#DUNKS HIM IN AN AIR FRYER | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kashimos-hajime · 5 years

Text

aphrodite | b.b.

Summary: Bucky’s only in town for the night, and then he meets the woman who steals his heart without a second look back. Unfortunately for you, the small town girl, Bucky’s more than your heart can take.

WARNINGS: CUTE ASS FLUFF! for once, Bucky’s a little shit, unsafe motorcycle riding, pls ride with a helmet, and mentions of sex but like it ain’t that explicit, also sad ending but perhaps a pt 2? Pairing: badboy!Bucky x fem!waitress!Reader Word Count: 6.2k A/N: So I was inspired by Shawn and Camilla’s new song (Señorita) and the music video so I decided it was time to get saucy. Also, I say DEDICATE FICS TO WRITERS YOU LOVE RIGHTS. Therefore, this is dedicated to @jurassicbarnes bc i love her Masterlist

“That’ll be all for you?” you ask, scribbling down the last order of milkshake and fries for a family of three. Tapping your pen on your notepad, you put on a smile and slide the two items into your apron pocket, scooping up the menus. “Great. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” the man responds, and you let the grip on your pen slack.

“No problem, and if you need anything,” you stress the word, “please give me a call?”

“We will,” the woman assures and your eyes flicker over to her. Your lips press together in a warm smile because they don’t want your pity. Instead, you look out the windows and note the rain thundering outside the little bistro. “Hot summer rains, huh.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be a wet summer this year.”

“More fun for the little one,” you tell them as you wave at the tiny boy sitting in the woman’s lap. They chuckle before you leave them alone. Your eyes linger on the rain. You want to run out and let it fall all over you, soaking you to the skin, but you still have to work. Remembering that, you head for the kitchen and rip off the new order, hooking it on the line for Wanda.

“We’ve got a new order. Family of three with a little boy,” you tell her, leaning over the counter. Business is slow in your tiny town of yours, and everyone knows everyone. “It’s Ben and May Parker,” you clarify when Wanda arches a brow at you while she works. She’s great at micro-managing and you watch in amazement as she juggles the deep fryer, stove, and oven all at once, “with Peter.” You can see Wanda’s movements slow as the information sinks in. The two of you share a look and you just stare back until Wanda remembers she can’t let anything burn.

“I’ll make something special for them,” the woman decides and you shake your head with a smile. “I know what May will say, but tell her it’s from me.”

“She’ll know,” you promise, straightening up again. You still have an hour left in your shift, so you might as well make it your best one yet. Fixing your apron, you tuck a slip of hair behind your ear and glance around. No one needs your attention, but you do spot dirty plates, so you head over to collect them before heading back to scrub them up. Less work for Wanda means you guys can close up shop early. Slipping your name tag into your apron pocket lest it fall down the drain and you lose it forever — it’s happened before — you dunk the dirty dishes into the half of the sink full of soapy water.

You begin to run the tap just as the bell above the door rings up front. Sighing, you head out to see a lone figure heading to one of the booths, dripping all over your floor from the rain and your lips twist into a small scowl. Slipping hazard.

Still, it’s not their fault it’s raining in the summer. It’s just the weather around here. So you head on over there, your friendly smile coming up on your face on its own accord. You grab a menu on the way, and think happy thoughts.

“Hi. Do you want me to get you started on anything to drink?” you ask as standard but you find your words come out thick when the figure turns to look at you. Through drenched brunet strands of hair that stick to his cheeks and jaw, blue eyes pierce into your soul and you swallow, not knowing what else to do besides that and blink repeatedly, absorbing this gorgeous guy in front of you.

As you said, tiny town where everyone knows everyone and you certainly don’t know this guy.

He seems to have a lost for words, too, or maybe he’s just wondering what the hell is wrong with you. But one thing you know for sure, he recovers first. He tears his gaze away and you notice he’s wearing leather gloves which he pulls off to reveal those hands and you try not to stare as he tosses them onto the table before extending a hand up. He has a cute smile and you stare at him dumbly, not understanding.

“I, uh, I need the menu, doll,” he says and you snap out of it.

“Right! Right. Sorry,” you stammer, giving him the menu you’d been hugging to your chest as soon as you lay eyes on him. Heat pools in your cheeks as you try to get through the gist of the weekly special and that he should tell you when you’re ready to order. He scans the menu, listening to you talk with a slight cock of his head and you try not to focus on the fact that this is really how you’re going to get fired. Embarrassing myself in front of the new hot guy. Figures. His fingers trace over the words and you can’t help staring at the strength you can see in them.

“Just let me know when you’re ready to order,” you manage to get out at last and he looks up at you. There his smile is again, and his blue eyes squint along with it. He rakes a hand through his wet hair, pulling it back and you chuckle nervously. “I can get you a towel or something, if you want.”

“That’d be nice,” he admits, wiping his hand on his pants. Setting down the menu flat on the table, he holds out a hand that’s not rain-wet. “I’m Bucky.”

“Bucky, right.” You slip his hand into his and nearly shiver at how warm he is. His blue eyes pull you in like a hypnotic mist and your breath catches in your throat. “Bucky, okay, uh, right. Just let me know when you’re done with that—” You point at the menu, cringing internally at how you’ve suddenly lost all your communication skills— “and I’ll come take your order.”

“You said that already. Three times, actually.” And then he lets go with that smirk of his and you’re left dazed, blinking.

“Right. Um…” You’re a complete mess, looking down at yourself. You realize you don’t look at all your best, in a day-old uniform with barely any makeup and your hair oily, and compared to him, all black leather and blue eyes, you know this is not the best way to make a first impression. “Towel! I’ll be back, and, uh, just let me know when you’re ready to order.”

Exiting the situation as quick as you can before you can repeat yourself a fourth time, you duck your head to hide your red face as you hear him call after you.

“Thanks, doll!”

You give him his towel, his food, a milkshake and a refill. Then, you refund all favours you’ve ever done for Wanda for her to go and give him the bill while you clean the kitchen. You’re closing up shop now, and the Parkers head out, giving you a wave through the kitchen window. You wave back before pretending to busy yourself, knowing that his eyes are on you.

When Wanda comes back, he gets up and flips the collar of his jacket, tiny droplets of water spraying over as he tries to catch your gaze. Heat is rushing to your head and you turn away, pretending that you aren’t trying to sneak peaks of him out of the corner of your eye.

I need to take inventory, you tell yourself, heading to the back as Wanda deposits the money. Counting the stock of potatoes, you can’t focus and start from one every three seconds as you stare at the tubers.

“Y/N,” Wanda calls softly and you blink, turning to see her at the doorway of the storage closet, “how many potatoes do we have?”

“Uhm.” You turn back to the potatoes, trying to see if you can make a quick count as Wanda walks in, placing a hand on your shoulder. You’re busted.

“The guy out there wanted to know where my beautiful friend went,” she tells you, and you duck your head, that flustered feeling knotting up your chest as you try to stammer out something like you were busy. But it’s Wanda. “He wanted to ask you out on a date, but I told him my beautiful friend is busy tonight.”

“Busy?” you repeat, turning to Wanda who smiles. “Where are we going?”

“Clubbing.”

Bucky drums his fingers on the bar counter, taking a pull of his whiskey. He had needed to stop in the new town to rest before he headed over to Barton’s country-side home for the wedding, but the bistro he’d stopped by prompted an extra few nights stay.

It wasn’t the bistro so much as the waitress who’d served him. Bucky knows how to keep his cool around the ladies, but to say he hadn’t been momentarily stunned by the woman who’d walked up to him would be a fat lie.

Even in the stained waitress outfit, and the messy hair, you had been the most perfect woman he’d ever seen. Beautiful, in all ways, with your kind smile and rolling words. With your gentle hands as you pulled summer rain from his soaked hair with that towel of yours, as you told him the milkshake refill was on the house as a welcoming gift to ‘our small little town. Enjoy your stay.’

He needs to see you again. Learn your name. Tell you he wants you.

Bucky’s never believed in love at first sight, but he does believe in love at first meeting, and damn it if—

Stop. You need to stop thinking about her. He closes his eyes, letting the sound around him melt into a lethargic ocean, the air around him thick on his skin, hugging him like molasses as the music fades out into some new romance song that’s a hit on the radio these days. But he can’t. You’re in his mind like a brand, burning so bright and warm. Your eyes stare back at him in his mind’s eye, as if daring him to stop.

If he can find you again, find the most loveliest woman he’d ever seen to walk this Earth, he will, ‘cause then he’ll have the real thing.

Someone asks for a drink two seats down, and Bucky blinks out of his reverie, taking another sip of whiskey. He sweeps his gaze through the bar, trying to see if anyone’s worth his attention or time. Perhaps he can get his mind off his new infatuation for a few hours. Better than drowning in the little memories he has of his Aphrodite — just a taste, not enough.

His dark eyes flicker from patron to patron, groups of people dancing on the floor as drinks are spilled and food bounces into corners of the bar no one will ever see, left for the rats to feast. It’s a nice place, cozy in a retro way, with a jukebox and neon signs. The club is plunged in red light, and he can barely discern one face from another as the crowd parts in a way he can only claim is destiny.

There you stand beneath the neon lights.

He sets down his glass of whiskey harder than anyone ever intends to when they’re in their right state of mind and just stares, unable to take his eyes off you, the way that fabric wraps around you. The way the sequins of your black dress seem to darken underneath the red light as you speak to your waitress friend from where you stand around a table. You’re holding a mojito, or something, sipping on that straw and then he’s up, wading through the crowd.

People push up against him, whether intentional or not, but he only has eyes on you.

Your hair is pinned away from your face, but the rest spills down your shoulders, brushing over your arms as you turn to your friend. More girls join you, giggling and flushed and smiling, but he only has eyes for you.

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair, making sure he can soak in every inch of you as your friend points at him. He strides on over, an involuntary smirk making its way onto his face as you set down your mojito on the table. Your friends all stare, but he only has eyes for you.

“Bucky,” you say at last and the sound of your voice is a masterpiece, a symphony of colours he’s never seen before and places he wishes he’s been to. “I didn’t expect to see you here!” You shout because the music pumping in Bucky’s veins means it’s in his blood, roaring in his ears. Maybe it’s pounding in your head too. Your friends tell you they’re going to get drinks. You don’t seem to hear. Your eyes are fixed on him.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to be here,” he replies and you blink, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you look at him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you let out a sigh. It puffs against his cheek and smells like mint and sugar. “I just wanted to get wasted,” he adds, leaning in closer. His fingers reach for your wrist as you shiver, and your eyes flicker shut, eyelashes dusting your cheeks. His lips brush the shell of his ear and he hums playfully along to the music. His fingers coax your wrist into his grip as his other hand lands on your hip. Your eyes open drowsily, like you’re Sleeping Beauty and he’s your prince, and you search his gaze. In the red light, the shadows of your face darken and cause you to look cut from marble, a statue of Greece, beauty made eternal.

Your other hand finds his bicep and he pulls you into him. Your chests collide. You squeeze and he smirks, knowing you’re feeling what is there. Leather and hard muscle and power.

“Then you came to the right place,” you breathe, chin tilting and his head falls to your neck. Your hand on his bicep slides up to his shoulder as he presses a kiss to your neck and you tug, oh so slightly at his jacket like you want to tear it off. He’d let you. So much for a stumbling mess, Bucky muses. Cats come out to play at night. “Bucky, I—” He lifts his head so your gazes meet again, and your lips are trembling, eyes wide with something dark and wild and feral.

“What is it, Aphrodite?” he whispers, tilting his head as his hand holding your wrist slides up your arm slowly, intentionally, and you react in a way he knows you will. You gasp, and his smirk grows. Your hand flies his elbow, stalling him. Curious, his blue eyes meet yours again. “Wanna dance?”

“I—” The noise comes out strangled and you blink, inhaling sharply. When your eyes open again, what is left is who you were earlier that day. The quiet, shy, stammering woman who’d taken his breath away. You shake your head despite what lies within your eyes. “I have to head home. Busy day tomorrow.” In seconds, you gather your clutch and slam a few bills on the table.

“Wait—” Bucky reaches after you but you’re smaller than he is, and you slink into the crowd. You’re a nymph, beautiful and mystical and magical and maybe you aren’t quite real enough to touch. Bucky isn’t sure. He chases after you, pulling through the crowd — people dancing and laughing and drinking — and he thinks maybe. He catches glimpses of the color of your hair, a flash of your eyes, a slip of your dress.

He’s on the wrong side of the bar when he hears the bell above the door chime, and he knows.

You’re gone, and so is his heart.

He returns to his seat at the bar, slams a fifty on the counter and asks for shots instead of whiskey. Maybe then it’ll chase the ghost of you out of his head.

He doesn’t come for you, like you thought he would, and Wanda doesn’t seem to know if he’s gone, too.

It’s three days before you have to accept the fact that he’s gone. Gone to some other town with some other girl. Guys like him have no trouble getting girls.

You didn’t expect you to be grieving the loss of someone you don’t know, but then again, you’ve never felt so drawn to someone before. On your break, you eat a protein bar and take your hair down for your fifteen minutes and head outside for a breather. The other waitress is in today, and although it’s a busy hour at night, you think the lull in business can give you an extra few seconds. The wind leans into your face, smelling of petrichor and summer sugar, and you know summer rain’s gonna come again. That just reminds you of him, so you push that thought out of your head.

You need to head back inside. You’re closing tonight, so you might as well work to finish early. You count money, clean dishes, wipe down the windows and counters early and mop the floors. Wanda cleans up the kitchen and the last patron leaves thirty minutes before closing, meaning you can leave right on the dot. Wanda and Dot, the other waitress, clock out early as you begin taking stock of the last few ingredients for next day. They’ll need to order soon, otherwise there won’t be any more apples left for Peter Parker’s fourth birthday pie.

“I’m heading home. You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Wanda asks, lingering around the entrance to the kitchen and you send her a tired smile. You can’t read her expression that well when you don’t linger on her face but you know her tone of voice. “You know, it’s okay to miss him.”

You laugh to cover the abyss in your heart. “I don’t miss him. I didn’t even know him.” Wanda looks at you with an ounce of skepticism and you roll your eyes. The hollow feeling in your chest is temporary. “Besides, I’ll be a-okay with my apples and tomatoes.” Wanda wears her tentative smile like a shield as if you’ll blow up at her. She uncrosses her arms, looks at you once more. You sigh. You’re exhausted. “Wanda, go home to Vis. I’ll lock up.”

“Alright. Call me,” she says in farewell and the chime of the bell above the door rings, leaving you alone. You finish up taking inventory and begin locking up, turning off the lights and making sure everything’s sealed. Heading out the back door that instantly locks once it’s closed, you pocket the keys and head out, pulling your hair out of its bun. And then you spot the figure sitting on the couch outside and you slow down, turning to look.

Bucky sits up, eyes wide and lips slightly parted and you smile incredulously. He leans forward, almost half way to standing. You pause mid way through adjusting the strap of your bag and then turn around, a silly smile working its way onto your face as he gets up, scrambling after you.

“Wait! Aphrodite, wait.” You cross your arms as he runs in front of you, towering over you as he does and his blue eyes warmer than any summer rain. “I… I don’t even know your name.”

“Why are you here, Bucky?” you ask quietly, and he runs that hand through his hair again. Aphrodite, you realize, warmth gathering in your stomach. A voice tells you, He thinks you’re beautiful. As beautiful as a goddess. Still, you can’t help the hurt in your voice as you add, “I thought you left.”

“I was thinking of what to say. Thought you didn’t wanna see me,” he mumbles and your eyebrows gather together. Before you say anything, though, he continues, “But I came to ask… ask if you wanted to take a ride.”

His motorcycle is parked a few steps off and you turn to look at the black beast, huge and shining and sleek. It’ll roar when you tear down streets. You know it.

“Yes.”

He helps you on before swinging on in front of you. His ass presses against you as he grabs the handlebars. “Don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around me, Aphrodite,” he murmurs and instantly, your arms encircle your waist and you melt against him. Your legs press against his thighs and he kicks off. The motorcycle purrs and vibrates beneath you as you begin speeding down the street and towards the beach.

The wind rips at your hair and face as the world around you becomes a blur. The night is quiet besides the bike, splitting the night apart with its engine and there’s the smell of sea and salt on the wind. You haven’t been to the beach in forever.

You hug Bucky tighter when he pulls a smooth turn down a road that leads out of the town. Bucky feels right beneath your palms, all hard and soft lines, leather, and pure muscle where his thighs are concerned. He checks up on you at a stop light, his cobalt blue gaze drawing you into him until you’re leaning against him, cheek against his back as you two start off again. You can hear his heart above the thunder of the motorcycle, and the wind stings your nose but the smell of him stings more.

He is one of the seven deadly sins, lust on legs, smoke and cedarwood and sweat, and you cling onto him like he’s your saving grace. Your legs tighten and he takes the chance to eye you out of the corner of his eye, turning his head just enough to take a glimpse of you as a Welcome sign for your city comes and goes, a spot in the distance within seconds.

“Focus on the road, Bucky,” you whisper and he listens. You press your lips against the shell of his ear, eyes focusing on the blurring road ahead. The only thing that’s clear is the man you have every inch of yourself pressed again. “And my name is Y/N.” With every word, your lips brush against his ear and you notice the knuckles of his hands blanche remarkably.

“Aphrodite is better,” he tells you through gritted teeth. The muscles in his jaw twitch and oh, how much you want to touch him except if he gets distracted, you both die. Still your hands play with the edges of his jacket, until he scolds you. “Down, girl. I needa focus.”

Alright, baby.” Your words cause a shiver to run down his spine and you feel it as he twists the throttle. Everything is nothing more than colours — the sky, nothing more than a smudge of black ink, the moon, a streak of white. Your arms tighten around his waist. He leans and swerves, boots barely brushing the asphalt and you taste the burn of rubber in your mouth just like how the smell of Bucky bleeds into your nose.

When you reach the beach, your hair is tousled and you’re panting because the rush of riding a motorcycle has you breathless. Your heart hammers in your throat, almost like it’s trying to speed out of your chest and you swallow it down to your chest, the adrenaline pumping into your smile as Bucky kicks the stand and parks the motorcycle on the pavement

Bucky places a hand on your thigh, swinging his leg off and getting up. The weight of his huge hand, heavy and hot, has you breathing even harder. He’s not wearing his gloves and you can feel the heat of him on your bare thigh. The day dress you’d worn to work and wear now has hitched up your legs, and he gently caresses your thigh as he walks around the bike.

His hand drifts over your skin, across your hips, to your other thigh and then his other hand finds your hip. He lifts you off the seat, putting you down with ease and his skin burns you deliciously. The weight of his hands on your hips is like the best kinda belt and you breathe him in, feel his heat. He licks his lips. You find yourself hungry for something that isn’t food.

“Come on. Beach is empty.” He takes you by the hand, dragging you to the open sand. He dumps his jacket in the sand, pulling off his boots and socks, and you stare before letting your bag drop and toeing off your sandals. You walk out, feeling the summer sand warm beneath your toes as sea winds sweep between your legs and arms. Bucky follows after you, taking hold of your hand and you let him lead you into some dance you somehow both know.

You sway in time to invisible music, as he leans down to press his forehead against yours. Your arms loop around his neck, and you wonder if it’s possible to be drunk off someone else’s presence.

You twirl through the sand, the gentle lap of the waves your own choir as you push off of Bucky, arms spread out and your head tilts back, letting sapphire moonlight spill all over your face. A carefree smile splits your face apart and you close your eyes. You could stay here forever.

Then, strong arms scoop you up and your legs wrap around a thick waist. Bucky spins you around, his eyes never leaving yours and you touch his face, the rough of his stubbe prickling at your palm as his hands hoist you up from the bottom of your thighs and ass.

“Bucky?” you mumble, completely lost in the way his eyes shift from navy to cobalt to sky. He stops spinning. His lips are parted, tongue flickering out to wet his lips again and something takes a hold of you. This man chose you. The notion blows your mind.

Your hands flat against his cheeks, you decide that if this is real, you might as well take what you can get. So you kiss him, and he bleeds whiskey and honey and all that is sweet in this world.

There is summer rain.

That’s the first thing Bucky thinks of as he wakes up. The soft sound of rain splattering windows and tiles and walls, along with the warmth in his gut is a welcomed way to start a morning. Feeling the space beside him, he finds it empty and rolls over, glancing at the window. The tequila sunrise glows golden as you force apart the curtains of the hotel room. Bathed in its glory, you look out the window. So, it rains on a sunrise, does it? Bucky might just start liking this town even more than the people in it.

You continue to stare out the window, and Bucky takes the chance admire your form, covered in nothing but a knitted cardigan that reveals everything and not enough. Bucky squints against the glaring sun as it rises, and moans, catching the attention of his Aphrodite. You turn, tugging your cardigan together as if to preserve decency.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, arms spread out, and you chuckle. Long gone is the shy, stammering waitress with the gentle hands. Here you are, in all your glory; his little minx, his seductress, his bewitching witch. He sits up, naked as they day he was born and you sit in his lap, sinking into him with a soft sigh. “My Aphrodite,” he whispers, hoarse from sleep and other reasons. Your lips meet his again, and you tastes like things he can’t name as your eyes slide shut. Your kiss is toxic, just like the night before, and his hands grab at your shoulders from behind, grounding you to him.

He needs this poison more than he needs to breathe.

His mouth opens underneath yours and you groan, taking hold of his face. Hooked on your tongue, his eyes close and he bites at your lip. His hands peel your cardigan off your body, and you fling it off, returning your hands to his neck and jaw, shoulders and back, like magnets. You’re so warm, the sun in his arms, and you fit so perfectly in his hands as your lips glide to his neck.

“Don’t stop, Buck,” you whisper, moan, plead. Bucky tilts your jaw back to him with a crooked finger, bright eyes meeting yours. You are something ferocious and wild and enchanting. Bucky wonders what he wouldn’t do for you. “We stay in here, alright? We never have to leave.” You duck down to his neck again. He bites his lip, raising his head to give you better access as his fingers scratch down your back. Your hands trail down his shoulders and sides, scratching and clawing and you’re biting and touching as he sucks in a long breath, lips finding the plane of your collarbone. You taste like summer rain, sweet cream, and sweat, and he wants to devour you. “You hear me?”

“We don’t leave,” he whispers, and he takes you by the hips, twisting around so he pins you to the bed. The white covers are clouds around your skin, and maybe you really are a goddess. Flushed cheeks, wine-stained lips, you sing the prettiest song for him.

“Bucky,” you sigh, lovely and deeply, the sweetest harp, the most beautiful angel.

“We stay here,” he promises, pressing ragged, messy kisses against your mouth as he speaks, “and I love you every second until I die.” His hips press flush against yours and when his lips find the column of your sweet, silky little throat, he wonders how he’s gonna tell you he has a wedding to get to. He wonders how he’s even gonna manage to leave this hotel room that has your lips and skin and heat and smell.

How is Adonis to leave his Aphrodite?

“You have to go, don’t you?” you ask as you place the strawberry milkshake between the two of you. Bucky sits at the bar, as you get ready for the day to start. The blinds are filtering the sun through the bistro, the doors locked still. The rain has stopped and it smells like fresh pavement out there. You’re here before opening hours, tugging Bucky into the place by your interlaced fingers. On your arm is a poem of numbers and dashes — Bucky’s number — and on the back of his hand is yours.

The strawberry milkshake is topped with whipped cream and a cherry, and there are two straws poking out of the top. He takes a sip. You sigh. Neither of you comment about the bruise under the handkerchief you have tied around your neck or the one blooming on the juncture of your neck and shoulder, just visible when your collar shifts. Or the marks on the thighs where his lips had undressed you the night before. And that morning. And twenty minutes ago.

“Y/N,” he begins but you merely smile sadly, knowingly. He sighs, pushing the milkshake towards you. You take a sip. It’s not the sweetest thing you’ve tasted today. Bucky’s lips can give anyone a toothache. His blue eyes hooded, he grabs your hand on the counter, leans over the counter, and kisses your swollen lips.

Your hands wrench in his hair, tugging him towards you as he merely cups your face, kissing you sweeter than you want. You want rough, you want something harder. You want him to hurt you so it’s easier to let him go.

“I have a wedding to get to,” he whispers and it sounds a lot like farewell. You want him to ask you to come. You want him to even think about it.

“Bucky…” you begin, unable to finish. He smiles, a whole tragedy in the twist of his lips and the burning in his eyes. His hands slide down your neck, your shoulders, lingering little touches you’ll never have again.

Because your life is here, and his life is somewhere far from your tiny little bistro.

You can’t even pretend you don’t need him.

“It’s so damn hard to leave ya, doll,” he murmurs, fingers playing with yours. You push off the counter, tearing yourself away and he lowers his head. “Y/N, please.” You walk around the counter and he stands, the strawberry milkshake forgotten, and you try to calm the whirling hurricane in your heart. You try to ignore the aching pain, the grief you feel for no goddamn reason.

And then you’re running across the bistro, running for his arms that spread out and you jump into him, legs wrapping around him like he’s the only thing keeping you from drowning. One hand wraps around your waist and the other traces the curve of your thigh as he closes his eyes, hugging you to death.

“You don’t forget me, alright?” you whisper fiercely and Bucky’s hugging you tighter, holding you like he’s gonna lose you.

“Like I could ever forget you, Aphrodite,” he mumbles into your hair and your face nuzzles into his neck, feeling the warmth of him so different than the heat last night. You wonder if he’s gonna take your heart with you when he goes or just half. I hope this meant something to you, Bucky Barnes. “God, doll, if you ever call my name, you know I’m gonna be comin’ for ya.” He sets you back down, but you’re not quite sure your legs touch the ground. Your knees wobble and you hold onto his biceps, taking in his face — memorizing every tiny scar, freckle, blemish of his face, the colour of his eyes, the rosey touch and shade of his lips. You’re nearly chest to chest, and when his hands cup your face, his lips press against yours, tentative. You feel the tears slip down your face when he pulls away.

His thumb brushes away your tears, kisses every single trail, every new tear he’s missed, tells you you look beautiful and kisses your cheek.

It feels a lot like I love you.

This is goodbye. You wrap fingers around his neck, pull him down for a hard kiss of teeth and lips and tongue. He kisses back, the mess of both of you stumbling until you’re against the counter, one arm around your waist his other against the bar and your hands tangle in his hair. You have enough time for one more, you don’t care if it's right here. It might be enough of a reason for him to stay—

But he tears himself away before he can pull apart your blouse and bend you over the countertop. You’re left trying to catch your breath, trying to tell yourself it doesn’t hurt. He mumbles something to himself, and the wretched glare he gives you nearly causes you to crumble. You hold onto the counter, desperate, miserable, liar.

And then he turns to go, and you don’t stop him, too weak to move, too tired to try. You close your eyes, turn your head away and let it drop as you sit on the red leather barstool, swivelling to lean on the counter. Your elbow digs into the wooden counters as your tears burn into your skin. Resting your head against your hand, you pretend not to notice when there’s a long pause between the bell above the door ringing and the door closing again. You pretend you don’t feel him look at you one last time. You pretend your heart is still whole in your chest.

You only burst into tears when you hear his motorcycle fade off into the distance.

Wanda finds you minutes later, sobbing into your arms at the counter, dressed for work, but not ready at all. She calls in Dot to cover your shift, puts away the strawberry milkshake so it doesn’t go to waste, takes you outside to the bench near the back — the very spot Bucky Barnes waited for you — and tells you to stay there until she is on lunch break. You stare at his phone number, inked onto your skin, a stain like a lot of things he’s left on your body, and time seems like something you don’t understand anymore. So you sit where he sat, imagining his motorcycle parked in the lot, his arrogant little smile, his surprise of ‘Didn’t wanna go to the wedding anyway, Aphrodite.’

But he doesn’t come. You know you need to get it together because you have work to do, so you cry, sob over the boy in leather who’s never coming back, until you’re all dried up forever.

It nearly works, and you’ve almost taped yourself up enough to get back to being just another waitress, but then Wanda is on her lunch break. She sits beside you, offers a sandwich, asks you to spill, because you’ve fallen in love with a stranger who’s long gone. And the tears come again.

TAGS: bucky: @beyond-the-ashes @aryaes permanent mcu: @teawithbucky @jcc04220 @shenala @schwankyblock permanent: @dulharpa

762 notes · View notes

kaetastic · 4 years

Text

Testing Him To His Limits

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: Bucky was just enjoying the sun, until his phone beeped of a message. If only he hadn’t opened it.

word count: 3.6k

warning: nsfw, fingering, language, no metal arm!bucky

note: inspired by this video on youtube! I’m not exactly sure if this is a Modern AU, I still have yet to grip concept on the spectrum lmao. But technically, they are not The Avengers in this. Also, do grills even pop stuff?? Ion no, I never griled lmao. This is a chaotic, messy writing lol.

Despite the guaranteed coverage of the umbrella, Bucky could feel his body fry alive under the scorching heat of the sun. The wavering waves plastered all over his skin as if it was like the surface of a heated desert. Quivering lines danced over his bare chest. Even though his chest was covered by a smeared layer of glistening sweat that twinkled a smile with every churn of his muscle, he didn’t bother to wipe it off. Maybe it was due to the fact that the heat had made it unbearable for him to place a foot on the burning ground (unfortunately for him, he had to find out the pain after scrambling without a sandal on when he wanted to grab a quick sip) or maybe he was just lazy. Bucky opted to believe the other reason.

In the heat (with restricted ability to step off the seat), Bucky couldn’t help but let his mind wander off as it took a leisurely stroll to random thoughts and topics. He questioned why Tony had decided to choose the day it had peaked the temperature of the sun. The week had swum over a steady crest. It was somewhat tolerable to take a walk in the beginning of the week. Now? Now, Bucky was contemplating if he was either nudged out of a plastic bag, straight from the freezer; dunked into the sizzling fryer, or he was the melting ice cream that flew onto the fiery red lava port of a fair near the ocean. It was as if mother nature had been surprised by a wrestling match in her gut.

But, then again, the host had reassured that no one would pass out. Which might’ve been the reason for the heightened concern for the moment where someone who splay against the burning ground. No one had bothered about someone else passing out until Tony had brought it up. However, there was no need to worry as they were blessed to be in the presence of a sophisticated doctor, Bruce Banner. And no, it was not at all reassuring as it literally felt like their feet were being sizzled alive.

The muscles and tendons that cladded around Bucky’s wavering bones were at the end of a merciless stick of heat. It somehow liquified into a puddle of nothing but... meat. Pushing the hideous (and shuddering) visualization to the side, he inquired a question he knew he wouldn’t have an answer to: Why had he been dunked by a bucket of sweat, his soles still bubbling of unbearable bumps that pinched pain from his regrettable decision where he was put at a vulnerable spot... while his friends had been sauntering on the ground? Were the ground not fired enough to melt their foam sandals? Not even their feet, one of his closest friend, Steve Rogers, paced around the pool with only a teasing amount of sweat painted across his forehead. Bucky had to sigh in defeat, though, the man had been consuming cans upon cans. All iced and cold. Oh, how suffocating it felt to sit on the chair.

With only his blue swimming trunks on, he fell into the captivating imagination of him walking over the frying pan to snatch a drink for himself. Bucky could only take a glance at the icebox that poked bobbling heads of aluminium cans of refreshing flavours whenever the lid was opened for him to take a faint glance. The man was sure he had seen a teaser of an iced coffee somewhere. Although, he feared it might’ve been consumed by a somewhat... hyperactive friend. Hands tucked behind his head, Bucky’s fingers were engulfed in the sticky liquid. It weaved as irritating strings that wouldn’t fly off with every swat of his hand. Bucky’s hands were accustomed to the beads of sweat exasperating out of his skin while the air was sizzling. Not much different from pouring oil onto a pan that was ready to exert its anger on.

Chattering from randomly wheeled through topics which had been on a range from an accidental shift of work hours to high school crushes, it was followed by strings of laughter. The noise trickled into the ears of the only man who had found himself in peace without any interaction. Was peace even the right word? Not too long ago he wished he would jump into the pool for a quick cool off (after a few minutes of adapting to the scorching medium, he was sure the water would be just warm- not burning), but then he remembered he had no energy and will to do so. Bucky wished someone pushed him into the pool without having his skin graze over the hellfire-like ground. Another surge of roaring laughter erupted from the small crowd. It was most likely Tony cracking one of those past eggs before the attention had been directed to the man whose face was smeared over with crimson red paint. It was Steve.

Although Bucky had been pulled into some conversations, most of them had ended quite abruptly. One of them had been from the forgotten grill that had been sizzling, popping chunks of burnt meat into the covered lid. At least Thor had the decency to shut it. Or else it would’ve resulted in parkour of avoiding the bouncing hot pieces from the erupting volcano. Despite the chatting had been so quick, he forgot what they were even talking about. He blamed it on the weather, and the scorching temperature, which caused his thoughts to be evaporated into the unbearable heat.

Bucky tried his hardest to enjoy the session of the invisible breeze of wind in the hot air (there was only a teasing amount of appearances from the natural cooling method). Well, he was trying his best to see the silver lining of the situation. After all, it was he who had dragged his girl to go to the gathering. There was nothing worse than having to admit your fault when you had been so determined and persistent on pursuing a belief. Oh, the last thing Bucky would do was give that satisfactory to Y/N; even though, she could practically see through his tears.

Freshly peeled can of soda swirled into his nose, the scent of a too concentrated solution of grape rammed the wall of his lungs. It clashed into the delicately layered muscles, no different to that of poison. Less than a centilitre of poison would be enough to yank the soul of the victim before they could even comprehend it was their last day. To see the same effects, one would have to drink around half a dozen of the sodas that had been hovering in front of the resting (would it be called resting if he was dying inside?).

Despite the obvious taste of chemicals that would linger on ones’ tongue for the whole day even though they had been scrubbing the bristles of their toothbrush on the flap of muscle with immense force, the brand had still insisted on the ‘No artificials’ plastered on their metal cans. The enormous label that was the size of the can’s name was plastered at the top in bright yellow, the outline had been bubbly with a faint shadow that had exposed the grainy pixels. What a way to catch attention.

His eyelids fluttered open as jumping droplets of the soda pierced onto his face. No different to that of popcorns springing out from the machine. Standing beside the chair was Sam, who offered the drink to Bucky. Despite Bucky squinting through his nearly closed eyelids, he could tell that Sam was not at all affected by said-weather.

There Bucky was, having a courtroom debate in his head to the burning temperature, while his friend had been at the merciful end. There were evaporating beads of sweat that trickled down the sides of his face, nothing a swipe from his hand cannot remove. Even though Bucky was sauntering down the lane of jealousy, he was tugged onto a screeching halt in realization. A can that had been freshly plucked out from the icebox was in Sam’s hand. Then, all that glittered in the resting man’s eyes were sparkles of gold as if he had seen his guardian angel who had flown down to save him. His saviour. Wings would look good on Sam.

After mumbling thanks under his breath that came out more of a raspy noise of cheese being grated; he grabbed the can, Sam made a place on the neighbouring chair that was vacant for anyone to use, “Man, Steve’s like a six-year-old who's banned from sugar.” Even though Sam’s eyes were behind the shadowy glasses, Bucky could guess the expression he wore. Bucky chuckled at the sight of his blond friend chugging cans after cans as if it was a competition.

There was no doubt that Steve was in such a state because he had somehow slipped one sip down his throat, which was his first mistake. A mistake that would usually be meticulously watched over by Steve’s other half, Peggy. The woman was the friend in the friend group who sent health benefits of herbs and other green things (unfortunately, not Shrek) to the group chat at two in the morning. Which only left questions and speculations to linger in the air to what she was even doing awake at such times. Maybe it was when Tony had chided for Peggy to let loose of the rope she twirled around the man. Peggy had been persistent that she was loose. So, one thing led to another; the man was now on his third can. Peggy had to watch with her eyes twitching at the hyperactive man. His bloodstreams probably had enough sugar to coat the walls of his blood vessels.

“He’s gonna be a handful for Peggy. Nothing she can’t handle.” The two chuckled at Bucky’s words. It was true, Peggy barely had problem with... taming Steve. They were like a perfect piece of a puzzle, their sides of the parts completed one another. The last time a situation was like so, Steve had been enticed by a sugary pink stick that Tony had lying around, sprawled on his kitchen counter. Once again, one thing led to another, and Steve somehow ended up pounding on his chest as if a gorilla on a table.

Sam hummed, muscles dancing against the ticklish bumps on the chair, “He’s on a leash, I tell you.” Eyes shut tight, Sam practically melted into the seat. Maybe it was from the heat, but as Bucky brushed his eyes over the relaxing figure, he knew Sam found solace in the air. The chilly liquid crawled down his throat.

The silence from the chilling man had only answered to his suspicion that Sam was in fact, fast asleep. The corners of his lips curled up at the sight of the man who was infamous for never finding the time to relax. Sam associated himself with parties; when the man’s mindset had set onto the things that needed to be done on his desk, it was difficult to stir him away from the focus. Bucky recalled the time he had stumbled on Sam who had splayed out on his office floor since the man had pushed himself to complete the batch of work. He still remembered the worry he had at the sight. The only evidence that the man was not dead but just slumbering was the presence of his pulse thrumming.

Shifting his body back to his previous state, Bucky could feel the prickling of kisses from the sun on his hairs. Although he was enjoying the dream of returning back home, all his work completed, waiting for him on the desk, whoever watched over him disliked the idea. The sheets he would have to go through would consume nearly his whole day, if he was unlucky, it would bite off a chunk from his weekend. Oh, no. The weekend was his only method of escape to ignore the existence of work. A vibration echoed from his phone, shaking an earthquake through the glass table. The noise trickled into his ears, shattering the glowing imagination that was too good to be true.

The groaning from the device pierced through the table once again, calling out for its owner, “Hey, Buck, think you could... run a little errand for me?” Before he had the chance to flip the phone to glance at the notification, Bruce stood in front of the burning source of light, shielding Bucky’s blinded eyes. The sneaky ray of light bounced off the umbrella. Bucky quirked an eyebrow, confused to the vague sentence.

“Errand?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What happened to your new secretary?” Bruce let out a sheepish chuckle, fingers scratching the nape of his neck as he replayed the memory which he now wished he could forget.

“Yeah, about that, I accidentally gave her a leave...” A chuckle fell off the resting man’s face, Bucky shook his head in disbelief. Oh, Bruce. Always expect the unexpected with the man. There had been countless of times Bruce had a word slip off his tongue, most of them were nice. Too nice. So, it didn’t shock Bucky that the man had somehow allowed his new secretary to take some time off. Never will they forget the time they went to a cafe, and Bruce somehow ended up buying a dozen coffees. The doctor blamed it on the enticing offer, one he couldn’t pass off. But the team knew. They knew the cashier cast a spell on him.

“Sure, what’dya need?”

A hand clasped onto Bruce’s shoulders, causing the man to hiss a wince through the cracks of his teeth, “Why’d you run away like that?” Rising from the back, a shadowy figure soon stood next to Bruce. Thor’s booming voice banged into their ears in surges of boisterous pitches. It was a habit the man had, a little quirk, he did. Thor’s way of talking was screaming; although, he had denied being that loud, “You wanna ask Bucky to do it?”

“Do what?” Bucky stared at the two, eyes darting, lost from the lack of context.

“Yes! I do!” Bruce grumbled back, annoyed that Thor had scurried from the circle he was just in, to follow the man. All Bruce wanted to do was mumble the words in secret, away from the people that might whisper his words to other ears. The two fell into bickering. Bruce was prominently shorter than the towering figure of Thor, a reason to why Bruce’s neck would be needed gentle massages later on.

Bucky grabbed his phone, he leaned back with a huff. If the man wasn’t confused already, he had no clue why his girlfriend who sat on the other side of the pool had texted him. Their eyes met. Bucky didn’t know how to react when he saw her shoot a coquettish smirk into his perplexed eyes. Ardent thumbs pressed the password before he clicked on the messaging app.

Then, his heart dropped out of his ass.

The photo of his girl in fiery red lingerie struck a chord in him. Well, snipped away his connection to reality as he tried to digest the picture. It was mostly indulging in the way her skin filled up the brassiere and the garter. Not to forget the accompanying message. Need your fingers in me, “Right, Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t know how fast it took him to switch off his phone, “Huh?”

Thor let out a loud cackle, no different to that of a cracking thunder that zapped the innocent field. Bruce walked away in defeat, shoulders curled down. Noticing the confusion in Bucky’s eyes, Thor chided, “I said some people don’t even listen to what Bruce say. You proved my point.”

The man didn’t have the chance to say anything since Thor paced away. Then, everything flipped.

“Holy shit!” Tony yelled out, his neck veins so close to the surface, it nearly burst the vessel. Without having to say anything, everyone did their part. “Steve! Stop taking so many tissues! I fucking pay for those as a matter of fact! Y/N, could you grab a roll of tissue paper? It’s in the store!”

Pulling her eyes away from her screen, the device was nearly thrown into the body of water at the abrupt change of events. The chaotic mess of shuffling bodies with sheets of ripped tissue papers in their hands that sprinted left and right pierced into her head. What a day for relaxing. Even though she was confused to the commotion, she didn’t need to ask as her eyes brought upon the answer. The bits of meat that had splattered from its main chunk haphazardly pierced the ground, splattering against the floor as if an uncontrollable firearm. Poor burgers.

The woman nodded, sprinting into the house, inching away from the furious grill to avoid being the canvas for its splashes of paint. With her heart thrumming, her feet stomping the ground echoed through the long hallways of the home. Sticking to shuffle in the middle as the path had been blocked by large decorations of lavish vases that sat at her waists’ height, she made sure nothing had been damaged. Y/N was pulled to a screech at the door that resided at the end of the hallway. Practically bursting into the room, she didn’t waste time to nudge everything off the shelves that wasn’t what she needed. The name of the object chanted in her head, echoing as if to remind herself. Everything else was of no use. If her head was a movie theatre and all the seats were take, the audience was probably melting. There was no sight of the needed roll. Her heart sang the last song she would ever hear before it was cut short by the slamming of a door.

“Bucky?” Although she was narrowing her eyes at the figure of the man who leaned on the metal shelves, his eyes amused by her franticness, her attention was averted back to the treasure hunting. Y/N nudged the endless bottles of shampoo aside, not scoring a point of care. She wasn’t sure if it was all for Pepper or Tony. The deep cracks she had meandered through the once organized storeroom didn’t give a sign of the roll. “Not now. I need to find tissues.”

Her words fell on his deaf ears as he persistently rubbed his body into her back. Despite her efforts to shimmy away from him, it seemed the space between the two closed, inching until she could feel a hardness prodding her thigh. A gasp echoed into the air, “You feel that?”

“Bucky! I need to find the tissues.” Y/N managed to breathe out, the words obstructed her throat.

“Then find it,” Bucky’s voice was low, deep as the puffs from his lips caressed her exposed skin. There was barely anything her skimpy bikini could cover. With determination, she continued, ignoring the prominent presence. “Though, I wouldn’t bother. Thor just used a fire extinguisher.”

Even though she wanted to snap her back straight from the news, Bucky’s rigid body blocked her way, “I said find it,” Without warning her, his warm digit nudges her panties aside, dipping into her. A breathy moan trickled into the tranquil air which Y/N tried her best to stifle. There wasn’t any use in pressing her lips together, the way his fingers knew how to rotate her gear had only sent off something in her. Y/N didn’t even dare to cover her mouth with her hand as she knew if she removed the leverage, she would’ve collapsed into the ground. “Sending me photos in public.” Bucky chuckled, not sending the same emotion of amusement to the brutal pace he had pumped his fingers.

He didn’t even bother to tease, pressing his thumb to her sensitive clit, circling roughly. The shelves shake, little bits falling off the surface (thankfully, they were only crumpled up plastic bags). Y/N barely had time to whine about him removing his fingers as she spun around, her lips locking into his, “Bucky...”

The man hummed, his fingers not wasting time to plunge into her, “Wanted my finger. Take it.”

It didn’t take long for Bucky to relish the sight of her head thrown back, chest heaving in surges of breathing. Tongue swirling around the liquid, he hummed at the familiar taste. Y/N had told hold herself back from rolling her eyes.

“What took you so long?” Tony’s eyes darted towards the woman who he had trusted the task of fetching the roll of tissues from the store. The conversation they were having died down, their focus now set onto the exiting figure. Y/N hummed as she practically threw the object onto the wooden table, the legs of the victimized surface quivered. Shivers of the earthquake wavered through the metal rods causing the metal to sing in a falsetto tone as it clashes into its neighbouring accompanies, nearly causing the other occupants of the table to slide off.

“Couldn’t find it.” The words brushed her lips, jumping into the ears of her friends. While she had sauntered off to lay back down on her previous spot, she didn’t notice that everybody’s neck craned to the following body. Fingers weaved through the locks of his hair, Bucky mussed the already messy bundle.

“What?” He couldn’t help himself. The corners of his lips curled up in satisfaction that they had seen the marking he had left on Y/N. Too caught up in the bliss moment, she hadn’t even realized he had left a piece of himself on her neck. The owner of the house threw the utensil on the floor with a huff. Reminder: Don’t invite Bucky and Y/N over.

11 notes · View notes

themadlostgirl · 5 years

Text

Not Dead Yet (Part 73)

*I will be uploading Not Dead Yet to AO3 after I finish it on tumblr. It is going to go through a bunch of editing, trimming and the reader is getting an OC name. Other than that same old story. Alright let’s do this!*

Pairing: Reader x Peter Pan

Warnings: Language

I was sitting in the kitchen going over some homework. It was numbing my brain. When am I going to need algebra in life? This is ridiculous. Why won’t senior year end?

My phone rang and I jumped at the chance for a distraction from the quadratic formula. It was Ms. Mills.

“Hello? Henry? No, I haven’t seen or heard from him all day. Has something happened? Missing? Oh well I know some boltholds of his I could check out. Yes, of course, I’ll call you if I hear anything. Bye.”

“Something wrong, Marigold?”

“Henry Mills is missing. I’m going to head out and see if I can find him. I promise I’ll be back by curfew.” I closed my textbook and started to tug on my shoes.

“You’ll be back by dinner.” mom corrected me, “Stay safe.”

“Always am.” I was already pulling on my jacket, “Bye.”

I stopped by his castle first. It was a little rusted playhouse on the beach that he always loved playing on. I knew that if he ever needed time away he would go there first. Unfortunately he didn’t seem to be there this time. This was a small town but there were a lot of hiding places. Dangerous hiding places. The woods alone could take days to search. I hope he hadn’t gone far.

The next couple of hours I spent wandering around town but Henry was AWOL. He’s ten, how far can a ten year old get in a couple hours? It was getting late and I headed home for dinner. Mom and dad asked whether Henry had been found but I was sad to say that no such progress had been made.

The next day before school I stopped by Ms.Mills office and asked if Henry had been found. She was glad to inform me that he had been safely returned late the night before. She also wanted to pay me to walk Henry from school. I could tell she was just worried about him since he had up and disappeared so I took the request in stride. Five extra bucks to walk him down main street? Done.

I waited outside the school for Henry’s class to exit. I watched the short heads stream out the doors but Henry’s was not among them. Where was he? Behind the kids Ms. Mills strutted out looking peeved. “Ms. Mills?”

“Marigold,” Ms. Mills stopped, “Have you seen Henry?”

“No. I was waiting to take him home like you asked. Is he missing again.”

“It would appear so.”

“I can go look for him again. It wouldn’t be a bother.”

“Don’t worry yourself. He couldn’t have gotten far. Go enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you if I see him.”

“Thank you, Marigold. I’ll be sure to inform you when he’s been found.” She walked off again. A moment later another woman walked out of the school that I had never remembered seeing before. These past couple days are strange. I got a call an hour later telling me that Henry had been found...again. Keeping an eye on this boy may just be worth more than five dollars an hour.

As I was sat around the dinner table with mom and dad we had the same old small talk about work and school. The only real thing of interest was the woman that had come to Storybrooke, Henry’s birth mother. That was just lovely. No wonder things were all mucked up. Ms. Mills was an intimidating woman and a very protective mother. Throw in your adopted son’s birth mother and things just got even more complicated. At least there was something going on in this town for once.

Apparently I was right about things changing. Ever since Henry’s bio mom came to town things had started happening from the clocktower finally moving to the John Doe in the hospital coming out of his coma.

From then on things just kept getting stranger. Sheriff Graham died, Ms. Blanchard became the town harlot and was framed for murder just to be proven innocent. My schedule with Henry had gotten thrown all out of whack what with all the chaos. When I did get to watch him he was always antsy to get away. So to keep him in place I asked him about the one thing he could never shut up about, fairy tales. His fairy tales.

“So let’s go over the list shall we?” I pulled out my notebook. One of the things that kept him interested was figuring out who all the townspeople were in relation to his storybook. Ms. Blanchard was Snow White, the John Doe aka David was Prince Charming, Doctor Hopper was Jiminy Cricket. “Any new discoveries since we last met?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” he said with a smile, “Can I have the pencil?”

“Here ya go buddy.” I handed it to him. “Hey Henry, you never told me something.”

“What?”

“If everyone in this town is a storybook character which one do you think I am?” I asked. This was something I had been curious to but never questioned.

“I don’t know.” he shrugged, “Who do you think you are?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you had an idea.” I sighed.

“Don’t worry. Soon the curse will be broken and you’ll remember who you are again.” Henry assured me.

“Well that is a relief.” I peeked over his shoulder to see his new notes. “How are things going? I know things with your two moms have been hectic to say the least.”

“It’s all in plan with Operation Cobra.” Again with Operation Cobra. He never told me anything about that. I didn’t mind so much.

After he was done I packed everything back up. Ms. Mills came home later after I tucked Henry into bed. She paid me and I left. She didn’t look so good but I felt that it wasn’t my place to ask if anything was wrong. Ms. Mills has gotten a lot more sensitive since the arrival of Emma and I didn’t want to test my luck with her, even if it was well intentioned.

I was upstairs in my room doing even more homework when I got the sense that something was wrong. There was a certain uncomfortable tension that buzzed in the air and made it hard to focus.

“Marigold!” mom shouted up to my room, “Get down here!”

“What? What’s happened?” I rushed downstairs.

“That one boy you babysit, Henry, he’s in the hospital.” she said.

“The hospital?” I gasped, “What happened? Is he alright?”

“I was in the middle of a call with Francene from the hospital when Henry got rushed in. Apparently he was knocked out or poisoned or something and he’s not doing too well.”

“Oh my god,” I mumbled, “I need to get to the hospital. I need to check on him.”

“I’ll drive you.” mom and I rushed out to the car and we were at the hospital in minutes. I ran down to where the most commotion was and saw Henry being hooked up to all these machines and the doctors and nurses flying about looking for answers. Oh god…

“Nurse,” I stopped one of the nurses, “Is he alright? What happened to him?”

“We don’t know yet but we’re doing our best. Now please go to the waiting room, this area is overcrowded as it it.” she said and pushed past me.

Please let Henry be alright.

I sat in the waiting room along with some others as we waited for any news about Henry. The day grew longer and I felt like my brain had been dunked in one of Granny’s deep fryers. Please oh please just let Henry come out of this alive. He needed to live. Just let that little heart of his keep beating!

One of the nurses walked out to the waiting room and called Henry’s name. Everyone waiting in the vicinity stood. “Is he okay?” my throat clogged up.

She shook her head. “We did what we could but he didn’t make it. Whatever was afflicting him we were unable to find it before it was too late. He’s gone.”

“No…” I choked, “H-He can’t be. He has to live! There is so much more that he needs to do! He can’t be dead.”

“I’m so sorry. Would you like to come say goodbye?”

“No. No, I’m just going to go home. I need some time to process all this.” she gave me a nod and I walked out of the waiting room. Poor Henry. So young. So full of life. He didn’t deserve this.

“Mari, are you okay?” mom asked.

“I need a moment.” I walked out of the hospital tears streaming down my face.

This can’t be happening. Henry can’t be dead. If he’s dead then everything was ruined! Years of planning down the drain!

What? Years of planning what? A memory tickled in the back of my head but just like my dreams I couldn’t reach it. I felt like yelling at the sky and cursing everyone and everything for this horrid day.

A gust of wind pushed through me out of nowhere. What was…

“Y/N.” I breathed out as all my memories came flooding back, “My name is Y/N.”

Everything. I remember everything! My father, being a grave digger, Neverland, my brothers, Wendy, Tinkerbell, Tigerlily, Hook.

“Peter.” Peter Pan. My Peter Pan!

I ran back to my house--not my house--the house I had been trapped in and overturned the room I had called mine. How did I stand all this? Pastels and dresses and fluffy little cardigans? Where were my old bloody boots when I needed them? I ransacked the room for clothes that were sturdy and not entirely embarrassing as well as the best pair of tennis shoes I could find.

Twenty eight years. Twenty eight years of being stuck as a babysitter away from Neverland and Peter and all my friends. I was not going to go back dressed as some fairy princess.

I went to the window and threw it open. I don’t know if this will work during the day but hell I was gonna try. “I believe.”

Then I waited. A moment went by but nothing happened. I waited another minute and still there was no Shadow to fetch me. From out in the forest a dark purple smoke was cascading towards the town. I knew that. It was magic. “Of, fucking, course.”

I slammed the window shut again as the smoke reached the house and filtered in. I was blinded for a moment but just a moment before the smoke was gone. Magic is here. I don’t know how it happened but if Rumplestiltskin was here then I was positive it was him that did it.

Maybe with magic here now, I might be heard. I opened the window again and stared up at the cloudy sky. “I believe.” I stressed once more but like the first time nothing happened.

Okay. This...this is fine. It probably doesn’t work during the day since I can’t see the star. Not a problem, I can wait till tonight. I’ve been gone for a couple decades, what more was a few more hours? In the meantime I had some things I could sort out.

“Marigold--” my fake mom caught me leaving.

“Shut it, I have places to be old lady.” I rushed out of the house.

I was walking down mainstreet when an alarming thought popped into my head. My club. It had disappeared during the curse.

Rumplestiltskin. If anyone had it it was him. And I know exactly where he would keep it. I stomped towards the pawnshop and threw open the door. He wasn’t here. Probably for the best, if I saw that slimy little imp before I left I was going to slit his neck.

I saw my club resting along the wall next to some walking sticks. I was about to leave when something else caught my eye. Resting with some other antique looking knives in a glass case was my dagger. The one Rumplestiltskin had taken from me. I opened it and wrapped my hand around the worn leather grip. Was there anything else of mine in here? I scavenged around and found the cuff Peter had given me with the decorative amber. My dagger on my hip, club in hand and cuff on my wrist I was feeling more like my old self.

Now I was truly ready to go home. I left the shop and meandered down the street. I was going to go hang out in the woods until nightfall and try calling for the shadow again. As I was leaving the shop I saw a group heading down the street followed by an angry mob. I was content to let them go and do their thing when I noticed Henry among the group. A memory came back, a picture of a boy drawn on a piece of old parchment. The Truest Believer. It was Henry!

Looks like I’m going to be taking someone else with me to Neverland. First I had to get him away from the group.

I followed after the mob. The little party of heroes stopped Regina from getting herself killed and took her into custody. After they left the jail they started to talk about what they were gonna do with Henry. Now was my chance.

“Hey,” I approached the group, “I don’t think you guys really know me.”

“Hi Marigold,” Henry waved at me, “Do you remember who you are?”

“Yes I do. Looks like you were right, Henry.” I faked an overly sweet smile.

I liked Henry well enough and after being his babysitter for the past eleven years I had grown kinda fond of him. It would be hard handing him over to Peter after getting to know him but in the end he was just another means to an end and what can save Peter’s life. If he’s still alive.

“Who are you?” David, Prince Charming, whatever, asked me.

“Y/N. I was Henry’s babysitter, am still, I don’t know anymore.” I shrugged.

“Right,” Emma pointed at me, “You uh...you wanna make a couple more bucks and watch him while we figure out what we’re gonna do with Regina?”

“I can, no problem. Also you don’t need to pay me. This little dork was right and now I remember who I am and can be with my family again.” I ruffled Henry’s hair, “That’s all the payment I need.”

“Okay. Just to be safe we’re gonna send Ruby with you.” Snow White/Mary Margaret gestured to Ruby.

I knew it couldn’t be that easy. “Alright. Sounds like a plan.” Henry and I got into the car with Ruby.

We drove in leisure until a tremor shook the ground and the sky went dark. Something was out there. Something bad. I rolled down the window and saw a black mass streaking across the sky. For a moment I smiled thinking it was Peter’s shadow but it was quickly dashed. It was too big and it sent an unpleasant chill down my spine. A wraith.

“Where are we going?” I asked Ruby.

“Edge of town. No one out that way.”

“Is that really the safest option right now? Out in the open?”

“What do you suggest then?”

“Somewhere inside. That thing that went across the sky was a wraith. Probably sent to kill Regina.”

“What?!” Henry looked rightfully alarmed.

“How do you--”

“I’ve seen a lot of things.” Living with Peter you learned a lot about dark magical artifacts and beasts.

“We have to go back!” Henry pleaded, “We have to help my mom!”

“No! I need to keep you safe!” Ruby snapped.

“We should really turn back. I know how to get rid of the wraith.”

“Where did you learn to get rid of a wraith?”

“Long story.” Also incredibly fictional but if it could get us inside I didn’t care. I didn’t know much about wraiths outside of what they looked like and what they did but I did know it would only attack the one it marked. That most likely being Regina.

With a little more arguing and pleading Ruby turned us around. We hustled into city hall. There was some loud commotion coming from the main hall. As quickly as it started though it ended followed by stark silence. Carefully we walked toward the hall. There was some muffled shouting and then we came upon the scene.

Regina was alive and currently had David restrained against the wall. Certainly not what I had imagined. “Mom!” Henry rushed in.

“Henry, what are you doing here?” Regina left David alone and he dropped to the ground. Ruby went to check on him while I stayed with Henry.

Apparently Emma and Mary Margaret fell through a portal to someplace unknown. Henry started to tear up as he told Regina to get them back and to stay away from him until they were safe.

“Where will you go?” Regina knelt closer to her son.

“With me,” David had recovered and stood up. Henry, Ruby and him left while I stayed behind.

“Regina…” I turned to her after they were gone.

“What do you want?”

“I’ll keep an eye on him. I promise.”

“Who are you?” she scoffed, “Why aren’t you scared of me? I’m the Evil Queen.”

I felt like laughing. “Regina, I’m not from the Enchanted Forest. I was visiting it when I got sucked into your curse. I don’t know you, I don’t care about what your motivations are or who you want to kill. But I do know Henry. I’ll keep him safe.”

“How are you going to protect my son?”

I spun my club in hand, “Let’s just say, I’ve had to get myself out a worse scrapes than deadly wraiths and angry crowds. If you want someone to talk to my number is still on the fridge.”

I left. This was going to take more time than I thought. I need to play my cards right. If I can then I’ll have Henry and be on my way to Neverland in no time.

Outside I stared up at the sky. Second star to the right… “I’ll be home soon, Peter.”

(First) (Previous) (Next)

#slowburn #peter pan ouat #ouat peter pan #ouat #neverland #peter pan imagine #peter pan x reader

34 notes · View notes

sirkkasnow · 5 years

Text

13 Take ‘Em For All They’re Worth

Ao3 link

07/26/13 Friday

Stan pulled himself together before dawn on Friday, hating every second of it, and shuffled down to the kitchen for an emergency infusion of caffeine. He paused in the doorway.

Clary and Ford were already up. They stood side by side, looking out the window across the misty lawn and the shrouded tents. She was dressed for the day and ready to go, complete with bandana, Ford in flannel pants and a well-worn t-shirt. Clary spotted movement at the door and murmured to Ford as she turned away. “See you in a few. Good morning, Stan. All set?”

“Ask me that after a couple shots of coffee.” They did a little do-si-do in the middle of the kitchen as Stan went for the pot and a mug. He shot a questioning look at his brother as Clary eased out of the room and got a vague shrug in return.

Ford finished off a last mouthful of marshmallow-studded cereal and set his bowl in the sink. “I’ll be right back once I’ve changed. We’ll be taking the truck, I believe, she plans on hauling everything up here in one go.”

“Fantastic.” Stan dumped too much sugar into his coffee, stirred twice with the handle of Ford’s spoon and drank, wincing against the heat.

The kitchen at Greasy’s was scrubbed to a shine when they got there. He knew for a fact that the place usually lived up to the name. Even the sink was empty, shelves groaning under the unaccustomed weight of every clean plate in the joint.

They were early but there was already some activity, the skinny kid who was running the morning shift for the summer glancing up as they arrived. “Morning, Miss Clary!”

“Good morning, James.” Clary plucked aprons off a hook and tossed one each at Ford and Stan before strapping on her own, blotched with faded pink and with a ‘Bobbi’ nametag pinned at the shoulder. “We should be done well before noon but we’ll have to share space. I’m going to help run the tables if it gets lively out front.”

She headed for the dented door of the walk-in fridge, rummaged around inside for a minute, then hauled out a bin stacked high with plucked fryer chickens. “Ten pieces per bird. Drumstick, thigh, wing and we’ll halve the breast. Has either one of you done this before?”

Ford looked slightly appalled. Stan stuck up a hand. “Been a while, but yeah, I can piece one out pretty quick.”

“Show me,” she ordered, and Stan did, while Clary started measuring out flour and spices into a wide bowl. “Looks good. Toss the carcasses and the wingtips into that.” She indicated a giant stockpot on a back burner with a set of tongs. “I’m trading out a chicken-and-dumplings special for part of the kitchen time.”

“So now you’re a short-order cook?” Stan eyed her sidelong and Clary raised a brow at him.

“So far as this shindig is concerned, I’m a four-star chef. Get chopping.”

Ford got a crash course in dredging while Clary fired up a pair of gigantic cast iron Dutch ovens over at the cooktop. The scent of frying chicken gradually filled the air, and Stan had to admit that it smelled good. James kept glancing over with his nose twitching between rounds of flipping flapjacks.

When they were all a bit punch-drunk on divvying up chickens, Clary held one up by the neckbone and waggled it at Ford. “Behold, a man!” Ford doubled over, wheezing with laughter, and had to be left to recuperate in a kitchen chair for a good five minutes for reasons Stan could not even begin to fathom.

There was a wicked glint in Ford’s eye when Clary headed out into the diner to drop off another breakfast order. “If you don’t get around to smoothing this over, I will.”

Stan jolted as though he’d been stung. “Excuse me? I saw her first!”

“If you want to get technical, I did. She really is an interesting woman. Far too interesting to just let her drive off into the sunset, for certain. Why, I’d bet she would make an excellent assistant.”

“You try to pull that ‘assistant’ crap with her and I’m pretty sure she’ll blister your ears clean off.” Stan scowled down at the hapless chicken he’d just split down the middle with a too-vigorous stroke of the cleaver. “I’ll talk to her after tonight’s big thing, long’s she’s still speakin’ to me after dinner with the Gravity Falls elite.”

Ford hummed to himself, deftly dunking chunks of chicken into seasoned flour and dusting them off. “She doesn’t hate you, Stanley,” he said at length, all humor set aside. “She won’t dismiss you out of hand.”

God, I hope not, thought Stan, parting out the bird on his cutting board into neat serving pieces and shoving them along down the assembly line.

Clary stuck her head in over the order counter. “Fellas, how many chickens have we got left? I’ve got half a dozen people out here wanting the chicken-and-waffles special we didn’t plan for.”

They ended up raiding Greasy’s scant backstock of fryers and sending out plates of the ‘special’ at a tidy premium between rounds of finishing off the dinner birds and taking stock of everything that had already been prepared. Tate’s spare pickup truck was packed to the gills with bags of ice, foil-wrapped trays of fried chicken, more buckets of side dishes than Stan could easily identify and the sixteen cherry pies Clary had baked off with Susan yesterday.

By the time they were headed back up towards the Shack, Clary driving with casual precision and an arm draped half out the window, the sun was well up and the sky clear. At least they’d lucked into a perfect picnic day.

Clary trundled the pickup right over to the long table set aside for the buffet. Soos and Melody were working on the speakers; Dipper and Mabel waved from the balcony high up on the side of the Shack. “All right. Everything’s cold right where it is so we’re going to let it stay put for a bit. We’ve got a crew coming in to help set up the food in about an hour.” She shifted into park, shut down the engine and pulled out her phone, skimming through the checklist.

“What, we have servers?” Stan blinked over at her across Ford.

“Mmhm, we need someone to keep the buffet loaded. I think you should both check in with Mabel once you’ve washed up.” Her regard came up, refocusing, an amused little smile plucking at her lips. “We’ve all got outfits.”

“What?!”

“Relax, it’s just a new Hawaiian shirt. We all have to look our best, you know.” Clary slid out of the truck and shouted up to the balcony. “Mabel! How’s it going up there, honeybee?”

Ssssssshhhthunk! A long strand of pastel pennants shot out across the yard, carried by the modified grappling hook and snagging into the branches of a convenient pine. “Looking great, Clary! All the table arrangements are done and if I may say so they look plenty snazzy!”

“Great job! There’s still some work to do but I’ll be ready to change in about an hour!” Clary looked down along the line of gleaming steel chafing dishes with a critical eye and reached out to tweak one more precisely into line. Stan shuffled up alongside her, hands in pockets.

“This, ah. This is kinda a lot, isn’t it.”

“We’ve got a lot of folks to feed. Might as well make it memorable.”

“I didn’t plan for it t’get this big.”

Clary clicked her tongue and gave him a sharp look. “You sold fifty tickets. People are still calling the front office.”

“I swear I had no idea - ”

She threw up her hands, already turning away. “Just - keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll get through. This is going to be a great party. It’ll be fine.”

The cloud of doom hanging over his head didn’t ease up one damn bit, even as he did a quick walk around the tables and found everything in order, even when he helped Soos set up the series of streamer-festooned ice chests they’d be serving soda pop from. He’d been so busy with the station wagon and the exhibit that only now did he really get a feel for the scale of the enterprise.

She was, he thought ruefully, good at this.

When Clary reappeared her carefully pinned-up hair was still damp. The party dress was knee-length and boat-necked, all abstract splashes of petal pink and soft orange with a fluttering silk kerchief to match. She swatted lightly at his shoulder as he hauled down a bucket of baked beans from the pickup. “Go on, you, go get respectable! I think Mabel hung your shirt on your door. We’ve got the rest of this.”

Three young ladies he half recognized as friends of Melody’s from the Meat Cute came trotting over at Clary’s signal, trim and polished in black slacks and crisp white shirts. “Helloooo, Mr. Pines,” they chorused, giggling among themselves as they went straight to work setting up the buffet.

Stan checked his watch. Picnic time at two. Guests were sure to start trickling in any minute. He ducked into the house, scrambled upstairs and groaned at the sight of his new shirt. As usual there was no telling how she’d pulled it off but Mabel had come up with one in summery pink and orange, patterned with tropical drinks, to match Clary. There was no time to argue so he showered and changed as quickly as he could.

Even from upstairs he could hear the rising chatter as people began to gather outside. Stan found a mirror, raked a hand through his still-damp hair, and pulled up the million-dollar smile.

“Still got it, Pines,” he muttered, all too aware of the bitter edge in the sentiment, and headed downstairs.

He’d been handling crowds for a living half his life, but after all the time cooped up on the boat with just Ford for immediate company it was still a bit of a shock to see this many folks assembled in one place. Melody, smiling sweetly at everyone, was collecting tickets and directing traffic.

Most of the usual suspects had managed to finagle invites somehow. The Corduroys were out in force, wearing what he swore was freshly ironed flannel. The Mayor had come up with an eye-searing suit jacket in scarlet and emerald parrots to go with the usual sash.

Ford - in orange, but not pink - had immediately gravitated to McGucket, the two anchoring a table out on the far fringe. They’d actually managed to attract a curious audience. A scatter of ruffled pink dresses dispersing and gathering again through the throng marked Mabel and her gang.

Clary was busy coordinating with the servers. The pickup had long since been unloaded and was well off to the side, parked in a neat line alongside the El Diablo and the Fairlane. People drifted over in the general direction of the buffet table, some tricked out in fancy party clothes, most in casual summer wear. The little Sterno cans under the hot dishes were doing their job and the scent of the bourbon baked beans was reeling them in quick.

Stan slid in alongside Clary. “They’re gonna stampede the buffet,” he said under his breath.

“Then it’s time we got to work. All we have to do is slow them down.” Clary crooked a finger and didn’t wait for him to follow before throwing herself into the fray. He stood back for a moment and just watched; she clasped hands and patted shoulders with the eternal enthusiasm of a born politician.

“Oh my,” she said in the midst of conversation, looking over to him with a glimmer of command in those cool eyes - ‘don’t you dare leave me out here alone,’ was what he read there - “you’re really going to have to ask Stan about that. He and his brother have had all kinds of adventures.”

He grumbled to himself, tacked on the grin and waded in after her to trade pleasantries and tell tall tales about his time at sea. Between the two of them it was easy - Stan tossed bad jokes at Clary, she answered with a slyness that they couldn’t have scripted better. Amidst the general laughter, the lust for lunch was blunted enough to make the line almost orderly, and within a few minutes people were fanning out towards the tables with loaded-down plates.

Eventually Stan went in to sample the spread, looking out across the lawn while savoring messy bites out of a drumstick, and it occurred to him that this was going well. No explosions. No giant robots.

He caught Clary’s eye over a gaggle of guests and flashed her a thumbs up. Her lips twitched in return.

There was only one issue and he didn’t even register it until nearly an hour later - he hadn’t had a chance to spend any time with her at all.

That stayed true as the afternoon wore on. The buffet was increasingly picked over by ravenous locals led by the Corduroys. Clary drifted from group to group, never carrying anything more substantial than a bottle of water, laughing as she gathered names and asked what everyone was doing for the summer.

Shadows were growing long by the time he finally managed to end up next to her in an eddy of relative quiet. Clary tipped back her head and downed half her water in a few gulps, barely glancing over. “Looking good so far,” she murmured, her eyes tracking out across the scattered crowd. “When do we expect the dance crew to start trickling in?”

“Half an hour, maybe. Listen, did you even get lunch?”

“Enough to tide me over. I’d better make sure the leftovers are getting packed up.”

Stan leaned in a little, trying to catch her direct attention. “Can’t you take a bit of a break? I’m sure the girls you brought in are doin’ fine. See, Melody’s already on it. Have you even sat down this afternoon?”

Clary rocked back in response, regard narrowing as she finished off the last of her water. “Since when do you hover like an anxious parent?”

“Since I’ve watched you spend the whole damn week puttin’ this thing together. Aren’t you gonna enjoy yourself?“

“Whose party is it anyway?” Her perfectly pink lips curved in a wry slash. “It’s under control, Stan, no trouble. We actually have enough to feed everybody and then some, and they all seem to be having a swell time.”

“Fine. Yeah. You’ve done a hell of a job with hostin’.” Clary spared him an ironic dip of the chin. “We got a ways to go yet, though, so will you at least do me a favor and let someone else do the cleanup?” Sincerity felt all kinds of weird on his tongue, but she was deflecting like a champ even though he could see the weariness behind the veneer.

The line of her shoulders softened a bit. “No promises. But I’ll try to stay out of the way.”

“Maybe I can sweeten the deal a little.”

“Mmhm. I might be willing to listen.”

He let his voice drop into a low cajoling rumble. “All right, so, once things calm down some - “

“Hey. Stan.” Dammit.

Pacifica cut across the lawn,wearing a determined frown. “Listen, you should know that my parents got themselves dance tickets, so you’re probably going to see them this evening.”

“Wait, really?” Stan looked at her in doubt. “I didn’t think minglin’ with us common folk was ever gonna be on their radar.”

“Yes. Well. This year’s been educational for both of them. Honestly I think they’re kinda bored? And congratulations, you really did manage to throw the biggest party of the summer.” Pacifica nodded to Clary, who blinked in surprise. “I just wanted you to know they’re coming.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Clary said cautiously.

Pacifica tossed her hair back. “I hope not. Good luck out there. You two look, ah, very well coordinated.” Her assessing eyes raked over them both as she twirled away.

Clary glanced over, mouth twisted in a dubious line. Stan shrugged. “They’ll probably be a pain in the ass, but it’s not like they can do much damage. Hell, we did sell tickets to half of town. I’d bet on them gettin’ one clear look at this crowd and bailin’.”

“Anyone else I should be looking out for?”

“Everythin’s under control. Don’t you worry your pretty head. Just keep pourin’ on the charm.”

She didn’t quite laugh, tugging out her phone to check the time. “Sixty minutes to showtime. I’d better head in for my costume change.”

“Lemme guess, we’re gonna be coordinated again.”

“I don’t really know but I definitely have an outfit.” Clary tipped him a mocking salute as she stepped away. “See you in around an hour for the next act.”

Stan watched her go with a sigh, then jumped as Mabel’s voice piped up just to his left. “You should be fine in your mystery suit, Grunkle Stan. You look plenty sharp in that. Soos had it cleaned and pressed.” She winked, then glided past with an anxious Ford in tow. “He was gonna do an ‘Our Founder’ tribute exhibit but I talked him out of it until the end of the summer, so you’ll just have to be a relic in the flesh for tonight!”

“I’m not encouraged, Mabel!” he yelled after her.

“It’s gonna be great! Trust me!” She vanished inside with Ford, who managed to catch Stan’s eyes in desperation as the door closed. Tough luck, Sixer.

The serving crew had what was left of dinner packed away by now and were dishing out cherry pie, lemon bars and explosive krispy treats to anyone who had the energy for more. For the moment everyone was stunned into somnolence by food. Lucky ticket-holders were draped over the Northwests’ fancy garden party chairs like victims of a weaponized lullaby. Stan snagged a couple of lemon bars on the way past, scarfing them down without regard for the sprinkle of powdered sugar he ended up wearing, and headed into the house.

There was no telling where Ford had ended up. Stan didn’t really want to know, Sixer was a big boy and could take care of himself and Mabel probably wouldn’t cause any permanent damage and he had his own problems to deal with, starting with the suit he found hanging neatly on the inside of his bedroom door.

He ran careful fingers down the sleeve. This had actually been decent when he’d scavenged it up half a decade ago, wool instead of polyester for once. Since he’d last worn it someone had done delicate work with a needle to mend the frayed spots at cuffs and inseam. The scorch marks had been professionally rewoven.

Stan thought he’d shed this particular skin for good. He shoved down misgivings he didn’t have time for, tossed aside the Hawaiian shirt and buckled down to business.

The old suit fit well – better than well, actually, he was a bit slimmer than he’d been at the end of last summer. No hat, of course, that had passed down to Soos. With squared shoulders and all the swagger he could conjure he headed out to the bathroom and the biggest mirror in the house.

He stood looking into his reflection, tweaking his ribbon tie one last time and feeling a bit out of place, when a tap came light at the door. “Yeah, yeah, just a minute.”

“Are you decent? I just need a moment with the mirror.” Crap. Her.

“Sweetheart, never in my life have I been decent. C’mon in.”

Clary drew the door open and stood aside to let him emerge into the hall. Her frank regard swept him from toes to crown. “Looking good, Stanley. The pictures don’t do the real thing justice.”

Words died in his throat as he got a chance to take her in - black sleeveless cocktail dress, wide neckline showing off her collarbones, flared skirt, tightly cinched waist with a tiny rhinestone buckle at the center. Her hair was pulled back in waves to a French twist. The inevitable scarf was a broad, soft band of scarlet silk wrapped twice and pinned to cascade down the center of her back.

“Not bad yourself, Miz Merrick.” Stan managed to swipe the gobsmacked look from his face in less than a second, though he was sure she’d noticed. He caught her hand and bowed over it with a flourish to cover. “You’re gonna break hearts out there.”

“I’m just here to show folks a good time.” Her smile was small and a little tired, her fingers soft though he could still feel the bumps of fresh calluses on her palm. There was a fleeting squeeze as she ducked past him to the mirror, touching up ruby lipstick and clipping more rhinestones at her ears.

“Ready to knock ‘em all dead?”

“Let’s go give the people what they came for.” She looped her hand lightly into the crook of his offered arm.

The house was quiet as they walked through the shadows of gathered twilight. No one had been through to snap on all the lights but both of them were comfortable enough with the internal peculiarities of the place to navigate.

Stan paused at the door which led from the house to the museum proper, where they’d cleared enough space for the dance floor. A faint undercurrent of conversation and music was just audible. He glanced over to her, aware of the tension singing in her spine, and flicked a broad wink when he saw her focus shift in response. “What’s the worst that can happen?” he whispered. “We got this, kid.”

Clary heaved an inaudible sigh and nodded. He set his hand to the doorknob and led her through before either of them could think better of it.

They stepped out into the party space at the dance floor’s edge and someone, somewhere, had been watching.

A musical cue welled up and a spotlight picked them out before they’d made it more than a couple of feet. Clary froze, her fingers going rigid at Stan’s elbow.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Our hosts for this evening, the Mystery Shack’s own Mr. Mystery and Miz Enigma!” Soos’ cheerful tones rang out on the speakers, and dozens of eyes turned their way. A spatter of polite-or-curious applause rippled along the room.

“Oh my god,” Clary hissed through bared teeth. “I didn’t know I was getting promoted.”

“Neither did I,” muttered Stan, making a mental note: Have a serious conversation with Soos about this later. His own grin snapped wide as he waved back at the crowd. “Sorry, doll, guess we’re on the spot. Just look at me,” which she did, terror and indignation in her eyes. “Take a bow,” which she did, dipping in a reflexive curtsy as he stepped back and bent at the waist, showing her off with a flash of his free hand. “An’ hang on tight. We’ve done this a dozen times.”

He swept her into his arms and after one stiff millisecond she followed. Her palm lit at his shoulder, his at her waist. Clary was collected enough to sweep her searchlight smile out across their audience as they took the first few whirling strides across the boards. “Just think about how righteously pissed off you are at me.”

“Rest assured you’re going to pay for this.” Threat or not, she breathed it into his ear in passing and he shuddered despite himself, then spun her out into a pirouette that tugged gasps from startled throats. Oh, yeah, they had this just fine.

Whoever the hell was in charge of the tunes - no way that wasn’t Mabel - had taken pity on them because come on really they’d walked into a total ambush. The song was familiar, his steps and hers were sure and solid, and by the time Stan dipped her nearly upside down the grin she wore was the real thing.

The room exploded with applause. Stan got Clary upright, he bowed, she curtsied, and the crowd closed in on them. Mabel muscled her way right to the front and caught his free hand. “My turn!” she called.

Clary plucked a scarlet-eared Dipper out of the throng. “Come on, Dipper. I promise I’ll make you look good out there.” He stammered as she winked, and the four of them wheeled out across the floor for a few bars before everyone else joined in.

The joint was jammed. Stan had lost track of how many dance tickets they’d sold days ago but ‘half of town’ seemed pretty accurate. They got through three more tunes, both he and Clary trading off partners each time, before the overflow spilled out into the yard. He followed along both to control the stampede a bit and to catch a breath of fresh air. The evening was well into deep twilight by now, a breeze picking up to provide some relief from the heat.

Guests were picking up and moving tables out of the way, clearing most of the space they’d set up for the picnic. Someone had gotten the roof lights going so folks wouldn’t trip unless they really tried to.

He’d long since lost track of Clary as the chaos level ratcheted up, more and more townies and a handful of tourists swirling onto the grounds past Melody’s ticket booth. When the brief squeal of a police siren fired up he nearly jumped out of his skin. The sheriff’s cruiser rolled up to the Shack, Blubs half hanging out of the passenger window, Durland at the wheel.

Stan straightened the suit and headed over, knowing full well that his smile was a little strained. “What’s shakin’, officers? Felt like you were missin’ out? Or is the middle of town just that empty since everyone’s here?”

“Oh, it’s pretty quiet downtown, all right. But this particular gathering looks like it might be getting a bit out of hand.” Blubs tweaked his shades up and smiled placidly at Stan. “Just how many people did the fire department decide you could jam into the Shack again?”

“Well, see, that’s why everyone’s outside, it was gettin’ hot in there anyway. Fresh air, good company, I’m sure everyone’s just gonna settle down an’ chat.” Something was moving around on the roof; he couldn’t quite get a bead on it from the corner of one eye. Hopefully the damn goat.

“I don’t know, Stan. This might be approaching illegal levels of fun.”

Durland snickered cheerfully from his side of the car.

“Don’t you give me that, Blubs, I know Soos got the permits for this thing, this’s just a peaceful family party with a really big extended family - “ Yeah, that was not the goat on the roof, that had to be Soos from the bit of silhouette he was able to catch, shifting something huge and squarish into place at Wendy’s old hangout spot.

Stan looked back over his shoulder just in time to catch a faceful of floodlight. He yelped, dazzled, then managed to resolve the dark shapes up there into Soos with a speaker nearly as tall as he was.

"Hey, Mr. Pines!" Soos shouted from up top. "I thought things might get pretty nuts, so we've got a backup plan!" He jabbed a button and the whole space around the Shack filled with booming music. The party attendees cheered and Stan groaned under his breath. Just as well the grass was more or less blasted to a crisp by this time of year anyway.

“See?” Stan half-yelled over the thump of the bass. “Just a nice mellow gatherin’ that is totally not gonna run into the municipally mandated quiet hours!” Soos was fiddling with the lights up top. Another switch flipped and a mirror ball whirred to life, scattering a million multicolored spangles across the trees, the ground, the guests, the Shack, and the cruiser. Another roar of approval went up.

Blubs shook his head, stepped out of the car and clambered up onto the hood. “Deputy, hit the lights!” Durland obliged. Swaths of red and blue swept out over the crowd, a few people blinking back in surprise.

The sheriff waited a beat until he had the attention of most of the folks outside, then whipped off his duty shirt - sweet Moses, that was a sequined tank top underneath - and shouted, full-throated, “Let’s dance!”

Both Blubs and Durland hurled themselves into the crush of jiving couples.

Stan sagged against the cruiser and wondered how much longer he had to live.

Soos emerged from the Shack in a new suit after a couple minutes. This one had mirror-tile lapels and a matching fez for pity’s sake. He and Melody managed the mayhem like a couple of practiced hands, music and lights shifting to direct the dancers through an eclectic track list that kept everyone’s feet in motion.

Stan was about ready to roll up his sleeves and start plowing through in search of Clary, and for that matter his brother, when both appeared around the further shadowed edge of the yard. Apparently she’d managed to track down both Ford and McGucket; she had an arm from each of them locked up in her own and approached the cruiser at a brisk clip. McGucket cackled with glee all the while.

Stan met them halfway. “You three all right? Sixer, what the heck - ?” Ford was tricked out in a three-piece suit and looked more dapper than he did. “Where’d that thing come from?”

“You didn’t manage to go through all the storage space in the house.”

“The hell I didn’t.” They eyed one another narrowly for half a second until Clary chimed in.

“We’re beating a strategic retreat. I had to rescue these two from a fascinated horde of Gravity Falls’ most eligible ladies.” Ford coughed sheepishly into his sleeve.

“I ain’t had this much fun since last summer!” McGucket patted Clary’s hand and peered up at her. “Why don’t we do this at my place next year? The Hootenanny Hut’s got plenty a’space!”

Pure surprise arched her brows and parted her lips for a bare moment. She flicked a tiny, fleeting glance over to Stan - he wasn’t sure what she was looking for, because he was as startled as she was - then she answered McGucket with a tentative smile. “I guess we can talk about it, Fiddleford. Come on, let’s get something to drink. See you when it all settles down, Stan. If anyone wants a dance with the hostess you know where to send them.”

But I want a dance with the hostess, was what he didn’t say. “Trust me, kid, I’ve seen crazier than this. Soos an’ I can keep it all under control.”

Someone shouted ‘CONGA!’ behind him and he gave Clary the cockiest of grins as cheers rang out from the crowd. “I’d get while the gettin’s good, though.”

She almost said something, then snapped her mouth shut and led her charges up the Shack stairs. Ford looked back over one shoulder with a deepening frown. Stan shrugged and turned, grim-hearted, to make certain the conga line led by the Mayor didn’t wander right off the edge of the Bottomless Pit.

Another forty minutes of thankless idiot-herding elapsed before people finally started to wear out. Some collapsed onto scattered chairs, some shuffled wearily homeward into the night. Stan shook hands, clapped shoulders, smiled until his face ached and got as many of them off his damned property as he could manage.

“An’ don’t come back until you’re ready t’pay for the whole tour,” he muttered after one bedraggled group heading out along the drive. He stretched, wincing as his back creaked in a couple places. “Soos, think you got the rest of it handled?”

“No problem, Mr. Pines! What a night, huh?” Soos’s grin twinkled as brightly as his disco-ball suit. His enthusiasm hadn’t flagged all night. “I think they’re still going over in the museum. Miss Clary’s been dancing with anyone who asks nice. Dipper’s getting really good with the DJ turntable!”

Stan closed his eyes, counted to ten, and looked over to Soos. “Miz Enigma?”

Soos laughed. “Wasn’t that a nice surprise? One night only, exclusively at the Mystery Shack!” His hands traced a broad marquee arc in the air. “You should go on in, Mr. Pines, I bet she’d like to see you.”

Stan felt his joints lock up in hesitation, not feeling nearly as sure about that. Soos laid a steadying hand at his arm. After a second he screwed his courage down and straightened. “Fine. I mean if you insist.” He waggled brows at Soos with a confidence that was all surface luster and headed up the stairs.

The dance floor they'd set up inside the museum was an oasis of relative peace. Plenty of guests were still dancing but there wasn’t anything near the crush that had gotten so out of hand outside. He swept a look across the room - pretty much all people he recognized. Manly Dan was rounding up his sons who'd all but wiped out the snack table in one corner. Lazy Susan and a handful of the Greasy's staff perched on chairs and giggled among themselves.

The music was brassy and bright. Dipper sat behind the turntables chatting with Wendy and flipping through a crateful of old vinyl LPs. Clary’s musical taste had won the day in part, at least.

Many of the dancers had withdrawn to the edges of the room for a better view of Preston Northwest whirling Clary across the boards in a surprisingly expert tango. Apparently he had decided to mingle with the common folks.

Stan's hands tightened into fists on reflex. He stalked up to the border of the dance floor, landing right next to Priscilla. Cold fury radiated off her tense figure.

"Evenin', Mrs. Northwest." He got a glare and a fleeting sneer for that. Preston swept Clary through a turn, a dip and another turn, neither of them missing a beat. "Didn't figure you two would make it."

"We are the founding family," she replied, tone level if frosty. "Since we don't expect to host this year, Pacifica suggested we might gain something from slumming it a little." Even when she turned to look at him it wasn't quite direct, like her eyes wanted to slide right off. "I can't say I understand the appeal."

Stan shrugged. "Good. So, anyway, wanna dance?" Priscilla scoffed in delicate disbelief. "Can't think of a better way to cheese off your husband out there."

He watched that sink in, perfect lips peeling back from perfect teeth in a sort of posh snarl, and when she caught his hand and dragged him out onto the floor he allowed it. She wasn't half bad. Stan handled her with all the respect he’d give a wagonload of dynamite, alert as they traced an arc that would intercept Clary and Preston just before this particular tune ended.

“Excuse me,” Priscilla hissed sweetly just as they came into easy range, “may I cut in?”

Clary immediately raised both hands and took two steps back from a startled Preston. “My word, Priscilla dear, please do.” Stan caught her by the waist and swung her away as the Northwests sized each other up.

He felt her tremor of relief as she half-sagged into his arms, one hand light at the back of his neck as they spun across the floor. “Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime, kid.” Over her shoulder the Northwests had taken their first few steps together, so practiced that their whispered conversation didn’t disrupt them much. Not his problem.

The tune blurred into something softer, the tempo slowed, and for the first time that day there was a moment of shared quiet. Clary relaxed against him, cheek half pillowed at his shoulder. He didn’t dare burst the bubble for a while. Her feet were heavy - she’d been dancing without a break, he figured - and he was more than content to just shuffle along.

“So,” he murmured at length. “Wanna blow this popsicle stand?” Her chuckle vibrated against his chest. “Hop in the car, maybe go find someplace empty?”

“We’re hosting this thing.”

“C’mon. It’s almost midnight an’ it’s startin’ to slow down anyway. We’ll let Soos an’ the cops chase off the stragglers. Go check out the sky from somewhere nice an’ dark.” He had a clear look at her in the soft glow of the party lights, a few tendrils escaping her carefully set hair, pinpoint freckles scattered over her pale shoulders. “Moon should be comin’ up by now.”

“I mean it, Stan. You and I are on the clock until everyone’s gone.” Clary twitched her chin to indicate one side of the room. He followed the gesture, landed on Bud Gleeful happily chatting up Sheriff Blubs, and nearly tripped over her feet. She managed a neat little bit of waltzing jiu-jitsu to keep him upright. “Take it easy! I’ve been keeping him entertained for most of the last hour.”

“What the hell is he doin’ here?” Stan hissed.

“Bought a ticket, like pretty much everyone else.” He didn’t quite break out swearing but she patted his back soothingly anyway. “Mabel and her gang are keeping tabs on Gideon. Everything’s fine. Just play nice.”

Clary’s lips assumed a gentle, calculated curve as the song wound down. She walked fearlessly over to Gleeful with Stan in reluctant tow. “Bud, I know you said it was about time for you to head out? It’s been such a pleasure to have you.”

“My goodness, Miss Merrick, if you ain’t been the most generous hostess.” Gleeful clasped her hand in both of his, smiling past her to Stan. “It’s not often our little town is graced by such a treasure. So kind of you, Stan, to extend everyone the opportunity to enjoy her company.”

Stan folded his arms; it helped suppress the automatic urge to deck the guy. “Gleeful. Nice t’see you made it to the event of the summer. I’m so glad you had a swell time and we’re all so sorry you’ve gotta go.”

“Oh, it’s true, it’s gettin’ late and my sweet wife is about ready to faint.” Mrs. Gleeful was, in fact, spinning blissfully across the far end of the floor in the arms of the most handsome of the town’s firefighters. “But I understand Clara Jane here’ll be leavin’ us soon, so perhaps just one more dance to remember her by?”

Stan gritted his teeth so hard he felt the enamel creak. Clary shaded a pretty smile behind her fanned fingers. “Perhaps I’ll be back one of these days. I had no idea Gravity Falls was full of so many lovely people. Of course, Bud, by all means.” They strolled out past Stan as some mid-tempo number welled up on the sound system, Gleeful sparing him an amused glance on the way.

For a glum moment Stan just watched. A soft clearing of the throat to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head to spot Lazy Susan, dolled up in polka-dotted pink and a hopeful smile.

He heaved a shallow sigh and offered his arm. “C’mon, Susan. I guess I owe ya one.”

The evening finally wound down over the next half hour. Both Stan and Clary spent the whole time busy with goodbyes, last dances and air kisses. Clary pressed business cards into a few select palms and waved a cheerful farewell to the Northwests, who took a good bit of tension with them as they left.

The music ground to a halt as Stan shooed the last couple guests out the door. Dipper was half passed out in his DJ’s chair, cheek pillowed on one turntable. “Are we done, Grunkle Stan?” he yawned, propping himself up just enough to peer blearily over.

“That oughta do it, kid, we’re leavin’ the cleanup for tomorrow. Where’s Clary?”

“Said she was going to get some fresh air, I think.” Dipper straightened and stretched elaborately. “Man, I’m gonna sleep for a week.”

Stan struck out into the night, hunting through darkened garden-party tents, glaring at the handful of lingering partiers until they had the sense to start heading for the exit. The plump quarter-moon cast silvery light over what he knew would look like a disaster zone in the morning.

He found her at the far edge of the yard among a scatter of abandoned tables, a tied-off trash bag at her side. She was flopped into a folding chair with her head tipped back and a cup of what he hoped was water lolling dangerously in one hand.

“Clary. What’d I tell you about cleanin’ up.” Stan dragged up a chair of his own and let himself collapse.

“Not to do it.” Her eyes didn’t open but a slow, satisfied smile curved her red mouth. “Hell of a party. Did I meet the entire town?”

“More’re less everyone that matters. Did you actually dance with Durland?”

“I did! You’re right, they’re not bad guys at all, but I’m not sorry in the least that they’re a little oblivious.”

“That’s enough of that. Feet.”

She straightened just enough to look at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ditch the shoes, gimme your feet, you’ve been on ‘em all day and you’re more or less limping.”

Clary sputtered briefly. “...are you suggesting a foot massage?”

Stan braced an elbow on his knee, leaning in with an arched brow. “I am a man of many talents, Miz Merrick. Quit stallin’.”

Clary stared at him for a good long moment before toeing off her strappy sandals. Stan dunked a bar towel into a pitcher full of mostly-melted ice and took up her feet one at a time, scrubbing them down ruthlessly while she yelped and kicked and made a fuss, then started with the left and pressed both thumbs into the center of the arch. She bit off a curse and he glanced up at her over the glasses. “Language.”

“Hot Belgian waffles,” she spat back at him, and “ow!” when something popped in the middle of her foot. He eased up right there, let his palms warm her chilly skin and began to walk thumbs from the base of the toes back towards the heel, feeling the bones shift subtly in his grip. Clary whined in protest but he didn’t relent until the worst of the tension was beginning to unlock.

By the time he’d wrapped both hands around her ankle and begun to work his way up she’d settled down a bit, watching him through drooping lashes.

“Consider this the quick an’ dirty,” Stan muttered, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck as he traced lines of muscle along her calf and inched his way up to the knee. “We’ll get you a hot soak when we get back to the house.”

“I’d ask where and how you picked this up, but frankly I don’t care.”

“You think I’ve never had a girlfriend who waited tables?” He outlined the curve of her kneecap with solid pressure, rippled his fingers in a caterpillar walk up the soft space framed by tendons at the back, then patted her shin and reached for the other foot.

“You think I’ve never waited tables?”

“Until I saw you in action this mornin’ at Greasy’s, I gotta admit I never thought a well-bred broad like you had waited tables.” Stan started out a little more gently this time, tracing a loose loop along the base of the big toe. “Not the first thing I’ve been wrong about.”

“I find that hard to believe. Stanley Pines is right about pretty much everything.” That was pure sarcasm no matter how deadpan her delivery was. He set to work and wrung a series of little noises out of her, some approving, some pained. “Ow. You were certainly right about everyone wanting to meet me.”

“You sure as hell made time for everyone.”

“That’s the job when you’re hosting, Stan, especially when you’re one of the main attractions.”

“You danced with Gleeful.” Stan was having to actually try not to sound hurt and failing miserably. Clary watched him with shadowed eyes and a crumpled mouth.

“And if all it takes to keep him sweet is a spin around the dance floor and a slice of leftover pie, we’re getting off cheap. You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but it would’ve - I’d’ve liked it, y’know, if - “ He was tripping over his own tongue, he knew it, and so he shut up and went back to sketching circles along her ankle with his fingertips.

Clary growled back at him, husky and tired. “There’s only one man here I really wanted to dance with. But no, you big jerk, you had to sell tickets - ” One toe kept poking him in the shoulder for emphasis. “ – so that half of town shows up and I have to waste time playing coy with Preston Northwest, who is a terrible, selfish dancer, by the way. I just – ugh.” She clapped a hand over her eyes. “I just wanted to do something nice. I wanted to do something nice for Ford and the kids and especially you.”

Yeah. That stung even as it lit a little spark of embarrassed pleasure in his chest. “Things got out of hand.”

She snorted in unvarnished disdain.

Stan swallowed hard, pride sticking bitter in his throat. “Okay, fine, I made things get out of hand. I’m sorry.” She peeped out at him over her fingers, brows screwed tight. “I’m sorry, princess, I mean it. What’ve I gotta do, kiss your feet for a chance to make up for it?”

Clary tilted her head a shade, hand dropping to her mouth. He realized his mistake as she gently tugged her foot from his clasp and presented it, knee flexing, long toes pointed.

Stan huffed out half a laugh as the tension between them shifted from frustrated crackle to uncertain hum. “What, seriously?”

“You offered.”

His eyes narrowed, but she looked back at him with imperial calm. Fuck it, he thought, he’d paid higher prices for less, cradling her heel in both hands and dipping his head for a wary kiss, fine bones and fragile skin taut under the fleeting contact. A faint tremor ran through her in response.

She picked up the other foot and delicately extended the leg; he let the press of his lips linger for a moment and skimmed the pad of one thumb along the inner arch. No shiver this time, just a tightening through the calf as he felt her stifle any reaction.

“I’ll plan on leaving Tuesday morning,” Clary murmured after a moment.

That left him the whole weekend. Three days. All right, then. “Thanks, sweetpea. You were amazin’ out there, y’know.”

Her cheek was nestled into a cupped hand, her smile slight and slanted. “So were you.”

tumblr: [00][01][02][03][04][05][06][07][08][09][10][11][12][13]

Ao3: [00][01][02][03][04][05][06][07][08][09][10][11][12][13]

“If you don’t get around to smoothing this over, I will.” Ford’s got that look in his eye and you instantly regret every dubious thing you’ve ever done.

Maybe she’d make a decent research assistant.

No way. I saw her first!

You don’t know her like I do.

#Gravity Falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #OClicious #fanfic

1 note · View note