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tommyspeakycap · 3 years

Note

Please could you write one with Grealish where you’re a Chelsea fan so refuse to wear a Villa shirt with his name on, and for bants Mount gets you a Chelsea shirt with his name and Jack gets all pouty?

omg I love this idea!! gets very smutty at the end ;) enjoy!

Villa Boy

A love for Chelsea had been something you adapted and grew to into as a young girl. Your dad was never entirely sure how to bond with his only daughter and your mother told him just to include you in what he loved. And so came your season pass with a little lanyard that still hung proudly in your childhood room right next to a shirt mounted in a glass photo frame with Frank Lampard's signature scrawled along the eight on the back.

It was actually how you met Jack in the first place, which is the only one single reason that he has for liking your club affiliation. Otherwise, it was one of the most annoying things in his world. It was often a source of teasing and taunting, you saying your team was better than his and him swaggering home and gloating for weeks when Aston Villa take a win over Chelsea. It was the bane of his life that he couldn't get you into that claret and blue. Not even to sleep in or wear around the house, you just would not dare put it on.

"I would feel my dad's shame emanate through the walls, maybe it would kill him. And then I'd lose every morsel of self respect I have, so not a chance." You'd snort, not even giving him a window for more persuasion.

His England shirt? that was fair game. You'd wear that with pride, to the shops, round the house, walking the dog and especially at his games but there was just absolutely no chance of getting you into his Villa shirt.

Though Jack may never admit it, it was one of his biggest wants. Seeing you in his England short was nothing short revolutionary - he'd said. It only made him want to see you in the Villa shirt more. That was his childhood club, getting to captain that was one of his biggest achievements and while he knew you were absolutely proud of him. You were the most proud and encouraging person in his life and there were no ifs buts or maybes in that.

But my god he knew you'd look fit in that claret and blue.

No matter how much it annoyed him, he wouldn't get you out of the darker blue home jersey of your favourite club no matter what he did. It was something he had come to accept over the course of your relationship, it was by and large fine.

Until that jersey said someone else's name across the back.

"Awh come on!" He yelps, mouth dropped open as you emerge into the kitchen with your toothbrush hanging out your mouth and only one shoe on. Jack knows you slept in because he switched off your alarm last night in hopes you'd miss the game, but Jack dropped a bowl when he tripped over the dog and woke you up anyway.

You going to the Villa v Chelsea game in a Chelsea shirt was bad enough, but now he's just clocked something that's sent his mind firing a mile a minute.

MOUNT

Not a fucking chance.

"Oi, you!" He calls out, throwing himself off the chair at the kitchen island, his feet fumbling over one another to get after you as quickly as possible. "What's up, Jack?" You hum innocently, a sweet smile playing on your lips as you stand in the doorway shoving on your other shoe. "Is something the matter?"

Jack gawks, opening and closing his mouth awaiting words to find his frazzled brain. "Yes!" He squeaks, a tone you'd never heard from a man before, let along your very deep voiced man. "There's no way that you're- what are you doing? Come back." He groans, his feet shuffling after you as you walk back through the house to find your car keys. "We're going to be late if you don't hurry up." You note sweetly, Jack drops his jaw. "We're not going anywhere until-"

"Hi Mason, yeah I got it. Fits like glove actually. Yeah, we're just leaving now. I'll meet you in the car park."

Jack's face was literally priceless. His agape, eye's wild, brows furrowed. A pout settles itself firmly into his lips the second he sits in the car with his arms folded over his chest like a toddler. You have to physically stifle a laugh at him as you beam the entire drive to Villa Park.

"M' gonna burn that." He states. You cast him a glance out the corner of your eye as you pull into the players parking. A snigger escapes despite your very best efforts and Jack resumes his frontward glare at the dashboard with his lips in a firm line. "Gonna win this game, burn that shirt and knock Mount flat."

You know he's not being serious about Mason. He's very fond of the player when they're on the same side. But you had become very close friends with him through the mutual love for the club he plays at and Jack absolutely despised that. He wasn't the kind to be bothered by your friends even to a moderate degree and even here he trusted you, he just fucking hated the concept of another club and another mans name over your back. It ticked him right off.

You know this very well. You knew what you were getting into the second Mason handed you that dark blue shirt. It was all fun and games really. You loved the club but you only wore the Mount shirt to get under Jack's skin. You thought it might even throw off his game a little.

The second he stormed onto the pitch and scored a goal 5 minutes into the game, you figured that might not be the case.

Every opportunity, every goal, every opening and every single tackle, Jack turned to you. He turned to you with fire in those brown eyes, sending you a cheeky wink. His passion, the very serious look etched onto his features and the way he was looking at you was fuelling a very different kind of fire in you.

Jack played the whole 90 minutes and he took Mason Mount down at every single given opportunity in a careful way that just evaded him getting a yellow card. He finished hot, sweaty and with a man of the match trophy for 2 goals and one assist with a majority of the game spent with the ball at his feet.

The 3 nil win should have been a lot more disappointing that it was, but he just looked so fucking good. The sweat stuck his hair to his temples, his muscles tight and protruding through exertion as he walks off the field after shaking every hand.

You're standing just outside the tunnel with Mason and John McGinn standing with you, talking about the match mostly. John makes a joke about you wearing that top more often, seems to be a good luck charm for Villa even if it's the opposing team. Mason scoffs and says; "More like an angry boyfriend wants to murder me charm."

That's when Jack appears and John barely gets his mouth open to greet him before Jack shoulders through the two footballers. His mouth finds your immediately. Hot, passionate, fiery and filled with his dominance.

He pulls back and grabs onto your hand tightly with his back to the two midfielders. Jack twists his body round with a daggering glare.

"Nobody," Jack growls, "fucks around with girl."

His tone, deep and gravelly, only serves to dampen your panties further in a way that makes your clench your legs together.

Jack's done with pouting, the teasing can resume later. For now, he's dragging you by the hand to a darkened conference room. Hiking you up his body before setting you on the table that sits at a miraculously perfect height that places you right against his bulge.

He wastes no time whatsoever ripping down your leggings and panties, his fingers finding you immediately to swirl pressured motions around your sensitive clit. "Ahh, who's got you moaning like that baby?" He rumbles, words vibrating through your lips.

"You Jack, oh god, you!" You pant as his fingers leave you feeling empty and needy. Jack easily tugs down his shorts and pulls himself out of his boxers to line up with your entrance. His victory sex is hot always, but usually there was a dry spell after a Villa v Chelsea game, so it had never been this hot.

"And who am I?" He grunts, pushing himself into you to hear your shuddering squeak of pleasure. He lays you down over the table, hands following you under your shirt to carefully and tentatively swirl his fingers over your nipples from under your bra. "Oh god, Jack," you move your hands to the hem of the blue shirt to lift it over your head, but Jack's hands stop them before you have the chance.

"No, no, no," he chastises with a smirk, "Want to fuck you in their colours," He continues to thrust roughly into you with each heavy breath, mouth and squeak that escapes you only spurring him on. "Want to fuck you with his name on your back, baby. Remind you who you belong to."

You shudder in pleasure with the feeling of his lips attaching to your neck, letting out a shaky, heavy breath as he snakes a hand down between you to swirl those circles around your more pleasureful spot once again. He knows the intricate details of your body better than any man ever has and he always ensures he uses it to his advantage, but nothing like today. His lips on the sweet spot of your neck, hitting and stretching you perfect between your legs with masterful work of his fingers pushing you closer and closer with each second that passed.

"Fuck , I'm so close-"

"Who's making you feel so good, baby?" He pants, skin slapping and heavy breathing echoing around the room. "You, Jack. You!"

"Not a Chelsea boy eh?" He grunts, teeth nibbling down over your collarbone. "Not a Chelsea boy baby is it?" He reiterates, pairing the movements of his hand only until you snap open your eyes again, "No Jack, it's all you. not a- oh god!"

Jack breathes a chuckle into your ear with an appreciative hum to follow.

"Yeah, Villa Captain isn't it? You're screaming out for a Villa boy, ain't ya?" He coaxes, edging you further and further as he speeds up to a pace he's never quite hit you with before. The adrenaline of the match, the irritation of that blue jersey and the passion for the win colliding to give him an energy he's never yet had. Watching your eyes roll beneath him wearing that stupid blue entices him on, only makes him want to pleasure you more if even possible. "Yes! Yes, I am, oh god just don't stop."

"Go on then," he encourages, voice deep in your ear. "Come undone for the Villa Captain baby."

He didn't have to tell you twice, that was for sure. The sight of your eyes fluttering, the feeling of you clenching around him with a steam of, "Fuck yes Jack!" sends him tumbling over the edge of his orgasm right after you, a strangle cry out of your name as it wracks through him.

When he lays down beside you in the table that very surpassingly withstood the pace of your antics, you're both breathless and shining with sweat. Your legs feel like jelly as you still throb from the pleasure. Jack turns his head to you with a lazy smirk, brushing some hair off your forehead as you turn to look at him.

"Well, I certainly do love a Villa boy."

#jack grealish smut #jack grealish prompt #jack grealish imagines #jack grealish x reader #jack grealish imagine #england national team imagine #england national team #footballer fics #football fics #footie fics

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l4verq · 3 years

Text

almost yours | s. r & b.b

pre-serum steve x reader, bucky x reader

in which you’re sure you’ll fall for bucky soon enough

warnings : angst, mentions of death, war, fights

fic : oneshot?

masterlist

|| gif by @go-fandom-imagines ||

“I can do this all day.”

You roll your eyes cause you know he can’t.

“No, he can’t.” You trudge in between the filth, your peep-toe heels doing little to help you walk.

On closer inspection, the man is clearly intoxicated. He has his hands squared up, body swaying slightly but firmly planted infront of Steve.

You know he’s already had a few punches in judging by the bruises on his knuckles and the cuts on Steve’s face.

Steve mutters a silent curse as he sees you walking up to them.

Why did you always have to see him in such a pathetic state like this?

You give a stern look at him like always and he can’t meet your eyes every damn time.

“Who are you?” The man slurs, the smell of alcohol almost suffocating you.

“His friend.” You lift your neck a little higher as you meet the man’s eyes, your heart beating out of your chest.

Friend. Of course, that’s what he is to you.

“Y/N.” Steve steps in between, shielding you from the man.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind when you’re shoved back roughly, falling into a pile of trash.

“A broad should know better than to meddle in men’s business.” The man wags his finger before repeatedly hitting Steve who’s yelling at you to run.

You hastily unstrap your heels and fling it across with a smack against the man’s back.

But the punches don’t stop.

“Stop, you stupid geezer.” You scream, grabbing his hair and thrashing your arms around, hoping you get a solid punch in.

“Hey!” The man slips away from your grasp as Bucky grabs him and pulls him away from the both of you.

“Pick on somebody your size.” He snarls, ramming his arm into the man’s body, making him double over in pain.

The man staggers off and Bucky turns to face the both of you, anger evident in his eyes.

“I don’t want to hear it.” He objects as soon as you open your mouth.

“Steve, you good?”

“I’ll live.”

You two share a sheepish smile as Bucky helps him up.

“Okay, just so you know, this thing you guys have with getting beat up in alleys is stupid and moronic.” Bucky huffs, hands on his hips, foot tapping the ground impatiently.

“I was just trying to help Steve.”

“I didn’t need any help.”

“Says the guy who’s just had his ass handed to him.”

“Okay, funtime’s over. You have an aptitude test today, we can’t be late.” Bucky intervenes, retrieving your heel.

“Go to the hospital!” You shriek as Steve limps his way out.

He never stayed. He never could.

Because he didn’t like his thoughts when he’d see you and Bucky together.

Bucky sighs, kneeling on the ground, with your heel in hand.

He glances at you for approval before strapping on your heel for you.

“Thank you.” You mumble, a dull ache spreading throughout your elbows as the adrenaline subsides.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” He asks, concern in his eyes.

This is when you hate yourself the most. Disgusted with yourself because you can’t bring yourself to accept the unconditional love that he has for you. Disgusted that you keep telling yourself you’ll fall for him soon enough.

“I’m fine.” You lie, something fairly common to you.

“Still mad?” Steve sits next to you, hands shoved in his jacket.

You notice he did go to the hospital, judging by the white bandage on his hand peeking out.

“Maybe.”

He smiles but it quickly turns into a grimace, the cuts on his lips still healing.

“Heard you got in.” You continue, transfixed on his blue eyes.

“Had to see the look on your father’s face. Priceless.”

The two of you burst out laughing, his face contorted in a mix of pain and laughter making you laugh even more.

Your father, Colonel Chester Philips had made it clear on several occasions that Steve would never make it in the army despite your best attempts to convince him otherwise.

“Don’t forget about me when you get all buffed up and go off fighting scary men.” You joke, half serious.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There it starts again. The stupid fluttering in your heart as you dare to think his gaze at you right now means anything more. And the guilt that floods in right after.

“You two take care of each other.” You both look over at Bucky waving at you from the registration office.

Childhood friends, you’d never known life without the two of them. And now both of them were leaving to possibly never return.

“We’ll be back before you know it.” He gives a soft smile because he knows how much you hate that he’s going too. How much you hate the war. How much you hate that your father’s never home.

He’d made up his mind about this years ago when he realised an asthmatic 90 pound man wasn’t exactly the ladies’ man but the butt of the joke and an easy prey for bullies.

And he didn’t like bullies.

But right now, the way you’re looking at him, his heart wavers a little.

“We are all set to go. You have been assigned to Camp Lehigh.” Bucky arrives, waving a form at Steve.

Your heart drops as it sinks in that they have to leave now. Tears spring to your eyes which you try to blink away.

“I’ll write you whenever I can.” Steve gets up, eyes glossy.

“You’d better.” You smile at him, an uncomfortable ache growing in your heart.

You almost give in to embracing him but the rock on your left hand weighs you down.

He lingers around for a while, perhaps thinking the same. But, he gives a smile, walking away towards the office.

“He’ll be okay,” Bucky reassures you, placing his hands on your shoulders, “Steve’s a tough cookie.”

You look up at your fiance, a lump forming in your throat.

“I’m going to miss you two.” You bite down on your quivering lip as a single tear trickles down your cheek.

God, were you beautiful, he thinks, gently wiping your tears away.

He hated leaving you, each time hurting quite possibly even more than the previous.

If you’d just ask him to stay, he’d leave everything right then and there all for you.

But you never do.

He leans in and you think he doesn’t catch the slight clench of your jaw but he does, everytime.

Each time, he rationalises it in his head, chiding himself for overanalysing.

Cause it’d hurt to think otherwise.

A ghost of a kiss on your forehead you barely feel as you force yourself to swallow the growing lump.

The mornings were tolerable.

A few chores here and there. Breakfast if you felt like it. Maybe drop by the salon, have a little chat with the girls.

You kept busy, finding faults in your own cleaning everytime. A spot you definitely missed while cleaning yesterday, you immediately attend to it, scrubbing away.

Sometimes, your father stopped by during the late afternoons, carrying a bag of fresh produce from the local market.

He’d little to say about Steve’s training, gruffly humming whenever you enquired.

Then, you’d have dinner with him, pretending that it wasn’t awkward having an empty seat across you that once belonged to your mother.

The last time you saw your father smile was during your engagement to Bucky. He’d pulled you in a tight embrace, wordless.

It wasn’t like this before.

He actually stayed home, smiled often and had a spark in his eyes.

But after your mother passed, it felt like he was just going through the motions everyday. Buried himself in more work, drowned himself in alcohol somedays.

You couldn’t blame him. You were no better, bottling up your own feelings.

But you wished he’d remember he still had you.

The nights were unbearable.

More often than not, you’d wake up in a cold sweat, heart still racing from the nightmares that plagued your mind.

Then, the worries’d take over.

The war was unforgiving and cruel and you’d pray every night that they wouldn’t fall victim to it.

The shiny rock on your hand catches your eye as it glistens in the moonlight. It’s a thin, silver band with a delicate diamond on top.

You felt like an impostor wearing it.

But, you’d gotten used to it. You’d just remember your mother’s wish, the way Bucky’s face broke out into a smile when you said yes and your father’s brief moment of happiness.

It didn’t help when you remembered Steve.

You don’t really know what you were expecting when you gave him the news. Maybe, you wanted to see if he’d be affected by it? If he felt the same way for you as you did him?

“I’m happy for you two.”

He had the biggest smile on his face as he tugged around with Bucky, teasing him.

But his eyes. You could swear you saw a flicker of sadness in them for just a split second or maybe you were just delusional, projecting your own feelings.

Most probably, the latter.

You pull the neatly folded up letter from your drawer, opening it for the umpeethn time.

Skimming over the scrawlings, your eyes land at the very end where Steve promises to return in the next few days.

You’d received the letter three weeks ago.

Your father’d informed you that Steve’d agreed to an experiment, where he’d be injected with a serum that would apparently make him a super soldier of some sorts.

“Is it safe?”

The grim silence that followed twisted your insides up into knots.

“We don’t know.” Your father grunted, the greying on his hair more prominent.

The following week he came bearing news of Steve’s successful transformation. That he’d grown two feet taller and more than a hundred pounds heavier.

You muttered a silent thank you to God as the coil in your stomach loosened.

“Do you want to see them?” Your father looks up at you from the table, eyes not leaving his newspaper.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. Not after he’d failed as a father. He’d done a lot wrong but the worst was dissappointing you each time you welcomed him back with a warm meal and forgiving eyes.

You nod, a small smile breaking out at the thought of them.

One of the few privileges that came with being the daughter of a Colonel was to be able to go to the Army base closed off to everyday people.

That evening, Bucky arrived, daisies in hand cause he knows how much you like them.

“For my daisy.” He’d say everytime, a grin plastered on his face as you’d roll your eyes, unable to hold back a smile.

You carefully place the letter back into your drawer and crawl under your blanket, hoping to cram in some sleep.

Travelling to Camp Lehigh would take the entire day on a train and you could never really fall asleep anywhere but your own bed.

Envy.

The green eyed monster that doesn’t seem to leave your shoulders as your gaze flickers over to them.

A total of atleast six different women have made their rounds, tossing their hair and giggling when he leans in to say something in their ears cause the music’s a little too loud.

But who could blame them?

Steve stood tall at an impressive 6.1 feet, a far cry from the 5.4 he used to be. Though clothed, anyone could see the mass of muscles bulging out, the suit straining whenever he raised his arm.

The first time you saw him, you were speechless.

Bucky had emphasized on the drastic change in Steve’s appearance but you were still taken aback, mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

Everything about him was so different yet his eyes still had that twinkle to them that you always swooned over.

You down your fourth shot in a row, throat burning.

Did she really have to feel his shield and kn-

“Dance with me?” Bucky gives a coy smile, eyebrow quirked up.

Taking his extended hand, he chuckles as you wobble sightly while getting up.

“Someone had a lot to drink.” He comments, guiding you to the dance floor.

A hand slightly above your waist, the other holding your own, Bucky was always a great dancer.

You always let him take the lead as he swayed you back and forth, always managing to expertly avoid stepping on your dress.

You start to regret the alcohol, your head spinning a little.

He seems to notice and lulls down to a gentle pace, holding you tight. You lean into his chest, breathing in the sweet musk that’s just so, Bucky.

He calls your name, barely above a whisper, which you probably wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t so close to him.

You hum in reply, head now leaning on his shoulder.

“Remember that time you got mad at me,”

“and you came crying to me, begging for forgiveness.” You finish his sentence, chuckling.

A throaty laugh rumbles from his chest as well.

“And we promised that we’d never lie to each other anymore.”

You lift your head, to see a soft smile playing on his lips.

“It’s time you kept that promise.” His eyes trails over to Steve.

The low tune that crooned on fades out as a ringing in your ears take over. You could only stare at him, paralysed.

It takes him everything he has in him to stay composed. But he has to do this.

“Tell him, before it’s too late.” He whispers, an urgency in his voice.

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill any moment.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me.” He reassures you, taking your hands in his.

Shuffling bodies bump into you as you look away, incapable of holding his stare.

If only you’d known it would be the last time you saw him.

It’s the last thing he wants to do.

But he tells you anyway that he has to leave. That he needs to go.

Ever since Bucky fell to his death, Steve knew nothing but revenge. All he could really think about was taking down Hydra.

When you found out about Bucky, you’d done the same thing you always did.

Bottle your grief, pushing it down and down and keep busy.

Steve knew this too so he was patient, never poked around too much, lent a shoulder to cry on.

He often blamed himself, the event still haunting him at night, his own mind locking him in an endless tunnel.

But you’d always be there, at the end of it, a dim light that led him out.

“Just don’t die on me.” You whisper, hand grasping onto his jacket as he turned to leave.

This time, you don’t think twice before embracing him.

You want to keep him right there, safe with you.

And he probably would stay if you asked enough but you know he has to do this.

You just wanted to be selfish for once.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He wraps his hands around your waist, allowing himself to bask in your arms for a while.

As he pulls away, his face is so close that you can see the golden flecks splattered throughout his blue eyes, forming a psychedelic pattern that seemed to only hypnotise you.

He leans in before stopping himself, eyes flickering down to your slightly parted lips.

You can’t help but stare at his too.

But, the both of you awkwardly pull away, perhaps both appalled by their own selfish thoughts.

He couldn’t do this to his bestfriend ; you’d always be Bucky’s, not his.

As he leaves with the soldiers, the coil in your stomach tightens even more, heart sinking when he fades out of view.

You immediately station yourself at the air traffic controller office, where you man a radio transceiver.

It’s a large room filled with machines and a screen that displays the plane that he took.

It’s a long, long while before the transceiver crackles, a familiar voice blaring off it.

“Steve?” You grab it, almost jumping out of your seat.

The screen shows the plane heading north, further beyond the grid.

You think he called your name too but it’s barely audible.

Then, you hear it.

The whistling of the wind. The rattling of the controls.

The screen blares a warning when the plane doesn’t seem to stop going down.

“Steve, get out of there now!” You beg as it sinks in that he doesn’t plan to.

“Y/N, I’m sorry.” His voice breaks.

“No, come back to me, please.” The room grows smaller and smaller as the air suffocates you.

A distorted reply arrives.

Your heart breaks at the thought of him all alone in that plane, headed for his death.

“I never really said thank you for all the times you beat up my bullies.”

You smile, swallowing the lump in your throat.

A surge of courage runs through your body as you say the words you’ve wanted to say to him ever since you discovered what love even was.

“Steve, I love you.”

But the line goes dead.

a/n : idk wtf this is, it was better in my head lol, might fk around and make this into a mini series😬 also tfatws🤑😈

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baited-beth · 3 years

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Storytime: speed dating

I'm pretty shit at dating. I've had dating apps on my phone for years but I basically take the ego boost from the matches and then completely forget to message back because let's be honest, playing Assassins Creed is way more fun than forcing a conversation about a photo of a man skiing. But when my friend suggested speed dating a couple of years ago I figured why not?

While we were all casually chatting at the beginning before the start I noticed a man in a suit jacket turn up with a proper clip on name bag. This stuck out for two reasons:

Most people were dressed casually. Even if they'd come straight from work, jackets were off and collars unbuttoned.

The rest of our 'name badges' were just stickers we'd scrawled on in sharpie

I assumed that he must work for the company that organised it. Oh boy was I wrong...

We get seated and I chat with a few different guys for three minutes each before they're moved on. All going pretty normally. Suddenly the suit man sits in front of me.

I ask him about his name badge - apparently he thought it was a good idea to make himself one as he has been to at least six speed dating events recently - much better to look professional for your dates.

I ask him if he came with friends. No, as that would put off the girls. Confused, I ask him to expand his point. He tells me that girls are pack animals and men are predators. He comes on his own because he knows that women like to be hunted and that, as a predator, coming in a group would only serve to scare the prey.

Somehow he gets onto how he's found that women like him when they chat with him at speed dating, but that other women then manipulate them into changing their opinions, usually when they go to the toilet as a pack. He seems to be very against women going to the loo together.

I know there's no arguing with someone like him so tell him that there's nothing further for us to talk about. There's still about 90 seconds left of our three minutes together and we sit in silence.

When it comes to the break, I head to the toilets. The girl sat next to me immediately asks about suit man and my experience with him. She then pulls out a professionally printed leaflet with his biography and contact details - apparently he had no interest in waiting to be matched and was handing these out to anyone he had an interest in. We then fulfil his prophecy of girls going to the toilet to talk about him as every girl who comes in goes "oh my god did anyone else speak with that creep?"

To this day I am still impressed by the sheer number of red flags he managed to get into 90 seconds.

#story time #feminism #speed dating #red flags #sexism

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emm-jayy · 4 years

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sabotage - Spencer Reid

Summary: You start having a ton of bad luck, and you can’t figure out why

warnings: drugs (opioids, narcotics) but no actual use. gunshot

“God, I’m so sorry i’m late.” You say, setting your bag down, “My power went out last night, and my alarm didn’t go off.”

You hated being late, and since you were the newest person on the team, you definitely didn’t want to ruin what little reputation you had. You had been there almost a year, but it does take a lot for this team to trust a new comer.

“It’s alright Y/n, just try not to let it happen again.” Hotch says. “We’ve got about two or three days before we get our next case. Do any paperwork you need to catch up on, and mainly just relax. Good work these past weeks.” He finishes.

You sigh a sigh of relief. You really didn’t want to have to do too much work these coming days. You loved your job, but doing all of this work could get exhausting.

You take your bag from the conference room down to your desk in the bullpen, and begin working.

A few hours into your shift, you hear someone call your name. You look up from your desk, and see a mailman.

You get up, and head over to him. It wasn’t too unusual to get packages at work, especially if you listed the building on a form of some kind.

You sign for the package, and tell the mailman to have a nice day.

You head back to your desk to open the package. It was pretty small, and it looked nice enough, maybe like it had gotten beaten up in the postal service a bit.

You open up the box with a small letter opener on your desk, and then your stomach drops.

You recognize the bottle, and the contents inside.

Hydrocodone. One of your weaknesses back in the day. Beside it, there is a note, scrawled in horrid handwriting that reads, “Miss me?”

“Hey, Y/n, do you have that paper that you needed to sign?.” Spencer Reid walks up to your desk, luckily where he cannot see the inside of the box.

Still, you freak out and close the box a little too frantically, “Jeez, give a girl a warning before you walk up like that.” You say, searching your desk for the paper.

“I’m sorry, you seemed distracted and I really need that paper.” He says, shifting on his feet.

“Yeah, I get it. Just give me a second to find it.” You snap, still looking for the paper, “Here.” You say, setting it near him.

When you look up, you see a confused look on Spencer’s face. “Are you okay?” He asks, looking at you with a knowing look on his face.

“Yes, Spencer, I’m fine.” You say, hoping he’ll just buy it and leave. He does, and turns to walk back to his desk.

You sigh, and look at the box again. You take it, and shove it into your bag.

The next day, you walk into the office late, again. Hotch looks at you, arms crossed.

“I’m sorry, I had more bad luck. There was no hot water in my building.” You huff.

“One more time, and we’re going to have a serious talk.” Hotch says, walking back into his office.

“Hey, Y/n, there’s a package on your desk.” Morgan says, pointing towards it. You huff, and look at the package.

You see it’s a similar small box just like yesterday, with the same address. You looked it up last night, and it was just an old warehouse. You assumed it had little to no significance to whoever was sending you these packages.

You open up the box, careful to make sure no one else sees inside. This time, it’s a bottle of Oxycontin, with a note that said, “come talk to an old friend.”

You once again, shove the box into your work bag, and try your best to ignore it for the day.

The day is almost the same as yesterday, except for as you’re getting up to get coffee, you run into Reid.

“Did you know that the average cup of coffee has about 100 milligrams of caffeine?” He says, leaning against the counter, “And that caffeine is the United States most popular drug? With over 90 percent of Americans consuming it in some form. It’s also one of the easiest drugs to get addicted too since it’s so accessible.” He says, ironically drinking his own coffee.

“It’s definitely easier to get addicted to other things.” You mutter under your breath.

“What was that?” Reid asks, searching your face.

“Cool facts Reid!” You say, a tight smile on your face, and you begin to walk over to your desk.

“I have more if you’d like!” He says, a joyous look on his face, “For example, did you know the average age people start drinking coffee is age 12?” He says as you sit down at your desk.

“Reid, as much as I’d love to hear more facts about my favorite beverage, I’ve got to finish this.” You say, gesturing to the pile of work you have.

“Of course.” He says, heading back to his own, that was near yours, “Thank you for listening.” He says, softer than he usually speaks.

“Always, Spence.” You reply, looking into his eyes.

The next day is the third day in a row that you’re late. You begin to explain to the team the exact reason, that your car had run out of gas, when you see Hotch standing at your desk.

“Y/n, I need to see you in my office. Now.” He says, and begins to walk toward his office. The team gives you sympathetic looks, and you look down towards the floor, your face turning pink. You set your bag down by your desk, and head up the stairs.

After you shut the door to Hotch’s office, you immediately begin your apology.

“I’m so sorry sir, I have no idea what’s been wrong lately. It’s just a string of really bad luck. I understand that this is a professional environment and I shouldn’t be late, but-” You notice that Hotch’s hand is raised, telling you to stop. You fall silent.

“That’s not what I need to talk to you about.” He begins to explain. You let out a sigh of relief, maybe a bit too soon.

“There’s no easy way to say this Y/n.” Hotch sighs, looking down. “You failed your drug test. They found traces of Hydrocodone and Oxycontin in your urine.” Hotch finishes, looking up at you.

“W-What? That’s not possible.” You say, mostly to yourself.

“Y/n, I was able to look over your past when you applied for this job. I figured that you were too good of an agent to deny simply because of a drug problem years ago. But if you’re going to go and be careless-”

“If I had relapsed, I would’ve taken myself off of the team.” You say, looking at Hotch, “I have not been careless, but I have been keeping something from you all.” You say, digging your phone out of your pocket.

“For the past two days, someone has been sending me packages here. One was filled with a bottle of Hydrocodone, the other Oxycontin. Along with those, were these notes.” You say, showing him the handwritten notes.

“There’s no way it’s a coincidence that the same pills they’ve been sending me showed up on my drug test.” You shake your head, “I apologize for not coming to the team sooner, I thought I could do this on my own.”

“Where are these drugs now?” Hotch says, looking up at you.

“I threw them away, I should’ve kept them I know.” You say nervously.

Hotch sighs, studying the pictures. “I’m going to have to suspend you, that part is out of my hands. But I will get the team on this today. It’s okay if I tell them about your past?” He asks, looking up at you with sympathetic eyes, a rarity for him.

You let out a breath, and then nod, “They would’ve found out eventually.” You look out the window of Hotch’s office, looking at the team fraternizing. What would they think of you? Would they shame you? Understand? Reid would probably rattle off some statistics about suspended FBI agents. You almost smile at the thought.

“Alright then. Leave your badge and gun on my desk, and I, or any member of the team, will contact you when we have something.” You nod, and place your gun down, and pull your credentials out of your wallet.

You exit the office, and prepare yourself for the questions you’re about to be asked. You decide to let Hotch tell them, and answer the questions later.

You collect yourself, and walk down to your desk to grab your bag. You keep your eyes down, until Morgan decides to speak up, “Hotch come down on your ass for being late a few times?” He laughs lightly.

You offer a tight-lipped smile to Morgan, “Totally, that’s what happened.

You walk over to Spencer, who’s sitting on top of his desk, “Don’t solve too many cases without me.” You say, a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait, where are you going?” Spencer asks, turning towards you.

“Hotch will tell you guys. You all have my number, I’ll see you soon.” You offer a smile to the team of confused faces.

You walk out of the BAU doors, and into the elevator. You pull out your phone to get an uber, the same way you cake to work today, when someone else steps into the elevator.

“Hey.” Spencer says softly, “I couldn’t let ya leave without hearing from you why you’re leaving.” He says, looking down at his feet.

“Spencer?” You say, trying to meet his eyes. “Yeah?” He replies.

“How many suspended agents get to come back into the field?” You ask, a nervous look on your face.

“53 percent. Why do you- Oh.” He realizes why you’ve asked. Just then, the elevator dings, and you step out, and open the doors to the front of the building, still trying to get an uber.

You sigh, and sit down on the curb to wait for the uber. You hear the sliding of shoes on the concrete, and then, Spencer is beside you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, looking towards you with squinted eyes.

“No.” You sigh, wiping a frustrated tear away from your face. You weren’t typically the emotional type. “I’d rather have Hotch tell you all.”

“Okay. If you need anything, call me.” He says, standing up, and walking back into the FBI building.

“I know I said today would also be a paperwork day, but meet me in the briefing room. We’ve got a case.” Hotch says, addressing the bullpen, as Spencer walks back into the room.

Everyone stands up, and follows Hotch to the briefing room.

Once everyone is settled, Hotch begins.

“Over the past few days, Agent Y/L/N has been receiving drugs in the mail, along with handwritten notes. One said ‘miss me’ and the other ‘Come talk to an old friend’.” Hotch says, showing the pictures you had taken on the screen.

“And then, today, Y/L/N’s drug test came back, and she had tested positive for Hydrocodone, and Oxycontin.”

The faces of the team say it all, confusion, and disbelief.

Hotch attempts to ignore it, and brings up an even more hard to believe subject. “The problem with this is, Y/n used to be addicted to both of those drugs, so the Bureau is going to come down onto her. They’ve already made me suspend her.” Hotch clears his throat. “When I interviewed her, Y/n made it very clear she was off of those drugs. I thought it was stupid to deny such a good agent over an addiction that happened years ago. And I still believe that, so we are going to work to see who is doing this to agent Y/L/N.”

The team looks at each other, still in disbelief, until something interrupts them.

A mailman at the door, holding a box, “Package for Y/n?” He says. Morgan is immediately up, taking the box.

The whole team gets up as Morgan sets the box onto the table. He tears it open, and the team is met with yet another bottle, and a note that says, “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Reid, what is this?” Morgan asks, holding up the bottle. Spencer was still sitting down, looking at the small case file. He was in a daze of disbelief still.

“Reid!” Morgan says, louder this time. “Hm?” He looks up.

“What is this?” Morgan asks again, gesturing to the bottle.

Spencer grabs the orange bottle, “It looks like Vicodin. One of the easiest opiates to get addicted to.” He replies, handing the bottle back to Morgan.

“Okay, so we know that the unsub doesn’t know Y/l/n has been suspended. Otherwise they would be sending the boxes to her apartment.” Rossi says.

“It’s routine to investigate suspensions. But please, try to keep this as quiet as possible. I don’t want anything getting messed up to the point that Y/n can’t come back to the team.” Hotch says, looking around at the team.

“Alright. Garcia, I want you working people from Y/L/N’s past. Anyone who would know where she works now. Rossi and JJ, I want you guys looking at the address on the boxes and seeing if there’s any connection to the unsub. Morgan and Prentiss, look at the handwriting, and see if it matches anything we’ve seen from the list that Garcia gets. Reid, help them with that, and then, I want you to go to the Urinalysis lab to see if anyone could’ve tampered with the drug test.” The whole team disperses, but Spencer stays still.

“Reid, you okay?” Hotch asks.

“It’s just always the ones you least expect.” Spencer says, looking down at his shoes. Hotch looks at him, and then leaves, off to do his own thing.

Spencer pulls out his phone, and brings up your number. You two had never texted outside of work matters, and here he was, nervous as all hell just to text you.

“Just found out, how are you doing?” He types, and sends it. Nerves rack throughout his body, why the hell is he so nervous?

“I’m doing okay. What is Hotch having you do?” He reads. Spencer sighs, back to work talk.

“I’m helping with some handwriting matching and profiling, and then I’m going down to the Urinalysis lab to see if anyone tampered with your test.” He writes, and puts his phone in his pocket. He’s about to walk out of the door, whenever his phone starts buzzing.

He gets his phone out of his pocket once again, and realizes it’s you. He looks at his phone with wide eyes. He clears his throat, and smooths out his shirt, getting ready to answer the phone. He presses the button, and brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” He answers.

“Hey Spencer, sorry for calling, I just needed to hear you saying something.” You confess.

“Yeah, anything. What is it Y/n?” He asks, almost blushing at the fact that you’d call him. You two didn’t even talk that much, but he still very much enjoyed the conversations you did have.

“Can you promise to tell me anything important, as soon as you find out? I don’t want to be left in the dark.” You say into the phone.

Spencer smiles into the phone, “Of course sweetheart.” He says, but then freezes. Why’d he call you that? Why? He clears his throat, “Anyway, I better get going, I want this over as soon as possible.” Spencer says.

“Right, call me later?” You ask.

“Call you later. Bye Y/n.” He says, not really wanting to hang up.

“Bye Spencer.” You reply. He hangs up the call, and finally heads out the door.

He heads down to where Morgan and Prentiss are, and begins to look at the handwriting. It was crude, but in an odd way.

“I think the unsub might’ve written this in their wrong hand.” Spencer says, “I mean that’s a pretty good way to disguise handwriting, it’s very difficult to tell personality traits. But based on that, I think this unsub is pretty smart.” Spencer nods.

“I’ve got to get down to the lab, if you need anything, call me.” Spencer says, walking towards the door.

He gets in his car, and heads to the Urinalysis lab.

“So, is there any way that the test could’ve malfunctioned?” Spencer asks the man who tests all of the urine.

“I highly doubt it. We get false negatives sometimes, but almost never false positives.” The man in the lab coat says, looking at a chart. “I also believe we tested your agent's urine twice. That’s protocol for law enforcement and FBI if there’s a positive.”

“Thank you. Do you know how long it takes for samples to get here after the samples have been given?” Spencer asks.

“Couldn’t be more than a few days. Since we do monthly to bimonthly testing for you folks, they aren’t in the biggest rush.” The man says.

“Who transports the samples here?” Spencer asks.

“I don’t really know, a few different men have come in here.” The man says, seeming a bit nervous.

“Okay, thank you sir.” Spencer says, and walks out of the lab.

Spencer gets into his car, and pulls out his phone, dialing your number.

“Hello?” You answer, nervousness in your voice.

“Hey Y/n, I just got finished at the lab.” Spencer says, buckling his seatbelt.

“What did you find out?” You ask.

“Basically, a lot of people could have handled your sample. The guy at the lab wasn’t too helpful. I do know that the sample they tested definitely tested positive. I suspect that someone along the way either switched out the urine, or something like that. I think it’s a deadend to go through everyone who might’ve touched it though.” Spencer explains.

“Okay, thank you for telling me. Have you heard anything else from the team?” You ask, and Spencer can almost imagine you biting your nails.

“No, not anything that could lead us in the right direction, i’m sorry Y/n.” Spencer answers.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you anyway. I’ll talk to you later?” You ask.

“We will, bye Y/n.”

“Bye Spencer.” You hang up the phone, and toss it aside with a sigh.

You stand up, and head to your kitchen. You stand there for a while, contemplating what to eat. You decide you can’t eat anything at a time like this, and go back to the couch you were sitting on before.

You sit by the phone, just awaiting a call. He just called you, but yet you’re nervous for another one.

It would’ve made more sense for you to ask Garcia to call you with updates, as the most information goes through her, but you felt as if Spencer would be the most honest with you. You totally weren’t biased in any way…

Then, there was a knock at your door. You furrow your eyebrows, and head to the door.

“Ma’am? This is Agent Jones from the FBI. I have some paperwork you need to fill out.” You hear the man call through the door.

You look through the peephole, and sure enough, there’s a man standing there with a file in his hand.

“Could you hold up your badge to the peephole please?” You ask, still looking through the peephole.

“Of course ma’am.” He says, holding up his wallet to the door. The badge looks fine, so you undo the chain and open the door.

“Hi, come in.” You say, opening the door wider, and you go to the other room to grab a pen.

“Why didn’t Hotch just give me this paperwork before I left the building today?” You ask, confused, and take the file.

“Oh, everything was so hectic, with them working on your case and all, Hotch sent me down here to give this to you.” Agent Jones explains.

You sit down on your couch, and fill out the short form. You sign your name, and stand up to hand the file back to him.

“Thank you ma’am!” The agent smiles, taking the file from your hands, and turning towards the door. “Oh, and one more thing.” He says, turning back around.

The agent grabs the gun from his holster, aims it at your abdomen, and shoots. The silencer is one, so not much noise comes out.

You stand in shock for a moment, clutching the wound, and then begin to cough as you fall. The agent scurries out of your apartment.

As your vision blurs, you reach to your phone and unlock it. Unable to do anything else, you dial the most recent number in your call list, Spencer.

“Hello.” Spencer calls into the phone. When all you respond with is a cough, Spencer speaks again. “Y/n? Are you okay?”

“Shot… in apartment.” You muster, groaning at the pain.

“Oh fuck okay.” You hear Spencer call for someone to get an ambulance to your apartment, that’d you’d been shot. “I’m getting an ambulance there right now Y/n. I need you to hold on for me. Can you just keep talking to me?” He asks, frantically into the phone.

“Yes.” You reply, but your words slur, so it comes out like “yesh.”

“Okay good, now where are you shot Y/n?” Spencer asks.

You attempt to answer, but your eyes fall shut, and you begin to lose consciousness. The last thing you hear before you lose it completely, is Spencer calling your name.

The whole team looks at Spencer, when a horrid look comes across his face.

“She’s not answering me anymore.” He says, “Y/n? Y/N!” Spencer cries into the phone.

“Hey, hey hey, kid, it’s going to be alright. The ambulance is coming to her.” Morgan comes up to him, taking the phone from Spencer.

He looks up to Morgan with watery eyes, “What if she dies, and I never said how i felt about her?” He asks, a single tear falling down his face.

“Hey, come here pretty boy, it’ll be okay. As soon as we know which hospital she’s being taken too, we are all going there.” Morgan says, taking Spencer into a hug.

Spencer nods, wiping his tears away. The team sits in wait for awhile, until Hotch gets a phone call.

“She’s at Fort Washington Medical Center.” Hotch says after hanging up the phone. The whole team is up, and going out the doors to head to the hospital.

When the whole team arrives, Spencer is the first to go to the medical desk to ask for your name.

“She’s in surgery right now. I’ll tell you updates when I can.” The nurse at the desk says, checking a chart.

Spencer sighs, running his hand through his hair. He relays the message to the team, and a lot of them collapse into chairs in the waiting room.

The whole team sits in wait, until a doctor comes out.

“Are you waiting for Y/N?” The doctor asks. Spencer stands up, “Yes we are.”

“Okay, they are closing her up right now. The surgery had some bumps, but we were able to stop the bleeding.” The doctor smiles, and everyone lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you so much doctor.” Spencer says, shaking his hand.

“Are you her boyfriend? Because I can let the nurses know to have you in the room as soon as she wakes up.” The doctor says, genuinely trying to help.

“What? No, I’m not- I’m not Y/n’s boyfriend.” Spencer says, laughing nervously. Morgan comes up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Have him be the first one in the room.” Morgan nods towards the doctor.

The doctor smiles, and leaves the waiting room.

“You’ve got to tell her how you feel man.” Morgan says, and Spencer nods.

30 minutes later, a nurse tells Spencer that you should be waking up soon. He gets up, and follows the nurse to your room.

He walks into your room, and takes in the scene. You somehow still look so beautiful, even after taking a gunshot wound.

He takes a chair, and sets it by your bed. Spencer sits in nervousness as he waits for you to wake up.

He sees your eyes slowly open, and how they drift towards him.

“Spence.” You say, a soft smile on your face, and then your expression changes. “Spence.” You say more frantically. “It’s an agent, and agent is the one who did this. I have no idea how I didn't see it-” You start.

“Hey.” Spencer says, putting his hand on yours. “Morgan will be in here later for your interview. Right now, I just need to tell you something.” He says, looking at you.

“Yeah, anything.” You nod, meeting his eyes.

“The thought that I could’ve lost you really brought some of my feelings to light.” He sighs, preparing himself. “I really like you Y/n, and if I don’t tell you now, i’ll never tell you. I should probably be doing this whenever you’re not in the hospital, but I can’t wait any longer.” Spencer confesses, searching your face for any emotion, when you laugh softly.

“What?” Spencer asks, his voice on the verge of breaking.

“As someone with an IQ of 187, I’m surprised you didn’t confess sooner.” You say, “I like you too Spence, ever since I came to the BAU.”

“339 days ago.” He says, under his breath, smiling at you.

“What was that?” You ask, a soft smile on your face.

“I met you 339 days ago, and that’s when I knew I liked you too.” He smiles.

You laugh, “I would kiss you, but I really can’t move right now.” You say.

“Here.” Spencer says, getting up out of his chair, and leaning over you.

Spencer presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “I want our first real kiss to be when you’re well.” He says in a soft voice.

“Okay.” You agree, “Can you get Morgan in here? The whole situation is fresh on my mind and I need to tell him.”

“Of course.” Spencer says, leaving the room to get Morgan. He then stays in the waiting room, so that Morgan and Y/n can get their job done.

“Soooooo.” Penelope says, snaking beside Spencer, “Did you tell her how you feel?” She asks.

“Yeah.” Spencer says, looking at the ground, “She feels the same.”

Garcia gasps, “Yay!” She wraps him in a hug.

About 15 minutes later, Morgan comes out.

“We’re looking for an Agent Jones. Y/n and I assume that he showed his actual credentials to her, because he assumed she’d be dead.” Morgan explains.

“Hold on, the owner of the warehouse the packages were getting sent from is owned by a Jones.” Rossi says.

“Everyone, get ready. Garcia, find all agents with the last name Jones, and get the name of the father from Rossi, get his address. Everyone else, let’s get geared up.” Hotch says.

Spencer walks over to him, “Can I stay with Y/n? I’m sure you’ve all got this.” Spencer asks. Hotch nods, and then walks out of the waiting room.

Spencer goes back into your room, and you smile.

“I’m going to stay here with you while they track down Jones.” Spencer says, sitting in the chair beside your bed.

“Can you tell me gunshot facts?” You ask him, a small smile still on your face.

“You just got shot, and you want to hear facts about it?” Spencer asks, laughing.

“Yeah.” You say, “What were my chances of living, Doctor?” You ask, laughing.

“About 32 percent, considering where you got shot.” Spencer replies.

“Hm, guess I did pretty good.” You say, shrugging your shoulders.

After a few hours of talking, and watching crappy hospital television, Spencer gets a phone call.

“Yeah, thank god, thank you Hotch. Yeah i’ll tell her.” He says to the phone, and then hangs up.

You sit up in your bed, and look at him expectedly, wondering what happened.

“They got Jones, and he confessed to everything. You're good to come back to the BAU once you're medically cleared.” Spencer smiles.

You let out a breath, a huge smile covers your face.

Spencer looks at you, and then leans down, taking your chin in his hand, and kisses you.

After you break away, he smiles.

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t wait.”

tags: @cupcake525 @soupmakesmynoserun @elizabethkaylynn @drspencr @mattgraygubler @nanocoool @reid-187 @darling-doll9 @1800-fight-me @rachel-rebellio

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shakspeare · 3 years

Text

faith is the ache

→ dean/cas fic → circa season four. it’s the emo soldier of god for me. → this is 90% kink y’all, most definitely rated r. → ao3 link here if you’d rather read there → first time destiel writer the renaissance rly hit hard

Cas and Dean’s first kiss is a battlefield kiss.

It’s raw and desperate and bloody, torn from Cas’s lips like salvation, a prayer. Dean’s never been a praying man, but if this is faith, he’s a goddamn saint. He can taste blood on Cas’s tongue, feel Cas’s breath through his ribs, rushed and angry and brutal.

This is faith.

Faith is the way his fingers feel like they’re about to break. Faith is the way he’s holding Cas to him the same way he’d hold onto his gun. Faith is Cas’s eyelashes, dark and wet, ghosting against his cheek. Faith is every stolen breath and broken bone, every stabbing pain, every gasp, every tear, every loss.

Faith is the ache.

The world burns red through his eyelids; he opens his eyes. Releases his angel.

“Sam!” he roars, spinning on his heel, staring into the fray. The woodland’s half on fire, some demon coughing up its guts at his feet. He slams his heel down on its throat, scanning the tree line.

“Sam!”

“Let’s move!” Sam’s spat out of the forest like a rocket, tearing over the waste ground between them. Dean doesn’t need telling twice. He hauls Cas to his feet and they run.

The forest blurs past them in shadow and ash. The night’s dark; freakishly so. No stars. A volley of sparks explodes in the air above their heads; they flinch, keep running. Things had gone wrong, gone very badly wrong. Dean stumbles on the broken earth, curses under his breath. It was a trap, that should’ve been obvious. He was off his game.

“Dean?” The angel’s voice is curious, not yet practised in concern. Dean jerks his head; keep moving.

“I’m fine,” he barks, and Cas turns, keeps going.

“Here!” Sam’s voice comes low through the trees, and Dean gives a sigh of relief. He thought they’d overshot by a mile, but the Impala is just visible in the darkness. Least something’s gone to plan. His heart’s hammering against his ribs and something feels really wrong there. Broken, he’s guessing. He drops into the driver’s seat, fumbles for the keys. Half a second to breathe, and then he’s gunning baby’s engine to freaking Timbuktu. He reaches out to yank the door shut, but Cas is there, suddenly, holding it still. He stares down at Dean, eyes wide, hair going every which way.

“I’ll lead them off,” he says, and his voice is rough and low. “I doubt we will go undisturbed.”

Dean blinks, Cas takes a step back—

“Wait, Cas!”

He tilts his head, frowns at Dean. Dean gives himself a shake; man, he’s losing it.

“Get in the car.” The angel looks at him almost pityingly.

“No, thank you. I’m much faster out of it.”

“I’m not offering you a lift, you goddamn hippie,” There’s something moving in the trees. He slides the key into the ignition, keeps his voice low.

“You going off alone, that’s exactly what they’ll be expecting.” Castiel hesitates, still staring at him.

“Get in the damn car!”

Cas slides into the backseat just as he guns the engine and the angels break the clearing; the Impala snarls and jerks forward over the rough earth, spraying up dirt and stone in her wake, and if he said that didn’t satisfy him to hell, he’d be lying. He yanks the steering wheel hard left, spinning them out onto the freeway, and in 30 seconds he’s put miles between them and their heavenly little tete a tete. Cars flicker past either side of them, and Dean’s eyes flick up to the rearview. Cas’s baby blues are fixed firmly on the road ahead, that little frown quirking his brow.

“So it was a trap,” Sam grimaces, running a finger down the gash in his arm.

“Woah, dude!” Dean exclaims. “Upholstery, blood; blood, upholstery!” Sam ignores him, reaching out a bloody finger and daubing some hokey symbol on the passenger side window.

“Angel proofing, dumb-ass. They won’t be able to find us.”

Angel proofing. Right. Dean grumbles under his breath. It’s not the worst idea in the world. The pain in his ribs flares and he winces.

Yeah, they need some off-radar time.

“Check the map,” he nods at the roadmap on the floor at Sam’s feet. “Find us somewhere to crash. My four hours is calling my name.” His eyes flick back up to the rearview. No reason why.

***

The nearest motel’s about an hour’s drive. Sam falls asleep in his seat; Dean flicks on the radio. Adrenaline’s coursing through him like a freight train; it always does, after a hunt. He flexes his fingers against the wheel, shifts in his seat. Feels good. Feels strong.

His lips are burning.

“You ok?” The words come out a little gruffer than he’d intended. He clears his throat, keeps his eyes fixed on the road. It’s just the polite thing to do. Ask. For a minute he thinks Cas might’ve angel-ed out, but then—

“I am uninjured.” Right. “Great.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, itching to do… something. He needs a drink. A sleazy bar. Pounding music.

“But I… feel strange.”

He can’t help it; he glances up at Cas’s reflection. Cas is gazing out at the night, frowning.

“Strange how?”

“I should have known it was a trap,” Cas murmurs. “There were warning signs. I failed to notice them. I failed to keep you safe.”

“Guilt. That’s called guilt, Cas.”

Cas sighs.

“It’s not a big deal, no one got hurt.” He ignores the stabbing pain in his side; he’s had worse. “Everyone make mistakes. It’s uh, human.”

Cas’s searching gaze meets his and he swallows, looks quickly back to the road. Jesus. A scattergun of images flicker past in his mind’s eye; Cas, bright-eyed, burning, in the split second before he kissed him; Cas, in the barn, sparks exploding in the air around him, hair lit up like some dollar store invocation of Jesus Christ; and another, something he’s not sure he’s ready to think about yet; Cas, with bruised lips, shirt collar open and staring at him like he’s seeing for the first time.

Yeah, he’s itching to do something, alright.

“Dean.”

He jerks out of his reverie, slides the steering wheel left a little, keeps them straight. Eyes on the road. Get it together. Right. He shifts a little in his seat, pretends like Cas’s gaze isn’t burning a hole in the back of his neck. His cock twitches in his jeans.

“Alright!” He clears his throat, reaches over to the radio. “If you’re gonna slum it on earth with the rest of us, you gotta live the whole experience. Guilt, shame, the whole nine yards. Now this,” he raises his voice over House of the Rising Sun, “this is a whole experience of it’s own.”

Cas frowns a little. Dean sighs, leans back in his seat. Resists the urge to shift his hips, let the denim friction graze his dick. Jesus Christ, there’s something in the air. He risks a glance at Cas again; he’s gazing out his window now, thank god, watching headlights flicker past.

Alright. It’s not like he hasn’t been with men before. It’s no big deal, right? Except — and this is the kicker — sucking some trucker off for twenty dollars is pretty fucking different. Isn’t it? His heart skips a little in his chest, imagines Cas looking down at him, Cas running deft fingers through his hair. Yeah, it’s different. Different like, there’s a part of him that wants to pull the car over and get on his knees right now. He remembers the heat of Cas pressing against his chest, rough and aching; remembers the sting of his angel blade, caught between them and digging into his side.

Is Cas thinking about it? Do angels get turned on?

He’s not even sure why he did it, why he stepped over the angel Cas had just gutted and wrapped his fist in Cas’s shirt. He remembers the last time he had sex; in that strip joint with some hooker — he’d barely started railing her when all hell broke loose and he and Cas had to book it out the back. Does this feel like that? His dick twitches at the memory; the chick buck naked and spreading her legs, widening her come-fuck-me eyes. He frowns, shifts, remembers the puzzled expression on Cas’s face before he kissed him.

Nah, this is different. He doesn’t know why — the chick was hot, Cas is hot, his dick’s sure as hell into both. But it is. It is different.

Cas is still silent in the backseat. What’s he thinking about? I feel strange. Probably still grappling with his newfound guilt, whatever that feels like for an angel. I failed to keep you safe. Dean snorts. Right. Safe. When has anyone ever worried about his safety before? He barely worries about it himself. His mind fritzes for a hot second; faceless men in truck stop bathrooms; this week’s monster, teeth bared and barrelling out of the darkness; dad, waking him up at three in the morning and thrusting a sawn-off into his hands.

Safe doesn’t figure. It just doesn’t. And if he slammed on the brakes and insisted the angel in the backseat fuck him in the next lay-by, there’d be nothing safe about that either. He shifts, presses his dick against the rough fabric of his jeans. A single streetlamp bursts overhead as they fly beneath it, and in the shower of sparks, he sees Cas, bright blue eyes, one hand gripping the back of Dean’s neck like he owns him.

They make it to the motel somewhere round two in the morning. Seeing Cas properly for the first time since he kissed him is a freaking test. It starts to rain as they haul their bags out the trunk, and Cas has done nothing to fix his shirt, where Dean had wrapped his fingers in his collar and claimed him just hours before. He looks a goddamn mess. Dean swallows, slams the car door, wonders if there’s a bar anywhere nearby. Cas maintains his angelic silence as they cross the lot, stumble into the motel reception. Sam stays awake just long enough to check in, scrawl a bunch of sigils on the window, and then collapse on his twin bed, shoes on, dead to the world.

Dean slings his duffel onto the vacant bed. He’d gotten a twin room on autopilot, hadn’t even thought about it. Now it feels weird. He clears his throat, gives himself a shake. Tries to ignore the ache in his throat. God, he needs a drink. Or something.

Cas is stood at the window, gazing out at the blinking neon sign. White Rose Motel.

“Uh, Cas— ” Cas turns, looks at him expectantly. “What are you, uh—”

He was going to ask what Cas was gonna do all night, going to ask if he wanted his own room, hell, maybe angels like their privacy, he doesn’t know. But Cas is gazing at him, throat exposed, and Christ, he doesn’t remember the last time he wanted to fuck someone this badly. Dean glances at Sammy, passed out on the bed, and clears his throat.

“Outside?”

Cas narrows his eyes a fraction, and then nods, the tiniest movement. He closes the space between them, and when he presses his hand to Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s knees almost give way.

***

The air vanishes, twists; rain glitters on the sidewalk; the night fills Dean’s lungs, and he can’t wait, can’t wait another goddamn second. His fists find Cas’s shirt and he seizes him, pulls him close; his head collides with the wall behind him; the pain in his ribs flares like an open wound, and he doesn’t give a damn, doesn’t give a damn about anything. He’s done thinking. Sex is sex, and he’s a freaking cowboy. He needs this.

He can taste Cas’s blood on his tongue, feel Cas's lips against his, rough and punishing and claiming. Mine, mine, mine, and oh god, he wants to die here. Suddenly, Cas’s hand locks onto his wrist like a vice, and he steps back; Dean’s eyes snap up to meet his; strange, blue—

There are unspoken questions in Cas’s eyes, in the persistent frown that quirks his brow. His grip tightens on Dean’s wrist, and he presses Dean back against the wall; he can feel the damp coming through his shirt, feel the rain, soft, on his forehead. Dean can’t remember the last time he was this turned on; he doesn’t want to stop, to think, he just wants Cas—

“Cas, please—” It falls unbidden from his lips, and in the silent seconds that follow it feels like heresy. He’s hard as hell, and the angel at his throat is looking at him like he wants to tear him apart, and god, if that doesn’t turn him on more. Dean finds his voice, chokes out a word.

“Please.”

Cas’s fingers wrap around Dean’s throat, and he can’t tell if he’s about to kiss him, or kill him, or both—

Then Cas kisses him and he moans; a prayer that’s snuffed out by the press of Cas’s mouth against his own and suddenly he’s desperate, starving; his hands find the back of Castiel’s neck and he holds him to him, panting, pressing into Cas’s kiss like he wants to die on the altar of his lips. He gasps into Cas’s mouth, inhaling liquor and salt and copper. Cas shifts against him, open palm against his chest and—

The pain in his ribs flares suddenly, sharp and hot.

“You lied,” Cas whispers. “You’re hurt.”

Dean nods, doesn’t know how he manages it, but he does.

“Ah— yeah. It’s nothing. It’s nothing, Cas.”

He doesn’t want this to be over, he can’t have this be over, not yet. Cas passes a hand over his ribs, gazing at Dean like he’s lost in thought. Dean winces as his hand slides across the break; he can’t help it. Cas’s eyes flicker silver.

“You should let me heal it.”

“Right. Yes. Okay, Cas. Heal it, please— and then—”

“Pray to me,” Cas murmurs.

“Wh— what?”

His eyes are gleaming, hair lit up by the street-lamps, glittering with the fallen rain. He looks fucking otherworldly, divine. He loosens his grip on Dean’s throat, and suddenly he’s full of something Dean doesn’t recognise. All he knows is that he craves it, needs it, dark and bright and strong and holy.

When he falls to his knees, it doesn’t feel anything other than right. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t think. When Cas runs his fingers through his hair, tilts his chin up to the sky, the ache in his chest subsides. The rain continues to fall, and the cold is creeping into his bones, but he doesn’t care. This is different.

He prays. He wants to. He wants Cas to be his, and he wants to be Cas’s, forever. Cas whispers to him softly, voice almost lost in this hiss of the falling rain. He lets him drag his tongue over his cock, lets him taste it, kiss it, and then — once he’s asked and begged and prayed a hundred times — Cas answers his prayer, thrusts his cock between his lips. He tastes like ichor and iron and wine and his fingers wind a little tighter in Dean’s hair. Dean’s never wanted to please someone this badly in his goddamn life. He’s good at sucking cock, he knows he is, but for Cas, he wants to be better than good. He wants Cas to need him, to know him, to never leave him. He runs his tongue down the length of Cas’s cock, wraps his hand around the base. He drags his tongue over the head, slow and rough and teasing. He keeps his eyes on Cas’s. When his cock hits the back of his throat, Dean feels like he’s about to fucking ascend. When Cas pulls him to his feet it feels like rapture. His legs are shaking; he all but collapses against him, his angel, and then Cas’s lips find his and Cas holds him up, pressing softer kisses on him now, sweet and deft and silent.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and Dean feels lightheaded.

“Yeah?” he manages to breathe, in between Cas’s soft, persistent kisses.

“Yes,” Cas murmurs simply. “That was good,” and Jesus Christ, why does hearing that drive him crazy? Cas’s hand finds the tear in Dean’s ribs, palm like an open flower, and there’s a moment, warmth, and the pain is gone. Dean moans into Cas’s kiss, keening, presses his hips against him. For a moment Cas pulls back; Dean’s left breathless, aching, Cas’s fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Then the air around them rents itself in two, and suddenly Cas’s lips are on him again, but the world is upside down; the wall is gone; the air is closer, drier—

He tries to right himself, get purchase, and realises he’s flat out, sheets beneath his head. Cas’s had is still at his jaw, gentle, kind, and he realises with a lurch that the angel is fucking straddling him. He gasps, pressing up into Cas’s kiss so hard he can feel the bruise it’s going to leave on his lips.

“Where—” he manages to breathe out, the last vestige of his dignity wondering where exactly they are, though right now he’s so turned on he’d gladly beg Cas to fuck him in front of a freaking bar full of people — his dick twitches in his pants at that thought and he thinks he notices Cas’s eyes darken — that’s a thought to explore at a later date —

“An unoccupied room. This motel is not popular,” Cas murmurs, his lips grazing the hollow of Dean’s throat. His hands find Dean’s, loosening his grip on him, and Dean whines in protest; he wants to pull him closer, find some goddamn friction, never let go.

“Quiet,” Cas murmurs. His hands slide along Dean’s wrists, guide them up over his head, press them into the mattress, and Dean’s breath comes out in a little stutter. Cas blinks at him with those fucking weird, cosmic eyes, and then he’s closer still, pressing little butterfly kisses to his neck. Dean tilts his head back to the stars and gasps. The ache in his chest feels like holy fire, and he forgets everything — god, girls, demons, devils. All he can be sure of are the hands on his wrists, the mouth at his throat, the blood on his tongue, the split in his lip.

“Dean,” Cas’s voice vibrates, soft, just by his ear. A shiver runs down his spine; his eyes flutter shut.

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure?” Cas’s weight shifts slightly; Dean opens his eyes.

Cas’s eyes are bright in the shadows; he’s tossed his coat aside. There’s still blood on his shirt, staining the white, patterning his throat. He can see it when Cas looks away, lifts his chin and gazes across the room He shifts beneath him, a little, til his cock is pressing into Cas’s thigh.

“What?”

“Are you sure?” Cas’s gaze meets his, and there’s no challenge, no threat. Dean’s stomach flips over when he recognises the glimmer in his eyes. There’s no challenge because it’s all possession. Quiet, unyielding, simple. As if it’s all there is.

He swallows. “Yes. I’m sure.”

There’s a split second where Cas doesn’t move, only blinks at him, and he grinds his hips up into Cas in frustration, voice coming out in a whine—

“Please.”

And then Cas’s kissing him like he’s about to die. The press of his body against Dean’s is like a blessing, something otherworldly and dangerous and close to god. Dean can’t think, can’t breathe, can only arch up into the angel at his throat and pray, a broken string of words and sounds and promises that tumble from his lips without thought. When Cas lets go his wrists, his hands tangle in Cas’s hair, trace the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. Cas’s shirt is gone, and he jerks his own off over his head, rough and careless, and when Cas’s palm presses against the brand on his shoulder like it’s a prayer, a rite, some secret sacred invocation that only they know, only they will ever know, Dean loses his mind, desperate, aching—

Cas draws back for a split second. His hair is tousled, his skin like marble in the half light. Dean’s heart is hammering like it’s going to leap out of his chest; he gasps, breathes, collapses back onto the bed.

“Cas,” he whispers, hands restless, reaching. “Come back, come back, please.”

He feels Cas’s weight shift, move, and when he opens his eyes Cas is beside him, eyelashes ghosting against his cheek. His lips press softly against Dean’s jaw, just below his ear, and suddenly Dean’s eyes are wet, and he has no idea why. His hands find his belt; he slips free of his jeans, his pants. He knows what he wants, and he doesn’t want to stop, to think. The air is warm against his naked skin but he feels vulnerable, strange; he rolls towards Cas, shields himself against his body.

Cas catches his chin with the pad of his thumb; soft, tender. He traces the sides of his body with the tips of his fingers, and his eyes are dark, brilliant, and Dean’s trembling because this is different, this is different from any guy, any girl, anyone he’s ever been with before. No one has ever looked at him like this before. The way Cas touches him, it’s like he’s the one who’s divine.

Cas presses him gently onto his back with a kiss, reverent, and his hand drifts down, over his stomach, his hips, finds his cock. He drags his fingers along the length of it, slow, playful, and Dean whines into the kiss, pleading. Suddenly his dick is slick, wet, and he moans, twisting in Cas’s hand.

“How—” he gasps, and Cas’s voice is just a breath in his ear.

“I’m an angel, Dean.”

When Cas pushes his legs open, and slips between them — when he trails kisses down Dean’s stomach, runs his tongue down the crease where his thigh meets his hip — when he kisses Dean so hard he draws blood, and then slips his fingers into Dean’s mouth — Dean’s gone. He can feel his own cock leaking against his stomach, so exposed and vulnerable and untouched. He needs this, needs Cas to touch him, hold him, want him. He swears out loud when Cas’s spit slick fingers slide between his asscheeks, tease at his hole. He pushes into his touch, craving more, needing to feel—

And then Cas’s tongue grazes his cock, his thigh, his asshole, and he’s trembling, bucking on the bed beneath him; his hands find Cas’s shoulders and he grabs him, pleading, as Cas’s tongue, hot and wet and obscene, teases at his fluttering hole. Cas’s gaze flicks up to meet his, eyes glittering, lips bruised, the column of his throat stark in the half light, and Dean is suddenly hit by the fact that this is an angel, this is not a man, this is an angel, a soldier of god, a force of nature, divine and unknowable and sacred. Cas slips up over him and presses a kiss against his open mouth, presses his palm against his aching dick, and slowly, agonisingly, pushes his cock inside him.

Dean’s lost. His throat is tipped back to the stars, stars obscured by a plywood and mortar and brick. He rocks onto Cas’s cock, and Cas whispers in his ear; soft, calm, quiet, tender. He moves slowly, gently, like Dean is fragile, sacred. Like he matters. He presses kisses to his lips, his throat, his shoulders as he pushes deeper in, as Dean gasps and presses up to meet him, wanting, always wanting. His hand grips Dean’s cock, thumb flicking lazily over the head, smearing pre-come and Dean could swear he’s enjoying this, toying with him, making him wait. He whimpers beneath him, tries to arch his hips in time with Cas’s lazy, teasing thrusts.

Cas lowers his mouth to Dean’s ear, whispers, his voice rough.

“Wait.”

Dean can’t wait, can’t think about anything but the ache between his thighs, the gentle fingers teasing him, the fact Cas pushed in even further as he whispered wait, bottomed out, flush against Dean’s prostate and just holding him there, not moving. He shakes his head, protests, tries to grind into Cas’s palm, but Cas tuts, sighs, brushes his thumb across his lips.

“I told you to wait.”

“Please, Cas— I can’t wait, I— please—”

Cas’s eyes are bright, searching.

“What do you want?”

“You know, Cas— you—”

“I want you to say it.”

“Please— Cas, please—”

Cas’s gaze flicks down, over his throat, the expanse of his chest, his leaking cock. He shifts, and Dean moans beneath him. His hand comes to meet Dean’s jaw, dragging the pad of his thumb down over his lower lip, gazing as if he’s curious, thoughtful.

“I want you to say it.”

His voice is low and rough and it sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. He’s a mess; he needs this, like he doesn’t remember needing before; and the fact Cas wants him to say it is somehow even better, even more—

“I want you to fuck me. Please. Please.”

Cas doesn’t move, still watching him, as if lost in thought. He twitches his hand a little around Dean’s cock, rubs his thumb over his aching head, and something in Dean snaps, and the words tumble from his lips before he can stop them—

“I need you to fuck me, Cas, I need it, I’m begging you, I need it, I need you, I need you here, please, god, please, Cas, please, please, just fuck me, touch me, make me yours, I can’t—”

And then his words are cut off by Cas’s kiss, hard, rough, dominant; one hand on Dean’s throat, the other like a vice around his leaking cock, and he’s fucking him so hard Dean cries out, sound lost on Cas’s lips. Dean wraps his legs around him, pulls him closer, closer, closer, and Cas’s hand finds his shoulder, palm like fire against Dean’s brand. Dean’s hips stutter and he gasps, his cum hot and wet against his ribs. Cas’s mouth is at his throat, his lips, and then he pulls Dean toward him, Dean’s forehead pressed against him as he comes, head tipped back and moaning, eyes lidded, lips parted, dishevelled and messy and divine and his.

***

He falls asleep in his arms.

There is a split in his lip; Cas brushes it softly with his finger. His healing touch is light, deft.

He moves very little; he doesn’t want to wake Dean.

Sleep. It looks peaceful. The warring emotions that usually colour Dean’s brow have all but faded. For a brief moment, Cas considers closing his eyes; perhaps there is bliss in the wilful dulling of the senses.

But that would mean taking his eyes off Dean.

Anger — unfamiliar, strange — courses through him; he had failed last night. Failed to protect the man who sleeps, now, mercifully whole, in his arms.

He would not make the same mistake again.

Dean turns in his sleep, turns toward him, nestles into Cas’s chest. His eyelashes flutter against him, his breath warm on Cas’s skin.

Cas feels — peaceful. Anger, guilt, joy; the messy milieu of human emotion is startling and strange. But this is different.

He knows this. The ache in his chest, the fire that burns. Faith. It is, perhaps, the only thing he has ever truly known. And for millennia, he had never questioned where to place it.

Dean murmurs in his sleep, and Cas traces his fingers over his chest, sweet and gentle and slow. By morning, there are a hundred Enochian love letters patterned, invisible, onto Dean’s ribs.

The stars fade, and the sun rises, and Cas watches over Dean.

This is faith.

#destiel #deancas #destiel wedding #deancas wedding #dean winchester #cas #castiel #supernatural #bi dean #dean is bi #bi!dean #supernatural fic #spn fic #supernatural meta #destiel is canon #fic #mine

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jimkirkachu · 3 years

Note

oh?? Turnabout Intruder fic? Tell us about it? :)

(another lengthy reply, because apparently I can't help myself 🙈)

Okay so... I have several Word docs that are just random k/s fic ideas I jot down whenever they come to me, right? Outlines, messy one-line scrawled ideas, half-stories that I don't know how to start or finish or fit together in the middle, little blurbs/paragraphs of actually edited stuff (but they're, you know, just individual paragraphs or lines of dialogue, lol). But my main document eventually got so long that doing a [ctrl + S] save on it took about 90 seconds?? 😂🤪 which of course made me impatient... and paranoid about losing my work. Thus I decided to put my various ideas/starts of fics in separate docs by category, like... I have a doc of story pieces or concepts that all have to do with Spock's family, a doc for random hurt/comfort ideas, a doc for possible wedding/honeymoon things, etc.

Anyway, one of these docs has all the different after-the-credits / episode tag / missing scene ideas I've had, and--guess what 😅--eventually THAT document got too long for me to handle keeping it all in one place 😅😆 [send help!! 😂😂😂] so I moved some of the longer things I'd spent a little more time developing into their own individual docs. I've put the most time and thought into an after-the-credits fic attempting to fix all the myriad things I hate about "Wink of an Eye" (possibly my Least favorite TOS episode)... but that's neither here nor there. 🙃

My vague outline for an after-the-credits scene of "Turnabout Intruder" is... mostly just... smut... LOL!! 😆 It starts in the turbolift with Kirk, Spock, and Scott (the last shot of the episode is the three of them getting on the lift), and Scotty gets out on the engineering level, leaving the Husbands alone together at last. There's a wee bit of romance there in the lift as they get to their deck, 😉 and then once they're in Kirk's quarters they sort of, um... get half-nakey... and have some massage time... based on the brig scene where Kirk is still in Lester's body and Spock tenderly caresses his neck and Kirk-as-Lester closes his eyes in bliss. 👀😍 Spock picks up where he had to leave off earlier, gently rubbing Kirk's neck, and they discuss the strangeness of body-swapping, the relief Kirk felt when he got Spock to meld with him and realize what was going on, and so forth. Soon enough they're just exchanging touches and sweet nothings, getting each other all worked up, and stripping down to full-nakey for a little "thank God you're okay"/"thank God you were on my side, convinced Bones and Scotty who I was, and helped rescue me" lovemaking. 🙈💞💛💙

Unfortunately thus far it's not actually a fix-it of the terrible gender-related atrocities committed by the episode's script... I do have them discussing some of the differences Kirk has now experienced between his usual body and Lester's, but mostly it's just a PWP (for now, anyway). Perhaps if I get to really working on it again, I'll try to do some ret-con damage control on the canon material, because I truly do *not* buy any of the crew (James Totally-drunk-on-his-daily-Respect-All-Sentient-Beings-Juice™ Kirk least of all) being so misogynistic and gender-binary-deluded the way the script makes them all seem. We'll see what happens, aka if I ever go back to editing and fleshing out this fic for actual posting! 😅

Here's a teeny weeny excerpt:

"I will say, though," Kirk went on, "that I won't miss how much taller you were than me. I can handle the few centimeters' difference between us in these bodies..." Relaxing back against that firm chest, he pulled Spock's arms and hands away from exploring his legs and guided them to rest on his midsection in a loose hug. "I just love it so much when you look down at me with your sparkling 'I'm going to kiss you' eyes," he said dreamily, stroking Spock's arm hair, "or when we dance or cuddle and I can rest my cheek on your shoulder so easily."

Smiling fondly, Spock tightened his embrace and nuzzled his husband's neck again.

"But in Janice's body," Kirk said, "I was, what? At least a full head shorter than you. I missed this--" Here, he squeezed on Spock's arms and gave a happy sigh crossed with a contented hum. "--the feeling of your heartbeat against my hip, the closeness of your breath at my ear. I'm too accustomed to the sweet little kisses you leave on my neck from our normal heights, I suppose."

Spock chuckled; he had been nipping, licking, and kissing Kirk's neck and shoulders the entire time he'd been speaking.

Uhh... yeah, so, it's mostly just fluffy and naughty stuff like that! 🙈☺ Thanks so much for the ask!! And sorry it took me so long to answer!!! 💜💛💙

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ashes-and-ashes · 4 years

Text

It’s been one day without Fred and George can’t breathe.

He’s heard of it, before, when someone lost a twin, the way the world stopped spinning, the air stopped moving, like an arm or a leg or hourehart being ripped from your body. Like stepping on shore after years at sea, the way the land seemed to sway underneath your feet, the world seeming so empty without Fred at his side.

He’s still covered in Fred’s blood, dried flakes of crimson smeared across his skin. For a moment, he’s spinning back through time, staring at his hands whilst blood gushed from his nose, the sugary-sweet taste of nosebleed nougat still heavy on his tongue. For a moment he’s with Fred again, the way they could always read each other’s thoughts, how he was never, not once alone.

He doesn’t know if he can survive another day. He wishes he could die.

It’s been 7 days without Fred.

He hasn’t been able to sleep, the comforting sounds of Fred’s even breaths absent, the room ringing uncomfortably with silence. For 20 years he had fallen asleep to the sound of his brother, the rustle of the blankets, the soft murmurs of his dreams and now the room was empty.

They used to dream together, sometimes, would appear in each other’s nightmares, fight their way out together. He remembers when he was 10 and terrified of the statue against the brick wall of Diagon Alley, how he had dreamed that it had come alive and was hunting him down. Fred had appeared in a flash of blue light, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. They had fought off the statue together with dungbombs, and George was never afraid of that statue again.

Thank you, he had said.

Don’t worry about it.

He knows now that there would be no one to save him from his nightmares now.

It’s been 30 days without Fred and George is drowning.

He finds himself pleading, begging to whoever was up there bring him back, I’ll do anything just bring him back. He stares in the mirror and sees his twin staring back and his heart hurts, screams at the knowledge that Fred was gone, that he would never have his twin again.

His family has moved on, he knows, slowly but surely and he’s the only one left, still drowning in the grief and the pain and the sorrow. Time passes differently now, infinitely long and yet too fast for him to track, the days warping like years, like months, like seconds.

He wishes he had been taken too.

It’s been 62 days without Fred.

The grief still hits him, takes him by surprise. He was wearing a coat the other day, reached into his pocket and pulled out a Ton-Tongue toffee -

And how could he explain to the random passerby’s, the kind lady who had grabbed his shoulder and said “Son? Are you alright?” How could he explain all the late nights spent developing those sweets, all the doxy bites and the acid burns and the explosions, the ones that always turned both their heads the colour of soot, the hours after spent laughing and cursing and writing even more notes?

Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes sits empty and desolate, the windows dark and the glass dusty. He can’t bring himself to go back in there, the rooms and the roof and the shelves full of Fred, full of his brother.

They had spent all of last summer trying to find the perfect shade of purple to paint their walls with, a mix between indigo and navy, something deep and dark and powerful. Pizzaz Purple, they’d decided, after much deliberation.

He can’t look at it without feeling sick.

It’s been 90 days without Fred.

He sits in the bar, with Lee Jordan by his side. He knows he’s been drinking too much since Fred’s been gone. He can’t stop.

Sometimes he finds himself turning around, as if to speak to the ghost of a brother long gone. Sometimes he finds himself laughing at something they would have both loved, a fragment of a memory coming back to him.

The realization that he truly was gone always hurt so much more.

So he sits in the bar and he knocks back drinks, one after another until the spinning in his head is enough to drown out the thoughts of Fred. What does it matter if I never wake up? he thinks. At least I’ll be with him.

Lee stares into his cup. He’s maybe the only person who could understand what George was feeling, the only person who knew Fred like he did. “I loved him,” he says. “Did he ever tell you that?”

He didn’t need to, George thinks. He knew his twin like the back of his hand, every smile and every laugh, every brush of his hands against Lee’s. His twin only really loved two people romantically, Lee and Angelina and he had loved Lee for longer.

But Lee’s still waiting for an answer so he smiles and knocks back his drink, closes his eyes and says “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

It’s been 184 days without Fred and George is going to kill Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy’s in his flat right now, all pale hair and grey eyes, positively glowing with happiness and George wants to kill him.

He’s happy. He’s happy Harry managed to find some love in his life because God that kid deserved it but he doesn’t think he can look Malfoy in the eyes, see the Mark on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says. He sounds like he means it. George doesn’t care.

“Get out.”

He sees Harry move out of the corner of his eye, subtlety positioning his body between him and Malfoy. George wonders when he had changed, from the jokester of the family to someone dangerous enough to hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says again, and George is this close to snapping -

“We should go,” Harry says, his voice low. George watched them leave.

He knows Fred would preache forgiveness. He doesn’t care.

It’s been 300 days without Fred.

George runs into Angelina on the street, near the enterance to Diagon Alley. He stares at the statue of the Hag new the enterance and fights back the lump in his throat.

“I know you’ve heard this before,” Angelina says, “But I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he speaks, devoid of any of his old humor. “It’s been almost a year.”

“I know,” Angelina says quietly. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

He takes her into a bar and buys her a drink. She’s a pro Quidditch player these days, and George sits quietly in the back whilst she is swarmed with requests for autographs. Afterwards they sit in silence, the ice melting in the glasses in front of them.

“Does it get any easier?” she asks, staring into her cup. “You know. Losing someone.”

George lets out a long breath, stares at the familiar expanse of freckled skin on his arm. “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

Angelina fixes him with a steady stare.

“No,” he says. “And I feel like I should move on. But I...if I died...”

“Wouldn’t you want him to move on? To live his life?”

“Of course, but - “

“He wouldn’t want you to end up like this, George.”

George lets out a dry chuckle. “You think I haven’t heard this before?”

Angelina raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard it from me.”

With a flourish, she slaps down a napkin onto the surface of the bar, a number scrawled in a flowery script. “Call me. When you’re ready to start living again.”

George watches her leave, her long black hair swaying behind her, and for the first time since Fred died a smile stretches across his face.

#fred weasley #george weasley #harry potter #drarry #second wizarding war #angst #harry potter fanfic #george weasley fanfic

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cakepopple · 5 years

Note

For the prompt thing—how about a kissy klance? A rare moment of downtime for the busy boys. Thanks so much!!❤️💙

I'm like!! 90% sure!! This isn't quite how you wanted this fic to go ahaha... but it's soft and mostly smooching and I'm fairly satisfied with it :) also tbh... if you want good kush kiss fics, check out @nisekoi !! Nothing I write could ever live up to those tbh :P Anywho, here’s my best go at it!

Stay, Don’t be Busy (Klance Request - 2)

— (word count: 2247) —

Lance finishes his class at noon. He’s been teaching fighter pilot courses at the Garrison since the war ended, and while he loves it, he’s happy when his lunch break finally arrives. More so today than usual, since after his students have all filed out to the hallway and mumbled their tired goodbyes, there’s still someone leaning against the doorframe. There are enough stripes on his uniform to tell Lance he’s not a student. Not that he’d need the help anyway; he knows who’s standing there, even when he’s only seen him in his peripheral. His legs cross at his ankles, his elbow bends and presses against the door to hold it open, and his fist knots so he can hold it against his cheek in an exaggerated show of false nonchalance. The genuine and smooth lines at the ends of his smile show he’s not as indifferent as his body language would suggest, though.

“Hey,” he says, and Lance realizes he’s missed Keith’s voice than he’d previously thought. Hearing it now is like the first bite of a food you haven’t had in months, the one that brings all the flavors and cravings back so fast you get a chest ache. Lance had known Keith would be back from his Blade mission today, but part of him had thought the man wouldn’t come to visit. They’re not dating, as much as Lance wishes they are, so there was never any obligation for Keith to stop by.

Every ounce of blood in his veins had been coursing with the hopes that Keith would come visit him anyway.

And here he is.

Keith’s got his Garrison uniform on, the one with the red sleeves and gold stripes, and Lance’s eyes snag on the way the colors broaden his shoulders. Or maybe it’s the way he’s standing, tall and confident, with that smug, little smile on his lips. But he looks so genuinely happy to see Lance, and that ties the whole image together. It’s something Lance will stare up at his ceiling thinking about until the next time Keith comes home. The next time Keith gives him something he can’t sleep over. Keith licks his lips, and the taunting image scrawled through Lance’s mind shifts. A shudder passes through Lance’s spine. He knows exactly what triggered it.

He nods at Keith, hands fumbling for the papers on his desk as a source of distraction. Quietly, he clears his throat, “Hey, Keith.” And there’s a smile in his voice, warm and fizzing, as he flashes a smitten look at his shuffling hands. Too stubborn, too apprehensive to let Keith know how profoundly giddy he is, but too pleased to keep a smile away. The pages click twice against the desk as he straightens them. Calculated. Nervous. “Didn’t think I’d see you during my lunch break today.” Lance flickers his eyes up and away from his work, and Keith’s grin in response is irrepressible. As if Lance just looking at him is enough to satisfy everything he’d ever wanted. Doesn’t he know how much Lance looks at him? It isn’t that special. But the way Keith smiles at him definitely is, and Lance feels his stomach roll in gratification, so he hides himself in his work again. His ears are hot.

Keith strolls in from the entrance and the door clicks back into place behind him. “Where else would I go?” He sounds so sincere. Lance smiles, the bunches of his cheeks burning from how wholly he feels the emotion behind his grin. His body sways, only slightly, with a drunken buzz of delight, and he presses a hand to his desk to keep himself steady. The papers he’d stacked so neatly only a second ago wrinkle under his hold, retaining the creases because of the sweat on his palms. God, was he always this blatantly skittish around Keith? The flush of his cheeks is so irredeemably nervous. He hears Keith flop onto the swivel chair behind him. His heart pools and bubbles in his stomach when Keith laughs at the way the seat skids back and squeaks. “You’re my favorite person to spend time with, Lance.”

“Is that so?” Lance wheezes as he asks that, playing it off by laughing in short spurts after the fact. He turns around slowly, squatting on his desk where his papers aren’t. “Never would have guessed.” And he means it. Him? Keith’s favorite? He bites back the urge to sigh at the weight such an assurance takes off his shoulders. Pleasure burns at his nape; he lifts his hands there, as though to swat it back down.

As he slides himself farther up his desk, so the crooks of his knees hook on the edge, he watches Keith make up for the distance. Hands close around the desk, one on either side of Lance’s thighs. “Absolutely.” Lance loses his voice at the certainty in Keith’s tone. The glint in Keith’s eyes turns wicked as he stands up and leans closer, shrinking the distance between them to something so small, Lance knows he’s not imagining Keith’s body heat swarming his own. “I heard something interesting from Pidge and Hunk when I came in this morning,” he says, bringing his hands closer to Lance’s legs, an inch away from touching. Lance dizzies at the thought, wonders what his hands feel like when they linger for more than a fleeting touch.

“What did you hear?” Lance has to restart the sentence a few times, emotions too thick in his throat to allow words passage. Keith smiles something tender at the jolts in Lance’s voice. One of his hands releases the desk and instead, it drifts to Lance’s cheek. Though he puts infinite effort into an attempt, Lance can’t seem to keep his eyes open. He can’t see it when Keith swoops in to smother their lips together, but he feels it so perfectly, so completely, he swears the image is right there, on the backs of his eyelids. Surely on his ceiling tonight, too, as he’ll be kept up again. One of Lance’s hands grips to ground himself on the desk, while the other reaches for the hand Keith kept beside his thigh.

When Keith straightens his spine and thus places distance between them once more, it becomes painfully clear the sort of thing he’d heard. “Pidge said she was tired of watching you ‘stare at’ and ‘pine’ over me. Hunk begged me to make the first move.” Twitching his nose, he pauses, and the hand along Lance’s cheeks trails downward to his neck. Keith looks concerned. “How long?” It’s fragile, the way his face seems to fold in the middle, where his eyebrows wrench together, as though trying to meet. A welt of sadness taints Lance’s throat.

“Do you mean how long I was going to wait to kiss you? Or how long I’ve already been waiting?” Lance’s fingers begin to slip away from where they’re nestled over Keith’s, but they’re stopped when Keith desperately draws them back, pinning the hand under his own. Shyly, Lance admits, “Either way, the answer is pretty close to forever.” A sour note wrenches from Keith’s throat.

Pressing closer, touch hot enough on Lance’s neck to scar, Keith weakly ponders, “Why?”

“I’ve been busy, and you’ve been busy, out with the Blades—”

“You’re not busy right now,” Keith says, tone sharp with urgency, but countenance a heartstopping mild. His eyes are scalding, a swirling grey like thick, stifling smoke, and Lance is suffocating in them, how they lock onto him. Stern, gentle, intoxicating. Those eyes dip to Lance’s mouth. A tongue darts over Keith’s lips when he brings his eyes upward again. “I’m not busy with the blades, either. What’s stopping you now?” Lance feels Keith’s hand on his neck crawl around to his scalp. He lets it happen, leans into the cup of gentle touches.

Lance whimpers, “But you will be busy. When you leave again in a few days.” After hearing that, Keith tugs Lance closer by his hair, so he can kiss him again. Longer, deeper, and this time, Lance kisses back. He doesn’t care that the discussion has been paused, doesn’t mind postponing it, if it means he gets to taste more of Keith’s lips, circling and pushing along his own. Keith’s leaving, he tells himself. It isn’t a good idea to indulge in something that’s doomed to crash and burn, he reminds himself. But, ultimately, he admits that it feels too right to ignore. Lance curls into Keith, so indescribably satisfied he feels he might fall down onto his desk. His back shudders at the thought, like it’s about to give out under the affectionate assault, as though to confirm such a thing would be fitting. He wraps his arms around Keith’s neck to hold himself together.

The hold Keith has on Lance’s scalp falls away. He’s at the bottom of Lance’s shirt, now, and searing fingers swipe a patch of skin on the small of Lance’s back. It makes Lance arch closer. Keith eagerly takes the invitation, sliding his whole hand up under Lance’s shirt, just to cradle his shoulder blades. All his actions, all his motions whisper, caress, sing, I’ve waited too long, over soft skin. The drag of his tongue along the roof of Lance’s mouth says the same. So do the scribbled circles that loop around to Lance’s stomach, because Lance finally leans his spine down against his desk. He’s taking Keith’s cheeks, his addictive lips, with him. Keith swirls the nails of that one hand over Lance’s middle, and his other hand hastily moves from the edge of the desk to the space beside Lance’s head, where his fingers curl into the wood.

Meanwhile, Lance grapples Keith’s cheeks like he’ll fall right into oblivion without Keith and his lips holding him in the present. His fingers wind through, and undo, Keith’s ponytail, so the hair tie clicks against the classroom floor. He doesn’t spare a thought in its direction; he’s waited too long to have Keith pushing, prodding, brushing teeth against his lips. Waited too long to kiss and be kissed by someone he feels so strongly for. To kiss and be kissed by Keith. When Lance whines, low and pleading in his throat, Keith lifts from Lance like he’s out of breath. Like he’s been drowning in something, and Lance feels the same. He can’t pry his eyes open, his lungs heave, and he feels Keith’s pulse from where he’s holding him by his cheeks, telling him Keith’s as antsy, as excited, as he is.

As Lance’s eyes squint open, he sees Keith’s cheeks are flushed. And Keith looks self conscious. Worried. He pulls his lips apart, huffs a few airless breaths, and then he suggests, “What if I don’t leave again? What if I stay here, not busy, with you?” He thumbs Lance’s bottom lip, he watches himself do it, as if he’s about to dive back in. If he went for it, Lance would let him. Lance would let him do anything. There’s no one he trusts more. In fact, he indulges the selfish look in Keith’s eyes, lifting his torso up to Keith’s so they can kiss again. Keith sighs against him, and Lance can feel the relief as his tense shoulders relax.

They kiss until Lance is too overwhelmed by the heat behind it to breathe, and he pats Keith’s cheek. Instantly, Keith unlatches from Lance. They lock eyes for a moment, before Keith tickles his nose against Lance’s jawline experimentally. When Lance opens the spot to him, humming, Keith pecks a couple kisses down his neck. Fingers clutching into fists, Lance knots them together at the wrists, behind Keith’s head. His mind is fuzzy, his words slur as he quietly questions what Keith had proposed. “You’d do that for me?”

Keith chuckles against his pulse. Every exposed patch of Lance’s skin smolders, every one of his brain cells is stolen to play the sound and the feeling on repeat. God. God. He could keep Keith there forever, ask him to say every little thought he has there, and Lance still wouldn’t tire of it. He’s certain. It feels too good. Too perfect. So much so, he almost wants to ask Keith to stop, before he’s too drunk to teach later. Worst of all is how he knows, if he were to ask Keith to keep kissing and whispering along his neck, the man wouldn’t hesitate to do it. He’d probably smile and rumble with laughter and—

“Would I? Oh, Lance,” he breathes, then he’s leaving a kiss that’s longer than the rest, one that lingers after he’s pulled away again. “As if there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Then stay,” Lance says hastily. Now that Keith’s suggested it, Lance can’t get the thought out of his head. How badly he wants Keith to stay with him. To kiss him every day, to laugh with him, to visit him during his lunch breaks. His heart revs up at the thought, his eyes swell with tears. Lance begs, “Please stay. Go on a date with me, keep kissing me, do whatever you want. Just please do it here, on Earth. Stay.” His breath is shaking. Now he’s crying. “Please, Keith. Stay with me.”

One last time, Keith kisses him on his mouth. Sweet and brief. Lance’s whole body shivers.

“For you, Lance…” Their eyes meet again, and Lance notices Keith is crying, too. “Anything.”

#klance #kick #kl #kl fic #kiss fic #lance mcclain #keith kogane #ask cake #request #i forgot to add the italicizing jshdjdjdj i didnt rememver tumblr removes them oof

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scaryscarecrows · 4 years

Text

Up on the Van Top

AN: I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS. FOR MONTHS. MONTHS. I hope you appreciate the self-control that required.

* * *

Bruce isn’t sure what he’s expecting when Gordon calls him with a curt, “You need to come to the Iceberg Lounge.”

It isn’t this, he’s sure. Nobody could expect this.

The Lounge is fine. It’s been decorated for the season, glistening baubles all but cackling about being bought with money obtained through illegal activities. It’s suspiciously empty, though that could be explained by the presence of GCPD.

Or not.

Oswald Cobblepot is tied from ankles to head in what appears to be ribbon. A big, sparkly red bow sits atop his hat. A…ball of reindeer socks…has been crammed in his mouth. He looks furious. It doesn’t help that there’s an envelope with ‘Batman’ scrawled on it taped to his chest.

There are two possible reasons for this, and Bruce is doubting it’s some new, holiday-themed vigilante introducing themselves, which leaves…

He reaches forward and plucks the socks free. Cobblepot makes a face reminiscent of an enraged terrier Bruce once saw on the internet.* He breathes deeply for a few seconds, nose wrinkling, and finally snarls, “Control your brats!”

No, it is not a new holiday-themed vigilante. Part of him dies a little inside.

Where did I go so wrong?

Bullock swallows a snicker. Gordon has a little more tact.

“Come on, Oswald. Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where? I have done nothing to warrant being attacked by that--that festive fiend--”

Gordon holds up a flash drive wrapped in polka-dotted washi tape.

“I got a present, too. Let’s go.”

Bruce tugs the envelope free before stepping aside. Gordon cuts the ribbon and guides Cobblepot towards the door. Bruce will follow in a few minutes-he has to know, now, what happened here-but first, card. Alfred’s stringent rule of ‘card, then present’ is deeply ingrained. He’ll know if Bruce ignores it--what’s that?

It’s a small box, wrapped nicely, with ‘Agent A’ scrawled on it. Ah. He’ll deliver that, then.

The card is blue, with a little silhouette of Santa’s sleigh going across it. The inside, on the other hand, is filled with that spiky writing he remembers so well.

I gotcha an angry bird, B! :D <3, J.T.

Bruce has never been good at leaving things alone. Even things that he’s probably going to regret. So, of course, he follows Gordon to the police station, arranges for a private interview with Cobblepot, and swallows the Parent Voice that he used to use for parent-teacher conferences when he says, “What happened.”

* * *

Earlier that evening…

Honestly, this is probably the biggest spur-of-the-moment thing Jason has ever done. Or at least one of them. But…well…he was hungry. That’s how this started.

He’d been standing in the Circle K, looking for food. All they’d friggin’ had was Hot Cheetos, and honestly, after the Hot Cheeto Disaster of ’08, he’d seriously consider starving rather than touch one ever again.

(Oh, God. After everything, that incident still held the power to make him shudder.)

And then it was there, on an endcap, surrounded by candy canes and snowman-topped PEZ machines, that he saw it. Somewhere, Alfred wept. Dick felt a warm sense of…maybe pride. Bruce was probably suddenly stricken with the need to sulk on a gargoyle.

…well, a bigger need than usual. A primal urge, if you would.

And that’s why Jason now has a Santa hat and beard on over his helmet. It took a bit of superglue to get them to stick, but he did it, in the end. So here he is, crouched on a crane by the docks, empty bag in hand.

Penguin is late. The guys he’s meeting are here, but the man himself, petty bastard that he is, is nowhere to be seen--wait.

He hears a van. It’s a clunky, crappy sound. He knows that sound.

Ho, ho, ho, motherfuckers.

He straightens up, stalks to the edge of the shipping crate he’s settled on, and waits for the van to sputter to an almost-stop before stepping off the edge--

--and landing on the hood with a nasty-sounding CRUNCH! The driver blinks at him in confusion before things come together for him and he hollers, “WE GOT A PROBLEM, BOYS!”

Jason waggles his fingers at him, hops to the ground, and saunters towards the back, smacking his palm against the side of the van on the way. There’s shouting inside. He doesn’t hear Penguin, but to be fair, he didn’t expect him to show up in this piece of crap. Oz has self-respect.

Or. More self-respect than the suckers he hires.

He stops a foot or so away from the doors and waits. Now that the pounding’s stopped, it’s quiet in the van. Well. Almost quiet-there appears to be a hushed argument over who has to open the door.

Well? Come on! Are you men or mice?

Silence from the van, broken only by a whispered, “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot--I hate you. I hate you all.”

“Get out, bitch.”

“Screw you,” the first man snarls, and then he straight-up kicks the door open like this is some 90s white-man-learns-karate movie. “Come on, Red Hood!”

“Someone’s on the naughty list.”

Apparently figuring go big or go home, Naughty List shoots at him. He misses, because no Gotham Goon can shoot straight, but he tries. Which means, of course, that anything Jason does to him now is in self-defense and absolutely legal in every way.

Honest.

Even though the bullet would have missed him by a mile, Jason decides to boost Naughty List’s morale by hurling himself to the side...and hopping on top of the van. It’s like popping a pimple; there’s yelling, and then a stream of men spill out. Now that they’re all out, he grapples away to get a better look.

And also to scare them shitless, because what’s the fun in being nice?

“Is he gone?”

“Maybe he’s gone.”

“Holy shit, you scared him off.” Pfft, nah. “Dude, I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”

“Eh, no offense taken.”

Well, isn’t that nice. He resists the urge to give ‘em his Tiny Tim impression (probably not so good, now) and swings to the roof of the little office overlooking the dock.

“Check the area to make sure,” somebody says. “F’we bring his head to Penguin, we might get bonuses.”

Yeah, they might. Penguin’s got it in for him, a little, even if he did...sort of...apologize for asking about the bottle in his eye.

Sorry, Oz.

Well, if they’re gonna be all gung-ho about it…

He throws a smoke pellet into their midst and when they start screaming (and one of them is crying, Christ), leaps down after it.

“Doncha know the song, boys? Sing it with me, now...you better not pout, you better not cry, you better not shout, I’m tellin’ you why…” SCHWING! A head rolls and he has to dive to grab it and shove it in his bag. “Santa Hood is comin’...to toooown!”

By the time the smoke clears, there are three headless corpses, two crying mooks, and one horribly bloody machete. Jason tosses the machete to the ground and looks at the survivors. They’re unarmed. One of them is literally unarmed, meaning that his arm is lying on the ground, and the other one is bleeding from the side. Huh. He doesn’t remember doing that.

“I’m feelin’ the holiday spirit tonight, boys,” he says. “So tell ya what. You tell me where your boss is, and you can run right along to the emergency room.”

To the shock of none, the, uh, unarmed one rolls over immediately.

“He had a meetin’! With Dent, they’re at the Dos Amigos club downtown!”

“‘preciate that,” Jason says sincerely, hefts the bag over his shoulder. “You might wanna get that checked out. Looks like it hurts.”

Now. He has a present to give to Penguin.

THE END

*Tim sent Bruce a video of Mr. Bubz. Ask and ye shall receive the same.

#Jason Todd #unlucky goons #Jason ruining the holidays for criminals #Santa Hood #Bruce is so tired #he can't even disown him because Alfred would be #ANGRY #(and he would never)#the three M's of Vigilantism: mockery maiming and murder

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hellolittleogre · 4 years

Text

Happy Holidays and have some fic!

Home made from me to you, the continuation of Billy x Goody College AU, Idiots in Love pt 2. Thank you all for this year, for encouragement and flailing and AUs.

May you have some days of rest, peace and food however you do or do not celebrate.

Billy was hungover, feeling like an idiot and nursing a large cup of coffee and browsing the campus bookshop for a suitable valentines card for Jujin. He hadn't told her about the whole Vasquez debacle, still feeling pretty fragile about it and not able to stand her reaction of incredulous pity, exasperation and downright ridicule that was no doubt coming his way.

The first valentines card Billy had ever sent, or rather had made, with chubby fingers sticky with white glue and glitter, way back in playschool, had been for Jujin and his mother, and so it felt like a good gesture. A “no hard feelings” kind of gesture. A “I guess you kind of outed me but it turned out alright in the end, and all in all I’m kind of glad to have it done because it would have been difficult as hell to introduce our mother to my legally wedded husband and our adopted kids 15 years down the line, so it’s all good, put please for the love of God don’t do it again” kind of gesture.The trick was to find a card which was nice, yet still patently ridiculous, since nobody wanted a sincere valentines card from their brother. He was choosing between a card with a very grave looking cartoon T-Rex holding a heart, and a card with a big yellow rose saying “HAVE A GAY VALENTINE!” which seemed funny, but also slightly passive aggressive, when his eye caught on a postcard.

It wasn't specifically a valentines card, instead it was a water colour depiction of a hazy moon, full and white, over the water of a calm pond. Little wisps of cloud were trailing around the moon, softening it, almost like a veil, and muted green tones around the edge of the water-mirror hinted at lush vegetation. On the back it said La Lune, Metropolitan Museum of Art. It wasn't strictly speaking a valentines card but it was so Goodnight that Billy didn't hesitate for a moment and left the shop with it and the t-Rex valentine in secure possession.

Delivering it to Goodnight was easy. They all had their cubbyholes in the lobby and leaving for lectures on the 14th Billy quickly looked around to make sure he was alone before sticking the unassuming white envelope into the cubbyhole. He had settled for printing Will You Be My Valentine? and nothing else at the back, figuring that was mysterious enough without driving Goody into a frenzy trying to figure out who wrote it. He'd never squashed little handwritten notes into a crush’s locker in high school so he figured he was owed the experience. All day there was a little jitter of excitement and he firmly ignored the little voice that said that if he had any balls at all he'd give it to Goodnight in person and come clean.

Coming home he immediately spotted the card lying on Goody's desk. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done not to look at it and just walk over to his bed like normal. Goody seemed in a good mood, humming softly and hanging out the window smoking and picking up Billy’s valentine’c card and tapping his fingers against it. It was sort of a breathtaking feeling. He had done that, he'd caused that little dreamy smile that hovered just at the edge of Goody's mouth, and it made him want to preen and puff up.

“You want a chocolate?” Goodnight asked leaning into the room to look at Billy.

“You got chocolates?” Billy asked, crestfallen,and tried not to feel upstaged by Sam again. As if Billy was not upstaged by Sams whole existence.

“They were giving them out for free at the health center,” Goody shrugged and pushed a small pink box towards Billy.

“At the health center?” Billy asked and took one. “Are you feeling ok? Not ill?”

“No, I’m fine, I have a standing appointment with a hmm, uh, a counselor,” he shrugged it away looking a little pink so Billy elected to let it slide in favour of stuffing his mouth with chocolate. His mom had always told him he would grow out of his sweet-tooth but so far it hadn't happened.

“Happy valentines,” Goody said with a smirk and Billy tossed him a chocolate. “Any roses and flowers?”

Billy huffed. “Not that I know of. They could of course have gotten delivered to my other dorm room, with my other roommate.”

“Yeah, that place is probably so full you can't even see the floor,” Goodnight said with a bark of laughter.

“And they're all from your mother,” Billy returned, pleasantly warmed by Goody’s slender fingertips against the shiny surface of the card and his attention.

“Too bad she's wasting her time when all you want is my daddy's dick.”

Heat exploded all over Billy's face. It might be the way Goody's mouth curled around the word daddy, all fat and satisfied and filthy, his crooked smile, or hearing him saying “dick” that casually, or too close to what Billy actually wanted for him to control himself, but he blushed so hard he could physically feel his cheeks pulse and his eyes dropped immediately to the hands in his lap.

The silence was deafening.

He could hear Goodnight moving but he didn't think he could look up even if he was offered good money for it.

“Aw, shit Billy. Shit, I'm so sorry. I talk too much, everyone says so. I didn't mean to…”Goody's hand was warm on his shoulder and Billy darted a glance at his face before looking away again.

“‘S OK,” he managed, all cotton mouthed.

Goody was just there, close. If Billy leaned any closer he could push his face into his crotch. Mouth at the fly and unzip him, sneak one hand up under his t-shirt and fit his palm to the crest of his hip bone. Would Goody say no?Or would he let him?

“Lets just see if you got any mail though,yeah? Did you check your mail?”

Goody ushered him down to the lobby, dithering about this and that, leaning more heavily on the French than he used to, a sure sign of how flustered he was. Billy was still feeling the smarting sting of his previous stupidity, as well as the whole mess about Vasquez and wondering how to take it back or bring it up again. He didn't want Goody to assume he was carrying some hopeless torch for Vasquez, or that he was his one true love and would never look at anybody else, he just didn't want Goody to think that the boy he had a crush on was Goodnight.

If he hadn't been so surprised he would have thought of better lie, like the boy in the coffee shop or the tall guy who checked books at the library or basically anybody else other than someone both Billy and Goodnight talked to every day.

His cubbyhole had an unexpectedly rich yield with a card from his mother, and a pizza flier with a two for one offer but Billy's attention was distracted by a chocolate box at the very bottom of the drawer. He pulled it out and looked at it. It didn't look like a commercial offer but there wasn't a card or note and he kept turning it over and frowning.

“Did you get one of these?” he asked Goody, waving the box and Goodnight frowned and shook his head. “There is no note,” he said, turning the box over again and Goody bent down to pick up a folded piece of paper by his foot.

“Maybe this?” he started and then trailed off. “Its...uh. Its from Vasquez. Cool! That’s uh, really cool.Chocolates from your crush on valentines! Wow!” Goody said with a bright smile, handing the note to Billy. It was handwritten in an uneven scrawl: Happy Valentines, enjoy! / Vasquez

Billy stared at it with narrowed eyes. He was 90% certain Vasquez wasn’t the type to buy chocolates for Valentines for the person he was dating, let alone a friend. He was also 90% sure that if Vas was trying to get into his pants it would be through the means of a bottle of tequila and a frank question rather than what looked like Mexican Ferrero-Roche.With Goody heading back to their room Billy clutched his trove to his chest and fished out his phone. Vas picked up on the second ring.

“Hey Chaparrito, how’s it going?”

“Why the fuck do I have chocolates from you?” Billy said, never one for circumspection, and Alejandro laughed.“Its my abuelita, man. She gets them from her work and always picks up at least two cartons of chocolate, they are left-overs from last year, so she sends a ton to my ma. She says that when I was in pre-school I had so many novias there weren’t enough to go around. And they were all called Maria.” He sounded nostalgic.

Billy frowned even harder.“Your grandma has sent me old chocolates because she thinks I’m your bitch?”

“Dude, that is not what novia means. Also if I had bitches then Emma would be my bitch, and you would be my side-bitch. At best.”

“Aren’t I fucking lucky,” Billy groused and Vasquez made an indignant sound.

“Hey cabron, you could just say thank you.I could have given those to at least three girls in my course. I could even have let those go into the bottomless hole that is Josh, but instead I hauled ass all over campus to stick those up your letterbox, so now you had better appreciate your not even expired chocolates.”

“Ugh, I’m so touched. Your grandma chocolates are the most romantic thing to ever happen to me.”

“You’re an ingrate, shorty. Did you get one of those pizza leaflets? Josh and I are using one to go and crash Emma and Mathew’s valentines date, you should bring Goodnight and come.”

“Is Red coming too?”

“Yeah but he’s going as his own date. Says two pizzas and he might not get hungry again after half an hour.”

“All right, if they have their date in the student pizzeria hey deserve to have it crashed.”

Goodnight was hanging out of the window and smoking when Billy reached their room, Billy tossed his jacket at him and waved the leaflet.“Come on, we’re getting pizza and crashing Emma and Mathew’s valentines date.”

“We are?” Goody asked, picking up his coat.

“Absolutely, I have a two for one pizza offer and nobody I’d rather spend it on. I’ll even pay for your soda.”

“Oh, Billy,” Goodnight rolled his eyes. “You sure do know how to treat a fella.”

“World’s okayest roommate. You can stick it on a mug for my birthday.”

Goodnight’s hand landed on the back of his neck, warm and broad as he leaned over and gently bumped their foreheads together, their noses nearly brushing. Warmth zipped up and down Billy’s whole body. It was like being back at first week when Billy had jumped at the slightest touch, his heart doing an eager little somersault in his chest, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“You, mon ami, are so much more than “okay”,” Goodnight said warmly and released Billy to get his shoes on and Billy stuck behind him all the way down to the street to give himself time to stop blushing and get all of his limbs back under control.

Mathew and Emma had indeed been dumb enough to have their romantic valentines date at the student pizza place and although Emma’s face promised murder it was a fun evening. Vasquez and Faraday kept trying to trump each other with bad dating stories, Vasquez winning with the story about how he had managed to commit pre-school polygamy with all the girls in his creche and then got into terrible trouble when they all found out and he and his best friend (the Cyrano to his Casanova) had been forced to hide from the tiny mob of pissed-off five-year olds under the pillows in the nap room until his dad came to collect him.

It made Billy laugh so much he got the hiccoughs and nearly fell off the bench and Vasquez was forced to reach out and pull him up by the scruff of his neck, putting an arm around him to make sure he wasn’t falling off again, and Billy looked up from laughing so hard he was literally snorting orange juice through his nose and saw Goodnight looking at him with a brittle smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he remembered he was supposed to be in love with Vasquez and perhaps not laugh so hard at his romantic failings.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” he called out to Vasquez when the groups separated, on Thursdays they both had a midday gap in lectures that they usually used for going to the gym.“It’s a date, short stack,” Vas responded cheerfully and blew him a kiss before putting an arm around Josh to support him around an icy patch on the road.“A date uh?” Goodnight said, smiling as they walked home and Billy looked at his feet and shrugged, his ears heating up. He was really going to have to find a way to get himself out of this one.

#christmas post #fic #mag7 #Billy x goodnight college AU #idiots in love #college au

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blessed-but-distressed · 5 years

Text

Basket Case: A @cssecretsanta2k18 AU

For @lifeinahole27, with my apologies for the delay. Happy New Year!

also on ff.net and ao3

Basket Weaving for Beginners.

It wasn’t exactly Emma Swan’s idea of a wild Thursday night. Spending an evening cooped up in an elementary school classroom, taking instruction from an aging hippie about how to craft ugly home furnishings from twigs. But it was on the list. And this year, Emma was sticking to her list.

New Year’s Resolution #3: Take up a new hobby.

Okay, so maybe it hadn’t exactly specified that she take up basket weaving, but it had to be something. It wasn’t Emma’s fault that by the time she’d fished the Adult Education brochure out from the random assortment of junk mail she had piling up, it was the only class left in the course catalog that still had available spaces.

Not unless she felt like taking up Fly Fishing for Beginners, and frankly, she didn’t.

New Year’s Resolution #9: Stop leaving junk mail piled up on the hall table.

So. Basket Weaving. For Beginners. How bad could it be?

Her first impressions weren’t bad. It was just it had been years since she’d been in a proper classroom, and she’d forgotten how colorful they could be. Laminated charts and drawings covering every wall, each eye-wateringly brighter than the next. The papier-mâché solar system strung from the ceiling. Even the list of kids who made detention this week was scrawled in a vivid purple.

She tried to conjure up the memories from her own elementary school days, but they were flat, muted. She couldn’t dredge up anything with half of this… effervescence. Maybe it was just the 90s. Maybe it was just her, and her crappy childhood.

She was relieved to find that rather than the Woodstock Wannabe she’d imagined, the instructor was actually young, perhaps even younger than her. A pretty, dark haired woman in a fitted tweed jacket, and heels so high Emma winced reflexively just at the sight of them.

“You must be Emma,” the woman said warmly, reaching across the table to shake her hand. She was Australian, maybe. Or possibly South African. Emma never really had an ear for accents. “I’m Belle. I’ll be leading the class. Glad you found your way. We’re just about to start, so if you could find somewhere to sit…”

A quick scan revealed that every table was already occupied, everyone paired up like it was Noah’s Ark or something. All except the table at the back, its sole occupant leaning back on his comically small chair, a sardonic smile curling his lips as Emma turned his way.

New Year’s Resolution #1: STAY AWAY FROM KILLIAN JONES!

Fuck.

Her first instinct was to flee. The natural response, when confronted with a predator. And mark her words, everything about Killian Jones in that instant was entirely predatory. The leather jacket. The devil-may-care slouch. And above all, the familiarity sparking in those dangerous blue eyes, that threatened to swallow her whole.

She did turn to go, but by then Belle already had her by the elbow, and was practically manhandling her down the aisle of desks. “Oh, look,” she said, her blithe tone a contrast to her iron grip. “It seems like Mr Jones is in need of a partner.”

Everyone was looking at her now. The retirees in their matching jogging suits. The J.Crew moms chugging down their mineral waters. The new age waifs in their tie-dyed T-shirts. Every beady eye, turned in her direction.

“Great,” she said, rescuing her arm from Belle’s vice-like grasp. And took a seat.

He didn’t speak immediately, just watched as Belle trailed back down to the front of the room, taking the attention of the class with her. But she could tell he already had an opening volley prepared. Could practically feel it vibrating inside him, as his elbow oh-so-accidentally brushed her own.

“So who was it?” Emma asked, keeping her voice low and emotionless. “Ruby? Mary Margaret? I bet it was Mary Margaret, wasn’t it?”

She chanced a sideways glance at his expression, trying to catch him out, but his face was inscrutable, if kind of smug.

“I have no idea what you mean, Swan. I’m just as surprised as you. I’m just a simple man, going about his day, eager to learn the ancient and noble art of basket weaving.”

“You have one hand!” Her voice rose a little higher than she intended, drawing a few odd looks their way.

“Well,” he shrugged, turning her way properly at last. “You know that’s never really been an obstacle when it counts.”

The look he shot her was knowing. The same look he’d worn the morning after, before she’d thrown his jeans at his chest, and told him to lose her number.

God, her list was going straight to hell.

It wasn’t even February yet.

It hadn’t mattered. The one-handed thing. He wore a prosthetic, usually. And when it was cold like this, he wore gloves so you could barely even tell that much. Not unless he wanted you to. He hadn’t worn the prosthetic with her. Hadn’t bothered to hide what he was. Who he was.

He was struggling now though, tool poised to create a split in the willow reeds, per Belle’s instructions, but slipping every time without the proper leverage.

“Hey,” she said, her touch on his shoulder enough to still him. “Hand me the screwdriver.”

“It’s a bodkin, Swan,” he corrected, but gauging Emma’s unimpressed face, handed it over anyway.

Emma had never tried to split a willow reed before, but a quick glance at the neighboring tables showed that no one else seemed to be finding it all that difficult. How hard could it be?

“Now remember what Belle said. You’ve got t- Careful!” he warned, but it was already too late, Emma’s first attempt had already snapped the reed clean in half.

“Shit.”

“And that’s why there are spares,” Killian sighed, dropping another near identical reed onto the tabletop.

“Maybe I should be the one holding it?” Emma offered.

But Killian shook his head, his weight already braced at either end, waiting. “You can do it, Swan. Just remember not to push it through right away.”

A beat. The flicker of a smile. The innuendo shimmering silently between them, before he coughed, and nudged her hand. “Again.”

This cut was more centered, and as she lifted the reed, the bodkin, or whatever it was, poked through the other side. A perfect split, to feed the other reed through.

Killian leaned close, inspecting her handiwork. “Not bad, love. And only two more to go.”

He shouldn’t be smiling at her like that. Encouraging her. Sneaking in his accidental terms of endearment.

She set down the tool.

“Why are you here?” It caught him by surprise, a little, the shift in her tone. “And don’t give me any bullshit about the ancient and noble art of basket weaving. We both know you set this up... somehow.”

He didn’t speak right away, as if weighing his words carefully. “I set it up a little,” he admitted. “Though there was a certain amount of providence involved.”

He paused again, considered something, eyes shining with some unnamed emotion. “You were so quick to reject me, I thought I would give you an opportunity to reconsider.”

Hurt. That was the emotion.

She’d hurt him. The knowledge of it was a cool knife inside her chest, quelling her indignation. Not just because she’d rejected him, but because she hadn’t even given it a second thought before doing so.

Not because she didn’t like him. Not because he wasn’t a good man. Not because he wasn’t pretty damn spectacular in bed.

But because it was safe.

New Year’s Resolution #2: Go see a therapist for your stupid abandonment issues.

She felt the tear fall, but was powerless to stop it. A single escapee trailing down her cheek before she could get herself completely under control.

The sight of it unnerved Killian, and so well it might. Emma was not a crier.

“Christ, Swan,” he said, his good hand coming up to wipe her chin. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just-”

“No,” she said, a hand closing over his wrist, plastering on a watery smile. “I’m fine. You’re right. I was… callous. And that wasn’t fair to you.”

Releasing his wrist, and at a loss for what to do with her hands, she picked up the bodkin again, and lined up the next reed.

“I don’t mean to trap you, love,” Killian said softly, leaning across to hold the reed steady. “Or force you into saying something you don’t mean. I just wanted you to know you have a choice. And that I’m prepared to be patient…” Their eyes met briefly. “...if you need time to make that choice.”

It was all she could do to nod, when she had more tears threatening to spill over.

Steadying her hand, Emma punctured the reed, a perfect perforation. She held it up for Killian to inspect.

“Not bad, that,” he whistled.

“Only one more to go.”

The third reed snapped. The fourth was a success. She let Killian thread the others through, until they formed a perfect cross slath.

“Great!” Belle clapped from nearby, making a close circuit to assess their progress. “Now grab your two longest rods. They are going to be your weavers. Today we are going to be doing a pairing weave…”

She was barely out of earshot before Emma dissolved into sniggers.

“Longest… rod…” Emma spluttered, her emotions already all over the place. “Sorry. I just- I’m fine now. I’m mature. I can hear the word rod without dissolving into teenage giggling.”

“You sure about that, Swan?” Killian asked with an amused look, before one of the J.Crew crowd turned around to shush them.

Chastened, he passed her the rods in question, and let her take care of the more finicky task of securing the slath.

It wasn’t long before they had a rhythm going. Her weaving clockwise. Him holding the spokes apart as he slowly rotated the disk anti-clockwise. It wasn’t really a two person job, but it worked as one.

And it did kind of look like a basket. Or the base of one. A bit like a laundry hamper Emma used to have. The beginnings of something not too bad.

“Great work, guys!” Belle said admiringly, as she passed by their table. “Now that’s about all we have time for this week, but next week we’ll move onto the sides, where we’ll use a randing weave...”

Killian rose a suggestive brow.

“I swear she’s doing it on purpose…” Emma grumbled, packing away their tools and brushing away the debris. After a while, it became clear she was stalling more than anything.

“It was Graham,” Killian said, smiling at her confused frown. “Who ratted you out. In case you were wondering.”

Graham. That traitor. She should’ve known.

“Same time next week?” he asked, rising to his feet. The tone was light, but the question was not.

A choice.

“Yeah,” she said, rapping her knuckles against the table, trying to play it cool, even as she saw the grin spread wide across his face. “Sure. Next week.”

#cssecretsanta2k18 #cs ff #cs au #i don't know man #but i did have to learn #how to weave a fucking basket for this

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carolightpenvenys · 6 years

Text

DEADLY NIGHTSHADE CHAPTER 4

Chapter 4: sister act

Caroline 6.26am

Verity 6:27

girl this better be good you woke me up

caroline cmon

the suspense is killing me

Caroline 6:30

you know i said we were on a boy cleanse

well

Verity 6:31

tell me

is this gonna make me feel better abt getting back together with andrew

Caroline 6:33

verity! i thought we agreed that until he put a ring on it we were saying no!!!!

but possibly yes

Verity 6:35

i’m weak ok

what’s the tea

Caroline 6:37

black

Verity 6:37

what

Caroline 6:38

chai

Verity 6:39

what

Caroline 6:40

i slept with the hot doctor on my case and i am like 90% sure i am in love with him

Verity 6:41

oh girl

tell me everything

CALLING VERITY

“Oh my God, is he still there?” Were Verity’s first words when she answered the phone.

Caroline sighed, “Sadly not. We’re doing this very sexy thing where we fucked out our emotions and now we are supposed to be professional. He left last night.”

“Oh Caroline.” Verity sighed. “What have you done?”

“I don’t even know? Like I was the one who suggested it?”

“Why?”

“I kind of told him that I liked him a lot but I thought he was getting weirded out so I just went haha let’s fuck? And he went for it. How am I going to go to work on Monday Verity?” Caroline sighed. “Actually I’m glad he’s not here, Horace climbed in my bed and even he is recoiling at my awful morning breath.”

Verity laughed audibly. “I’m so sad I literally live 1000 miles away. I want to meet this guy!”

“Yeah why did you move to Lisbon? I miss you. I need you to see if you think he’s as hot as I think he is.”

“You know it’s quite encouraging.” Verity remarked. “Normally after you sleep with a guy, you question how you were even attracted to him in the first place.”

“Ugh, why do I have to have feelings Verity?” Caroline whinged, cuddling Horace closer. “I’ve decided the only man I’m allowing into my life now is Horace. That’s it. That’s the rules.” She climbed out of bed, almost dropping her iPhone in the process.

“I mean, we all saw how you lasted with your no men rule.”

“Stop it!” Caroline made a beeline for the kettle, ready to make a (good) cup of (proper) tea, unlike that milky shit Dwight lovingly makes her every morning. “I never catch feelings, what’s wrong with me?”

“Honestly who even is she anymore? Colour me shoo-”

“Verity! Emergency!” Caroline picked up some of her own stationary with ‘For Caroline’ scrawled on the front.

“What?” Verity called back but Caroline had already put the phone down, ripping open the envelope keenly.

Dear Caroline,

Just to let you know, I know very little about women (who aren’t patients) but I know enough to know you’re a fantastic one.

Thank you for a wonderful night,

Dwight x

“Verity my fanny is fluttering intensely.” Caroline picked the phone back up.

“Caroline!”

“How am I supposed to work with him when he keeps giving me all these… love kernels?”

“You’ve got to stay strong.” Verity was using her motivational mum voice. “Resolute.”

“He left me his number, I’m going to text him, ask what time he’s coming in on Monday.”

“Caroline I really don’t think that’s a-”

“Goodbye Verity!” Caroline slammed down her phone before realizing that could break the screen and also that she needed it immediately to text Dwight. Her hands were shaking a little and she was shocked at the pure effect he had on her. She didn’t feel like she’d ever felt like this about a man before, despite the overwhelming amount of men (and women) interested in her.

“Oh fuck.” She put an earl grey tea bag in her mug, something she’d become accustomed to since meeting Dwight. “I’m a white man’s whore.” Horace was whining at her feet and she opened her double doors to let him out, contemplating how she’d been so involved in solving this damn case, she’d put herself second again. Which she swore she’d never do.

Maybe sleeping with Dwight was a mistake. Maybe she should make him less involved in the case.

But you see, he had this way of connecting with witnesses, asking the right questions that made Caroline feel more secure, even as an experienced detective.

Plus, she sighed, there was definitely something there. Why on earth did he have to be her colleague?

“Oh Horace,” she spooned his food into his bowl where he had returned from the garden. “I’ve fucked up.”

Horace simply snaffled his food in reply and she stared at him fondly. Living in a ground floor apartment meant she had a beautiful little patio and she could watch Horace all day at the weekend, unless the case was really desperate. But she’d bought her files home and was ready to read up on her next witness, Rowella Chynoweth.

Why on earth hadn’t she called on the sister of the deceased earlier? Apparently she lived in the next town over but witness statements showed they had not spoken since Morwenna’s marriage to Osborne Whitworth. This seemed unlikely due to the close proximity of the sisters. Character references also seemed to prove she couldn’t hold a job down, with one employer calling her a ‘pathological liar.’

As much as she admired Dwight, she knew she’d have to do this one alone.

POLICE INTERVIEW WITH SUSPECT:

MISS ROWELLA CHYNOWETH (POSSIBLE WITNESS, SISTER OF THE DECEASED): RC

DET. CAROLINE PENVENEN: CP

CP: Just to reassure you, this is a chat more than an interview, legal counsel probably is not required unless you insist on it.

RC: Well, when I need it I have the best that money can buy.

CP: Really? I have a warrant to your bank statements that seem to suggest otherwise.

RC: I have my means.

CP: Are you referring to the £1,000 given to you each month by an Osborne Whitworth?

RC: Yes, they regret they could not see me often so they sent me some compensatory money.

CP: That’s odd. Unusual for a family. Did Mowenna know about this money?

RC: Yes.

CP: I will make note of this. What was your relationship like with your sister and her husband?

RC: My sister and I drifted apart after her marriage. I always thought her jealous of me because she chose to be married and regretted it after.

CP: Some witnesses have reported that your sister was unhappy in her marriage, does this surprise you?

RC: Honestly? She was miserable all the time about one thing or another I wouldn’t take that too seriously.

CP: Did you ever notice any abnormalities in her marriage to the Reverend Whitworth?

RC: As I say, I distanced myself after the marriage.

CP: Yes, could we go through that again? You have ‘distanced’ yourself by living just one town over but they miss you so much, they send you compensatory money?

RC: Yes, I wouldn’t change a word you said. Let the record show that. Anything else?

CP: Yes one more thing, where were you the afternoon and evening of the murder?

RC: With my boyfriend, a man named Arthur Sawley.

CP: That’s all for now, Rowella, don’t skip town.

END OF INTERVIEW

Caroline swung open her office door, ready to collapse into her comfortable chair when-

“You look absolutely exhausted and it’s only 10am.”

Dwight was sat in the chair opposite her desk, smiling, as if he had been there for quite a while and honestly? It had Caroline shook up.

“Oh yeah sorry,” Caroline forced out a smile through her shock. “I just had a really difficult witness.”

“Oh really? I didn’t know you had one coming in today.” Dwight countered as Caroline made herself comfortable in her chair. Honestly even retaining eye contact with him was a lot right now.

“Yeah Rowella Chynoweth. She’s a liar, I sense it in my gut. And from several sturdy character references.” Caroline scribbled furiously on her interview notes. “There’s this £1000 I just cannot justify.” She explained to him about the monthly payments and Dwight furrowed his brow.

“Maybe he’s paying her off for something?”

“But she said Morwenna knew about the payments?” Caroline could not connect the dots.

“But she’s a liar.” Dwight shrugged. “By the way, your hair looks nice today.”

Caroline blushed. She’d worn her hair down for the first time in ages and she wasn’t wearing a pantsuit for the first time in ages because she’d decided it was a new week and time for a new Caroline. “Thank you.” She’d always been excellent at taking compliments. How well she had been schooled. “I need a fucking clue, none of this is slotting together.” She’d been biting her biro for the last five minutes. “When will people stop lying?”

“She seems like the number one suspect at the moment.” Dwight suggested. “I’m sad I didn’t get to interview her sociopathic self.”

“Oh you missed nothing- I knew what I had to do and at least I’ve got some frankly lazy cover stories to work with.”

“Hey Caroline.” She was startled by the receptionist knocking on the door. “This just came for you.”

She passed a brown envelope with a printed label saying DET. CAROLINE PENVENEN

“Ooh I hope it’s my payslip.” Caroline smiled. “I’m broke as hell this month.” Dwight didn’t need to know that with her inheritance she’d never have to work a day in her life because it wasn’t important.

“It looks lowkey suspicious.” Dwight winced slightly.

“The new receptionist is very new so I will just have to see what amateur hour she’s produced here.” Caroline broke the seal with her letter opener she’d used only once before.

Inside were two sheets of paper almost stuck together and Caroline gasped when she saw what it was. “Oh my God Dwight.” She said under her breath, “You’re not going to believe this.”

For inside the envelope were two… indecent pictures of Rowella Chynoweth and the Reverend Osborne Whitworth.

“Oh my god.” Dwight gasped. “First of all, I’m never going to unsee that, put it away. Second of all, that’s probably what the money was for.”

“Morwenna couldn’t have possibly known about that money.” Caroline shook her head. “But I think we just found some motive.”

“Next question,” Dwight added, “Who sent this?”

“I will run the envelope to evidence for prints but I doubt there will be anything. Whoever is giving me these clearly wants to remain anonymous.” Caroline sighed. “FUCK.”

“You know, you should start a swear jar,” Dwight reclined his seat. “You’d make so much money.”

“When I was younger, swearing was bad manners. My uncle always said ‘no man will ever love you if you have a foul mouth’ and I just thought… well fuck.”

“That’s actually not true.” Dwight replied. “If anything it makes you more intellectual, shows you have a stronger grasp on the English language.”

Caroline blushed again. “Dwight, stop.” She shook her head. “Next thing I’ll have myself thinking you believe in me.”

To that, Dwight just smiled enigmatically. “What’s the harm in me believing you can solve this case?”

Hi yeah, the problem is I’m trying to delete my feelings for you but every time we are in the same room it intensifies times 100.

“Nothing. I’m a brilliant detective.” Caroline smirked. “And you’re a subpar doctor.”

“Stop it.” Dwight laughed. “I didn’t spend seven years at university to be called subpar!”

“Ok,” Caroline conceded, trying to tone down how extra she was being because she felt as if she was embarrassing herself. “I’ll confess, you’re a pretty great doctor. To dead people. I guess.”

“Wow.” Dwight was happy she’d finally cracked. “That’s going to be the opening statement on the cover letter for my next job.”

“What?” Caroline furrowed her eyebrows. “You’re leaving the morgue?”

“Yeah, I’ve done my time. I want to be a GP, it’s a bit more my scene. I’m going to have to go back to school for a bit first, but yeah, I plan to leave for Cambridge as soon as this case is over.”

Caroline’s heart was stamped on. Is this why he wanted to solve the case as soon as possible? Why the change? Did he not want to work with her anymore?

“Caroline,” Dwight attempted to regain her eye contact. “You literally look as if you’ve seen a ghost, are you ok?”

“This isn’t about… what happened between us is it?” Caroline could barely get the words out, she felt as if her mouth was made of cotton. How had she caught feelings so fast?

“No.” Dwight was quick to respond, holding his hand out over the table. “You are quite an incredible woman Caroline but not so much so you make me want to change practice.”

Caroline tentatively put her hand out back. “You see, things like this hurt me Dwight.”

“Things like what?”

“I don’t know whether it’s because you’re my colleague, or whether you’re a professional but, I just never feel like you’re completely in my reach.” Caroline said in a voice barely more than a whisper.

“Caroline,” Dwight replied almost instantly. “Do you want me to be in reach?”

Desperately, Caroline thought to herself.

“Until you go to Cambridge.” Caroline kept her voice calm. “I think we should keep doing… what we do. I don’t think I’m ready to let go yet. Are you?”

Dwight sighed, carding a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say I was but, we are going to have to keep it secret.”

“The best kept secret.”

“How did this get so complicated?” Dwight was confused. “If this were any other circumstance I would be dating the hell out of you right now.”

Is what you wanted him to say.

What he actually said was, “Thank you Caroline. I’ve got another body in the morgue, see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Caroline breathed out gently, blushing at the thought. “See you tonight Doctor Enys.”

A/N: I WANT UR THEORIES!! WHO IS THE MURDERER AND WHO IS SENDING THOSE NOTES? WILL CAROLINE AND DWIGHT EVER MAN UP AND TELL EACHOTHER HOW THEY FEEL?

#dwight x caroline #fic #au #rowella chynoweth #morwenna chynoweth #dwight enys #caroline penvenen #poldark

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megabookofmurderstuff · 6 years

Text

Random Drabble: Pokemon

Apparently, Murder likes Pokemon. Who knew?

It had become a constant to find Murder dozed off on the couch, watching some cartoon from the 90s. With how the guy had crashed on Sorna when he was eleven, it sort of made sense that he’d fall back on what he knew. Unfortunately, it worried Dustin. He seemed to be withdrawing more and more the longer they were in the ‘burbs. Likely, it had to do with all the trauma in the past year, especially with how Murder didn’t do well with change. The guy hadn’t gone stupid. He could function quite well and took care of himself without issue. He was just...Withdrawn.

He’d managed to teach the guy some sign language. Neither of them were really fluent, but with Murder being nearly non-verbal now sans a few words? It helped with communication. Dustin leaned over and picked up the tablet on the coffee table, then tapped it. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. Youtube, news articles, maybe netflix. Pokemon Go was the furtherest thing.

Murder made a sleepy noise and opened his eyes to look up at Dustin.

“Hey. You like Pokemon?” Dustin gestured at the tablet and was given a nod. “...Huh. Cool.”

Once Murder had been fed and shuffled off to his room, Dustin did research. He knew next to nothing about Pokemon, besides it being some game. It was something he never had an interest in. By lunchtime, he had a god idea of what to buy. It was going to be a tad expensive, but if it helped Murder? Absolutely worth it. After he told Murder he was going to the store, he left.

As it turned out, it was a fantastic investment. When he returned home and presented the items to Murder, the hybrid’s face seemed to light up in recognition. Much to Dustin’s surprise, he was given a quiet ‘thank you’, before the guy scurried off to his room. It was weird, honestly. Murder was this six foot something, fucking built brickwall of a guy and...Pokemon.

Not the strangest thing in the world, all things considered.

After a few hours of Murder being absent, Dustin went to check on him. There, he found him napping on his bed with the GameBoy on the headboard. Also on the headboard was a notebook with...Formulas? Carefully, Dustin picked up the notebook and thumbed through it. Murder’s handwriting was more of a scrawl than anything and hard to read, but he was thorough in his notes. The formulas were relating to the game apparently.

Murder made a sleepy noise and sat up.

“Hey, sorry for waking you up. I was just trying to see what you wrote.”

Murder gently took the notebook and pointed at something. “Weaknesses and strengths.” Another thing was pointed at, “Traits.”

Dustin sat down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know much about pokemon, wanna explain?”

That’s how he ended up listening to Murder fucking jabber about pokemon for the next hour and a half. The guy went through optimum move sets, evolving a pokemon vs letting it wait, breeding pokemon, the best teams for a particular gym...It was nothing short of amazing. While Dustin didn’t understand most of it, the fact that Murder was talking made him scared to speak up.

When the other finally quieted, Dustin smiled. “That’s pretty neat. It’s dinner time, but I’d like to hear more. Any dinosaurish pokemon?”

“A lot.”

Dustin set the notebook down and sat up, “Yeah? What’s your fav?”

“Charmeleon. It’s gen one.”

“Cool. I wanna know more.”

“Charmeleon is the second evolution and comes from Charmander, it’s a...”

#Drabble #Canon #Dustin and Murder

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genyatta-ss · 6 years

Text

Cookie Cutter

from @melyntenshi:

Happy Holidays to D! (@dontneed-nohealing!) This was fun to write! I hope that this was fluffy and cute holiday stuff for you!

There was something utterly unreal about the idea of their ragtag group of mercenaries deciding to do this. Even after the discussion of their pasts actions towards one another, as well as the fact that about 90% of them had some sort of criminal connection or bounty on their head (or death certificates for at least two of their members), a Christmas Celebration was in order. It did not seem to matter that some members of the group did not celebrate the season (In fact, Ana and Fareeha were the first two to drag out the ancient plastic tree hidden away in the storage room). Nor did it seem to matter that some members of the group were on a path to redemption and did not want to be bothered with trivialities such as this. (Hanzo seemed particularly off-put with the idea of socializing). It was the holidays, damn it, and they were going to have a party.

Winston was pleased with the idea of organizing and setting out tasks. As of late, with more and more joining the cause it meant there were more personalities on base, the routine of Overwatch just did not exist. More old soldiers who believed that the old, military way Overwatch had been run before was just fine, thank-you-very-much mixed in with the new recruits who wholeheartedly believed they could change the world. It was refreshing to see everyone join in together for the cause and Winston delighted in the fact that everyone wanted to perform well.

Tasks had been assigned to every member, such as who would be decorating the mess hall(Thank god Tracer and Emily were tasked with that) and who would be bringing what to eat. McCree had been tasked with bringing the main course (roasting both a ham and a turkey. The man wanted to show off his cooking skills and no one was going to take that away from him). D.va and Lucio were assigned entertainment (Genji was convinced that this was no accident, even if Winston claimed it was completely and totally random).

Genji and Zenyatta were assigned a task together; bringing dessert. Cookies. Fareeha insisted on it. Nothing screamed out the holidays more than plain, simple gingerbread cookies. It was a perfect task for them, sweet and easy. Cookies were not a hard task, Genji had eaten plenty of them in his life. And Zenyatta was always so delicate with his work that the frosting and decorating the treats would be a task they both would enjoy. Then they were told they were not allowed to get that “pre-made crap” according to Fareeha. Home baked. From scratch.

Again, they were lucky enough to have a friend like Jesse McCree around. After scouring through the remaining books left over in the kitchen, Genji was quick to realize that deserts were not a necessity on a military base. Jesse McCree, on the other hand, had a liking to everything that happened in the kitchen. The man enjoyed food plus he was the best friend that anyone could ask for, and almost like a second brother to the cyborg.

Jesse was eager to honor the request, handing Genji a folded, yellowed paper. As everything else in Jesse McCree’s life, it had a sentimental story attached to it. It was his Grandmother’s recipe that went back generations. It had been perfected through the years and now, it made award-winning, sweet gingerbread cookies. While his tone had been mirthful, there was an underlying threat attached: Do not lose his gingerbread cookie recipe.

Genji had been delighted. He was even more delighted when Jesse left a basket of ingredients outside their door, simple things that the commons already possessed like flour and baking soda. Taped to the top, in his scrawl of handwriting was a list of things that they would need to pick up on their own.

He and Zenyatta then bundled up tight and made their way into town, arm in arm, to obtain the rest of the needed elements, like frosting and molasses.

Genji smiled and leaned against the warm frame of his master, his arm linked in the crook of the other’s elbow and the managed their way through the soft cascade of snow on their way back to the base. There was a beautiful silence that always came with a snow like this, it muted out the cars and noise that usually permeated a city and instead made the whole street feel like a fairytale. The gentle crunch of the soft snow under his feet and the whir of Zenyatta’s mechanics were the only things needed, grounding him to the reality of this beautiful town.

The Gibraltar base was now under surveillance. Talon operatives managed an ambush just outside the city and the misfit group of heroes had retreated north, to the city of Lyon in France. They would return at the new year, recharged and reawaken to the cause, but for now, they were holed up here, where it felt like a Christmas he had once seen in pictures where snow fell in large flakes and frost etched into every window. The sun was low in the sky and slowly the streetlights twinkled on, casting long shadows along the empty street. It was beautiful and perfect.

Zenyatta’s arm fluidly moved around Genji’s trim waist and pulled the cyborg near and nuzzled his faceplate against the other’s jaw. “It is rather chilly out, do you not agree?”

Genji snickered and leaned further into the other, nuzzling with affection, “Of course, my master. We should get back home before we catch our death out here.”

Zenyatta let out his own, tinkering laugh and squeezed him tighter, delighted in their own joke. While the weather was less than ideal for most, Genji could hardly feel cold. Most of his body was made of metal and wires now and the parts that weren’t made of metal were snuggly tucked inside his comfortable metal armor. Little things like the cold hardly bothered him now.

“What is the first thing we need to do when we get back?” Zenyatta’s soft, calming voice felt so near to his heart and Genji fluttered a little. “I must admit, my student, that I have never once created a cookie in my existence. I am excited about the undertaking.”

Genji let out a soft laugh and nestled in as they approached their makeshift home. “It is not impossible. They are cookies, people make them every day. I am sure we will manage.”

___________

The frowned set deeply on his features as he looked at the things set up before him neatly and he was momentarily thankful he had not removed his armored mask yet.Metal bowls were arranged in order according to their size, measuring cups (both kinds, for wet and dry ingredients), metal sheets for cookies and tiny little cookie cutters in the shape of tiny human beings and, of course, the recipe itself.

Zenyatta’s elegant fingers moved with precision as he tied a pink apron over his casual clothing before flattening out the front from wrinkles. Genji smiled and leaned on the counter, pulling out his phone to snap a few pictures while he removed his facemask, setting it out of the way. “Master, I doubt you will be spilling things on yourself. Those are meant only for children,” He laughed as he set aside his faceplate on the table.

Zenyatta hummed happily as he rolled the long sleeves of his holiday sweater up his elegant arms, “I am going to follow the rules to the letter, my student. Aprons are required for cooking to keep it a sanitary work station. Now, wash your hands with soap and water.”

Genji laughed again, moving over to hug his master around the middle, resting his chin against the other’s shoulder and basking in the warmth of his frame. It surprised him how wonderfully warm the omnic could be, even in the chilliest of nights. He was entirely grateful for Angela giving him receptors throughout his body to keep his temperature regulated (“You are still human, and you will get sick if you do not take proper care of yourself). “Master,” He let his lips dance along the thin wires of the other’s neck, feeling him shudder in his arms. “Your hands, as well as mine, automatically sanitize themselves. We do not have to bother with those things.”

“Genji, the instructions to any cooking project explicitly state that we must wash our hands and our workspace, especially after handling meat. I do not wish to infect any of our friends with disease.” There was a teasing tone to his words like he wanted to experience the totality of baking from a human’s perspective. Genji was more than happy to oblige.

He stepped away to the sink and began to gingerly wash his hand in the warm water, smiling at the simple act. It felt strange, participating in this ritual that had been ingrained in him as the other watched on in fascination. “The trick to washing your hands, Master, is to make sure you get in between your fingers and make sure all the soap is completely washed off. If it is left on, it can irritate your skin and leave a disgusting taste in the food.” He turned off the water and picked up a festive reindeer towel left out by the sink as he dried his hands. “Would you like my help?”

“No, my student. My hands self-sanitize, I do not think it is necessary to wash,” Zenyatta moved past him to the crumpled and worn recipe. “Besides, water is always so terribly difficult to dry out of my joints, I think it would be best for the recipe if I don’t waste our time with washing.” There was that teasing tone again, the one he reserved for private moments with Genji. The omnic was endlessly fascinated with every mundane aspect of human rituals, like dressing for the weather and basic medical care, even to the point of wishing to participate, even when it was unnecessary. Humans were so fragile and delicate, the monk would muse, it was a beautiful thing to see how much care went into their daily lives.

Zenyatta held the recipe out to Genji with reverence, like it was a sacred text bestowed on them for safe keeping, and not McCree’s Grandmother’s cookie recipe. He smiled as he took the folded, stained and yellowed paper card and unfolded it with as much reverence as Zenyatta had shown. He laid it on the counter, running his hand over the creases to straighten it out as they both gazed at Jesse’s weathered and sloppy script. Things had been crossed off or erased, the ink bled from some long dried droplet of water, obscuring some of the tiny notes left the margins with phrases like ‘Not again’ and ‘no lime’. Genji smiled. Jesse had tinkered with the recipe until it sat in this current state. He wondered how much of his grandmother’s original recipe actually remained and how much was Jesse’s own concoction.

Genji’s eyes darting to his left, watching as Zenyatta turned away to adjusted one of the metal bowls, aligning it with the others in a perfectly straight row before humming contently. He looked absolutely adorable in his well pressed, perfectly clean apron and perfectly neat pulled up sleeves. He looked so serious while he went about his tasks, making sure everything was in its perfect place before turning back to him “Well, Genji, what is the first step? I will take your lead here, as you are the expert and I the student.”

Genji flushed he turned back to the counter and away from his master’s eyes. Surely this could not be so difficult. The whole recipe rested on a single side of the page, fourteen easy steps. They were cookies. Simple, holiday cookies. A staple in many homes. Of course, they would not be terribly complicated, if they were, no one would make them. Hell, he could probably eliminate some of these steps and combine them together. It was just putting food items together. Did it really matter the order in which they went?

Genji felt pride swell inside him as he cleared his throat dramatically. He would be teaching his master something new, something that was completely human. He had participated many times as a child with preparing and baking cookies. He enjoyed the simple times and now he could share them with the person the most important to him.

“The first step, Genji,” Zenyatta trilled again, his voice still even and content as it pulled him from his memories.

Genji looked at the badly written recipe and read the entire recipe over the first several steps were all about mixing things together. Easy. Jesse must have separated them into smaller steps just to make sure he did not miss anything. Well, Zenyatta was an omnic. He had a perfect, photographic memory. “In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves until well blended.” He looked over the items lined up on the counter and nodded in approval.

“How small?” Zenyatta asked. “We have seven different sizes of mixing bowls.”

A pang of anxiety ran up his artificial spine as he looked over at the bowls, that ranged from the size of an egg all the way up to one that could easily fit an infant. Genji gave a quick shrug and looked back down. “It just says medium so…give me the third one in?” Zenyatta held out a bowl that would have easily fit one that would have fit a bag of microwave popcorn. He nodded in approval. This was small, but not too small. It would work perfectly.

Genji looked back to the recipe. “So flour first…” He looked back up to see Zenyatta already cradling the bag to his chest in one arm, the other pulled it open so carefully not even dust flew out. Genji swelled with pride. This was going to be simple. He picked up the measuring cup and began to liberally scoop out the two of the cups that were required, plopping them into the small bowl with a little ‘plaph’, until the flour threatened to spill over.

Genji dipped his hand back into the bag and pulled out a liberal amount for the third cup. Just a little extra flour would not hurt the recipe, he reasoned.

“Is this to be exact?” Zenyatta hummed as he looked back to the paper. “It says three, my guess is that is more like three and three-fourths.”

“I do not think so,” he waved Zenyatta off and set the plastic measuring cup on the counter as he took the bowl from him. “I have watched McCree bake many times and he seems to just add things as he sees fit. Why do you ask, Master?”

“I have never baked before,” the omnic chatted as he moved back to the counter, setting the flour aside and folding over the top to close it. He turned and looked over the different measuring spoons laid out before him, from smallest to largest. “It calls for one and a half t’s of baking powder. What is a t?”

Genji blinked. “I would guess the one labeled with a ‘t’ would be the teaspoon.” It was logical. Baking was not an exact science, it was throwing things together into a bowl then cutting out shapes from the mixture and shoving it all in the oven. McCree did it all the time while dirtying up the entire kitchen. There was no way that Genji could not match him step by step.

Zenyatta grew quiet. His hand hovered above the different spoons, reaching out before recoiling. “Genji, they are all labeled with ‘t’s.”

“Then the one labeled as 1 and the one labeled ½,” Genji shrugged. “Simple mathematics, you know? We can add things together”

Zenyatta reached out and picked up two spoons. “Genji, there are two that have 1 on them,” His voice was filled with distress. He held them out at arms reach for Genji to inspect. It was true, there was a difference in their size. “This one says it is a teaspoon, while this one is a tablespoon.”

Genji felt the sweat break out on the back of his neck as his eyes darted between the two spoons. He had not expected there to be measuring equipment labeled as such. “Um….the bigger one?” He shrugged. “I mean, they are cookies, adding more would only make it better, right?”

Zenyatta let out a soft hum and looked down at the spoons in his hand.“Genji, I am not convinced. There is quite a difference in size, it might change the composition of the cookies.”

Genji smiled at his master and wrapped his arm around the omnic’s shoulders and gave him a quick, reassuring squeeze as he looked down at the two spoons. It was true, the spoons were quite different in size. His stomach twisted as he gazed at the both of them. “What is the worst that can happen? It is such a small amount of baking soda and baking powder, I am sure it will not affect the taste at all,” he lied.

Zenyatta stared down at the two spoons in both his hands one final time before setting down the larger of the two. “Then, I believe that less should be sufficient. More sugar, less of these.”

Genji gave him a quick peck on the cheek and held out the bowl of dry ingredients for him. The omnic slowly measured out one and a hand ‘t’ of baking powder and gingerly let it drop into the bowl, followed by the baking soda and salt. He looked into the bowl, at the different textures of white powder before giving a short nod. He took up a wooden spoon and began to stir the ingredients together.

Genji shrugged again as he stepped away, “They are cookies. If it doesn’t taste right, we will just add more sugar,” The words left his lips and he suddenly felt the sweat trickled down his neck more. The anxiety swelled in the pit of his stomach as he mulled over Zenyatta’s words. How bad could the cookies be?

Genji turned back to the spices and fiddled around with the different bottles as his mind began to spiral. ‘How could you know?’ His mind asked over and over. How could either of them know? Zenyatta was an omnic. He had never baked cookies before in his life because he had never eaten in his life. And Genji…

After all the augmentations, the many surgeries he had to endure to replace and repair his body left him with a muted sense to taste and smell. He frowned slightly, rolling his tongue into his mouth and wondering if he even could taste the sugar now.

He had experience though. He had been a complete human at one time in his life, and as a human, he consumed many varieties of sweets and pastries. His father had a private baker in the castle. A woman that Genji loved spending his free time with the woman, watching as she meticulously crafted sweets and treats for the castle. She would smile over to his perch at the counter and wink before handing him the spoon to lick off. She would sneak boxes of treats meant for him and his brother, making his whisper promises in the dark to not reveal who broke the brother’s strict diet.

It took years for Genji to realize that was part of the game. Father would have never stood for anyone lying under his watchful eye. He would never have allowed anyone to harm his boys especially.

But…had he ever helped the woman bake? Had he ever did more than occupy her time and taste test her creations? His mind could not remember…

“All mixed,” Zenyatta set the bowl down, his pink apron still pristine and beautiful. “What next, my sparrow?”

Genji felt the smile creep back on his face from the sweet name. He looked back to the recipe “In the KitchenAid beat butter, brown sugar, and egg on medium speed until well blended.” He let the words hang in the air and looked over. “What is a KitchenAid?”

Zenyatta chuckled and began to unwrap the sticks of butter that was laid out before taking out a knife and cutting out the amount that was needed for the recipe. “I do not understand what it is at all, but I understand the term ‘beat’ and ‘blend’. We must add these ingredients together.”

“The butter is rather hard, Genji. How would we go about softening it so it will mix in?”

A light bulb went off in his head. The microwave. He easily slid the butter into a small, glass jar and popped the whole thing into the cooking device. “How long do you think it would take to melt it?” He asked as he rammed his fingers into the buttons. “I am thinking five minutes should do it.”

“Five minutes sounds reasonable,” He nodded as he slid a delicate finger across the top of the brown sugar, even it out in the measuring cup before dumping it into the same bowl with the flour and egg. “And humans do not consume the shell of the egg, correct?”

Genji nodded. Eggs were familiar territory. He understood how to eat eggs. He knew how to make them as well. “The shell is trash. We do not eat that part.”

“Good,” Zenyatta picked up the wooden spoon again and continued to mix the ingredients together. He could smell the ginger and cinnamon clearly now, letting it waft over his muted senses. “I assumed so, but I wanted to make sure.” He knocked his shoulder into Genji’s and leaned over, nuzzling against the other sweetly as he gave a short hum.

Genji flushed at the unexpected affections and let himself lean into the other’s warm frame. It surprised him how many people just assumed that an omnic would feel

Three minutes left on the butter. He stepped back over to the ingredients. “Well, it won’t make much difference if we continued on at this point, would it? The next several parts are just mixing more in with the batter.”

“I do not see the harm,” Zenyatta stated. He gave a shrug mimicking Genji’s own as he continued on, mixing in the thick molasses, vanilla. “My student, please set the oven to three hundred and seventy-five.”

Genji nodded and moved over to the stove and fiddled with it until he was sure it was heating on the inside. Again, dread crept into his mind. This was the first time they had even thought to use the oven, Genji spent most of his time eating whatever was in the mess hall and Zenyatta did not need to cook.

The loud ‘POP!’ from the microwave made him jump. The butter made another loud snap and pop as the microwave continued to whirr and spin. Genji ran over and pulled open the door and pulled out the steaming bowl. “Uh….butter is done.” He held it up. “All soft and….liquid.”

Zenyatta chuckled as he took the spoon and slowly worked the batter into a soft, brown dough as Genji slowly poured in the butter and watched as the mixture turned tackier. Was it suppose to look like that? The question came to his lips and he forced himself to bite it back. Zenyatta was counting on him to know what to do. “All right…the next step is to flour the counter and roll out some of the dough and cut out cookies.”

He took the bag of flour and sifted out a fine powder onto the counter as Zenyatta formed small balls of the dough and laid them out on the powder. “Master, are you not concerned about getting it between your joins? Earlier you worried so much about the water and this would be far more troublesome.” He gave Zenyatta a quick wink.

“I never worry about that, my sparrow. Besides, why would I when I know you would gladly be there to lick it away.” The monk stated evenly, causing Genji to choke ever so slightly on the air. His cheeks burned as he turned away, trying to hide the heat from his cheeks. Zenyatta chuckled and picked up the wooden rolling pin, applying a generous amount of flour to that as well. “Do not tease unless you are sure you want to get it in return.”

Genji floundered. He wanted to retort again. He wanted to send another quick snip at his master, but instead, he stood, mesmerized and transfixed watching how Zenyatta slowly worked the ball of dough into an even, thin sheet. He moved over and picked up the small, metal outline of a human and pressed it into the dough.

It wasn’t long until an army of tiny, sweet men lined the baking sheet, ready to go into the oven. Shoulder to shoulder as it were. The recipe stated five to ten men per sheet, but the sheet easily fit the fifteen men for their first batch. Genji nodded in approval. They were indeed human shaped. And they were mostly keeping their form, even if they oozed just slightly. He assumed they would harden while baking.

Zenyatta lifted the sheet and slid it neatly into the oven. “How long should we bake them for?”

Genji snapped up the recipe again and let his eyes wander down the page, ignoring the underlined section where it said ‘Refrigerate batter for four or more hours’. They were in a time crunch. Besides, what good would freeze the batter do? It would just make it harder to roll out. Besides, the cookies looked fine.

“It says…” Genji started. He squinted down at the scratch of handwriting as it got more and more sloppy as the recipe continued. “Either seven to ten minutes or seventeen to eighteen minutes.”

“That is quite the jump,” Zenyatta lifted the hem of his apron up and wiped the remainder of the batter away as he looked down. The omnic took it delicately in his hand and looked it over, humming. Genji knew that sound well. It was the sound of Zenyatta contemplating. A faint tick mark in front of the seven definitely made it seem like it was the number seventeen and not just a simple seven, but the number following it started with a one and, much to Zenyatta’s chagrin, was a circular number with a line drawn through it. It resembled a zero more than an eight…but there was doubt.

“Seven,” Zenyatta stated and moved to pick up the egg timer, twisting the nob until landed on the seven. “We will check on them after that time, then we will put them in for longer if need me. We can always add more time. We are incapable of retreating back in time.”

“Unless we are Lena,” Genji pointed out.

Zenyatta gave another little hum, one that said he was not amused in Genji’s smartassery. “We have time, how should we spend it.?”

Genji looked back to the counter and the three other trays waiting out. He frowned slightly, why hadn’t they slipped in one on the top rack and one on the bottom? It would have moved that much quicker…Next time…maybe they could even manage to put in all three sheets… “Well, Master, if it is all the same to you-”

“It must be an activity that we can stop when we hear that ding,” Zenyatta interrupted, pressing a finger to Genji’s lips. “So I would let all those dirty little thoughts you keep in your mind locked far away.”

Heat rushed to Genji’s cheeks again as he followed his master into their seating area. Zenyatta neatly folded himself onto the couch and held his arms open for Genji. Genji had to smile as he folded himself into the other’s arms and nuzzled against his neck. There was just something positively…domestic about all of this: Zenyatta seated with the pink apron still wrapped around his thin frame, completely clear of all mess. Genji peppered sweet kisses along his jawline, listening closely for the exact moment when Zenyatta’s internal fans would kick on and need to cool him.

“Sparrow.” Zenyatta hummed, his long fingers danced along his spine as he folded himself in more closely to his master. “We have about four minutes. That surely is not enough time for anything more than gentle kisses.”

Genji laughed and continued to kiss down his neck, letting his tongue gently lap at the thin wiring. “Do not worry master, I can finish in four.”

“That is a shame for me then. I thought I taught you better about patience.” Zenyatta stroked back up his spine and moved along his shoulder blades. “I think we will need to work more on that again.”

A shiver ran through his spine at the low tone of his master. He nuzzled in. “I never told you what it was that I wanted to do. I just want to enjoy the company of my favorite person. I want to kiss you and love you is all. I do not know what you are talking about.”

His hands moved up, cupping Genji’s cheeks and brought their foreheads together. Genji closed his eyes and pressed his forehead tighter against him before he leaned in and pressed his lips gently against the seam of Zenyatta’s faceplate. His arms slowly circled around his neck and held him close. He nuzzled in closer, moving his lips slowly across this faceplate, reveling in the quiet joy that came with him just being near.

His hands moved down his back, pressing him closer. “Master….” He gasped out.

And the timer dinged.

Zenyatta slipped out of his arms and over the back of the couch, into the kitchen. “Ah-ah, my student. Patience.”

Genji sprawled on the couch, stretching himself out like a cat as he listened to the clang and scrape of metal from the oven. He smiled as he heard Zenyatta hum as he slipped the next batch into the oven and clang as the door shut.

“Genji, my love,” Zenyatta called. “Come here please.”

Genji leaped off the couch and sauntered into the kitchen….and the great plume of smoke that came from the oven. His eyes bugged. “What…happened?!”

Zenyatta shrugged. “I came in here and…I believe that we may not have followed the recipe correctly.” He motioned over to the tray of cookies. The batter had…melted, to say the least. The cookies had spread in the heat before hardening over and becoming an ambiguous blog of burnt, brittle cookies.

Genji snickered. “Oh that is…that is bad…” He moved over and looked it over, snapping away one gingerbread man (monster?). The heat did not bother his fingers. As he twisted it in his fingers. He looked to his master. “I think that with enough frosting they can be salvaged.” He bit into it and mulled the taste around in his mouth.

“Do they taste burnt?” Zenyatta asked.

Genji shrugged. “I think they taste fine. I can pick up cinnamon and…ginger?” He blinked and shrugged again.

Zenyatta perked, clasping his hands together, “Splendid! I worried that they were beyond repair!” The omnic worked carefully, snapping apart the cookies and letting them cool on the counter. “It brings me great joy to know that we did not destroy them.”

Genji moved to the fridge and pulled out the different color frostings and laid them out while cleaning up the counter space, not once mentioning that he probably could not taste them if they were burnt or not. It would be better that way.

He looked over to his master again, watching as he slowly broke apart the cookies and set them aside to cool. “Look Genji, this one looks a bit like Ms. Oxton!” Genji looked over at the reformed cookie and the way its tiny legs were spread wide. “See, doesn’t this one look like it is running? And this one is missing an arm. We can put it back on with frosting of course…do you think we can decorate them to look like our friends?”

Genji’s heart swelled. He wrapped his arms around the other and nuzzled in. “Of course, Master. I think they would like that.”

_____________

Genji stood in front of the tray of cookies, all neatly arranged. Zenyatta had insisted on making a cookie based on every single one of the Overwatch members and then handing out the respected cookie to each of them as a present. They had spent hours on the decorating, making sure each one fit the personality of each operative. Cookie Zenyatta and Cookie Genji sat propped against the mantle, close enough together they could have been holding hands next to a gingerbread jail cell they concocted that held the cookie version of every Talon member (made from the leftover gingerbread people.)

Mei cooed over the tiny blue piped coat Cookie Mei was given and the white snowflake sprinkles. Genji was especially pleased with her cookie, as it looked very much like the climatologist. He also quite liked his Soldier cookie, as the black piping for his mouth twisted and made to look like he was scowling.

“Just know that Satya went to get a glue gun and ribbon so we can make these into ornaments,” Genji insisted as he handed Angela the Cookie Mercy (complete with tiny wings). “Please do not eat it.” He emphasized the word. The cookies were safe, that much he knew. But edible was another question entirely.

The doctor smiled and held her cookie up, looking at the soft gold glitter spread all through it. “Zenyatta, these are fantastic! Danke!”

McCree burst through the door with all the flair the cowboy could manage with a trayful of his own sweet treats. Sugar cookies and peanut butter blossoms and chocolate mint cookies; everything but Gingerbread. “Genji, I know you and Zen had yer hearts set on making a batch on yer own, but I couldn’t help it. I had some extra time in there so I whipped up a batch!” He cried out over the hullabaloo of the party, heading to a small table on the opposite side.

Genji slipped away, watching as Zenyatta handed Zarya the shockingly pink cookie version of herself. He made his way over to the cowboy “Thank you,” He whispered.

“Welcome,” McCree hummed back. “I woke up this morning and remembered the damndest thing from Blackwatch. Do you remember the time you tried to make scrambled eggs and got mighty irritated with how long it took, so you threw the whole damn thing in the microwave and caught the kitchen on fire? See, I was thinking back to that, and I realized you weren’t gonna follow my recipe at all. You would throw everything into a bowl, crank the oven up and make a right old mess of everything.”

Genji did not speak. He didn’t need to.

“See, and then I thought, well, Zenyatta there is a good guy. Very on it all, he surely would follow the directions…except he wouldn’t cause you gotta mouth on you and you wanna impress your boyfriend there with how awesome you are, so he wouldn’t follow the directions neither.”

Genji nodded.

“Then I get up and go right to my kitchen and crank these out cause who is gonna question Jesse McCree? When he gets an itch to cook, he cooks.”

Genji was eternally grateful as McCree turned and handed him a napkin with a chocolate mint cookie. “I take thank yous in the forms of bourbon or whiskey. The former over the later.”

“You will be getting that,” Genji chuckled as watched as the doors tentatively swung open and his brother joined the party. “Just don’t mention it to Zenyatta. I told him the cookies tasted fine and after we finished decorating them to just hand them out as decorations because they were too damn cute…you know?”

McCree tipped his hat. “I hear ya.”

Genji gave him a final punch in the arm before wandering back over to where Hanzo stood in front of the omnic.

“Hn,” Hanzo frowned down at the scowling cookie in his hand as Genji moved back over, snaking an arm around Zenyatta’s form.

“Merry Christmas, Anija,” Genji stated.

“I thank you,” He mumbled out and inclined to the cookie in his hand. Hanzo was not the sentimental type. He never kept things unless they served a purpose, but to see him here, with the rest of them, it made his heart swell.

“And Look, Mr. Shimada, I have given you the tiny chicken feet your brother always talks about!” Zenyatta sounded so impressed with himself, so utterly thrilled with the fact that he was able to make Hanzo’s cookie that he missed the massive scowl that was directed straight to Genji. “Genji said you were able to climb so easily because of your dainty ankles.”

Hanzo nodded and looked down at the cookie him, sitting in his hand again. “Genji was always very….astute.” He was always as polite and reverent as he had been taught, even if his current styling read more murder than holiday cheer.

Genji squeezed his master tighter. “Merry Christmas,” He repeated himself, not able to think of anything else to say at this moment besides ‘Shit, sorry I told everyone here your deepest insecurities. You see, I was in a dark place after you murdered me and-’

His line of thought went out of his head as he watched Hanzo pop the entire cookie into his mouth. It took the first chew to see Hanzo’s face contort the slightest.

“Genji stated that the cookies were far too cute to eat and has been telling everyone all evening that they are adorable decorations. You, Mr. Shimada, are the first to actually try one. Tell me how it is?” Zenyatta gushed, clapping his hands in front of him.

Water pricked the edges of Hanzo’s eyes as he nodded and chewed again. And again. Each time looking much more distressed than the last. Finally, he swallowed hard. “Was that lemon?” He asked, his voice straining to stay even.

“Oh yes! The recipe called to zest a lemon. I was unsure of how one would go about zesting a lemon, so I squeezed the juices into the batter. Is it lovely?”

Hanzo covered his mouth and nodded a few more times. Genji had to do the same to keep from laughing out at his brother’s misfortune and not due to a gag reflex.

“We have more if you would like a second,” Zenyatta produced a tray of unfrosted cookies.

Hanzo shook his head violently. “No!” He looked to Genji, panic in his eyes. “I could not possibly have another-”

“Anija has a strict diet,” Genji smiled, taking pity on his poor brother. “There is so much to eat here, I do not wish for him to reach his limit and then not be able to have any actual food.”

“Oh,” Zenyatta’s shoulders sank.

“I can…take a bag of them home though. Have them later.” Hanzo said. “They were the most…unique cookies I have ever encountered.”

“Wonderful!”

Genji curled up close as he watched Hanzo dart away to the liquor table as soon as Zenyatta’s attention was turned. He poured himself a big glass of some undefined liquid and drank it down in one gulp. Genji smiled, somehow this would be his fault. That he pranked his brother on Christmas with terrible cookies.

Hanzo would then seek retribution. He smiled and curled up to Zenyatta’s side once again. “Did you need to torture my brother so?”

“I was rather hoping that I could get him to eat more.” Zenyatta purred out. “I am sure if you would have pressed harder he would have eaten another.”

“And then vomited all over the floor,” Genji snickered. “You know he is going to come back at me for this. He’s going to shave my eyebrows or hide my Katana.”

Zenyatta pulled Genji in close. “Let him try. Nothing will ever hurt you, my sparrow. You are my all.”

Genji snuggled into his warm embrace. “Watching him eat that awful cookie was the best Christmas present I could have wanted.”

Actual Gingerbread Cookie Recipe

INGREDIENTS

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 1⁄2 teaspoons baking powder

3⁄4 teaspoon baking soda

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon ground ginger

1 3⁄4 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1⁄4 teaspoon ground cloves

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

3⁄4 cup dark brown sugar

1 large egg

1⁄2 cup molasses

2 teaspoons vanilla

1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest(optional)

DIRECTIONS

In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves until well blended.

In a large bowl (KitchenAid’s great for this) beat butter, brown sugar, and egg on medium speed until well blended.

Add molasses, vanilla, and lemon zest and continue to mix until well blended.

Gradually stir in dry ingredients until blended and smooth.

Divide dough in half and wrap each half in plastic and let stand at room temperature for at least 2 hours or up to 8 hours.

Preheat oven to 375 deg. Prepare baking sheets by lining with parchment paper.

(Dough can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 4 days, but in this case, it should be refrigerated. Return to room temp before using.) Preheat oven to 375°.

Grease or line cookie sheets with parchment paper.

Place 1 portion of the dough on a lightly floured surface.

Sprinkle flour over dough and rolling pin.

Roll dough to a scant ¼-inch thick.

Use additional flour to avoid sticking.

Cut out cookies with desired cutter– the gingerbread man is our favorite of course.

Space cookies 1 ½-inches apart.

Bake 1 sheet at a time for 7-10 minutes (the lower time will give you softer cookies– very good!).

Remove cookie sheet from oven and allow the cookies to stand until the cookies are firm enough to move to a wire rack.

After cookies are cool you may decorate them any way you like. I usually brush them with a powdered sugar glaze when I am in a hurry, but they look wonderful decorated with Royal icing.

#fanfic #submission #includes a gingerbread recipe check it out!#genyatta

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abovethesmokestacks · 7 years

Text

Goodbye

Title: Goodbye Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader Word count: 1.9k Spoilers: None Warnings: angst, lots of it

I blame this entirely on Katy Perry, because “The One That Got Away” played last night and refused to leave me, so surprise children, it’s feels murder time.

This fic can also be found on AO3. It is not to be reposted anywhere else without my express permission.

Tags at the end.

One year. As the words trip across his plush lips, that’s all you can think about. One year. One year of dance hall dates, of being the girl on Bucky Barnes’s arm, of sweet kisses and a warm hand holding your own. There’s a small part inside of you that refuses to listen to what he’s saying, refuses to acknowledge the bravery of his decision, that screams loud and desperate because he will leave you. He’s ripping himself away from this life, throwing himself into a dangerous game few seem to be surviving.

“Sweetheart? Sweetheart, please, say somethin’.”

Bucky’s cap is tipped just so, jaunty and paints such a handsome picture along with his pressed uniform, but god, his eyes betray him. How many times have the pressing silences between you erupted into arguments just because he couldn’t keep the annoyance out of them? You’d like to think you are an open book, but Bucky Barnes tries so hard to keep part of himself locked away, only to be betrayed by the keyhole into the very room he’s hiding in. You can’t even fault him, you wish you could do the same sometimes.

“W-when?” you finally stutter, unable to face his worry right now, too afraid that the pacing monster inside you will break free if you do.

You know it won’t be good by the slightly pause before he speaks again. It never is, and you steel yourself for the deadly blow.

“I… I leave for England tomorrow.”

One year, and it’ll all be gone tomorrow. You are an open book, and he reads you with a pained expression on his face.

“I didn’t- I got my orders today. Please, doll, it’s not that bad. I won’t- They’re not sendin’ us into battle straight away. You gotta understand, I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t?” It comes out sharper than you intend, slipping out before you can lock yourself down again. He’s leaving tomorrow, and you won’t allow your parting to be tainted by anger.

“I got drafted,” he confesses, jaw clenching before cupping your cheeks and bringing you in close. “Please, don’t tell Stevie. I told him I volunteered, it’s… I thought it would be easier.”

“Nothing about this is easy, Bucky.” You look over your shoulders, spotting the mop of blond hair a little ways away, where Steve is buying snacks from a vendor. “You should tell him.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I can’t. He’s… Well, you know how he is. Please, darlin’, I just want my last night to be somethin’ I can remember when I’m fighting.”

It is soft and pleading, the request matching the sadness in his eyes. It appeases the mounting hurricane inside, dissipates the raging emotions somewhat, calms the howling into a starved whine that longs to take and give in equal measures. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you let yourself melt into him. His warmth will soon be gone, and he will need yours where he is going.

Minutes and hours mercilessly tick by, caring none for the desperation you show in giving and taking until your breaths turn ragged and you think a part of you has been burned into Bucky’s heart forever. The silence of the cramped apartment he shares with Steve has saved every litany of praise, every prayer for more, every vow of safe return and every dream of the future.

“I’ll come home, sweetheart. I’ll come home, and I’ll put the prettiest ring on your finger, and I’ll never leave you again. No, baby, don’t- I swear, God himself can’t make me break this promise. It’ll be us against the world.”

You wake up alone, Bucky’s sheets cold, and you allow yourself to break. His scent still lingers in the pillow case, his touch a ghost trailing over your skin. The room feels too empty, desolate without him in it. His things are still there, but now they seem to belong to someone else, a stranger that never held your heart. Outside, the subdued clattering of dishes signals that Steve has found his way home too, and if it wasn’t for the monster moaning its swan song, you’d feel a little ashamed, because how could Steve not figure out why you’d be in Bucky’s room. He knocks five minutes later and offers breakfast, and you stay quiet until you hear him shuffling away, not leaving until much later when Steve has already left.

For a while it hurts, your friends fawning over you and trying to paint you as the devoted girlfriend who waits while her best guy is somewhere across the ocean fighting for freedom. There is nothing glorious about it. Bile rises in your throat when you go to a movie and it’s prefaced by a short snippet about the war effort, the brave Captain America smiling for the camera. There is nothing glorious about waiting for a sign of life, or a proof of death.

There are signs of life. Bucky sends letters, his hurried scrawl making your heart leap, every declaration of life and love signed with “Us against the world”. There are signs of life, and you cling to them, repeating promises made and vows uttered until you think you can see them on the horizon.

And then the next letter.

“I regret to report that Sergeant James B Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment went missing behind enemy lines…”

Something rips from you, the festering worry finally rupturing and you finally allow the scream that has been bottled up for nearly a year to claw its way out of your chest. There is nothing glorious about it, nothing like the starlets of the silver screen would have you believe. It is ugly and visceral and it hurts when you shatter, when every hope and dream of seeing Bucky again is torn from you.

I swear, God himself can’t make me break this promise.

God, you decide, cares nothing for war. He reaps no profit, doesn’t grant mercy. God, you realize, did not make Bucky break his promise. The devil takes his due.

“A symbol to the nation, a hero to the world…”

You clutch your cane harder, drawing in a shallow breath before stepping onto the escalators. Up until recently, it’s been years, maybe even decades since you let yourself think about him, about them. Everywhere, Steve’s face looks down at you, stoic with his mouth set in a determined line. It’s not him you’re here for, not really.

History has been kind to him, and by association, to Bucky. They found each other in the chaos, fought together and died within a year of each other. Bucky has his place in the exhibit, as he should. You don’t know how they found you, but a year before, a representative from the Smithsonian reached out, saying they had found out you had been Barnes’s girlfriend before the war, and were you perhaps willing to contribute to the part of the exhibition dedicated to Sergeant Barnes?

Time has made you a liar.

It was easy to give a small laugh, to confirm that yes, indeed, you were Sergeant Barnes’s gal before the war, but it was only a year. You barely heard from him after he shipped out. So much time has gone by, you doubt you’d have anything to contribute, whether physical mementos or exciting stories. It was only a year after all, you understand, don’t you.

Your heart clenches when you make your way to the front of the group of people admiring the uniforms. You never got photos of him like this, as a member of the Howling Commandos. His army uniform had been handsome as any, but god, you would have given anything to see him in this, the blue playing off his eyes and the soft brown of his hair.

“Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country…”

You can’t help the tear that trails down your cheek, the flickering newsreel of Bucky and Steve smiling together too much for you. You shouldn’t have come. You’re almost 90, this is no place for you. Maybe you should have just told them the truth when they called: that every letter Bucky ever sent rests in a box at the back of a closet, that they have been in that box since 1944, that you’ve carefully packed it up and ignored the sting in your heart with every move.

Sniffling, you turn to leave, walking past the glass wall dedicated to Bucky when something pulls your gaze up. Later you will say it was all your imagination, the result of confronting the memories you’ve tried to keep hidden all these decades. But right now, there’s a set of footsteps that calls to something in you, that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end and your heart trill in anticipation. You find a pair of eyes in the crowd, dark under the black peak of a baseball cap, but you know that should he remove it and step into the light, they would be as blue as you remember them. For a second there seems to be a flash of recognition in them, lips parting as if to speak your name.

And then the man passes, and you feel like your breath has been knocked out of you. The air seems stuffier than before, and you hurry to get outside, sitting down on a bench to draw in deep breaths. It’s all a trick, a combination of wishful thinking, low light and seventy years of heartbreak taking you by surprise.

He’s not actually there.

Heavy footsteps search the rows, a bundle of flowers gripped tightly in one hand. Part of him knows what he will find, another one fearful of what he’ll feel. He wanted to find you as soon as he remembered, as soon as he made sense of why his heart sped up at the memory of an older lady locking eyes with him at the museum, but time and haunting ghosts kept him from you.

Finally finding what he’s looking for, he swallows thickly, kneeling on the dewy grass, letting one gloved hand run over the smooth marble.

“Hello, sweetheart. I promised I’d be back, didn’t I?” His voice cracks, eyes blurring as he takes in the condensed story of your life, imagining everything that must fit into the dash between the two dates. “I’m sorry I took so long, that I couldn’t come back sooner. I made you a promise, darlin’, and now I’m too late. I just want you to know I saw you. I saw you and you looked just as pretty as the morning I left. God, I wish I could have come back, that we could have had that life I talked about.”

He clears away the leaves that have fallen, gingerly placing the flowers, rearranging them to his liking. “I kissed you goodbye that morning. Had to tear myself away, but I couldn’t leave without a final kiss. And I don’t know if you remember it, but you kissed me back. It was all I could think about on the way over, the one thing that kept me sane in the trenches, the thought that even in your sleep, you could recognize me, and how I wanted every morning to be like that.”

Wetting his lips, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the cold marble, eyes squeezed shut and remembering a tender moment that not even the most brutal torture could pry from him.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #fic: goodbye

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