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orionares · 3 years

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BTHB: Ambush

BTHB: Ambush

NCIS: Los Angeles

@badthingshappenbingo

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Deeks

Weakness.

That's the best way he can describe the feeling that's been permanently scarred in his psyche since he was a child. The feeling that's drowning him every passing moment Kessler isn't in jail or preferably dead, the same feeling on the twelve hour flight to rescue Kensi in Afghanistan or the times he hid under his bed during Gordon John Brandel's numerous abuse towards his mother.

It's also what he feels now, lying on his back bloodied and barely conscious under the low flapping of an approaching helicopter . As Investigator Marty Deeks takes painful, sharp breaths , he recounts the four bodies scattered throughout the cabin around him who had ambushed him on a drive back from a surf and kidnapped him.

Two by the door, downed by two shots from the Smith & Wesson semi automatic Deeks had wrestled away from a third figure, laying in a heap near the door.

The fourth, laying at Deeks' feet with the ghost of the greedy, smug smile on his face.

"H'lp," He chokes through the blood and spit he can't bring himself to swallow. He can feel his eye swelling by the second along with the burning sharp pain with every inhale and exhale.

"....Federal agents!"

Relief at rescue should be the emotion he feels. Relief should annihilate the weakness he feels after being kicked, punched and dragged, dragged , like a worthless doll across the floor to be tortured further.

Relief at the recognition of Sam's commanding voice and the cabin door flying open doesn't erase being clobbered by shared hits across the face from his kidnappers.

"Jesus Christ."

"Oh my God- Baby!"

Tears burn in the corner of his eyes and finally fall when his wife's hands gently pat a lock of blonde hair matted with dried blood. Kensi's face is blurry in the small slit of vision in his right and eye.

"I'm going to end Westfield. Deeks, can you hear me? We're here! You're safe."

Safe can't cover the dehumanizing snarl from the three humans he had fought tooth and nail to survive. It definitely cannot cover the smirk from the scruffy mid sixties man sitting handcuffed at the boatshed.

The leader of the small back of drug runners responsible for moving shipments across the state and killing two Petty officers.

The man with blue eyes that match his, although decades older.

His father.

---------------------------------------

Callen

"You do know," Admiral Killbride warns via video call,"that you will not go in and harm our suspect the moment Blye and Hanna check in."

He sighs as the team's lead continues to pace the length 9f the table in the boatshed like a hungry cheetah circling its prey. The lack of reaction doesn't bode well for the admiral sending Fatima to 'support' Callen, also known as preventing a possible murder.

A not entirely blameless murder based on Westfield's a.k.a Gordon John-back-from-the-dead Brandel, orchestration of Deeks' ambush and kidnapping.

On the other end of the call, Grisha Callen glares at the small hall leading to the interrogation room, protected by two agents. The leadership ingrained in him screams that assaulting two fellow agents to get to the 'father'- the man that's supposed to protect and care for his child- won't help Deeks.

His phone goes off with a loud chime that grabs his attention. A text from Sam arrives with short, brief statements- Got him. Hospital. It's bad. They beat him.

Callen shoves his phone across the table and plops down in his chair. His leg bounces violently as he scowls down the closed interrogation room once more.

He cannot go in there and beat the life out of that man for nearly killing Deeks, he cannot-

"Mr. Callen."

Hetty's voice appears on his right and he nearly jumps out of skin, a rarity for a season agent. She stands in the open space in front of the stairs in her trademark dark suit, hands crossed and an unreadable peer at her agent.

"They got Deeks but Sam said-" Callen spits out before Jetty finishes for him, " it appears that they beat him. Badly. "

"How are you so calm?" He snaps and then sighs. Henrietta Lange walks to his side and pats his shoulders in a comforting manner that neither comforts nor fuels the homicidal mood he's in towards Brandel. Her expressions remain stoic and a touch pensive as she states,"Things are never what they seem, Mr. Callen. Head to Providence Saint Joseph in Burbank and meet the others there. "

Callen's shoulders sag at Hetty's answer-intertwined on riddles, hidden message and on a suspicion fueled by his gut, a warning resembling the old spy game. He pushes himself from the table and forces the calculations needed to drive the thirty miles to Burbank.

And how to feign ignorance to whatever Hetty decides to do next.

-----------------------------------------

Kensi

Flying over Los Angeles is supposed to be beautiful.

Once, Deeks had rented a helicopter ride over the city at night ten months into their marriage to fly over the downtown area. There had been no rhyme or reason for the sudden trip until they had landed with an overly chatty pilot and Deeks had sighed and told her seeing the city without death hovering over them was a nice change.

Now, the twinkle of lights towering over the sea of travelers heading home on the interstate don't register for Kensi. Even over the loud chopping blades, all Kensi can hear is Deeks' painful, whistling breaths.

She's supposed to think when this is over and he's safe, she'll admit that running across a warehouse floor past and dropping to her knees at his battered, bloodied body rivaled Mexico.

But the shared conclusion amongst the pilot, the medic, Sam and herself is that his father hired three men to beat and torture his only child.

The child that shot him three decades ago.

And that alone brings the fear- did Brandel tell these men secrets about Deeks? Did they tear into him between the kicks to the ribs, the strikes to every part of his body?

Kensi looks up to the monitor hooked up above the hospital cot. Ten minutes out- the pilot had yelled sometime ago. Deeks' heart beats relatively steady considering the wheezing under the broken ribs and the undetermined tremors that pass every moment or so.

He's still alive, drifting in and out of consciousness , based on what she hopes to be movement from his cupped hand and not a hallucination.

It's the after- Deeks' support and love doesn't hide the fear of Kessler, the fear of not being able to provide her a family and the lingering self criticism from training at FLETC. After this is over and Brandel never sees the light of day, they will sit down and talk and truly check in.

And she'll wrap her arms around him and never let him go.

------------------------------------------------

Sam

“Move.”

“Agent Hanna, I can’t -” the young NCIS agent that stands in front of the interrogation room with both hands up in defense. The man is about six inches shorter than Sam, fresh faced and younger than Sam by at least a decade. Sam raises an eyebrow when the young man quickly scans him for anything in hand or waistband that could be used to ‘talk’ with the man handcuffed behind the door.

“I will move you,” Sam growls in a low voice, “ if I need to. That man needs to answer questions regarding kidnapping and torture of a federal agent-”

The young agent briefly straightens as if mustering a bit of strength before sighing, “I have my orders from Admiral Killbride.”

Approaching footsteps stop him from snapping at the young agent. A hand tugs at his bicep before Callen’s voice breaks the tension between the two. “Sam,” the lead agent directs, “Come on- we can’t.”

Sam scowls and backs away from the now wide-eyed agent. He follows Callen to the end of the hallway before snapping, “You okay with this?”

“You know damn well I’m not,” Callen replies exasperatedly. He scratches the back of his neck and glances back to the large video screen. “You strangling an agent isn’t going to help things.”

“If it gets me closer to Brandel, I don’t care!” Sam hisses. He eyes Callen’s impassive expression and recalls part of the creed he had taken to be a Navy SEAL.

I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates.

“That man went after my little brother,” Sam admits in a softer voice. Westfield’s absolute disregard for his only child reignites the desire to ‘chat’ with the suspect. “They beat the hell out of him, G.”

Calllen’s jaw tightens but he manages to maintain a calm voice as he says, “I know. As much as I’d like...the best thing we can do right now is be at the hospital for Deeks. Sam, we will do everything to make sure that Brandel doesn’t get anywhere near Deeks again. Alright?”

He should agree and move forward, but until Brandel is behind bars, secured and suffering, he won't settle.

He can't.

------------------------------------

Brandel

Somehow, somehow, the brat is still alive.

Gordon John Brandel, now Westfield, scoffs at the innocent looking NCIS agents driving the transportation van that he's handcuffed in. The wooden bench in the back of the van reeks of wet dog, oddly reminding himself of the last time he'd been engaged in anything auto related with the police.

Car accident- Faking a death in a sparsely populated area is much easier than it should be.

The van lurches forward onto a gravel road, rocking the van slightly side to side. The rest of the drive lasts a minute before the vehicle jerks to a stop and both agents slide out of the driver and passenger door without a word.

"Is this supposed to be some sort of theatrics?" Brandel laughs. He is answered with silence for a long moment before the side door opens and a small, older woman with a leather purse over her shoulder peers up at him.

"Who the hell are you?" Brandel snaps. The woman's face is unreadable in an oddly eerie way.

"My name is Henrietta Lange, the operations manager at the Office of Special Projects," the woman replies. Brandel quickly glances beyond the small woman for the other agents and comes up empty.

Did they disappear like a ghost?

"You took one of my people," Hetty adds with a hint of anger in her voice. "You hurt one of my people."

"I took the little sh-"

"That's Investigator Deeks to you," Hetty cuts him off quickly. Brandel settles back against the side of the van. On any other day, he's sure he'd flick the tiny woman and go on his merry way.

Hetty steps closer to the van, enough for her purse to rest on the van floor. "I wanted to alert you that you lost. You tried to break him apart but Mr. Deeks is one of the strongest people I know. He is a husband, a brother, a future father and one of the many who protect this country. You, Mr. Brandel are nothing."

Brandel cocks his head to the right and growls," You don't get to speak to me like that."

"That requires respect, Mr. Brandel." Hetty slides the purse strap off of her shoulder and pulls out a red soft material wrapped by black string. "Which you lost the moment you first hurt your child.You are nothing and I want you to remember that during what happens next."

Brandel watches Hetty lift out a small vial from her bag. His stomach begins to tie into knots. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Henrietta Lange's expression finally changes into a calculated smile.

Oh. He is so dead.

-----------------------------------------

Hetty

Her little ones are all sleeping scattered in Deeks' hospital room .

Hetty Lange approaches the foot of the bed and sighs at the heaviness in her shoulder blades, metaphorically and realistically. Callen and Sam are sleeping side-by-side in chairs against the wall, both with arms crossed and chin tucked down into their chests.

Kensi sleeps soundly with her head resting on the edge of the bed with her hand extended out to her husband's side. Just as she had in Mexico, she keeps watch over her husband with the same vigil he had after Syria and Afghanistan.

Each protecting the other. For life.

Hetty walks to the opposite side of the bed in a small opening between Sam’s outstretched legs and the edge of the bed. Her view of her once detective now investigator is limited but enough to paint a picture of his injuries.

Bruises line the Investigator's jaw and across his shoulder blades. Above his left swollen eye, a large gash is covered by white bandage.

She can't even imagine the bruises and cuts on the rest of his body.

Hetty rests her hand on his and feels the anxiousness subside slightly when his finger twitches slightly in response. The operations manager chuckles softly," Oh, rest, Mr. Deeks. You've had a nightmare of a day. Rest.”

Hetty takes another glance around the room at her resting agents, inhales slowly before adding, “Your father has lost, Martin. Don’t forget that. And he will never, ever, lay a hand on you again. I should have made sure of that last time, but now, I’ve righted my wrongs. He won’t touch you- that’s a promise.”

#ncis la #marty deeks #kensi blye #densi #g callen #sam hanna #hetty lange #bad things happen bingo #bad things bingo

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rebelwrites · 3 years

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OPERATION: Find The Kids!

Bravo Team x Reader

A/N okay so I saw a TikTok yesterday and this gave me the idea for the chaotic fic you are about to read. Seven tier one navy seals looking after four kids. What could go wrong? So I give you nearly 2k words of utter chaos. Trying to keep track of what 11 people are doing is stressful 😂

Join The Group Chat Here - If You Want Tagging Manually Let Me Know 🖤

SEAL Team Masterlist

This Months Writing

Sipping on your coffee, you ran your hand over your face as you try to finish off the paperwork from the last deployment. You tried to get this done in your home office but it was no good when your house was used as base when the boys were home. Or as Metal kept putting it “the home of Bravo” but it did make your life easier meaning you didn’t have to worry about finding a sitter at short notice as you had at least one of the boys crashing at yours for whatever reason.

And at the moment it was a godsend, especially as you were looking after your Brother’s triplets whilst he was going through the divorce. But having four kids under the age of 7 in the house was chaos, but you lived around big kids all the time so you could just about cope.

“Guys, someone has to take the boss some coffee,” Clay said, as he placed the plate of toast in the middle of the kitchen table. “And to swipe the walkies.”

Everyone fell silent. That silent you could hear a pin drop.

“Oh hell no,” Sonny said, breaking the silence. “You know how she gets when she’s doing the reports. And it was your idea Blondielocks, so you should do it.”

“No way,” Clay exclaimed, “I value my life thank you. “

“Guys let’s settle this like adults,” Metal said, with a serious look on his face. “Rock, paper, scissors. We go around the group and do it as a knock out style thing and whoever is left standing has to take the boss some coffee and swipe the walkies.”

So that's how it was decided that Sonny was the one to go into the lion's den, armed with coffee and breakfast to hopefully make things go smoothly.

“Quinn, I see you.” You said not looking away from your screen.

“How the fuck?” He muttered, “I swear you have eyes in the back of your head.”

“You have to when you look after children,” you laughed, “now I’m busy so what do you want?”

“We know you left without breakfast so I thought I’d bring you some,” he shrugged, placing the food and coffee on the table.

“I don’t buy it,” you said, raising your brow at him. “You are up to something.”

“Nope, just bringing the boss coffee.” He grinned, he had already swiped the walkies and needed to get out of here. “You have a good day, and don’t worry about anything, we have it all under control.”

“That’s what makes me worry Quinn,” you glared. “Just don’t burn my house down and don’t lose a child. That’s all I ask.”

“Hard copy, boss.” He nodded before leaving the room.

“Mission success boys,” Sonny shouted walking back into the house, “Oh and final words from the boss were don't set the house on fire and don’t lose a child but she had no idea I swiped the walkies.”

“Well then, time to gear up boys,” Jase said, slapping his legs as he stood up. “Kids have requested we wear our camo bottoms so hurry up we head out at 0900.”

Twenty minutes had passed and everyone was gathered in the living room.

“Right, let's just run through this one more time,” Clay said looking at the list on his phone.

“First aid kit”

“Check”

“Snacks”

“Check”

“Drinks”

“Check”

“Sun cream”

“Check”

“Kids dressed”

“Check”

“All walkies on the same station”

“Check”

“Well boys I think we are ready,” Trent nodded, “So Brock has Cerb and Pepper, I’ve got the bag, so the rest of you get to keep an eye on the kids.”

Your daughter, Riley instantly clung onto Clay like a koala bear, your nephew Joey gravitated to Metal, Sonny scooped up your niece, Amber and Ray took your other Niece, Lola.

“Let’s hit the park,” Jase nodded, leading everyone out the house.

“What could go wrong,” Sonny laughed. “It’s not like we are gonna lose any of them. There’s four of them and seven of us.”

“Don’t say that, you idiot,” Metal said, hitting Sonny around the back of the head. “Don't jinx things, now If things go south it’s your fault.”

“Anyone got have eyes on HVT one?” Jase asked down the walkie, as he scanned the park.

“HVT one is south moving toward the tyre swing,” Metal replied, “I’ve lost eyes on HVT two.”

“I’ve got eyes on HVT two, she is in need of refilling. Lure her back to base Three,” Clay said, as he squinted from the sun.

“Copy six,” Sonny called, as he calmly headed for Amber, who thought this was the best game in the world as her Uncle Sonny chased her. “HVT two inbound,”

“My eyes are peeled,” Jase laughed, as he spotted Amber running towards him.

“For the love of god don’t forget the suncream.” Ray responded.

“Copy that,” Jase said, routing around the bag for supplies. He literally only took his eyes off her for two seconds but by the time he looked up she was gone. “All call signs I have lost eyes on HVT two. I repeat I have lost eyes on HVT two.”

“I don’t have HVT three or four,” Brock sighed “They just vanished.”

“Is HVT one still at the tyre swing?” Ray asked.

“Fuck, she’s gone to.” Metal cursed.

“Guys we fucked up, boss is gonna kill us if we don’t come home with a full head count.” Ray breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Three you know this is your fault,” Metal growled.

“How is it my fault?” Sonny snapped. “You're the one meant to be watching HVT One.”

“You jinxed things, idiot,” Metal huffed, “Told you this would happen.”

“Guys, stop fighting,” Jase sighed, “Look just everyone reconvene at base and we put a plan together, they can’t have gone far.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, you knew Sonny was up to something when he came in this morning but the big idiot forgot to pick up all the walkies meaning you could hear everything.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you messed with the station trying to get a clearer sound. You wanted to see how this would play out, they all sounded pretty panicked but they should be. One of the rules was they could do whatever, go wherever but just don’t lose anyone.

“You okay Y/L/N?” Eric asked coming into the briefing room with some fresh coffee.

“Define okay when the boys are looking after the tribe today, Sonny managed to swipe the walkies and now somehow they have managed to lose all four kids at the park,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Well at least they had the sense to get the walkies I suppose,” Eric laughed, “you know they will have a full head count by the end of the day, they won’t leave until they do.”

“I know,” you laughed, “but I’m gonna get them back.”

“How the fuck have we managed to lose four kids,” Clay said running his hand over his face. “I don’t get it,”

“Because children like to fucking run off,” Jase snapped. “Look, we don’t need to go into how it happened, it happened. Let’s just work the problem and get these kids back before we all get brutally killed. Operation find the kids is a go.”

“Riley likes water right?” Trent asked.

“Yeah, she’s a proper water baby, why do you ask?” Clay questioned.

“She might have gone towards the lake.” Trent nodded.

“Right, Clay and Brock head to the lake and try to get Riley. We all know you are her favourite Uncle Clay so she might actually come back to you.” Ray said, making a call. “We divide and conquer boys.”

“Copy,” Brock and Clay nodded, before running off in the direction of the lake.

“What about Joey?” Trent asked.

“The woods definitely,” Jase nodded.

“I’m on it,” Metal nodded before disappearing.

“Okay so that leaves Amber and Lola.” Jase said.

“Fuck I have no idea,” Ray sighed. “They are both so quiet.”

“We are just gonna have to split up.” Sonny said, “we will find them.”

Two hours had passed and everyone apart from Brock and Clay were back at base. Three out of the four kids had been located and now sitting on the grass with Metal eatting some cookies.

“I’m gonna need a medic,” Clay said, his voice full of panic and cry’s could be heard in the background.

“How far out are you?” Jase replied.

“About 5 mikes,” Brock replied.

Clay looked down at Riley in his arms, she was screaming and the tears kept coming.

“Hey Riley-roo, it’s okay, Uncle Clay has got you. You are gonna be okay.” Clay cooed trying to calm down his god daughter.

“What’s the sitrep?” Trent asked.

“Not sure if it’s a broken wrist or just a sprain. She fell pretty hard on it whilst running.” Clay sighed down the walkie. “It’s official boys, we are dead meat when the boss gets home.”

The house was quiet when you got home, far too quiet. The only sound was the hum from the TV but even that was on low volume. Quickly glancing in the kitchen you rolled your eyes at the state of it. It looked like a bomb had gone off. There were plates and mugs everywhere along with McDonald’s discarded wrappers.

Quietly you walked into the living room to see all the kids awake and all the boys fast asleep on the sofas. Riley was tucked under Clay’s arms, Joey was laying across Metal and Brock, Amber was sat in between Jase’s legs and Lola was tucked under Ray’s arms.

“Mummy” Riley grinned as she saw you. “Look what I got,” she giggled, waving her casted wrist in the air.

“What happened baby?” You asked, crouching down to her level.

“I tripped and broke my wrist.” She pouted, “But Uncle Clay took me to the hospital.”

“Well it looks like you all wore your Uncles out today,” you laughed, “but just cover your ears for me kiddos.”

Once they all covered their ears with their hands, you pushed yourself to your feet.

“Wake up you lazy shits!” You shouted, startling them all awake. “Did we have a good day?” You asked playing dumb.

“Yeah it was amazing,” Jase nodded. “We went to the park.”

“So you did lose any of the kids?” You asked, placing your hand on your hip.

“Nope,” Clay said, with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Well can someone explain this?” You said, pressing play on the recording.

The whole room fell quiet as they heard the conversation playback from early.

“So wanna change your answer boys?” You glared. “I only have two rules and you fucking broke one of them. And my daughter has a bloody broken arm!”

“Sorry, boss.” Sonny mumbled, not making eye contact.

“You better be you idiots,” you laughed, “At least you came home with a full head count. Now Clay move, you are in my seat.”

Once Clay had moved, you settled down in your spot.

“Oh and another thing, I’ve had a long ass day typing up all the incident reports from J-Bad, I swear your band list gets longer each deployment,” you laughed, “but I’m not happy about the state of my kitchen so you can all get in there and sort it out.”

“Yes, boss.” They all said, making you smirk. Not many people could make Bravo team sulk off with their tail between their legs but you could and it always made you laugh.

“And someone make me a bloody coffee, because I am not moving off this sofa for the rest of the night”

@chibsytelford @mrsmarvelous1995 @supervalcsi @talicat713 @disasterfandoms @bravo-four-seal-team @jasonbabymama @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @lotsoflovefromlea @seik-o @velvetcardiganbucky @phoenixhalliwell @pancakeisreading @itsonautopilot @pinkrockstar19 @galaxysanduniversesinmymind @softi92 @abby-splace @theysayitscrazy @thelovelyleo23 @innerpaperexpertcloud

#seal team #seal team x reader #seal team imagine #seal team oneshot

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just-dreaming-marvel · 3 years

Text

Out Of Time ~ 109

MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 3,025ish

Summary: Secretary Ross holds a meeting. Steve and Y/N get some news.

Tony sat in the corner of the facility’s conference room, away from everyone else. Secretary Ross stood in the front next to the monitor. Steve, Rhodey, and Natasha were seated at the table on the side closest to Tony. Sam, Vision, and Wanda were seated on the other side. Y/N was sat down at the end of the table, opposite Ross.

“Five years ago, I had a heart attack. I dropped right in the middle of my backswing. Turned out it was the best round of my life, because after 13 hours of surgery and a triple bypass… I found something 40 years in the Army had never taught me: Perspective,” Secretary Ross stated. “The world owes the Avengers an unpayable debt. You have fought for us, protected us, risked your lives… but while a great many people see you as heroes, there are some… who would prefer the word ‘vigilantes’.”

“And what word would you use, Mr. Secretary?” Natasha cut in, snarkily.

“How about ‘dangerous'? What would you call a group of US-based, enhanced individuals who routinely ignore sovereign borders and inflict their will wherever they choose and who, frankly, seem unconcerned about what they leave behind?” Secretary Ross activated the monitor behind him. It started playing news reels from past Avengers and SHIELD matters. “New York.” A clip of the Chitauri invasion played out. “Washington DC.” When SHIELD fell.

“Sokovia.” Ultron. “Lagos.” The team’s most recent mission.

“Okay,” Steve said, noticing Wanda’s uncomfortableness. “That’s enough.”

Ross turned off the screen before continuing. “For the past four years, you've operated with unlimited power and no supervision. That's an arrangement the governments of the world can no longer tolerate. But I think we have a solution.” He threw a thick book on the table. “The Sokovia Accords. Approved by 117 countries… it states that the Avengers shall no longer be a private organization. Instead, they'll operate under the supervision of a United Nations panel, only when and if that panel deems it necessary. The Accords will also require anyone who is enhanced to be put on a registry.”

“Like me and Y/N?” Wanda wondered. Y/N glanced at Tony, who refused to look her way, as Wanda continued. “We’d be put on a list so that you can watch our every move? Maybe even experiment on us?”

“We wouldn’t experiment on anyone.”

“Why?” Y/N questioned. “Is it cause you already are?”

“The Avengers were formed to make the world a safer place,” Steve stated, trying to change the topic. “I feel we’ve done that.”

“Tell me, Captain, do you know where Thor and Banner are right now?” Steve merely looked at Ross, unable to answer the question. For all they knew, Thor was on Asgard and no one had seen or heard from Bruce since Sokovia, a year ago. “If I misplaced a couple of 30 megaton nukes, you can bet there’d be consequences. Compromise. Reassurance. That’s how the world works. Believe me, this is the middle ground.”

“So, there are contingencies,” Rhodey spoke up.

“Three days from now, the UN meets in Vienna to ratify the Accords.”

Steve and Tony briefly made eye contact,Tony quickly looking back down. Y/N noticed. That floor must be really interesting, interesting enough for a man who never shuts up to stop talking.

“Talk it over,” Ross continued.

“And if we come to a decision you don’t like?” Nat asked.

“Then you retire.” Ross answered. Everyone kinda glanced at each other. “Let me know what you guys decide.” And with that, Ross left.

~~~

They moved to one of the common area’s of the facility. Rhodey and Sam were going at each other about the Accords while Steve flipped through them and everyone else listened.

“Secretary Ross has a Congressional Medal of Honor,” Rhodey argued. “Which is one more than you have.”

“So let's say we agree to this thing,” Sam said. “How long is it gonna be before they LoJack us like a bunch of common criminals?”

“117 countries want to sign this. 117, Sam, and you're just like, ‘No, that's cool. We got it.’”

“How long are you going to play both sides?”

“I have an equation,” Vision stated, interrupting their bickering.

“Oh, this will clear it up.” Sam grumbled sarcastically.

“In the six years since Mr. Stark announced himself as Iron Man,” Vision started, “the number of known enhanced persons has grown exponentially. And during the same period, the number of potentially world-ending events has risen at a commensurate rate.”

“Are you saying it’s our fault?” Steve questioned, as he looked up from the Accords.

“I’m saying there may be a causality. Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict… breeds catastrophe. Oversight… Oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand.”

“Boom,” Rhodey said.

“Tony…” Nat called, causing everyone to look at him. “You’re uncharacteristically non-hyperverbal.”

Tony, who had been laying down, moved his hand off from over his face and looked at Nat. She was right. He’s always very open about his opinion. Y/N had to keep pushing down the urge to read his mind, let his thoughts in.

“It’s because he’s already made up his mind,” Steve stated.

“Boy, you know me so well,” Tony said sarcastically. Tony stood up and walked into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head as he went. “Actually, I’m nursing an electromagnetic headache.” He opened a cabinet and grabbed a mug. “That’s what’s going on, Cap. It’s just pain. It’s discomfort.” Tony looked into the sink. “Who’s putting coffee grounds in the disposal? Am I running a bed-and-breakfast for a biker gang?” He tried to causally pull up a holographic image on his phone.

“Oh, that’s Charles Spencer by the way,” Tony continued. “He’s a great kid. Computer engineering degree. 3.6 GPA. Had a floor-level gig at Intel planned for the fall. But first, he wanted to put a few miles on his soul, before he parked it behind a desk. See the world, maybe be of service. Charlie didn’t want to go to Vegas or Fort Lauderdale, which is what I would do. He didn’t go to Paris or Amsterdam, which sounds fun. He decided to spend his summer, building sustainable housing for the poor. Guess where, Sokovia.” Y/N closed her eyes. “He wanted to make a difference, I suppose. I mean, we won’t know because we dropped a building on him while we were kicking ass.”

Tony threw some pills in his mouth and took a drink before continuing. “There’s no decision-making process here. We need to be put in check! Whatever form that takes, I’m game. If we can’t accept limitations, we’re boundary less, we’re no better than the bad guys.”

“Tony, someone dies on your watch, you don’t give up,” Steve stated.

“Who said we’re giving up?” Tony questioned.

“We are, if we’re not taking responsibility for our actions. This document just shifts the blame.”

“Sorry,” Rhodey interrupted, “Steve, that, that is dangerously arrogant. This is the United Nations we’re talking about. It’s not the World Security Council, it’s not SHIELD, it’s not HYDRA.”

“No, but it’s run by people with agendas and agents change."

“That’s good. That’s why I’m here,” Tony said. “When I realized what my weapons were capable of in the wrong hands, I shut it down and stopped manufacturing them."

“Tony. You chose to do that. If we sign these, we surrender our right to choose. What if this panel sends us somewhere we don’t think we should go? What if there’s somewhere we need to go, and they don’t let us? We may not be perfect, but the safest hands are still our own.”

“If we don’t do this now, it’s gonna be done to us later. That’s a fact. That won’t be pretty.”

“You’re saying they’ll come for me…” Wanda whispered.

“And me,” Y/N said.

“We would protect you,” Vision promised, looking at Wanda.“Both of you.”

Y/N looked to Tony, trying to see where he was going with all this. But nothing. He just refused to meet her eyes.

“Maybe Tony’s right,” Nat suggested. Tony looked at her, shocked. “If we have one hand on the wheel we can still steer. If we take it off—”

“Aren’t you the same woman who told the government to kiss her ass a few years ago?” Sam cut her off.

“I’m just raiding the terrain. We’ve made some very public mistakes, we need to win their trust back.”

“Focus up. I’m sorry,” Tony interrupted, the hint of surprise in his voice, “Did I just miss hear you or did you just say that you agree with me?”

“Oh, I want to take it back—“ Nat quickly shook her head.

“No no no,” Tony said, as he shook his finger. “You can’t retracted it.”

Sitting close to him, Y/N could hear Steve’s phone buzz. She watched as he pulled it out to check it and immediately grow sad.

“I have to go,” Steve stated.

He got up quickly, dropped the Accords on the coffee table, and slipped into the stairwell. Concerned, Y/N stood up and followed. She found him a couple of flights down, leaning against the banister with his head hung low.

“Hey,” she gently said, coming up to him. “What’s going on?”

When he lifted his head, his eyes were glassy. “She’s gone,” he struggled to say. “Peggy’s gone.”

“Oh, Steve.” Y/N quickly pulled him into her, tears forming in her own eyes as well.

“She’s gone.”

~~~

Tony found Y/N in their room later that day. He wanted to talk to her about the Accords. He had no clue where she stood. When he entered, he noticed she was packing.

“Are we going somewhere?” He asked.

“Peggy’s dead…. She’s gone.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tony came over, allowing Y/N to fall into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“She was just one of the few I had left from then.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“In three days, in London.”

They stood in silence for a moment. “The Accords are being signed in Vienna that day.”

Y/N pulled her head away slightly, brows furrowed. “I tell you that my close friend just died, and you are worried about the Accords?”

“That’s not what I meant—“

Y/N pulled away fully, going back to packing. “I can’t believe you.”

“What? I just stated a fact. And you’re going to go sign them, right? Red’s going so you can just go with her.”

“Stop, Tony, just stop.”

“It’s a question. Are you going to sign them?”

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yes, Tony, I don’t know.”

“Why? Explain to me why you don’t know.”

Y/N dropped what she was working on so she could face Tony. “Because I see both sides! I see and understand that we need a little more leash than we have. We need to be monitored, as a team. But then I see the other side as well. The Accords are so strict! What if they force us to fight for something we don’t agree with? Or won’t let us fight when we need to? And there’s the fact that those will powers will have to be monitored. But they were never specific on what that entailed.”

“I will protect you.” Tony stepped closer. “Like always.”

“You can’t promise that if you sign the Accords. It’s not up to you.”

“I already signed them.”

“What?”

“I signed them before Ross even brought them to the team.”

“How— why—you should have talked about this to me first. Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“Because I guess I thought that you would sign them too.”

“Out of what? Love? Duty to my boyfriend?”

“Yes! And because I thought you’d understand why we need to have this.”

“I do understand! I just think that the Accords aren’t the answer!”

“Well I do! And if you loved me, you would too!!”

“What?” Y/N’s whisper of the word still gave away her angry tone. “If I loved you? What the hell do the Accords have to do with love?!”

“Because one of the reasons, my biggest reason, for doing this is because I love you! I’m doing this for us! And to make things right!”

“You’re doing this for you, Tony! And no one else! You’re hoping that you’ll be able to sleep better at night after this. That the guilt of everything that’s happened won’t drive you crazy anymore.”

“So what if that’s part of it?! We need to be put in check, Y/N! God! How do you not understand that?!”

“You know what? I understand perfectly.” Y/N threw the rest of the clothes on their bed into her suitcase. Slamming it shut. “It is my decision whether or not to sign the Accords. I need some time to think.” Zipping it up, she grabbed the suitcase. “And I think it needs to be away from here.”

“So, what, you’re leaving here? Running away?”

“Don’t even, Tony! I am not running away. I need to make this decision on my own, without any opinions in the way.”

“But you’re going to London with Cap, right? I’m sure he’ll try to sway you.”

“My friend just died! The person who used to be my best friend! The only person I knew after waking up. So, yes, I am going to London. But that doesn’t mean that I’ll be taking Steve’s side. Or any side.” A portal opened next to Y/N. “Please, let me have some time.”

As Y/N stepped through the portal, Tony called out one last thing, “You have less than 3 days, Y/N. Better make your decision quick.”

~~~

After the portal closed, Y/N hurried to find a nearby trash can, emptying her gut into it. The baby clearly wasn’t a fan of that. Y/N got a hotel room in London. She texted Steve telling him where she was and that she would see him at the funeral. Steve questioned is she was okay, which Y/N just waved off.

She stayed in her hotel room until the funeral. When she arrived at the cathedral, it was already packed with mourners. Y/N quickly found Sam sitting in the front row.

“Hey,” he greeted, bringing her in for a hug.

“I didn’t know you’d be here, Sam.”

“I figured you would both need some support.”

Y/N pulled away. “Thanks, Sam.”

She tried to discreetly look around. She was hoping that Tony would do the same thing. They hadn’t spoken or texted since that argument.

“He’s not here,” Sam said, turning her attention to him.

“What?”

“Stark, he’s not here.”

“I wasn’t—“

“Yes you were. Steve may not be immediately again to see it, but I do. You two got in a fight. Was it over the Accords?”

“Yes,” Y/N sighed with a nod.

“Your stance?”

“I still don’t know. I see both sides… there just has to be a better way.”

“I hope you figure one out. And figure it out fast."

~~~

Steve helped carry the casket down. As he sat down beside Y/N in the front pew, he immediately grabbed her hand, squeezing it. Y/N squeezed back. They listened to the speakers, Y/N staring at the framed photo of Peggy in front.

“And now, I would like to invite Sharon Carter to come up and say a few words,” the Priest stated.

Steve was watching Y/N when Sam leaned over and nudged him. Steve looked up to see Sharon Carter, formally known as Agent 13 from SHIELD and Steve’s neighbor, up at the podium. Y/N knew that Sharon was related to Peggy, but it was clear that Steve did not.

“Margaret Carter was known to most as a founder of SHIELD . . . but I just knew her as Aunt Peggy,” Sharon began. Steve took a surprised breath. "She had a photograph in her office. Aunt Peggy standing next to JFK. As a kid, that was pretty cool. But it was a lot to live up to. Which is why I never told anyone we were related.” Sharon looked directly at Steve. “I asked her once how she managed to master diplomacy and espionage in a time when no one wanted to see a woman succeed at either. And she said, compromise where you can. But where you can't, don't. Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right. Even if the whole world is telling you to move . . . it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree, look them in they eye and say, ‘No, you move’.”

~~~

After the ceremony, Steve and Y/N were the only ones left in the cathedral. Y/N was standing in front of Peggy’s picture while Steve had his head down, leaning against a pew. Natasha walked up the isle to Steve.

“When I came out of the ice, I thought everyone I had known was gone besides Y/N,” Steve said. “Then I found out that she was alive. I was just lucky to have her.”

“She had you back, too,” Nat responded. “The both of you.”

“Who else signed?”

“Tony. Rhodey. Vision.”

“Clint?” Y/N asked, still looking at the photograph.

“Says he's retired.”

“Wanda?” Steve wondered.

“TBD. I'm off to Vienna for the signing of the Accords. There's plenty of room on the jet.” Steve sighed as Y/N turned around to join them. “Just because it's the path of least resistance doesn't mean it's the wrong path. Staying together is more important than how we stay together.”

“What are we giving up to do it?” Nat sighed as Steve shook his head. “I'm sorry, Nat. I can't sign it.” Nat looked at Y/N.

“I don’t know yet, Nat,” Y/N responded. “I see both sides, I’m affecting either way. I just… I don’t know.”

“I know,” Nat responded.

“Then what are you doing here?” Steve asked.

“I didn’t want you two to be alone.”

next chapter >

NOTES: There was going to be more gifs, but I got lazy..... sorry.....

From now on the taglist when be added by a reblog. I will reblog it using my second account, @just-dreaming-marvel-2. Just so that my main page doesn’t get too cluttered.

If you want to be added to the tag list, please dm me or send in an ask.

#tony stark x reader #steve rogers x reader #the avengers x reader #avengers x reader #iron man x reader #captain america x reader #marvel imagine #marvel #tony stark imagine #tony stark #Iron Man #The Avengers #Avengers

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Fish

For @whump-advent-calendar‘s day 4-6, Burn/Candles

CW: Referenced medical whump and dehumanization, light burn (accidental), captivity, muzzling, drugging reference, reluctant whumper turned caretaker

---

BAHRAM’S NOTES NOTE TO SELF - SAVE IN EXTERNAL HARD DRIVE. DO NOT LET DR. L SEE.

October 22nd, 20XX 3:45 am Mer in Residence: 19 Days

It’s time to admit I’m more or less keeping a diary at this point as I get to understanding him. So far I’ve written separate notes to myself… for ten or so straight days of the nineteen we’ve had him here, and it’s getting harder to write the official transcriptions the way Dr. L wants me to.

Dr. Lachlan insists I call the mer ‘it’, that it’s to help me distance myself emotionally since it’s such a good mimic of humanity, but I don’t think it’s a damn mimic, I think it’s just… human.

I mean, obviously it’s not HUMAN, but… Miah spelled it out for me, we had an argument about this when he first got here. She gets so angry that he’s getting hurt and you know, I guess I believed Dr. L - mer aren’t my specialty field, I’m a snake man really, I don’t know the first bloody thing about fucking cetaceans.

Anyway, I said to her at the time, “It’s not human.”

She told me, “Maybe not H-U-M-A-N, but P-E-R-S-O-N,” just like jabbing me in the chest afterward. Also, Miah can fingerspell in a way that really makes you feel like a six year old getting yelled at by your mother, for the record. I can’t describe it any other way. I was ready to just melt away from personal embarrassment before she even finished signing “person.”

That’s not the point of this.

I didn’t start a diary just to tell myself how right Miah is about all of this, but hey, here we are.

I need some days off so badly.

Miah wasn’t around today, it’s really just been me and the mer - I’m off for four days coming up here, after 20 days of work, and she’s going to come in and do 24-hour watch until I’m back. It’s not so bad - I don’t really know anyone here, and the bed’s comfortable enough. Dr. L’s paying rent on my apartment so I won’t lose it while I’m working, anyway.

I still feel like some low-level henchman, though. Like any moment some asshole in a tank top is going to show up with guns and I’ll just be a faceless evil stepping stone before the boss fight with Dr. L.

I mean, we all know that Dr. L’s going to be the boss fight, right? Anders would just like lay down or throw Miah in front of himself or something.

No, that’s not fair, he really does love her.

Bahram this is all hypotheticals about a video game. Get back on track, man.

So Miah must have gone shopping or something. She came back with a bag full of these candles from this bookstore she really likes. I mean she came back with an insane amount of books, too, but she had this candle she pulled out and put down on my desk.

She set down the candle - it’s this really nice deep blue and has some kind of like ocean scene painted on the label, like, isn’t that thematic - and smiled at me. “This one reminded me of what we’re doing,” She told me, and her signs were… softer. Her expressions were softer alongside them.

Does that mean… anything? I don’t know. She just put it on my desk and then wandered off. I thanked her but I had to take her shoulder and get her to look at me, first. Maybe her face was a little red.

Maybe not.

We keep the tank room pretty warm, I’m sort of cold-natured and the mer seems more active when we keep the lights really warm, so…

I don’t get why she bought me a candle and why she looked away before I could thank her for it. I don’t get it, and I feel like I should, but I don’t. Is she not looking because it wasn’t a big deal, or because it was a big deal, or… what?

I really WOULD sink into the floor if Dr. L or Miah ever saw that I wrote this. Get it together, Bahram. You are not writing a diary about Miah fucking Kirsse.

It’s been just me and the mer, all day. Dr. L was gone, too, meeting with whoever’s funding this whole thing. She’ll be gone until next week, so there’s no real work getting done, for now. Just blood draws.

She’s showing them its claws she took off. I don’t know why. Honestly, I have such a bad feeling about this, but I needed the cash and nowhere else was hiring for a job that would give me room and board and still time to work on my own research. Not that I’ve done a bit of THAT in a week.

I get too distracted by the mer.

He swims in circles. He stares at nothing, or pokes the plastic coral and ferns we got him, or hides in his cave. I can switch the screens over to watch the camera feed from inside the cave, but he doesn’t do much in there, either. I caught him picking at his scales, and I need to ask Dr. L about that. She took three scales off his tail, which for the record I had nothing to do with (whose record? I’m writing this to myself, and what the fuck does it matter about scales when I’m the one sticking the damn needle in his elbow twice a week), and I caught him sort of whistling sadly and picking at the empty spaces.

They’ll grow back, Dr. L says. She’s not worried.

I am.

A little.

I’m starting to think Dr. L is lying about a lot of things, and I’m not sure what to do about that. If anything. This is a job, and I get paid better than I’ve ever been paid in my life. So… what do I do?

I could call the hotline and report him. It’s anonymous.

She’d know I did it.

I don’t know why, but… I don’t want her to know it was me. Cowardice, I guess. Pure bloody cowardice.

But Miah hasn’t emailed the hotline, either. We can’t both be cowards, right?

Anyway.

Tonight was tank cleaning, which is a bloody fucking chore. Anders was around long enough to help me get the mer tranq’d and into the lift and then the rolling tank where he can just sit until I get my work done. Poor thing just lolls around when he’s tranq’d up. Barely blinks.

Doesn’t stop its fucking crying, though.

We took a lot of blood from him today, too, so he was very weak. Barely moved, just curled himself up small so he was totally in the water and watched me work after Anders left. We’ve got a scrubber machine that does the hard work, I just have to hose some things down and then make sure its filter is still operating correctly. Watch the scrubber. Whole process takes about three hours from start to tank totally refilled, as long as I do it weekly. It’ll take much longer if I let it slide.

Double-checked the camera in the cave, and when I walked out of it I saw the mer’s head was up, watching everything I was doing. He dropped right back down under the water when he saw me looking at him. The muzzle looks so monstrous on him, but more than that, it makes him look like a monster.

Maybe Dr. L doesn’t muzzle him to keep us safe, but to keep me from seeing his expressions while I’m here with him all day.

No, that’s stupid. She doesn’t even think he’s sentient, right?

I finished up, and when I came to roll him back to the lift, I saw he’d popped his head up out of the rolling tank and was looking around the room itself. He hasn’t really looked around at all before this, and he was still tranq’d but maybe I fucked up the dosage? Because he was pretty alert, kind of whistling to himself and giving little chirps and clicks. He sounds like some weird mix of killer whale and fucking otters or something. When he saw me, he flinched back down under the water, but I had this idea.

Dr. L took his claws, and he’s still muzzled except when he’s on the table or when he eats, so like, it’s not like he can hurt me, right?

His eyes had gone to my desk, looking at… I guess all my books and papers and my laptop and everything. Maybe the candle. I waved my hand around until I saw that he was watching me again. With those big eyes it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s looking at, but when I clapped my hands he blinked at me, so I know he can hear it, can see me.

Then - and I swear I’m not lying - he moved himself up out of the water, and put his palms together. His earfins twitched out and back against his scalp, and his white hair dripped water all down his shoulders.

He cocked his head at me. Then he put his hands together, harder this time. He clapped, and then… he clicked.

I KNEW it. I KNEW clicks were questions. Dr. L said their brains don’t work that way, but I bet they do. Who’s even considered how their brains work? Maybe they’re just like us. All the studying I’ve been doing shows that the scans we’ve done of dead ones are pretty similar in overall size and placement of their center of language. They’ve shown that mer populations have their own dialects if they don’t interact with each other, like the Atlantic transients sound totally different than the Pacific transients, which sound different than the residents that stick close to the coastlines up by Alaska...

Making my own head hurt. I don’t even care about fucking mammals, but I guess I do now.

“That’s right,” I said when he clapped, not like he can understand but still. I said it, and I clapped again, and he clapped back. “Can you give me your head? I’ll take your muzzle off, yeah? If you don’t bite.”

Dumbest fucking idea ever, but hey.

I think maybe he knows the word muzzle, because he whistled and shrunk down again, lowering his hands. His ear flaps flattened again. I saw the deep red marks around his neck, from how we have to use the catch-pole to get him out, and I just. I just felt like shit, you know?

I’m shit, that’s what I am, we’re torturing a child, more or less, who hasn’t done a thing to anyone but be by himself because he lost his bloody fucking family. I can’t keep telling myself I’m not the bad guy, you know?

I’m going to jail if I report him, aren’t I? I helped bring him in, after all. There’s my whole career down the drain.

Is this how it felt when everyone was being shit to monkeys in the 70′s and calling it psychology? Did some of them just go along with it because they thought they had to?

This is not helpful, Bahram.

I sat down at my desk and tried to figure it out. His eyes were on me the whole time. I looked over at Miah’s candle, and looked at the label. Like I said, ocean scene. Fronds and ferns and…

I turned the label to face the mer, and tapped on the image with my finger. “Fish,” I said, feeling dumb as hell. I told myself, it’s a bloody animal, Dr. L would roll around laughing at you for this.

But he came back up out of the water. There was a long moment, and I heard him click, and then a soft, “Sssshhhhhh,” sound came from behind his muzzle. They have lips like ours, although their way of communicating is basically whalesong and relies heavily on underwater acoustics. He’s louder in the tank than out of it, although I guess fear might make him quiet, too.

The recordings I found on youtube they get in the ocean are deafening loud. Their voices travel so well underwater, it’s amazing. People sell fucking CDs with mersong over piano to fall asleep to.

I poked at the ocean scene on the label again. “Fish,” I said firmly. “Do you want fish?”

He knows fish.

I KNOW he knows fish because he sat up, held out his right arm, and tapped his elbow with a blunt-edged, broken-off claw before he looked back at me, trembling with fear. He clicked again, twice.

I can’t even tell you how shit I feel, realizing he was asking if I was going to take his blood first. That’s what he meant, it has to be. He poked at the exact spot where he’s bruised up from the needle.

But it makes sense, right?

He’s been here twenty days, more or less. Every couple of days, when he’s hungry enough, we bribe him with fish to get the pole on him, take blood or whatever else, and then he eats.

No, WE don’t take his blood. I take his blood.

He thinks - and he’s fucking thinking, I know he is - that he only eats if we stick a needle in him.

I’m hurting a child.

I’m teaching a child to be hurt.

I’m not religious but this feels like the sort of thing you ask for forgiveness for, doesn’t it? I should call Maman and ask her who I could talk to. I’m going to call Maman or Baba tomorrow.

No I’m not.

What would I tell them I need to speak to someone about?

What if whoever I speak to calls and reports him, and Dr. L knows it was because of me?

I need to stop thinking about this.

“No, NOT draw blood,” I said, and he whimpered again, held out his arm further, closer to me, tapped his elbow again. I knew he could still hurt me - their strength is prodigious, the first time we got him out of the tank he nearly pulled Dr. L down into the water with him - but I decided it was worth the risk.

I kept thinking, he’s more scared of me than I am of him, but you know, of course he is. He’s the one with bruises.

I stretched my own arm out and showed it to him. He flinched back a little, and then leaned forward again, sitting in the little rolling tank that’s barely big enough to hold him. His blunt claws touched my arm, delicate as a feather, clicking as he poked at the sleeve of my sweater.

“No draw blood,” I said. “Just fish. Eat.” I mimed chewing.

He looked at me and clicked twice, cocking his head, then looked at my candle from Miah, pointing at the ocean scene. “Ffff-sshhhh,” he said, muffled.

“No, that’s a candle, it just has fish painted on it. Candle. Fire. Yes?”

Blank stare.

Then, repeated, “Ffff-sssshhh.”

I sighed and pulled out my little lighter. I don’t smoke or anything, but I hate the way matches smell, so I have a lighter on me basically all the time. Plus, having lighters was a pretty good way to make friends back in undergrad when I gave a fuck about that.

I flicked on the lighter, and the mer chirped, curiously.

Has it never seen fire before?

Why would it, it lives in the ocean. Don’t be a dumbshit, Bahram.

“Fire,” I said, and held it out a little for a closer look. “Fire.” I tilted it and lit the candle, and the mer leaned forward, rapt, as the wick sparked up to flame and I blew the smaller flame on the lighter out.

“FFfffff,” The mer said, barely audible. It clicked and held out its hand, and I wasn’t fast enough.

“No, wait stop-”

The mer’s fingertips touched the flame and it let out a deafening loud cry of pain and jerked its hand back down into the water, whimpering at the new kind of hurt, looking at me like it was MY fault, and maybe it was. Eyebrows furrowed, little crease in its forehead, big sad eyes.

The big sad eyes are wrecking me.

“Well, don’t touch fire and you won’t burn,” I said, shaking my head. “No touch fire. Fire bad. Fire burn.”

He held out his hand to show me. “Ffff-rrrrr.” It was a plaintive little breath of air, not quite a real sound.

The ends of two fingers were a little dark, that’s all. I could explain that by saying he’d hurt himself in the tank, maybe. I shook my head and pointed at the water, and it put its hand back in there, huffing a little breath of relief, I think. The water probably helped with the sting.

“Right. Fire bad. No fire.”

“Ffff-rrr... buh-ddd.”

“Right. Fire bad.” I stood up and walked over behind him, and he tried to turn and watch me but I shook my head and pointed back at the candle and he sort of huffed again and looked away. I felt him tense when my fingers touched the back of his head, but he sat still.

Probably because if he struggles when she goes to take the muzzle off or gets her fingers near his mouth, Dr. L has this electricity stick thing…

I’m not supposed to mention that in the transcripts.

I’m not supposed to mention how he screams, and he doesn’t sound like a whale or an otter, then. He doesn’t sound like an animal.

He sounds like a child.

He IS a child

He’s just

I’m a fucking

No. I need to focus. This is stuff I can’t tell Dr. L, I need to write it down here where it’s safe.

The muzzle is easy to get off, you just need to be looking right at it, and I unbuckled and pulled it free, feeling a little resistance from how well it stuck to his face. Without it on, there are deep red lines along his cheeks and jaw, not open or bleeding, just irritated.

He didn't grab at me, or bite. Just watched me with his big eyes as I laid it down on my desk. For a second we were both just quiet, looking at each other.

Then he pointed at the candle again. “Ffff-sssshh.”

“No,” I said. “Candle. Fire.”

The mer’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head, echoing what I did earlier. His hair slapped around. His teeth look like shark’s teeth up close, only there’s a lot less of them. “Nnnn-nnnuh,” He tried, shaking his head again.” Nnn-uh. Ffff-sssshhh.” Then he pointed at his mouth, opening wide, showing me the tongue behind his teeth. “Fffff-sssshhh. Ffff-ssshhh.”

I laughed, covering my mouth - he seems to be scared when we show too much teeth, probably in the ocean it’s a threat and they don’t smile like we do. Which, why would they?

But, see, I realized that he wasn’t pointing at the candle at all, but at the fish painted on it. Then he moved to look at the bucket of fish he gets as a reward for obedience, and pointed at that, then looked back at me to see if I was paying attention.

Of course I was. I was barely fucking breathing. This is signs of abstract thought process, recognizing that the image of a thing isn’t the thing itself. That he can point at it to represent what he wants. “You want fish? Is that it? You’re hungry? Want to eat some fish?”

The mer blinked and made a sound like a chirp, clapped his hands together. “Rrrrr. Fff-sssshhh.” He pointed at his mouth again. “Ffff-ssshhh. Buh-rrrrmm. Ffffsshh.”

“What did you say?” I whispered. My heart went cold. I can’t describe it any other way.

“Buh-rrrrmmmm. Ffff-sssshh, Buh-rrrmm.”

The bloody thing knows my fucking name.

He knows we have names and he knows mine and that means-... that means he has one, doesn’t it? If he has a name, if he has

I’m his fucking nightmare aren’t I

I’m the worst fucking thing that could happen to him, me and Miah and Dr. L and Anders and this is a job but it’s the worst thing that’s happened to him and it’s only

It’s going to get worse for him.

He’s going to die here and he’ll know all our names when he does.

Anyway, so... you know... I brought him a bucket of fish.

What else was I supposed to do?

He knows my name!

He let me put the muzzle on him again without fighting after he finished, and I got him back in the tank once the water was refreshed, and he’s sleeping off his meal now. I can see him on the feed, curled up inside the cave.

But I’m wide awake, so I thought I’d write this, because…

Because what the hell do I do now?

I can’t tell Miah.

Can I?

---

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @slaintetowhump @moose-teeth @misspelledwitch @whumpfigure @whumptywhumpdump @boxboysandotherwhump @whumpywhumper

#whump #mer whump #nonhuman whumpee #wac2020 #fire #burns tw #burn #mer whumpee #reluctant whumper #caretaker and whumpee #reluctant caretaker #caretaker whumper #referenced torture #tail whump #referenced #captivity #muzzled #muzzle #forced drugging reference

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gwendolyn02 · 4 years

Text

For Him - Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Reader would do anything for Spencer to be happy even if she doesn’t think her feelings are reciprocated, and when Maeve’s life is on the line she proves that. Plus reader and Spencer are able to talk effortlessly and have a deep connection not Maeve and Spencer. Also kind of inspired/based on Yellow by Coldplay

Word Count: 1985

Content Warning: Blood, guns you know normal criminal mind things :/

A/N: This is my very first fanfic I have ever written. I don’t really know what i should put as warnings and such so I’m winging it along with all of this. Also I don’t know what to classify this but I’d guess angst with a happy ending. Like I said this is my first fanfic so bear with me. I also did not proof read this because I was so excited to post it so it might have spelling or grammatical errors.

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Spencer and you have been the best of friends since a month after you joined the team, and you’ve had feelings for him just as long, little did you know the feelings were mutual. The whole team could see the longing looks when the other wasn’t looking, they even have a bet of when you guys would get together. You were always there for each other comforting and consoling the other when a case hit a little too close to home for either of you. You’d distract yourselves if you didn’t want to talk about why a case had upset you; You’d read to each other, watch Doctor Who, play chess, or even go on walks late at night to look at the stars.

When Emily “died” Spencer would come to your apartment crying his eyes out and you stayed strong for him as he has had so many people leave him, he needed comforting more than you, and that made your heart ache even more. You decided to take him to your couch, lay his head on your lap, and run your hands through his hair. It would calm him so much that he’d fall asleep. He looks so peaceful well he slept with his head on your legs you couldn’t help yourself to lean down and kiss him on his forehead and whisper, “Do you know, you know I love you so.”

It’s been a while since then, Emily is alive and in London, and everyone has gone back to normal, well everyone except for everyone’s favorite genius. He was happier than normal, but also more secretive. The team thought that you guys must have finally started dating until one day you came in to work looking a little down, and your longing looks towards Spencer also had pain in your eyes. That was the day after you found out about her. You were having one of your normal hang outs with Spence when you noticed he was spacing out a lot and he had this look in his eyes, a look you knew well. It was the same look you’d get when you thought about him. You didn’t like it, you almost denied it but you had to ask him if your suspicions were right.

“Who is she?” you blurted out. He jumped your sudden outburst blush started to creep up his neck.

“Who is who?” he asked hesitantly.

“Spencer I’m not stupid. You've been extra happy and more secretive lately, and you were just spacing out with a smile on your face. You never space out when we’re watching Doctor Who. So, there is only one reason, you’re seeing someone. What’s her name?” you ask hoping he’ll deny it meaning it’s not too serious or that you were somehow wrong.

He’s hesitant but he says, “Maeve, her name is Maeve.” Your heart drops at this, and you tell him your happy for him. You were happy it was getting late so it wasn’t suspicious when you said you were heading home after that episode. As soon as you closed your apartment door behind you, you leaned against sliding down to a sitting position finally letting your tears fall.

When he walked in late the day after that wearing your favorite outfit of his you realized you couldn't go through with your original plan of slowly distancing yourself from him even if you wanted to, because his happiness was more important to you than your shattered heart. So, you continued to be his best friend even if it ripped out your heart every day and you now had to listen to him gush over her.

It was all good until one day at work he told everyone about her and how he was sure she was missing and how because of that he couldn’t focus on anything for more than four seconds making him the dumbest person in the room and needing the team and your help. You have never seen him like that, it hurt you in more way than one, he loves her, it's clear in his voice cracks along with how much pain he is in, and at that moment you promised yourself you’ll do anything to bring her back to him alive.

*Time Skip to outside Diane’s loft*

Diane knew your feeling for him, and that you’re his best friend, how she found out your unsure, but she did, and she wanted you both there. If you had to guess it was to raise the stakes for Spencer.

“Take your guns and vests off.”

You and Spencer followed her orders.

“Now just you two come in.”

You guys got to the top of the stairs and she opens the door with gun in hand, “Put the blindfold on him and lead him to the chair,” Diane says to you. You do so very carefully as she has her gun pushed into your back as she follows you.

Spencer asks if he can take the blindfold off and gets told no. He and Maeve swap hellos as Diane is putting her hand down Spencer’s shirt and complimenting in his brain and looks until he mentions her thesis, as you watch a little confused on what you're supposed to be doing so you start to mouth to Maeve that everything will be okay.

Spencer is trying to trick her into thinking her thesis is valuable enough to keep her save and out of jail, as you are trying to run through all possible outcomes of this situation in your head. He is trying to convince her he loves her not Maeve, and to let Maeve live with her irrelevancy. She makes sure to make Spencer say he doesn’t love you too, which confuses you, he doesn’t love me anyways you think, but he hesitates for a quick second and you and Maeve catch it but somehow Diane doesn’t. She then kisses Spencer and when he doesn’t reciprocate, she knows he’s lying. He grabs her gun and it fires into the air and then Spencer’s arm, it happened so fast you weren’t able to help him in fact you were knocked onto the ground. The rest of the team was in the room now as you hear Spencer repeatedly saying to stay back. Your standing back up when Spencer is telling her, “There is still a way out of this. Diane, I offered you a deal and you can still take it. M-”

“Me for her,” you interrupt him.

“Why should I do that?” she asked.

“Because he hesitated in saying he didn’t love me, if you kill her you wouldn’t kill who he truly loves. You’d still have the real competition for him left,” you lie for the second half of this, but you aren’t looking at Spencer whose eyes got even wider in fear as what you were saying was actually true, and Diane sees that and aims her gun towards you. As she does that the team all have their guns pointed at her head. You hear two guns go off and Spencer screaming “WAIT!” you and Diane are on the ground now. Your stomach was gushing out blood. Diane his down a few feet away from you a bullet hole right between her eyes. Spencer rushes over to you and applies pressure to your wound as he tells the others they need medics, now, your vision as blurring and everything you hear is incoherent. Then everything goes black.

You hear movement around you and even though your eyes are closed you can see how bright the lights are in the room you’re in. You open your drowsy eyes to see Spencer pacing the room, he seems to be a mixture of worried, nervous, and stressed. It also looks like he’d been pulling at his hair some too.

“Hey Spence,” you croaked out. He immediately turns to you and lets out a sigh of relieve.

“Y/N, you’re awake, thank goodness. How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like I’ve just been shot, but other than that perfectly fine,” you chuckle. He doesn’t laugh back, instead he gives you a very stern look.

“Why’d you do it Y/N, why’d did you trade yourself for her?” he questions. You look up at him and think what the hell, might as well tell him the truth.

“Do you know Spence I’d do anything for you, I’d even bleed myself dry,” you tell him in all honesty. He looks at you completely flabbergasted. Then he flushes pink and looks extremely nervous.

“There’s uh... something I need to tell you,” he mumbles and you look at him intently, telling him to continue with your eyes, “I’ve got to tell you this now, I can’t hold it in any longer, especially after almost losing you, you know, you coded on the operating table twice? I almost lost you, twice. So, you need to know Y/N I'm in love with you and I have been for four years six months ten days eight hours twenty-three minutes,” he glances down to his watch really quick, “and fifteen seconds, and I broke up with Maeve, she knew when I hesitating in saying I don’t love you that I really did, and sure I loved her but nowhere close to how much I love you, I only started dating her because I knew there is no way you’d return my feelings, but that was unfair to her,” he exhales loudly as he rambled forgetting to breathe in between sentences. You look at him in awe, mouth gaped open, and when you realize he staring at you waiting for you to say something.

“I love you too Spence, I have for a long time now, but I thought a genius like you would want another genius, not me,” you say blushing. He moves closer to you leaning towards to you and you lean towards him and gently brush you lips against his. He takes in that you want to kiss him too and smashes his lips into yours for a passionate kiss. You were so caught up in the kiss that you didn’t hear the doors to your hospital room open as the team walks in, you only realize when you hear Derek wolf whistle and Penelope squeal.

“My man,” Derek says slapping Spencer on his shoulder.

“Congrats,” Rossi and Hotch tell you guys, Hotch even wearing one of his rare smiles on his face.

Alex just smiles. While JJ pulls Spence into a hug before carefully doing the same to you. Penelope is so excited she hyperventilating a little bit in the corner with Derek now trying to calm her down, he looks over his shoulder at you two and say, “We’ll give you lovebirds some privacy” leading Penelope out as the others follow. You and Spencer just look at each other and smile contently.

----------------------

Bonus Scene

As the team are outside of your room with a finally calm Penny G, JJ calls Emily and puts her on speaker, while the other each hand Rossi a twenty.

“Hey Em guess what just happened?” JJ says, and Emily doesn’t know so she replies with a what with a chuckle as she could hear the smile in JJ’s voice so she knows it's not a serious call. “Y/N and Spe-”

“You owe me twenty bucks,” Rossi cuts in.

“Are you for real?” Emily asks knowing exactly what he was talking about, the bet the made when you first joined the team that they updated every so often and started going by months instead of days or weeks since you guys took so long. They had updated it right before Emily left and when Alex came, she decided to join it too. Rossi had this month.

“Yup,” JJ confirms, “we walked in on them kissing.”

“Well it took them long enough,” Emily says, and everyone laughs in agreement. Even though you were shot it ended up being a happy day.

#spencer reid x reader #reader x spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

Prof of Law Aaron Hotchner

Warning for violence, stabbing, nightmares, an anxiety attack, and drugs (the prescribed kind)

Aaron Hotchner is a retired Federal Persecutor-- just an AU where Hotch is a law professor for fun and angst!!

Bouncing Jack on his hip, Hotch smiles as he stands over Haley’s shoulder. He pulls his hand back from the cake, wincing when Haley smacks his hand away. She’s a perfectionist and having the smear of his finger through this cake is going to heavily disrupt her otherwise perfect spreading.

“Oh come on,” he pouts, he turns his body so she can see Jack. “We just want a little,” he attempts. Rousing his son, he jogs the boy up a little more in his arms. “Tell her Jack, tell Mommy, say only a little.” Despite being very much daddy’s little boy, Jack smirks and turns his head away. Giggling and babbling nonsense into his father’s shoulder. Wiping his face on Hotch’s shirt.

Hotch plays along. “See,” he offers, “just like he said. We only want just a little bit.”

Haley rolls her eyes, smiling at his antics. She reaches around the cake to the mostly empty tub the icing had come in. “Go,” she instructs, handing it to him. “Get out of my kitchen Aaron Hotchner before I beat you with this spoon.” She searches across the counter for the wooden spoon she’d used to keep the green beans on the oven stirred.

He smiles and kisses her head, avoiding the spoon when she tries to jab at his side with it.

As he’s walking away, egging Jack on in his triumph of obtaining the icing, there’s a knock at the door. He’s still talking to the baby, so stepping away from the cake she moves so she can see down the hall from the kitchen. To see if he’s getting the door. “Aaron--”

He steps into the hall and winks at her, “I’ve got the door.” He curses softly, pulling his hand away from Jack’s mouth. He’s swiped a finger into the container before coming to the door. Jack mercilessly chumps down on his fingers and regardless of his absent teeth it still hurts.

“Hey--”

Hotch lands flat on his back. The world a dark haze and a strange eerily painful chill in his side. Pain like he’s never felt before. Touching his side, he lifts his head off of the floor and stairs in shock at his hand. The dark, thick crimson of his blood. So much blood.

“Aaron!? Oh my God!”

Choking, Hotch tries to move. Mouth open and back arching, he kicks out blindly. The pain creating a black haze around his vision. Coughing and turning his head as he wheezes around the obstruction in his airway, his own blood, he can hear more gunshots. Jack screams, wailing, and sobbing on in distress. There is one final gunshot and the crying stops. The house falls silent.

“Jack,” he tries to move but his arms won’t hold his weight. “Jack,” he calls again, panic rising. “Come on, buddy,” he cries. “Where--” blinking the blood from his eyes he looks up and into the face of someone he hasn’t seen in a decade. George Foyet.

Leaning down, Foyet places his foot against Hotch’s throat. He presses down just enough to cut off the rest of his oxygen, smiling when Hotch uselessly tries to push him away. “Remember me, Aaron? Aaron? Aaron! Aaron--”

“Aaron! Easy, easy.”

He’s in bed. His grey t-shirt slick with his sweat and practically glued to his back. He’s safe. Looking around he can slowly start to piece together where he is. Dave’s house. Well, his house too but it’s Dave’s house.

“Woah,” perched on the corner of his bed is David Rossi. As silly as the older man looks in his matching pajama set (from probably the eighties) Hotch can’t spare the breath to do much more than lean into his embrace. “You’re alright,” Dave assures him, rubbing his back and cupping the back of his head. “Just breath for me kid,” Dave keeps Hotch pulled close, glad that he’s not trying to wrangle away just yet.

“Dave?” Hotch can feel himself shaking, his eyes pinched shut. He’s terrified, honestly. The nightmare had felt so real. So much like the real day. George Foyet had come into his home and-- “I need… Jack?” Hotch pulls away just enough to catch his old mentor’s eyes. Waiting to find the truth there. Because he can’t remember. His brain is split. Had he buried his son that day too? Is Jack… Is Jack dead too?

Dave smiles, it’s sad but it’s not mournful. “He’s sleeping in his bed,” Dave promises. “I checked on him before I came in here.”

Hotch can feel the hitch in his chest as he lets out a relieved breath. “He’s okay?” Hotch asks, he needs the clarification.

Dave nods, “perfectly content.” That’s the easy part about being a baby when the world goes to shit. Jack will never know his mother but he’ll also never have to wake, like his father, in cold sweats shaking from nightmares. Terrified and alone.

“Okay,” Hotch pulls back, scooting back in the bed so he can cross his legs and rest his head in his hands.

Watching him with an air of concern Dave sighs. He looks at the clock and shakes his head. It’s four in the morning and there’s no way that Aaron’s going back to sleep now. “You good,” he asks. As much as he’d like to stick around and make sure Hotch gets back to sleep… that’s futile.

For the last few years, they’ve been working on getting Aaron through the night. Whether it’s nightmares or insomnia he can’t seem to get a break.

Hotch nods with his face covered by his hands.

Dave stands and looks back over his shoulder one more time. “Aaron?”

“Hmm?”

“Try and get some more sleep, alright? You can’t afford to lose anymore.”

Hotch doesn’t look up but hums in agreeance. Already he can feel the low throb at the back of his skull. If he starts drinking coffee now maybe he’ll make it through his first few classes without passing out. In the vending machines outside his office, they sell these little bottles of five-hour energy.

He’s a little too old to go chugging those but he’s not going to go canceling his class over a little missed sleep.

It’s been a long time since he even thought about consuming this much coffee.

By six a.m. he’s consumed four cups.

“How long have you been up?”

Hotch blinks sluggishly despite the warm fifth mug of coffee in his hands. “Hmm,” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Directing Jack down the hall, hand over the boy’s head like a claw, Dave looks Hotch down. His posture is awful, bent over himself, with dark rings under his eyes. “I asked how many cups of coffee you’ve had but I’m afraid I don’t want the answer.” Pushing Jack along, the boy scurries into the kitchen. Buzzing past his father to make a B line for the milk and cereal.

“Don’t spill the milk,” Hotch mumbles, watching Jack fumble with the carton.

It’s been nearly three years since George Foyet’s attack.

The man was released from prison for “good behavior” as young, white men tend to get off. It seemed as if the two young women he’d killed were brought to justice in the ten years he spent in prison. How easy it must have been for the justice system to see the opportunity in a man like him, while ignoring the ones he’d taken. A misguided youth and a tragic backstory only adding to their empathy.

The atrocities he’d committed were not of his own accord, of course not. It’s always so much easier to blame those young women or perhaps his mother. If those girls had not been out so late at night, if they hadn’t worn skirts and frilly tops then he would have never noticed them to begin with. If his birth mother had loved him more...

None of that matters now.

They considered Geroge Foyet “cured” and released him back into society.

Where his first stop was to a library, where he found the address of the man who put in prison. Federal Prosecutor Aaron Hotchner.

This is the part the dreams never get right. Foyet didn’t have a gun. He had a knife. A single pocket knife that he stole from a junkie in an alley. It had been late and Haley had answered the door. Hotch hadn’t even heard her cry out for him. He’d been wrangling Jack out of the tub, the little boy a mess of squirming limbs and very upset with his father for making him take a bath.

They’d been in Jack’s room when Foyet found them.

He’d had his back turned to the door, shushing the crying baby as best as he could while trying to get a diaper around his kicking legs. The first stab had been so quick… by the third he was on his knees and unable to do anything besides keep falling.

On that floor, George Foyet stabbed him six more times. Jack had screamed and cried the entire time. He’d been too young to understand, not even a full year old, but he knew something wasn’t right.

In the dreams, Foyet always kills Jack too. The harsh, overwhelming sound of silence those little cries silenced. There one moment and gone the very next.

He can’t remember much of what happened.

Foyet had moved to Jack, picking the boy up and shushing him. Hotch had watched, immobilized and too weak to even beg for his son to be spared. So he’d watched, choking on his blood, and slowly losing his battle with consciousness as Foyet settled down in the rocking chair in the corner of the room and rocked his son. Soothed him.

A neighbor would walk by and see Haley laying in the hall. The blood…

Hotch had died on the operating table, a fact that Dave would later inform him of. He can’t remember recovery all that well. Clouded with drugs and grief, he… There was once, he remembers this clearly because it had only been a short time after he’d woken up, they’d brought Jack in. Dave and the nurses had been trying everything to calm him but he wasn’t sleeping or eating. He’d cry and cry and cry until he made himself puke or passed out.

The moment they placed Jack in Hotch’s arms, the baby had stilled. His pained cries dying to whimpers as he looked up at his father.

Hotch had been propped up with pillows. Too weak to even lift his own head but they’d stacked pillows around his sides and arms. He couldn’t fight the exhaustion weighing his body down but he clung to Jack. Waking from his sleep in a panic each time, watching the room’s other occupants in case they might try to take Jack from him.

After all the time he’d been nearly unresponsive to them, if having Jack around would keep his heart rate up and his oxygen intake steadily improving no one was going to complain. Several times he woke to his gown being moved so they could place Jack against him. Skin on skin therapy does wonders on humans of all ages. Recovery had been easier with Jack there. The baby stripped to his diaper and nestled against his chest. Little fingers grasping onto him.

It’s been three years and George Foyet follows him everywhere he goes.

“Professor?”

He makes his own lesson plans. He knows which cases come up when. “Who--” he makes the mistake of looking at the screen and his heart stills in his chest. Swallowing thickly around the obstruction in his throat, he looks down to the floor forcing himself to take in a steadying breath. “Who, um, can explain why this case can’t be dismissed on the grounds of Gamble v United States?”

He doesn’t need to call on a student. There’s only about ten kids in the class and it's a ridiculously easy question.

“It’s two separate accounts,” someone speaks up. “Same thing, sure, same crime even but that’s not how double jeopardy works. Besides, you’d want to look more into United States v Felix. Um--” The hard sound of one of the automatically folding chairs shutting in on itself sounds out through the room. “Sir?”

“Sir, are you okay?”

Hotch grips the edge of the desk tighter, his knuckles whitening under the strain. “I’m--” his knees buckle but he forces his weight to his arms. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth. “I’m okay,” he manages.

A student, he can’t tell which one, cautiously approaches his side. “Sir,” he calls. The student, Carter one of his more extroverted and adventurous students, squats down by his side, hand on his back just above his belt. “Not to alarm you,” Carter says, “but I think you’re having an anxiety attack. Do you have any medicine? Is there something we can do?”

Hotch squeezes his eyes shut, trying to work against the tears rapidly falling down his cheek. “My--” he grabs frantically for his tie. The knot against his throat tightening steadily to a noose until he can’t stand it. His hands are too weak to pull the material away but graciously, his useless fingers are pushed aside. Carter undoes the knot quickly and Hotch is suddenly very thankful that Carter’s pompous, cocky agenda brings a tie into his little aesthetic.

“In my office,” Hotch rasps, his hand twisted around his dress shirt. “It’s--” he sinks to the floor, head between his knees. “... a few,” he manages, “in my office.”

Carter turns over his shoulder. “Billy!”

Hotch looks up and watches Billy meagerly rise from where she’s called. Billy, while a great student, is riddled with social anxiety. Despite having taught the young woman all three years he’s been employed at the university she can’t meet his eye when they talk. And she always makes great haste in avoiding him. He’s never bothered to figure out if she’s got issues with authority, a problem with her father, or if she just hates him that much.

Carter turns back to Hotch, surprised by the startlingly vacant look in the man’s eyes. His eyes just watch Billy where she stands anxiously waiting to find out what awful thing she’s going to be asked to do.

“Sir,” Carter shakes Hotch a little. Smiling reassuringly when Hotch’s bloodshot eyes meet his. “I’m going to send Billy to get Professor Prentiss, is that okay? Billy is going to get the professor and we’re going to head to your office, alright?”

Hotch nods.

“Can-Can’t someone else go?”

Carter helps Hotch to his feet, graciously nodding his head to another student who slides under Hotch’s other arm. “No, Billy. Now go.”

Professor Prentiss is a notorious hardass. Her students love her but everyone else is terrified to even cross her path. She’s like a black cat, bound to be bad luck. It did not help Hotch’s already scary demeanor to befriend her. To spot the two of them coming across campus, Emily always professionally dressed in slacks and a dress shirt and Hotch in his standard suit and tie, they’d built a good rapport for being scarily mysterious.

Despite how frequently they could be spotted in the campus café laughing over a cup of coffee. Their human moments always outweigh their harsh ones. In fact, Emily Prentiss has only ever come down on a few students. The ones dumb enough to try and fool her. Hotch has never raised his voice to a student and is surprisingly lenient for a law professor or even just a professor in general.

For goodness sake, Emily stops to talk to the campus cats.

Hotch wears a little beanie with a red knot at the top Professor Garcia made him two Christmas’ ago and spends the spring semester chasing his son around the quad. (Garcia made him the beanie so she could recognize him easier in public. There are way too many tall men in suits around but the red little knot makes him easily detectable)

That’s not to say they’re still not intimidating.

“Pr-Professor Prentiss?”

Turning slowly from her chalkboard, Emily faces the weary voice. First of all, this is a senior advanced level Arabic class so there are only five students present and she knows each and everyone one of them. Well enough to know that whoever just called out her name is not one of her own. Nevermind they never break from Arabic during class time. Under her breath, in Arabic, Emily mumbles, “freshman.”

Yet, the young woman is dressed surprisingly professional.

“What is it,” Emily asks, crossing her arms. She pushes her glasses down her nose, moving the reading frame out of her sight. Looking down the length of her nose, raising an eyebrow at the girl. As if interrupting her class wasn’t bad enough, she’s not trying to waste instruction time on some undergraduate student roaming where she shouldn’t be.

The student steps in a little more, chest heaving, breathless, and looking anywhere but at Emily, stammers her way through an explanation. “Uh,” she wets her lips. “Um, Prof--Professor Hotchner he, um, he was-- he was taking us through, um, a criminal law case and he was…”

The half-amused smirk on Emily’s lips placed there in the humor of what she thought was going to be some silly mistake or a prank from a coworker is wiped away. Penelope has sent mischievous students her way in the past, to knock them down a few pegs or remind them who's in-charge here. Derek’s sent way too many kids over, a whole class once, instead of doing his job. It’s becoming very clear this is not a joke.

Tossing her glasses on her desk, she demands, “where is he?”

The girl takes two steps back, not liking Emily’s shift. “He, um, Carter took him to his office, ma’am. He--”

Emily turns to her students, “class is canceled. I’ll send you a text this afternoon to make up for class.” Then with a nod, takes off up the catwalk, shoes sounding sharply against the tile. “We’ll facetime!” Motioning the girls to follow, “you, with me. Let’s go.”

She sends Dave a text, nothing complex just “Aaron, SOS”.

Hotch’s office is down the same hall as his favorite auditorium to lecture in. She’d bullied him pretty hard upon finding this fact out. It sounded very, very nerdy. And it is. What kind of normal person has a favorite lecture hall? Let alone a favorite room? Just as promised, that’s where he is.

He’s on the floor, stripped of his jacket and his shirt thrown open to reveal his white-shirt. His head is in between his knees and a young man, Carter, Emily presumes, is struggling to open the orange bottle of Valium. People go broke buying the stuff from drug dealers and Hotch will refuse one up until he’s breathless and shaking.

“Get out.”

The boy stops, “what?”

Emily nods her head out the door, “both of you, out.”

They share a look but neither student puts up a fight.

Emily cracks the bottle open with a single twist, pouring a pill out into her hand. The only thing she has around to drink is what looks like either tea or coffee from (nothing him) days ago. He doesn’t use creamer but there’s still probably something toxic in their brewing. “Here,” she kneels down beside him.

He looks up, face broken out in sweat and cheeks flushed, and takes the pill from her palm.

“You okay,” she asks, rubbing his back. She watches her friend carefully, studying him.

He takes a deep breath and holds it, ticking the seconds away in his head. Nodding, he closes his eyes and hangs his head back limply between his knees. He lasts only a moment, eyes flying open she finds nothing but pure terror in his dark eyes.

“Hotch,” she calls, unsure if he’s even here with her right now. “Hotch, calm down. What’s going on?”

He shakes his head, “hard to breathe…” His hand comes to his shirt, gripping the white material tightly. “Can’t-- Can’t get enough… not enough air.”

She nods her head, sounds about right. “You’re okay,” she promises. “You’re completely safe right here with me, okay? We’re in your office and you’ve taken a Valium.”

He nods. Right. His office. He can feel the rough mug and smell the old books.

It’s hot. “Off,” he rasps, tugging harshly on his shirt. “Off. I want it--” Too hot and too tight and all over him and--

“Okay,” Emily stops his frantic movements, his hands tearing at his dress shirt. “Okay,” she grabs his left hand by the wrist, easily pulling the shirt off his shoulder and moving his arm out of the fabric. He’s already calming back down, sinking forward as she works his right arm out.

He’d been trapped. Hot and trapped and his brain isn’t working right.

“That’s better,” Emily whispers. She moves closer to him, sitting between his legs and hesitantly pulls him into a hug. He goes where he’s pulled, letting her guide his head to her shoulder.

He sniffles, unable to stop his tears. “He was there,” he whispers. “I saw him.”

She soothes him but she has no idea who or what he’s talking about it. All she knows is that three years ago Dave dragged Hotch here and had a look around. He’d been a mess then. Hair windswept or maybe just unkept and leaning heavily on a cane while Jack had circled them excitedly. She’d shaken his hand and greeted him because Dave is her friend; he'd introduced Aaron as an old friend. He’d looked haggard and disheveled but that hadn’t bothered Emily too much. He’d intrigued her.

Aaron started in an introductory course that fall. Predictably, Dave had allowed him into their trusted group of friends. He’d been removed, at first. Distant and didn’t speak much. Not that he speaks all that much now but it was so much worse back then. Whatever he’d needed that cane for, whatever had driven him from prosecution, whatever had made him a widower and single father that remained his secret. A part of him so guarded only Dave knew and, as she suspected, he would be the only one to ever know.

“Good Lord,” Dave appears in the doorway, shaking his head at the sight before him. “You look like hell.” He leans against the frame of the door, arms crossed. “You know,” he informs them casually. “The two of you have officially ruined your image around here. How’s anyone going to be afraid of you if they walk past this door and see the two of you cuddling on the floor?”

Emily scoffs but doesn’t move away. She keeps moving her hand up and down his back. His breathing has calmed back down but his heart is still racing. “Shut up,” she grumbles. “At least, my reputation isn't being a sleaze bag.”

Dave sucks his teeth, frowning at her. “I am not a sleaze bag,” he defends. He’s not. His reputation for sleeping with the faculty does preside him but it’s horribly honorable that he stays away from the students. They all know coworkers not upholding that standard.

“You okay,” Emily directs her attention back to Hotch. He squirms out of her hold, shakily forcing his feet back under his body and standing.

“Hey,” Garcia knocks on the door and squeezes in beside Rossi. “Everything okay in here?”

Hotch turns his body away from her, scrubbing his face with hands.

“Yeah,” Emily assures her with a smile. It’s obviously not the truth. Hotch is standing in his white undershirt, dress shirt and suit jacket on the floor. His tie not even on the same half of the room. There’s a pill bottle knocked over on his desk and his hair, from what can be seen from the back, is crazy. “We’re good, Pen.”

Garcia nods her head, skeptically. “Okay,” she smiles, eyeing Hotch. He glances over his shoulder at her and she can see his red rimmed eyes and wet face. It’s okay if he doesn’t trust her with this kind of stuff just yet. She understands. “I’ll see you guys at lunch?”

Hotch nods, “we’ll see you there.” His voice is surprisingly rough but she leaves without comment.

Emily reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “Why don’t you stay here, alright?” He’s still shaking and looks rather awful. “I’m going to send your class home. Take a nap or something, you look like a train wreck.”

Hotch just hums, lifting his his hands to his face. The feeling of his body is yet to return. His arms don’t even feel connected to his body. Rubbing his hands across his face he can hear Emily and Dave whispering behind him.

“See you at lunch, Hotch.” Emily says as she steps out of the room.

Leaving Dave and Hotch.

“Are you ever going to talk about it?” Dave asks.

Hotch sighs but doesn’t turn to face the man.

“Come on,” Dave sighs. “It’s been years. If you don’t get it out, it’s going to kill you.”

George Foyet going to kill Aaron. Maybe not today but it’s a matter of time.

“Not now,” Hotch mumbles, turning his attention to his desk. He brushes the spilled pills into the bottle. Ignoring the careful way Dave regards him. He knows he has to eventually work out these stupid nightmares. It’s one thing to find himself trapped there in that house at night. It’s another when the nightmares work their way into the light.

“One day then, hmm?”

Hotch freezes, his anxiety sky rockets just thinking about it. They’ll have to institutionalize him first. Drug him up and throw away the key before he finds the words to describe what happened that day. Mentally, he’s not even sure he’s strong enough to think about it for too long.

Clearing his throat Hotch nods, “right.” He takes a deep breath. Lawyers are blood sucking liars, right? Well, he hopes this once Dave believes his bluff. “One day.”

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #jack hotchner #canon divergence #crimimal minds au #penelope garcia #spencer reid #derek morgan #jennifer jareua #haley hotchner #george foyet

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orangeoctopi7 · 3 years

Text

It’s Fine (It’s not fine)

@forduary week 1 is Hurt/Comfort. The one’s definitely more on the hurt side of things, but I promise there’s some comfort at the end!

Stanford Pines is six years old. He’s in his bedroom, reading quietly. He’s just getting to the climax of the adventure story he’s reading when his brother Stanley crashes into the room. It wouldn't normally be a problem, Ford is really good at tuning out the world around him while he reads, but Stan is complaining loudly.

“I’m booooooard!” The boy moans, grabbing onto the post of their bunk-bed and dangling off it dramatically.

“Whaddaya want me to do about it?” Ford asks in irritation, not looking up from his book.

“Let’s go play on the beach! Or go to the comic store! Or… or something!” Stan suggests. “Anything but just sit around here doin’ nothin’!”

It was a hot summer afternoon. Ford didn’t want to go down to the beach or the comic store when he knew for certain anywhere they went today was bound to be crowded with people. He just wanted to sit and read in his room and enjoy some time to himself.

“Can’t you go by yourself?”

“Are you kiddin’? Ma would throw a fit!”

Ford heaves a long-suffering sigh, places a bookmark to hold his place, and snaps his book shut before thumping it down on his bed.

“Well we don’t hafta go if ya don’t wanna.” Stan says lamely.

“It’s fine.” Ford assures him.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine.”

* * *

Stanford Pines is ten years old. He’s at recess, trying to lie low. Stan got held back for the whole half-hour because he’d been caught trying to sneak the class pet, a newt, into his backpack. This of course leaves Ford at the mercy of Crampelter and his thugs, who have little to no mercy on any given day.

“C’mon freak, fight back!” The towheaded bully taunts him, holding Ford back by the forehead as he tries to struggle past the blocking arm for his backpack, held just out of reach. “I know I seen you taking boxing lessons back at Mel’s Gym!”

“It’s ‘I saw’ or ‘I have seen’, and just b‘cuz I’m taking lessons doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to pick a fight I know I can’t win!” Ford protests.

“Pfft, you’re no fun.” Crampelter scoffs, before grabbing onto one of Ford’s hands while he continues to reach vainly for his backpack. “But y’know what does sound fun?”

“Let go of me!”

“Seeing how flexible your extra fingers are!” Crampelter starts to push Ford’s pinky finger back with his thumb, stretching it to its limit.

“Stop it! That hurts!”

But Crampelter just keeps pushing and pushing until Ford is sure some tendons are going to pop, when a shrill whistle echoes across the playground.

“Hey! Crampelter! Drop the freak!” The teacher on recess watch commands.

The bully finally lets go, and Ford stumbles to the ground, holding his injured hand close to his body.

“Here, lemme look at that.” the teacher pulls Ford’s hand away to check it. “Eh, ‘snot bleeding or broken, you’re fine.”

As they walk back from school that afternoon, Stan rants over and over that Crampelter Will Not Get Away With This, plotting various methods of revenge, most of them too fanciful to ever come to fruition.

Ford is silent the whole time, his gaze turned towards his shoes.

“Hey.” Stan suddenly stops his ranting and places a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”

“It’s fine.” Ford mumbles.

“I promise I’ll try not to get held in for recess again.”

“I said it’s fine.” Ford assures him, knowing that hoping Stan won’t get held back from recess again is like hoping it won’t snow in January. Technically possible, but highly unlikely.

* * *

Stanford Pines is fourteen years old. He’s a freshman in highschool, and he and his brother are in detention after he was caught letting Stan look off his algebra test.

It’s not that Ford has anything against sharing his answers with his brother. It’s not like he has any sort of moral high-ground here. It’s just that Stan is always so carelessly obvious about it!

“I said I was sorry, alright!” Stan hisses at him, trying not to draw the teacher’s attention.

“We’re not in middle school anymore, these things actually go on our record now!” Ford hisses back. “You have to be more careful!”

“Well maybe if you would actually slip me your paper instead of making me crane my neck over your desk! Nobody’s gonna notice if you hand your test in two minutes before everyone else instead of five!”

“That’d be even more obvious! Maybe if you wore your glasses for once!”

“Maybe I would, if you could hold your own in a fight!”

“What does that even have to do with anything!?”

“You don’t wear glasses in a fight, genius! That’s just asking for them to get broken! And I know I’m always having to step in and save your skin, so why would I even bother wearing them in the first place?”

“Hey!” The teacher overseeing detention snaps at them. “No talking!”

The boys shut their yapps and go back to studying, or at least pretending to study.

“I’m sorry.” Stan murmurs, once he’s sure the teacher is no longer paying attention to them.

“It’s fine.” Ford grunts back.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 17 years old. He is begrudgingly walking down to the beach with his brother.

“C’mon Ford, it’s October, there’s only a few more days of weather nice enough to work on her left! And the dumb science fair isn’t until April!”

“I still have so much research to do before I can even start!” Ford complains. “Not to mention procuring parts, testing different models--”

“That all sounds like stuff you can do once it gets cold.”

“I should be in the building phase by then!”

“Alright, look,” Stan jabs a finger in his brother’s direction. “If you wanna spend the last few warm days of the year cooped up in the library, that’s your problem. But I’m gonna enjoy the sunshine and the beach, and finish fixin’ up the Stan’o’war. We’re so close, I can practically taste the treasure and babes!”

“...Fine.” Ford grumbles.

“No, no. You go do your nerd thing. I’ll put the finishing touches on this thing we’ve been working on together since we were pipsqueaks.”

“I said it’s fine.”

* * *

Stanford Pines is 17 years old. He’s just come back from the most humiliating moment of his life (thus far). He confronts his brother, the offending evidence crinkling in his clenched fist. Stan tries to play it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he expects his brother to say It’s Fine.

It is most definitely not fine.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 20 years old. He’s showing his new roommate around their humble apartment.

“I really ‘preciate this, Stanford.” Fiddleford McGucket tells him for the sixth time that day. “Most folks wouldn’t offer to put their TA up in their apartment, ‘specially not when you’re lucky ‘nough to get yer own place!”

“Well, I’ll be starting the Doctorate program myself, next year! That makes us equals, in my mind.” Ford says proudly. “And I’m happy for the company! The only reason I have the apartment to myself is because my last roommate and I parted over… differences.”

“Heh, you too, eh?” McGucket chuckles. “Least you weren’t kicked out, like I was!”

“Why were you kicked out?”

“Oh, several reasons. I think the robot in the kitchen was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Ford laughs. “Well, I for one would love to have a robot that does our dishes and cleans the counters.”

McGucket grins and leans against the table.. “See, I knew we’d make great roommates!”

Unfortunately, McGucket’s leaning is more than the wobbly table can take, and it tips over on its side, scattering textbooks and papers everywhere. The two friends begin cleaning up the mess, McGucket apologizing profusely.

They’ve almost finished putting everything back onto the table when Fiddleford picks up an old photo of two little boys standing before a derelict little boat.

“Well bless my soul! Is this you, Ford?”

Ford’s heart skips a beat. He hadn’t realized he left that photo lying on the table!

“Ah, yes, that’s me. That was the day I decided I wanted to be a researcher--”

“And lookit this little fellah next to ya!” Fiddleford interrupts Ford’s soliloquy. “He looks just like you! I can’t believe I’ve known you for three years, and you never told me you had a twin!”

“Er… it just-- it never came up.”

“How in tarnation does yer own twin brother never come up?” Fiddleford asks incredulously. “So, what’s his name?”

“Stanley and I are not on speaking terms.” Ford says stiffly. “I haven’t spoken to him since I was a teenager.”

A multitude of expressions dance across Fiddleford’s face before Ford can hope to interpret any of them. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He finally says.

“It’s fine.” Ford says tersely, snatching the photo back.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 21 years old. He’s trying to get a good night sleep before his first dissertation tomorrow.

Trying being the operative word.

The past year rooming with Fiddleford McGucket has been great, for the most part. Ford loves spending time with an intellectual equal. McGucket accepts all of Ford’s idiosyncrasies, and Ford accepts all those of his friend.

Well, almost all of them.

It didn’t take long after they started rooming together for Ford to realize one of the several reasons McGucket had been evicted from his last apartment had nothing to do with his penchant for robotics, and everything to do with his penchant for late-night banjo playing. As much as it cut into Ford’s sleep schedule, he didn’t have the heart to complain to his roommate about it. He knew he had plenty of his own bad habits that were difficult to deal with, like his coffee addiction, his antisocial behavior, his tendency to start a project and just leave it laying wherever he was around the apartment, and his few dozen subscriptions to cryptozoological newsletters.

The digital clock on Ford’s bedside table reads 2:20 AM when the music finally, thankfully stops. He sighs and turns over in his bed, hoping to finally fall asleep.

When he wakes in the morning, groggy as a hung-over sailor, Fiddleford at least has the decency to look apologetic.

“Sorry, did I keep ya up last night? I kinda got lost in the music an’ lost track of time.”

“It’s fine.” Ford mutters as he pours himself a large mug of the strongest coffee he can brew. This is the first roommate he’s gotten along with since… since he started college. He can put up with this.

“Well, if’n ya need me to, I can start headin’ up to the practice rooms in the assembly hall fer my jam sessions--”

“It’s fine.”

* * *

Stanford Pines is 31 years old. He’s spreading thick globs of slimy aloe vera on his hands. He’s been letting his muse take control of his body while he sleeps for about a week now. Bill says he’s not used to the limits of a physical human body. He’s injured Ford’s body just about every night so far, but last night, when he picked up the hot coffee pot by the pot instead of by the handle, was the worst by far.

“This keeps on happening, Bill. You need to be more careful.” He gently chides his muse.

“WELL HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT’D HAPPEN? WHY DIDN’T THE IDIOT WHO DESIGNED THAT THING INSULATE THE WHOLE CONTAINER INSTEAD OF JUST THE HANDLE? YOU COULD DESIGN A COFFEE POT WAY MORE EFFICIENT THAN THAT!”

Ford smiles, blushing. “Perhaps I’ll get around to modifying it someday. But for now, as I was saying, could you please be more careful with my body at night?”

“HEY, YOU’RE ACTUALLY LUCKY THIS HAPPENED. IF I HADN’T DROPPED THAT POT, I WOULD’VE TRIED DRINKING IT THE SAME WAY I DO IN MY NORMAL FORM, AND THEN YOU’D PROBABLY BE BLIND. SO WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, YOU SHOULD BE THANKING ME!”

Ford pales. “Er, perhaps I should help you practice using my body first, just to decrease the risk of that sort of thing.”

“OH, I’M SORRY! DO YOU NOT WANT MY HELP? DO YOU NOT WANT TO ACHIEVE GREATNESS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE?”

“No! No of course not! That’s not what I meant!”

“DON’T FORGET, I’M DOING THIS FOR YOU, SIXER! I’M AN AGELESS BEING OF PURE ENERGY! THE ONLY REASON I’M HELPING YOU SPEED UP THE PROCESS ON BUILDING THE PORTAL IS BECAUSE I KNOW HOW PATHETICALLY SHORT YOUR MORTAL LIFE IS. YOU’RE JUST GONNA HAVE TO TRUST ME. OR ARE A FEW BUMPS AND BRUISES TOO MUCH FOR YOU TO HANDLE?”

“Of course not! It’s fine! I’m fine!” Ford insists, finishing bandaging his burns.

* * *

Stanford Pines is… probably 45? He’s not quite sure. He’s lost track of time after traveling the multiverse for so long, especially after the Do-Over Dimension.

He’s making his way through a crowded alien market, hoping to find something he’ll be able to use in his Quantum Destabilizer, and also hoping not to be recognized by any bounty hunters. It’s annoying, having to wear a hood and goggles and mask everywhere he goes, but that’s just the way it has to be now.

It’s fine.

It’s only until he can complete the Quantum Destabilizer. After that… it didn’t matter what happened after that.

It’s fine.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 62 years old. He’s sitting in a hospital bed. Despite what that may suggest, his life has finally taken a turn for the better. Bill is gone, Weirdmaggeddon is over, and, miraculously, no one died. Stanley was going to be ok. The kids didn’t hate him. He’s achieved his goal of destroying Bill Cipher, and survived! He’s fine. They’re all incredibly, wonderfully, fine.

The doctor is giving his vitals one last check before officially discharging him from the hospital. It’s obvious that under normal circumstances, Ford would not be leaving the hospital any time soon, but thanks to the incredibly persistent insistence of his family, and the fact that the hospital is already absolutely filled to the brim with people who were injured during Weirdmageddon, and the fact that Stanford was instrumental in stopping Bill, they’re making an exception.

“Alright, you’re free to go!” The doctor finally says, handing his clipboard over to Ford to sign.

“Hooray!” Mabel cheers as her uncle signs his exit papers. “Now you’ll be able to help us set up for our birthday party!” She slings an arm around his neck to hug him, completely forgetting about the thin layer of bandages around his neck. Ford can’t suppress a yelp of pain.

Mabel reels back, hands flying to her mouth. “Ohmigosh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine.” Ford forces a smile.

“I wasn’t thinking!”

“Mabel, really, it’s fine.”

“Ford.” Stan says firmly. Ford recognizes the expression on his face from the last few days. It’s the look he gets on his face when he’s remembering something painful. “You gotta stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He asks, confused.

“Saying ‘It’s fine’ when it’s not.”

Ford raises an eyebrow. “Stanley, it was just an accident. It really is fine.”

“Oh, yeah, of course this was…” Stan stammers, apparently coming back to the moment. “Mabel’s not-- this was just an honest mistake. But you say… uh, or at least, you used to say that a lot. Even when I could tell it wasn’t really fine. You gotta stop that.”

Ford shifted in his bed uncomfortably. “I’m just being polite.”

“There are ways to say things aren’t fine while still being polite.” Dipper points out.

Ford can feel himself flush. “I’m not good at that. I always come off as rude… or angry.” Saying it’s fine is just easier. He can just move on and forget about it. Control his emotions. Remove them from the equation for the time being, process them later when he’s alone, so nobody gets hurt.

Stan takes a deep breath before he speaks again. “You just gotta trust us, that we’re not gonna leave you just ‘cuz you get angry sometimes.”

Is that really what he’s been afraid of this whole time? That certainly seems to be a part of it, but not the whole. All the same, he does at least feel that he can trust his family. And he can try to be more honest with them when something is bothering him.

“I think I can do that.” he says as he gets up from the hospital bed, ready to go home.

#Gravity Falls #Stanford Pines #Fanfiction #My Writing

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quarantined-with-bucky · 4 years

Text

American Boy

Bucky x Reader

Request: So basically buckyxreader where she is a super successful businesswomen and awfully confident but when she’s with bucky she feels insecure as many women want him and she’s insecure of nat. Based on “American Boy” by little mix where bucky is her american boy and the other girl in the song is nat. So like angst with a happy ending (maybe smut if you’re comfortable idk idk).

Words: ~ 9,700

Summary: Dating Bucky can be challenging sometimes -- all the time.

Warnings: Smut, angst

A/N: Sorry this took me so long :( I recently started work so its been hard to write -- but I’m really happy with how this one turned out!! Thank you so much for the request!

And I met him back when I was out in California He was playing in a band and she was dancing on a stage And he says that I'm the one but she's the one that got away And he never knew her real name

Nothing about tonight sounded mildly comfortable. It was going to be six hours in a too cold banquette hall, standing all night in too tall heels, a too tight dress, with your hair scraped back into a too painful bun. From the moment you stepped inside, the flesh on your arms and décolleté erupting into goosebumps – nothing a little alcohol can’t fix, you thought to yourself, snagging a glass of champagne off of the tray from the first waiter you saw.

“Y/N,” Tony called, opening his arms to greet you. His suit was perfectly pressed, a three-piece suit that cost more than twice your monthly rent. You walked up to him, giving him a side hug, checking yourself out in the reflection of his iconic red glasses. “See, I knew you’d come.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, remembering how for the past week you’d declined his numerous invitations to his party. “I hope you know that I’m charging you overtime for this.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” He ushers you away while he continues mingling with his other guests.

Never in a million years had you thought you’d be an A-list guest at one of Tony Stark’s infamous parties. But, as fate would have it, you and Tony had been working together quite a bit in the recent years. What began as a little start-up from your college dorm room, quickly grew into a multinational billion-dollar company. Stark industries contracted your company out to spearhead multiple new projects – including the development of high-tech equipment for the Avengers. You had many ventures, sectors growing from technological advancement, to biometrics, to teams specializing in law, advertising, and operations.

The past few years had been a whirlwind for you. Moving to New York, managing your ever-growing company – up until now your life had been all work and no play. Once you met Tony, you knew that your world would flip upside down. You’d been in Forbes 30-Under-30 list for three years straight. Your life had grown into nothing but interviews, business deals, and fame – and you loved it. You felt like you were on top of the world at this moment in your life; nothing was going to stop your forward momentum from climbing up the ladder.

“Hey,” a smooth voice pulled you out of your fog, a figure popping up next to you.

“Hey, Steve,” you responded, smiling up at the blond man.

“You having a good night?” You’d met Steve a handful of times before through Tony, working with him a few times in the past. You don’t know if you could outright call him your close friend, but Steve was always so kind.

You could should be using tonight as a networking opportunity, but after an extremely stressful week at work, all you wanted to do was crawl into a bubble bath and relax. You couldn’t do that, so you thought you’d at least try to let loose and take it easy tonight, hoping to catch up with friends and enjoy some time partying. “I guess,” you shrugged, taking another sip of champagne.

“That makes two of us,” he replied, taking an equally long sip of his drink. “It’s hard to lay low at Tony’s parties, y’know?”

“Its hard to lay low when you’re Captain America,” you joked, nudging his arm with your elbow. He rolled his eyes again, running a hand through his short blond hair.

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, trying to find something worthwhile to talk to Steve about: maybe about the couples dancing in the center of the room, the large crowd gathered at the bar, the performers that laced their way through the influx of people. Your gaze fell upon a smaller group of people gathered around a table, laughing, telling stories and interrupting each other with more tall tales. You only recognized a couple people in the group; Sam Wilson: tall, well-built, perhaps a little tipsy, chirping away with his witty comments; Natasha Romanoff: a goddess, quiet, watching, observing, black dress so tight on her beautiful figure it looked like it was painted on; Bucky Barnes: the epitome of tall dark and handsome, at the forefront of the conversation, laughing and cussing telling his sensational war story, dark tendrils of hair hanging loosely in front of his face, obstructing the view of his blue eyes.

“Have you met Bucky?” Steve asked, interrupting your thoughts. You shook your head ‘no,’ unable to tear your eyes away from him. His black suit was complemented quite nicely with a fitted black shirt, the top buttons undone, his tanned muscle peaking out. He ran his metallic hand through his long hair – you finally were able to see his eyes, the only color on him, so bright compared to their dark surroundings. And they were looking at you.

Tearing your eyes away from him, you turned your head up to Steve. He was watching Bucky, watching him looking at you; Steve’s head turned between the two of you, almost unable to stop the smile from pulling at his lips. Steve pulled you into the group, making space for you to stand between him and Bucky. As introductions were passed around the group, you felt eyes on you. This time, the set of green eyes.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Natasha give you the up and down a few times. Your first reaction was that it wasn’t in a bad or necessarily judgmental way; she was interested in who the outsider was. She was protective, it was instinctual; she would observe said outsider, finding all of her flaws, quirks, secrets, until she was certain she wasn’t a threat. When you were introduced to her, she politely flashed you a smile with her infamous painted red lips and shook your hand.

“(Y/N), this is Bucky,” Steve finished, watching eagerly as the two of you shook hands and exchanged smiles.

“(Y/N),” Bucky whispered, your name tasting sweet on his lips; he tipped his head ever so slightly towards you in greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Everybody took the hint – that hint being Steve wiggling his eyebrows at everyone – and the group dispersed. You waved goodbye to the like, politely offering goodbyes to everyone. In your peripheral vison, you watched as the red head gave you one final up-and-down, crossing her arms over her busty chest, flitting her eyes to Bucky’s before she strutted off.

…

You hit it off with Bucky instantly, spending the night discussing everything from your future prospects to your relationship status to your past (specifically, your past). He was completely enamored by you. He was obsessed with the fact that people looked up to you; you demanded respect – so much so, in fact, that your success intimidated them; you were unapproachable to those who didn’t have their shit together. After that night, he knew he had to see you again.

And you could not feel more the same way.

It started fairly privately. Despite your constant media attention – being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company had that effect – being Tony Stark’s business partner escalated that. Usually on your commute to and from work, whether that be your corporate office or the Avenger’s tower, there would be a few paparazzi and a couple reporters following you around. They wanted information on you, your ventures, but most importantly: Tony Stark. When you were contracted to work with Stark Industries, you knew this was a possibility – in fact, it was the number one con on your pros & cons list. While you did think it was a decent opportunity for exposure, it surely came back to bite you in the ass.

You didn’t anticipate meeting Bucky Barnes – you surely didn’t anticipate dating him, either. You couldn’t be happier with Bucky; you wouldn’t let the incessant paparazzi and media attention get to you. Surely, you’d figured that dating an actual Avenger would draw some attention to yourself. However, you couldn’t have predicted the magnitude it would have on your daily life. The amount cameramen and reporters that followed you on a daily basis more than doubled.

Now, you’d never considered yourself shy, especially not camera shy – hell, all you were doing was walking from your car to and from different buildings – you could surely handle getting your picture taken. You had to admit, you were put together (and damn hot). You wore tailored suits, the tall heels; your hair and makeup were done perfectly every day.

It’s not like you hadn’t been on the cover of magazines before; but they were articles, studies, biographies. You posed for the cover of Forbes and Wall Street Journal and Harvard Business Review. Gracing the cover of tabloid magazines, however, was new territory for you. They talked about your style, your makeup, you clothes, your hair – nothing was too surface level for them to delve into. At first, that’s all it was. Noting and pricing your style, People magazine printing a “Who is She?” issue.

Then the comparisons started.

It was a side-by-side of you and Natasha – Black Widow. How could you compete with her?

You were sitting in bed one morning, up early before dawn, checking your phone before you started your morning routine. It was supposed to be like any other Thursday: work, meetings, executive board reviews: productive. But after reading that article, your heart deflated; today would only truly be over once you get to crawl back into your bed at the end of the day and sulk under the covers.

You slowly let out a long breath as you scrolled quickly through the article. “(Y/N) Becomes Black Widow’s Replacement: Is She Good Enough or Will She Get Tangled in the Web?” leave it to Daily Mail to start off with a shitty pun to ruin your mood.

The first picture was a full body shot of you laid next to a similar image of Natasha. She was shorter, sure – but curvier. She had more muscle, obviously – and those legs. Even you wanted to be strangled to death by her thighs. (And you felt like dying at that moment, that’s for sure). Maybe she just wore tighter clothes? You did, in fact, wear well-tailored clothes – you were actually very fashion forward for the business world, taking Fall 2020 by storm. She just got the chance to wear tighter clothes more often.

The second photo was an extremely flattering behind shot. The photographer might as well have taken the camera and pointed it right up your skirt. You’d heard the tabloids comparing the asses of other famous women, surely even the English Royalty had headlines circulating about it. You actually thought you had a good ass – you do – but hers was better. Black fucking Widow and you were supposed to somehow compete?

The last shot was a close up of your faces. You had to admit, they probably could’ve picked a worse picture of you. You weren’t smiling, you weren’t frowning – it was neutral. Your brows maybe slightly narrowed. Natasha, on the other hand, was glaring at the paparazzi. They gave her space, as if they took one step too close, she would murder them (and although she was actually extremely kind to you, they were probably right in that case). Her glare exuded confidence, intimidation. That was the difference between your auras: while your success may have been intimidating to others, it was her essential being that was intimidating – she could kill you just by looking at you.

While some people may not appreciate that fact, the pure daunting atmosphere that surrounded her, there was one person that did: James Buchanan Barnes.

He, himself, had the same ambiance, after all: that is being the don’t fuck with me stare.

Oh, and I don't mean to get so caught up And insecure 'bout all the things you say Oh, and I don't mean to be jealous, it's just careless me Boy, I must drive you mad

“Hey, Bucky,” you greeted, swinging open your front door, pressing a chaste kiss to the lips of the man before you.

He hummed against your lips, caught off guard as you pulled away sooner than expected. “Hey, baby,” he responded, shrugging it off stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “It smells great,” he noted regarding the pasta sauce simmering on the stove. He dipped a metallic pinky finger in the sauce, cheekily smiling at you as he licked his makeshift tasting-spoon. “Tastes great – no surprise.”

You couldn’t help but return his smile, trying to shake off the bad day you’d had, instead turning all focus to your giggle boyfriend before you. He takes two steps forward, engulfing you in his strong arms, rubbing his flesh hand up and down your back in a soothing motion. You rested your cheek against his chest, taking a deep breath in; his earthy scent calmed you down, the heat radiating off of him offering you to a level of relaxation you didn’t know was possible. “Did you have a bad day, baby?” He cooed quietly, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,” you breathed, nodding into his chest. “Bad. And busy. And annoying.”

“Annoying?” He repeated, testing the word on his tongue, but not questioning further. “Come on, why don’t we eat because I’m hungry – and I know you’re hungry – and get you to relax.” You smile up at him, giving him a proper kiss this time, unsure if he was just saying that to get dinner going, or if his supersoldier senses could actually tell that you were hungry (because you were).

Dinner went smoothly. It was quiet, moreso than usual. But it was nice. It was calm: a good change of pace from both of your busy schedules. It was tranquil: spending the evening exchanging loving glances and touches across the table, playing footstie under the table, Bucky quite literally licking pasta sauce off your cheek.

As he finished up his third serving (to which you just sip your wine while he gets his fill), you can’t help but break the silence and light conversation with a loaded question: “What’s with you and Natasha?”

You didn’t mean for the question to come out so abrupt or harsh, but it had been eating at your mind all day. You’d found yourself looking at that article during every five-minute break you got. Comparing hair, clothes, smiles, eyes, teeth – everything.

“What’s with us?” He repeated, eyebrows cocked in misunderstanding, palms raised in confusion. He didn’t understand the question.

You sighed heavily, dropping your eyes to the near empty wine glass before you. “I don’t know,” you grumbled, running your hands over your forehead, dropping them behind your head, pulling your hair a bit. “I’ve been seeing these articles about her – about her and me,” you clarified, trailing off, hoping he’d understand the picture. As he remained silent, you sat back against your chair, slouching. “Did you guys date or something?” You immediately bit the inside of your cheek. The question burned coming off your tongue.

His chuckle almost startled you out of your fog; your stomach dropped as you felt knots pull at all your insides. “Babe.” He reaches across the table with open palms, waiting for you to place your hands in his. You hesitated, but eventually complied, his soft smile and kind eyes giving you no other choice. “No. We never had – or did – anything. Never. I promise.”

Okay, well that made you feel better. You let out a breathy sigh (this time of relief) as you gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” you repeated. “Okay.” It made you feel a little better, sure, but then why?

He raised his eyebrows once again. “You don’t believe me?”

“No – no, no, no – ” you replied quickly, reaching farther across the table, fingertips grazing his forearms. “I’m just confused. I keep seeing articles comparing me and her,” you stated very slowly, unsure of the right words, unsure of what his innate reaction would be.

“We have a… past,” he responded, slowly; it was calculated.

But in that moment, he knew he miscalculated. “A past?”

No, not like that, he thought. But like what, exactly? How was he supposed to explain it? God, his own life was complicated enough to explain – he hadn’t dared to divulge that deep, in fear of ruining your newly blossoming relationship. He owed you some sort of explanation, though, right? But he was at a loss for words at the worst time possible. “It just goes back to… a long time ago… with… well… ” With no words left to complete his fragment of a sentence, he raised his left hand and wiggled his metallic fingers.

Your lips formed an “oh” shape as you said the same word mentally. Oh, no shit, more like. The Russian spy and the Winter Soldier had intertwined pasts. You felt like an idiot – like the answer was laying right there before you, your eyes glazing right over it. “Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry but – ”

He cut you off immediately, taking one of your hands into both of his. He looked you straight in the eyes, his own blue irises staring deep into yours. “Don’t apologize, please.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want that part of my life taking over my life now. You’re not prying – I need to be open with you about it.” You nodded slowly. “I want you to be apart of my life, (Y/N),” he clarified, nearly smiling at you missing the implication of his previous sentence.

You grinned, a goofy wine-infused smile. You leaned across the table, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

That night, he began telling you about his past; nothing he wasn’t comfortable with discussing was mentioned. You didn’t push him, didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer opinion or advice. The only thing you offered was solace, comfort, and hot tea. You held him in bed, ran your fingers through his hair, rubbed small circles on his muscled back.

He told you about how he trained her, how their connected past drew scrutiny to them in the media. How their ties to Russia, Hydra, and a few not-so politically correct incidents in the past tied them closer together both in eyes of the tabloids and, subsequently, to each other.

You had no questions, no comments. There was nothing for you to say. You weren’t questioning the validity of his past and you didn’t question the fact that he and Natasha were just friends. You were confident in Bucky, confident that he was telling the truth – confident in your relationship.

The two of you fell asleep that night wiping tears off each other’s cheeks; but neither of you had felt more safe – more in love – than at that moment in your lives.

…

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing down at you – at your figure.

You were turned away from him, trying to busy yourself, acting as though bringing it up again was casual, like it was just a normal question on par with how was your day? It, in fact, was extremely loaded; there couldn’t be more of a loaded question, in Bucky’s opinion (in your own opinion, too). But, dammit, you needed validation – wasn’t that okay?

It was okay.

It was always okay. Bucky understood that. Even he, himself, needed validation in a similar way. However, there were two distinct differences about what he needed vs. what you needed.

1. He never needed validation against someone else.

Bucky was insecure – the fact of the matter was every single person in the world had insecurities, from the brightest minds to the most beautiful models; there isn’t a single person who isn’t immune to outside pressure, societal expectations, internal comparisons. Sometimes Bucky would be insecure of his arm, oftentimes he’d be insecure about his past. He’d wonder about his hair, he’d read articles about himself, comments people posted online. Bucky had a certain confidence about himself, sure. He was intimidating (that was both a good and a bad thing).

But you. You were intimidating, too – you were, in Bucky’s eyes – the baddest bitch; you controlled the business world, dominate magazine headlines, demanded the attention of every man in the room. He loved it. He loved the fact that you were all that and more, and that he got to come home to you. He got to hold you in his arms at night. He got to make love to you.

That’s why he didn’t understand your – what he determined to be – obsession with her. All the time asking him about her. Were you as good as her? Were you better than her? He understood, at first. Natasha was very intimidating – to anyone, even her own team. He didn’t mind showing you extra attention, sprinkling you with more compliments, lovingly laying his hands on the places you didn’t like about yourself. He loved you; he loved complimenting you. Nothing he ever said was a lie, so he had no problem saying them.

But as time went on, you kept asking. About. Her.

2. He believed you when you validated him.

Not only were you asking about Natasha, constantly comparing yourself to her – your body, your brains, your face, even your hair. Again, he had no problem telling you how beautiful you were; it was a service to you that he would trade anything in the world for. He loved to say that to you; complimenting your intelligence, looks, attitude – all of it.

Maybe he wasn’t complimenting you enough anymore? Even so, you had to know the way he felt about you? He tried really hard to validate it as his own fault. Like it was something he had done to cause you to suddenly be so insecure. But all it took was one walk down the bustling street-stands on the New York City’s streets for him to realize. You, after all, had graced the cover of every magazine as of lately. You and Natasha.

He wasn’t so hard on you or himself after that little piece clicked in his head.

But at the end of the day, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if you never believed him. Did you trust him? Did you love him? Those questions ran through his head at night – as much as he hated it, he couldn’t stop it.

“It’s not how many times, Bucky! It’s – it’s – ” You tripped over your own words.

“What is it, then, (Y/N)? Because I sure as hell can’t figure it out.” In fact, you didn’t know what it was. You couldn’t pinpoint it. You couldn’t put the words together.

You turned around, crossing your arms across your chest, mirroring him. You just stared back it him, biting your lip. There wasn’t anything you could say; just offered him a shrug.

“(Y/N), come on,” he began. “You can’t seriously believe the shit they say.” He was referring to the incessant media coverage. The eyes on you – 24/7 cameras. It eats away at you; it was all you could think about. “You’re too smart for them. What’s this all about, then?”

If there was anyone who could see right through you, it was him. But if there was one thing he needed to know about you, it was that you had too much pride to admit any sort of insecurity to anyone – even your boyfriend of now eight months.

It was in that moment that you wondered if he took a short tone with her the way he had been with you lately. Did she have to ask him such endless questions? Definitely not. She had nothing to worry about. She didn’t care.

That was the difference between the two of you.

You couldn’t do anything but care.

Singing, singing, singing Ooh la la, he breaks my heart I know he thinks about her when he plays guitar And ooh la la, my American boy

You and Bucky sat on the couch, the movie playing in front you now long forgotten. The past few weeks have been stressful for the both of you. You were both dealing with a lot at work; you with new projects and development issues, Bucky with compiling intel that seemly led nowhere. Last night, you’d attended another one of Tony’s parties with Bucky. You thought it was going to be a fun night, seeing all your old friends, catching up with everyone you hadn’t seen in so long. What was supposed to be a casual night of fun drinking and dancing, turned sour very quickly.

It was nice in the beginning, catching up with Sam and Steve; that is, until you caught a glimpse of Bucky from the corner of your eye. He was just meant to get a refill of drinks. All he had to do was weave through the crowd, make it to the bar, and return with the drinks. You felt that it shouldn’t have taken him that long. Maybe you should’ve offered to get them instead.

There he stood, leaning against the bar, a handful of cold drinks sitting in front of him on the tabletop. You watched as he ignored the cups the bartender placed down in front of him a few minutes ago; watched as a drop of precipitation slid down the side of the cold glass, pooling with all the others at the granite bar top.

Beside him, a tall blonde mimicked his movements, leaning against the counter. She spoke to him in a hushed tone, gazing up at him under her long eyelashes. Her perfectly manicured hands grazed up and down his arm, undoubtedly innocently asking about the strong metal underneath his shirt sleeve. You rolled your eyes, nearly scoffing at her fairly blatant attempt at flirting.

You wouldn’t be so pissed off, usually. She was beautiful, sure, but you were confident in your relationship with Bucky. You knew how he felt about you and he knew how strong your feelings were for him. There was no doubt on either end – so why shouldn’t he be able to have a conversation with some woman at a party? He had just grown comfortable enough to talk about his metal arm, finally accepting the gift that the great King T’Challa had gifted him.

So why did this interaction piss you off so much?

Because you knew that if a man had come up to you to chat so innocently with you, he’d be on him in less than one second. And if a man had come up to you to chat while also running his hand up your arm or down your back, Bucky would ensure that man would be leaving this party with nothing but then broken fingers.

But your pride took the best of you, as usual. You rolled your eyes to yourself, carrying on your conversation with Sam and Steve, trying your best not to look over Sam’s shoulder too much, staring past him and at Bucky. You held your empty cup in your hand, almost now more pissed that your new drink was sitting lonely at the bar, when you needed alcohol more than ever in this moment.

All you wanted was to go up there, rip her hand off your boyfriend, and get your damn drink. Instead, you held your tongue all night. When Bucky returned with your drink, you thanked him and took it, gulping it down fairly quickly. When his hand rested on your waist, you simply gave yourself a twist, shrugging his hand off of you. You felt him give you a questioning look, but you simply pretended not to notice, instead keeping your eyes locked on Sam’s as he told his story about what ever he was talking about (you weren’t really paying attention); just smiling and nodding and looking as engaged as possible.

When you and Bucky got home that night, you quickly showered and crawled into bed. Bucky had been trying to talk to you on the car ride home, all night while you got ready for bed. Finally giving you your peace to shower, he decided to try again once he slipped into bed beside him. “What’s going on, (Y/N),” he whispered, turning towards you; but he was met with the sight of your back turned to him.

“Nothing,” you replied, face smooshed int the pillow. “’M just tired.”

His hand found your side, rubbing over your hip bone slightly, as he moved closer to you in bed. His chest pressed up against your back, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “Is that all, baby?” He kept pressing. “Let me make you feel better,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your neck, burying his face in your shoulder.

“No, Buck, stop.” You shrugged him off and lifted your shoulders in protest, pushing his head away. “I’m not in the mood – I just want to go to sleep.”

“Sorry, (Y/N),” he whispered, settling back down in the bed.

You tried to fall asleep that night, you really were tired – exhausted, in fact. But you just couldn’t calm your racing mind enough to fall asleep. You knew Bucky knew it, too. You suspected that he didn’t get much sleep either.

When you finally did get a few hours of rest, you woke up to a note left by Bucky.

Went for an early workout with Steve. Feel better, I’ll call you later.

You gave yourself a whole self-care day. Bath, face mask, manicure – the whole nine yards. You willed yourself to think of anything except Bucky and that girl – Bucky and any girl.

Every girl in the world had eyes for Bucky – why wouldn’t they? He’s absolutely gorgeous: tall, handsome, he’s got the mysterious vibe going on – basically every woman’s walking wet dream. You always gave him the benefit of the doubt when it came to women flirting with him. He was from a different time; he was just being polite. That’s what you told yourself, at least. The more Steve told you stories about him being a charmer – how he always “wooed” women back in the day – the more unsettled you became. Maybe he missed being a flirt, afterall, as he recovered, he slipped back into his old ways, whether that be an old Brooklyn accent, or his charming smile.

But how many times could you just brush it off? Blatantly flirting in front of you – sure it may have been an innocent conversation or an innocent arm touch (you know that’s how he would sell it to you) but hell, he lived in a different time now. So, he just had to get used to the fact that he had to stop letting these girls flirt with him. Was it really so hard to tell them he had a girlfriend?

Unless he thought about it and didn’t want to. He was so touch starved for the past seventy-plus years that who knows? Maybe he did enjoy all the attention – especially all the female attention. Considering the fact he was such a ladies man, maybe this is exactly what he wanted to feel like himself again, winning over all the women. And, god, all the tall women with their perfect faces and gorgeous chests, showing off more skin than they covered. They had the confidence of models, the ferociousness of catwoman – not to mention Black Widow; she was her own breed of gold-like-women.

He didn’t call you until the next day.

That’s how you ended up on your sofa, innocently watching a movie, two boxes of pizza abandoned on your coffee table. Neither of you brought up the night of Tony’s party; instead, you two sought solace in each other’s arms on the plush couch between piles of pillows.

You two ended up making out, his hands wrapping around your waist and up your back, yours winding their way through locks of his long hair. He leaned over you, your back meeting the sofa top and his chest pressing to yours. His pelvis touched yours, grinding lazily against yours. A mess of legs entangled with each other at the opposite end of the couch. His hand slid down your side, squeezing between your bodies to unbutton your jeans, his fingers slipping underneath your panties.

He groaned once his finger slipped between your slit, moaning at the wetness he found there. He pulled his hands up and shimmied your pants off, his own jeans following suit. He didn’t bother even taking them off all the way, instead latching himself on you with his pants and underwear pooling at his ankles.

His hands grabbed your hips, roughly pushing into you while his lips attached themselves to your neck. You gasped, the sudden entry startling to you. Your arms encased his torso, nails digging into his back as he roughly fucked you into the mattress. You hips met his as you tried to rock against him to meet his thrusts. His hands pinned your hips down, jackhammering you into the couch.

You were panting and moaning and screaming. You couldn’t help the noises that were coming out of your mouth. You and Bucky had tried some pretty not-vanilla stuff in the past, and sure, sex was maybe one of the best ways to get your anger out. But Bucky hadn’t ever been this nonattentive to you before. Or this quiet. Usually you couldn’t get him to shut up – between the dirty talk and the praise, you could never get him to shut up; and he loved it. He knew his whispers and all his egging-you on only flustered you more. That was the sex you loved.

This was different. He didn’t say anything; he just grunting to himself as he pounded into you, hips snapping into yours. God, you were going to be bruised tomorrow just from how hard he was holding you down. He wasn’t attentive, nor perceptive to you. He didn’t kiss you, just barred his teeth through heavy breaths.

This must have been all related to the night at Tony’s party. He was probably angry with you after that night – not talking to him at all. Not to mention you didn’t say anything when he clearly knew something was up with you; you definitely owed him an explanation. You couldn’t blame him or being angry. You weren’t so sure this was his best reaction. He was so dangerously quiet.

That’s when you threw your head back against the pillows, biting your lip and squeezing your eyes shut. Was he just fucking you to fuck you? He came quickly and without warning, spilling into you with nothing but another grunt.

He dropped on top of you, pelvis to pelvis, his cock still inside your warm cunt. He dropped his head to your chest, you shirt still left on from earlier. He shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around him. Your fingers found his hair, stroking his chestnut strands as he fell asleep on top of you.

Maybe he was just tired from waking up early? He probably needed to get his aggressions from the day out – not to mention the frustration from you basically ignoring him all day and night. There was a feeling in the back of your head, though, that this sudden change of pace may have been brought on by something else. His eyes were shut the whole time – hell, maybe he was thinking about that blonde girl from the party.

You said it to yourself as a joke – it was a fleeting thought. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it after that. Was he picturing someone else? He wasn’t turned on by you – you didn’t even get a chance to do anything sexy before he was fucking you with your clothes on. He’d probably rather be sleeping with someone else. Someone who made porn star noises and pulled his hair harder and –

God, you were tired of thinking like this.

So I wanna know who's on your phone Making me paranoid, making me bad Making me sad, making me crazy Making me feel like I needed to ask I wanna know if you're at home And if you're at home, baby, are you alone? Are you alone? Answer your phone Oh, baby, no no no

Things went back to normal after that. You weren’t sure what had gotten into him – and you – that day, but it was nothing but a distant memory. You were dating for about a year and a half. From that point, you two had kept everything very lowkey. Extravagant parties were few and far between, dates became even more private – no distractions, nothing to get between the two of you.

“Baby, I’m home,” you called, throwing your purse and keys on the kitchen table. You were hit with the faint smell of dinner, but as you checked the stovetop and oven, you were met with nothing – just the leftovers already cold in the fridge. You worked late tonight – tonight and every other night for the past three weeks. It was only nine, which wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t have to wake up at five tomorrow to get into the office early. Your team was being met with a deadline soon, there were a lot of extra hours being put in to get the project done. You weren’t one to complain because you were the boss. You weren’t going at this alone, you had everyone else working with you helping out. But it was your job to make sure everything got done, and that included being the first one in and the last one out.

Bucky said it never bothered him. He’d go on missions for days – sometimes weeks – at a time. He encouraged you to work hard, he loved your drive and commitment to your company. He motivated you; he knew you had drive and could get things done. He loved being able to support you, too. When Steve first introduced the idea of dating to him, he wasn’t sure he wanted someone who was only obsessed with him: who got their own recognition just by being his girlfriend. He was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.

You took the Tupper wear from the fridge, popping it in the microwave and waiting for your food. You noticed Bucky on the sofa. Kicking your heels off you made your way to the living room, calling out to him again. He sat up, his face donning a large grin as he waved to you, quickly pointing to the cell phone propped up against his ear. You gave him a shy wave back, turning back to the microwave, soon to be beeping with your meal. You ate dinner alone at the kitchen table, nothing but the sound of Bucky’s roaring laughter bouncing off your ear. By the time you finished, you tossed the bowl into the sink, making your way up to your bedroom.

“Ok, yeah, I’ve gotta go – ” Bucky said into the phone, before interrupting himself with a chuckle, laughing at whatever the person on the other end said. “Yes, I have to go. Yeah, no, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You shut the door before he could get off the couch and flopped straight into bed, groaning. All you wanted to do was fall right asleep, unbothered. That’s when Bucky came in and plopped himself right down on the bed next to you. “Hey, babe,” he greeted you, giving you a light pat on the ass.

“Hey, Buck,” you replied, tucking your arms up underneath your head, propping your head up on your hands. You offered him a tired smile, gazing into his adoring blue eyes. “Who was that on the phone?”

“It was nobody,” he replied, quickly changing the subject. “How was work?”

Well that was extremely unlike him. You already knew all his friends. If it was one of them, he would’ve just said so. But it clearly wasn’t, especially considering how giggly he was on the phone. You just narrowed your eyes at him, breezing right past it. “Good – tiring,” you corrected. “But this contract closes out next week, so hopefully not that many more long days after that.”

“Good to hear, I know you can get it done, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

…

The next day, you were met with nearly the same sight. Bucky on the couch, but this time, dinner was covered on the stove. “Thanks for cooking, Buck,” you call to him, taking the lid off the pot and serving yourself a plate. He jumped from the couch and came up behind you, hugging you from behind and kissing your neck.

“Anytime, baby.” He pressed another smooch to your neck before stepping back and grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter. He poured up to glasses, situating himself at one end of the table, waiting for you to join him at the other end. Once you do, your phone rings from your purse. You drop your head back with a groan. “You should probably get that,” Bucky offered, reaching for your purse and holding it out to you.

You give him a quiet “thank you,” and answer the call. Not even before you can answer it, he’s pulling out his own phone and texting away on it. You take your call at the table, a quick last-minute question from a colleague. You tried to focus on what he was saying on the other line, but all you could do was stare at Bucky, smiling down at his phone, furiously typing away.

“No problem, Dave. Thanks for taking a look at it, we can finish up tomorrow morning,” you say into the phone, offering a quick goodbye before hanging up and digging into your food, glaring at Bucky from under your eyelashes. He still sat on his phone, laughing to himself. Once he heard your knife slide against the plate, he locked his phone, shoving it back into his pocket and looking up at you, starting another conversation about your day. You quickly changed the subject to him.

You internally rolled your eyes. All you got was talking about your day and whatever girl on the other end got giggly Bucky? Whenever work got busy, your relationship got boring. It may have been partially your fault: short tempered, tired; you put everything into your work and maybe not enough into Bucky. But your jealousy issues got the better of you. Maybe he was just talking to Sam? Or laughing at memes with Steve – they had a lot to catch up on, afterall. But if so, wouldn’t he just say that instead of saying he was talking to “nobody?”

But your paranoia was actually well placed and almost deserving. Bucky still graced the covers of magazines and newspapers. The attention people gave you quickly died down after the one-year mark on your relationship. You didn’t mind, all it was just a little more peace in your day-to-day life. That same attention never did (and never would) die down for him. He still saved the world; more importantly, he was still hot. Meaning the tabloids would continue to try to stir up trouble with him and every woman he knew. They wanted to play matchmaker, constantly shipping him with the other beautiful women he spent time with – whether that be at work or not. Thinking about all that and Bucky’s charismatic personality was almost too much for you.

…

The third night in a row where you’d come home past nine. The first night without dinner. You were met with an empty apartment, no food, no lights, not a single sign of life. You tossed your bag on the table and immediately called for takeout. As you waited for your Chinese food to arrive, you changed into your pajamas, and called Bucky.

No answer.

All you wanted was to lay on the couch and feast with him. If you were going to stuff your face, you wanted it to be with someone who really knew how to eat. After trying again with no answer, you dropped your phone on the coffee table and began flipping through the channels on TV. Not finding anything good to watch, but also deciding you didn’t have the mental capacity to watch something new, you threw on some Friends reruns. Something you could watch without having to pay attention: just what you were in the mood for.

When the doorbell rang, you jumped, almost forgetting you ordered food. You swung open the door, half expecting to find Bucky on the other side, but you were instead met with the delivery boy. You paid the guy and took the food to the living room, feasting on the couch straight from the little takeaway containers. You didn’t do this often, but damn, it was relaxing.

You picked up your phone: no notifications.

There were a few excuses you made up for him as you stuffed your face with noodles. He could be in the middle of training. You knew him and Steve too well, and knew they always had enough supersoldier energy to fit a workout in anywhere and anytime. That, or he could just be busy. Maybe a work thing came up – he does save the world for a living, afterall. He could just be at the tower. It’s not like he officially lived with you. (It was unofficial, though; he did spend nearly every other night sleeping here with you. And if he didn’t, he would at least give you a reason why he wasn’t). But you’re not his mother or his gatekeeper. There was no reason he absolutely had to tell you where he was and that he wasn’t coming over – that was crazy. But it was just…

Unlike him.

Even if he was at the tower, why wouldn’t he answer?

And as you continued onto your dumplings, you quickly began comfort eating, as your mind traveled to the worst reason you could make up.

Afterall, he never told you who he was laughing on the phone with all this time. He couldn’t even stop himself from laughing at his texts – it was blatantly obvious. There’s no way Reddit could be that funny. You scoffed. It probably was some girl – maybe that blonde from the party. You had no idea of knowing who, but you surely couldn’t stop yourself from speculating.

You called again.

Again.

You just wanted to hear his voice.

You just wanted to know he was okay.

Okay and alone.

American, my American, American boy You know it's my American boy

It wasn’t every day that you thought about Bucky in such a way. Honestly, you didn’t like to think about the other women that he might be friends (or more) with. It was just your own little fucked up indulgence.

Against your best judgement, Bucky convinced you to go to another one of Tony’s parties. “It’s Steve’s birthday party, (Y/N), you have to go!”

So, you did go. And just like the very first time you met Bucky – at one of these parties – you dragged yourself out of bed and got all dressed up to head to the event. You knew even Steve wouldn’t want such a big celebration, so you’d at least have one person to mope around with.

You held on to Bucky the whole night; your arm gripping his metal bicep as the two of you mingled. Bucky liked having you tucked into his side all night, the warmth of your body pressed up against his arm. “Hey, Stevie,” you greeted him, offering a warm hug. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, (Y/N),” he replied, hugging you, then Bucky. “Happy Independence Day,” he added.

Bucky’s hand immediately snaked around your waste, pulling your hip against his.

It wasn’t until he left to use the bathroom that you suddenly felt naked. You almost wanted to wrap your arms around yourself in comfort. You felt stupid – you were in a room full of friends, people you knew, that you liked. Yet, every time you were in this setting, you never felt more insecure.

And apparently it showed.

You were joined by none-other than the reason for your insecurity. “(Y/N),” she greeted you with a curt nod.

“Hey, Natasha,” you responded, taking a long sip of your drink. She watched you under lidded eyes, her red lips pursing slightly. She looked great, of course, her royal blue dress hugging her curves tightly, he heels adding extra height the both of you knew she didn’t need. “What’s up?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Enjoying the night?”

Now it was your turn to shrug. “As much as I can, I guess. I’ve been waiting for the fireworks show. It was the best last year.”

She nodded, this time taking a swig of her own drink. “Tony sure does know how to throw a party.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “He’s thrown enough of them.”

The two of you stood in silence for a moment; it wasn’t super comfortable for you, but she sure didn’t seem to notice – or care. “You seem a little on edge.”

She wanted you to out yourself. Surely, she was going to pull it out of you somehow. “Not really my scene,” you noted, swirling the ice around in your glass.

“Look, (Y/N),” she began, obviously confirming your suspicion. “There’s never been anything between me and Bucky. In fact – ” she glanced around the room, eyes stopping on a particular man. “ – I’ve got a few skeletons of my own.” You tried to follow her line of sight, but the crowd was too thick in that direction. “He loves you so stop trying to find things wrong with your relationship. He may have been a charming guy back in the day, but you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.” She winked, a small smile building across her plump red lips.

You didn’t even know what to say in that moment. You gawked at her – at Black Widow hyping you up? Was that her way of doing it? Hell, she could tell you that you intimidated every single person in this room, and you’d take it as the biggest compliment ever. To hear about your power from her? Practically an honor.

“Hey,” Bucky spoke up from behind you as he returned. “What’s goin’ on over here?”

“Just girl talk,” Natasha replied before heading off.

Bucky turned to you, confused. “What’s that about?”

You stared at her as she walked away, swaying her hips and heading for the man she mentioned earlier. “I’m not too sure,” you said slowly, mesmerized by her walk.

Bucky’s hand in yours made you turn up towards him, meeting his blue eyes. “Ready to get out of here?” He whispered lowly.

You bit your lip and nodded, setting your glass down and squeezing his hand in both of yours.

Bucky carried you from the front door to the bed; he placed you down on top of the mattress like you were made of glass. He kissed your lips like he was going off to war, but he tasted like he’d just returned.

His hands ran furiously over your back, eventually resting on the zipper and tugging downwards; your hands ran all over his chest, tugging his shirt open, no regard for the buttons. He started peeling your dress off your body as you leaned back on the bed, working on taking off your bra while he discarded the dress on the floor. He followed suit, discarding his clothes before returning to the bed, covering your body with his warm one. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, the other holding his balance on the bed. Your arms wrapped around his neck one hand holding the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss, while the other ran through his tangled hair. You interlocked your legs around his waist, pulling yourself upwards to grind on his hard cock.

He moaned into your mouth, grinding back into you, reveling in just the feeling of your wetness gliding against his cock. His hand left your face to grab your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before he pinned your hips to the mattress with his own, humping against you. You whispered against him, pleading: “Bucky, please,” you whispered against his lips.

His mouth skidded down your cheek and past your jawline to suck a sloppy kiss onto your neck. As his face was buried in your shoulder, making his way down to your breast, his hand found its way between your hips, stroking your soaked lips. You hummed and gripped his hair as his finger split the difference, prodding its way into your soaked entrance. As two other fingers joined in, curling inside of your pussy, he licked your nipple, biting the pebbled nub softly. “You’re so wet, baby. Love how you’re always so wet for me.”

“Only for you, James,” you whispered, blissed out, head falling back against the mattress as his thumb found your clit, rubbing small circles under the hood. You felt a jolt up your body, your pussy instinctively clenching against his fingers.

He let out a deep breath, kissing your breast before planting a wet kiss to your lips, fingers not faltering. “I love you, (Y/N),” he murmured against your lips.

You opened your eyes, meeting his staring down at you, glazed over with lust. “I love you, baby,” you breathed, tilting your head up to kiss him again.

He pulled away from you, fingers stilling, long forgotten in the moment. “No, baby – ” he stopped, staring down at you, pleading with you, please understand. “Only you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Tears burning the back of your eyes. You bit your lip, nodding, not trusting your words as a few tears fell from the sides of your eyes, rolling down your skin to the mattress. He kissed you feverishly, teeth chipping against each other’s, lips and tongues sloppily sliding over each other, sharing air.

He pulled his hand away from your thighs, not moving far to line up his dick to your now soaked and desperate pussy. Your breath hitched as he pushed the tip in; all the air Bucky held in his lungs suddenly escaped him. “Fuck, extra tight for me tonight, huh?” You moaned, trying to rock your hips against his, his bodyweight pinning you down. “Eager, baby,” he groaned from the back of his throat.

“Please, baby,” you begged, fisting the sheets, using all your energy to grind against him. “Please.”

Please.

He complied, snapping his hips down into yours, his big dick stretching your walls. You yelped out, your opening burning as it welcomed his length. His cock curved upwards, hitting deep inside you as he swiftly moved his hips back and forth, quick rhythm never erring. His hand fell to your lower stomach, as he pressed his hand firmly above your public bone. “Mmm, look, baby, I can feel my dick in you,” he whispered, reveling in the feeling as his dick bottomed out inside of you. He felt the tip through the soft flesh of your belly – boy, you felt it, too. Every time he pounded into you felt your head spin. You saw nothing but black, stars blinding your vision at every thrust.

You nearly snaked your hand down to your clit for your final release, but he pulled your hand away, pinning it to the mattress above your head. He sat up on his knees, grabbing your other hand and joining it with the other, holding them both down to the mattress under the grasp on his metal hand. As he returned to leaning over you, sliding his dick back in your pussy, his flesh hand returned to your clit, rubbing in fast circles. You screamed, thighs coming together, snapping tightly against his hips.

That wouldn’t stop him. You weren’t strong enough to hold him in place; he kept fucking you into the mattress, your body shaking wildly as your legs were tied around him. Your back arched off the bed as your pussy throbbed. “Yeah, baby, squeezing my dick with your tight little pussy, huh?” You screamed out and nodded your head wildly, clenching around his cock as the pressure on your clit built up. “Fuck, you’re so good to me – made for me.”

You pulled against his metal arm, body convulsing underneath him. He watched with anticipation, biting his own lip nearly bloody as he pushed you over the edge of your orgasm. You yelped out, gasping for air as your eyes squeezed tight. Your legs shook around him, fingers clawing at his metal plated hand. Bucky could come along just from watching you tremble mid orgasm. But, god, your tight pussy quiver around him surely helped. He fucked you harder, the last few strokes hard and fast. He came with a groan, spilling his hot seed into your soaked cunt.

He whispered curse words to himself as he fucked his dick soft, mixing your own juices together before falling on top of you, pressing his lips to your neck, littering hickeys all over.

As he felt your post orgasm breathing change, he picked his head up, kissing all the way up your neck and jaw until he could look fully down at you. “Hey, baby, no,” he cooed once he caught sight of your watery eyes. “Why are you crying?” He kissed away the tears running down your cheeks.

You smiled at him, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. “’M fine, Buck – I just,” you huffed, rolling your teary eyes at yourself, thinking it all suddenly stupid. “I’m sorry – ”

“’s nothing to be sorry for, baby,” he whispered against the shell of your ear.

Your fingers grazed through his hair again, scratching slightly at his scalp. He knew. He knew what you were talking about. He always did – he always understood everything you did or said. “I love you, James.”

“I love you, (Y/N),” he murmured with one final kiss. “Only you.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes smut #captain america #fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst

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singledarkshade · 3 years

Text

Lost In Time

Summary: Reappearing in the world many years after he faced a Time Demon, Rip is surprised by how things have changed but where is Gideon and the Waverider? Author’s Note: Day 6: “Live the next day” – Rip is still out there, so how does he re-join Gideon? Perhaps he’s got something up his sleeve that he’s working on. ********************************************* The world around him filled with blinding light, before it faded to nothing. Rip lay in the darkness, floating in a sea of nothing unaware before consciousness rushed back upon him. Gasping Rip opened his eyes and sat up sharply, confused to find he was in a room which had light peach curtains that matched the bedspread covering him.

“Well, it’s about bloody time,” a familiar voice made Rip turn to the man walking into the room, “You’ve been taking up space in the spare room for long enough.”

“John?” Rip frowned.

Self-professed Master of the Dark Arts, John Constantine nodded, “So no amnesia. I lost that bet.”

“Where the hell are we? Rip demanded, “Because this is not the Mill House, unless a spell went very, very wrong.”

“This is our spare room.”

“Our?”

Before John could answer a woman called, “Is he awake?”

Rip stared confused at the woman who appeared, recognition hitting him after a moment, “Miss Tomaz?”

“Zari Tarazi,” she corrected before explaining, “You must have known the other version of me.”

“The other…” Rip let out an annoyed huff, “They changed time again, didn’t they?”

John and Zari swapped a look before John noted, “There were circumstances.”

“Bloody arrogant as always, thinking they know best,” Rip snapped before rubbing his temple, “Okay, other things to think about just now. Where is my ship? I need to let Gideon know I’m alive, even if the lecture will take several hours not to mention the medical exam.”

John and Zari glanced at one another again before John noted, “The lecture can wait. You’ve been unconscious since you appeared in my living room three days ago.”

“Three days?!!!”

John nodded, “Yes, so slow down a bit. Get your strength back.”

“Have a shower, get dressed then have something to eat,” Zari added.

With a smile, Zari disappeared, and Rip turned to his friend, “She is very different from the women you normally hook up with.”

“We’re trying to make a go of it,” John shrugged, “Seeing how it goes.”

Rip looked around the room thoughtfully, “And how long have you been seeing how it goes?”

John shrugged, “Ten years or so.”

Laughing Rip managed to stand, “So not long then.”

Rolling his eyes, John left him to freshen up.

Zari looked up from her phone when John arrived in the living room, “We have to tell him.”

“Considering how he’s going to react,” John said, “I want to let him recover first,” he sighed, “The Waverider and Gideon are gone for good, but he will kill himself trying to prove us wrong.”

Zari rested her hand on his arm, “I know he’s your friend, but you can’t protect him from this.”

“The Gideon we knew and the Gideon he knows are completely different,” John told her, before explaining at her confused look, “To us Gideon was an information source who worked the ship but to Rip, Gideon was family.”

Shaking her head, Zari sympathised, “I understand you want to protect him, John but he won’t thank you for it.”

Sighing John caught her hand and squeezed it, “I’ll tell him.”

“Good,” Zari leaned over and kissed him, “I have to go and meet my publicist. Make sure he eats something before you drop the news on him.”

John nodded and watched Zari sashay out the room, already going over in her head the meeting about her book. Not long after Zari left the house, Rip appeared dressed in the clean clothes they’d left out for him looking around thoughtfully.

“I’m guessing you didn’t decorate,” he said before adding, “Which having seen your old place is a blessing.”

Chuckling John drew him into the kitchen, and Rip took a seat.

“Since when do you cook?” Rip asked watching his friend, “I remember Chas once saying you would starve if he didn’t feed you.”

John shrugged, “I learned. I had to after…”

“After what?” Rip asked curiously when John trailed off.

Becoming very interested in the sausages he had in the pan, John replied, “Zari doesn’t cook.”

Rip fell silent and watched John, which didn’t make John feel any better because he could feel Rip’s mind working. And one thing John knew was exactly how smart Rip was.

Rip was getting frustrated. John kept dodging questions about when he was, where he was but especially where his ship was. As he ate the breakfast John placed in front of him, which was actually not that bad, Rip contemplated everything being said and not said. Once he’d finished, Rip watched his friend clear everything away, avoiding Rip’s eyes.

“John,” he stated getting annoyed that the other man kept avoiding his questions, demanding, “What happened to my ship and where is Gideon?”

Freezing John grimaced, “You know you should…”

“I do not need to get my strength back,” Rip snapped, “I want to know where Gideon is.”

John let out a long breath before starting, “It…well…”

“Spit it out!!”

“The Waverider was destroyed,” John confessed, “Almost six years ago.”

Rip gripped the edge of the table, “No.”

“I’m sorry,” John breathed, “I know this is hard.”

Anger filled Rip’s eyes, “I should have known they would do something like this, I should have…” he trailed off, anguish at losing his best friend welling up. He took several deep breaths before asking, “What did the Time Bureau say? Did they check for debris or…” he trailed off again at John’s grimace, “What?”

“There is no Time Bureau,” John winced, “It folded about a year after you supposedly died.”

Rip gave a bitter laugh, “Five years it took me to build that, five years of my life and they destroyed it in one. How bloody typical.”

John passed him a mug of tea stating, “Nothing stronger, you just woke up.”

“So, how are they causing chaos across time these days?” Rip asked, taking a long drink before grimacing and putting the tea to one side.

“They don’t,” John shrugged, “After we managed to get to safety, nothing worked anymore. All the Time Couriers were dead, so we went our separate ways and get together for a drink every so often.”

Rip rubbed his eyes, “Well, that’s a blessing.”

“There was a rumour the Flash team has a time travel device,” John continued, “But either it wasn’t true, or Barry is hiding it.”

Musing for a moment Rip felt a smile touch his lips, “No, they have something thanks to Thawne,”

“What did he do?” John asked confused.

A smile touched Rip’s lips, “He got Cisco Ramon to build him a Time Sphere.”

“I heard about that,” John replied, “But if they wouldn’t give it to Sara, who they know, why do you think they’ll give it to you?”

“I’m not going to ask them for it,” Rip laughed, “I’m going to build my own.”

John frowned, “How?”

Rip rolled his eyes, “It’s my design, and I can build another one easily. First thing first though, I need to get to my base.”

“Your what?”

“What happened to my watch?” Rip demanded.

Confused John shook his head, “I left it next to the bed. Why?”

Rip ignored his friend’s questions and retrieved his courier. He had based the one the Time Bureau used on the courier he’d had back when he was training. It was a useful tool which gave the wearer information, tracked them, monitored health so Rip just added the time travel function. This one however had even more functions, had ensured it was camouflaged as a watch and that no one other than Rip could access it. Finding his duster in the wardrobe, Rip fixed it on his wrist before turning to find John frowning at him.

“Where are you going?” John demanded.

Tapping the controls, Rip opened a portal behind him, smiling at his friend’s amazement, “My base. Come on.”

John knew Rip had secrets.

The man never told anyone the full story, but John understood why. Rip had been trained to be secretive, trained to work in the shadows and then all the people he trusted turned on him. It was no wonder Rip played his cards close to his chest. But John was stunned as they walked through the portal into a large familiar looking room separated into distinct areas and only missing the seats for the crew.

“Gary,” Rip called the moment he stepped through.

“Yes, Captain Hunter,” a polite voice came from around them.

Rip closed the portal and hung his coat on the stand in the corner, “Status report.”

“All systems are working within normal parameters,” Gary replied.

“Where the bloody hell are we?” John demanded as he looked around, “Is this a ship?”

Rip shrugged, “It was. This was once the Astraea, Miranda’s ship,” he gently rested his hand on what looked like the central console, “I found it floating after the Vanishing Point was destroyed so rescued it and Gary.”

John stared at him.

“This was my base of operations while I built the Bureau,” Rip continued, irritation slipping into his voice, “And after I escaped their imprisonment.”

Looking around, John noted, “I’m guessing you also spent time here when the Time Bureau was in existence.”

“It gave me a place to work in peace,” Rip replied, as he accessed the computer, “Now, I need to know everything about what happened including the exact time and date you arrived through the portal after you abandoned the Waverider.”

“For what?”

“So I can find my ship,” Rip replied, “Because I know she’s still out there.”

*********************************************

Rip took a drink of water as he went over in his head what he still had to do to finish the Sphere. The good thing was he had most of the equipment and parts sitting around, because when he had nothing else to do Rip tended to build and repair things. It used to drive Gideon crazy when they were on missions that were mostly surveillance and he had nothing else to do.

“Gary,” he called, “How are the scans going?”

“Still nothing, Captain Hunter,” the AI told him, “But from the information Mr Constantine provided, I have currently only managed to search fifty percent of the zone.”

Rip sighed, “Okay. The moment you locate something, anything I want to know.”

“Of course, Captain.” Gary replied.

Returning to work, Rip tried not to focus on his fear that Gary would tell him that he found no trace of the Waverider, and Rip would have to accept that Gideon was truly gone. Part of him wanted to find Sara and give her a piece of his mind however that would let her know, not only that he was alive but that he still had access to time travel.

“Captain,” Gary spoke up interrupting his thoughts, “Mr Constantine is calling.”

“What can I do for you, John?” Rip asked, Gary instantly connecting the call.

“Just checking in,” John told him, “How’re you doing?”

Rip let out a soft sigh, “I’m getting there. We’re still searching for the Waverider though.”

“Let me know if…when you find her,” John told him, “I’ll come with you to help bring her back.”

Rip frowned for a moment, “Just you?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve told Sara about your return then I am insulted,” John noted.

“You’re not the only one who knows,” Rip retorted.

“Zari has promised me she won’t tell anyone,” John replied adding, “And I trust her.”

Rip hesitated but John had earned his trust over the years, “I’ll contact you the moment I’m ready to leave.”

“Captain Hunter.”

Rip groaned when Gary’s voice invaded his sleep, covering his eyes with his arms as the lights came up in his small bedroom he demanded, “What?”

“I have located the Waverider’s energy signal.”

Rip froze, he slowly sat up and asked, “And?”

“The ship appears to be intact,” Gary assured, “I have not managed to contact Gideon, but this is not unexpected.”

Relief filled Rip that his ship was there, now he just had to finish the Sphere and fix an anchor point so they could return it to normal space.

And then he would have his ship back, he would have his best friend back.

“Do you have a lock on the Waverider?” Rip asked.

“Yes, Captain,” Gary assured him, “And projected her trajectory in case there is a loss of signal.”

Rip nodded, “Then I am going to get a few more hours sleep. Wake me at the usual time and I’ll finish the Sphere before contacting Constantine.”

“Okay,” Rip nodded studying the readouts, “Shut the engines down and recharge.”

Sliding out the Sphere, Rip moved to the monitor and reviewed the system information. Now the Time Sphere was ready, he created an anchor point that would allow him to fly his precious ship back into the timestream proper before bringing her to the bunker.

Since he’d woken up in John’s spare room over three weeks ago, Rip finally felt he had a chance to get back his best friend and confidant. Gary was helpful but he didn’t have the same capacities as Gideon.

No other AI ever had.

It took a few more hours until Rip was ready to enter the Time Bubble and rescue his ship.

“Gary, contact Constantine and tell him he has an hour to join me or I’m going alone,” Rip said.

“Mr Constantine swore at me,” Gary came back a few minutes later, “And told me to open the portal in five minutes.”

Rip nodded as he pulled together what he needed and packed the sphere, hearing the portal open he turned to see John walking through.

“You didn’t exactly give me time to prepare,” John noted, “I could have been doing anything.”

“I have a lock on the ship and don’t want to lose it,” Rip replied, “Now is the best time to go.”

John nodded and slid into the passenger side of the sphere, “Waiting on you.”

“Gary,” Rip called as he entered the sphere and started the engines, “I will contact you when we’re ready for re-entry. Ensure the anchor is stable at all times.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Rip glanced at his friend, “Ready?”

“As I will be,” John replied, “Let’s go.”

*********************************************

Rip frowned when they materialised within the cargo bay, and it remained in darkness. Ensuring the Sphere was powered down fully, Rip grabbed a torch and his toolkit before sliding out, John following him.

“Lights aren’t coming on,” John noted, “That does not bode well.”

“No,” Rip grimaced, he started to the door pausing at the control panel and checked the power.

“What?” John asked at the bemused look on his face.

Rip turned, “The power is fine.”

“That’s good right?”

“Yes and no,” Rip replied, “The sensors should have activated the lights.”

John licked his lips nervously before asking, “Gideon?”

“Not sure yet,” Rip mused, “Her matrix doesn’t appear damaged but…” he sighed, “I can’t find any activity.”

Wincing John noted, “Let’s keep going. Once we get to the bridge you can check properly.”

Rip nodded and manually activated the door, turning on the lights in the hallway for them as they headed for the bridge. Even though the ship was trapped and appeared to be dead it was good to be home once more.

If only he knew where Gideon was.

“I don’t like this,” Rip mused, “There is something off about how the ship seems active but there is no reaction to our presence. That’s not right. Gideon should be reacting to our presence.”

Rip pulled out a wire from the Courier on his wrist and connected it to a panel on the wall.

“What?” John demanded when Rip spun looking shocked.

“There’s a life sign,” Rip told him, disconnecting from the panel, “Coming from my room.”

“Your…” John rolled his eyes as Rip marched away frowning as he entered a section of the ship he didn’t recognise, “What the hell is this?”

Rip glanced back at him, “Gideon and I sealed it before we let the team take the ship.”

“Why didn’t the team remember it existed?” John demanded, “Because we could have used the extra space.”

“Because Gideon altered the teams’ memories so they wouldn’t,” Rip replied with a shrug, “I didn’t want them going through my things or using my room.”

“What?”

“You didn’t think I was letting them keep my ship, did you?” Rip asked annoyed, “This is my home.”

John frowned as they continued along the small section of corridor, “Who unsealed it and why?”

“That is my question,” Rip noted.

Reaching the door, he found the manual release to unlock the door which opened only a few inches. Rip could see a figure curled up on his bed through the small opening. Pushing the doors open fully Rip motioned John to stay back. They didn’t want to overwhelm whoever it was, and it was better if there was one of them back if whoever this was attacked Rip.

Reaching the bedside, Rip touched the lamp raising the light slowly and stared at the face peeking out from beneath the covers.

“Gideon?” he breathed.

“What?” John snapped, frowning when Rip motioned him to stay where he was.

Rip sat in the edge of the bed and gently stroked Gideon’s hair back, “Gideon,” he called softly, “Wake up.”

“No,” she whimpered curling away, “I don’t like this dream.”

“Gideon,” he called again.

She cried softly, “You’re never here when I open my eyes and I’m alone again.”

“I’m here,” he promised, resting his hand on her cheek, and wiping away the tears leaking from her eyes, “You’re not alone anymore.”

Her eyes opened slowly, a mixture of amazement, joy and relief covered her face, “Captain?” she breathed, grabbing the hand that was sitting on her cheek, “You’re real?”

Rip nodded softly, “I’m real.”

With a gasp Gideon moved and was suddenly in his lap, arms wrapped around him as she held onto him tightly sobbing against his shoulder. Rip gently rubbed her back and waited until she was ready to talk to him.

Finally, she sniffed and pulled back, her eyes red rimmed and Rip just wanted to take all her pain away.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Gideon said, resting her forehead against his, “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Rip smiled, “I thought the same for a while there.”

A pointed cough made them turn to where John was standing in the doorway, “So, we found Gideon then.”

Gideon quickly washed her face and pulled her hair back before changing into less rumpled clothing. Walking back into the main room, she smiled to see Rip standing there. It had been so many years since he’d walked off the ship to stall Mallus, both before and after she had been trapped here.

Walking to him, Gideon wrapped her arms around his waist holding on, just to be sure he was real. She just wanted to hold onto him and never let go because he had come for her, he must have known how small the odds were that she would be here, but he had still come.

Rip gently rubbed her back for a moment before he whispered, “What happened?”

Gideon sighed and stepped back from him, “We hit a time bubble. The team did not know how to deal with the problems that arose, because it was a phenomenon they’d never encountered before. It caused the engines to malfunction and due to the displaced time around the ship I was only able to contact the crew using text.”

“Which I’m guessing they ignored,” Rip frowned, glancing at John who winced.

Gideon started out the room, leading them to the bridge, “While they tried to release the ship, the self-destruct initiated.”

“That’s easy to fix,” Rip noted, “Diving into the bubble with the shields set properly would reset it.”

“I suggested that this was how you would deal with the situation,” Gideon noted, “But…”

Rip sighed, “Sara wouldn’t use my solution.”

They both turned to John who frowned, “She didn’t think it would work.”

“Because the person who was trained to travel in time since childhood and had used the solution in the past,” Rip noted sarcastically, “Plus the AI who ran the ship telling her it would were wrong?”

“Everyone thought it would kill us,” John grimaced, “We did our best to repair the ship and stop the countdown but there was nothing we could do. We were forced to abandon the Waverider. Sharpe suggested we send it deeper into the bubble so that when it exploded it wouldn’t destroy the time stream.”

“Except the Waverider did not explode when sent into the bubble,” Rip sighed, “Because as Gideon told them it reset the self-destruct. And without someone setting a release point trapped Gideon here.”

Gideon nodded sadly.

“How did this happen?” John asked, motioning to her human form.

“I do not know,” Gideon told him, “I theorised it was due to the shields not being raised when the ship passed through the bubble once more. But one minute I was a part of the ship then the next I was on the floor of the bridge, human. And completely alone.”

Rip wrapped his arm around her protectively, “How long have you been here?”

“You know time does not work like that here, Captain,” Gideon said softly, “But the chronometer shows that it has been several years chronologically. If you had not come, I would be trapped here alone for eternity,” she sighed, “Now we are trapped together.”

Shaking his head, “I thought I was the pessimistic over-dramatic one,” Rip chuckled, “Do you really think I would come in here without an exit plan? You know me better than that, Gideon.”

“You created an anchor point?” Gideon asked hopefully.

Rip nodded and found her in his arms once more, hugging him tightly, “I was not leaving you and the Waverider here.”

Releasing him, Gideon nodded smartly, “Then we have work to do to.”

Rip walked with Gideon into the engine room to reconfigure the shields and engines for their escape, leaving John to watch the energy levels on the bridge.

“Well, the entire ship is in perfect condition,” Rip noted as he opened the main panel while Gideon worked on the core.

“I had little else to do,” Gideon reminded him, “I put myself in stasis for months at a time, waking to perform maintenance.”

Rip turned and caught her hand, “I’m sorry, Gideon. I…”

“It was not your fault, Captain,” she said, “We agreed that I should go with the Legends.”

He sighed, “But I left you with them when I used the core against Mallus, and they never understood how special you are.”

A smile touched Gideon’s face, “I amused myself during their misadventures. I knew you would reappear one day, despite your belief it would kill you, the odds were higher that after the temporal electrocution you would survive the overloading of the core.”

“Nice to know,” Rip shook his head.

Gideon shook her head sadly, “I never thought you would find me here though. I feared I would be lost alone forever.”

Rip pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, “You will never be alone again, I promise.” He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, “As long as you want me around.”

Gideon pulled back and smiled at him, “Always, my dear Captain.”

“Rip,” he corrected.

A sweet smile touched her lips as she conceded, “Rip.”

Turning back to the shields, Rip realised Gideon had a thoughtful pout on her face, “What?”

“I do not want the others to know you released the ship,” Gideon told him, “I am sure you do not either and if Mr Constantine’s relationship with Miss Tarazi is still ongoing then they will find out. Mr Constantine may not say but Miss Tarazi is likely to mention something to her brother, who will mention it to one of the others and Miss Lance will learn.”

Rip nodded, “Then we blank their memories of everything, starting with my return.”

Gideon sighed in relief, “Thank you.”

“But first we need to get the ship out of the bubble and back to the base,” Rip reminded her, “Gary will be happy to see you.”

“He just knows I am able to deal with you better than he can.”

Rip took the pilots chair looking out at the strange purple of the time bubble, while Gideon sat in the co-pilots chair so she could monitor the connection to the anchor outside the bubble.

“Ready?” Rip asked.

Gideon nodded, before glancing round at where John was sitting, “Completely.”

“Then let’s go,” Rip smiled, “John, make sure you’re restrained properly. This is going to be a bumpy trip.”

John sighed and gripped the chair, “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Glancing at Gideon, Rip took her hand, “Let’s get out of here.”

Activating the engines, Rip checked the shields before connecting with the anchor point that he’d created outside the bubble. Using the link, Rip opened a corridor out of the bubble, and as they began their exit the entire ship began to shake.

“Gideon?”

“Shields are holding, Captain,” Gideon assured him.

Rip gripped the controls, “Alright, we’re about to exit the bubble. Hold on.”

The ship began to shudder violently, Rip could see a pained expression on Gideon’s face at what was happening to her ship and wanted to comfort her, but he had to concentrate on flying the ship.

“Tell me we’re almost there,” John demanded, his voice wobbling from the vibrations.

“Exiting the bubble in three,” Gideon called, “Two. One.”

The shuddering stopped and outside suddenly became the green of the time stream once more. Gideon let out a sob of relief and Rip moved to hug her, her arms wrapped around him tightly.

“It’s okay,” Rip soothed, “You’re free.”

*********************************************

Rip landed the Waverider in the large bay he’d created for her within his base. Removing himself from the restraints, Rip turned to Gideon and hugged her once more.

“I’m bloody blind,” John snapped from his chair.

Rip shared an amused smile with Gideon, and they helped John out the chair, guiding him into the main lab.

“Gary,” Rip called, “Connect with the Waverider and perform a full system check.”

“Yes, Captain,” Gary replied before adding, “Welcome home, Gideon.”

Gideon beamed and rested her hand on the console, “It’s good to be back, brother.”

Rip smiled at the joy filling Gideon’s eyes at being reunited with one of her siblings, the loss of them had affected her so much.

“Before we allow you to settle in,” Rip told her, “We should get John home.”

Gideon nodded asking, “How is your eyesight, Mr Constantine?”

“I can see colours now,” John noted, waving his hand in front of his face.

Rip retrieved the memory wiper from its drawer, programming it while Gideon spoke with John. Part of him was sad that his friend would forget that he was alive, but Rip understood Gideon’s fear. If the others knew the ship had been freed, they would want to take it once more. It was not only Gideon’s home, but she had been abandoned by them when they ignored her advice, so Rip wanted to ensure she felt safe.

Activating the portal back to John’s house, they guided him through into his kitchen.

“My eyesight is back to normal,” John noted as he looked around.

“John, are you back?” Zari’s voice came just before she appeared in the kitchen. She paused seeing Gideon, “Who is this?”

“This is…” John stopped as Rip hit Zari with the memory wiper. Rip caught and lay her down on the floor as John demanded, “What are you doing?”

Rip sighed, “I’m sorry, John. But Gideon doesn’t want any of them to know we got the Waverider back and I know you trust Miss Tarazi, but I can’t take the chance she’ll slip.”

“So, what?” John demanded as Rip raised the wiper to him, “I forget you survived. I get to keep thinking that my friend is dead?”

Gideon caught his hand, “This is my request. Rip is doing this for me.”

Deflating, John sighed, “So, I don’t get to remember either of you are safe?”

“Can you keep this secret from Miss Tarazi?” Gideon asked softly.

Nodding John reminded her, “I can, and I will.”

To Rip’s surprise, Gideon caught Rip’s hand and lowered it before she hugged John who squeezed her tightly for a moment before letting her go.

“Take care of one another,” John told them, “You know where I am if you need me.”

Rip clasped his friend’s hand briefly before opening the portal and, wrapping an arm around Gideon, led her back to the base.

Gideon sat in the comfortable living room area of the base, amazed to no longer be trapped within the time bubble. She had spent so many years alone, so long wandering the corridors of her ship wishing for someone to find and bring her home.

She had dreamed so often of Rip’s return, only to be bitterly disappointed when she woke alone. Now he was just across the room making them tea. He had come for her, and Gideon was so happy to have him back.

Rip placed the mugs of tea he’d made for them on the table before taking the seat at her side. Gideon leaned into him, enjoying the tactile sensation, especially as Rip wrapped his arm around her hugging her close.

“What do we do now, Captain?” Gideon asked softly.

Rip shrugged, “We’re free, Gideon. We do whatever we want. But there is one thing you need to do.”

“What?” confusion filled her.

He smiled, “Stop calling me Captain and use my name.”

Gideon gave him a shy smile, “Of course, Rip.”

Pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, Rip hugged her close and they sat together ready for whatever the future held for them.

#ripfic #legends of tomorrow #rip week 2021 #rip week #rip appreciation week #Rip Hunter #Gideon #John Constantine #zari tarazi

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elareine · 4 years

Note

the song better place by rachel platten and jay/dick or maybe just some jay-centric bat fam. hope this prompt works for you. love your fics <3

Thank you <3 That’s a very JayDick song, but I love writing batfam, too, so... have both.

Steph took one look at Jason’s old-new room and pronounced: “You need to redecorate.”

“No shit.”

“Let’s go.”

Which was how Jason found himself in Ikea of all places. She even dragged a flustered-looking Tim with her, who proved to be supremely unhelpful when it came to curtain color (“I don’t think either red or purple will look good with those walls,” bullshit) but very willing to hand over his credit card. It was… fun. The room felt less like a tomb when Steph was done with it, which was great.

He told her that.

“Well, duh.” She grinned. “No one in this house knows how to decorate for shit. You should see what Tim did with his bedroom…”

Jason spent a minute considering his options. “Anime girls?”

“Nope.”

“Superman posters.”

“Nope, but I like the way you’re thinking.”

“Bad Picasso replicas.”

“Nooo,”

“I give up.”

“He did…” Steph paused dramatically. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. It still looks like it did in the eighties.”

Jason laughed, and she looked gratified. “Sounds terrible.”

They kept working on the bookshelf. Ikea was great for those; that’s why they went there in the first place. Well, that and the look on Bruce’s face when he saw the boxes.

After a minute, Jason asked: “So… are you seeing a lot of Tim’s bedroom, then?”

“Yeah. So what?” She glared at him, which he was starting to realize was a sure sign that she was embarrassed.

“So nothing. Didn’t know that was happening again, that’s all.”

It took her a minute, but she softened. “Yeah. I… guess we’re giving it a second chance.”

“That’s cool,” he told her sincerely. “I mean, you could clearly do better, but he damn well knows what he’s got now.”

“Hmm.” Steph was hiding behind the shelf she was holding up, but he could still tell she was pleased. “So how about your own second chance, huh?”

…damn, he’d walked right into that one. “Shut up.”

—

“Home invasion in sector 6R. Three 1Cs, suspected armed. Neighbors reporting shots, five people in the house. Hood, you’re closest.”

Jason had already changed course. “I’m on it.”

He waited—this was the point where Batman would send a Robin or two after him, maybe even Nightwing or himself, “just as back-up.” There was no way they would let him operate as part of the team without close supervision for at least a year. Jason was determined to grit his teeth and bear it, even if he wasn’t sure for how long he could. He was chafing already, running like this with the others when he’d been on his own for so long.

However, Bruce only confirmed that he’d heard him, and then the line went silent.

Huh.

—

There was no better time to be awake in the manor than the early morning in Jason’s opinion. The light fell softly into the kitchen as he entered, barefoot and in his pajamas.

Alfred was there, of course. “Good morning, Jason.”

It was their private ritual; had been even before Jason had moved back into the fold. Six a.m., tea and sandwiches. The only difference was that now, Jason hadn’t vanished by the time Damian stomped into the kitchen, glowering at them for being awake and having the audacity to send him to school.

It was kinda adorable, not that Jason would ever tell him that. Instead, he watched Damian make his way through his own breakfast and nodded toward the packed lunch waiting for him. “I see you’re not taking advantage of the school cafeteria, then?”

“Them?” The amount of scorn Damian managed to pack into a single word would have weighed down a ship or two. “They would not know good food if it chased after them with a sword.”

“Let me guess—still only three spices, and these are salt, pepper, and ketchup?” Jason asked.

“I believe there is a fourth one now—they have a particularly intolerable mixture that they like to label ‘Chinese.’” Damian’s whole face scrunched up with distaste. “It tastes nothing like what Mother used to cook.”

“While I am sorry to hear that,” Alfred inserted, “we will be late if we don’t leave soon.”

Damian grumbled but hopped off his chair. Jason glanced at the clock — seven a.m. Dick would get up soon. Might as well make him a sandwich, too.

He pulled the ingredients closer, already compiling a list of recipes in his head. Talia had shown him how to make most of Damian’s favorites. He could teach those to Alfred, no problem.

—

“Hood. Stop it right now.” Dick looked at him with big eyes, or so Jason assumed, considering they were both wearing their masks.

“No, continue.” Barbara sounded choked, audibly forcing down laugher.

And, hey. Love was one thing, but Jason knew who gave him the best intel night after night. “So big bird and B decide that they have to infiltrate this organization, right? Only… they’re all swingers…”

Her laughter was brighter than the streetlights.

—

Jason stepped into the corridor and silently closed the door behind him.

God, but it had taken a long time to get Dick tired and ready to sleep. Jason himself was still feeling too wired to pass out, but then he wasn’t operating on a 40-hour sleep deficit, so it was totally not the same thing.

He decided to wander down to the cave. Bruce was still up, of course, acknowledging Jason’s presence with a grunt. The only other person present was Tim, who was bent over some files.

…like, really bent over them. One could almost think…yup, he’d fallen asleep at the table.

Jason gently poked him. Then he harshly poked him. When nothing happened, he sighed and moved one arm under Tim’s legs, the other gripping his shoulders. The kid would fuck up his back if he stayed like that. It took a bit of effort, but they were soon making their way up the stairs, Tim cradled securely in Jason’s arms.

They’d almost made it upstairs when Tim stirred, blue eyes opening halfway and looking at him.

Heart in his throat, Jason waited. This family had a bad habit of coming awake swinging, and with Jason hovering over them… well, it wouldn’t be entirely unjustified, wouldn’t it? Especially in Tim’s case.

Tim grumbled and went right back to sleep.

—

Jason pinched his nose. Or tried to, but he was wearing his helmet, so he basically poked himself in the face. Judging from Duke’s expression, that wasn’t helping his point.

“So you decided to buy us time by…”

“Ninja traps,” Cassie finished for him. Looking as if that made total sense.

“Ninja traps.”

“Well, it was more of an obstacle course, really,” Duke added helpfully.

“Okay, that’s a weird-ass move, but I can respect that. Then why did that warehouse explode?”

“Fire.” Cassie’s expression gave nothing away.

Jason looked to Duke. “What she said.”

“And the fire was there because…?”

“Fire is an obstacle.”

Jason groaned. “I cannot believe I’m the responsible person here,” he lamented. “Is this how you feel most of the time, D?”

There was laughter over the com. “Oh, Nightwing has finally acquired a co-parent,” Steph commented, followed by Tim’s: “About time.”

(Everyone ignored Bruce’s “Hey!”.)

—

“Jason.”

Bruce was hovering. He probably didn’t intend to it; it just came naturally. Jason still felt that nervous lurch in his stomach whenever Bruce did that, but he was trying to get over it, so he just asked: “Yeah?”

“Let me show you something.”

They went into one of the rooms behind Bruce’s office that Jason had always assumed held nothing but files. He was very wrong.

“After you… left, I found myself reading books and thinking—he would’ve loved that.”

The walls were lined with bookcases. There were special editions of Jane Austen reprints, thick sci-fi novels, and nineteenth-century murder mysteries. It was eclectic and weird and precisely what Jason liked. What they both liked.

“I kept collecting them,” Bruce told him, voice too even. “Just… in case, I suppose.”

Jason stared at the shelves and shelves full of books, all read exactly once. His eyes were stinging because the glass display downstairs—that was bullshit. That uniform was about and for Bruce, and the new Robins, not Jason.

But this?

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Bruce almost-smiled, relief written across his face. “You’re welcome. Uh. I’ll leave you to it.”

Jason let him take two steps, then he said: “Bruce. If there was ever a time for a hug, this is it.”

“Oh. Right.”

Jason let Bruce pull him into an embrace—hugged back just as fiercely and told him: “It’s okay. You can stop grieving now. I’m here.”

If Bruce’s shoulders were shaking, neither of them mentioned it.

—

It was a total accident. Jason had felt like holding Dick’s hand, so he did. It was only when he looked up and caught Tim’s eye that he remembered—right. They were surrounded by Dick’s family. Their family.

Tim winked. The conversation didn’t stop. No one else commented or even gave them a second glance.

Something in Jason exhaled.

Dick squeezed his hand, smiling at something Damian was saying, and ugh, sometimes Jason was so full of feelings, he didn’t know what to do with it. Dick was just so—so—

Yeah. Jason was so fucking gone for him. All he could think about was how it would feel if there was a ring, there, pressing against his own.

He leaned back, adding a sarcastic comment or two to the conversation just to bask in the sunshine of Dick’s laughter. That thought warranted some serious consideration, not to mention talking to Dick, but—just the idea that he could have that? That he trusted himself, and Dick, and their family, enough to have that?

It was more than enough.

—

(Three days before Jason moved into the manor, Dick called a family gathering.

“Why is Jason not here, then?” Tim asked, frowning. “If it’s a family matter, it concerns him, too.”

Dick could kiss him for that. Instead he said: “Because it’s about him. I’m gonna lay down some ground rules, okay?”

Jason letting Dick convince him to move back in with them… that was huge. And dangerous. Dick had figured out long ago that Jay and Bruce had no idea how to handle each other anymore. Neither did the rest. That didn’t mean they didn’t want to. Dick was hopeful.

It was just… Jay was the best thing in Dick’s world; his support, his light, his conscience. He just made everything better. And Dick had no intentions of letting their family or anyone else fuck that up.)

(I’m taking prompts.)

#elareine writes #batfamily #jaydick #jason todd #this was meant to be shorter and is totally unedited because it's 1am and i wanna bedone with it #sorry

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boneandfur · 3 years

Text

Time After Time 2/2

TWO

Note: the characters demanded smut. There is a link to the NSFW version on ao3 at that point. tumblr won’t let me load the moodboard. I’m very frustrated with this hellsite.

Women aren't doctors at the Front, Miss... what did you say your name was again? Ah, Miss Valentine. American. That explains it... But we do need good quality nurses... You'll be sent to France right away on account of your prior training... Jolly good, just sign the dotted line...

"I assume you'll have the watered wine, Rookie." Ramsay leans across the table, lightly tugging the menu from Helena's numb fingers. Every little boom makes her shiver, though she's adopted the English habit of keeping a stiff upper lip. Her grandmother has told her stories to curdle your guts, about standing on a hill at Gettysburg and watching her lover ride hell for leather into battle. And I followed him, didn't I, chick?

"What brought you here? To the Front?" Helena cocks her head at him, and Ramsay's brows raise nearly to his hairline.

"You're bold as brass.” Ramsay snaps his fingers. “I like that. Knew it as soon as you stepped out of that line of nurses that you wouldn't turn into a shrinking violet at your first amputation." Ramsay turns to their waiter, a Frenchman of elderly years with an ear trumpet. "We'll take your best watered wine for the lady, and a bottle of whiskey."

Helena coughs lightly, and addresses the waiter in seamless French. "(What is the special today?)"

The old man looks sad. "(I am afraid we do not have anything special. Just some eel ragout, and fresh bread my wife baked this morning.)"

"(Then we will take that, and your best bottle of Merlot.)"

When the owner has gone, Ramsay smiles broadly at Helena, showing white teeth against three days shadow of a beard on his jaw. "By God, you're a marvel. Never learned much French myself, besides what I've had to behind the lines."

"Oh, my governess despaired of me." Helena shrugs, but cannot help smiling in return. "I can speak enough French to get by, you know, but I could never pass for a natural."

"Well, you are an American." But it does not sound like an insult.

The eel comes, and she eats ravenously, less like a lady and more like the girl who downed seven glasses of champagne and then raced her brother from Boston to Concord on horseback.

And Ramsay drinks. Thoughtfully. Mindfully. She does not remember, afterward, nor for many years, what they said, only how she had smiled and smiled until her cheeks hurt, and the ticking of the pocket watch.

One two, one two. Tick tock. Eleven hours. Ten hours. Nine hours. Eleven minutes and eleven seconds.

No more standing to in trenches,//Only one more church parade.

"I had a patron who paid for me to go to medical school, a well respected chap named Naveen.” Ramsay nurses his whiskey, rolling the glass with purpose between his palms. “After school, I joined the army to make something of myself, and went to India. My wife deserted me for another man while I was gone. She didn't like the army life, you see."

Helena reaches out, laying her hand over his. Ramsay startles, but does not move his hand away, and instead flips it over, laying his palm flat against hers and caressing her wrist with his rough fingers. She drags in a breath, the sudden widening of his pupils making her lower abdomen flutter. "I ran away from home. No one knows I'm here, or I'd be dragged back to Boston to marry a Stirling and pop out an heir and a spare before the war has even gotten started."

"You don't even want to know about what this war will look like if it keeps going, lass." Ramsay drains his glass, and pours them both another. "I'd tell you to go back to Boston, but I can see by that look in your eye that you'll see this thing through. I respect that."

Helena does not trust herself to speak. The wine is making her thoughts slow, but she does not want this moment to end.

Ramsay rubs a hand over his jaw. "That was back in '09. I hung my boots up, moved to Scotland, and threw myself into practice in Edinburgh. Then that damn fool shot a Prince, and well, here we are."

Steady, silent. Their eyes meet and the watch ticks on. Helena feels as though she is drowning. His mouth moves and she only feels the heat of his palm against hers, her cheeks ablaze.

'Nurse! Nurse Valentine! Are you dumb or are you just deaf?! Hand me those scissors, and bring me another scalpel... These damned orderlies don't know what they're doing...'

Their eyes meet across the bloody operating table. The soldier is mercilessly unconscious, a bloody piece of shrapnel in his thigh. He'd been screaming since he came in off the ambulance, a boy of no more than nineteen, a Tommy named Elijah... 'Mum, Mum, water, water...'

'That's a Blighty, Rookie. Your first. Are you going to faint on me, lass?' Ramsay's eyes lock on Helena's. She feels the flint of his gaze go straight to her spine, and straightens up.

'No, Doctor. I'll be fine, sir.'

'I told you Americans have brass, Ramsay!' The surgeon, Lahela, winks at Helena in passing, but she does not notice. Her gaze does not falter under Ramsay's. 'Pass me the tweezers.'

His mouth quirks, just a shade. 'Good girl.'

"...Good God, Rookie, will you drink the whole bottle? I promise my company isn't as bad as all that." Helena feels Ramsay tug at her wine glass, and relinquishes it. The lamp has begun to burn low, and from the outside of the cafe is the sound of drunken laughter. "You shouldn't walk out there alone. Come on, I'll walk you back to your billet."

"I don't have one," Helena confesses. She pats her bag, shamefaced. "I spent my money for the hotel on books... I can sleep on the truck."

Ramsay shakes his head. "No, no, that won't do. We can't have you more dead on your feet than usual. I have a solution. It's a bit unorthodox. Do you trust me?"

Eight hours, three minutes, seven seconds.

•••

Helena does not know why, but the lights from the star shells, all green and gold, make her grip Ramsay's arm tighter, and press against his side. At the corner, he stops and gazes down at her, a strange and wild new thing in his face, something she dares not name.

Don't forget me, Helena Valentine. When this lousy war is over, I'll come back, you see...

"Tell me..." Ramsay brushes a curl back from her brow, his broad fingertips sending a crackle across her bare flesh. "Why did you become a doctor, Rookie -- Helena?"

"I read a wonderful book." Helena ducks her head, and looks up at Ramsay from under her lashes, illuminated by the lamplight. Behind them, to the east, she hears the screech of a Minnie, and his hands tighten on her fingers. "It was written by a Scottish doctor who had served in India, on the Northwest Frontier." Her gaze skitters away.

People said when we enlisted,//Fame and medals we would win.

"Ah. I knew a chap who served there, in his younger days." Ramsay tucks her cold hand through his elbow. The snow is falling thicker now, and they are nearly to the hotel. A quick word from Ramsay to the proprietor -- she hears the words une chambre pour les jeunes mariés -- He knows French after all --

And before she knows it, she is sitting in a delectably steaming hot hip bath, strewn with lavender and rosemary. She washes her hair and cannot remember the last time she felt such luxury.

Nine months, two days, thirteen minutes...

When this war is over, //No more soldiering for me.

"You can have the bed. I'll bunk down with Medical Officers Gayle and Nguyen, from the -nth Platoon." Ramsay stands in the doorway, his cap in his hands, avoiding looking directly at Helena in her muslin shift. "We wouldn't want you to lose your reputation and have to leave the war so soon."

"Stay." She feels her eyelids drooping, and pats the quilt next to her. "Please, stay."

"You know I can't do that." Yet, she hears the floorboards squeak as Ramsay settles next to her on a chair. The inn rattles like a whizzbang and she grasps Ramsay's hand, clutching at it until the clattering of the teacups subsides. "Only a little longer, then, Rookie. Until you're safe."

•••

Ethan watches Helena Valentine fall asleep. There is nothing he'd like more than to climb next to her in that big bed, to feel her lithe body against his. But it would be wrong, even though nothing will ever be right again after the war is over. But if he can keep her safe -- If I can keep her alive -- he dares not finish the thought.

“You wouldn't remember me, Helena Valentine, but I was the guest speaker of honor when they hung the plaque for your grandfather at the Royal Hospital, in Edinburgh.” Ethan whispers the words, barely a murmur. The whiskey has given him courage, here in a small hotel near the Ypres front.

Ypres, the Race to the Sea. Generals called it a triumph, but the only thing the war has given Ethan thus far has been insomnia for thirty-six hours, a hatred of mustard gas and a pair of fine German boots from over the top.

“He was an old surgeon, a medical man, who fought in the American Civil War, but he did great things for Scottish medicine, too, back in his youth.” Helena's fingertips tighten on his palm, and Ethan fears he has said too much. But he goes on, like a schoolboy at the confessional, for who can say when they shall ever have this moment again? And hasn't the war taught him by now to leave nothing unsaid?

“You must have been not more than twenty-one, then. You were still unmarried, with a vast inheritance that folks said you'd squandered on medical school. I knew right then and there that Jonas Valentine would have been proud of you. I wanted to introduce myself right there and then…”

But I was too tongue tied by your beauty, and couldn't find the words. Later, when I saw you again in Ypres, I couldn't believe my own eyes. I didn't want to tell you how I felt then...

(But that will keep, until this war is over.)

Her grip loosens, and he knows she is sleeping. She sighs in her slumber when his lips brush across her dainty brow, and it is with everything inside of him screaming at him to turn around that he walks away.

When I get my civvy clothes on,/Oh how happy I shall be.

•••

Forty-five minutes, thirty seconds.

The books are too heavy. Yet, Helena, an oasis of blue with a red cross on one arm in a sea of green uniforms, settles in with Sherlock Holmes. Rookie... She snaps the book shut, watching the landscape go by from the army van.

I shouldn't... We shouldn't. Ramsay cups both sides of Helena's face in his hands. The book drops to the floor. They are both damp from the bath, and his skin smells of cedar and lavender soap.

copy and paste into your tab: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957496/chapters/73743633

Later, she will remember the exact way the quilt felt as he pulled it over her shoulders, tucking her in, embers in the grate and his lips ghosting across her forehead.

•••

Twenty years on, when a new war is brewing, this is what Helena Valentine remembers:

The air, so still and warm, with not a single lark singing. The earth smells of flowers and death, and she is sharing sterilizing duty with VAD Nurse Varma, whom she'd come over from London with.

"I suppose you think you're better than me, being a real doctor and all, but..." Jackie's lips move, but Helena cannot hear what she is saying. All she can hear is a buzzing sound, a ringing in her head.

One two, one two.

Her hands tremble with fatigue over the medical instruments.

Thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds.

Tick, tock.

The table begins to shake and she looks at Jackie, their eyes wide as they clasp hands -- and then they are running -- and the bridge is shaking, it's shaking Dr Ramsay, you shouldn't be out here, it's wartime you know --

No one can know about this, about us. You know that, right?

I know, Dr Ramsay.

He cups her chin in his hand. They say you're a grasping American chit, but you're my American chit now, and I won't hear anything against you. Oh -- and don't check your bag until you're on the truck back to the lines. I left something there for you.

Then you have this -- keep it until the war is over -- it was my grandfather's and it's over a hundred years old and it's still ticking on.

His mouth is warm on hers, tip of his tongue pressed against hers for a surprisingly electric surge.

-- "Nurse Valentine! Valentine!" --

Helena wakes in the morning with the ashes cold in the grate, Ramsay's greatcoat draped over her. It smells of peat and whiskey, and the faintest whiff of mustard gas. Her thighs are wet and she looks under the quilts and realizes her cycle has started, and she does not know why, but she begins to sob, whether from relief or terror she knows not.

One two, one two.

(Twelve hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty four seconds.)

Tick, tock.

People said when we enlisted,/Fame and medals we would win,/But the fame is in the guardroom,/And those medals made of tin.

#ethan x mc #open heart #open heart fanfic #oph #rafael x mc #n*fwish

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thethoughtsfromthreeam · 4 years

Text

A Helping Hand

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Reader

Warnings: Smut

A/N: I don’t know why I’m taking so long in writing for Pedro’s softest characters - Catfish and Marcus Pike. Still working on the next chapter of Sunshine, so hopefully I’ll have it ready for you for Thursday!

Reminder: I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit. I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tags: @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @beskars , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale

—***—

“Francisco! Get out of there! Did you even wash your hands!?” You threw the towel at him as he scurried away from the bowls of cookie dough set out on the island. He was laughing as he shoved another chunk into his mouth. He could eat this shit forever; it was so good.

“But you know I love it so much.” He mumbled as he chewed, his smile getting bigger. God, he loved Baking Sunday, it was his favorite day of the week. The house always smelled good, you always baked tasty shit, and something about you in that waist apron did a number on him. Yeah, these were good days.

Last night he had gone out with the guys for a few beers and when he said he was heading home early, they all started ragging on him. It was all in good fun, they knew about Sundays and knew that they were going to reap the rewards, too. But even if they were being dicks, he didn’t care, he wasn’t going to wake up late on baking day. He leaned up against the far counter, looking at you as he swallowed, already planning on his next covert theft operation for more.

He might have the brain of a military tactician, but you weren’t no slouch yourself. You were ready.

“Hey Cat?”

“Yeah mijita?”

“You see that bowl the table?” He nodded. “Go open it for me.”

He pushed himself off the counter and sauntered over, thinking he was going to get his taste even sooner than he thought. But when he opened it, it was filled to the brim with chocolate chip cookie dough – his favorite. He could feel his mouth watering at the sight.

“Now that’s yours, so keep your fingers out of my bowls.” You smiled while pointing at him and he groaned in pleasure. You must have made it last night when he was out, which made the most sense because if he was annoying now with his little sneak attacks, he would have climbed you like a tree to get this whole big ass bowl. He walked around the island and yanked open the utensil drawer and pulled out a spoon.

“Oh, now you’re going to get a spoon? You’re a dick, Cat.” There was no malice in your words, and you said them with a laugh. As he walked behind you, he laid a sloppy kiss on the back of your neck as a thank you. Your smile got bigger, a little shiver running down your spine. God, he always managed to turn you on in the littlest of ways.

Frankie sat at the table, eat his prize as you stood at the island, almost zen-like, as you rolled out the different doughs into small balls. The calming familiarity of your movements, combined with the sunlight filling the kitchen, made for a moment of peace you found practically nowhere else but in Frankie’s arms at night. Here was your heaven and you reveled in it.

When you two had saw the house, the cozy craftsman cottage was perfect in every way except the kitchen. But given it had everything else you both wanted, you felt you could compromise and work with what you had. Six months after you and Frankie had moved in, you went away for a weekend with your best friend and came home to a completely renovated kitchen. The boys came and helped him get it done and you cried so hard, he was worried that you were upset at first. Of course, he learned later than night after everyone left how thankful you really were.

As you walked through the familiar routine of Baking Sunday, you hummed a small tune to yourself. One of Frankie’s bigger splurges had been on the professional level oven, letting you bake three or four batches of cookies at once. Soon the mounds of raw dough were turned into warm and gooey cookies laying on the cooling racks.

You began to knead out the dough for the week’s bread when your phone pinged at you. You looked over and saw it was a message from Benny, asking for a couple of loaves of your bread. You smiled.

“Cat, baby, can you get me two more bowls from that cabinet?” You pointed with your toe. Then your phone pinged again, and you saw it was from Tom. “You better make that six bowls.”

“Why so many?” Frankie grunted as he squatted down and began pulling out what you needed.

“Benny and Tom both just texted wanting bread and I’m going to say that Pope and Will are going to text soon, too. Might as well be prepared.

“Well, will my favorite baker need a helping hand?” He brought over the bowls and set them on the counter, giving you a kiss on the temple. You smiled and nodded. Together, you got the bowls prepped and seven loaves of bread ready to rise. As you worked, you saw the texts from the other two and smiled while shaking your head.

“Maybe you should start a group chat so they can send you their orders all at once instead of whenever the mood strikes them.” Frankie covered the last bowl and placed it on the counter under the sunny window. You could have proved them faster in the warming tray of the oven, but you liked giving them the full hour to rise so you could get your workspace cleaned up.

“Mm, maybe.” You hummed as you started the dishwasher and began to wipe down the counters. You weren’t a messy baker, but you hated a dirty space to work in. When the kitchen was cleaned and ready to go, you glanced at the clock and saw you still had half an hour left. Frankie was turned away from you and you could see his back muscles moving under his shirt as he dried the last of the trays. God, you loved his back.

Without hesitation, you walked up to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades before nestling your cheek there. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the cotton against your cheek and you sighed contently. Frankie put the last of the trays on the counter and toss the towel in the dish rack before turning around in your arms.

“Hey.”

He leaned against the counter and wrapped his arms around you as you leaned further into him, head resting on his chest. There were times in his life that he felt he would never have moments or days like this again and here he was, experiencing them regularly. He was thrilled to his toes and he bent his head to kiss the top of yours before resting his chin on the spot. The hazy sun of the summer afternoon filtered through the windows, creating a cocoon, where time stopped, and the world centered only on the two of you. Here the silence was comfortable, and you were surrounded by the smell of yeast and sugar and Frankie. This was as close to heaven as you two would ever get without dying.

As the magical aura of the moment surrounded you, you tipped your head up and propped your chin on his chest to look at him. This man had you wrapped around his finger, although he was likely to say the same thing about you. His soft curls rested on his forehead, free of the worry frown it sometimes held. The scruff along his jawline had hints of gray, as did his hair, but you loved it. It gave him a soft look that fit him so well.

As you continued to drink him in, he smiled at you and his dimple appeared. God, that was so sexy to you and you couldn’t stop yourself from raising up on your tiptoes to place a gentle kiss on it. It deepened as he grinned at your touch. He expected you to kiss him on the lips next, but you instead placed a small kiss on his jaw, letting his beard tickle your lips and face.

You positioned another kiss on the other side of his face, then another on his chin, and a final one on his nose. You pulled back and he smiled at you, his eyes sparkling with love and a little lust. He bent his head to capture your lips, but he was gentle about it. He followed up with a series of pecks against your lips, ones that always made you weak in the knees and he knew it. You moved your hands from his back to the front of his shirt, gripping the soften cotton.

Under your fingers, you heard his heart beginning to beat faster and you knew yours was matching his pace. He kissed you again, harder this time and you respond in kind before pulling back to look at him. The glimmer of lust in his eyes was brighter and his eyes were darker, the soft brown nearly black.

Letting go of his shirt, you pushed yourself out of his arms and stepped back. His arms dropped to his sides and you could see his chest rising as his breaths grew heavier. His eyes were glued to your chest, where your pebbled nipples stood in stark contrast against your thin tee shirt. For all his bravado in many other things, it never failed to surprise Frankie that you were so turned on by him, that your moans, whimpers, and screams were his doing.

You give him a flirty smile as you turned to walk around the kitchen island, letting your fingertips glide along the cool marble, and you walked over to the kitchen table. Leaning against it, you crossed your arms under your breasts, pushing them up and from where you stood, you could see a bulge forming in Frankie’s pants.

“Cat, baby?” The coyness of your smile was matched by your tone of voice.

“Yeah mijita?” His voice had taken on a raspy edge to it, sending a little shiver across your skin.

“Come here, I want to show you something.” You didn’t need to tell him twice and Frankie practically leapt over the island to stand in front of you. You laughed at his grin, akin to a little boy at Christmas time. You moved to sit on the table, letting your legs naturally fall open as you placed your hands on the table behind you. Frankie wedged himself between your thighs and you sighed as you felt your jean skirt bunch up at the top of your thighs. The warm air of the kitchen felt almost cool against the heat of your core.

“Mijita, you are killing me softly over here.” He slightly bent down so his hands were flat against the tabletop and his lips level with your own. You shimmed forward a bit so that the part of you most aching for him could feel his hardness and in return so he could feel how much he turned you on. Frankie groaned at the contact and he rolled his hips to rub up against you. You lolled your head forward to rest it against his, noses touching gently. Despite being warm, you body broke out in goosebumps as pleasure gentle coursed through your body.

After a few more rolls of his hips, Frank angled his face to kiss you, tongue darting out to lick along your lower lip. You sighed as you opened to him and as your tongues began to dance against each other, you could taste the sugar and chocolate of the cookie dough. You kissed passionately until you moved away, needing to take a breath. His plush lips tried to chase you, but you tilted your head and instead he found purchase along your beck, just under your ear.

As you drew a ragged breath, your pleasure crowding out the air in your lungs, you moan when you feel him drag his lips down your neck in those soft kisses that you so adored from him. Your nipples had grown harder and your core wetter with each touch of his skin against yours and you moved your hands from the table to his wrists, needing to feel him to anchor yourself.

“Cat.” His name came out on a sigh and as he continued to kiss down your neck, Frankie was certain he was going to lose it if you said his name again. He instead focused on covering your neck with kisses and he was grateful that you were wearing a v-neck shirt so that he could continue down into your cleavage, where he dipped his tongue between your breasts. He could taste the faint saltiness of your skin, sweat from bread making.

You moved your hands to draw up your shirt, but he stops you, his warm palms almost too hot against your wrists. He lifted his head so he could look you in the eyes – the brown in the them completely gone by now – and his teasing smile seeming almost predatory. He was plotting something, and you grinned back, letting yourself fall back on your palms. You knew he could see your breasts thrusted towards him and you bit back a smile when you heard the growl deep in his chest.

“Patience mijita.” He pulled back, taking you in – a slight sheen of sweat now covering your body and he could see the crotch of your pink panties nearly soaked through. His smile grew wider when he saw it and his mouth watered, wanting to taste everything you had to offer. He stood back and drew himself up to his fill height and you shivered in want.

Before you could admire him fully, he dropped to his knees, placing those blazing hot hands on your calves. You sat up and reached behind you to untie your apron, but he squeezed your leg.

“Stop.” It was a command, but it was soft, and you stopped, an eyebrow raised. “Leave it on.”

“Oh?” Now both eyebrows were raised and you face was split with a shit-eating grin. You could see the blush creeping into his cheeks. Your voice had a rasp to it that sent shivers down to Frankie’s toes, making them curl inside his boots. But he shrugged as you put your hands back onto the tabletop, eager to see what he has planned.

He slowly let his hands drag up your legs until they rested on your thighs, the heat practically scorching the sensitive skin there. You widened your legs, hoping to encourage him higher, but then he took his hands off you and you groaned at the lost of them. But you were moaning again when you saw him push the apron up and you reached your hand out to hold the bunched-up fabric in your hand, out of his way. He smiled.

He brought his hand up to the waistband of your skirt and popped open the button. You helped by shifting your hips so he could drag the worn denim over your hips and down your legs. Without the fabric around your hips, he brought up his hands and placed them against your inner thighs. He pressed and your legs went wider.

You dropped your head back and let out a breathy moan as you felt Frankie’s tongue slide up the cloth of your panty-covered slit. The extra pressure on your clit made your hips jerk and you could feel his smile against you. He did it again and then a third time and by now your panties were so soaked, they clung to your core.

He continued to pleasure you with his tongue, the once smooth fabric feeling rough against your sensitive clit. Suddenly he stopped, and you whimpered, knowing you were so close to your climax. You opened your eyes and looked down at him, noticing that he was watching you with lust-filled lust orbs. Frankie raised his hands to your hips again and tugged at your panties. Dropping the apron, you pushed up on your arms to give you leverage to raise your pelvis and he swiftly dragged the cloth down your legs.

The minute they landed on the ground, Frankie dove under the apron and back between your legs, licking furiously at your clit and the sudden rush of pleasure sent your whole-body vibrating. You body bowed forward and your hands, seemingly on their own, yanked at the fabric to grab onto his head.

The fine hairs of his head felt like silk against your skin, almost as silky as his tongue on you. As you began to shiver from the building of your climax, he moved a hand from your thigh and sunk two fingers into your core, you wet heat surrounding him. The soft fabric of the apron brushed against his neck and ears and added with the other sensations, his cock throbbed painfully.

“Oh god, Cat!” His name ripped from your throat on a sob as you raced towards your orgasm, almost scared of how strong the waves of pleasure were that rolled through you. He pumped his hand a few more times as he sucked on the very part of your anatomy that screamed for attention and you screamed as the tension inside of you broke. Frankie could feel your walls clench around his fingers, almost painfully, and he lapped up everything you gave him. Your hips jerked violently as your aftershocks rolled through you in quick succession.

After what seemed like forever, you untangled your fingers from his hair and pushed him away; the sensitivity you felt was almost painful. He rocked back on his heels and looked up at you, so incredibly turned on by the flush that colored your skin and god, that keening scream you gave when you came just sent a thousand watts of pleasure to his cock. He was so hard, and he wanted nothing more than bury himself so deep inside of you that he felt nothing else in this world.

He spent years chasing highs – the military, his helicopter, even the coke. But none seemed parallel to how he felt with you and Frankie was certain he could bed you every day until he died, and he still wouldn’t get enough of you. He stood on shaky legs, every heaving pant out of your mouth making his skin feel tighter and hotter.

You head, which had been hanging down, rolled to the side and then backwards so that you were looking up at him. God, this man was so beautiful to you and watching the lust on his face as he stood there just looking at you was intoxicating. No man had ever made you feel so wanton and hedonistic as him.

You reached out an arm to drag your hand across the bulge in his pants and the heat of his erection felt scorching through his jeans. His hips jerked at your touch and you could hear the hiss of his breath as he sucked inwards.

“Where do you want your cock, Cat?” You raised your eyebrow at him, and he groaned. You were the girl next door especially with that damned apron on, but god, your mouth was something out of his most deprave fantasies. And you knew it. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

He groaned at the pun as he moved forward. You grabbed the front of his shirt to bring him close and he slightly stumbled against you, that heavy erection pressed up where you wanted him most. But you were always a generous soul.

“What do you want, Cat? Do you want me to suck your cock or do you want to fuck my pussy?” He moaned through gritted teeth. God, you weren’t playing fair.

“Pussy. I want to fuck you so bad.” His eyes were closed now as he was willing everything in him not to come just yet, he had to feel you surrounding him. He wanted to feel the wet heat that haunted his dreams. He didn’t need to tell you twice as your hands made quick work of his belt and then his pants. You reached inside his boxers and you pulled out his erection.

You let your hand ghost over his cock and Frankie grabbed your wrist, the grip almost painful. You drew back and again, propped yourself onto the tabletop, pulling up the apron and widened your thighs in silent invitation. He took it eagerly and notched his head against you. You looked into each other’s eyes as he slowly filled you, your walls stretching almost deliciously.

When he bottomed out, you both paused for a moment and you bowed your heads towards each other so your lips could brush against each other. Frankie wrapped his arms around you, drawing you closer to him so that you were flush from chest to crotch. You brought your hands to his upper

You rolled your hips against him, flexing against his thick cock. He took the hint and pulled back before plunging back into you. You groaned at the sensation; the sound captured by his lips. Soon his easy thrusts began to pick up steam and you pulled away from him to catch your breath, which he robbed you of with every movement of his hips.

Soon you could feel your pleasure building from gentle laps to cresting waves and you knew he felt it too because his hips began to lose their steady rhythm. You tightened your thighs at his waist and your arms at his shoulders.

“Cat. Make me come, I want to feel you.” The words came out on a breathy moan and he buried his face into your neck, nodding in response. He dropped a hand between your bodies and brushed his fingers against your clit. Your moaned. “Yes, like that, baby.”

“Fuck, mijita, you’re killing me.” He ground out the words as he began to thrust faster, his fingers matching pace with his cock. “I fucking love you, you know that?”

“Yes!” The waved broke and your orgasm washed over you, curling your toes. As you bowed into him, your fingers clutched his arms even harder and you both knew your nails were going to leave marks. “Cat, I love you so much, oh god!”

Like before, your aftershocks tore through your words stutter through you. You could feel Frankie stiffening as he came, his groan deep and guttural. As the last of your orgasm petered out, you dropped your head to his shoulder, and he did the same to you. Your heavy breaths mixed together between you.

After several long minutes, Frankie felt like sensation was coming back to his body and he slowly withdrew from you, even as your thighs tightened against the loss. He kissed you gently on the forehead after he pulled away from you, before walking over and grabbing a paper towel.

After gently wetting it, he came back over to clean you up and you pressed gentle kisses to his temple and cheek as he did so. He returned to wash his hands after slipping his cock back inside his pants. You sat a few minutes longer to let sensation return to your legs before sliding off the table to put your panties and skirt back on.

Frankie came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder. You laid your hands on his forearms and bumped your head against his. You stood like that for only a moment before the timer pinged at you, causing you both to jump at the shrill sound in the quiet kitchen. You laughed.

“Hey Cat?”

“Yeah mijita?”

“Care to give me a helping hand?”

“Always.”

#francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #fanfic #triple frontier

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jawritter · 4 years

Text

Broken me...

Ch. 11 1/2.. LOL... The deleted chapter... Because tumblr hates me...

Summery: The Dallas Convention couldn't have come at a worse time for Jensen. His world fell apart earlier that morning, but was expected to just act like everything was normal. You and a friend were at the convention for her birthday. Life hasn't been that great for you either, but a forced meeting on stage changes two worlds. Will you be able to put this broken man back together again...

Series Warings: Cheating, shitty marriage, Danneel is a bitch, I unfortunatly have to put that as a warning because some people tend to get turnt up about it if you don’t... Smut, Crying, Suiside Attempt, brief discription of suicide attempt and recovery, depression, hints of self loathing, language. I think that’s it... Suicide Trigger warnings will be placed over each chapter!

Chapter Warnings: ***SUICIDE ATTEMPT*** If this kind of thing bothers you!! This might trigger you!! Overdose, brief discription of medicial Intervention because of suicide attempt.. language, angst, this is overall a tough one yall..

Word Count: 2117

A/N: BINGE READ TIME!! As always all mistakes are mine! Please do not copy my work! Feedback is gold!! Hope you all enjoy this one!!

Want More? Check out my masterlist!!

****MASTERLIST****

Your POV:

Things had seemingly gone well at Jensen’s parents. His family all seemed nice enough. Jensen seemed to be enjoying himself as well. He acted like he didn’t want to leave, but the two of you were headed back to Austin for one more night before you both had to fly back to Vancouver for Jensen to start filming.

It was a roughly a three hour drive from Dallas to Austin. Depending on the traffic. Jensen’s upbeat mood he’d been in sense we got to Austin had seemed to be gone from the moment he got back behind the wheel of the car.

He was quiet on the ride home.

Which was a little unsettling.

You tried to shove it off…

‘He’s just tired. He will feel better in the morning.'

So you kept quiet. Giving him his space. Even though you couldn’t shake the feeling deep in the pit of your stomach that said something wasn’t right..

When you both finally walked back through the front door it was late, almost one in the morning, and you were so tired from the events of the day, meeting his family, to the six hour drive round trip, to your own worrying which you knew was probably senseless, that you just wanted to do nothing more than to fall face first into the bed..

“I’m gonna go grab a shower, and then I’m headed to bed.” You tell him, giving him a peck on the check. He smiled tiredly at you. Reaching over and grabbing your waist, pulling you between his long bowed legs as he made himself comfortable on the barstool in the kitchen..

“Okay, I’m gonna stay up a little bit. Wind down from the drive.” He said, placing his head against your stomach, holding on to you as if he let you as if it were the last time he’d ever have you in his arms again…

That seemed odd, but again you brushed it off…

“O… Okay..”

Jensen stands up, wrapping you in his arms, pulling you into a deep passionate kiss. Making your knees go weak. His grip on you a little tighter than it usually was..

“I love y/n.” He says when he finally breaks the kiss. A strange look in his eyes. Like something in him was…

Off…

Wrong…

Broken…

Missing…

Something that wasn’t there when you arrived in Austin just a few days ago, but you had noticed a hint of it at the dinner table today at his parents house….

“I love you too.” You tell him as he let go of you. “You okay?”

Jensen nodded his head and gave you a tight smile.

“Yeah baby I’m fine, go on to bed.”

Looking back over your shoulder as you walk away you yell back at him. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, handsome!"

You hear him chuckle lightly as you head quickly to your shower.

He was fine, surely you were just imagining things, making something out of nothing because you were tired… Or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself as you took your shower.. Your nerves seemed to be buzzing, and you couldn’t quite figure out why…

After your shower you changed into a pair of pj pants, and one of Jensen old shirts. Crawling into bed you laid there for a few minutes.

The house was quiet…

Jensen still hasn’t come to bed…

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong…

That look, the way he was acting all the way home from Dallas. What he did when you got home…..

Panic rises in your chest like a growing storm…

You’d seen this type of behavior before…

How the hell did you miss it?

Throwing the covers off, and shooting out of the bed, run toward the kitchen where you left Jensen, heart pounding in your ears from panic.

You brother acted this way…The last time you saw him alive…

Right before he took his own life…

No one in your family knows why he did it. He never left a note, but he acted all overly happy two days before the night he left mom’s house. Drunk. Quite. Telling everyone he loved them….

He lost the battle with anxiety and depression that night…

You almost didn’t survive the funeral. The two of you were close. Still you never saw it coming. He never said anything. Depression is a silent killer. You learned that the hard way…

You search the entire bottom floor. Calling his name. He was nowhere to be found. You run out to the pool and backyard. He wasn’t there either. You run back into the house heading to the second floor. You see the light on in JJ’s room. You call his name, but get no answer….

Your heart is beating so fast you think it might explode as you approach the door…

With shaking hands you grab the nob, and open the door, looking around the room at first you think he’s not there either.

Walking around the bed you see a pair of boots and legs sprawled out in an awkward position on the floor. A whiskey bottle and two bottles of pills laying on the floor next to his feet…

………………………………………

Jensen’s POV:

Blackness…

Or at least that’s all that was left, until that annoying beeping started somewhere off in the distance, growing louder and louder with each passing minute..

He could hear voices off in the distance, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying..

Many times he’d acted out "his death”. Having played a character for years on TV that had not only died more times than most people could count, but had also gone to hell…Actually he figured that’s where he’d find himself…

This…. He wasn’t sure what this was…

His throat felt like it had been ripped to pieces from the inside out. He was nauseas as hell. His whole body literally hurt. Every joint. Every muscle.

Maybe I was in hell…

He was afraid to open his eyes. Afraid of where he’d find himself…

The more he came to himself, it felt like someone was holding and rubbing his hand.

‘Y/n?’

‘She’s not dead, this isn’t right, something is wrong?’

Slowly things started coming back to him…

Flashes of what happened after he’d tried to end his own life…

You screaming…

Someone he couldn’t see trying to do CPR on him in what he assumed was an ambulance…

Really bright lights and a searing pain in his chest as they tried to shock him back on an operating table…

A tub being rammed down his throat, pumping a thick black liquid into him… Then the same tub pulling out the contents of his stomach…

His entire body shaking uncontrollably…

People running around the table he was laying on yelling at each other… Trying to save him……

No this can’t be real. This had to be a nightmare……….

Slowly he opened his eyes for the first time in what was probably days. At first all he could see was blinding light, and blur as his eyes adjusted…

“Jensen!! Jensen!! Look at me baby! Can you hear me?!!"

Hearing you call his name Jensen looked blindly towards the sound of your voice.. You sound panicked… This was his fault… This shouldn’t be.. He’d done this.. He caused this…

He felt your hand on the side of his face as his eyes adjusted, and the invisible, black weight that was holding him down to his bed started to slowly lift. Letting his eyes adjust to your face…

‘Why the hell did I do something so stupid?! How could I hurt her like this?!’

"Jared, he’s awake, get the nurse.” She said, looking across the room to his best friend. Who he heard run toward the door.

“He’s awake!”

Your POV:

“Y/n you need to go back to Jensen’s, and get some sleep.” Jared said ,looking at you like you might drop dead from exhaustion at any moment.

“The doctors said he’s stable, and when he’s ready he will wake up. This is just the body’s way of dealing with the trauma he’s put himself through."

Jared meant well, but you weren’t going anywhere.

"There is no way in hell I’m leaving him. I’m going to be here when he wakes up.” You say through your teeth. Lack of sleep makes you easily annoyed.

It had been two days since you found Jensen in his daughter’s room. He still hadn’t woken up. The doctors all swear that he will when he’s ready. Part of you feels guilty that you couldn’t see the signs that were right there in front of you. You were kicking yourself for leaving him and going to bed that night. So you were determined to be there when he finally was ready to wake up again.

That, and everytime you close your eyes you see his body seizing on the ER room gurney…

Doctor holding him down, and shoving tubs filled with charol down his throat…

They had to pump his stomach to make sure all the stuff he’d swallowed was not in him anymore…

Three more minutes, if you had just laid there for three more minutes in bed that night before getting up to go and find him, it would have been too late…

You grabbed his hand like you had done countless times in the past two days. Running small circles across his hand with your thumb.

For just a moment you thought you saw his face twitch, but you were probably just imagining things. The longer you sat there watching him, ignoring Jared complaining something about how you were no good to Jensen if you had to be hospitalized yourself.. The more you thought you could see movement…

All the sudden like you had been praying they’d do for a little over 48 hours now Jensen’s eyes fluttered open and searched around the room blindly.

Shooting to your feet so fast that the chair you were sitting shoved back you placed your hand on the side of his face..

“Jensen! Jensen! Look at me baby can you hear me?!"

His eyes rolled back into his head before refocusing several times, fighting to stay continuous as he searched for you, and when he finally found you tears were already streaming out of his bloodshot eyes. Jared was standing frozen next to the window on the opposite side of the room in just as much shock it seemed as you were..

"Jared, he’s awake! Go get the nurse!” You said, afraid to take your eyes off of Jensen, not knowing if he was in pain or not.

His mouth moved, but no sound came out, and you started to panic.

Finally it hit you.

He’s probably hoarse from the tubes.

You grabbed the glass with a straw in it that was sitting on his tray, and poured it into the cup. Sitting the bed up some you put the straw to his lips, and he turned his head away from it..

“Come on baby please! It will help.” You said, and he looked at you like you’d asked him to walk across hot coals.

Then reluctantly put the straw in his mouth. Taking a small test pull at first. Then taking deep pulls on the straw. Realizing how thirsty he actually was. When it was gone he finally croaked the word “more” out. You quickly refilled the glass, and put it back to his lips. Watching him closely as Jared ran back into the room with about four nurses.

“Good. Your drinking. How are you feeling Mr. Ackles?” The charge nurse asked. Checking his vitals and the monitors that were next to the bed.

He said nothing. Just sat there with a death grip on your hand and staring at his lap.

“Mr. Ackles, do you remember how you got here?” She asked, and he only nodded his head yes.

You’d never seen him so down…

So defeated…

It was heartbreaking…

“Well, because of what you did you are being placed on a 48 hour suicide watch before you are released to your care takers. You will be required by law to see a therapist. Since it’s illegal to kill yourself your also looking at a pretty hefty fine I’m sure.” She went on telling him what he had to face in the next 48 hours.. Once it had been settled that he was no longer with Danneel, and he signed the papers putting you as his support system, and caretaker for the extended future, or at least until he was cleared by the therapist. She finally left the room with the other nurses, leaving the three of you alone..

He just sat there. Still clinging to your hand, and not looking at you or Jared in the eye. No matter what you said or asked him. The hospital staff came every hour to check on him, and there was a nurse sitting at a desk outside his door.

Jared went and got his favorite takeout, and brought it back to Jensen and yourself before leaving for the evening to help Gen and the babysitter in hope that he’d eat, but he wasn’t really all that interested, and after a few bites gave up completely on eating it…

Everytime Jared asked Jensen why he wouldn’t talk he’d just point to his throat. So neither of you wanted to press the matter. Afraid it would hurt him worse than help him…

Once Jared was gone Jensen looked at you sitting in the chair next to his bed. Tears running down his face again. The look of someone that was being torched alive.

“I’m so sorry…” He finally got out. His voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper.

You were on you feet in an instant. Dropping the side rail on the bed. He slid over for you to slide in next to him.

He immediately put his head on your shoulder.

Exhausted, broken, and defeated.

Three things he should have never been.

“There isn’t a damn thing you need to be sorry about.” You tell him. Running your hands through his hair. Grateful that you were still able to do this. That you could still reach up, and run your hands through his hair. Touch his face. Feel his breath on your neck.

"I love you Jensen. I’m gonna be right here with you the whole way through this.” You tell him as he nuzzles himself into the bend of your neck.

“I love you to y/n. Please, please don’t give up on me."

Exhaustion was hitting him. Sleep trying to reclaim him. He’d been awake for a long time. You didn’t realize it was almost midnight until you looked at the TV playing silently in the corner..

"I’m not going anywhere, and there is no way in hell I’ll ever give up on you.”

Jensen’s POV:

The biggest mistake he’d ever made in his life still wasn’t an accurate excuse for what he felt like he’d done.. He’d let hurt feelings, fear, and depression lie to him. Convince him that you’d be better off without him..

He felt like he was Drowning.

The little voice in his head telling him over and over again that you’d be better off if he’d never come into your life.. Never came and knocked on your hotel door.. Never pulled you up on that stage.. .

At least then you’d be able to have a normal life.

A life without people stalking.

Taking pictures of your every move.

Social media attacks.

All those things you never deserved.

He’d never get his kids back from Danneel.

He’d always be broken.

Like a Drowning person with no hope he thought he’d find his relief in death. That way the suffocating pain would stop.

In truth it wouldn’t have stopped. He would have just passed it on to his kids, you, Jared, and everyone else that loves him. The scars inside him are permanently there, but that doesn’t mean he can ever give up again. He can never stop fighting. People he loves counted on him to keep going, even when he didn’t want too…

As he fell asleep in your arms he thanked God for another chance.

He knows this battle within himself isn’t over. It’s just beginning to even surface, but at least he knows for sure now that he’s not alone.

You said you’d never leave him. No one has ever said that before and meant it.

He knows though that you mean it.

He will make it up to you for doing this to you. He felt like he owed you his very life. If you’d just gone to bed, and not come looking for him. He would have lost everything.

The thought of losing you is something he never wants to face again, especially at his own hand…

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muchadoaboutbucky · 4 years

Text

Old Wounds, New Scars (oneshot)

PAIRING: Bucky x Reader WARNINGS: brief description of injury, surgery-related ptsd, comfort fluff, talk of therapy, smut NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy. Do not save or repost my work without my consent. Image credit. 18+ only.

Bucky’s terrified of doctors. Anything that comes with the smell of antiseptic and the glare of bright lights on white walls and metal tables is a significant trigger. He’s a little more comfortable when you go with him, but his fight-or-flight instincts skyrocket regardless.

This appointment is a little more invasive than usual. When he’d had his old arm, he’d apparently fought to claw it out, gouging deep into his own body around where it was attached to his shoulder and pectoral. The injuries had left him with deep scars that, over time, healed into long, raised marks that he hates to touch or even look at. To add to his discomfort, the battle with Thanos two years before had resulted in his vibranium arm taking a bad hit from an explosive. The metal, of course, was unaffected, but the bone joint of his shoulder has gotten too painful for him to ignore.

The only option for remediating both of his afflictions is surgery. That means doctors, which means Bucky’s scared.

He’s in a private room at New York Presbyterian, pacing back and forth with his arms folded across his chest. The doctors have given him a gown to dress in, but he feels too exposed, especially with the four security cameras constantly monitoring him. The room is reinforced, meant to house enhanced individuals with various abilities. Knowing that he’s trapped in a room he can’t escape only makes him more anxious.

“Buck.”

He glances towards the sound of your voice, sees you perched on the edge of the bed. You’ve been watching him the whole time, barely able to do anything but brace for an explosion of panic. It’s three forty-eight, and the doctors are due to collect him for surgery promptly at four. The minutes are ticking down and he’s only getting more scared.

“Yeah?”

You pat the bed next to you. “Come here.”

“No.” He shakes his head, glancing up at the clock for the upteenth time. “I need to walk.”

“You need to settle down.” Your tone might sound firmer than it needs to be, but Bucky’s reached the point where simply being his kind, gentle wife isn’t going to work. “Come here and sit. Hold my hand.”

He shuffles over, lowering himself onto the stiff mattress. The restraints hang from the steel posts, thick cuffs reinforced with iron buckles. They’re strong enough to hold him, and he flinches at the idea of being tied down.

You gather his vibranium hand into yours and reach up to thread your other fingers through his hair. He leans in, resting his cheek on your shoulder with a deep sigh.

“I hate it here.”

“I know.” You kiss his forehead soothingly, tone growing softer. “But this isn’t HYDRA, baby. They’re good doctors who wanna help you.”

He swallows. His flesh hand fists in the rough fabric of his hospital gown. “How long will it take? I forgot.”

He hasn’t forgotten. He just wants to hear it coming from you. “The doctors said two hours, tops,” you reply. “And when you wake up we’ll be going home, okay?”

He nods slowly, closing his eyes as the clock continues to tick down the seconds. Finally, just when he’s relaxed into you with his nose buried in your hair, the buzzer on the heavy metal door creaks open and he jerks his head over his shoulder so fast you’re sure he’s given himself whiplash.

“Easy.” You reach out to steady him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Two hours and it’s over, Buck.”

He eyes the doctors as they ease into the room with a surgical gurney. Restraints identical to those on the bed hang from the handrails.

“Don’t leave me,” he says, voice low and quaking.

“I’ll go as far as they’ll let me,” you assure him. “And when you wake up I’ll be right there.”

You hold his flesh hand as he climbs onto the gurney. His eyes never leave yours as the doctors fix the restraints around his wrists and ankles. It’s just a precaution, just to prevent him from trying anything between here and the O.R.. With your hand still clenched in his, you walk by his side towards the doors to the operating room. He heaves a quick sigh as the attendants come to a stop, and you bend low to kiss him.

“Two hours,” you remind him, “and then we can go home.”

He swallows thickly and closes his eyes as the attendants wheel him through, and the moment he’s out of sight, you hurry back to the recovery room, tugging your phone from your bag.

You’re going to need backup.

***

Sam gets down to the recovery room an hour later. He’s got two cups of Starbucks with him, and you gratefully take yours when he extends it.

“How long has be been in?” He asks, lowering himself onto the bench next to you.

“Just since I called,” you reply, sipping your drink and closing your eyes. “He was terrified.”

Sam nods in agreement. “I didn’t expect it to be easy for him. You afraid he might snap?”

“I don’t know.” You sigh heavily. “The doctors said the anesthesia could affect his memory slightly, but it’s Bucky… he’s a strong guy, but all it takes is the right triggers and he’ll…”

Sam rubs a palm against his jeans. “He’ll be all right. It’s been six months, he’s been goin’ to therapy, he’s been doing everything right.”

You remain silent, unable to do anything but swallow the emotion that wants to break free.

True to the surgeon’s word, Bucky’s out of surgery in just an hour and thirty two minutes. The scar tissue was an easy cosmetic fix, and the injury to his shoulder only required a simple adjustment to fully realign his shoulder joint with the vibranium socket of his prosthetic. He’ll have to take it easy for a couple of weeks, but overall, he should be just fine.

He’s placed back in the recovery room to wake up from the anesthesia on his own. You and Sam watch him sleep through the thick panes of glass as the doctors work around him, checking his vitals and recording notes in their logs. He looks peaceful, but you know that when he wakes up, it’ll most likely be a different story.

You’ve just reclined back on the bench when a loud crash echoes from inside Bucky’s room, closely followed by an anguished yelp.

“Who are you!? Get off me!”

He’s writhing on the bed, straining at the heavy restraints that bind him. One doctor is clutching his wrist to his chest; Bucky had evidently caught it in his vibranium grip. You reach for the doorknob, but Sam pulls you back.

“Y/N, he’s not balanced,” he warns, “let them calm him down—”

“He won’t calm down,” you protest, tugging out of his grip, “they’ll only hurt him more.”

You storm through the doors, kicking a stand of instruments out of your way as you rush towards his bed. One nurse attempts to hold you back.

“Ma’am, we have this under control, you need to stay back—”

“I’m his wife, damn it!” You shove past them as Bucky lets out a panicked yell, his struggle growing more and more violent. “Bucky! Baby, hey…”

He jerks away from your touch, eyes lit with a combination of fear and rage, but when you bend low, holding his face against your shoulder, he freezes. He can smell your jasmine perfume and feel the texture of your hair on his face.

It’s not HYDRA. It’s just you.

The sob he lets out almost breaks your heart, and you reach down to grip his flesh hand in yours. His breathing is heavy and ragged in his throat, and you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes at the sound of his distress.

“Shhh,” you soothe him gently, fingers running through his hair. “It’s okay, baby, I’m right here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

You lift your head, nodding at the doctor with a syringe full of sedatives. Quietly, she steps forward and injects the medication into Bucky’s IV. Within seconds, he goes limp, head falling back against the pillow. Gently, you wipe the tears from his cheeks and press a kiss to his forehead.

“We’ll be home soon,” you promise quietly.

***

Bucky wakes up in your bed at home. The sun’s shining through the sheer curtains, casting shafts of light onto the light bedspread. He’s been redressed in a pair of gray sweats, and the bandages from his operation lay thick and heavy on his left shoulder. He can’t move his vibranium arm without feeling an ache.

“Hey, he’s awake.”

He glances to his right. Sam’s sitting in the heavy chair, a Men’s Health magazine in one hand. “Hey,” he croaks back. “What time is it?”

Sam checks his watch. “Just past nine. You’ve been out a long time. You feelin’ okay?”

Bucky gives a tentative shrug. His shoulder aches, and he feels a taut well of emotion filling his throat. “Where’s Y/N?”

“Kitchen,” Sam replies. “Told her I’d keep watch while she made breakfast. She’s been up all night makin’ sure you’re good.”

Bucky swallows. His throat’s dry, and he’s having a hard time keeping his voice steady. “Can you get her, please?”

“Yeah. I gotta head out, but I’m just a phone call away, you got that?” Sam waits for his friend to give a short nod before he pats his uninjured shoulder and walks out of the room. A minute later, Bucky hears your light footsteps on the carpet. You slip into the room, not bothering to close the door as you beeline for his side of the bed.

“Hey.” You cup his face gently and peer into his eyes.

At the feeling of your smooth palms on his cheeks, Bucky gives in to the knot in his throat. Tears blur his vision, and he wants nothing more than to pull you into bed with him and hold on tight forever and ever. “I don’t want to do that ever again.”

You let him cry, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. “You don’t have to. It’s going to be okay, baby, you’re home.”

Bucky wraps his arm around you, fingers clenching tight into the fabric of your tee-shirt as he lets go of a shuddering breath. You feel his tears wet on your shirt, and all you can do is hold him and allow him to show this sliver of emotion.

You wait until he’s calmed, his breathing resuming its usual slow, deep rhythm. “Do you want to call your therapist?”

Bucky swallows thickly. “I can’t leave the house.”

“You can do a video call.” You pull back to run your thumbs over his cheeks, wiping away the tears that fall. “I’m making breakfast, do you want me to bring you something? We can find something to watch and just stay in bed.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

***

You spend the rest of the day in bed. He’s calmed by the scent of jasmine and the feeling of your body tucked against his. Around five, Bucky’s stomach growls, and you break away to let him finish an episode of The Great British Bake-Off to whip up something for dinner. When he’s able to stand, he shuffles slowly into the bathroom to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. He’s just turned the tap off when he looks up into the mirror.

God, he looks awful. Dark circles under pink-rimmed eyes. Pale skin. He’s let his hair grow long again, and it looks wild and scraggly… he needs a trim, and soon.

He starts the shower and lowers the wooden bench. Ordinarily he’d stand, but he’s still tired and it’s easier to reach the handheld showerhead. It only takes him a few minutes to lather his hair with shampoo and scrub as much of his body as he can with his good arm. Luckily, he manages to avoid getting his bandages wet, and he dries himself off before retreating back to the bedroom.

By the time you bring dinner, he’s dressed in a simple pair of boxer briefs and gotten back under the covers. He sighs appreciatively at the smell of spaghetti and tomato sauce, and he cradles his larger bowl (he still has a supersoldier appetite) on his lap, biting into large forkfuls of pasta until only a few swipes of red sauce remain.

“Good?” you ask jokingly, setting both your dishes on the bedside table.

He smiles. “I feel much better. Thank you.”

“Mm. I love cooking.” You lean in to kiss him. “Especially for my husband.”

“I thought women didn’t like doing that stuff anymore,” he jokes.

You giggle against his lips. “Women like to do whatever they want.”

Bucky smiles and loops his arm around your waist, dragging you closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You can’t help but blush when he scrapes his teeth over the pulse point on your neck. It’s something he only does when he’s craving intimacy. “Baby, are you sure?”

He nods slowly. “It’s been a rough couple days. Could use the release.”

With a soft sigh, you slide one leg over his hips. Bucky lets out a soft huff against your mouth; due to your schedules, it’s been a few weeks since you’ve been intimate, and he’d be lying if he said it hasn’t been bothering him.

He’s dragged from his thoughts by the feeling of your warm hand sneaking into his briefs, stroking his shaft until he’s hard and throbbing. He lifts his hips enough for you to get the thick waistband down, and you slip your panties off before reaching up to strip your shirt over your head.

“Damn.” Bucky traces his thumb over one nipple and gazes up at you. His eyes flutter closed when you rub the tip of him against your warmth. His hand floats down to hold your waist, fingers digging into soft flesh.

“Just relax,” you whisper, “lemme do the work.”

Bucky hums, sucking in a deep breath as you lower yourself down. His lips part, and when he feels your slick, wet heat fully wrapped around him, he can’t hold back a loud moan of pleasure. You watch, palms braced on his chest as he gathers himself, cheeks flushing pink.

“Feel good?” you ask playfully.

He nods quickly. “Yeah… God, you’re so warm.”

He gives a little push with his hips, and you take his hint, settling into a slow, steady rhythm. He follows the steady rocking of your body, emitting little gasps and groans as waves of pleasure swell and recede. You don’t ask for more, just give him what he needs in silence.

When he decides that the simple teasing isn’t enough, he slips his hand down between your legs, pressing his thumb over your sensitive nub. You tense, squeezing around him, and he smiles when you let out a soft whimper and grind against him a little faster.

You climax together in a single explosive moment, bodies shuddering and clenching as Bucky pours into you, a low moan leaving his throat. He clutches at you, holding you down tight until he’s given you everything and your rapid contractions have subsided.

“Hey,” he pants, gazing up through half-lidded eyes. “You all here?”

You nod and slump down on his chest, lifting your head to meet him in a kiss. “I think we needed that.”

“Me too.” He chuckles and runs his hand down your back. “Baby.”

“Mm.”

“Thanks for not…” he swallows, “y’know… thinkin’ less of me.”

You frown. “Why would I think less of you, Buck?”

“Dunno.” He sighs. “Just… for a little bit, I thought you might be getting fed up with all my crap.”

“Don’t say that.” You run a finger over his lips. “I’ve known about your issues for the last three years, Buck. When we got married, I said ‘in sickness and in health,’ you remember that?”

He closes his eyes. “I just thought… I dunno. Must be my head gettin’ away from me again.”

“I’m never leaving.” You brush a lock of hair off his forehead. “This was just a rough spot. We’ll get through it, we always do.”

He smiles and kisses you again. “How did I get so lucky to find a girl like you, hmm?”

Your cheeks flush hot. “Guess you were just in the right place at the right time.”

If you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are much appreciated!

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imjustthemechanic · 3 years

Photo

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake

Peggy and the real Agent Russel look into Miss Lake’s apartment, and find an unusual apology.

Both Peggy and Russel spent their mornings with a sketch artist, getting their memories of the mysterious woman’s face down on paper so they could be compared. When the two drawings were finally placed side by side, Peggy was not at all surprised to see they could very well be the same person. The woman who called herself ‘Kay’ had a pleasant oval face with a short, turned-up nose, the flawless skin Russel had already mentioned, and full lips that she accentuated with dramatic lipstick. She was, Peggy observed, not so much strikingly beautiful in herself as somebody who knew her own good best features and how to emphasize them.

Dottie had been very much the same.

With that done, Peggy was finally able to stop by at a diner for some breakfast, though it was nearly lunch time and her stomach was growling fiercely. Russel went with her.

“You’ve been eating all morning,” Peggy reminded him when he ordered the breakfast platter – bacon, eggs, sausages, potatoes, tomatoes, pancakes, and toast.

“I was in the trunk of my car for twenty-four hours, Agent Carter,” he replied. “I could eat a horse.”

“I think you already did. Have you called your wife?” Peggy asked.

He looked sheepish. “I asked one of the police to do it for me.”

Mrs. Russel had probably loved that. “How did that go?”

“I don’t know yet and I’m not sure I want to.”

“Mmm,” was all Peggy said. It was a strange thing… men often treated their wives as foolish annoyances, yet at the same time they could be utterly terrified of them, as if women were less people than they were forces of nature. “Well, perhaps you can consider it a learning experience.”

“Damned right,” Russel said. Peggy wondered what he thought he’d learned.

“I suppose I’m going to have to go over the whole story of my interactions with Miss Underwood again,” Peggy remarked, as the waitress set their breakfasts on the table. Oddly, it seemed less daunting now… as if telling it to the spy had been a reassuring practice run.

Russel cut himself a large square out of the edge of his pancakes and dipped it in syrup before stuffing it in his mouth. “Save it for the next guy, Agent Carter,” he said around the mouthful. “Call it a hunch but I think I’m about to be taken off this case.”

At least he was a realist, Peggy observed. She sat quietly for a moment as he devoured sausages whole, then reached into her bag and took out the envelope. “Agent Russel,” she said, “I believe our mutual friend may have given this to me. Did she get it from you?”

He looked up at the envelope and frowned. “I don’t think so. What’s in it?”

“A piece of paper with six numbers on it,” Peggy replied. “Seventy-nine, forty-seven, thirty-five, ninety-five, twenty-five, three.” They had burned themselves into her brain. She would never forget them, any more than she would have forgotten her own name. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Russel shook his head. “A code?” he suggested, and thought for a moment. “Latitude and longitude?”

“It’s an island in Northern Canada, I already looked it up,” Peggy said. “There’s nothing but sea ice for miles.” Would that mean anything to him? Did he know of her association with Steve?

He shrugged. “The only thing I can suggest is call the Canadians and ask them to take a look.”

Not his, then… and he hadn’t known the name Olga Barynova. Had the latter been a slip, or had ‘Kay’ deliberately fed her information? And what in the world could be the meaning of the coordinates coming from a likely Soviet operative? Before she placed any long-distance phone calls to Canada, Peggy really needed to find this woman. The only question was, having done so, would they be able to get any information out of her?

Peggy had told Daniel where she’d be, so it wasn’t a surprise when one of the policemen came into the diner and approached their table. “Agents?” he said. “We traced that phone number.”

“Yes?” Peggy perked up. She wouldn’t be surprised to find out it led to a pay phone, but that could at least be dusted for prints.

The man handed Agent Russel a piece of notepaper. “It belongs to a room above the Botticelli Gardens nightclub on Hollywood Boulevard. Some of the waitresses live up there. The woman who keeps the records, Mrs. Lowe, said room four was rented to a woman named Katherine Lake.”

Agent Russel opened his mouth, but Peggy got there first. “Did you show her the sketches?” she asked.

“That’s what I was going to ask,” said Russel.

“Not yet,” the policeman said.

“Then I’ll head over there at once,” said Peggy.

Russel nodded and held up a hand. “Waitress!” He snapped his fingers. “Can I get the rest of this to go?”

“I thought you were being taken off the case,” Peggy reminded him.

“I’ve got a personal interest now.”

“Is that a personal interest in apprehending this Miss Lake, or a personal interest in avoiding your wife?”

“Bit of both,” he admitted.

He probably thought Peggy would need help with the investigation, she observed. She just hoped he wouldn’t get too much in the way.

The Botticelli Gardens was a located in a three-storey building designed to look from the outside like an Italian Villa, with red roofs, decorative columns, and a pair of under-watered cypress tress flanking the front doors. At this time of day they were not yet open, so Peggy and Russel went around the side to the staff entrance and knocked.

The door opened to reveal a plump middle-aged woman of mixed racial ancestry, her frizzy dark hair only just contained in a bun at the back of her neck and a pair of cat-eye glasses perched precariously on her short nose. Both Peggy and Russel held up their badges.

“Ned Russel, FBI,” he said.

“Peggy Carter, SSR,” Peggy added. “Are you Mrs. Lowe?”

The woman heaved a sigh that suggested this was not the first time law enforcement had shown up on her doorstep this week. “Yes, I’m Gladys Lowe,” she said. “Now what?”

Peggy held up the sketch of Miss Lake. “Do you know this woman?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lowe, not even surprised. “That’s Kay Lake. Arthur hired her about a week ago, but she didn’t turn up for work yesterday evening. What’d she do?”

“Besides drugging me, robbing me, and leaving me locked in the trunk of my car?” asked Russel.

“Impersonating an FBI agent to gain access to classified information,” Peggy added. “And possibly more, we’re not sure yet. May we have a look at her room, please?”

Mrs. Lowe’s eyebrows rose and she whistled. “She’s ambitious. Most of them settle for petty theft. Come in, she’s room four. Are you going to impound her belongings?” She was probably hoping to sell them.

“That depends on what we find, Mrs. Lowe,” said Peggy.

Mrs. Lowe showed them upstairs. The second floor of the Botticelli Gardens was private party rooms for the VIP clientele, but the third was set aside as living quarters for the staff. The rooms were tiny and cramped, with only one bathroom and one laundry for the lot of them. Mrs. Lowe unlocked number four and Peggy followed Agent Russel inside.

It was empty. There was a tiny bed, a nightstand, a small wardrobe, and a smaller vanity under the one grubby little window. All the drawers and cupboard doors were open, to show that there was nothing in any of them. The bedclothes were folded at the end of the mattress, so it was easy to see that there was likewise nothing under the bed. The only thing in the room that would not have been there when Miss Lake moved in was a large brown paper bag on top of the folded sheets.

Peggy and Russel exchanged a glance. “Mrs. Lowe,” said Peggy. “Do you have any idea what might be in that bag?”

“No,” was the reply.

Russel edged forward and knocked it over. It lay quietly on the mattress, showing no signs of being dangerous, and Peggy realized there was something written on it. In block capitals, somebody had written: SORRY.

“Let me do it. I have gloves,” said Peggy. She pulled them out of her purse and put them on, then very carefully unfolded the top of the paper bag. The first thing she saw inside was a leather folio… was that the one Lake had with her the other day? Peggy pulled it out and opened it, and found it did indeed contain typed pages summarizing what was known about Dorothy Underwood.

“That’s mine,” said Russel.

“I expected as much,” Peggy put it on the bed and looked into the bag again. “It appears your wallet and badge are in here, too, and a gun that I suspect is your service revolver. We’ll have to get these dusted for prints.”

“Agreed,” Russel said. “I’ll take them back to…”

“Ah-ah,” Peggy interrupted. “I’ll take them back to the SSR and have it done there. You’ve been taken off the case, remember?”

“Not officially yet,” he pointed out.

“But you’re sure it’s coming.”

Russel looked her over. “Are you always this… intense, Agent Carter?”

“Always,” Peggy assured him, with a practiced deadpan.

Peggy called Daniel, and soon after the SSR arrived in force to take a proper, more thorough look at the room while Mrs. Lowe stood there frowning disapprovingly and threatening horrible fates on anybody who damaged the furniture. Men covered everything with fingerprint powder and rapped on the floor, walls, and even the ceiling looking for secret hiding places. They found none of the latter, but were able to obtain a reasonably good set of latent prints from the various drawers and the bedposts. The size of these suggested they were a woman’s, or at least belonged to somebody with small hands. There were also a couple of blonde hairs on the bedclothes.

Unfortunately, they had no suspect to compare these to. Miss Lake probably knew that perfectly well. They would have to actually capture her before they could prove anything.

While they were busy bagging the evidence, another policeman arrived, looking for Agent Russel.

“We’ve had a call from your office,” he explained. “They want to talk to you.”

“I’m surprised it took them this long,” Russel sighed. “All right, I’ll head over.” He retrieved his hat from the hook on the back of the door of room four, and put it on. “Good luck with the case, Agent Carter… and with Miss Underwood.”

“Thank you, Agent Russel,” said Peggy, and realized she actually felt a bit sorry for him. It was true he’d been a terrible fool, but he’d never tried to deny that or pass the blame on to anybody else, and while he wanted to put off the consequences for as long as he could, he seemed to realize they were inevitable. That was more than Peggy could say for a great many people she knew, male or female. It was certainly more than she could say for herself in this mess with Dottie.

“Good luck with your wife,” she told him.

“Thanks. I’ll need it,” he replied ruefully, and left the room.

Back in the SSR offices that evening, Peggy found an opportunity when nobody seemed to be watching, and brushed fingerprint dust over the mysterious envelope. Several prints developed, and Peggy pulled out her own employee file so she could eliminate which ones were hers. Quite a few of them were… but there were others that were not, and when she examined the actual page with the numbers, she found a print of the side of a hand where it had rested while drawing the star and circles, and a palm in the upper left corner where the other hand had steadied the page.

The prints were partial, and Peggy was not an expert… but the left thumb bore a set of four interrupted lines that looked very much like a thumbprint that had been taken from one of the drawer knobs in room four.

That seemed to settle it: the envelope had indeed been left by Miss Lake. It had nothing to say, though, about the question of why. Was this a trick, an attempt to send the SSR off on a wild goose chase so that Miss Lake could track down Dottie herself without their interference? Or did the Soviets actually know where Captain America was? And if they did, what were they planning to do about it?

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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