The thing is, Ashley's never been good with the whole asking for money thing. His mother, despairing at his 36th refusal of an offer of money, will say he has too much pride, and some time at church will do him well. But Ashley's not sure what the church's position is on escort services, and he's not entirely eager to find out.

Technically, he reasons, it's not prostitution. Ashley knows some of the other guys have gone that extra mile, but Ashley has rules about these things.

Except sometimes, those rules get a bit blurred.

Mostly, Ashley's clientele consists of middle-aged men, grey-haired and getting fat, just looking for someone to attend dinners and fancy parties with them. Most of the time he gets to keep the nice clothes they buy him for these things, so Ashley's all in. Mainly, these blokes don't try to do more than hold Ashley's hand, which is nice, in its way. Ashley's never even had a proper boyfriend, so he forgot that was something people did.

You do get the odd one who wants to take you to dinner and talk about soulmates, and just about every three times some client will offer Ashley three times his rent to fuck his brains out.

But, again, standards. Rules. Ashley always says no.

These rules all hold up well for a while. Ashley is very good at his job, good at making feel wanted and cared for, good at looking after them. He's good, too, at putting his walls back up when things get to be too much.

And then one night, the cab drops him off outside a flat in London, and the guy's already waiting for him and Ashley has to take a minute because this guy is –

Well. Let's just say if they were in a bar right now, Ashley would be cruising him like there's no fucking tomorrow.

"All right," he says, and the guy smiles at him (and he has a great smile, fuck) and asks, "Stuart?" because Ashley has a sick sense of humor and likes to picture Stuart's reaction if he knew what Ashley uses his name for.

"That's me," Ashley says, and the guy smiles again, and Ashley hates his whole life.

Ashley is a professional, though. He's charming and pleasant and funny throughout their evening at some art show or other (Ashley finds it hard to keep his eyes on the art instead of his client, but it helps with the act so it's fine), and he never once asks his client why on earth he needs to pay for a companion.

It's a bit rude, anyhow.

It all goes fine, really. His client – Oliver – keeps his arm around him most of the time, introduces him to people whose names are all a bit artsy and sideways and forgettable, and Ashley gets just this side of tipsy on free champagne. Oliver talks to him about art, and his voice is warm and knowledgeable and Ashley's turned on just imagining that voice in his ear, telling him what to do.

But Ashely has self-control. He might be a lot of things, but he's not, technically, a whore.

It's all under control, until they're in the car back to Oliver's place and he looks at Ashley, takes Ashley's hand in his and says, "I know this is a bit forward, but I'd be willing to pay a hell of a lot more if you wanted to come upstairs with me."

Ashley takes a breath. It's not the first time someone's asked him; it's not even the first time he's wanted to say yes. And he could use the money, always can. He looks at Oliver; the streetlights illuminate his eyes and his expression is earnest mixed with wanting. You can get a bit high off that, Ashley knows, just being wanted.

But he takes another breath, and pulls his hand away. "Sorry," he says.

The client nods, looking disappointed. They sit out the rest of the ride in silence, and the cab pulls back up at Oliver's flat. He turns to Ashley once more and asks, "Are you sure I can't convince you?"

Ashley smiles at him, leans forward on the seat and kisses him once, softly. He'd like to kiss hard, fierce, to grab and to take, to be taken, but he'd never live it down, and he can't do it, not for money.

"Sorry," he says again. Another time, he'd do it for free, but as his cab pulls away, he starts to think that maybe there won't – shouldn't – be another time.

At least, he thinks this until he gets home and counts the money again. And then he thinks, well, what's one more?

John woke to find Sherlock’s hand on his cock. He was just beginning to grow hard when the familiar sound of Mrs Hudson calling out “it’s only me” had the predictable effect and Sherlock promptly lost interest. John went back to sleep, only to wake an hour later, in a similar position. This time the hefty tread of Lestrade across the sitting room floor had served its purpose before he had even knocked on their bedroom door. John looked accusingly at Sherlock.

“Of course it’s for a case,” Sherlock said. “I need to know how a body responds when interrupted like this.”

Two further instances during the day and John found himself at the end of his tether. Nevertheless he kept his cool and when Sherlock suggested that they go to bed together that evening he agreed willingly. In his turn he started to tease out Sherlock’s erection until at just the right moment he played a recording of Mycroft that he had on his phone. Sherlock deflated instantly.

“And now you know how the body reacts,” John said.

All of your prompts are awesome and they make me cry

The man calls you friend. Calls you a name that means nothing to you, except that you're supposed to answer to it.

He gives you clothes to wear. They are a little too big for you, but they smell like him, and you like this. Like to know he's there, keeping you safe, even in the hours that he's gone.

Once, you protected someone who looked like him.

The man reminds you to eat. He brings things to you that he says you liked once. He wants you to smile, and so you do, stretching muscles that have not been used in decades. You remember to say thank you, and he puts his hand over yours – the one that's made of skin and bone that has still done so many things, things he doesn't want you to think about. You cannot tell him there isn't an off switch for memory – not anymore.

Steve. His name is Steve. He says your name like a prayer when you come to his bed (your bed – there is a couch, one he offered the first night, but you followed him to his room and pushed him onto the bed and he has not offered it since). You remember the prayers of the people you erased.

You want to make him happy. He kisses you, touches you, and it feels good. Warm. There was no warmth in your chair, no warmth on the streets that you wandered for months before he found you and took you here.

He calls it home. You learn, slowly, to do the same, though to you it is just a room. It is just a word.

He is all you know.

When you have made him happy, used your body in the way that makes him gasp and moan and grab onto you like you are life, and truth, and all that there is in the world, you let him wrap his arms around you. He presses his lips to your neck, your shoulder. He says, I missed you so much, and you think about the man to whom he is referring, the man you have let him believe you are.

You want to become that man, for him.

He knows what they say about him, what they call him. Cap's pet. Boytoy. Whore. He knows what they think, that he's just with Steve for the money, for the protection.

None of them know, really, who he used to be. Any assassin worth a damn, most people don't exactly live to talk about them.

Most of the time, people don't even catch his name. He doesn't talk much, not if it's more than him and Steve. They call him the whore, the pet, the solider – Bucky doesn't care, not really.

None of them would believe that he never would have met Steve at all, if he hadn't been hired to kill him.

Bucky's always been good at what he does. Most of his life before Steve is a blur, but from a great distance he remembers slingshots, bb guns, tin cans going down like nothing at all. He remembers a war, and afterward – how everyone stopped killing, except him. Why stop anything you're good at?

For years, he kept on killing. Without feeling, without guilt – the shots rang out, the body went down, and Bucky collected the money and moved on to the next assignment.

And then someone, a rival mob boss whose name is already gone, hired him to kill the guy everyone just called Captain America. "He's getting too big for his boots," the mob guy said. "I want him gone."

So Bucky followed him around, for a while. Waited in the shadows, hid out in the plain sight of coffee shops and bars and grocery stores, noticing each time how little fear the Captain elicited in those he met with, how much awe and respect – as much as anyone could love a mob boss, these people loved the Captain.

Soon enough, Bucky did, too.

He's a world-class assassin; he could've taken Steve out on any street corner, made it look like an accident if he wanted, but instead – after two weeks of telling his client that Steve was too well guarded, that he'd raised his price – he walked up to Steve in one of the bars Steve did business in and offered to kill his enemies, for free.

Steve smiled at him and bought him a drink, and then another, and soon enough Bucky was on his knees in Steve's apartment, blowing his target.

"You could stay," Steve said to him, after. He touched Bucky's hair, his face, the curve of his mouth. "Who knows?" he asked, smiling. "I might need protection 'round the clock."

In retrospect, Bucky's not sure how Steve could trust someone so fast, someone sent to kill him – it wouldn't be the first person Bucky's assassinated in the bedroom, truthfully – but when he mentioned it to Steve once, he just said, "I just knew I was safe with you. I'm not sure how, I just knew." Bucky shakes his head, calls Steve a sap, and Steve adds, "Besides, I figured anyone who wants to kill me that bad deserves a fair shot."

So they can say what they want about him, that he lives in the Captain's pocket, that he's part weapon and part whore, but Bucky knows the truth. He knows, when Steve looks at him, that he's not seeing a weapon, an ally, a quick fuck. He's just seeing Bucky, his best friend and once, his greatest threat. And when Bucky looks at Steve he's not seeing the mob boss, the Captain, or even his former target. He's just seeing Steve, strong and deadly, beautiful and caring.

It doesn't matter what anyone else says, because Bucky knows exactly who they are.