the planets and the fates and all the stars aligned: Chapter 12
Sorry for the delay, but here's the new chapter. The usual drill: Series masterlist and the chapter is also up on AO3. Enjoy!
“All set!” you call out as you set down the controls Rocky made to steer the ship using the beetles. You’re unsure if the others can hear you, but you continue talking from your spot in the control room. “I adjusted the angle of our approach since we were veering slightly off course.”
Again, there’s no reply, but you can hear Rocky and Ryland’s voices below you in the lab. As you finish re-checking your calculations on one of the control room’s screens to give the pair a full update, you hear the translation software that serves as Rocky’s voice.
“Rocky have question.”
After a beat, Ryland responds. “What’s your question?”
You walk toward the hatch that leads to the lab as Rocky says your and Ryland’s names. “Said you had no mates. Rocky notice change in behavior. Mates now, question?”
Your body stills over the top rung of the ladder you had just begun to climb, and your cheeks flush. Since your kiss after Rocky offered you Astrophage to go back to Earth, you and Ryland hadn’t had time to have a proper discussion about what you are to each other. You know you both want a future together, and the memories you’ve regained indicate that you and Ryland became a couple.
“What does being mates mean on Erid?” Ryland replies, and you can hear the thoughtfulness in his tone.
You know you should continue climbing down, but curiosity gets the better of you, and you remain in place at the top of the ladder.
“Mates live together, watch each other sleep, lay eggs together,” Rocky explains slowly, clearly thinking over his answer. “Mates care and worry about each other. Day is better with mate, happier with mate.”
You’ve always considered Rocky to be a very practical person—well, Eridian—but when he talks about Adrian, he shows he’s a romantic at heart. It seems humans and Eridians have similar ideas about romance. However, there’s a note of sadness in Rocky’s tone that shows how much he misses his mate. It makes you want to comfort him—
“Ryland?” You called out as you knocked on the door of Ryland’s mobile home.
After a few moments of silence, you heard shuffling, and the door swung open, revealing a frazzled-looking Ryland. His hair stuck up at awkward angles as if he had been running his hands through it, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, showing he had been crying extensively. Considering he now had less than half an hour to tell Stratt his decision, his appearance wasn’t all that surprising.
Upon seeing his lower lip begin to wobble, you stepped through the doorway and pulled him into a hug. His arms instantly wrapped around you, and you heard him let out a small sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come,” you said, your face pressed against his chest, “I was only just able to sneak out early from a meeting.”
Ryland shook his head as he slowly pulled away from the hug. “It’s okay, I’m just glad you’re here.”
Taking his hand, you led him across the short distance to his bed and ushered him to sit next to you. “I’m sorry we sprung the meeting on you earlier. Stratt only told us a couple of hours ago, and I was given very strict orders not to tell you ahead of time.”
A humorless laugh escaped his lips. “I’m not sure how much a heads-up would’ve helped anyway.” He stared bitterly down at his hands in his lap. “There’s probably no easy way to find out that everyone I know came together to decide I should die.”
Unwittingly, you winced at his words and reached next to you to place a hand on top of his. “Ryland, that isn’t what that was.”
“Isn’t it?” He turned his head to look at you with watery eyes. “Yes, I’d go on the mission, but at the end of the day, it’s signing up to die.”
You paused for a few seconds before speaking. “Isn’t that what I signed up for?” Ryland’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to reply, but you continued before he could. “I’m an astronomer getting to travel light-years to another solar system. It’s basically a dream come true.” You met his gaze. “I signed up for this a long time ago… but you didn’t.”
Ryland stared at you for a few moments before standing up to pace. “You’re right, you’re an astronomer who’s been training for this. But me? I’m a middle school science teacher. My place is with the kids, in the classroom.”
You couldn’t help but sigh. “You’re a science teacher with a PhD in molecular biology and an expert in Astrophage biology.”
His shoulder slumped, and he stopped pacing to turn to you. “You asked me what I’m going to do after the launch, and I said I’d go back to teaching in San Francisco.” He strode forward and took your hand in his. “The truth is, the only future I can imagine is one where I’m teaching kids, you’re doing the research you love as a professor, and we come home to each other at the end of the day.”
You could almost see the picture he painted. “You’re forgetting one important part.” Ryland’s eyebrows furrowed, and a sad smile tugged on your lips. “Even if you say no to Stratt, I’m still going on the mission.”
Ryland ran a hand across his face. “So, no matter what I decide, you’re still going to die light-years away from Earth?”
You tentatively stood up. “No matter what you decide, I’ll die saving Earth.” Placing a hand on his cheek, he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. “If you go, at least we’ll be together.”
After a few seconds, Ryland reached up and lowered your hand from his cheek. “I’m sorry,” He whispered before opening his eyes, revealing they were glistening with unshed tears. “I know it’s the right thing to do, but I just… I can’t do it.”
Despite the sob that clawed at your throat, you forced a reassuring smile and pulled him into a hug. “You don’t have to apologize, Ryland.” With his face angled away from yours in the hug, you allowed your tears to fall. “I understand… I understand.”
You lean forward as the memory slips through your fingers, making you frown. Ryland was going to tell Stratt no?
You’re brought out of your thoughts by Ryland’s voice. “Then, yeah, I guess we are mates.” It takes you a moment to remember what Ryland is responding to, and when you do, butterflies erupt in your stomach, unrelated to your confusion from regaining a memory.
“Be happy mates on Earth, question?” Rocky replies, this time in a cheerier tone.
A chuckle from Ryland reaches your ears. “That’s the plan, yes.”
You wait a few moments to see if they’ll say anything more, but all you hear is the shuffling of Rocky and Ryland resuming their work in the lab. Taking that as your cue, you climb down the lab and join them. As you suspected, Ryland is hunched over one of the Taumeba breeder tanks, and Rocky is fiddling with something in his xenonite tunnel.
“All done!” you announce, prompting the pair to turn to you. “I adjusted one of the beetle’s thrusts so we’ll get there sooner and come at a better angle to the Blip-A.”
Ryland straightened and turned to you with a smile. “I’m glad we have an astronomer on board.”
You waved away his response. “Beat that, everyone who ever asked me what I’d do with a master’s degree in physics.” You looked back and forth between Rocky and Ryland. “Anything interesting happen while I was up there?”
Ryland’s eyes darted to Rocky before sending you a shrug. “Nothing really.”
Even though Rocky doesn’t have eyes, something in the tilt of his carapace tells you he knew you were listening to their conversation. You raise an eyebrow, challenging him to call you out.
Instead, he readjusts his hold on whatever machinery he’s working on. “Grace just noisy when eating,” the Eridian replies, humor written into the movement of his carapace. “Grace is messy when eating, is leaky space blob.”
tags: childhood trauma, creampie, dom/sub undertones, established relationship, freudian elements, not beta read, rough sex, squirting, table sex, threats of violence, trans character, trans male character, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
The heavy velvet curtains of the dining room are drawn tight against the dark, sealing the two of you in a sanctuary of amber lamplight.
You sit across from Laszlo at the impeccably set dining table. Half-finished plates of rich boeuf à la mode sit between you, the silver cutlery gleaming under the soft flicker of the lamps. On the gramophone, the needle follows the groove of a Verdi record; the soprano's voice rises in a mournful, soaring arc, her vibrato thick with a tragic beauty that gently fills the high-ceilinged room.
You trace the rim of your wine glass with a thumb, your gaze fixed somewhere deep within the dark red liquid. You aren't truly seeing it though.
Dark eyes lift to catch your gaze from across the table.
"Is dinner not to your liking?" Laszlo asks as he sets down his fork, studying you with that professional curiosity that never quite leaves his features. You look up at him, slightly startled, as if being pulled from deep in thought. "You're being unusually quiet tonight, my love."
"Hm? Oh! Yes, of course. It's lovely." You assure him as you also place down your cutlery but his brow furrows.
"Something seems to be preoccupying your thoughts. Would you care to share it with me?" He collects his hands in his lap, leaning back in his chair, listening attentively.
You can — and often do — approach taboo subjects with Laszlo, particularly at the dinner table. He is very difficult to shock as he has seen so much in his forty years of living. You often find yourself discussing the harrowing mental states of bereaved individuals or the philosophy of murderers so your current thoughts may even bring some levity to your usual conversation.
"I was reading a book in the study before dinner. It was quite informative." You tell him, watching the faint glow of candlelight flicker across his face as you speak.
"A book? And what was the subject matter that has left you so pensive?" He asks in response as he takes a tip of his wine, his eyes never leaving your own.
"'Psychopathia Sexualis'." The name of the book rolls off your tongue and his eyes widen slightly before he schools his expression, setting down his wine glass and lightly drumming the fingers of his good hand on the edge of the dining table.
Psychopathia Sexualis; a book by Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing, one of the first texts on sexual pathology. Laszlo likely studied it while at university to get an insight into what society labelled as its more...disturbed individuals. In fact, you know this is fact as you spent hours poring over the notes written in the margins of the pages, notes in his neat cursive scrawl.
He hums, low and thoughtful, before a shadow of amusement flickers across his features; something warm and private, meant only for you. He leans forward with both elbows on the table, the meal now forgotten.
"And does the good professor's catalogue of perversions have implications for our own arrangement here, little dove? Or was there a particular passage that captured your imagination?" He asks and a small, coy smile curls at your lips.
"It made me curious." You respond simply.
"Curious?" He repeats. His brows lift but there's no judgement in his tone, only a familiar clinical fascination tainted with something deeper, something more intimate. "About what?"
"It made me wonder what 'aberrations' afflict my dear Doctor Kreizler." Your smile is wider now as is his; suddenly wolfish, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. He reaches for his wineglass again, taking a slow sip before responding.
"You presume I have them then." It's not a question but a statement.
"Yes, I do. Such an intense and complicated man could hardly be strictly pure when it comes to his...predilections." You cut away a sliver of meat from your plate and slide it between your lips, watching him with a kind of simmering heat. He watches you with hooded eyes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.
"And what sort of predilections might you attribute to your most respectable partner, hm?" His voice is growing low and husky now, his professional detachment slipping. You look away, squinting, as you think.
"I was thinking perhaps some form of partialism?" You propose and he nods slowly, considering.
"The attraction to specific body parts, yes... But you will have to be more specific, my love. My patience for half-articulated hypotheses is rather limited." He tilts his head, studying you as one might study an intriguing specimen.
"Well, you are so invested in connecting the present individual to the child so I would suspect a form of partialism towards...hands? Arms, perhaps?" He stills, tensing slightly before releasing it.
"Hm. Observant." He murmurs approvingly. You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table and cradling your head with your hands.
"Perhaps a hint of sadism?" You pry and his gaze sharpens, lingering on the pose you've adopted.
"An interesting proposition. And what leads you to that conclusion?" He asks, absently threading his fingers together.
"Well, seeing as your father was quite domineering, it would make sense for you to desire control now, preferably legally and with a consenting partner, yes?" The air between you shifts, broken only by the soft strains of the opera drifting from the gramophone. You know you're pushing your luck. Laszlo doesn't like discussing his father and here you are; analysing his trauma, probing into his darkest corners, just as he does to others. You can see him pinned to the spot by the question, the gears turning in his head as he parses whether he should be upset or aroused. He exhales slowly through his nose.
"Perhaps." He says quietly. Your smile widens ever so slightly at the victory you claim at rendering him speechless for even the briefest of moments.
"Then perhaps there's something you might surprise me with?" You press and his lips twitch. Suddenly, he looks a lot less like the respected doctor and more like the man you fell in love with; one with hidden depths and unexpected appetites.
"Is that an invitation to explore your hypothesis further?" He asks and you level your gaze on him once again, burning with lustful curiosity.
"Absolutely." You reply instantly and his gaze holds yours, intense and challenging.
"Very well then. Let's play a game." He place the napkin from his lap on the table beside his plate. "I shall give you a clue; you are quite correct about my interest in hands and arms." He begins slowly. "But you have misidentified the nature of the fixation." He takes another sip of wine, his eyes blazing with heat over the rim of the glass.
"Oh?" You tilt your head, intrigued.
"Not attraction; control, restraint." He rises from his chair, moving around the table with a kind of predatory grace, coming to a stop behind you. His fingertips brush the nape of your neck and trace down toward your shoulder, making goosebumps rise across your skin. "I derive a certain...satisfaction from holding." And you hum in understanding.
"I believe I can deduce what you mean by that." You reply, not turning to look at him. His touch lingers as his fingers move to trail over your collarbone and dip into the hollow of your throat.
"Do tell me then. I'm always eager to hear your theories." He lets his hand drop to his side as you stand and turn on your heel to face him, your fingers running slowly along his atrophied left arm.
"I suppose you would like to restrain me in the way you were... When your father did this to you?" His breath hitches at the touch and he stiffens slightly, his expression flickering with a complex mix of emotions; pain, shame and something else, something warmer.
"You are too perceptive for your own good, little dove." He murmurs, eyes narrowing. You lean closer until your lips are barely an inch from his own, your breath warm on his lips.
"But am I wrong?" His eyes darken, flicking down to your lips and then back up again.
"No, you're not." He admits, his uninjured hand coming up to cradle your jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing your bottom lip. "The irony is not lost on me. I spend my days freeing minds from trauma, while privately I fantasise about recreating my own on another." In a more loving gesture, you slip your hand into his injured one, careful not to hurt him. A shudder runs through him at the touch, his hand curling weakly around yours.
"If there's one thing you've taught me, it's that the human mind can be oddly predictable at times."
"And what would you predict I'd do now?" He whispers hoarsely and you shake your head.
"I'm not certain... Though I can tell you what I'd hope." His grip on your jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, his thumb pressing more firmly against your lip. The hand curled into your own twitches.
"And what would that be?"
"That you might put your fantasies into practice." Your voice drops to a low purr and he swallows thickly, his thumb still tracing your lip.
"You would let me...?" He trails off, the implication hanging heavy in the air between you. A flash of hurt crosses your gaze but you move to wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close.
"But of course. I want to know you, Laszlo. All of you, not just the parts you want me to see." You tell him, every ounce of teasing gone from your voice. His uninjured arm wraps around the small of your back automatically, pulling you flush against him, while the other blindly searches for your hip. "I want to know what you love, what you dread. What makes you laugh and cry. And what makes you shrivel in disgust and go feral with desire. Laszlo, darling, I want to know everything." It takes him a moment to find his voice.
"Including the ugly parts?" He asks, voice low and rough, as he presses his forehead against your temple. "Even the parts that disgust me?" You pull away slightly, smiling adoringly, and rub your nose against his.
"And yet they may be the most wonderful to me." At your words, he makes a choked sound which could be a laugh or a sob.
"You're either extraordinarily compassionate or extraordinarily masochistic." He murmurs against your lips. "Probably both." That pulls a warm chuckle from you.
"Likely both."
Laszlo finally closes the distance between you, kissing you deeply, desperately. He kisses you with the passion of a man so close to being free of the shackles of his past. His weak hand trembles against your hip as if trying to hold onto something solid. Your arms are still wrapped around his shoulders, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you respond to him in kind.
The kiss deepens, becoming almost frantic in its intensity. His right hand slides from your jaw to tangle in your hair while the other remains helplessly clenched at your waist. He's breathing hard through his nose, body pressed tightly against yours as if he could disappear into you entirely. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lips swollen.
"Show me, Laszlo..." You huff breathlessly. He closes his eyes for a moment, jaw clenching. When he opens them again, they're different; harder, controlled.
"On the table." He commands, voice stripped of its usual warmth. "Hands flat. Do not move them."
Obediently, you turn and bend over the dining table, laying your palms flat on the tablecloth. He watches you assume the position with dark satisfaction, his weak hand curling into a fist at his side as he moves behind you, the good one reaching out to press firmly between your shoulder blades, holding you down. "Spread your legs." He orders, voice cold, almost clinical. You shuffle your legs further apart, feeling the weight of his hand lift from your back. "You wanted to see the truth of me..." He breathes, reaching for your wrist with his right hand.
Suddenly, Laszlo grasps your wrist and wrenches your arm behind your back. You gasp and hiss as the muscles in your shoulder are twisted at an odd, awkward angle. The sound and position send a rush of pure, unbridled heat up to his brain before flooding down to his groin. He freezes for a moment as his cock twitches painfully in his trousers and he feels an assault of shame and desire so intense it nearly makes him lightheaded. His fingers tighten around your wrist, holding you still. "Do you like that?" His breath comes in short, sharp bursts against your ear and you can feel him pressing up against you from behind. "You will learn to like it, boy."
You shiver under him, feeling him lift himself off you to straighten again. The fingers of his weak hand slide under the waistband of your trousers and underthings, pushing them down with what little force he can muster through the cripple limb. The way he twists your arm forces your back to arch and, when your clothes finally pool around your ankles, he exposes your centre, already wet and swollen with want. Trembling fingers trail along your weeping entrance, collecting the copious amount of slick there. "Good boy..." The words are foreign on his tongue, coming from someplace older than him. Two fingers press inside you without warning, making you gasp at the sudden intrusion, and his other hand tightens further on your wrist, pushing it higher, mimicking the position he was forced into as a child; only now, he's the one in control. "Do you like this?" He demands.
"Y-Yes, Doctor Kreizler..." You manage, the name falling from your lips unbidden. He shudders at the honorific, his mind splintering between past and present; his father's face superimposed over his own as he brutalises you, his voice reduced to a harsh whisper.
"Good, good..." He pulls your wrist higher still until your shoulder screams in protest and you back arches further involuntarily. "There we are." He curls his fingers inside you, fingertips crooked against a spot that makes your vision blur. His weaker hand leans quickly what brings you pleasure, what makes you whimper and squirm against the table.
The muscles, tendons and bones in your shoulder ache, creak, as if they could snap at any moment. You feel helpless and, despite yourself, it makes your body run hot with excitement. "I could break it." He growls, fingers tightening around your wrist until you feel the bones grind together. You whine, only growing wetter from the threat. "Do you want me to break it?" He pushes your arm higher on your back and you feel the muscles pull tighter. "Answer me." His fingers curl inside you again and your toes curl in your shoes. "Do you want me to break it, boy?" The words come out like venom, like a confession.
"No! Don't!" Your walls flutter around his trembling fingers, your back arched sharply, uselessly, to ease the strain. "No, no, no, no, no..." Your words, however, are interjected with breathless moans as your hips buck back against his fingers. He feels his cock weep at your desperate denial, at the way you beg for mercy while simultaneously grinding back against his intruding fingers. He needs to be inside you now. Now. He can't wait a second longer.
Without warning, he pulls his fingers free and undoes his trouser buttons with weak, shaking fingers. Once he's bared himself, he guides himself to your entrance, all while keeping your arm twisted behind your back to keep you arched and vulnerable.
"Hold still." He orders hoarsely. "Or I'll break that shoulder yet." He pushes inside you with one brutal thrust, his hips meeting yours as he slides himself home. A guttural sound tears from his throat at the sensation, your tight, wet heat enveloping him entirely. You yelp.
He's never felt you this wet just as you've never felt him this hard. You can feel every vein along his shaft throbbing and pulsing just as he can feel the slickness spilling out around him, your plush walls already milking him eagerly.
He uses the hand on your wrist as leverage, pulling you back and thrusting again, harder and harder each time. The sound of skin on skin fills the room along with your desperate moans and his strained grunts. He's fucking you like he hates you, like he loves you, like the two things are one in the same. Your whimpers are a mix of pleasure and pain, the muscles in your shoulder screaming to be released while your inner walls beg for him deeper, harder, more, more, more, more, more.
"L-Laszlo..." His name comes out in a breathless whisper as the sensations consume you, inside and out.
"Doctor Kreizler." He corrects you, pushing your arm higher until you cry out. "You will address me properly." He pounds into you mercilessly, each thrust making the bone in your arm pull threateningly at the socket. The dichotomy of it — being so completely in control while reenacting his own subjugation — sends him spiralling. "Say it."
"Sorry, Doctor Kreizler...!" You manage from between gritted teeth.
"Better."
The record still spins, forgotten, on the gramophone, static echoing in the room yet drowned out by the squeak of the table-legs on the floorboards, the clinking of abandoned cutlery against half-finished dishes, the quick-fire slapping of flesh on flesh and your loud, unabashed sounds of pleasure and pain. He's fucking you like a man possessed; like he's exorcising every demon he's ever carried, every scar his father left behind. His weak hand is braced against the table now, fingers spread wide for balance, while the other maintains its cruel grip on your twisted wrist.
Your breaths are gasping and stuttering and you're on your tiptoes, your back arched deeply. "You wanted this. You wanted to see this." He states breathlessly, thrusting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.
He watches you — really watches you — for the first time in this manic episode; your fist is white-knuckled, teeth buried in your lower lip to stifle a scream, back arched impossibly, taking him so deeply it should be painful but instead just looks right. Your chest is heaving with gasps that sound like sobs and he watches bruises bloom under his hand; his mark on your skin, proof of his dominance. It spurs him on and he fucks you harder, faster, until the table-legs are lifting off the floor with each thrust. He's going to finish; he's going to fill you up and mark you, inside and out.
"Pl-Please, Doctor Kreizler... Let me go... It hurts..." You whimper, each syllable punched from your body with the force of his thrusts. And those words — those damn pathetic words — snap something inside him. They call out to the crippled, little boy inside and remind him of what he became, the leaps he had to make and the courage he had to gather. He squeezes your wrist until you're sure it'll break.
At the final spike of pleasure-pain that shoots along your spine, you find yourself reaching your peak. Your eyes roll back and you let out a high-pitched yelp. Spurts of slick drench the base of his cock as you climax and he watches, transfixed, as you come undone. The sheer volume that gushes around his shaft shocks even him. Your pheromones fill the room and he's lost. Completely lost.
Laszlo slams into you again and again before he follows you over the edge. Hot, thick ropes of semen coat your inner walls, mixing with your slick, and he doesn't stop moving, prolonging his orgasm, drawing out every last drop.
As he rides it out, the intensity begins to fade and he finally releases your arm. You groan loudly in relief at the feeling of pressure being released in your shoulder. He watches your face — your beautiful, broken face — as you feel the relief. The arm he'd been holding releases slowly, your body uncoiling like a spring that had been too tightly wound. He's still inside you, twitching slightly as the aftershocks pulse through him. The tell-tale bruises on your arm are growing darker by the second and your body's going completely limp now, sagging heavily against the table. His eyes drop to your arm; his mark.
He certainly feels...something. Satisfaction? Regret? He can't process it right now; his mind too foggy with post-orgasmic haze and the overwhelming scent of your pheromones in his nostrils. He needs a moment — just a moment — to collect himself before he has to face the reality of what he's done. Only then will he stand a chance of being able to cope with the guilt of harming the one person who matters most to him in this world...
auth. note: not gonna lie; i ran out of steam with this one, mainly because i got a notification that cold storage is coming out soon so i asked a friend if they wanted to go with me to see it and i ended up just sending them pictures of joe keery and i got distracted. i tried to finish it in a decent place sorryyyyyy 😭 😭 (tbh i don't think people are really gonna read this one anyway because it seems to be a pretty niche fanbase but hey-ho)
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
here are some matt murdock fic recs. Remember to read the warnings before reading and to like, comment and reblog to support writers
✨ heartbeats by @elseishollow : someone's heartbeat is giving it away
✨ this blurb by @saltnsugarbear : pulling them closer by the collar of their shirt or their belt
✨ crush come true by @pinkandblueblurbs : matt x intern!reader
✨ slip and slide by @gxtitobxby : matt has a knot in his back but it's not the only thing that comes undone when you climb on his back
✨ this blurb by @gxtitobxby : matt brushes reader's hair
✨ this blurb by @gxtitobxby
✨ this blurb by @gxtitobxby
✨ this headcanon by @cafeacademia
✨ two birds by @psychedelic-ink
✨ catcalling the devil by @bellaxgiornata
✨ dessert and dances and part 2 by @alrighty-matty : you had invited matt as your plus one to a cousin's wedding as a joke. it was all hilarious until he said yes without hesitation—now you're attending a wedding party together
✨ wax strips by @your-not-invisible-to-me : matt prides himself on his memory until he forgets to take the trash out, causing you to learn a new secret
✨ words of affirmation by @the-shedevil-writes : matt is a very logical man. it's one of your favourite things about your boyfriend. but when you need comfort and he only offers solutions to your problems, it pushes you away. with help from foggy and karen, he learns about love languages—and realises what he really needed to do
✨ late night with the devil by @bookshelf-dust : you can't quite understand how no one realized matt was daredevil. he can't understand how you did
Single dad!Farmer!Bucky x Florist!Reader, enemies to lovers
41.3k words || in progress || domestic fluff || sexual tension || no y/n || f!reader || angst/comfort || eventual smut || ao3 || playlist
After your grandmother’s passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. As you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes.
Immediately off the get-go, you despise each other. You both made a silent vow to never cross paths again.
But this town is too small for the both of you. Especially after you reluctantly hire a moody teenager named Jamie to help around the shop… not realizing he’s Bucky’s son.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten (in progress)
everything i can't say out loud: a Jamie special
Author’s Note: Bucky’s the perfect type of guy and no one can convince me otherwise (I’m sure you all agree :) thank you all so much for reading! Much love always🩷🩷🩷Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰
Warnings: some fun, flirting, lots of fluff, bob’s a great wingman🤭
“What’re thinkin’ about?”
“Huh?” Bucky drags his eyes away from you and turns toward Bob.
“You seem deep in thought. What’s on your mind?” Bob asks.
“Nothin’ really,” Bucky answers, giving him a half-hearted smile.
“Nah, come on. You can tell me,” Bob says gently.
“What do you think she sees in guys like that?” Bucky asks, his eyes once again trained on you.
Bob follows his line of sight and purses his lips. “Nothing. She doesn’t look interested at all.”
Bucky scoffs and takes a slow sip of his beer. “That guy looks interested.”
“Obviously,” Bob says. “Who wouldn’t be.”
Bucky shifts his eyes to Bob and Bob immediately holds up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying. I get it.”
The metal plates in Bucky’s arm shift and whir under the leather of his jacket and he spins the beer bottle between his fingers as he thinks. “I don’t stand a chance.”
“What was that?” Bob asks, leaning forward.
Bucky just shakes his head, sighing and slumping over his beer.
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Ask her what? Bucky says.
“What she sees in them? Bob shoots back. “That’s the only way to find out.”
“Yeah, well….” Bucky can’t finish his sentence because you start to head their way.
“Now’s your chance,” Bob whispers before he smiles at you.
“What are you guys up to over here?” you ask when you stop in front of Bucky.
“Nothin’,” Bucky smiles at the same time Bob starts to say, “Bucky was just wondering what you see in those guys.”
Bucky shoots Bob a death glare.
“What guys?” you ask, your eyes on Bucky.
“Like the one you were talking to by the dart game,” Bob clarifies.
“Not my type at all,” you answer.
“Told ya so,” Bob says with a light elbow in Bucky’s shoulder.
“Well not your type is headed our way,” Bucky grumbles as he straightens his shoulders.
You turn to catch the guy that was chatting you up at darts heading your way.
“He just can’t take a hint,” you say under your breath.
“Hey, there you are,” the guy says as he slides up next to you. “I thought you were getting another drink.”
“I’m going to,” you start, “but I wanted to see my…”
Before you can finish the sentence, Bob chimes in and says, “boyfriend.”
“Who? You?” the guy says, pointing to Bob.
Bob starts to shake his head no and then Bucky stands and slides his arm around your waist, tucking you against his side and saying, “no. Me.”
Bob chuckles from behind you but quickly stifles it when Bucky narrows his eyes.
“You didn’t say you had a boyfriend,” the guy frowns.
“Well. I do,” you say as you rest your head on Bucky’s chest.
“I wouldn’t have spent so much time chatting you up if I didn’t think I had a chance of getting some,” the guy scoffs.
Your mouth falls open and you feel Bucky tense next to you. Even Bob slides around front and stands at your other side.
“Now that wasn’t the right thing to say,” Bucky grits out, his tone hard.
You turn your face up to Bucky and smile. “Now do you see why I’m not interested.”
Bucky smiles back and let’s his hand slide over the curve of your hip. “Yeah doll, I think I get it.”
The guy from darts just stands there, looking between the three of you.
“That was your cue to leave,” Bucky growls. “Unless you need me to make you…”
The guy throws his hands up in surrender and backs away, quickly turning on his heel before disappearing near the bathrooms.
“He was going on and on about his big tricked out truck outside,” you say, emphasizing the words “ big and tricked out,” with sarcasm and a roll of your eyes. “Too bad he didn’t get a look at your bike.”
You grin at Bucky when you say it and see his eyes light up.
“I’ll take you for a ride anytime you want doll face.”
“I could get used to this boyfriend thing,” you murmur, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.
“I think he’d like that.”
If your eyes weren’t already focused on Bucky’s lips you would have sworn he said the words. But his lips never moved, and it takes you a second to remember that Bob is still standing next to you.
You whip your head Bob’s way, and he smiles brightly and nods. Your head falls into Bucky’s chest, and you start to shake with laughter.
“What?” Bob asks with his eyebrows drawn in.
Bucky’s mouth lifts into a sideways grin. “Where’s Yelena?”
Bob’s eyes scan the room, and he finds her standing by the dart game with a knife poised between her fingers.
“About to play darts with her knife,” Bob says as if it’s nothing.
“Why don’t you go play with her,” Bucky says.
“I’ll never win,” Bob retorts.
You look over at Yelena and catch her eye, subtly conveying through the unspoken girl bond that you want her to get rid of Bob for you.
She naturally gets the idea and waves at Bob, motioning for him to come join her.
“See,” Bucky says, somewhat shocked but then looking down at you and giving you a knowing smile. “She wants you to play.”
Bob smiles and says goodbye as he rushes off to join her.
“I’d kick both their asses,” Bucky says.
“Of course you would Buck,” you reply and pat his chest.
“Thanks for saving me before,” you tell him, turning in his hold and wrapping your arms around his neck.
You give him a hug and then a soft kiss near the corner of his mouth. “I would never have gone home with that guy.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment, still savoring the feel of your lips on his skin.
“So then…what’s your type?” he asks.
“Hm. Well…,” you start. “I prefer darker features…dark hair.”
You run your fingers lightly through the hair at the back of his neck. “And I love facial hair.”
Your fingertips trace the line of his jaw, gently scratching through his scruff. “Especially when there’s these little patches of gray.”
He sucks in a small breath, his eyelashes fluttering and the tops of his cheeks turning a light pink.
“Beautiful eyes…”
You hold his stare. “Especially framed by long dark lashes I wish I had.” You follow that statement with a little laugh.
“Your eyelashes are perfect,” he whispers, and you smile.
“But the most important thing is that he has a good heart.”
You follow those words with the flat press of your palm to his chest, right over the rapid thumping of his heart.
He closes his hand around yours, squeezing lightly as he tugs you closer and dips his head.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“A good kisser would be a big plus.”
“I think I can handle that,” he says, his warm breath fanning your lips.
He releases your hand, sliding it down along your arm to your back where his fingers splay and he gently brings you closer. The first contact is just a brush of his lips over yours, the briefest sweep.
You’re already sure it’s going to be the best kiss of your life and when you hear the quietest moan escape his throat he leans in again, pressing his soft, strong mouth to yours and taking your top lip between his, sucking gently, before he turns his attention to your bottom one.
With a smile forming against the kiss, he tilts his head and slides his hand at your back higher, cupping the nape of your neck and taking you with a heat you couldn’t have predicted but makes you feel like you’re free falling backward into the clouds.
His other hand smooths over the curve of your waist and up to rest warmly on your cheek, his thumb caressing your soft skin while he kisses you senseless.
Everything is quiet before you hear cheers from the back of the bar and he slowly releases you, pressing his lips to yours softly again and again before he pulls back.
“Bucky Barnes,” you whisper as you bury your face in his neck. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Yelena and Bob continue to clap, and he takes your chin between his fingers, bringing your eyes back to his.
“Nah doll. Just hoping that kiss was good enough to snag me a date.”
“A date? After that kiss I’ll marry you.”
“Even better,” he winks before his lips meet yours again.
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