justatoastedmuffin-blog

[justatoastedmuffin-blog]

stakeout with Mick Rory

Pairing: Mick Rory x Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Summary: you're new to the Legends, you're assigned on lookout with Mick, it's cold, and he is a gentleman (in his own Mick Rory way)

-/-/-

1982 Central London is really fucking cold.

“Sara, anything?” you ask, tugging the lapels of your jacket closer. You hope your voice doesn't carry the desperation you're feeling.

“No, not yet. Keep on lookout. We’ll give you a heads up if anything changes here.”

Somehow, you and Mick got stakeout duty, meaning: Mick drinks cheap booze while you’re the one keeping watch.

You’re both hidden in the low light of an alley, keeping an eye on Roberto Calvi’s apartment. He was supposed to die mysteriously, hung from Blackfriar bridge, but instead he was mugged, his body found with magical markings, causing an eruption in mafia activity that results in hundreds of deaths.

So far, it’s been an hour; you’re cold, tired, and a little hangry.

You rub your hands together, breathing hot air into them, but it doesn’t do much— you wish you had put on an extra layer. Gloves, socks, anything. You eye Mick's bottle of J&B Scotch Whiskey.

“It won’t help,” Mick says, catching your gaze.

“What?”

He takes a long swig. “Alcohol.”

“I know that.”

It was one of the first things in the survival guide they gave you when you joined. It only creates a sense of warmness, opening up the blood vessels near your skin, but really it takes that blood away from vital areas like your heart, kidneys, lungs, making your core temperature drop. But still, it’s tempting, if only for a momentary relief.

Another violent shiver comes up; your teeth chatter, breath drawing out shakily. You rock from foot to foot, attempting to generate some heat.

It’s hard to concentrate like this, but you have to pick up the slack from your “partner.” Sara and the others should’ve known Mick wouldn’t take this seriously, that he would just stand there tipping back bottle after bottle when there’s hundreds of lives on the line if you don’t do this job right.

You’re the youngest, the newest, you can’t afford to make a mistake.

Something heavy drops over your shoulders. It’s Mick's leather jacket. It smells of fire and ash, with a slight earthy musk. But most importantly, it’s warm.

“Thanks,” you mumble. Your breath fogs out in front of you, illuminated by the distant glow of a lamppost.

He grunts in response, looking straight ahead.

He’s wearing a solid black long-sleeve tee, and maybe it’s just the mild hypothermia getting to your brain, but it really does something for his muscles.

Forcing your gaze elsewhere— anywhere else— maybe the mission at hand, perhaps— you slot your arms through the sleeves, feeling his residual warmth seep into you. The jacket drowns out your hands, pools around your shoulders, and for a moment it heats you from somewhere deep inside.

Another half hour passes. Roberto Calvi’s apartment lights are still on, a vague figure passing back and forth from behind the curtains. Mick is on his fifth bottle, maybe sixth— you’re not too sure since the temperature’s dropped and you’ve pick up shivering again.

Mick, fed up, says, “You goin’ to let yourself freeze to death?”

“Someone has to keep watch,” you snap back.

He’s quiet for a moment, which isn’t uncommon, but usually a grunt in response is the least you get out of him. But then he says, “That lady, over there.” He gestures with a half-empty bottle. “She’s passed this alley three times in the last 20 minutes.”

“We’re being watched?”

A grunt of agreement.

Then you realize, he is keeping watch. Has been this whole time. Even with whiskey on his breath, he’s still sharper than you are sober.

You sigh, frustrated. “We should move locations, let Sara know we’re compromised.”

So you two find another vantage point, braving the cold, windy streets. Usually, you’d feel uneasy walking the streets at night like this, but with Mick behind you, an oversized guard dog, you actually feel pretty safe.

You bring your arms around yourself, hugging Mick's jacket closer. The leather material makes this little sound when it rubs against itself. It’s a sound you’ve come to recognize as distinctly Mick, but now, for a little while, the sound is on you, and something in your chest lights up with that. You smile to yourself.

Behind you, his boots scuff the sidewalk. You slow down, falling into step beside him instead.

You take this time to look around. The buildings are nothing like modern American architecture, where minimalism is injected into every streetcorner and shopping mall. Here, there are literal windowsills with more personality than most residential buildings.

You come across a cafe with an outside seating area that, while isn’t open at this time, has a good view of Roberto’s apartment. Mick sits down heavily on a two-seater bench. “We lost her.”

You want to ask if he’s sure, if maybe he’s missed something, but right now, you trust him.

You sit next to him, and another half hour passes. Without the buffer of the narrow alley way, the cold breeze cuts by you. You draw your knees up to your chest, breathing more hot air into your cupped palms.

Roberto’s apartment lights are still on, and the streets are empty save for a few cabs.

Mick sets his bottle down, holds an arm out, a silent invitation. When you don’t take it right away, he tilts his head, gives you a look.

Tentatively, you slide closer, lean into his side. Even from that small point of contact, his warmth pours into you. He’s like a human heater. And before you know it, you’re nuzzling closer, chasing that fire and ash and oil smell. Hints of shaving cream. You sigh into him.

His arm comes to rest loosely around your shoulder. Like this, you can hear his heart beating, steady.

You time your breathing with it— In, one, two, out, one, two.

Your eyes fall closed, content.

You never thought you’d end your night, or any night, like this, practically in Mick's lap.

You don’t know how much time passes like this, voices pass through your comm like ghosts.

“— worked out here, Roberto’s death should be back on track.”

“Poor guy.”

“Well, he was accused of laundering millions—”

“—honestly, what’s new.”

“Okay, guys. Mick, y/n, you two can head back to the Waverider.”

You feel Mick’s grunt of acknowledgment more than hear it. And the vague voices suddenly make sense.

You slept through the mission.

You sit up, blinking, the world still coming back to you. Your brain is fuzzy— the nice kind of fuzzy pertaining to a good nap. The horizon is a pale blue, little blobs of people are walking by, and something warm is beneath you, soft, beating, you absentmindedly smooth a hand over it.

Then you look up. You are still very attached to Mick, curled into his side with a hand on his chest, and Rory— he doesn’t smile, Mick Rory doesn’t exactly do smiles, but there is something gentle in his gaze.

And your heart does this thump-y thing.

“Sorry,” you blurt out. You scramble back, putting distance between you, already missing his warmth, wishing you hadn't moved—

Fuck.

“Well,” he says, voice quiet but holding that same characteristic roughness, “someone had to keep watch."

Fuck.

[justatoastedmuffin-blog]

soft memories

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 560

Summary: reader shifts to marvel universe and makes out with bucky. that's it. that's the fic.

-/-/-

It’s been a while since you last shifted, but you finally flopped face down onto your bed, and demanded to yourself that you would tonight.

You don’t know when exactly the shift happened, but one moment you’re visualizing— Avengers Tower, winter night, empty common room, you and Bucky watching Atlantis, sharing a thick blanket, laughing at a funny scene, him pulling you closer by the hip— and then you’re there. A laugh spilling from your throat and a warm hand on your waist.

He feels you tense beside him. “You alright, darlin’?"

You don’t answer, not trusting your voice yet, instead, you take in your surroundings. Coffee table, sofa, open floor plan, hole in the wall. The only light in the room is from the TV, you count your fingers. One through ten.

The shades are drawn over the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, but you can still picture the city beyond it— not from imagination, but from memory.

You breathe in the scent of him. Worn leather, rain, hints of cinnamon. You lean your head into his chest. Warm. He’s always warm. There’s muscle underneath his shirt. That’s warm too.

He sets the popcorn bowl onto the table so he can wrap his other arm around you. “Your heart’s beating a mile a minute,” he says, concerned.

“I just like you,” you mumble into his chest.

He chuckles. You feel it rumble. “I sure hope so,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

An explosion sounds from the TV, and you’re brought back to the movie. The team drilling their way through the caves, Atlantis surely not far now. The first half of the movie is fresh in this reality.

You look up at Bucky. His eyes are already on you. Blue and gentle. You want to brush your fingers over his rich eyebrows, smooth out the creases between them, rub a hand through his stubble. You were in the bathroom with him the last time he shaved. In the shower, more accurately. When he came in and used your clips to pin back his hair and lather the shaving cream on his face. He carried on about his upcoming mission like it was any other conversation.

That, you didn’t script.

His lips. They’re parted. You bet they’re warm too.

“Bucky,” you whisper, inching closer.

“Yes, darlin’?” He’s whispering too.

“Kiss me.” And he does.

He kisses like you are everything and he doesn't want to spill a single drop.

Another memory: he uses your chapstick. He turns and turns the tube until the chapstick is pushed far out, he purses his lips just as far and smooths it over them. You catch him doing this once and laugh at him. He looks at you, baffled, like there isn’t any other way you're supposed to do it.

That, you didn't script either.

You lick at his lower lip. It’s soft, tastes slightly of cinnamon twist. His tongue slips in and he moans. The sound goes straight to your belly. You’re straddling him before you even realize. His hands rest on your hips. Your hands are in his hair.

Another memory: he leaves tomorrow. A month-long mission. Longer if necessary. And you’re stuck at the tower until Strange can find time to train you.

But for now, you have Bucky in your arms, movie forgotten and so, so warm.