in this restaurant.

This year was different, though. This year, Mark and Matt were officially an item.

“NTSHH!” Mark wrenched to the side, attempting to hold back the sneeze that snuck up on him just as Elijah passed by the office. At the stifled sound, Elijah’s head turned on a swivel to see Mark, doubled over his elbow.

“No,” Elijah groaned, the look on his face so devastated that Mark felt his ears burn with shame. “Mark, please tell me you aren’t sick, too.”

Mark shook his head, attempted to keep from sniffling, and said, “I’mb ndot.” Wrong choice of words, he chided himself after hearing how congested his voice came out. Elijah looked like he might cry.

It was Day Three of the restaurant’s latest pestilence. Restaurant week hung over all of them like a wet blanket, soaking them to the bone, too heavy for anyone to remove. Each night had been busier than the last, and tonight – Friday night – was to be the busiest one of them all. Mark swallowed around a throat on fire. “I’mb sorry,” he whispered to his boss, sniffling. “Mbatt likes to snuggle whend he’s sick. Hh…hhETSCHH-uh!”

Taking pity, Elijah found one of the myriad tissue boxes placed strategically for the chefs on the line and brought it to Mark, who begrudgingly took one. “You’re supposed to be my rock, Mark,” Elijah said, his voice light and joking, but the words stinging the younger manager all the same. The GM sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Greyson!” Elijah called towards the prep kitchen while Mark blew his nose.

After a beat, they both heard a hoarse call-back. “What?” Greyson asked. Elijah rolled his eyes, annoyed.

“Come here!” he yelled.

They both heard an audible groan from the back kitchen – at least his voice is back enough to groan, Mark found himself thinking – and then Greyson was standing in the doorway of the office, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Does it look like I have nothigg going ond?” Greyson asked, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb ass-deep in yellowtail right ndo – ahh… ahKTXSHH-ue!” The chef attempted to stifle the sneeze into his elbow, then attempted to clear his throat – both attempts seemingly in vain.

“Bless,” Elijah said, automatically, before pointing directly at Mark’s face. “Look what you fuckin’ did. Asshole.”

Greyson’s eyes shifted towards the younger floor manager. Mark knew what he looked like; his eyes were red-rimmed, his mouth partially open in order to breathe, his nose scarlet and glistening. He had the flu, same as Greyson. They both looked like shit.

“Oops,” Greyson said, pressing a hand to Mark’s forehead and wincing. “To be fair to mbe,” Greyson said, turning towards Elijah, “this one’s mbore Mbatt’s fault than mbine.”

“Matt’s only sick because you are physically incapable of keeping germs to yourself. Now my fucking floor manager looks like he has a fucking wasting disease on the busiest night of the month.” Had they forgotten that Mark was still there? Or did they assume the fever had fried his brain past the point of understanding them?

“C’mon, Lij, he looks…” Greyson glanced back at Mark, made a little face. “He looks fine...ish.”

“No one would want him touching their table. I wouldn’t want him touching my table with a ten-foot pole.”

“That’s a little drambatic, don’t you thingk?”

“You kndow I’mb right here,” Mark broke into the conversation suddenly, prompting the other two to shoot their glances his way. “Right?”

With that, the wind was taken out of both Elijah and Greyson’s sails. “Sorry, Mark,” Elijah said, pulling a hand down his face. “You don’t look like you have a wasting disease.”

“Okay,” Mark said, brilliantly. “Thangk – GTSZCH-ue!” He sneezed into his lap, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. From above him, Mark heard Greyson snort out a laugh.

“Oh, fuck,” Greyson said, laughing and coughing at once. “Oh, jesus christ, we are so fucked.”

The laughter was as contagious as the illness Greyson brought in – Elijah was doubled over as well. “The fucking timing,” he guffawed. “The timing is just… it’s impeccable.”

Mark looked from one of his bosses to the other – Greyson doubled over coughing, Elijah crouched into a ball laughing – unsure of what to do. “Uh,” he said, “does all this mbean I can stay and work?”

If it was even possible, Elijah started laughing harder. “Fuck, Mark,” he sobbed with laughter, “you literally have to stay. We have no other choice but to put your half-dead ass on the floor.” Greyson grabbed his stomach, hysterical.

“Fuck, we have to stop I’mb gonna keel over,” he said, wiping under his eyes. “Oh, mby God.”

Behind them, Matt crept up from the prep kitchen. “What the fugck is goigg on up he – hh! HhITZSCHH-ue!”

This seemed to be the nail in the coffin; Greyson and Elijah fell to the floor in hysterics, with Matt and Mark groggily staring down at them. “Uh,” Matt said, wiping under his nose, “are they gonna be okay?”

Mark just blinked, bleary. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “NTSHZCH-ue!”

Before

The phone lit up for the third time that hour, buzzing angrily in an attempt to get Mark’s attention. On the top of the screen, the word that always sent a pit directly into his stomach: Dad.

With effort, Mark rolled over on the uncomfortable dorm-room bed and picked the phone up off the side table. For a moment, he considered tossing it across the room, watching it shatter into a million pieces, never having to speak to his father again – a freedom he couldn’t even imagine. He answered the phone.

“’Lo?” Mark croaked, biting his cheek to keep from dissolving into a fit of coughs. He hadn’t spoken in almost three days, not since he’d gone to the campus infirmary for a Z-pack in an attempt to rid himself of the illness one of his roommates had so kindly brought back to their dorm, and his voice sounded rougher than he thought it would.

“Mark, that you?” his father boomed on the other end. “It’s your dad, why the hell didn’t you pick up the first time?”

A vein in Mark’s head pulsed at the immediate accusation; he’d texted his father after the first call that he was sleeping, but apparently that wasn’t an acceptable excuse. “Sorry,” he said, yanking the phone away from his face to cough into an elbow. When he brought the phone back, his dad was already speaking again.

“-money for the goddamn cafeteria, I thought we talked about this.” The tail end of a sentence, but Mark instinctively knew what the first part had been. His mother and father got a bill for the campus cafeteria, despite the fact that Mark had promised to get a job to cover his own food expenses at university. Fuck.

“I’mb sorry,” Mark said again. “I’ve been lookigg for work, but it’s hard to find sombewhere that’ll accommodate a student’s schedule. Hh – HRRSXHH-ue!” This time, he didn’t have time to pull the phone away. On the other end of the line, his father grunted.

“You sick?” he asked after a beat; an accusal, not a concern. Mark swallowed hard.

“Ndo, sir,” he said.

“Good,” his father replied. “Figure the job thing out, Mark. I get another damn grocery bill from that school, and I’m done paying for any of those damn classes. Got it?”

Mark pressed his lips together. Do not cry on the phone, do NOT. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice small.

“Mom says hi,” his dad said, though Mark knew she hadn’t. “Talk soon.”

The line was cut before Mark had a chance to say goodbye – not that he wanted to. He let out a pathetically soupy cough, and put his head in his hands, defeated. What the fuck kind of parent says that shit, he allowed himself to think. The angry tears he’d held back during the call fell before he was able to sniff them back again. Fuck you, Dad.

For the next six weeks, until he finally found a part-time catering job, Mark would avoid the cafeteria completely; he’d scrounge from his friend’s leftovers, be the first at the dorm parties to shove cookies into his pockets, live on dollar gas station burritos so that he wouldn’t hear from his dad again. For now, he gave in to his baser desires: turning the phone over in his hand, Mark viciously hurled it across the room, cracking the screen into a million tiny webs.

After

By the time Sunday – the final day of restaurant week – rolled around, the restaurant could have been better classified as a biohazard unit.

“Last big night, guys,” Elijah said to the coughing, sniffling servers during the week’s final pre-shift. “Let’s just get through it and… and then we-ehh…” The servers all groaned as Elijah pitched into his elbow. “NGTZHH-ue!”

“Not you, too,” Riley, Elijah’s lead server, moaned. “Who’s going to help us on the floor now?”

Elijah flushed and cleared his throat. “Fuck off, all of you,” he said. “I’m fine. One sneeze does not the flu make. Let’s get back to the task at hand, hmm?”

They all knew, of course, that the denial was in vain. Elijah had felt the tendrils of a nasty fever work their way behind his eyes post-service the night before, and had only made it until four p.m. today without any accusations due to an arsenal of meds – meds that seemed, at this point, to be losing their ability to help him. His lungs felt heavy, his head and body ached, his nose was sore from sucking nose spray in every five fucking minutes. Despite the fact that they’d barely gone over any reservations, Elijah dismissed the servers to go eat family meal early; he needed to remedicate.

In the kitchen office, Matt and Mark were taking their Greyson-mandated nap on the pile of old tablecloths and coats; since his fever had broken, the executive chef seemed mostly-recovered and had taken charge of medicating and babysitting the younger managers. Elijah wasn’t about to complain; he had enough to deal with without doling out meds every five minutes. Perched in his office chair above the sleeping couple, Greyson was playing a loud-ass game on his phone with one hand and coughing into the other.

“Is there not anywhere else you can do that?” Elijah whispered, sitting quietly in his office chair. “Can you not see them trying to fucking sleep?”

“Oh, please,” Greyson said at full volume. “They’re out like fuckin’ lights. Watch.” He used the toe of one of his clogs to gently kick Matt’s shoulder. The sous chef let out a little cough in his sleep and rolled closer to Mark, not opening his eyes. “I snuck a little Nyquil in their teas,” Greyson admitted, laughing a little.

“Why would you do that?” Elijah asked, pressing his fingers into one of his eyes. “We still have service tonight, dipshit.”

“Oh, this was hours ago,” Greyson said, turning back to his phone game. “They’ll be good by five.” He shrugged. “Maybe. I was over listening to them coughing.”

“I’m over listening to you coughing, but you don’t see me drugging yehh – HNXTSH-ue! Huh - ! HRRSCHH-ue!” Elijah cleared his throat into the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing at the pain there. The soft sshhh of the box of tissues being slid across the desk prompted his eyes to shoot up from his elbow.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, pointedly. “Man, took you long enough to catch it. I feel like I should give you a prize or something.”

Elijah pulled a few tissues out and cleaned himself up. “I have ndot caught it,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “Until service is over tondight, I am well. I am healthy. I – HUHESTCHH-ue!” This time, he was unable to even partially stifle. Greyson made a noise of sympathy in the back of his throat, reached across the desk to put a hand on his boss’s arm.

“Yeah,” he said as Elijah blew his nose. “That’s not really how being sick works.”

Before

In his hand, Elijah held the key to the rest of his life.

He honestly couldn’t believe it was real; a key, a real, physical key to the restaurant he’d dreamed of since he was a child. Sliding it into the lock for the first time, Elijah could feel his life changing. The door creaked open and there it was: his restaurant, in all of its dusty, ripped-to-the-studs glory. Elijah pressed his lips together, on the verge of tears – nothing could ruin this moment for him. Nothi-

“NGTZSHH-ue! HRRSTSHH-ue! Fuck,” he wiped his nose with the back of his hand – ugh. Nothing could ruin this, he repeated to himself, not even this bitch of a cold he’d picked up at work three days prior; he’d been laid up in bed when he got the call from the commercial Realtor that actually, the keys would be ready for him today, if he wanted to pick them up. Never had he ever bolted out of bed so quickly.

Elijah walked carefully through what would one day be the dining room of Elliot’s, pressing his fingertips into the stone walls as though introducing himself to them. Hi, he whispered to the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the hundred-year-old stove that he was sure was a fire hazard. I’m home. Elijah had the sudden urge to call his parents.

It wasn’t an urge he had often; in fact, he’d only mentioned once in passing that he’d been trying to purchase a restaurant to them, and that was almost a year ago. But he needed to tell someone, needed someone to share in this excitement with him. He dialed his mom’s number.

“Hello, may I ask who’s calling?” his mother answered, formal as ever even though she knew exactly who had called. Elijah smiled into the phone.

“Mbom,” he said, his voice hoarse and congested. “It’s me – it’s Elijah.”

“Oh, Elijah, hi honey,” she said, distracted. “Is something wrong?”

“Ndo, mom, sombething is actually… ambazing,” Elijah said, still looking around his dark pre-restaurant. “Is dad there with you?”

“Mmm, yes, he’s watching golf, is this important honey? We were about to head out to the Club.” The Club. That was what Elijah’s parents called the only restaurant they’d ever cared about while he was growing up – the country club that was their pride and joy to be a part of. Elijah rolled his eyes.

“It’s really important,” he insisted. “Please – just put mbe on speakerphone. I have sombe huge ndews.”

The moment huge news came out of his mouth, Elijah knew he’d made a mistake. Immediately, his mother gasped and called to his father in delight – oh, no, Elijah thought.

“Honey! Greg, honey, it’s Elijah, he’s going back to school! He’s going back to medical school! Isn’t that right, sweetie? Huge news! Yes! Oh, we knew you’d go back. We knew this whole restaurant thing would blow over.” His mother’s voice tumbled out so quickly she was nearly breathless. Elijah felt his head spin.

“Mom, I-”

“Back to medical school, that’s great, son!” Elijah’s father bellowed from what was obviously the other side of the room. “My son, the doctor,” he mused.

Mouth dry, Elijah managed to speak over his parents, who were now discussing who at The Club they would tell first. “Mbom, Dad, please,” he managed, before dissolving into a coughing fit. His mother tutted.

“Oh, you sound terrible, sweetheart. All those nights up late studying, I’m sure!” The glee in his mother’s voice made Elijah sick to his stomach. He cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’mb ndot going back to medical school, mbom,” he managed. On the other end of the line – silence. Elijah was fairly sure he could hear a distant sob from his mom. Finally, Elijah’s father spoke back up.

“Why would you tell your mother that, then? Christ, Elijah, haven’t you put her through enough?” Greg, never quick to anger unless it involved his wife, audibly sat back down in his chair. He mumbled something Elijah couldn’t hear.

“I – I didn’t tell her that,” Elijah said, voice raising like a teenager’s. “She didn’t even let mbe finish what I was saying.”

“You said you had huge news!” his mother bawled. “What else was I supposed to think it was?”

Without thinking, Elijah pulled the phone away from his ear and once again looked around his restaurant. Fucking medical school. He’d dropped out almost ten years ago, and here they were, still holding out for him to be their perfect little doctor. Looking for a reason to brag about him at the club. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if his parents even told their friends they had a son.

Elijah glanced back at his phone, where his mother was still crying on the other end; silently, he pressed the end button and put the phone back in his pocket. Elijah closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath without coughing. Nothing will ruin this for me, he thought as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing.

After

Keeping the post-restaurant-week, thank-god-that’s-over manager meeting had been Greyson’s idea; Elijah had said they should cancel, but Greyson insisted they keep it on. Since he was the only one well enough to execute it, and since Elijah needed the distraction of being around other people to keep him from his flu-ridden agony, he’d agreed. He hadn’t known that Greyson intended to host a meal and a mock-funeral for the week they’d just had, but somehow, it was the perfect salve to the burn that was restaurant week.

“Dearly beloved,” Greyson said from behind the line, mimicking a microphone with his hands, “we’re gathered here today in his hellhole of a kitchen in remembrance of the Week From Hell.” He raised his paper cup filled with whiskey, and Elijah, Matt, and Mark copied the gestures with their cups of tea. “May it forever rest in agony, and may we never have to speak of it ever again.”

“Amben,” the three other men called from the couch they’d dragged in from the host stand. Elijah suddenly turned into his sweatshirt to cough, prompting a groan from Matt and Mark beside him.

“Every timbe you do that you yank the fuckigg blanket off me,” Mark grumbled, pulling the blanket they were sharing back over his lap. “I’mb fuckin’ cold, boss.”

“Oh, please forgive mbe,” Elijah croaked when he was finally able to compose himself. “I’mb so sorry that the illness you gave mbe caused mbe to cough and mbake you cold.” He pulled a tissue out of the box on Matt’s lap between them and wiped his nose. “I’ll self-flagellate in the street as soon as I’mb able to mbove again.”

This prompted a laugh, followed by a soupy cough, from Matt. “He got you there, babe,” he said, touching his boyfriend’s face.

“Alright, alright, enough bickering,” Greyson called from behind the line. “Soup’s almost ready, are you assholes eating on Elijah’s nice couch?”

Greyson bowled the soup up, pushed a serving into each other man’s hands, and took his seat at the end of the couch next to Elijah. Silently, they all dug in.

Mark and Matt glanced over to Elijah for confirmation – the GM just shrugged, exhausted.

“I certainly can’t get up,” he said. “So I guess the answer is yes.”

“Fuck, that’s good, Chef,” Matt moaned, sniffling into his soup. “I don’t thingk I’ve had a real mbeal all week.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his sous. “Uh, thanks – I mean, that’s fairly concerning, but thanks anyway,” he said, prompting a laugh from all of them.

Without warning, mid-laugh, Elijah’s breath hitched. “Hh-! HRTSCHHH-ue!” Before he could realize what he was doing, the GM had turned towards Greyson and sneezed, mostly uncovered, into the chef’s face. Belatedly, he covered his face with his hand while Matt and Mark howled in laughter behind him.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, wiping his face with his hand. “Asshole.”

Elijah smiled – the laughter from the two younger chefs was contagious – and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’d say sorry,” he said, “but to be fair, you’re the onde who got us into this mbess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes and smiling. “Whatever. Just eat your soup, dickhead.”

The four of them, squished on the tiny couch like sick little sardines, must have been quite the sight; spilling soup on the expensive couch, coughing into a shared blanket, laughing and shoving each other gently when someone sneezed too close to someone else. From the outside, Elijah was sure that they looked crazy – who the hell came into work the one day they were closed? – but from the vantage point of the couch, he couldn’t think of one single place he’d rather be. In this kitchen, on this couch – with these men. With his family.

[returnofeternity]

any headcanons for nat with a tmasc reader? :]

she likes to steal your clothes all the time (⁠^⁠^⁠) you barely have any clothes left in your dresser cause they're all shoved in hers or tucked somewhere in that pile of clothes on the bedroom floor. she chooses to wear your shirt when waking up the morning after, sometimes even your boxers. she wears your sweaters when it's cold. she uses your ripped up shirts when you help her bleach her hair again 😒

you're jealous of her voice ;-; or maybe that's just me...but she reassures you so much when you get voice dysphoria :( she gets sad when you go mute sometimes because of how bad it gets. she's kissing your cheek, rubbing your back, and knows just the right words to cheer you up. helps you voice train if you want to, or just helps you get more comfortable with your voice. always mentions how sexy she thinks it is. begs you to keep talking but if you're genuinely uncomfortable, she stops and apologizes... likes kissing your adams apple too :) if you don't have one, she likes kissing your throat and hearing/feeling you hum.

calls you a pussy for almost passing out at your monthly blood work appointments (if you hate them just as much as me) after you come out and tell her how nervous you were, but was right there in the waiting room, rubbing your arm and putting her hand on your bouncing leg to try and calm your nerves. never makes fun of you (at least not too much..) if you want her to go in with you because you feel calm and safe with her there.

nat giving you cool haircuts 😁 she has such good style that you trust her to give you a haircut. makes sure to tell you how handsome you are and kisses you until you believe it. you love when she has her hands in your hair/on your face guiding you where to look so she can cut, and she likes touching you in general ! :)

scrawny lil nat with buff or even chubby tmasc reader.... she's got some muscle, but barely. she loves the size diff tbh. loves how beefy you are and loves that tummy. she loves post-shot times where either she or you inject the T into your stomach and then loves to rest her head on your bellayyy. she loves how she can squeeze your thighs and arms and belly and cheeks and everything. also loves being carried.

singer!reader whose singing voice changes drastically on T and nat who fucking loves it. you were able to do high notes but now you can't really do them without your voice cracking... goddd she lives for your voice. starts geeking and giggling to herself when she catches you singing. requests her favorite songs always....... asks you to sing her to sleep or sing to calm her down when she's having bad days :(

nat who does ur makeup :) making your face more masculine with tutorials she found online, getting distracted by how handsome you are, and messing it up with her kisses... or if you like wearing makeup, she likes sitting in your lap and doing it. nat who always forgets to put blush on your cheeks because you're constantly red while she's holding your face so gently anyway 😭

nat who starts arguments with anyone who looks at your trans pins weirdly. if they look at you weirdly, let alone say anything, may god not have mercy on their soul... she will get into fights for you. she doesn't take that shit lightly at all. idkk. just thinking about talks with her about staying stealthy after she almost got arrested one day for assaulting someone (deserved) who was being weird to you. telling her you don't feel safe even when she confronts them and protects you :( asking if she could just leave it and focus on you. but also jokingly bumping her shoulder and saying, "i don't care what you do after, though. if they end up dead on the news, i don't know anything." and she smiles

nat buying you trans books/films. ESPECIALLY films. :D buying you gender affirming things all the time, her heart bursting at how happy you are when she gifts them to youuu

[dreamsy990]

drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever

the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy

[ayilings]

M@GICAL☆CURE! LOVE 💘 SHOT!

[gremlinshatephilosophers]

Okay. So. Can I admit something?

I’ve watched Dan and Phil for almost 10 years now, mostly casually (I was aware of them during the vlogger/brit crew era and I’ve been following them more in the last ~4 years or so on and off). I’ve watched nearly every video of theirs on both channels and the gaming channel at least once.

Anyway. Today I finished it. I finally watched the undertale series for the first time.

[macbethheadband]

(Touches ground) moffat was here

[galebecky97]

a tiny tav and wyll and an unfinished lae'zel for the people

[ryo-maybe]

[shiraru]

Got really into drawing my ocs as anime bugs

[sovamurka]

My absolute favourite running gag in Не родись красивой is Katya constantly bumping into Sasha, making either him or them both fall

[minterim]

damn! monster by naoki urasawa is good as fuck !!

[lilundeadarchangel]

Jesper Fahey with a skirt?????Hello????

my son

[lion-buddy]

I'M FUCKING SCREAMING THE SCREENSHOT REDRAWS?!?!? RAAAHFHGHFHGHHDG

THEY ARE JUST SO.

WUAGH TY,,,, i had so much fun doing them

its something id always wanted to do and it was so much fun hehe