#but mostly fluff

Ding.

You took a deep breath as the elevator doors opened. Your tote bag was still pressed against your chest. You had walked from your building to Bucky's apartment. Lucky for you, it wasn't a big distance even with the route you took, but it was already dark outside. And even though you had faith in the defense movements that Bucky had taught you, you had to be extra careful considering what you were carrying.

Your friends had told you never to carry anything of value at those hours, especially when you were alone and walking through the streets of the city. Well, for your boyfriend — especially on his birthday, you'll do it. The proof was inside your tote bag.

Bucky was already opening his door as you walked out of the elevator. As always, whenever you visit, he would be close to his door the moment you arrived on his floor. You knew that he also got nervous whenever you came walking from your place by yourself. Usually, you would have taken his offer for him to go pick you up, but you had to decline since you had made a quick stop on your way to get his surprise.

"Hey, gorgeous!" He opened his arms for you and hugged you closer to him. Burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Hi, handsome!" You whispered, kissing the sliver of skin that his shirt left uncovered. He shivered.

"I missed you," he said, moving back enough to kiss you properly. His arms still tightened around your waist, and lifted you as he walked backwards to close the door. Inside, he pressed your back against the door, his warm body against you.

"You saw me this morning." You mumbled against his lips.

"You were still asleep when I left. It doesn't count." He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to yours. Taking a deep breath.

"Hmm, sure. Next time you have a mission, I'm gonna tie you to bed so you don't get away so easily." He groaned, his thigh shifting until it was pressed between yours.

"Don't say things like that when we have to go. We have to be there in 15 minutes." He tried to sound stern, but you knew that his reminder was more for him than for you.

"You're the one who has me against his door." You pointed out.

"Touché." He went for another kiss, but you pushed him gently. "Is everything okay?"

You nodded, "Mhm, I just need to give you something before we go." You emphasized moving your forgotten tote bag so he could see it.

"You bought me something? Baby, we talked about this." He complained.

"Hey! I didn't buy anything!" He looked at you skeptically and waited for you to show him whatever you had brought. "I can't move if you're still pressing me against the door, you know. I'm gonna become a human tortilla at this point." You joked.

"A cute tortilla, though." He gave you a peck, making you blush.

"Would you still love me if I were a tortilla?"

"A tortilla, a worm, a rock, whatever you turn into as long as you're still with me." He nodded repeatedly. Moving away from you so you could move away from the door.

"Sit down, please." You pointed at his couch. He raised an eyebrow, but did as you said. You followed behind him.

Seeing him there waiting made your nerves skyrocket again. You knew he could tell you were nervous — damn him and his enhanced senses and his observation skills. Your hands were again sweaty, even though you had wiped them on your way up. You took a deep breath and placed yourself before him, wiping your hands again as you did.

"Tell me you're not breaking up with me," Bucky said, and just then, you noticed he looked as nervous as you were.

Your eyes widened, "What? No. I'll never do that, especially on your birthday. It's just that," You exhaled, as you sat on the floor, in front of him. "I'm nervous."

"I can tell, baby." He reached his hand, and you took it, intertwining your fingers with his. And asked, making circles with his thumb in your hand: "Is everything okay?" You nodded. "Just breathe, I'm here."

You nodded, and after a beat, you reached inside your tote bag with your free hand. You kept it there, and just as you practiced, you started saying: "Remember that I took that new job at the VA?" He nodded, "Well, they assigned me a room and I had to check some stuff that the last art teacher had left behind." He gave you a look, "Hey, don't look at me like that, I didn't ask for help because most of them were art supplies, I just had to arrange them as I wanted."

He hummed.

"Anyways! That's besides the point; you're distracting me. Where was I?"

"The art supplies." He said with a smile.

"Yes! Right, I noticed a very particular brush set, all of which had the same initials engraved. I got curious, you know me." He nodded, knowing exactly what you meant. "So I asked and found out something interesting. I had to bribe the guard with donuts so I could take a look at the rest of the stuff that used to be in that room."

You let out a shaky breath and whispered, "Please don't be mad."

Finally, you took your hand out of your tote bag, holding a sketchbook. Carefully, you placed it in his waiting hand. He caressed the leather cover where the same initials of the brushes were engraved.

S.G.R

It was Steve's.

He gasped. You let go of his hand so he could open it.

"Remember months ago when we went to empty his old apartment? You said that his sketchbook was missing. I guess I found it."

"How is that possible?" He mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.

"During the blip, he also volunteered to give art classes. I asked around, and after the blip, they boxed his items and kept them. This was in a box with more of his brushes and sketchbooks from his students. You can go with me tomorrow in case there's more stuff."

You saw how carefully he looked through the pages until he stopped on one page.

"My love," he muttered and looked at you with watery eyes. His eyes went from the page to yours.

You nodded, mirroring his expression. God, you had to reapply your mascara again since you also cried at the VA."I know."

He pulled you towards him until you were seated on his lap. He kissed you before his eyes went back to the drawing.

Barnes' family.

It read on the right corner. The date next to it was a few days after he woke up from the ice.

Steve had immortalized his family on a Christmas morning. The details were incredible. The family was posing in front of a tree. Bucky was standing tall in the middle, his mother on one side and his sister on the other. Steve, pre-serum, was sitting next to them.

"I remember this day. Steve had a rough morning, so my Ma told him that he had to rest the whole day." Bucky said with a watery smile.

"Check the rest pages, baby." You said, kissing his cheek.

Pages and pages filled with drawings of his family. His mother, wearing her nurse uniform. Becca, playing in the park. Bucky, with one arm draped around Steve, wearing his uniform. Bucky and Becca, together, reading a book. Dozens of moments that Steve had captured on paper. He had turned his sketchbook into a photo album.

You knew, thanks to Bucky, that they had only retrieved a few photos from that time. Most of them were lost or in bad condition. It made sense that Steve had made good use of his talent in drawing and his enhanced memory.

There were other familiar faces, too. Steve's mother. Bucky's father and Steve's. Peggy. Howard. The Howling Commandos. The last pages were dedicated to his life in the modern era. Natasha had full pages devoted to her only. The Avengers. The tower. Even Sam and Wanda. Some drawings that you could recognize were parts of the city, others were from other parts of the world. Probably during missions or trips, he made to reconnect with this era.

The last entry was a drawing from Wakanda. Bucky, smiling next to Steve, in front of his hut.

"Happy Birthday, Buck." You smiled at him with tears in your eyes, hugging him.

"Thank you, sweetheart." He whispered, corresponding to the hug.

It wasn't a surprise that you arrived late to his birthday dinner after that.

tag list: @houseofhyde

a/n: I tried to write something fluffier since both of the fics im currently writing are deep in angst town. Thank you to everyone who read Secret? What secret?, you are motivating me so much to keep writing and seeing all your love for it helped me go through my finals week in school. Love you so much! See you in the comments and re blogs.

“N-Nanami hold on now..you don’t want to do this-” Gojo was running now, his body flailing like a muppet as he made a mad dash for safety. Nanami merely walked after him.

“D-Don’t! Don’t you dahahahre- wahahit slow doohhown!” Gojo cried out with a laugh when he made it to the dorms. No one was home- the kids had gone out to a movie or something. This was both a blessing and a curse for the pale sorcerer- he had no one to witness his downfall, but also no one to sacrifice for the greater good. “Cohohome on, Nanami! Spa-ARE-”

His legs hit the couch, sending him tumbling over it cartoonishly. Nanami didn’t speed up, merely walking around the couch and climbing on top of him. “Nahahahnami pleahahhahse!”

“Please what?” He rolled up his sleeves, cracking his knuckles.

“Doohohon’t do thihihihs!”

“You want me to.” He didn’t need to elaborate. The fact Gojo ran instead of using his ability spoke for itself. Gojo fell silent upon realizing this 

Another tense pause. Nanami raised a brow as Gojo weighed his options.

“Um…is it too late now to say sorry?” He asked.

“Yes.” Nanami didn’t hesitate, fingers flying across Gojo’s torso with reckless abandon. Beneath him, Gojo arched with a loud squawk, full body spasming as he dissolved into laughter.

“Nahahhahaha! Nahahanah-nahahahahhahanahhahahamihiihhihiiiiiiiii!” He cried, shoving at the older man’s hands as they tapped along his ribs. “Wahahhahait I cahhahahan’t! Geahahahahhaa, hohohohohld ohohohohon!”

“I highly doubt that. You’re rather known for your stamina- at least that’s what you like to brag about.” Nanami moved his hands up to Gojo’s upper ribs, a smaller spot he saw with his 7:3 technique. Gojo nearly flew off the couch when he pinched there. “Is it all a lie?”

“Hehehehehell nohohohoho! I’ve gohohohohot stahhahaaminahahhaha for dahahhahys! Whahahait- thahhahat ihhihihiihsn’t an ihihihihiihnvihihih-EHEHEHEHEHEHE!”

“Sounded like one to me. Let's see how long you can go, shall we?” The blonde clicked his tongue as he dropped his hands to Gojo’s lower ribs.

“GEHAHAHHA!” Gojo’s squirms and laughter increased by tenfold at the touch, turning him into a thrashing bull beneath Nanami’s strong hands. “NOHOHOHOOH NOHOHOHT THEHEHEHEHRE!” His cheeks were on fire, smile was big and goofy and all so nostalgic. Nanami could recall numerous times where Suguru and Shoko tickled him like this. It was one of the happier times of their youth.

The thought made him somewhat sad. When was the last time Gojo truly laughed like this? He always seemed to find things funny, but it all felt so forced- like he was overdoing it to hide how he really felt. This, however? This felt natural- just like before.

“TAHAHAKE THIS!” Hands suddenly grabbed his hips, squeezing with such a rapid pace Nanami jumped several feet back. “Hehehheahaha..gohohotcha nohohohow!” Gojo groaned as he sat up, blindfold crooked as one blue eye gleamed at his friend. “Yoohohu had your fun…and nohohow it’s time for mine!”

~~~

“Heh…hehehe..hehehehheeeeh…” An exhausted Gojo laid across the tatami mats, huffing and puffing as he wrapped his arms around himself. Despite his bold claim, he was no match for Nanami. “I fohohohrgot yohohou’re so gohohohood at thihihs..”

“Hm.” The blonde hummed, walking back over with two cups of tea before sitting beside him. “I doubt it’s anything I did. You just refused to use your limitless ability.”

The number one thing that would have saved Gojo, and he refused to turn it back on. The pale haired man laughed as he sat up, taking the tea and draining most of it with one clean gulp. “Wouldn’t be as fun if I did.” He grew quiet, side by side with Nanami as he sipped his drink. “Hey…thanks, by the way.”

“I did nothing to warrant it.”

“No, you did. You always do. You put up with my bullshit like no other, and you willingly entertain me.” Gojo smiled in his cup, his voice unusually soft. “I haven’t had anyone like that in a long time. It’s..nice. Really nice.”

Nanami raised a brow but didn’t turn to look at him, knowing Gojo needed a second. Instead, he sipped his drink, watching the shadows of the room dance as the sun shifted. “I suppose you’re not nearly as annoying as you act.”

“Oo, a compliment from my beloved!” Gojo gushed, throwing himself at the blonde and making fake kissy noises. “Now shut up and kiss me!”

“Get out of here!” Nanami pushed him back, watching him tip over in a fit of giggles. That smile was like the one before, easing something tight in his chest.

He supposed he could get used to this.

Lucien drops his things. The house is dark save for a few small lights left on for him. It makes him smile, ever so slightly, as he flicks each one off and climbs the stairs to their room. If he has to guess why they are on, it is because she believed she’d be awake when he showed up, they were for her to shut off, to keep her awake. Care twofold, staying up, but also leaving the light on for him, knowing tonight, he’d finally come home. He imagines it, as he climbs up each rickety stair, her excitement, that after this long, she thought they’d do this together, climb these same stairs, her going up a few hours before, turning over her shoulder, smiling, knowing what it meant that the whole house remained aglow. The warmth of the light makes him visible to her, there.

At the top, he does not go to her immediately. Turning from where he stands instead and peering down the hall. There she was. Hair disheveled across the pillows, arms up over her head, and his sweater lifts just enough out from under the blankets that the beginnings of her ribcage are exposed. It was too big, his clothes, the wrists folded and coming undone beyond her hands. 

Lucien drops his bag and walks toward her. A small light was left on near his nightstand too. Her breaths, deep, rose and fell so even he almost didn’t want to wake her. But she’d be upset if he didn’t tomorrow, she says it makes her dreams restless. Though he’s unsure now how true that is. 

In any case, he isn’t even sure he can bear it, not waking her. He wants to hear the noise she makes of realization that he’s there. He wants her warm body against his cold one, where despite the chill of his skin she wraps her arms around him. And he can see it, the heat of her. Her cheeks are flushed with her warmth. So he is already climbing. Knees sinking in carefully to the mattress at the bottom of the bed. Slowly on his hands, the expanse between them continues to dwindle as it had all night. Over top of her, still asleep, still slow, he rests the weight of himself down, hovering above her ribcage, just a minute longer, to watch her. The steady breathing, she is out of reach still, in a deep dream, even the air must last the journey down. Her chest rises for him. If he could’ve come home that morning, he thinks, seeing her awake, her joy. But this too, it's hard to say which scenario is better, the other sooner, more time together, but her here like this in her sweetness. How he liked to linger in it. 

Slowly he lowers, watching her, and kisses her skin. She doesn’t stir. He doesn’t care. He presses another just for him and then places his elbows on either side and envelops her. His forearms pressing into the curve of her waist, he lifts her slightly, nuzzling his face into her skin before lightly again placing kisses on the exposed half of her ribs. 

She moves, legs shifting, pulling away, before settling and an intention overcomes her limbs as they cling. 

“Hm?” She says picking up her head. It falls back once she realizes and a long satisfied breath falls from her. She lets him move along and up her body, saying nothing. Lucien knows she’s barely awake just yet. He doesn’t mind the quiet way she’s coming to him. When they’re face to face at last she smiles, eyes glassy, and she shifts so her legs can wrap around him. 

“You’re cold.” She says but buries herself in his embrace anyway. 

“You’re warm.” He hums falling into her and she welcomes him. His hands slide down to her legs that have clamped around him. Like she thinks he’s at risk of leaving again. They’re bare and he lifts his head just slightly, eyebrow raised, to look at her. 

“Far too cold for such displays.” 

“I thought it would help me stay awake if I was cold.”

With a hum, he kisses her cheek three times. “What were you needing to stay awake for.”

“I wanted to see you.” 

He smiles and pushes the hair from her face. Her voice still holds that raspy lethargy it has in morning. 

“I got you something,” She says, an afterthought.

“Oh really.”

She nods, and he lifts himself just barely so she can maneuver over to the side table, so she can open the drawer there. Letting one hand free, she pulls out a slice of cake. Whatever he was expecting, this was not it, smiling so amusedly at the sight, he thinks absently that she is so tired now she almost seems drunk. He the sober and endeared counterpart. 

Her eyes droop a little heavier, her nose scrunched and the flare of her nostrils tell him she’s hiding a yawn. 

“What’s this for?” 

“I saw it while I was out. One slice left. Your favorite.”

“And you got it for me?”

She nods lazily. 

“What did you get yourself?” 

“I didn’t want anything.”

He raised a brow, “Lucky me then.” 

She hums in agreement unaware of what he meant. Standing, separating just a moment, he walks down the hall, her eyes so heavy that to turn his back on her feels as if he’s got two arrows between his shoulder blades. The bag at the top of the stairs in sight, he laughs some to himself, when he bends over, and the arrows seem to shift down, down his back, further. He turns just over his shoulder, finds her smile, the one he knows much of, that confirms his suspicion of where her mind is. Picking up the parcel and turning back, doing what it seems his body is most primed to do—return to her.

“You’re dressed rather…”

“Jurian did it,” he says. His shirt unbuttoned, loose, disheveled. 

He recalled how he’d grabbed the collar, undid the buttons, the smell of liquor on his breath, “They love to see a man all undone. Like he’s just come back from a hard day or battle.” 

Her hum turned into a laugh as she shook her head, amused. 

“He thought you’d like it.” 

“I do.” 

He laughed, sitting on the edge of the bed, “He did this right outside our door.”  

The bag set beside them on the floor she tries to peer into it, he can tell, but instead he tucks his leg in just a little to close the opening. 

“He says hello by the way,” he adds. “And sorry that he had to take me away so long.”

“I forgive him.”

“I said you would.”

“He should’ve said hello in person if he were here.” 

Lucien eyes the exposed part of her thigh, imagines the look on Jurians face if he’d had come in and seen her, how it would convey the sentiments of, you’ll hear about this later. Only for him to silently turn around and leave Lucien and her be anyway. 

“Did you enjoy the alone time?” 

“For a little,” she says. 

He leans on his elbow, sorry to keep her up when she is so clearly tired, but wanting to hear her voice, having wanted for it since he left one month before. 

“What’s Jurian doing in Velaris?” She asks, eyes in the bag. He’d forgotten momentarily. Had not wanted to look away. 

“Speaking with Rhysand about Vassa.”

He dips his arm in, his forearm brushing the serrated edge, the strange pain of it, not real but there, his neck turning to look at her watching him as he fumbles around the bottom, and with her bright glassy eyes the nonpain is gone again. He lifts what he has gotten her from the bag. 

“Got it before I came home.”

A slice of cake. Her favorite. 

She smiles, widely, the thing growing too fast to stop and he feels the softness of her happiness envelop him, ease him more into the mattress. Climbing over her he sets himself against the headboard, the pair of them taking the forks and plates of cake, and eating side by side. Normally she would hate this, eating in bed, normally he thinks she’d kill him, but it seems she started it, gave permission, celebrating his being back. 

“Tomorrow we will have to change the sheets,” she says after her first bite and the back of his head brushes the wood as he laughs. 

“Alright.”

“Do you want to try?” 

He leans over by way of confirmation, half because it will bring them closer and half because he really would like to try. Her fork in his mouth scraping against his teeth, a bit of excess frosting catching on his tongue. She’s smiling now, at the closeness, and he wants to get closer, to see if it will lead to more smiling, greater happiness. 

The illusion of more distance as he pulls back, false, as he shifts his body closer, their shoulders and thighs touching, a blanket separating them. He recalls the time before, when such a thin partition existed always between them, before she had opened for him and he accepted it gratefully, needing more than he had ever needed anything. Even now, even still, always needing her. Her profile, he watches, her mouth chewing, she wipes a crumb from her cheek. The curve of her jaw, her nose, perfect he thinks, fitting against his own perfectly. For a moment it seems those last drinks with Jurian are hazing his judgment, tunneling his vision more than it normally is, his mind spiraling fast, dragged easily away, but it just as easy to right. She speaks, and it pulls him back. 

“I missed you.” 

“Yeah?”

She rests her head on his shoulder and the lightness turns, fleetingly, momentarily, sad. He kisses her hairline, accepts her into him, her body relaxing, noticeably relieved, and the notion warms him. To be, even just in presence, in feel, such a comfort to her. 

“I missed you,” he says, almost without thinking. The truth feels so obvious it seems not to need saying but has now been said. “Next time you’ll come. Wherever it is.”

“I’ll come.” 

They both hum, the empty plates at their laps. Sitting for a short moment in the idle quiet, life stretching before them like a yawn, a yawn which has just escaped her mouth. 

He takes the plates and puts them on his side table. For a moment the two of them admired each other. He could see the suggestion of her body beneath his sweater. His own body a little more obvious, less suggestive, with two buttons left on his shirt done and his pants half-tied. Jurian was a menace. 

“He did this because he thought it would be easier for you to forgive him if I came home half-dressed you know.”

She laughs and it is the most awake she’s sounded. 

“Forgiven whether you’re dressed or not.” 

“Can’t say the same for you. You steal my best, what will I wear tomorrow?”

She smiles “You’ll figure it out.” 

He hums leaning over. The drink’s potency again making an appearance, or perhaps just looking at her makes his world temporarily hazy and impairing. Everything has charm, a sheen to it. She watches him with an amused smirk like she knows this, is realizing it, as he lazily pushes their mouths together. 

“You taste like frosting.” She says between kisses 

“I want to taste like you.” 

“Go shower.”

“Join me?”

“No.” 

“I need my sweater.” 

“Then take it.” 

He laughs into her neck and slowly works the hem of it up her legs. She let him undress her. They separate only as the material arcs over her head and her arms lift. He recalls her body, knows it too well not to, and anticipation warms him as he realizes she is naked now, that he’d see her fully, so real, so there now, and close enough to touch. The force of a month missing her strikes him in the gut, enough that even this small moment with the sweater in front of his eyes, as he pulls it away to toss aside, makes him ache. 

Before he can see however she’s rolled over and begun to lay on her side turned away from him. Her exposed back makes goosebumps rise. Both on her own skin and his. He is caught momentarily in the trance of it, even just this a relief. But when he doesn’t leave she speaks. 

“If you hurry I might be awake when you get back.” 

It is encouragement enough. 

Leaning forward he presses a chaste kiss between her shoulder blades then makes for the bathroom. It was, by all means, the fastest shower of his life. He didn’t even get a towel and she laughs as he appears before her which makes his chest ache with need. He throws open the blankets, not risking her making him wait, and falls onto her as she lets out an amused yell. 

“You’re all wet!” 

He doesn’t care. He cannot care, cannot let any distance settle between them having nearly closed it since getting back but never quite doing so. He slots between her legs and she instinctively wraps around him again. Their mutual wanting had always comforted him, made him feel sane and civil, like it were natural and divine because how could it not be? How could two people equally measured, equally willing, meeting, somehow, with bodies equal loving for the other not be something greater, something beyond his sight? To have her love and to also give her love, the most noble thing he’s done. Will ever do. Will ever have. And natural, he thinks again as chests skin touch, like breathing. Impossible to help. Not like breathing, however, he considers as she exhales. Because he would do so even in death. 

She is looking at him and he realizes, can feel on his face that these thoughts have shown themselves. She is smiling, softly, endeared. 

“You’re never drinking with Jurian again.” 

“You’re the one who brought this on. He had nothing to do with it,” He says trailing down her neck. She sighs, more need than relief, reaches for her own underwear but his hands envelop hers and they pull them down together. 

“Now,” she says lifting her hips into him. 

A rough laugh leaves him, “If I weren’t so in love with you I might chide your impatience.”

“Lucien.” 

But he is impatient too. He doesn’t have the strength tonight, to pretend that he can manage making either of them wait. 

“Alright alright,” he says, kissing her each time and he shifts his hips before he sinks deep inside her. The two of them gasp like they hadn’t expected it to feel the way it did. Even though it has never felt like anything other than that, that ineffable pleasure, how it reaches the spine, sinks into his bones. 

There was nothing romantic about what happens after, need overwhelming them, to know that they are this close again. That one of them is not so far away, and can in fact be reached, can be this close. They don’t let even a space for breath fall between their bodies as he moves inside of her. Lazy movements, feeling it all, gripping, kissing when they remember, but otherwise blissfully aware of their own satisfaction and grasping for it. 

He shifts and pulls her tighter to him. Her noises grow louder, less controlled. He has to bite into her shoulder to release the sense of what it does to him. How badly he wants to devour her. Soothing it over after with his mouth, his tongue. She does not mind, he knows she understands, he has marks to prove the same. He shifts his leg as he had with the bag, closing a gap between them, and she whimpers. No words need to be said as their hips meet and she finds the relief she wants. His head tucks into her neck he hears every moan, every plea, as she wraps closer, as her body pulls him all the closer. Slacking, he knows she is done, tired thing, but she is waiting for him, wanting him still. He can feel it, knows it by how she coos in his ear, about how good he feels, about being his. And he is close, he knows, a tension in his stomach, doubled by the other tension, of wanting the release, but wanting not to separate from her. Wanting her always to tell him these things and them to always be as close as this. 

In the end, he cannot wait. 

Even if he wants to, he realizes, the bliss of her happiness closing around him, her sweet breaths, sweet mouth, sweet everything, it's too much. To be loved that way. His movements for as lazy and needy as they were, falter more. Driving into her, deep and slow, he follows after her. 

With his face in the pillows he feels their laborious breathing push their chests, slotting their ribs side by side, as he had himself done between their legs. Even after, he notes, their bodies, without their permission, but knowing they would say yes, find ways to envelop each other, to become almost a single thing. She is breathing, he thinks asleep again, with the evenness. Striking him in such a way it is almost painful, and yet, he wants nothing more than to bear it. Missing her already, even as she is asleep, he wills himself to pull away from her again. But her thighs tighten, her arms.

“No,” She says, half awake. “Stay like this.”

“Leave it in?” 

“Yes. Please.”