Here's a snippet, for the consideration of the (proximal) masses. It's unedited (be nice to me).
“Hey, Max.” Charles wonders aloud, tilting his phone for Max to see. “What one do you like more?”
He flicks between two hoodies on the screen – a pale blue, and a black, both with Nahmias splashed gaudily across the front. Max squints at the screen. It probably doesn’t matter which he says; Charles will almost certainly get both.
“I like the blue one.”
Charles hums, letting his head flop back against the pillows, looking down at the screen of his phone propped on his bare chest. Max snorts quietly, amused. From this angle, he has about nineteen chins.
“Maybe, I will take both.”
Max bites back a smile, and turns his focus back to what he’d been doing before – what he’s been doing for the past forty minutes. He lifts one of Charles’ knees back over his shoulder, feeling his heel settle against the middle of his back. He lets his fingers trail up, wrapping over to stroke firmly over the crease of his hip. When Charles finishes shuffling -- still tapping absently at his phone – Max settles in to lick at him again. Not at his clitoris – Charles doesn’t like that – but around it.
The hoodies, Max knows, will be here in a few days, in one of two ways.
Either they’ll come to Max’s address, the box adorned with the fake name and contact details Charles has used to order them; or Doni Nahmias will figure out somehow that it’s him, in which case the clothes will be deposited at Charles’ doorstop, and the money back into his account. After that, Charles will wear them to Max’s apartment, take them off, and forget them on the couch, or in the kitchen, or in the bedroom, or on the terrace. Max will fold them, and put them in the drawer with the rest of his forgotten belongings, until Charles accuses him of stealing them, and takes them home again.
It'll have to happen soon, he muses, thumbing gently over warm, wet skin. The drawer is getting full.
Charles sighs heavily and lets his phone fall, hands collapsing against his chest, apparently content with his procurements. When Max glances up, he’s gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. His expression doesn’t change as Max’s fingers wander, except that his eyes fall closed. His foot slides up to plant itself on Max’s back, knee lifted a little higher – thigh close enough for Max’s head to lean against, hips tilted for better access.
Max, watching his face, folds his fingers – with two knuckles, he glides firmly over the dip between folds. Charles shudders a little, twitching. Some days he likes this; others it’s too much. Today’s a good day. Max can tell by the way his scent has been clear and fresh all morning. It has a certain crispness to it – one that can easily turn sharp with apprehension or sour with warning.
Max does it again, pressing more firmly with his knuckles – there’s no friction, the delicate skin already thoroughly soaked. Not with slick. Charles’ body rarely produces slick. It’s happened maybe once or twice in the entire time they’ve been doing this – months. Not even enough to make him wet; just barely enough for Max to catch a scent in the air, and a trace on his tongue. He’s not even sure what it was that did it – they haven’t been able to replicate it, to Charles’ great disappointment.
Max doesn’t mind.
Yes, maybe those slight traces tasted better than the champagne he drank on his first ever podium. Maybe it shone on his fingers like gold – gleaming brighter than the WDC trophy.
But in some ways it seems right, that he only got to have it for a moment. He works himself half to death just to hold that trophy for ten minutes each year – none of his replicas at home can quite compare.
He thinks he might’ve worked harder still, with Charles. He thinks they both have.
In any case, for Max, it’s probably the smaller moments in between that make it worthwhile. It’s each step closer to the perfect setup on a new race-weekend. It’s every purple sector, and podium. It’s the way the mechanics make space for him among them; the way Christian smiles up at him with pride on the top step; the way GP’s daughter lights up when she sees him.
With Charles, it’s the way his knees flop languidly open when Max nudges at them; the way his hands find Max’s skin without thinking; the way his scent stays warm and open through it all.
It’s like that now: soft and calm and inviting. It’d probably even stay that way if Max were to slide a finger or two inside him, to stroke at the velvety heat of him and massage at the tightness of the muscles there.
But Max won’t, because as he’s contemplating it, a timer goes off.
So instead, he slowly pulls away, going to the bathroom to wash his hands.
Then he goes back to the bed, and flops down next to Charles, casually tangling their legs as he digs his own phone out of his pocket.
“Alright, so.” He flicks open a spreadsheet. “What went well?”
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I get swept up in the idealism and the big emotions probably too easily, and so this Romantic scene from Shortland Street, the exception that proves the rule of my experience, has yet to be eclipse…
I get swept up in the idealism and the big emotions probably too easily, and so this Romantic scene from Shortland Street, the exception that proves the rule of my experience, has yet to be eclipsed as a single, discrete, quotable particle. But if I were to pick a favorite story... Well, the UnRomances would win out any day.
so i haven’t actually finished watching the witcher but i’ve read so much fic that i think i’ve heard all the spoilers by now and all i wanna do is write fic for these morons
-
Geralt has saved Jaskier’s life too many times to count so, really, it comes as a bit of a shock when their roles are reversed and Jaskier, in a rare show of actual fighting prowess, takes down the kikimore Geralt had wounded before it can kill the pair of them. As it turns out, kikimore guts are the most foul things south of Nilfgaard and Jaskier promptly throws up next to a tree.
“Why the living fuck do you subject yourself to this, Geralt?” He coughs out, peeling a string of what he thinks are entrails off his sleeve with disgust. “I could bathe for a week straight and never be rid of this stench.”
Geralt doesn’t respond but Jaskier is used to his moody silence and carries on anyway as he strips out of his ruined doublet with a mournful sigh. He really liked that doublet.
“Honestly, with the coin I can get in these parts singing your praises, you could take a year off. Maybe hunt a couple of wolves if you really need the thrill.”
“Jaskier,” says Geralt at last but he sounds...different.
Jaskier is used to hearing his name fall from Geralt’s lips with almost every tone in the witcher’s arsenal, usually somewhere between exasperated and disappointed. He’s never heard it like this.
When he turns back to face his witcher, he finds Geralt still on the ground, propped up on one elbow with his other arm braced against his ribs. For a moment, panic surges through him and he drops down next to Geralt, fully expecting to see blood blossoming at an alarming rate across his shirt. But there’s nothing. And Geralt is staring at him, golden eyes boring deep into his soul. Jaskier feels a little nauseous which, this time, has nothing to do with the kikimore.
“What?” He asks warily, running through the events of the past few minutes in his mind, trying to figure out what he could possibly have done to warrant such a reaction.
“You-” Geralt begins, breathing heavily, eyes wide. “You just- what the fuck, Jaskier?”
Jaskier frowns. “Most people would say thank you,” he huffs.
Geralt scowls. “You expect me to thank you for putting me in your debt?”
Briefly, Jaskier wonders if perhaps kikimore guts have hallucinogenic properties because he’s pretty sure he just heard Geralt suggest that he somehow owes Jaskier something when they’ve been in this exact same position hundreds of times before. Well, alright, usually Geralt was doing the saving but still.
“What?” Jaskier asks again, feeling every bit the idiot Geralt calls him sometimes.
“A life debt, Jaskier,” Geralt bites out, sitting up at last with fire in his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. What were you thinking?”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, trying not to feel hurt by Geralt’s apparent disgust. “Well, excuse me for not wanting you to die. Next time, I’ll just let the monster drag you to your swampy death, shall I?”
“I told you not to interfere!”
“I wasn’t going to let it kill you!” Jaskier bites back.
“You should have!”
There’s a ringing silence. Jaskier feels hollowed out as the anger drains from him.
“Geralt, I’d never,” he says quietly, inching closer, undeterred by Geralt’s seething gaze. “Not if I can do something about it.”
Geralt’s frown eases a little but doesn’t vanish. Jaskier fights down the urge to stroke the lines from his face. Given that they’re both still covered in the insides of a swamp monster, it turns out to be fleeting anyway.
“Claim it,” Geralt says then, voice soft as a summer shower.
Jaskier shakes his head. “No.”
“Please,” Geralt whispers.
It takes a moment for Jaskier to understand. It’s not that Geralt doesn’t want to be in his debt; Geralt is afraid to be indebted to anyone. Jaskier thinks he understands. There are plenty of people in the world who would revel in having a witcher in their debt and Geralt, no doubt, met thousands of them before Jaskier was even born. He tries not to be hurt by the idea that Geralt doesn’t trust him. One day. Just not yet.
“Alright then,” he says, trying for a more cheerful tone. He doesn’t like the macabre mood that’s settled over them and he will talk until Geralt’s spirits are lifted and that is a threat. ”If you insist. I suppose we have something of a tradition to upkeep, hm. The law of surprise: give me that which you already have but do not know.”
It’s then that Geralt ducks away from him and lets out a fierce sneeze down towards the grass. Jaskier stares.
The moment the door out of the Lonely snaps blessedly shut behind them, Jon presses himself up against Martin and kisses him. He's staking his claim while he has the chance.
Kissing Martin isn't actually any more pleasant than he vaguely recalls it being with Georgie, of course: lips and tongues are still uncomfortably squishy, Jon's beaky nose is predictably in the way, and the smell of human saliva is one of the most unpleasant Jon knows even after four years of grappling with eldritch abominations. But he can feel Martin's warmth against his chest as he leans up, and Jon takes the chance to pull himself up Martin's wide frame and bask in the unfamiliar sensation of being allowed to touch. He'd put up with worse for that, and Martin is here here here, and if he misses his opportunity he might drift away again.
Jon is not about to allow that to happen.
But--hold on, hold on, why is Martin pushing him away, has Jon misread this situation, has Martin changed his mind, what is--
Belatedly, Jon realizes that Martin is saying something and tries to quiet the pounding in his ears long enough to listen. It's just that--is that even English?
"Jon--Jon, slow down, hold on, Jon--Jon, I thought you were--" and then a word Jon doesn't quite catch. "Hm?" he enquires, and Martin repeats himself but Jon clearly hasn't heard him right. Eiz, maybe? Gay--no, that one makes no sense at all. Age? What is that?
It's very annoying to have to ask Martin to repeat himself again. Jon considers ignoring it and kissing him again, but the perplexed look on Martin's face suggests that he isn't likely to just shut up and let Jon make the point he wants to. "Sorry?"
Martin takes a deep breath, and Jon is mildly gratified to note that he looks out of breath and distracted. "Jon," he says slowly and loudly, "I thought you were ace."
Is that a compliment? Where would he have heard--What the hell is he saying?
Jon squints up at him. "I'm great, yes. Come back here."
Martin keeps his hands where they are, enforcing that horrible distance. It's the worst thing he's ever done. "I'm sorry--Jon, I thought you were asexual? Like. The orientation?" He sounds approximately as confused as Jon feels.
hello, I am weak and self-indulging myself this morning
A couple of notes on these because it’s physically impossible for me to not give commentary:
In the past few years I’ve stopped actively seeking out acefic quite as much--there are a bunch of reasons for that, but the easiest one to explain is that a lot of what I look for in fanfic is often not easily found in acefic. (I’ve read next to no ace f/f, for example, or even acefic with female characters.) The fics below mainly skew toward older fandoms for me.
I’ve joked that I have two major narratives I seek out in fiction: “everybody has an okay time” and “ALL ABOARD THE TRAUMA TRAIN.” Which narrative I’m looking for in fanfic depends mainly on the fandom (I’m uninterested in anything angsty for Yuri on Ice, for example), but the recommendations below mostly fall into the second category. Proceed with caution and do check the warning tags.
Finally, you’re gonna notice that almost all the fic below are about male aces, most of them are m/m, and in many of them the ace winds up having sex. I’ve already talked about these trends in acefic as a whole, so I’m not going to bother rehashing them here.
Anyway, without further ado, here’s the list:
Title: Untitled (1980-2014) by platinumfinale/saint-vagrant/Ciaran (you can read a shorter version without illustrations on AO3)
Fandom: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (covers parts 3-6 but references some stuff in parts 1-2 as well)
Other notes: This fic is so danged good, folks. I read it on AO3 then bought the full version (it’s more than worth the $5) and binged it in a single evening. It’s a pitch perfect character study of Jotaro, and deals with asexuality, aromanticism, trans issues, and trauma really, really well. I cannot recommend it highly enough. It made me cry. Multiple times. Dang. Please read it.
Title: “‘Til Break of Day” by bendingsignpost
Fandom: The Hobbit
Other notes: Hands down the best depiction of a mismatched ace/ace relationship I’ve ever read, and one of my favorite acefics of all time. Lovely characterization, beautiful writing, and on a topic that I don’t see many people tackling. (Here’s the author weighing in on it.) That bittersweet ending is just *kisses fingertips*
Title: World Ain’t Ready by idiopathicsmile
Fandom: Les Miserables
Other notes: This is 186k of fake dating high school AU and holy cow. Holy cow is this thing good. I’ve read it all the way through four or five times now. It’s delightful and funny but also just a really good depiction of being a mentally ill queer teenager. One of the main characters is demisexual and discusses it in some depth. Even if you have no interest in Les Mis or high school AUs (which, to be honest, I usually don’t like), this fic is still worth checking out.
Title: Cooperative Principle by bendingsignpost
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Other notes: This is a hard one to pitch. It starts like a PWP fic but, surprise, turns out to secretly be about PTSD and grey-asexuality. Do be aware of the warning tags, and proceed with caution, but, dang, it’s a good depiction of PTSD, and I love that unreliable narration.
Title: “I Fall Deep” by emeraldsandrubies
Fandom: Les Miserables
Other notes: Modern College AU. I like this one a lot for the concerns Enjolras carries into the relationship even though he’s not having an explicit conflict with his partner. A lot of people forget the power of assumed insufficiency, but this fic doesn’t. A+ depiction of ace anxieties. Also it’s cute!
Title: “love is for children and other lies” by Fahye
Fandom: The Avengers (MCU)
Other notes: I feel like everybody and their brother has read this one because it was being rec’d all over the place when it came out, but then I realized it came out 5 years ago so probably some of you don’t know about it. One of the few fics on this list with a female ace character. Extended character study of Natasha, which means it digs deep into her relationships and sexuality. I love character studies and this one is danged good.
Title: Behavioural Modification by bendingsignpost
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Other notes: Yes, this is like the third fic I’m recommending by this author; he’s really good. Do heed the warnings on this--it deals with emotional fallout from a previous abusive relationship, has an unreliable narrator, and delves into complicated sexual ethics. It also deals with the skewed and unhealthy assumptions aces can have in/about relationships...to the point that I thought about quoting this one while writing my last post, because it’s very thematically appropriate.
“But he doesn’t love you,” she finished.
“He might. In a way. He’d die for me, so at least there’s that.” He frowned. “Does it matter?”
“Does it matter if the man you’re in love with doesn’t love you back,” Molly said. Statement of disbelief.
“I mean, is it any different?” he asked.
Title: The Glitterbombs of Angry Queers by 148km
Fandom: Les Miserables
Other notes: Queer activism modern AU. Need I say more? Probably not, but I will anyway. This is really good not only for the depiction of asexuality and the negotiation of mixed relationships (that moment of blind panic over the possibility of sex in the third part is very relatable) but also generally for the group dynamics (especially in a queer activism-centered spaces). It’s a really fun read!
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i’ve been gone for ages soz but i had to pop by and give @softersteve some birthday love because i still read their blog religiously for all the soft steve content so here’s some shrinkyclinks of my own. it’s a bit light on snez but there’s plenty of whump! and i might have an idea for a part 2 but we’ll see
-
By the time spring break rolls around, Steve is practically dead on his feet. Midterms floored him and he’d spent so much time in the art building over the past two weeks that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s developed a conditioned rage response to the hideous 80s wallpaper in his favourite workroom. So, when it comes time to pack for their week-long trip home, Bucky is the one who does most of the hard work. The lucky bastards in engineering don’t have midterms in the spring semester and the bright-eyed innocence in Bucky’s eyes kinda makes Steve want to stab him in the hand with a fork.
“Got everything?” Bucky asks as Steve slips into the passenger seat, dosed up on Ambien and fully prepared to fall asleep as soon as they hit the interstate. It’s only a two hour drive, much shorter than what many students have to endure, but it’s still more than Steve’s stomach can handle, especially with all the stress he’s been under lately. Besides, his joints have been aching all day and the beginning of spring allergy season is making him congested so he’s happy for the option of a little time out. “All your meds?”
Steve rolls his eyes fondly, already feeling heavy-lidded. “Yes, ma.”
Bucky grins and, like the dickhead he is, plays up his role. “Are you sure you don’t need the bathroom before we leave?”
Steve slaps him and buckles himself in. “Jerk.”
“Punk,” Bucky shoots back and starts the engine. “I’m putting on my country playlist so you’re just gonna have to deal until the meds knock you out.”
Steve groans but it’s a playful groan. Despite his protests, Steve doesn’t actually hate the country songs Bucky adores. Well, not all of them. And he’s gonna be out cold in about twenty minutes so he figures it’s only fair to indulge Bucky’s garbage music taste.
“You’re the boss,” he says, firing off a mocking salute before tucking his school sweatshirt up between his neck and his shoulder and settling in for the ride.
He expects to be woken by Bucky telling him they’ve arrived so it’s with some surprise and confusion that Steve finds himself awake barely an hour later with an absolute cacophony of bells ringing in his head and a thin sheen of sweat all over his skin. He lets out a little groan and makes an aborted move to get Bucky’s attention before he remembers that he’s driving.
“B-Buck,” he croaks out without ever really deciding to speak.
Bucky hums gently and, when he looks over at Steve, he pales quite significantly. “Stevie? What’s wrong? You gonna be sick?”
As he’s speaking, Bucky is already turning the music off and reaching blindly behind him for a plastic bag which he thrusts into Steve’s lap as a makeshift sickbag. Steve coughs and then he can’t stop coughing. And then he thinks back to the midterms and the stress and the all-nighters and he feels a weight settle heavily on his shoulders. So, it wasn’t allergies. He’s not sure if the timing is excellent or awful since now he’s not going to be enjoying his time off but at least he won’t be missing class. Either way, this is already shaping up to be one hell of a spring cold.
“You’re running a fever,” Bucky worries as he briefly touches Steve’s forehead, glancing between Steve and the road.
“I know!” Steve snaps and feels immediately guilty. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Bucky returns and he doesn’t even sound fazed. Ambien-fuelled Steve isn’t exactly known for being a barrel of laughs. And right now, he feels like garbage. “We’re about 45 minutes out. You gonna be okay?”
Steve sighs and is about to make a half-hearted quip about not having much choice when he’s suddenly overtaken by a desperate need to sneeze.
“Heh’NGXshoo!” Steve is thrown forward with the unexpected force of it and stays there when he can feel another one building. “EhYISHHew! NXGH’huh!”
“Don’t stifle,” Bucky mumbles. Steve feels Bucky’s hand land on his back and rub along the bumps of his spine.
Without tissues, the best Steve can do is wipe his nose on the cuff of his hoodie and sniffle the rest back. It’s, fundamentally, super fucking gross. God, he’s so cold and he cannot stop shivering. The fact that his t-shirt is soaked with cold sweat certainly isn’t helping but he’s sure as hell not going to take it off. Because that would mean having to take his hoodie off and the thought makes him want to cry. Instead, he kicks off his shoes and brings his knees up to his chest, grateful, for once in his life, that he’s small enough to curl up in Bucky’s passenger seat.
“Services coming up,” Bucky says. Without opening his eyes, Steve knows exactly the worried expression Bucky is wearing by the tone of his voice. “I can pick up some tissues?”
Steve sniffles, feeling somewhat pitiful. Tissues would certainly be good. But they’ll get there faster if they don’t stop. It’s a dilemma but, in the end, when another violent shiver wracks through him, Bucky makes the decision for him.
“Alright. Tissues and a blanket,” he says, cranking up the heat and angling the blowers so they’re all pointed at Steve.
When they’re parked in the service station, Bucky reaches over to push Steve’s sweaty hair off his forehead. “You don’t do anything by halves, huh, Stevie?” He says gently, leaning in to kiss Steve’s forehead. “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid?”
“Can’t. You’re taking all the stupid,” Steve mumbles, forcing a weak smile. This seems so appease Bucky somewhat and he smiles back.
“Five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Steve feels awful, there’s no denying it. The joint pain he’d been feeling earlier has progressed from a dull ache to something a bit more aggressive, particularly in his hips, and the congestion in his sinuses has spread down into his upper chest. He feels the tightness pulling just below his collarbones and resigns himself to the fact that this is going to be a nightmare of a week.
True to his word, Bucky returns quickly and throws a fleece blanket over Steve’s shivering body. “Sorry, pal, all they had were Yankees blankets.”
Steve makes a face. “I better not have Gerrit Cole’s face on me right now,” he grumbles, cracking one eye open to look at Bucky.
Bucky laughs, ripping open a fresh box of tissues and settling it near the gear shift. “You gonna take it off if he’s on there?”
“Fuck off,” Steve grumbles, opting not to look and live in warm, comfortable denial.
His next breath catches deep in his chest and he curls in on himself with another rattling cough. Thankfully, he gets it under control before Bucky starts rummaging through the glove box for his inhaler. He’s actually gone one in his pocket thank you very much. Not that anybody ever bothers checking anymore. No, his reputation for leaving it at home - either out of forgetfulness or, for one memorable year in middle school, sheer stubbornness - has pretty much put an end to anybody bothering to check if he’s carrying one before they hand him another. He supposes he should be touched and, on a good day, he is. But today is not a good day. Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and Steve just wants to be asleep.
“Not long now, Stevie,” Bucky says soothingly. Steve wants to be annoyed because he’s not a child but he can’t find it in himself because, damnit, Bucky’s voice is actually soothing when he talks like that.
Fuck, he’s so in love.
~
By the time they’re pulling up outside Sarah Rogers’s house, Steve feels truly miserable. He’d started feeling nauseous about ten minutes ago and had opened the window for some air which only brought back his earlier shivers with a vengeance. And, to top it all off, he saw the Yankees logo on the damn blanket. Today sucked.
“Come on, babydoll,” Bucky says as he helps Steve out of the car.
Somewhat reluctantly, Steve abandons the traitorous blanket in the car but snags the box of tissues and lets Bucky sling his arm around his shoulders as they head up to the door. As usual, Bucky rings the doorbell to let Sarah know they’re there and then heads inside. Steve shivers involuntarily at the warmth of the house and catches a few, itchy sneezes into a fresh handful of tissues.
His nose hasn’t stopped running since it started nearly an hour ago and all he wants is a change of clothes and a nap.
“My boys!” Sarah exclaims as she comes out of the living room to greet them, expression softening when she sees the state of her son.
That expression is just too much for Steve who detaches himself from Bucky and wraps his mother up in a hug. He can’t smell anything through his stuffy nose but he can imagine the homely way she always smells and has to blink back tears. God, he’s a mess. He blames the Ambien more than anything. Everybody knows they fuck with you if you don’t sleep long enough.
“Aw, honey,” Sarah mutters into Steve’s hair, running a hand up and down his back. “You shouldn’t have come all this way if you weren’t feeling well. I’ll still be here in the summer.”
“Didn’t feel bad until we left,” Steve admits, somehow completely forgetting how much worse that makes his cold sound.
Sarah frowns and holds him at arms length, looking him up and down. “That came on fast. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay, Ma,” Steve starts but Bucky interrupts before he can offer any platitudes.
“Like hell you are,” Bucky grumbles, slipping his arm around Steve’s waist. “Bed. Let’s go.”
Steve huffs, his indignation giving him the strength to stand his ground. “I’m fine.”
Bucky yawns. “Who said it was for you? I drove all the way here. I need a nap.”
“Well, you can go without me,” Steve says, unsure why exactly he’s continuing this argument. He wants to go to bed. But he’s not going because he’s told to, even if it is Bucky and Ma.
Bucky pouts. “But I sleep better with you there.”
That bastard. Steve knows what he’s doing. He’s used this tactic time and again and the worst part is that it always works. It’s working now. Steve knows he’s going to agree even before his Ma presses a kiss to his cheek and says, “Take the guest bed, boys. You’ll have more space.”
So Steve lets Bucky drag him upstairs, lets Bucky dig out a sleep shirt for him while he gets undressed, lets Bucky pull him tight against his side and tuck a hot water bottle against his back. He gives in. He cuddles up close and drifts off tracing the curve of Bucky’s hip bone with his fingers.
Bucky’s so beautiful. Steve doesn’t know how he got so lucky.
“Marry me,” he whispers as he finally drops off the edge of the cliff into sleep.
Why are there so many songs about spring? It sucks. At least, this is Bucky’s considered opinion on the matter given that every year he’s rendered a sniffling, sneezing mess. Steve, despite being allergic to practically every other known allergen on the planet and having the immune system of a squashed grape back in the 30s, somehow always managed to make it through spring without incident. And of course now he’s a 210 pound picture of perfect health. Bucky kind of hates him for that.
“Heh’YISHiew! uh... huh- Fuck,” Bucky curses, pushing a handful of tissues up against his nose and rubbing unforgivingly at the ferocious itch. Everything, and he means everything, itches. His eyes, his nose, his ears - even the roof of his mouth is tantalisingly tickly and he’s just so damn tired. He sinks further down into the couch cushions and quietly wishes for death.
“Here you go, Buck,” Steve says, returning from the kitchen and placing a damp cloth over Bucky’s eyes. The noise Bucky lets out at that is positively obscene. “How you feeling?”
Bucky huffs. “No better than when you asked me five minutes ago,” he grumbles, wrinkling his nose in the hopes of encouraging the tickle to either fuck off or become something.
Steve’s hand drops into Bucky’s hair and he scritches at Bucky’s scalp in a way that feels sinfully good. It’s testament to how far Bucky’s come in his recovery that he’s letting Steve touch him without warning when he’s practically blind. Well, it’d be more impressive it it was anyone else trying it. Steve has always been special.
“I just wanna know what happens to fucking Aziraphale and Crowley,” Bucky grouches, clearing his throat against the itch and gesturing glumly at where his book is sitting uselessly in his lap. “But I’m crying like a dame over here.”
Bucky can’t see but he knows Steve is rolling his eyes at him, is probably barely holding himself back on scolding him for talking about girls like that. But hey, Bucky feels like shit. If pushing Steve’s buttons is making him feel better then he should damn well be allowed to do it.
And of course there’s another fucking sneeze looming right on the horizon, the itch building almost to a burn at the bridge of his nose before it travels down towards his nostrils, tiptoeing down the back of his nose until he’s sure it’s going to explode right out of him...
But then it doesn’t. It doesn’t because everything sucks.
“You want me to read to you for a bit?” Steve asks.
Bucky sighs. “Only if you do it properly.”
“I’ll do all the voices and everything,” Steve promises solemnly though Bucky can hear the smile in his voice. But Steve only gets through a few sentences before Bucky can’t hear him over the returning itch. It builds with such sudden force that Bucky barely has time to yank the compress off his face before-
“nn’GXCHuh!” He looks around blindly for the tissues, flesh hand clamped over his nose and mouth. But his eyes are already forcing themselves shut. “iH’TSHhhew! hurUH’kshew! Jesus fuck!”
It’s Steve who saves the day, in the end, like always. Though in this case it’s by pressing a wad of fresh tissues into Bucky’s hand rather than, y’know, jumping out of a plane without a parachute to punch some alien douchebag in the face without any backup Steve.
And just in time too because the next sneeze is wet and itchy and truly the most relieving thing Bucky thinks he has every experienced.
“hhh’inNGHtchhoo!“
“God bless you,” Steve says at last when Bucky is finally able to draw enough breath to blow his nose. He’s rubbing Bucky’s back fondly and Bucky blinks at him through teary eyes, trying his best to smile his thanks. “You sound miserable, sweetheart. How about you take a Benadryl and we’ll go to bed?”
Bucky doesn’t know what time it is but it’s certainly far too early to be going to bed for the night. He doesn’t think he cares.
“You’ll read to me?” He asks, suddenly feeling shy.
drizzle + nuzzles - i hope stucky is okay anon!! here’s some soft college au shrinkyclinks ^-^
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It’s been threatening to rain all day. In fact, it’s been drizzling off and on for most of the day but the threat of a thunderstorm is still looming. Bucky knows it’s the season for it but he’s still kind of annoyed because the building pressure always relights that age-old ache in his shoulder. He’d only been ten when the accident had happened and thankfully nobody had been seriously injured but Bucky still feels that cloying pain in his shoulder whenever the weather turns like this. And, naturally, because Steve is Steve, he’s down with that miserable cold that’s been going around campus at the start of the spring semester and is, consequently, grumpy as all fuck.
That’s the thing about Steve; his colds ride a wave of emotion in tandem with his symptoms. At first, when he’s sniffling and a little pale, he’s patient with people who ask after him and bashful when he ducks his head and tells them he’s fine, just a little tired. Then he’s tired and dismissive. He doesn’t like talking to people and is quick to change the subject when anyone asks how he’s feeling.
The penultimate stage of Steve Catching a Cold - the stage they’re in now, incidentally - is what Sarah Rogers once called his “hedgehog phase” because this is when Steve is, and there’s really no way to sugarcoat it, a bitch. Just this morning, he snapped at one of the girls in his TA class in the dining hall for saying he looked pale (and, of course, had immediately apologised and bought her a chocolate bar to make up for it).
Bucky feels awful for even thinking it because Steve is his absolute favourite person in the world, but he really doesn’t want to be around him right now if he’s going to be a prickly little git. Especially since he already feels like crap. So he hears their dorm room door open and braces himself for the worst.
But Hedgehog Steve never appears. Apparently, between Bucky leaving him at the art block at 10 o’clock this morning and now, Steve has shifted into the final stage of his getting sick routine: Cuddle Me Or I’ll Die.
Now that is a stage Bucky can get on board with.
“Hey, Stevie,” he says, folding down the corner of the page he’s reading and setting his book aside.
Steve offers him a bleary, worn-out look as he dumps his bag and strips out of his coat while also toeing off his shoes and kicking them haphazardly against his desk. He looks at Bucky uncertainly, hovering in the space between their beds like he isn’t sure where to go. Taking pity on him, Bucky opens his arms and warmth floods his heart at the look of unbridled gratitude that crosses Steve’s face before he sinks heavily into Bucky’s arms, mindful of his aching shoulder.
“Buck,” he whispers, pulling his glasses off and burrowing as far into Bucky’s side as he can. Bucky can feel the heat pouring off of him and worries at his lower lip.
“Long day?” He asks quietly because Steve most likely has a headache.
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, sighing like he’s just taken his first breath of air in seventy years. Bucky is always quietly thrilled to watch Steve’s body completely melt into his own. “How’s the arm?”
“Not bad. I put a heat pad on it for a while. Still hurts like a bitch though,” Bucky murmurs, nuzzling his nose into Steve’s damp hair. “Chest okay?”
Steve hums noncommittally. Bucky frowns.
“Stevie?”
“Had a little trouble at lunch but I’m okay,” Steve says quietly and Bucky can only content himself in the knowledge that at least Steve isn’t wheezing right now. “I...I’m sorry for being so awful today, Buck. And yesterday.”
Bucky smiles. “It’s alright, babydoll.”
Steve coughs lightly against Bucky’s shoulder and fumbles his way into his pocket for a crumpled handful of toilet paper to wipe his nose with. Bucky tuts and braves the stretch over to the windowsill to grab the box of tissues they always keep there. When Steve gives his nose an unproductive blow, Bucky finds a new ache developing, another familiar one. His poor babydoll, so stuffed up and sick. Bucky wants to wrap him in blankets and keep him in bed until he’s well again.
