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The Super Soldiers are back

Summary: They came back. They read the smut. It got worse.

Wordcount: 8.2k

Pairing: none

Warnings: Crack treated seriously, meta fanfiction, author insert, fourth wall breaking, Steve Rogers being Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes needs therapy, Natasha Romanoff saves the day, boundary issues, characters reading fanfiction about themselves, accidental emotional damage, Tumblr culture, fandom in-jokes, mentions of smut, discussions of kinks (non-graphic), no actual explicit sex, humor, chaos, Super Soldiers are not house-trained

A/N: What could be worse than having a conversation with your fic characters? Well, probably talking about the smut you write about them... with them. This is a sequel to The Author is taking Notes, but it can be read as its own piece. Also, @buckytakethewheel you are briefly mentionned in this one

Masterlist

I was in the middle of unloading the dishwasher.

I straightened up with a handful of forks in my hands – and found myself face to face with Steve and Bucky.

They weren’t glued to me or anything. They were just… there. In my kitchen. Existing.

The forks slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor in a spectacular metallic crash.

“HOLY SH–” I yelled, clutching my chest. “What the hell are you two doing here?! I almost had a heart attack!”

Steve lifted his shoulders in what was clearly meant to be an apologetic shrug, except his face showed absolutely zero remorse.

Bucky was worse. He didn’t even pretend.

“No, seriously,” I went on, glaring at both of them. “Why are you back?”

I pointed my index finger at Steve. Then at Bucky.

“You,” I accused. “Left.” “And you,” I added, swinging my finger back. “Very dramatically left.”

I gestured vaguely at the room around us. “This was supposed to be the epilogue. Roll credits. Fade to black. Not– whatever this is.”

Steve exchanged a look with Bucky. The kind of look that immediately made my life expectancy drop by at least ten years.

“Well,” Steve said carefully, “we had some time to think.”

“Oh no,” I muttered. “That sentence has never ended well for me.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smirking like he was enjoying this way too much. “Turns out,” he said, “you forgot something.”

I frowned. “I absolutely did not.”

“You did,” Steve insisted. “You wrote us a crack fic.”

“Yes.”

“And then,” Bucky added, “you gave us consequences.”

I stared at them.

“…Those were jokes.”

Steve tilted his head. “They felt pretty real.”

I looked down at the forks on the floor. Then back up at them.

“I swear to God,” I said slowly, “if this is about emotional growth, I’m calling Natasha.”

“We know you’ve been thinking–”

“Yes,” I cut in immediately. “That’s generally something humans with functioning brains do.”

“–and we wanted to come check the damage ahead of time.”

I stared at them.

“Your level of confidence,” I said flatly, “is genuinely terrifying.”

Steve looked almost offended. “It’s not confidence. It’s… experience.”

“With me,” Bucky added, nodding. “Specifically.”

I pressed my lips together, inhaled through my nose, and very deliberately bent down to pick up the fallen forks.

“This,” I said, straightening up again, “is why I don’t let fictional characters develop self-awareness.”

Steve winced. “See? That tone. That’s the tone you use right before things get weird.”

“I do not have a ‘things get weird’ tone.”

Bucky snorted. “You absolutely do.”

I jabbed a fork in his direction. “You don’t get to comment. You’re not supposed to exist in my kitchen.”

“And yet,” he said lightly, spreading his hands, “here we are.”

Steve leaned forward a little, resting his palms on the counter. “We just wanted to make sure you weren’t… planning anything.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Define anything.”

They exchanged another look.

The look.

I dropped the forks back into the drawer with more force than necessary. “You know what? No. Whatever this is, I don’t want to hear it. I am not responsible for your narrative anxiety.”

“That’s not what this is,” Steve said quickly.

“It absolutely is,” I replied. “You’re characters who realized the author hates herself and decided to intervene.”

Bucky’s smirk softened into something almost fond. “Can you blame us?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Extensively.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Steve cleared his throat. “So… hypothetically.”

“No.”

“Just hypothetically,” he insisted. “If you were thinking about a sequel–”

“I’m not.”

“–would it be,” Bucky added, “as emotionally unsafe as the first one?”

I stared at them for a long moment.

Then I smiled.

Both of them tensed immediately.

“…That,” I said sweetly, “depends entirely on how long you plan on staying in my kitchen.”

I looked at them, then sighed.

“Honestly?” I said. “I don’t have the mental capacity to think about a sequel right now.”

“Oh?” Steve prompted.

“Layers kind of…” I waved a hand vaguely. “Drained me.”

Bucky hummed in what could generously be called understanding. “I mean, to be fair, you’re not exactly well in the head if you think you can post the equivalent of a 80k-word story daily.”

I shot him a look. “Thank you for the support, Bucky. Truly. It warms my heart.”

He shrugged. “I support you being honest with yourself.”

“I was being honest,” I said. “You’re being rude.”

Steve glanced between us, trying – and failing – to hide a smile. “So you’re saying there won’t be anything new?”

“Not today,” I replied firmly. “Not tomorrow. Possibly not this week. My brain is on strike and demanding unreasonable working conditions, like rest.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You do realize you’re telling this to two men who were frozen and brainwashed, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “Which is why I refuse to take productivity advice from either of you.”

He opened his mouth, then paused. “…Okay, that’s fair.”

I leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Besides, sequels require planning. Foreshadowing. Themes. Emotional continuity.”

Steve winced. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I’m tired,” I replied. “That’s when accidents happen.”

“Accidents?” Bucky repeated.

I smiled again.

They both stiffened.

“Like bonding,” I clarified. “Or character growth. Or, God forbid, feelings.”

Steve groaned softly. “Oh no.”

“So,” I concluded, pushing off the counter, “until further notice, you’re both on narrative probation.”

Bucky frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” I said, gesturing toward the door, “you leave me alone, let me recover, and pray I don’t wake up tomorrow with a brilliant, devastating idea.”

Steve hesitated. “And if you do?”

I met his eyes.

“Then you should have stayed fictional.”

I added, after a few seconds, “The only kind of stories I’m mentally available for right now is smut.”

“Ouch…”

Steve physically flinched.

“And, uh… about that…”

I looked at him.

For a long time. Unblinking. Utterly still.

“…You didn’t,” I said slowly. “You didn’t do that. You didn’t do that. We had a rule. A very clear rule. You were not supposed to read the smut. Or the comments.”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. He glanced at Bucky.

Bucky immediately stepped back. “Don’t look at me. I told you it was a bad idea.”

My gaze snapped to him. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Steve cleared his throat. “In my defense–”

“No,” I cut in. “There is no defense.”

“I was curious.”

“That was also explicitly forbidden.”

“I just wanted to understand your process!”

“My process involves boundaries, Steven.”

Bucky winced. “Oof. Full name. You’re dead.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I didn’t read everything.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Define everything.”

“…I skimmed.”

I inhaled sharply through my nose. “You skimmed. The smut.”

“Yes?”

I laughed once. Short. Joyless. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”

“It was very well written,” he added quickly.

“That makes it worse.”

Bucky folded his arms, studying the ceiling. “So… comments too, or–?”

Steve hesitated just long enough.

I pointed at him. “You read the comments.”

“Only a few!”

“I am going to throw you out a window.”

“You’re not strong enough to lift him,” Bucky pointed out.

“Try me.”

Steve looked genuinely distressed now. “People were saying nice things.”

“That was never the issue,” I said. “The issue is that those were not meant for you. Those were for me and my questionable coping mechanisms.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Someone actually wrote ‘I need that man,’ by the way.”

Steve blinked. “They did?”

“Don’t,” I warned.

He smiled despite himself.

I grabbed a dish towel and wiped my hands like I was preparing for surgery. “Congratulations. You’ve officially contaminated the smut.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Which means,” I continued, “that if I write anything horny in the near future, it will be out of spite.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s dangerous.”

Steve paled. “That’s dangerous.”

I smiled sweetly at both of them.

“You should really stop reading things you were never supposed to be aware of,” I said. “Because next time, I might weaponize italics.”

The dishwasher was empty, so we left the kitchen and moved into the living room.

Bucky’s gaze immediately snagged on the new throw blanket draped over the couch.

He opened his mouth.

I shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

He closed it again.

“Right,” I said, planting myself in front of them like a prosecutor about to ruin someone’s entire day. “Specifically. What did you read?”

Steve’s hands twisted together like he was trying to wring apologies out of his own fingers. “All of them?”

“Oh no,” I breathed. “All of the smut I posted? Oh no, no, no, no–”

“I was curious,” he said, like that explained literally anything.

“Curious about what?” I demanded. “It’s literally written porn.”

He swallowed. “I wanted to see if I was oblivious in those too.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that made the universe hold its breath out of secondhand embarrassment.

Then I blinked. Slowly.

“Steve,” I said, voice very calm in a way that usually preceded violence, “if I made you oblivious in smut…”

I took a step closer.

“It would last pages and pages.”

Bucky snorted, because of course he did.

Steve’s ears went pink. “That’s– That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant,” I replied. “You were hoping to find evidence that you’re not, in fact, a walking Good Intentions Disaster.”

“I’m not a disaster,” he protested, weak.

Bucky tilted his head. “You read porn about yourself to check if you had narrative self-awareness. That’s… a new flavor of disaster.”

Steve glared. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help,” Bucky said pleasantly. “I’m trying to survive this conversation.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay. Great. So now that we’ve established you’ve read all of it–”

Steve nodded like a man walking to the gallows.

“–you understand why the rule exists,” I continued. “Yes?”

He hesitated. “Because it’s embarrassing.”

“Because it’s private,” I corrected. “Because it’s not meant to be consumed by the people it’s about. Because now I’m going to remember, every time I type something obscene, that you read it with your big innocent Captain America eyes.”

Steve winced. “I don’t have innocent eyes.”

“You do,” Bucky said immediately. “They’re like… golden retriever eyes. But with trauma.”

Steve looked horrified. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is when you’re not the one being hunted,” Bucky replied.

I pointed at Steve again. “And for the record–”

He flinched.

“If I ever wrote you as oblivious in smut,” I repeated, slowly, “it wouldn’t be subtle.”

I paused, letting it sink in.

“It would be tragic.”

Steve stared at me, processing. “So… I wasn’t oblivious?”

I gave him a long look.

“Steve,” I said, “you read the porn to check if you were oblivious.”

Bucky leaned in just enough to murmur, “Bad news, pal.”

Steve’s face fell.

“And,” I added, “we’re not even talking about the comments yet.”

Bucky made a noise like a man remembering war. “Oh, God.”

I looked at Steve.

“So you also read the smut about Bucky,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “And the Stucky with reader.”

He nodded silently. Opened his mouth like he was about to say something – then thought better of it.

I pressed my lips together. “Fantastic.”

Bucky raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Don’t even start,” I said immediately. “I know you read it too. I can see it on your idiot face.”

“Hey!”

“Shh. I’m thinking.”

“Uh-oh,” Bucky muttered.

Steve seemed to finally find words. “I mean– aside from when you write us in the submissive role…” He hesitated, then powered through. “I actually like that we’re pretty… decisive. In those stories. That we know what we want.”

“Yeah,” I replied dryly, scraping together every last scrap of sarcasm I had left, “men usually know what they want in porn.”

Bucky snorted. Loudly.

Steve frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It absolutely is,” I said. “Porn confidence is not character development, Steve. It’s a genre convention.”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Bucky cut in. “You write us like we’re competent.”

I turned my head slowly toward him. “You are competent.”

“Debatable,” he said cheerfully. “But in those stories? Very.”

Steve nodded. “It’s… reassuring.”

I stared at the ceiling, reconsidering every life choice that had led me here. “I cannot believe I’m having a literary analysis conversation about my own smut. In my living room.”

Bucky glanced at the new throw blanket again.

I shot him another warning look.

He held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” I replied. “Your vibes are loud.”

Steve cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth… I didn’t think it was embarrassing.”

“That is not helping.”

“I mean– for you,” he clarified quickly. “I was embarrassed for me.”

“That’s at least appropriate.”

There was a short pause.

“…You’re still thinking,” Bucky observed.

“Yes,” I said. “And that’s bad news for you.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged. “Because you only think like that when you’re about to do something terrible.”

“Correct.”

Bucky smiled, slow and intrigued. “Terrible how?”

I looked at both of them.

“Remember how I said I’m only mentally available for smut right now?”

They both nodded, wary.

“And remember how you broke the one rule I set?”

Steve winced. Bucky grimaced.

I folded my arms. “Congratulations. You’ve just turned this into a problem-solving exercise.”

Steve swallowed. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You won’t,” I assured him. “But you will like how decisive you are.”

Bucky blinked.

“…Oh,” he said. Then he turned pensive.

“Actually,” he started again, “you’re going to have to explain something to me.”

“I’m listening,” I said, wary.

“There are, apparently,” he went on, very carefully, “a lot of categories of smut.”

“Yes.”

“And there’s really a difference?” he asked. “Like… does it actually matter?”

I blinked.

“Oh.”

“What?” he demanded immediately.

I stared at him for a second longer.

Then I let out a slow breath and shook my head like I was witnessing a rare, endangered species in the wild.

“Oh, that’s so…” I said softly. “Cute. Innocent.”

Bucky scowled. “Don’t do that.”

Steve, beside him, looked like he already regretted having opened this door in the first place.

I leaned back against the couch armrest, folding my hands in my lap with the calm of someone about to commit a felony in broad daylight.

“Yes, James,” I said sweetly. “There’s a difference.”

“Okay,” he said, suspicious. “Explain it. In normal words.”

“In normal words,” I repeated. “Right. Sure.”

I held up one finger.

“First: rating and explicitness. There’s a spectrum. Suggestive. Explicit. Graphic. Sometimes ‘smut’ is just ‘they had sex’ and fade-to-black. Sometimes it’s… a guided tour with commentary.”

Bucky made a face. “That’s not normal words.”

Steve coughed. “It kind of is.”

I held up a second finger.

“Second: dynamic. Who’s in control. Who’s not. Whether it’s switching, whether it’s soft, whether it’s rough, whether it’s playful, whether it’s ‘holy shit are they okay’–”

Steve’s eyes widened. “There are ones like that?”

“Steve,” I said, deadpan, “internet.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, the tiniest crack of concern showing. “So you mean like… top and bottom?”

“That’s a part of it,” I said, nodding. “But not the whole thing.”

I held up a third finger.

“Third: setup. Is it romantic? Is it hate-fueled? Is it friends-to-lovers? Is it strangers? Is it ‘we’re trapped in a supply closet and suddenly the plot requires friction’?”

Bucky stared. “…Does that happen often?”

“Way more than it should,” I said.

Steve looked faintly impressed. “Resourceful.”

“Desperate,” I corrected.

I held up a fourth finger.

“Fourth: kinks and tropes. Some are common, some are niche, some are–” I paused, very deliberately. “–not for a living room conversation with two men who already violated my boundaries.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it, like his brain had finally decided to cooperate.

Steve nodded quickly. “That’s fair.”

Bucky pointed a finger at me. “No. You can’t do that. You can’t start explaining and then stop.”

“I absolutely can,” I said, smiling. “Because I am the author and God is dead.”

Steve muttered, “Please don’t say that like it’s a threat.”

“It’s not a threat,” I replied. “It’s a warning.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “So categories are basically… intensity, dynamics, and… vibes.”

“Look at you,” I said, delighted. “You’re learning.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing,” I lied smoothly. “I’m educating.”

Steve shifted awkwardly. “So… which category are you mentally available for?”

I turned my head toward him very slowly.

Bucky followed my gaze.

Steve immediately looked like he wanted to crawl behind the couch and live there forever.

I smiled, bright and terrible.

“Really, Steve,” I said, voice climbing higher with every word. “You’re asking me what I’m capable of writing in smut? Really? REALLY?”

“I feel like I’m going to regret this,” he admitted, “but yes.”

“Stop encouraging her!” Bucky snapped.

I laughed, because I could already feel it turning into a nightmare. Again.

“Okay then…” I began.

“No. No, no, no.”

“Too late, Bucky,” I said brightly. “Be quiet now, please, and let the adult explain life to you.”

Bucky glared like he was considering faking his own death. Again.

“Right. Where was I?” I tapped a finger against my cheek, pretending to think. “Oh yes. So right now, I’m working on this kind of mini series. Stepdad Steve and (step)DBF Bucky.”

“DBF?” Steve asked, genuinely puzzled.

I stared at him.

“…Oh my God,” I whispered. Then, louder: “You want me to explain the acronyms too?”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t.”

Steve looked helpless. “I just– I don’t know what it means.”

“Because you’re a good person,” I said flatly. “And because the universe is cruel.”

I took a deep breath, like I was about to teach a class I never applied for.

“Okay. Acronyms. In fanfic spaces, people shorten tropes because otherwise tags would be longer than the actual story.”

I held up a finger. “DBF means Dad’s Best Friend.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

Bucky made a strangled noise. “Of course it does.”

“Yes,” I said. “It does. And step-DBF is when the ‘dad’ is technically a stepdad, or the best friend is tied in through the step-parent situation.”

Steve blinked rapidly. “That’s… specific.”

“That’s fandom,” I said. “Fandom is specific.”

Bucky pointed at me accusingly. “And you’re writing that.”

“Not currently,” I corrected. “I said I’m working on it.”

“You’re thinking about it,” he shot back. “That’s already a crime.”

Steve cleared his throat, attempting to be the voice of reason and failing miserably. “So… the tags are like… warnings?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes they’re warnings, sometimes they’re advertising, sometimes they’re both.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. “I hate it here.”

Steve looked at me again, hesitant but still curious, which was the real problem. “Are there… other common acronyms?”

“Oh, plenty,” I said too cheerfully. “Like, AU is Alternate Universe. E2L is Enemies to Lovers. OOC is Out Of Character–”

“I know those,” Steve said quickly, like he wanted credit for something.

“Congratulations,” I replied. “You’ve learned the kiddie pool acronyms.”

Bucky choked. “Kiddie– what–”

I waved him off. “Anyway. The smut ones get… more specialized.”

Steve nodded slowly, bracing himself. “Okay.”

Bucky pointed at him. “Stop doing that. Stop nodding like this is educational.”

“It is educational,” Steve argued weakly.

“It’s educational in the way a car crash is educational,” Bucky said.

I clapped my hands once. “Alright! Since we’re all here and making terrible choices… do you want the acronym list, or do you want to back out while you still have the moral high ground?”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “Back out.”

Steve hesitated exactly one beat too long.

“Steve,” Bucky warned.

Steve swallowed. “…A small list.”

I smiled like a shark.

“Fantastic,” I said. “Class is in session.”

I explained, because apparently this was my life now.

“DBF,” I said, ticking it off on my fingers, “Dad’s Best Friend. Which you’ve already lived through, emotionally, five minutes ago.”

Steve’s ears were still pink. He nodded like this was a TED Talk.

“BFD,” I continued, “is Boyfriend’s Dad.”

Bucky made a choked sound. “Why does that need an acronym?”

“Because fandom is efficient,” I said. “And unwell.”

Steve looked genuinely thoughtful. “Okay. That… makes sense. In a terrifying way.”

“DDDNE,” I went on, “stands for ‘Dead Dove, Do Not Eat.’ It’s basically a tag that says ‘this gets messy and potentially upsetting, proceed at your own risk.’” I lifted a hand, preemptively. “And yes, before you ask, there are only specific corners of it I dab in.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Like?”

“Like step-cest,” I said flatly. “Which is exactly probably the safest part as far as I’m concerned, and the only thing I can picture myself wirting.”

Steve’s face did something between confusion and moral distress. “People… tag that?”

“Steve,” I said, “people tag everything.”

Bucky muttered, “I’m going to start tagging my nightmares.”

I kept going, because I was already in too deep.

“A/B/O,” I said, “is a whole alternate dynamic. It’s… basically a fandom-specific biology and social structure thing. Not real. Not something you need to fact-check. Just… a framework people use for certain tropes.”

Steve nodded slowly, like he was carefully filing it away in his brain under Things I Will Never Mention At A Museum.

“And DILF,” I finished, “you actually might’ve heard. It’s–”

Steve cleared his throat. “Yeah. I know that one.”

Bucky shot him a look. “Of course you do.”

Steve looked affronted. “It’s… a common internet phrase.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, like he’d just caught him with a secret second phone.

I leaned back on the couch, satisfied with my educational carnage.

“Okay,” I said, clasping my hands. “Pop quiz. Do you know what the concept of a sugar daddy is?”

Steve hesitated. “Is that–”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “It is.”

Bucky groaned so loudly it was practically a stage direction.

“And do you know what a cam girl, or cam boy, is?” I added, because Steve had asked for this. With his whole chest.

Bucky threw his head back against the couch. “No. No, no, no– why are we doing this.”

Steve blinked, earnest to the point of tragedy. “I mean, I have… an idea? But I’m not sure.”

I pointed at him. “This is what curiosity does to you. It puts you in my living room while I explain adult internet slang like I’m an exhausted librarian.”

Bucky glared at Steve. “You did this.”

Steve looked at him apologetically. “You were curious too.”

“I was curious about categories,” Bucky argued. “Not–” he waved a hand vaguely at me, “–whatever this is.”

“This,” I said, “is consequences.”

Steve swallowed. “So… sugar daddy is… someone older who–”

“Provides gifts or financial support,” I finished, mercifully, “usually in exchange for a relationship that may or may not be explicitly romantic. Details vary. Everyone’s tagged consent-wise differently. Use your head. Don’t be a creep.”

Steve nodded quickly. “Right.”

Bucky muttered, “Too late.”

“And cam girl/boy,” I continued, “is basically someone who performs on camera, often for an audience, sometimes for money. Again, broad concept, lots of variations.”

Steve’s face went a very specific shade of I Wish I Had Stayed Fictional.

Bucky stared at the ceiling. “I’m going to disassociate.”

I clapped my hands once. “There. You’re both informed. You can now navigate the internet with slightly less danger.”

Steve’s voice was small. “This is… a lot.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why there are acronyms.”

Bucky sat up straighter, suddenly suspicious again. “So now that we know all this, what was the point?”

I smiled.

Steve went rigid.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” I said sweetly. “Because now you’ll understand the tags you weren’t supposed to be reading in the first place.”

Steve winced. “That feels fair.”

Bucky looked betrayed. “You’re agreeing with her now?”

Steve sighed. “I’ve learned it’s safer.”

I nodded, pleased. “Character development. Finally.”

“You know,” Bucky started, “this kind of makes it feel like you’re… obsessed. With us.”

I stared at him.

Then I let out a single, humorless laugh.

“Okay,” I said, very calmly, “first of all– wow. The audacity of that sentence just broke the sound barrier. Congratulations.”

Bucky lifted his chin like he was ready to defend himself. “I’m just saying–”

“Second of all,” I continued, pointing at him without looking away, “I do not allow you to use the word obsessed about me when you literally manifested in my kitchen like an intrusive thought with biceps.”

Steve made a small sound of agreement that was mostly panic.

Bucky frowned. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is,” I said. “I’m minding my business, unloading forks, and suddenly I have two living PTSD mascots in my apartment questioning my tag choices.”

Steve blinked. “PTSD mascots–?”

“Not the point,” I snapped, then went right back to Bucky. “Also– obsessed implies I’m out here against my will.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

I held up a finger. “I am, to a reasonable extent, a consenting participant in my own hyperfixations.”

Bucky squinted. “So you admit it.”

“I admit nothing,” I said instantly. “I said reasonable extent. I have boundaries. I have standards.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the new throw blanket again.

I didn’t even turn my head this time. “Don’t.”

Steve looked between us like a man watching two cats circle each other in a hallway. “I think he meant… you write about us a lot.”

I turned to Steve with the slow patience of someone explaining gravity.

“Yes,” I said. “Because you are fictional characters in a fandom. That is how fandom works. People write. About characters.”

Bucky tilted his head. “But you’re… very detailed.”

“That’s called craft,” I said, offended on principle.

“It’s called coping,” Bucky corrected smugly.

I pointed at him again. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me. You’re not licensed.”

“I’ve been in therapy,” he shot back.

“Yeah, and I’ve been on Tumblr,” I said. “We both have trauma.”

Steve exhaled through his nose like he was trying not to laugh and failing. “So you’re not obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed,” I confirmed. “I’m… invested.”

Bucky’s eyebrow went up. “Invested.”

I nodded. “Emotionally diversified portfolio.”

Steve looked genuinely interested for half a second, and I immediately regretted everything. “Is that why you–”

“Don’t,” Bucky warned him.

Steve stopped mid-sentence. “Sorry.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and smiled at Bucky with malicious serenity. “Also, for the record?”

Bucky stiffened. “What?”

“If I were obsessed,” I said, “you two would have been back here sooner.”

Steve choked on air.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be,” I replied.

There was a beat.

Then Bucky muttered, “Okay, but like… you have a new blanket.”

I slowly turned my head toward him.

He immediately raised both hands. “I’m not judging. I’m observing.”

“I bought a blanket,” I said, voice deadly. “Like a normal person.”

“You bought a blanket the same week you wrote Stepdad Steve and step-DBF Bucky,” he said, too casually.

Steve’s head snapped up. “Wait. That’s what the blanket–?”

“STEVE,” Bucky barked.

I closed my eyes. Counted to three. Opened them again.

“I cannot believe,” I said, very quietly, “that I am being interrogated by two men who broke into my home, read my porn, and are now doing textile-based forensic analysis.”

Steve, weakly: “It’s a nice blanket.”

Bucky nodded. “It is a nice blanket.”

I stared at both of them.

“Get out,” I said.

Neither of them moved.

“…Please?” I added, because apparently I was the only adult here.

Bucky smiled like he’d won something. “See? Obsessed.”

I threw a pillow at his face.

My phone buzzed.

A Tumblr anon message.

“Oh,” I said.

Bucky’s head snapped toward me like a startled cat. “What do you mean oh? What kind of oh is that? Why does that oh sound dangerous?”

“I hit a hundred followers a few days ago,” I said, still staring at my screen, “and I opened requests for stories.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “What kind of stories?”

“Uh. All kinds?”

“Even fluff?” Steve asked, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of my mouth.

“Yes.”

They both stared at me.

“I know,” I said defensively. “I know. Completely out of character for me. But I wanted to be nice. I wanted to do something that didn’t involve emotional devastation.”

Bucky squinted. “And how is that related to your oh?”

“I just got a new request.”

Steve leaned in a little. “From who?”

“Anon.”

Bucky pointed at my phone. “What is it?”

I took a slow breath.

And read it out loud, because apparently I enjoyed suffering.

“Sub Bucky whining.”

Silence.

Steve blinked.

Bucky froze like a computer that had just blue-screened.

Then, very carefully, Bucky said, “That’s… that’s not–”

“That’s exactly what it says,” I confirmed.

Steve’s mouth opened, then shut, like his brain was trying to decide which emergency response protocol to follow.

Bucky turned to Steve, horrified. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not,” Steve lied immediately, and then failed to look anywhere else.

I stared at my screen, then at them. “Okay. On the one hand: the internet is doing what the internet does.”

Bucky’s voice went hoarse. “On the other hand?”

“On the other hand,” I continued, “Anon just requested something so aggressively specific that I can hear the tag list forming in my skull.”

Bucky lifted both hands. “No. Absolutely not. Decline it.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Is it… popular?”

I snapped my head toward him. “Steve.”

“What?” he protested. “I’m just asking!”

Bucky jabbed a finger at him. “Stop asking questions that lead to porn!”

Steve looked genuinely offended. “It’s not porn, it’s–”

“It’s porn,” I said at the same time Bucky said, “It’s porn.”

Steve wilted. “Okay. It’s porn.”

I held the phone up slightly. “The worst part is: I can write it.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “That’s not the worst part.”

“It’s not?” I asked.

Bucky stared at me like I’d just confessed to tax fraud. “The worst part is you’re saying it like it’s a skill on your resume.”

Steve, very quietly: “It kind of is.”

I pointed at him without looking. “You. Silence.”

Steve shut his mouth instantly.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “So what did you do? Did you answer? Did you encourage them? Did you–”

“I literally just received it,” I said. “I haven’t even had time to spiral properly.”

Bucky exhaled. “Good. Great. We’re stopping this now.”

I tilted my head. “Are we?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Steve shifted on the couch, clearly fighting curiosity like it was an invading army. “You said you opened requests for all genres.”

“Yes,” I said.

“So… you can just… choose?” Steve asked carefully.

“Yes,” I repeated.

Bucky’s glare flicked to Steve. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make this sound reasonable.”

Steve held up his hands. “I’m not. I’m just saying she has options.”

“I do,” I said, nodding. “Like: write fluff. Write angst. Write something normal. Or…”

Bucky’s expression went flat with dread. “Or.”

I smiled at him.

Steve made a small distressed noise, like he recognized the shape of the problem before it hit him.

“Or,” I said sweetly, “I could write it out of spite, because you called me obsessed five minutes ago.”

Bucky shot to his feet. “That’s not a reason!”

“It’s an excellent reason,” I countered. “Spite is one of my most renewable resources.”

Steve stood up too, like he thought physical height might help. It wouldn’t. “Maybe you should… set boundaries?”

“I have boundaries,” I said. “They just don’t protect you.”

Bucky pointed at my phone again. “Decline it.”

I glanced down at the message. Then up at him.

“Okay,” I said. “Here are the three ways this goes.”

Bucky braced.

“One: I politely decline and suggest fluff, because I am a benevolent deity.”

Steve looked relieved.

“Two: I accept, but I keep it vague and tasteful, because I respect myself and my readers.”

Bucky looked suspicious. “And three.”

“Three,” I said, “I accept, and I tag it properly, and I weaponize your own audacity.”

Bucky stared at me. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m coping,” I corrected.

Steve swallowed. “What are you going to reply to Anon?”

I looked at my phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Then I read my draft out loud, because if I suffered, everyone suffered.

“‘Hey bestie. That’s… a bold request. Let me check my current bandwidth and my will to live.’”

Bucky stared. Steve coughed. I smiled.

“And that,” I said, “was me being nice.”

Then, I starred at my phone again.

“Oh.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed immediately. “What do you mean oh? Why is it oh again?”

I glanced at my screen. “I got two more requests for Bucky.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was asking God for a refund. “Why me???”

“Because you’re popular,” I said, deadpan. “I can’t help it. I offered other characters in my request post.”

Steve looked way too pleased not to be involved. “What do they want?”

“One anon wants an ex-to-lovers,” I said, scrolling, “with angst and smut.”

“Obviously,” Bucky muttered, like this was the most predictable thing on Earth.

“And the other one’s from Marta,” I added.

Bucky squinted. “Marta is nice.”

“She is. She’s also a person with taste,” I said. “She wants pure angst.”

Steve’s smile faltered. “Pure.”

“Pure,” I confirmed.

Bucky’s shoulders sagged. “I hate everyone.”

“And,” I continued, “she specifically asked for a line from a song to be in it. She wrote: ‘My love is winter, my love is lost.’”

Steve blinked. “That sounds… poetic.”

“That sounds like a knife with a poetry degree,” I replied.

Bucky pointed at me accusingly. “No. No, that’s not a request, that’s a threat.”

I shrugged. “It’s very on-brand, honestly.”

Steve leaned closer, frowning at my phone like it might bite him. “Do you know the song?”

“No,” I admitted. “Which means I’m going to have to listen to it.”

Bucky’s eyes widened in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“What do you mean absolutely not?”

“If you listen to an angst song,” Bucky said slowly, like he was explaining to a toddler why outlets were dangerous, “your brain is going to start plotting.”

Steve nodded once, solemn. “He’s right.”

I looked between them. “Why are you both acting like I’m a loaded weapon?”

“Because you are,” Bucky and Steve said at the exact same time.

I stared.

Steve cleared his throat and tried to recover. “Okay, but– the ex-to-lovers one. That’s… not the worst. That could be healing.”

Bucky turned to him. “Why are you saying that like she doesn’t turn healing into a car accident?”

I lifted a finger. “Correction: I turn healing into character development.”

Bucky’s face twitched. “That’s the same thing.”

I looked back at my phone. “Also, the anon said they wanted the angst and smut balanced.”

Steve’s eyebrows went up. “Balanced?”

“Yes,” I said. “Like it’s a nutritional plan.”

Bucky groaned. “Great. Fantastic. One serving of heartbreak, two servings of–”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Steve warned, looking a little haunted.

Bucky snapped his mouth shut, glaring.

I kept scrolling, thumb hovering over the keyboard like a guillotine.

“So,” I said thoughtfully, “option A: ex-to-lovers angst/smut. Option B: pure angst with ‘my love is winter, my love is lost’ as the emotional nail in the coffin.”

Bucky pointed at Steve. “This is your fault. You asked her what she was capable of.”

Steve looked genuinely offended. “I didn’t ask for winter love!”

I smiled to myself. “Honestly, Marta’s request is kind of sweet.”

Bucky stared at me. “How is ‘pure angst’ sweet?”

“It means she trusts me,” I said. “She looked at my blog and went, Yes. This person will hurt me correctly.”

Steve whispered, “That’s… terrifying.”

“It’s community,” I argued.

Bucky dropped onto the couch like a man defeated by capitalism. “I’m going to start charging royalties.”

Steve sat beside him, carefully not touching him, like Bucky might explode. “Are you going to accept them?”

I glanced at the three requests on my screen.

Then I sighed.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m setting conditions.”

Bucky sat up a little. “Like what?”

I lifted my phone.

“Like you two,” I said, “stop hovering over my shoulder like emotional-support hyenas.”

Steve looked embarrassed. “We’re not–”

“You are,” I said.

Bucky pointed at my phone again. “And you’re not replying to them right now.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

“Because you’re smiling,” Bucky said flatly. “And that’s never a good sign when you’re holding Tumblr.”

Steve leaned in, voice cautious. “Are you… smiling because you’re happy people like your writing?”

I looked at him.

Then I looked at Bucky.

Then back at Steve.

“I was smiling,” I said gently, “because I just realized I can make the ex-to-lovers one hurt and the Marta one destroy.”

Steve’s face fell.

Bucky’s eyes closed like he was praying.

“Okay,” Steve said weakly. “Maybe set more conditions.”

Bucky complained that Steve was being way too smug about not showing up in the request list.

I shrugged. “You know, there are still thirteen days left. Plenty of time for it to happen.”

Steve’s smile twitched, like he was trying to hold it back and failing.

“Or not,” I added, sweetly.

Steve’s smile froze.

Bucky pointed at him. “See? That. That face. That’s the face of a man who thinks he’s safe.”

Steve blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bucky said. “You’re radiating smug.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I’m not smug. I’m just… relieved.”

“Same thing,” Bucky replied.

I leaned back, watching them bicker like it was a sport. “Also, Steve, don’t get too comfortable.”

Steve’s eyes darted to me. “Why?”

“Because Tumblr is a lawless wasteland,” I said. “And the moment someone realizes you’re ‘Captain America but weirdly earnest about consent,’ it’s over.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s going to be a tag?”

“It’s going to be a selling point,” I said.

Steve looked torn between offended and deeply concerned. “I’m not weirdly earnest.”

“You are,” Bucky said instantly.

I nodded. “You are. It’s like… your brand.”

Steve frowned. “My brand is saving people.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “And in smut, that translates into a very specific vibe.”

Bucky made a noise. “Please stop.”

Steve’s ears went pink again. “What vibe?”

I tilted my head, thoughtful. “The ‘are you okay?’ vibe. The ‘tell me what you want’ vibe.”

Bucky shoved a pillow over his face.

Steve looked genuinely startled. “That’s just… normal.”

“It is normal,” I said. “Which is why the internet is going to eat you alive.”

Bucky’s voice came muffled through the pillow. “Good.”

I glanced at my phone again, thumb scrolling idly. “Anyway. Thirteen days.”

Steve swallowed. “Why do you keep saying it like that?”

“Because,” I said, smiling in a way that made Bucky sit up and Steve stiffen, “I’ve learned that if I tempt fate out loud, it responds faster.”

Bucky stared at me. “You’re trying to summon it.”

“I’m not trying,” I said. “I’m just… open to opportunities.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Please don’t.”

Bucky pointed at Steve again. “Now you know how it feels.”

Steve sighed. “I never wanted to know how it feels.”

I shrugged again, innocent as sin. “You should’ve stayed out of the comments.”

Steve eventually asked, “Why did you ask for prompts based on songs?”

“Because I need to broaden my musical horizons.”

“Your playlist already has songs in, like, five different languages,” he pointed out.

“And?” I challenged.

“And you don’t even speak Arabic.”

“It was for narrative purposes,” I said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “For the story with Nyx. I just looked up translations to make sure it matched what I wanted emotionally.”

“The Last Crescent Moon?” Steve asked.

“Yes,” I said. “She’s from a country where people speak Arabic. She’s not going to only listen to music in English.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And for the record, just because I’m French doesn’t mean I’m closed off to music from other countries.”

Steve raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. Fair.”

Bucky, who had been quiet for a suspiciously long time, suddenly squinted at me. “So how many languages do you actually speak?”

“French, obviously,” I said. “Fluent English too, since it was my field of study. I’ve got vague remnants of German and Spanish from high school– I can’t speak them, but I can usually understand written text.” I paused, thinking. “And I barely have any Portuguese left. I studied it at uni.”

I let the silence hang for a beat.

Then I added, very seriously, “And I can insult people in Italian, which is basically the foundation of any language, honestly.”

Steve blinked. “That’s not–”

“It is,” Bucky cut in immediately, nodding like this was sacred truth. “That’s literally the first thing you learn.”

I pointed at him. “See? Finally, someone with culture.”

Steve sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I cannot believe I’m being outnumbered in a conversation about language learning.”

“Welcome to the world,” I told him sweetly. “It’s multilingual and full of insults.”

Bucky leaned forward, eyes narrowing again. “So you asked for song prompts to get people to recommend you music.”

“Yes,” I said. “Also because song lyrics are basically pre-packaged angst.”

Steve frowned. “Or fluff.”

“Or fluff,” I admitted reluctantly. “But mostly angst.”

Bucky muttered, “Of course.”

Steve looked at me with the kind of cautious curiosity that made my skin crawl. “So you’re going to write based on whatever they send.”

“Depends,” I said. “If someone sends me something that feels like a knife, yes. If someone sends me something that feels like… a motivational poster, no.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “That’s fair.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to my phone again. “Is there another message?”

I smiled faintly.

Steve and Bucky both tensed.

“No,” I said, pleased with myself. “Not yet.”

Steve exhaled. “Thank God.”

“And,” I added, casually, “if there is…”

Bucky groaned. “She’s going to say ‘oh’.”

“I’m going to say ‘oh’,” I confirmed.

Steve looked resigned. “And then we’re going to suffer.”

“Yes,” I said. “Because you’re here.”

Bucky leaned back, arms crossed. “Remind me why we’re here again.”

I looked at him. “Because you wanted to check the damage ahead of time.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “This is the damage.”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

A cough behind me made me turn around.

Natasha was there, and she was already glaring at the other two like she’d caught them committing a crime against common sense.

“Finally!” I threw my hands up toward the ceiling. “You might need to start considering tracking collars for them so they stop running off like this, don’t you think?”

Natasha’s smile spread, slow and delighted.

Steve and Bucky, on the other hand, looked significantly less enthusiastic.

Steve’s posture went rigid, instantly polite in the way he got when danger wore eyeliner. “Natasha.”

“Steve,” she replied, sweet as poison.

Bucky shifted like he was calculating exits. “Hey, Nat.”

“James.” Her tone sharpened on the single syllable. Not louder. Just worse.

I stepped aside like I was clearing the stage for a professional.

Natasha’s eyes flicked to me. “So,” she said calmly, “are you okay?”

“I was,” I replied, “until they broke into my apartment, read my porn, and started doing psychological warfare with my throw blanket.”

Natasha’s gaze snapped back to them.

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. “It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“It is bad,” Natasha said.

Bucky tried, “We didn’t break in.”

Natasha didn’t even blink. “Then why are you here?”

Bucky paused. “…We walked in.”

“Into someone else’s home,” she clarified, still calm. Still smiling.

Steve cleared his throat. “We were checking on her.”

Natasha tilted her head. “By reading her explicit work about you?”

Steve winced. “That… wasn’t the plan.”

Bucky muttered, “It was kind of an accident.”

Natasha’s smile widened. “You accidentally read multiple pieces of smut.”

Bucky looked genuinely offended by how accurate that sounded. “When you say it like that–”

“That’s because it’s exactly like that,” I said.

Natasha sighed like a woman bearing the burdens of an entire team’s stupidity. “Alright.” She took one step into the room, measured them with her eyes, then looked back at me. “Do you want them removed?”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Natasha–”

Bucky immediately said, “No need for violence.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about violence?”

Bucky swallowed. “You did. With your face.”

Natasha ignored him and addressed me again. “Removed?”

I smiled, because I was feeling safer now. Invincible, even.

“I want them to stop hovering,” I said. “And I want Steve to stop looking proud of himself every time he learns a new acronym.”

Steve opened his mouth, then shut it like a guilty kid.

Natasha’s gaze drifted to him. “Acronyms?”

Steve’s voice went small. “It was educational.”

Natasha blinked once. “For you.”

“Yes.”

Natasha nodded slowly, the way she did right before she ruined someone’s day. “Okay.”

Bucky shifted again. “Can we– can we talk about the tracking collar thing?”

Natasha looked at him. “No.”

Steve tried, very carefully, “It was a joke.”

Natasha’s smile returned. “Was it?”

Steve’s shoulders slumped. “No.”

“Good,” Natasha said, satisfied.

I leaned closer to her, conspiratorial. “Also, Bucky called me obsessed.”

Natasha’s head turned toward him like a turret.

Bucky immediately said, “In my defense–”

Natasha held up a hand. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s mouth snapped shut.

Natasha glanced at my phone. “Are you still getting requests?”

“Yes,” I said. “All of them are for him.”

Natasha hummed. “That tracks.”

Bucky threw his hands up. “Why does everyone keep agreeing with her.”

Natasha’s expression softened into something almost kind. Almost.

“Because,” she said, “unlike you, she reads the room.”

Steve muttered, “She really does.”

I nodded. “It’s my superpower.”

Natasha took another step forward, cutting the distance between herself and the two men. “Alright,” she said, still calm. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stop bothering her. You’re going to stop reading things you’re not supposed to read.”

Steve nodded quickly. “Yes.”

Bucky nodded too, reluctantly. “Yes.”

“And,” Natasha added, her eyes flicking to the throw blanket like she already knew too much, “you’re going to go do something normal.”

Steve asked, “Like what?”

Natasha smiled.

“Laundry,” she said.

Bucky’s face fell. “That’s cruel.”

Natasha’s smile stayed. “I know.”

I clasped my hands together like a delighted little villain. “This is why I like you.”

Natasha turned to me. “As long as you don’t write about me, we’ll keep getting along.”

“I know,” I said easily. “And anyway, no offense, you don’t really inspire me as a main character.”

She arched an eyebrow, amused rather than offended.

“Why?” Bucky asked, once again choosing audacity. Or stupidity. Possibly both.

I looked at him.

“…Because I write about characters who could interest me romantically,” I said calmly, “and I’m not attracted to women.”

“Oh,” Steve said. Then, after half a second too many, “But I thought you weren’t interested in us?”

I sighed, the long-suffering sigh of someone who had explained this concept more times than should be legally allowed.

“In fiction, you interest me,” I said. “In real life, no. I’m very happy with my partner. I’ve been with him for over twenty years, and I have two kids.”

Silence.

Steve blinked. Bucky froze.

“…Oh,” Steve said again, but this time softer. Processing.

Bucky frowned. “Where are they?”

“Thankfully,” I replied, “not here every time you decide to show up. For their mental health alone, it’s much better this way.”

Natasha snorted.

Steve looked faintly horrified. “We– We’ve been barging into a house with kids?”

“Yes,” I said. “Which is another reason you should be grateful they’re not around.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. That… puts things in perspective.”

Natasha glanced between the two of them. “See? She has a life. A real one.”

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “I just– I forget sometimes.”

“Clearly,” Natasha replied.

I leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re fictional hyperfixations. You live in the part of my brain reserved for stories, catharsis, and controlled emotional damage. That does not overlap with my actual relationship.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “So we’re… compartmentalized.”

“Very much so,” I confirmed. “You don’t get to cross-contaminate.”

Steve looked relieved. “That’s… good.”

Natasha smirked. “See? No danger.”

Bucky glanced at me. “Except for the writing.”

I smiled sweetly. “That danger is self-inflicted.”

Steve hesitated. “So… your partner knows about all this?”

“Yes,” I said. “He knows I write. He knows what I write. He’s fine with it.”

Bucky stared. “That’s… healthy.”

“It is,” I agreed. “Which is why I’d like to keep it that way.”

Natasha clapped her hands once. “Great. Boundaries established.”

She looked at Steve and Bucky. “You heard her. Fictional only. No hovering. No reading things you shouldn’t.”