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fallinfromasnowytrain · 3 years

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Bucky Barnes Loves Dogs

Summary: following Bucky throughout life as he wants a dog.

For: @falcon-chill. It’s been simply lovely to talk with you over anon, and I loved writing this. I’m excited to chat off anon now and get to know you better! Much thanks to @nottodaylogic who helped me with writing this and @metalbvcky who set this all up! A very happy holidays to you all!

Bucky Barnes had always wanted a pet.

A PET was the first thing written on every birthday list, right before toy soldiers or gum or whatever new thing he wanted that year.

Once for Halloween, he got a baby sister. He didn’t know you were supposed to get presents at Halloween.

Around his seventh birthday, he asked his dad why he never got a pet. Pa had ruffled his hair and laughed.

“You’ve got enough brothers and sisters, Jamie. Isn’t that good, bud?”

He’d just mumble “sure”, not wanting to upset his Ma who’d made his brothers and sisters.

When he lived with Steve in their own little apartment, he still wanted a pet.

Both of them knew it was impossible. With rent, food, and Steve’s frequent doctor visits, there just wasn’t the money.

Even though Bucky still couldn’t have a pet of his own, he enjoyed petting the stray dogs in the street or the dogs of rich ladies who lived near his parents.

Once the United States joined World War Two, Bucky got sent to Camp McCoy to train for the army. He heard that some folks were training dogs to assist the soldiers. He immediately wrote home to Steve.

Stevie, you’ll never believe it!

Dogs are being trained to assist soldiers!

You know I’m being trained as a sniper, but I wish I could be a dog handler.

Maybe when I come home a war hero we can get a dog and a big house with a big lawn for the dog to run in.

How are you? How’s home? Are you staying out of fights? I miss you lots. Sometimes it gets real cold in the barracks, and I miss our home and the blankets your ma made.

Anyway, I’m doing pretty well.

All my best, Buck

The base in Italy was wet, cold, and terrifying. Bucky had never been out of the States before, and now he was in enemy territory with Axis soldiers trying to kill him.

Bucky was scared any time had to leave his barracks (even though he knew a roof wasn’t going to do much against bombs).

The only part of the camp that resembled something normal was the mess hall. The food was rarely any good, but mealtimes brought all the soldiers together like battles didn’t. Sure, you trusted your brothers in arms during battle, but meals were different. Battles brought out fear and anxiety, while meals brought out laughter and stories of back home.

“What I miss the most is the ocean. Big blue waves crashing on the sand. And the sun! Fellas, it felt so good to just lay on the warm sand with the sun in the sky over ya’.”

“Aw, shut up, Frankie, we’ve heard enough about the sun,” Bucky said, laughing.

“Well, alright, Barnes, what’s somethin’ you miss?” Frankie shot back.

Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck. He missed his family, and he missed his bed and home-cooked meals. He missed working at the docks and going to dance halls when he could scrounge up enough change. Most of all though, he missed Steve.

But the soldiers didn’t want to hear about Steve.

“I—I miss seeing the dogs that the rich ladies have. Those ladies walk ‘round all near my parents’ place with their silk coats and pearl necklaces, and the dogs are sometimes looking nicer than my brothers! What with their fur all neat and those bright shining collars. I know it’s real over the top, but I wish I could have a dog to spoil like that.”

He did want a dog, that wasn’t a lie.

But what he wanted most was to be at home, curled up with Steve in their bed.

Strapped to a cold metal table and experimented on somewhere in Austria, Bucky had frequent fever-dreams.

Usually, he’d dream about Steve. Even though in reality Steve got into fights all the time, that was a rare occurrence in his dreams. Most of the time he’d dream about coming home from a long day of work to a warm supper on the stove made by a Steve who was healthy. Other times, he’d dream about the house always being warm and sitting and listening to the radio with Steve.

Occasionally, he’d dream about having a puppy. Steve would always be present in the dreams with a puppy. Steve and Bucky would take their soft golden puppy on walks at night. Sometimes when it was warm they’d stop at Coney Island for some ice cream, and they’d let their dog splash in the waves.

But no matter how much he dreamed, it never came true. No puppy, and certainly no Steve.

Once again, Bucky was being shaken awake.

Even though he despised his alarm clock from back in Brooklyn, he found himself longing for it now. Getting shaken awake got old fast.

He groggily opened his eyes, expecting to see the bald German scientist hovering over him.

He did not see the bald German scientist.

He saw a man who looked just like Steve, only taller and with more muscle.

He must be hallucinating.

The man shook him again. “Buck, c’mon, wake up.”

That voice was Steve’s voice. Bucky would bet his life on it.

“Stevie,” he mumbled, tired from days of experiments and dozing on the metal table.

“Yeah, it’s me, pal.” Steve pressed a large, cold hand to Bucky’s cheek. “I thought you were dead, Buck.”

“I thought you were smaller.”

Steve laughed, a loud, real laugh in the middle of a war. “Let’s get out of here.”

Back at base, Steve and Bucky were rushed to the medical tent.

A nurse bandaged Steve’s scrapes, put some ointment on his burns, and declared that other than a few minor injuries, he was fine.

Bucky, on the other hand… Well, no one was quite sure what had happened to Bucky. Aside from a few burns from the fire, he had no visible wounds, but his head pounded something terrible, and his muscles felt achy. A nurse gave Bucky some water and placed a cool rag on his forehead and then left with a promise to return soon.

She returned with Colonel Phillips, and Steve paced beside Bucky’s cot as the nurse and the colonel discussed something quietly.

Bucky fell asleep.

When he woke, Steve was sitting in a chair beside his cot, hand clasped together, head bowed.

“Ste—Steve,” Bucky muttered out.

Steve’s head jerked up. “Oh, you’re awake. Here, let me get you some water.”

“No.” Bucky reached out, fingers grasping the sleeve of Steve’s shirt. “Stay.”

“Alright.”

Bucky turned his face towards his friend. “Are they sending me home?”

“They’re sending all of us to London.” Steve’s lips lifted, however slightly. “Giving us a break from duty for now.”

“You too? You’re gonna come with?” Bucky pulled at a thread in the blanket. What if they sent him away from Steve? What if Steve wasn’t coming too? HE wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Steve placed his hand over Bucky’s restless one. “Of course me too. Think I’d let them send me somewhere without you?”

“Y’know what?”

“Huh?”

“I want a dog, Stevie.”

“Go back to sleep, jerk.”

The streets of London were loud, though to Bucky, everything was loud. The pounding in his head had never really gone away.

Even though the sounds made his head hurt, Bucky didn’t mind the noise all that much.

It was nice to be able to walk outside without the fear of being attacked by enemy troops—or at least, less fear of being attacked by enemy troops.

He liked being able to spend time with Steve. They would walk all around the city together. Brooklyn would always be home for Bucky, but he couldn’t deny that London was beautiful too.

One day while out walking with Steve, Bucky had seen a fluffy brown dog running in the grass and catching a ball thrown by a young boy.

Desperately wanting to pet the dog, Bucky approached the young boy with much less confidence than he would have before the war.

“Can I pet your dog?” Bucky asked.

The boy smiled. “Sure. Her name is Teacup.”

“Thank you.” Bucky knelt down, scratching behind Teacup’s ears. “Such a good doggy.”

All Bucky wanted was for the new year to bring about the end of the war. He wanted to go home and see his ma and pa and siblings and go to work and dance halls and live with Steve in their little apartment.

Bucky never seemed to get what he wanted.

Instead of home, the new year brought the Howlies boarding an enemy train—in a terrible snowstorm no less.

Granted, they were doing this to capture Arnim Zola, the man who had experimented on Bucky.

So no, Bucky would not mind capturing him, and he would not mind his death, either. He would just prefer to go home instead.

Steve and Bucky landed on the train as planned, but when they entered the car, armed soldiers were ready for them.

Bucky shot at a soldier while Steve slammed his shield into another’s head. Two more soldiers came in. Bucky shot one and was aiming at the other when suddenly he was blasted backwards.

Wind was whipping around him, and the deep ravine was below him, and how did he even get here in the first place when he just wanted to go home?

He saw Steve leaning over the side of the train, reaching a hand out to him. “Hold on! Hold on, Bucky. Grab my hand!”

Bucky stretched, trying to grab hold of Steve’s hand, but there was a crack, and the rail he was holding onto broke.

And he was falling through the sky, down, down, down.

And he saw Steve’s heart break into a million pieces.

And he landed hard on the ground. So hard that it rattled his teeth and his bones.

He couldn’t feel his left arm. He couldn’t really feel anything at all.

It was cold.

He wanted to go home.

Once again, Bucky found himself strapped to a cold metal table.

His arm was gone. His head hurt.

In the beginning, he had tried to fight the HYDRA bastards who captured him but soon learned that fighting just got him punched and denied food.

Sometimes he’d hear Steve’s voice, and Bucky would bolt upright, looking everywhere for the source of it.

The agents would laugh at him.

“Captain America isn’t coming for you, Sergeant,” they’d say, mocking.

Bucky was so tired.

He wanted to be home. He wanted to curl up in bed with Steve, and he wanted to go on evening walks with a dog, and he wanted to go home.

Soon enough, he lost track of how long it had been.

The Soldier couldn’t remember anything.

Well, that wasn’t quite true.

The Soldier could remember blue eyes, but the handlers said he was imagining things.

The Soldier was instructed to take out Captain Rogers.

Captain Rogers was a good fighter.

Captain Rogers threw the Soldier in the air, and when the Soldier hit the ground, his face shield fell off.

The Soldier got to his feet, glaring at Captain Rogers.

“Bucky?” Captain Rogers said, mouth open in shock.

What was a Bucky? No, Captain Rogers was addressing someone. Captain Rogers was addressing the Soldier. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

The Soldier—no, James.

James found his own little apartment.

He went out now and then but mostly tried to stay out of the way of everybody.

He didn’t want to be noticed.

James would cook himself meals in his apartment. He would water the plant that sat next to his bed.

Some days he would forget to water the plant.

Some days he would forget to eat.

Some days he would have a hard time, memories swarming in from all directions, and confusion overtaking his mind.

Some days, though, he wouldn’t have a hard time. Those days he would go for a run, maybe pick up a book from a small bookstore near his apartment.

He slowly started to remember things. He liked science.

He liked to look out the window and see dogs passing by on the street.

He wanted a dog.

James just wanted to buy some fruit, when all of a sudden he was accused of killing the cat man’s father.

He did not kill the cat man’s father.

He didn’t do that anymore.

But he still found himself in Siberia after fighting the cat man, two flying robots, and a spider kid.

It turned out one of the flying robots was actually Tony Stark.

Howard Stark’s son.

He didn’t mean to kill Howard Stark, but that didn’t seem to matter to Tony.

His arm was gone, his arm was gone.

He had just wanted to buy some fruit, go home, and water his plant.

Things were getting better.

James was living in an apartment at the Avengers compound with Steve.

James was going to therapy.

James was starting to remember things. Steve was his friend. Steve liked to draw. James liked to listen to music. James liked to read and do puzzles.

James had gotten a dog, a golden retriever. Both Sam and his therapist had suggested it.

Pluto was a good doggie. James and Steve would go for walks with Pluto. When James was having a hard time, Pluto would snuggle against him, grounding him.

And Steve? Steve was a good friend to James. Steve helped him to remember; Steve helped when he had a hard time.

Steve was special to James.

Bucky had been reading on the internet. There was a lot to learn.

He always knew that he liked more than just girls.

Now, there was a word for it.

Pansexual, he figured, fit him.

He told Steve, saying, “I’m pansexual. Means I like girls and boys and other people, too. If you want me to leave, just say.”

Steve broke out in a smile. “I like boys and girls, too, Bucky. Bisexual.”

“Oh.”

“And I… Bucky, I like you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Bucky must’ve been quick for a little too long as Steve said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Bucky said. “I just… there’s a lot of things going on. There’s a lot of things that have happened. But… I think I loved you before, and I like you a lot now.”

Steve just stared at him.

“Could I miss you, Steve?”

And Steve just leaned in, and Bucky put a hand to his cheek and kissed his lips softly, and it was nice nice nice.

“Would you like to go to Pride?” Steve whispered.

“I’d like that, Steve.” And he kissed him gently.

“Hop in, buddy,” Bucky said to Pluto, who was wearing a sign that said: PLUTO LOVES YOU.

Bucky himself was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, with pan flags painted on his cheeks.

“Ready, Buck?”

Bucky slid into the passenger seat of the car. Steve, wearing a bi flag tied around his neck, smiled at him.

“It will be good,” Bucky said, taking Steve’s hand.

“It will be,” Steve agreed.

They kissed.

It was good.

#stuckygiftexchange2020 #stuckysecretsanta2020 #writing #steve x bucky #em writes

19 notes · View notes

musette22 · 4 years

Note

Hey! For the future prompts: Bucky liking more feminine thing or liking to wear makeup maybe? And Steve being a supportive and loving boyfriend to him

Illuminations On A Rainy Day

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky)

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: Mostly fluff but eventual smut. Since the smut is explicit, 18+ only please! Addition warnings for slight feminization and makeup use.

A/N: This is my first time writing anything like this, so I hope it’s what you had in mind, anon! I loved writing it ❤️

Summary:

Bucky bites his bottom lip, trying to find the right words to explain this to Steve but coming up short. “Sometimes I just like to feel – pretty. You know?”

Steve looks very serious when he says, “You look plenty pretty to me, Buck. Always have.”

And Bucky knows he means it. He can see it in Steve’s eyes every time he looks at him.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I just like making myself look nice. There’s something about the process, the pampering, the grooming… I can’t really explain it, I just know it makes me feel… good. About myself.”

“Okay,” Steve nods. “That’s great, Buck. You should do whatever makes you feel good.”

Read on AO3

Bucky Barnes isn’t vain, exactly. He just enjoys taking care of his appearance, that’s all. Back in the thirties, that meant making sure his work shirts were ironed, his shoes were shining, and his hair was slicked back with pomade. Today, in 2016, his hair is too long to slick back, but that’s okay. He’s not the same Bucky anymore, anyway.

Of course, for a long time after escaping Hydra’s clutches and returning to Steve; his best friend and the absolute love of his life, Bucky didn’t take care of himself at all, let alone of his appearance. During the long and arduous process of recovery, which most likely is never going to be fully completed, Steve even had to remind Bucky to eat and take showers. To his credit, he never once grumbled about it. In fact, over the past two years, Steve displayed levels of patience Bucky never would’ve dreamed he was capable of, based on the scattered memories he had of the perpetually sickly and prickly firecracker he lived with back in the thirties.

But with time, lots of therapy and a little help from Wanda, Bucky had slowly started to become more aware of himself again. Started to realize (even if he didn’t always believe it quite yet) that what had happened wasn’t his fault, and that he was worthy of the second chance he was given. So, eventually, he started treating it as one, too. He began to do the things he’d always wanted to when he was a young man growing up in the Depression and times of war, but hadn’t been able to due to lack of funds or rigid, intolerant social norms. The most important of those things, of course, was openly being with Steve. This entailed announcing to the team and eventually the rest of the world that they were together, holding hands when they go for a coffee run, and giving Steve a good luck kiss before missions.

In addition, Bucky also got a cat, bought himself a heated blanket even though he didn’t really need it in the Tower where the heat was always perfectly regulated, and started indulging in frequent movie marathons from the comfort of his own couch.

More importantly, Bucky also slowly but surely began to enjoy taking long showers and baths again. He used fragrant bath salts and shower oils and bought specialist products to make his shoulder-length hair soft and shiny, with just the right amount of volume. If he shaves, he likes to use a nice aftershave after, but more often than not he chooses to keep a short beard – a designer stubble, as Nat calls it. He couldn’t have a beard back in the day, but he’s found he likes the way it looks on him (just as he likes the way his stubble makes Steve’s pale skin look after Bucky’s been loving on him for a little too long).

About once a month, Bucky, Nat and Wanda treat themselves to a spa day. The three of them have struck up a friendship which, based on the similarities in their backgrounds and history, was more or less inevitable. Spa days are heaven, since Bucky doesn’t only like to take care of himself, but also very much enjoys being taken care of. After a day of being pampered senseless in the spa, he returns home to Steve all loose and relaxed, smelling like massage oils and with silky soft skin, which Steve appreciates possibly even more than Bucky does.

Today was a spa day. The three of them have just gotten dressed and are getting ready to head home. Wanda sits down in front of the dressing room mirror to put on her makeup, and Bucky, towelling dry his hair before putting in some argan oil, watches her as she re-applies her smoky eye.

After a minute or two, their eyes catch in the mirror.

“Would you like to try?” Wanda asks.

Bucky blinks. “Try?”

Wanda shakes the little tube of eyeliner at him by way of explanation.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes widening.

Would he like to try some makeup? He’s never really thought about it before, but now that Wanda’s offering, he finds that he’s… not unamenable to the idea. Still, part of him wonders if wearing black eye makeup will make him look too much like the Soldier, decked out in war paint. He’s about to decline the offer when Natasha, who as always seems to be able to read Bucky’s mind, speaks up.

“You’re not him anymore, Bucky.”

Bucky gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment. “I know,” he says finally.

“You’ve made incredible progress. A bit of eyeliner isn’t going to undo that.”

“I know,” he repeats. He straightens his shoulders. “Alright, let me try it.”

Wanda gives him a soft smile, turning towards him as he settles on the chair next to her. “Okay,” she says. “Sit still, please.”

Unconsciously, Bucky holds his breath as Wanda fusses over him. It doesn’t take as long as he imagined, and when she tells him she’s all done, he slowly, with no small amount of apprehension, turns towards the mirror.

That’s – not bad at all.

Bucky leans a little closer, turning his head this way and that, inspecting his reflection from different angles. Finally, he decides that he likes it. A lot. The dark outline makes the slate blue of his eyes pop, makes his eyes somehow look bigger. He smiles at Wanda.

“It looks nice,” she says, brushing a lock of hair off his face. “Should we try mascara, too?”

Emboldened by the unexpected success, Bucky replies, “Sure. Why not.”

It’s hard to keep your eyes open while someone is more or less poking at them with a brush, as Bucky finds out, but fortunately Wanda is quick and efficient and manages to apply the mascara with minimal casualties. When Bucky looks in the mirror next, he’s actually shocked by how long is eyelashes are. Who’d have known?

“I look –” Bucky starts.

“Yes?” Wanda asks, an amused glint in her eye.

“…pretty?”

“You do. Very pretty.”

Nat stands up then, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Alright, guys. I’m meeting Fury in forty minutes. Let’s get going.”

“Like this?” Bucky splutters. “Shouldn’t I take it off first?”

Natasha shrugs, unconcerned. “You could, if you want. Do you?”

Bucky swallows, considers the question. He darts a glance in the mirror again, fascinated by his reflection. He still looks like himself, only nicer.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t.”

“Great. Let’s go then.”

***

Despite his earlier burst of confidence, Bucky feels himself growing nervous as soon as he steps through the door of their apartment. The light in the living room is on, indicating that Steve is home. For a moment, Bucky contemplates making a dash for the bathroom so he can scrub off the makeup before facing Steve, but then he shakes himself. He’s faced hairier situations than these (boy, has he ever) and besides, Steve would never laugh in his face. At worst, he’ll be a little confused, and if he doesn’t seem to like it then Bucky will just save the makeup stuff for the days he hangs out with the girls. No big deal.

He takes a deep, bracing breath, and steps into the living room.

Steve is stretched out on the couch, sketchpad in his lap, dressed in a pair of loose, grey sweats and a dark blue hoodie. He looks up when Bucky walks in.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, already smiling. “How was the spa?”

Bucky doesn’t reply, just stops at the end of the couch, nervously waiting for Steve’s reaction.

After a few moments of silence, a little frown forms between Steve’s eyebrows, and Bucky holds his breath.

“What is…” Steve mutters, looking at him intently, and then his eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Bucky says finally, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt. His voice comes out a little weaker than he’d like. He clears his throat.

Slowly, Steve gets up off the couch. He walks over, just as slowly, and it’s only when he comes to a halt right in front of him that Bucky remembers to breathe.

Lifting his hands, he cradling Bucky’s face between his big palms.

“Oh, Buck,” he says softly, his thumbs caressing Bucky’s cheekbones. “You look…”

“– ridiculous?” Bucky interrupts, the word little more than a whisper.

Steve frowns a little. “I was gonna say nice. You look real nice, baby.”

“Oh.” From one moment to the next, Bucky deflates, his shoulders relaxing as he leans forward, into Steve’s touch. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Steve smiles, with those laughter lines that Bucky loves so much. “You have such pretty eyes, Buck.”

Bucky looks into Steve’s sky blue ones, searching for even the slightest trace of insincerity, of Steve telling him what he wants to hear just because he wants Bucky to be happy, but finds none. There’s just love there, and maybe, definitely, a little bit of adoration.

“Thanks,” Bucky mutters, relieved. He closes his eyes as Steve leans in and kisses him, ever so carefully.

Bucky hums into it, tries to follow Steve’s lips as he pulls away.

Steve just laughs silently. “Come on,” he says. “Sit with me. I missed you today.”

Taking his hand, Bucky lets himself be led towards the giant couch in the middle of the room. Steve lets himself flop back into the cushions, pulling Bucky on top of him. Bucky goes easily, nestling against Steve’s chest.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, burying his nose in Bucky’s hair. “Your hair smells nice.”

Bucky just grunts in reply, rubbing his face into Steve’s pecs like a cat. Steve, attuned has he is to each of Bucky’s gestures and silent commands, takes the hint. He lifts a hand Bucky’s head and starts to gently run his fingers through his hair, separating the silky soft strands and lightly scratching at his scalp. After a few moments of that, Bucky almost starts to purr. It just feels really nice, okay? He loves being petted, always has, and fortunately, Steve loves petting him.

“It’s getting really long, Buck,” Steve says after a while. “I bet you could wear it in one of those hip bun things guys tend to wear these days. Maybe even braid it.”

“You think so?” Bucky mumbles after a second, letting the idea roll around in his head.

“Sure, yeah. It’s past your shoulders now.”

“Can you braid?”

Steve’s hand stills his hair. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes even though Steve can’t see him do it. “I don’t see anyone else here, do you?”

“I mean, I can give it a shot,” Steve muses. “How hard can it be, right?”

—

Turns out, it’s pretty damn hard. Steve does his best, and to be fair, what he ends up producing is more or less a braid, but it’s not what Bucky expected.

“I can practice,” Steve says stubbornly, standing behind him in the bathroom while Bucky inspects the damage in the mirror. “I’ve learned how to drive a stolen car in Nazi Germany in an afternoon and mastered several martial arts. I’m sure I can learn how to braid your hair properly.”

Bucky just pulls a face at him in the mirror. “I dunno, honey.”

“Just you wait,” Steve says, sticking out his chin just like when he was a hundred pound asthmatic kid who was told he couldn’t join the army. “I’ll have this down by the end of next week.”

—

Six days and many a pained grunt on Bucky’s part later, Steve does actually manage to weave his hair into a tight and complicated braid that looks, if Bucky may say so himself, pretty damn amazing on him. The two of them spend a good fifteen minutes admiring Bucky’s ‘do in the bathroom mirror, a smaller, handheld mirror that he borrowed from Nat enabling Bucky to see the back of his own head.

“You did it, Stevie,” Bucky says proudly, putting down the mirror on the counter to turn around and wrap his arms around Steve’s neck, leaning in for a kiss. “It looks amazing.”

“Told ya I could do it,” Steve replies, before regretfully adding, “Shame you’re gonna have to take it out again for bed now.”

Bucky bristles. “The hell I am. I’m meeting Wanda and Nat tomorrow morning. They bet me you couldn’t do it, so I have to show them my man can do anything he sets his mind to. And also cash in their loser money.”

Steve snorts. “Can I just remind you that you didn’t think I could do it either?”

“Nonsense,” Bucky replies, giving a curt shake of his head. “I’ve always believed in you.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve concedes, smiling down at him dopily before leaning in for another kiss. “Whatever you say.”

***

A week or so later, Wanda comes up to Bucky after a briefing with a little bag swinging from her wrist, which she hands to him with a flourish.

“What’s this?” Bucky says, curiously peering into the bag and finding only a small, nondescript box.

“Just a little present,” Wanda says enigmatically. “Open it when you’re home.”

It turns out to be a starter set of eye makeup; a few different mascaras and eyeliners, and a scary-looking contraption that Bucky later finds out is meant to curl his eyelashes. He spends the rest of the afternoon in Steve and his bedroom, trying out the different products. When Steve comes back from training with Thor that night, Bucky eagerly shows off his efforts. Steve duly tells him he looks beautiful, and any doubt Bucky might have about his sincerity disappears when Steve proceeds to kiss him breathless on the couch.

From that moment onward, Bucky’ll put on a little eye makeup on good days, or, perhaps more accurately, on days when he doesn’t actively hate himself.

The first time he wears eyeliner on a mission (because he’d been having a good day until some idiot with lasers decided to cause trouble down town) Tony and Bruce look at him a little strangely, as if they’re noticing something different about him but can’t quite put their finger on it. When Tony finally catches on, Bucky tenses.

“Are you wearing mascara, Buckinator?” he asks gleefully, and then Bucky has the pleasure of seeing him visibly wither when Nat gives Tony a truly terrifying look that shuts him right up.

After that, no even so much as blinks when Bucky occasionally shows up to kick villainous ass with a neat cat eye.

—

On a dreary afternoon in October, Bucky and Steve are once again stretched out on the couch together, Gone With The Wind playing on their TV set as Bucky dozes against Steve’s shoulder,

“Buck?” Steve says suddenly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle him.

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever, like…” He trails off, letting the unfinished question hang in the air.

“What?” Bucky asks, lifting his head to look at Steve.

There’s a frown on Steve’s forehead; not the one that means he’s upset or worried, but the one that means he’s thinking about something really hard. Bucky lifts a hand to smooth out the lines with the pad of his thumb. “What is it, Steve?”

Steve takes a breath. “Well, I was just wondering… I might be way off, of course, but I just want to make sure.” His frown deepens. “You know I’d give you anything you’d ask for, right?”

“Steve” Bucky sighs. “You’re not making any damn sense. Just come out with it, will ya?”

“Right,” Steve nods. “Of course, yeah. What I mean to tell you is, um, if you ever maybe, like, wanted to wear something a little… different. That would be perfectly fine with me. Just so you know.” He presses his lips together nervously, watching Bucky for his reaction.

Bucky, meanwhile, still doesn’t have a clue what his idiot of a boyfriend is on about.

“Something different?” he asks, puzzled. “Do you… do you not like what I’m wearing?” He looks down at himself, and has to admit that, okay, maybe this stretched out t-shirt and faded blue sweats combination isn’t his biggest fashion success. But to be fair, Steve himself is wearing a very similar outfit, so it’s not like he’s really one to talk.

“No, that’s not –” Steve sputters, “I don’t mean there’s anything wrong with your clothes, baby, I swear. I just meant, if you maybe someday felt like wearing a – a skirt, or a dress or something, that would be totally fine. Of course.”

Oh. So that’s what Steve was trying to get at.

Bucky smirks. “I know it would be,” he says, “but I don’t. Want that.”

“You don’t?” Steve watches him closely. “You sure? You can think about it for a while, if you want. You don’t need to tell me anything right away, I just wanted to get it out there – you know, just in case.”

Bucky gives Steve a small, reassuring smile and squeezes his ankle. “Nah. Dresses and heels are nice and everything, but they don’t seem very comfortable. As you know, I like being comfortable. ‘Sides, I can’t exactly fight baddies in heels, can I?”

Steve snorts. “I don’t supposed that’d be very effective, no.” He pauses for a moment, before adding “Though I’m sure Nat and Maria could do it.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not Nat and Maria,” Bucky huffs. “I’m not a woman, and I don’t want to be one, either. I just…” He bites his bottom lip for a moment, trying to find the right words to explain this to Steve but coming up short. “Sometimes I just like to feel – pretty. You know?”

Steve looks very serious when he says, “You look plenty pretty to me, Buck. Always have.”

And Bucky knows he means it. He can see it in Steve’s eyes every time he looks at him.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I just like making myself look nice, you know? There’s something about the process, the pampering, the grooming… I can’t really explain it, I just know it makes me feel… good. About myself.”

“Okay,” Steve nods decisively. “That’s great, Buck. You should do whatever makes you feel good.”

They’re silent for a moment after that, both of them ruminating on their conversation.

“So,” Bucky starts after a minute or two, “I know I said I’m not a woman and I don’t want to wear women’s clothes…”

“Yes?” Steve prompts him when he doesn’t continue, prodding his thigh with his bare foot.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, gathering courage. “Well,” he goes on, “say I maybe wanted to try wearing some pretty underwear someday. Would that be – weird?” He shoots Steve a tentative glance, trying to gauge his reaction.

To his relief, Steve doesn’t look shocked or appalled – though maybe his eyes do grow a little bit darker. “Why would that be weird, Buck?” Steve reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. “I’m sure you’d look stunning in it.”

Bucky can’t help his pleased little smile as he leans into Steve’s palm. “Okay,” he says, satisfied for now. “Let’s go to bed?”

“Sure, Buck. Whatever you want.”

—

That Wednesday, Bucky and Steve find themselves on the couch once again. Bucky sometimes wonder why they even have other furniture in their living room, because this couch seems to be the only place either of them want to be.

Bucky is watching some spy thriller that he keeps scoffing and rolling his eyes at, because that is not how you do spying, for god’s sake. Meanwhile, Steve is drawing again – drawing Bucky, to be precise. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him constantly but he doesn’t mind because he’s used to it. The gentle scratch of his pencil over the sketchpad only audible when there’s a lull in the explosions, and seriously, no spy worth their salt would let that many things explode; the whole point is to go unnoticed.

When the credits finally start to roll, Bucky sits up, stretching his arms above his head.

Steve puts away his sketchpad, too. “So,” he says.

Bucky turns to him, and finds Steve looking a little hesitant. Bucky cock his head at him questioningly. “What?”

“I sort of… got you a present?”

That makes Bucky perk up. “Really? What is it?”

“I’ll just go get it,” Steve says by way of reply, getting up and heading to their bedroom before returning with a beautifully wrapped, rectangular flat box. It’s glossy black with a red, silky bow tied around it, giving it the appearance of an exceptionally fancy box of chocolates.

“Ooh, chocolates?” Bucky asks eagerly. “And it’s not even Valentine’s Day.”

Steve chuckles and tilts his head as if to say, hmm not quite.

“Not chocolates?” Bucky checks. “Then what is it?”

“Open it.” Steve hands him the box and sits back down on the couch. He wrings his hands nervously as Bucky lightly shakes the box, trying to determine what’s inside.

“Just open it, Buck,” Steve says, fondly rolling his eyes at him.

“Fine, fine.” Placing the box in his lap, Bucky carefully unties the red ribbon. He lifts the lid, pushes aside the tissue paper, and then stops breathing entirely.

Inside the box are three pairs of beautiful, black lace boxer briefs.

“Steve…” Bucky breathes, reaching out to reverently run his fingertips over the delicate fabric. “They’re beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks tentatively. “You like ‘em? I wasn’t sure what type you’d like, so I figured I’d start with something simple but beautiful, y’know?”

Tearing his eyes away from the gift, Bucky looks back up at Steve.

He makes sure to look him in the eye before saying, “I love them. They’re really gorgeous, Steve.” He leans in, putting a hand on the side of Steve’s neck and placing a kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”

Steve’s eyes remain closed for a moment after Bucky draws back. “You’re welcome, Buck. Wanna go put ‘em on?”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Now?”

Steve shrugs. “Why not?”

Bucky steals another quick kiss. “Okay. Let me just…” He swallows down his sudden nerves. “I’ll call you when I’m done?”

Steve nods, and Bucky disappears into the bedroom, clutching the box like it’s precious. Which it is, kind of. To him, anyway.

He turns on the bedside lamps, then strips naked, carefully folding his clothes and putting them on the chair next to the wardrobe. Next, he gingerly takes out one pair of briefs and carefully steps into them. When he turns towards the mirror to looks himself over, he sucks in a sharp breath.

The briefs fit him like a second skin, perfectly hugging his hips and ass, easily accommodating the slight bulge of his already half-hard cock.

He looks… sexy. He feels sexy. A little bit nervous about Steve’s reaction, still, but the little voice in the back of his mind whispers to him that there’s no way in hell Steve isn’t going to like the way he looks in these.

Taking a deep breath, he walks over to the bedroom door and opens it. “Steve?”

He doesn’t have to wait long: Steve appears in the doorway approximately one and a half second later. With one look at Steve’s face, all of Bucky’s worries are erased. His expression is one of adoration mixed with naked desire, and it takes Bucky’s breath away.

They stand there, looking at each other, Steve’s eyes roaming up and down Bucky’s body, and Bucky has never felt more desirable in his life. It’s a heady feeling.

Finally, Steve breaks the silence. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Look at you.”

Bucky lowers his gaze, then coyly looks back up at Steve through his eyelashes. Steve, as if pulled by an invisible thread, walks over to him, only stopping when their faces are mere inches from each other.

Bucky can feel Steve’s quickened breath against his lips, that’s how close he is, and despite the fact that they kissed not ten minutes earlier, it feels as though they’re about to kiss for the very first time. He feels inexplicably nervous, his stomach roiling with nerves and excitement. When he locks eyes with Steve, his breath hitches in his throat.

Steve’s looking at him like he wants to devour him, his eyes burning as they flick between Bucky’s lips and his eyes, until finally, he closes the distance between them. He presses a hot, eager kiss to his mouth, deepening it immediately, and Bucky moans, swaying forward into Steve’s sturdy torso. Steve’s hands come up to wrap around Bucky’s biceps, keeping him steady, and when he breaks the kiss and pulls back, Bucky feels bereft. He makes a pleading sound, something between a sigh and a whine, making Steve lean in again, if only to brush his lips, feather light, over Bucky’s.

“You look gorgeous, Buck. Let me take care of you, alright?” Steve’s voice is low, heavy with the weight of his devotion.

Bucky lets out a shaky sigh and nods. He lets himself be steered towards the low bed, Steve sitting down on the edge of it and looking up at Bucky. His wide, blue eyes are framed by those long, long lashes, and despite the arousal burning low in his belly, Bucky lifts a hand to tenderly brush Steve’s golden hair back off his forehead.

Putting his hands on Bucky’s waist, Steve slowly sliding them down his sides until they’re resting on his hips. The warmth of his palms burn on Bucky’s skin through the lacy fabric. He almost wishes they could brand him; how he longs to have Steve’s handprints on him forever, like a mark of ownership.

Steve’s thumbs press in just below the jut of Bucky’s hip bones, rubbing slow circles into his skin that have Bucky breathing faster and his cock filling up to full hardness.

Leaning in, Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s belly button, then noses down the fine trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of the panties. Pressing soft, teasing kisses to the sensitive skin below his hipbones, he finally ventures even lower, nuzzling at the outline of Bucky’s dick through the fabric. Bucky groans, his hands coming up to settle on Steve’s broad shoulders.

“Steve,” he sighs, fingers scrabbling at Steve’s shirt. “Take this off.”

Steve grunts, leaning back a little to whip off his shirt in one quick move. Much better, Bucky thinks as he smooths his palms, one flesh and one metal, over the gentle slopes of Steve’s bare shoulders.

As if he hadn’t been interrupted, Steve leans back in, mouthing enthusiastically at the hard line of Bucky’s erection, wetting the fabric. He’s making pleased little sounds that Bucky savours, wants to store in the back of his brain to brighten up his darkest days. Steve’s hands start to wander, running down and up Bucky’s thighs, thumbs brushing the insides before they end up on Bucky’s ass. He kneads the firm flesh, making the lace scratch a little roughly over Bucky’s skin, and Bucky is unsure whether to push back into Steve’s big hands or forward, towards the warm, wet heat of his mouth.

Opening his mouth further, Steve moans against Bucky’s dick, his fingers digging into his hips almost painfully. Bucky shudder, his hips stuttering forward.

“Steve,” Bucky whimpers again, “please, Stevie.”

“What do you need, Bucky?” Steve asks, like he doesn’t know full well.

“Your mouth-”

“Yeah?” Steve says, looking up at him with dark eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do, Buck. I want to hear you say it.”

Bucky groans, his cheeks burning hot. “Want you to – want you to suck my cock, Steve. Please.”

“Whatever you want, pretty baby,” Steve says, and then he’s ducking his head to run his tongue teasingly over the leaking tip of Bucky’s dick where it’s peeking out over the waistband of the panties.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, his fingers digging into the hard muscle of Steve’s trapezius.

Slowly, inch by inch, Steve starts to pull down Bucky’s briefs until they come to rest below the swell of his ass. Bucky’s erection springs free, hitting Steve’s cheek, and Steve hums appreciatively. He starts to mouth along the side of it, torturously slow, before he finally closes his red, plush lips around the head of Bucky’s cock. Without further teasing, he sinks down on it, taking him deeper and deeper until he hits the back of his throat.

Bucky swears loudly, his left hand tangling in Steve’s soft, blond hair, messing it up. “Jesus, Steve. God fucking dammit.”

Steve makes a throaty sound, one hand coming up to wrap around the base of Bucky’s dick as the other keeps kneading his ass cheek. Bucky watches raptly as Steve begins to bob his head; red, wet lips sliding along Bucky’s shaft, creating the most exquisite suction that has Bucky’s bare toes curling against the carpet. Steve’s wicked tongue curls around Bucky’s cockhead each time he comes up, teasingly tonguing the slit before he sinks down again, taking him all the way to the root. His eyes are closed in bliss, as if he’s enjoying this just as much as Bucky is, which, to be precise, is a helluva lot.

”Oh, Stevie, uhh,” Bucky pants, closing his eyes too and letting his head fall back, giving himself over to sensation. “Feels so good, baby, so fucking good. God, your mouth.”

Steve hums with a mouthful of cock, the vibrations skittering up Bucky’s body, making him shiver. Seemingly just as worked up as Bucky is, just as eager for it, he starts to speed up, swallowing him down over and over. He makes it wet and sloppy, clearly not giving a fuck about what he may look like, which only makes Bucky burn hotter. Steve lets his left hand dip into the cleft of Bucky’s ass, fingertips just skating over his tightly clenched hole before he starts to rub at it with more intent.

Bucky groans loudly, fire licking up his spine as he’s gripped by an all-consuming lust, a need to claim or be claimed, he doesn’t know, and wanting to come so badly now he can taste it in his mouth. His fingers tighten in Steve’s hair unconsciously, pushing his head down further on every downward stroke, until he can feel Steve’s throat clench around the head of his cock. The pulsing sensation nearly breaks Bucky’s brain, and then Steve pushes the tip of his finger past the tight ring of muscle of Bucky’s asshole, just pushing inside, and Bucky is done.

He shouts, doubling over as his hands scrabble at Steve’s shoulders and head, pushing into Steve’s mouth as deeply as he possibly can while Steve groans and shudders underneath him. Bucky comes so hard he sees entire galaxies, gasping as his cock pulses on Steve’s tongue, spilling hotly down his throat until he’s completely, utterly spent.

It takes a few long moments for some of his brain to come back online, but when it does, he hastily pulls back.

“Shit, fuck, Steve. I’m so sorry.” He falls to his knees in front of Steve, hands coming up to cup Steve’s cheeks. “Are you alright?”

Steve’s eyes are watering. A few tears having spilled over, making glistening tracks down his flushed cheeks, and his hair is an absolute goddamn mess. He looks as if he just thoroughly got his throat fucked.

“I’m fine,” he rasps, licking his lips. “Don’t worry about me.”

Bucky scoffs, barely refraining from cuffing Steve on the back of the head. “I just nearly choked you with my dick. Of course I’m gonna worry about you.” He leans in to kiss the tear tracks on Steve’s cheeks and adds, more softly, “Time for me to take care of you now, honey.”

Somehow, the flush on Steve’s cheeks deepens. He clears his throat and says, “No need, honestly.”

Bucky frowns, his eyes flicking down to Steve’s lap – and his mouth falls open.

“Did you…” he starts, eyeing the large, dark patch spreading out on the front of Steve’s sweats. “Did you come?”

Steve gives a sheepish nods. “Uh, yeah.”

Holy fucking shit. “You came untouched, just from me fucking your throat?” Bucky asks incredulously.

“To be fair, the panties helped.”

Bucky snorts. He shakes his head, leaning up to press a kiss to Steve’s bruised, red lips. “They really did, huh.”

Steve hums against his mouth. “I think we should get some more.”

“Let’s do it, baby.”

#my fic #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes #stevebucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #slight feminization #fluff and smut #tumblr prompt #ao3

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alittleoptimistic · 4 years

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Psychic For Hire

A Buzzfeed Unsolved Fan fic

Summary: Shane is a psychic for hire working in LA, and sure, he’s a fake, but at least he's telling people what they need to hear! That is, he thought he was fake. But after a strange accident, he begins to have the oddest dreams... Meanwhile his old friend Ryan is researching his next greatest supernatural horror novel in the underbelly of the LA psychic scene and wondering how on earth you convince someone they actually might be psychic for real?

Trigger warning: violence, car accidents, dead people

___________

Chapter One

The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. Her hair hung in thick, dry tufts on her white blouse, unnaturally red. She was a forty-five-year-old divorcee who wore several rings. Her ear piercings were stretched out like taffy, weighed down by gaudy diamond-shaped earrings. Her voice trembled. “ Jayson ? That’s my- that’s my son! How could you-”

He screwed his eyes shut. “-he wants to tell you he’s... alright. He’s not in any pain. And-and to not worry about…” He opened his eyes and peered at her quizzically. “The game?”

Ms. Snyder wiped her eyes, and he handed her a tissue that was conveniently on hand. She dabbed away, careful to keep from smearing her eyeliner. “I-I missed his last baseball game. And then when he didn’t come home, gosh... what kind of mother doesn’t go to their kids' baseball game...”

“Hey.” He caught her shaking hands and laid them in her lap as gently as he could. Her skin was soft and manicured, the lines in her palms deep. “He forgives you. Do you hear me? He loves you and he knows how much you love him.”

Her lip trembled. A watery sort of smile attempted to find room amid the trembling, and she gave a little embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d get so emotional.”

“It’s alright. Of course, you would. He’s your son.”

She nodded once, and again. A deep breath. “Thank you, Mr. Madej. I needed to hear that.”

Shane patted her hand and closed up the notebook he’d had out. It was covered in nonsense scribbles from a small pencil he held in his hand. “Ah,” He waved his hand, “Call me Shane.”

Ms. Snyder sniffed and smiled. “Well, thank you, Shane. That was… astonishing. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure- I just needed something. Some-”

“Closure?” he offered.

She nodded. “How much do I owe you?”

Shane smiled and took out his cellphone, credit card slider already embedded in the charging port. He named his price and she swiped her card.

As she stood up, straightening her clothes, she took another steadying breath. And then quietly, almost to herself. “Goodness…”

Shane stood and led her to the office door.

He conducted sessions in a small portion of his house closed off by glass doors and windows. He called it his office. It was painted in calming shades of white and brown. Very ‘live, laugh, love’. It might have been used as a parlor or a piano room if anyone else had lived there. There was an abstract painting against the back wall that resembled a beach, and fake reeds sprouted from a tall skinny vase in the corner. There was a coffee table between two armchairs and a couch. It could either have been a nice waiting room or a therapist’s office if not for the red neon sign through the blinds in the street facing window. PSYCHIC

Shane opened the glass door and walked her to the front door of his home. “It was wonderful to meet you, Ms. Snyder. If you ever need anything else, you call me?” He pointed at his business card in her hand.

Ms. Snyder nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“And,” He lowered his voice, although of course there was no one else to hear. “Be careful. I know you live a bit of a distance. If you do ever decide to visit another, ah, advisor, I would highly recommend keeping to the list of recommendations I have on my website. They are good people. But there are a lot of not-so-nice people in LA.”

Ms. Snyer blinked at him, almost surprised, and she relaxed even further. There. If there had been any reservation left, she had abandoned it. She trusted him. He had her. “Oh, I’m aware. Thank you. I appreciate the honesty. Your… your gift is incredible.”

Shane smiled, lips tucked in. “It is what it is. And you are very welcome. Now have a-”

There was a knock on the door, just as Shane reached to open it for Ms. Snyder.

He paused, confused. He didn’t have any more appointments today.

Ms. Snyder made a small noise. “Oh dear, I don’t mean to keep you.”

“I don’t think it’s another client,” Shane said, brow furrowed. “Could be an old friend of mine, but he’s not due to get here until tonight.” Shrugging, he opened the door.

Shane was correct. It was Ryan.

Standing on the bottom step, tapping on his phone, stood a young man Shane remembered well, although he had not seen him since, what, graduation? He was older, of course, than Shane remembered. More of substantial weight to him (not that Shane was saying he was fat, cause he wasn’t. Ryan just looked… grown-up. Solid. A man now, not the gangly kid he used to be). But Ryan stood in the same, slightly nervous way, bouncing on his heels.

Ryan looked up. “Shane! God, are you taller ?”

Wonderful. “Nice to see you too. Ryan, this is Ms. Snyder. Ms. Snyder, Ryan. We were roommates in college. Ms. Snyder is a client of mine.”

Ms. Snyder cocked her head, clearly interested, and shook Ryan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you! What brings you to town?”

Ryan opened his mouth. “Actually, I’m writing a-”

That was far enough. “Here, Ryan, why don’t you come inside? Ms. Snyder, until next time?”

“Oh, yes!” She shouldered her purse. “Most definitely. I’ll leave you two to catch up!” With that, she clickety-clacked in her heels to an inordinately fancy car and drove away down the street of the average, nice, modern neighborhood Shane lived in.

Ryan, joining him on the porch, watched her go. They squinted out into the bright California sun.

There was a beat of silence which Shane didn’t try to break, hands in his pockets.

“Dang.” Ryan finally spoke. “Got her wrapped around your finger. What’d you do, tell her she’s gonna win the lottery?”

Shane hummed. “I told her her son forgives her for staying home with a hangover instead of going to his baseball game the day that he died in a car accident.” He picked at the stitching in the neckline of his sweater.

Ryan blinked. “Holy frick, dude.”

“In nicer words, obviously.” He looked down at him. “I thought you weren’t supposed to get here until tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m a fast driver and then I didn’t see the point in hanging out in an empty hotel for hours.”

Another non-committal hum. And then Shane shrugged. “Okay. Cool. Do you want lunch? I haven't eaten yet and there’s a Cuca’s nearby that is frankly divine.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah! Sure.”

It was odd, how very natural it felt to talk to him. It was like it was just last week they’d been sitting on the floor grumbling through papers they should have written days earlier. And yet here was this distance, years of time spent only occasionally interacting through Facebook likes and Instagram comments.

“Let me grab my wallet.” Shane ducked back in the house, and Ryan trailed in after him. He busied himself searching for his wallet in the kitchen drawers, and pretended he didn’t notice Ryan blatantly snooping, eyes wide.

He popped his head into the kitchen, Shane’s ‘office’, the bathroom, the living room. It was only when he started to knock over one of the fake plants that Shane gave him a look, wallet, and keys in hand.

Ryan stood the plant back up. “Sorry. Just, this is… a really nice house.”

Shane gave him a closed smile. “Thank you.”

“No, but like, really nice. Like, how the heck do you afford this?” Most people might be embarrassed to ask a question like that. Ryan wasn’t and Shane wasn’t offended.

He got this question a lot actually. There was an idea people had in their minds of what a psychic was supposed to be. Creepy little offices in a run-down track mall next to a nail salon that doubled in sex trafficking, or a creepy booth at a carnival with crystals and incense and blah, blah, blah. Shane’s business wasn’t like that. He was clean and shaved and dressed in a brown sweater and he let his clients drink from his Starbucks espresso machine while he told them what they needed to hear. The less he was associated with thieves and liars, the better.

He shrugged. They walked outside, down the steps, and simultaneously got into Shane’s car. “You get in with the right people, the right customers, being a psychic brings in the big bucks. Besides, LA is superstitious as hell.” Shockingly so, Shane thought sometimes. It blew his mind how many hundreds and hundreds of dollars people were willing to give up to hear him spout off some nonsense.

And that’s what it was, of course.

They sat in a red leather booth at the restaurant and the plastic fabric protested loudly as they slid inside. It was past the lunch rush and the place was relatively empty, decorated with colorful paintings of wild animals, sculls, Christmas lights, the distant sound of Spanish radio, banging pots, and the rapid-fire speech of an employee in the kitchen. The food would be delicious, as it always was.

Usually, Shane could hardly wait.

But there was a pit in his stomach, a deep sort of twist that kept him stiff and ready to stand. Was he nervous? Was that what it was? But Ryan didn’t make him nervous. In fact, Ryan only increased exponentially Shane’s ability to be the calm one in comparison to Ryan.

Ryan dipped a chip in salsa and raised an eyebrow.

“So it is then? Just-, just you know, fake.”

Shane looked at him for a long moment, contemplating whether or not he was actually posing a serious question. “I mean, yeah. What else- you seriously think I can talk to dead people? I see the future? I look into the oogly-googly beyond and-”

“Well, fine, not you specifically!”

Shane chuckled. “It's fake, Ryan. I've seen it all. It's all fake.”

Ryan thought about this. He didn’t seem particularly enthused, which Shane would have expected. But Shane wasn’t going to lie to him. There wasn’t any reason to sugar coat it.

Ryan’s voice was quiet. “Last time I talked to you, you wanted to be a magician.”

“Last time we talked I was a dumbass. You can’t make money in LA as a magician. Well, you can. I just didn’t.”

Ryan stirred a chip, ate it, and chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip. “So that’s it then? You’re a con-man.”

Shane sat back. He didn’t invite Ryan to stay with him just to be judged. “Says the ‘true paranormal sightings’ author!”

“First of all, I write fiction based on fact, which is not conning."Ryan wrinkled his nose. "It’s just entertainment and research. You are actively lying to people.”

That hurt. A lot. He didn’t need this and on top of that, Shane honestly disagreed. Yes, he was lying to them constantly, but Shane didn’t hurt them! He was telling people what they needed to hear! He gave them closure when there was no other place to turn. And yeah, so the psychic part was rubbish, but it worked! It worked for his clients, and it gave him enough money to own a nice home and a car and gave him the option to eat out twice a week if he felt like it. “It’s better they come to me than to some tiny hovel where some witch will tell them they have to live on butter if they want to survive through the next year. Or worse, make them come back for a reading over and over until they're bankrupt just because they’re grieving and hardly in their right mind.”

Ryan paused at this. “People really do that?”

“Yeah! Happens all the time. And stuff like the stupid butter thing! Made local news. ‘Lady Eats Nothing But Butter to Avoid Death’. She didn’t die but she got super sick.”

Their food came and they took it mutely, neither looking at each other in the eye. Maybe things weren’t quite like how they used to be. Or maybe they were always this way when it came to this subject; a little tense, ever since Ryan told him he honest to god believed in ghosts, all the way back in sophomore year of university. Shane had reacted… less than ideally, he’d admit. It wasn’t his place to judge people, and he was far better at that now than he was at eighteen, but he just couldn't compute how otherwise perfectly sane people could believe in such ridiculous things. Unless they’d been tricked, of course. And he’d rather it be a nice trick, if it came to that, than an evil one.

Shane sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue about this. You emailed me , remember? I’ll let you see what it's like to be a ‘real life psychic’ or whatever. But I’m not going to play pretend with you. You’re not a client and you can do whatever you want to make yourself happy, but this is just how the world works.”

The knot in Shane’s stomach wound tighter, and he couldn’t imagine eating. He wasn’t hungry anymore. There was something in the air that pulled at his skin, tugging him, making his entire body feel tight and fragile and horrible. His stomach felt sick all of the sudden, and he set his fork down with a rattle of metal on porcelain.

He must have eaten something weird.

“You alright, big guy?”

He hummed. His head buzzed. He took a sip of water. “Yes. Sorry. I started feeling sick for a second there. It’s a little better now.”

Ryan’s face relaxed from indignance into concern. “Shit, dude. Did you ea s.”

Ryan was not put out by the shortcut meal. Shane paid for them both quickly, before Ryan could object, and they took their to-go boxes into the car, setting them on the sun-warmed dashboard. The feeling didn’t go away, even as they eased onto the main road and took a left toward Shane’s house.

“I’ll drive,” Ryan offered. He kept side eyeing Shane. “You look really pale. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Shane didn’t answer, too busy trying to not throw up. This was the worst timing. “I’m fine! It’s fine. Just drive!”

“If we need to pull over-”

“Look at the road, Ryan!” Shane’s stomach lurched again. He rolled down the window frantically as the buzzing in his head became so loud he could hear nothing else.

Then it happened.

He remembered it later in bits and pieces, everything in slow motion. Ryan, mouth open, a hand stretched toward him, looking at Shane, and more importantly, not looking at the truck that barreled toward them. The tacos flew in the air, cheese, and lettuce like dust in a light beam. Shane saw it all in his side mirror, his head out the window. He wasn’t fast enough to pull back inside.

With shocking strength, the truck plowed into the front of the car. Something burned down Shane's legs and then he was flying. There was the sky, the ground, the sky.

The ground.

He woke up to the sound of an ambulance and the smell of vomit. Above him, sunlight trickled through layers of green leaves.

His brain felt like it was stuffed with sand. He struggled to move and found he could, but a hand pushed his shoulder into the ground. Ryan, above him. He was bleeding from a nick on the shoulder, but otherwise looked alright. He was shaking, eyes wide and red. This was gonna traumatize him forever, poor thing. Ryan was so sensitive when it came to danger. He didn’t mesh well with it...

“Can you hear me? Shane? Jeez, Shane, you’re bleeding-”

“S’okay.” Shane managed. He didn’t feel like anything was broken. He tried to wiggle his fingers and toes. They wiggled just fine. He blinked a few times. His whole body hurt. How did he get out of the car? Something in his brain wasn’t lining up, and he couldn’t quite figure out the missing piece that brought him onto the sidewalk in this idyllic, old neighborhood. The light was too bright, the colors too loud. The siren wailed. Shane tried to sit up again. It wasn’t that bad. He was okay. “Why’d you call an ambulance?”

Ryan made some reply in a high pitched shriek that Shane couldn’t understand. There was the siren again. People stood around him now, telling him to stay still, to not move. Why were they being so uptight? He didn’t even feel that awful. They didn’t need to make a whole dumb fuss. Shane remembered glimpses of the ambulance and the people poking and prodding him.

He was tired. He should sleep. Shane closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the sound was gone.

The world was tangibly silent, unlike anything Shane had ever experienced. It felt like noise had never existed in the first place, like he was in space, free-floating in the nothingness of eternity. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat. He sat up. Moving through the air felt like moving through thick, thick water. His arms trembled to keep him upright. The ambulance either moved so quietly and smoothly he didn’t notice it, or they’d stopped. Everything was slippery to the eye. He couldn’t see enough at once.

The light was a dull, fluorescent sort of blue, even though he remembered the sunlight from outside ought to shine inside. He should be frightened also, but Shane wasn’t. A dead calm lay over him like a thick blanket. Even if he wanted to, Shane didn’t think he could summon any kind of reaction. Moving was hard enough, and it was like whatever was pressing in on him, pressed inside him as well.

It took longer than it ought to have to notice the people lining the walls of the ambulance. A pregnant woman. A young boy. A very old man. There were several more unfamiliar people around the room, seemingly random paraphernalia, all staring at him stanchly. Something was very wrong about them, and Shane didn’t know what it was. He tried to open his mouth and break the god-awful silence, but when he spoke, there were no words. This didn’t surprise him, to be honest. The pressure only increased, begging him to lie flat once more.

After a long moment, Shane gave in and his arms buckled. He slammed into the pallet he’d been placed in. The pressure surged, pressing him deeper and deeper into the plastic. He could feel it stretching under him, his ribs creaking. It was going to push him right through the pallet, Shane realized. He screamed silently, terror rushing back to him as the pressure finally forced him into the pallet. He watched the plastic melt around his arms, his body, his neck, his face. He couldn’t see.

Their heads were on backward.

_______________________________________________________________

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thejollyroger-writer · 4 years

Text

To Serve and Protect - Chapter 3

It’s Monday again -- the last Monday of the semester, actually. I questioned whether I would get you guys this chapter today, because I still have papers to write, but I was able to piece it together, because I love you all (and rely on your feedback to raise my self esteem), plus now I have to focus on Toni Morrison instead of Killian Jones.

Anyway, here’s chapter three.

SUMMARY: Detective Killian Jones has been investigating a stalker-turned-murderer for months by the time he goes home from the bar with Emma Swan. But when he thinks he sees the very man in question outside her apartment, can he separate his feelings for her and his need to keep her safe?

TRIGGERS: well, this is a fic about a serial killer. mentions of violence and death, with some physical violence/whump coming a bit later. as always, if you need me to discuss this further for you to be comfortable, message me. – rated teen for later chapters

Prologue // Ch. 1 // Ch. 2 // Ch. 3 on AO3

A wave of nervousness rolls through him, chilling him to the bone. Six months, six girls, and though he’s never felt closer to the bastard than he feels now, there’s a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thinks of catching him, one that he’s almost too afraid to think too much about.

Because he knows it’s connected to her. He wants to catch him — of course he does, that’s his damn job — but now, with her safety on the line, he’s more afraid than ever. He has never allowed his next victim to have a face in his mind, has never had it connected to a name — has never been connected to him (he grimaces as the thought passes through his mind, focusing on the change of his face in his reflection in the window for a moment instead of worrying about what may lie behind it for just a moment.)

It’s the first rule of detective work, really: don’t get involved. They tell you that on the first day. Hell, they tell you that before you even have a first day. If he would have known…

The thought disappears on his own, really, even as he hears the creaking of his bed under her as she shifts in the next room. He’s never realized just how loudly it does that, how much louder it must be under his own body weight, but, living alone, it’s never bothered him. What would he have done if he would have known? Would he have not bought her that drink? Not gone over and sat with her in her corner booth? Not followed her out of the bar? Because, sure, he knew when he went home with her, but he had no idea, no reason to suspect, before that. By the time he followed her up to her apartment, he knew that she might be connected somehow, and that didn’t stop him, but it wasn’t just because he wanted to sleep with her. Hell, he told her that she may be in danger, and still slept with her — was that the right thing to do? The move of a gentleman?

Suddenly, he hears Liam’s voice in his head: Good form, little brother. Are you showing good form?

God, how he wishes Liam were here to answer the question instead of just living as a ghost inside his head. He would like to believe that he’s living out his brother’s wishes, being the best man he can be, a man of honor — but it would be a hell of a lot easier with Liam still here to guide him.

Shaking the ghost of his brother out of his head, he sets his eyes on the street below him once more, arms crossed over his chest. He barely knows what he’s looking for, in the shadows of the streetlights. How he even recognized him that first night is still a mystery to him, because he can make out nothing from his own apartment window. The flash of a lit cigarette across the street from him could mean anything; everywhere he has been has had people smoking on their fire escapes: London, Dublin, New York. Why should Storybrooke, Maine be any different? (It’s not, he knows for sure, remembering the brief conversation he had with his elderly upstairs neighbor as he sat out on his own one night, nursing a glass of rum and obsessing over copies of case files he’s not even supposed to have, pages that he sees before his eyes when he closes them.)

Every movement, every flash of light, is a threat. He was trained to see them that way, and though the loss of his brother and the injuries he sustained from Milah kept him from action, his training never disappeared.

They would be more potent threats if he could keep his attention on them, though. He would spend more time memorizing the faces of the men walking in front of his building if the image of Emma’s curves in that dress the night they met wasn’t at the forefront of his mind, the memory of the way it fell to the floor with a whisper before he lifted her onto the bed. He would better notice the worn-down old station wagon parked at the end of the next block, the very same one that he parked next to down the street from the bar, if he could get the image of just how small and helpless she looked all alone in the sea of blue blankets and pillows out of his mind, if he wasn’t so focused on the memory of her soft golden waves of hair laying across his pillows when she laid down in his bed, if he couldn’t feel the way that her unkempt hair ticked his nose as she slept on his chest.

He wants to remember every moment he’s spent with her, from the soft feel of her tongue swiping against his to how she held herself above him, one hand tangled in his hair, the way her arms bucked and her eyes squeezed shut as she rode out her orgasm on top of him.

(And if he wasn’t wrestling against his own slowly hardening erection within his sweatpants, trying to rub the pictures of her from his eyes, maybe he would have seen him, standing on the street below his apartment window, looking up at him in the very moments that Killian is no longer searching the street for clues, his colorless eyes lit up by the cigarette in his mouth.)

He sucks in a breath, trying to shake the memory of her from his mind as he scrubs his hand over his face, realizing that he really should shave before work in the morning. He tries to see anything but her, tries to make out a single bloody detail of what’s going on outside his own window, but all he can see in the glass is the startling reflection of her bright green eyes where he knows his should be.

“God damn it, Killian,” he says to himself, resting his forehead against the cool glass for just a moment before closing the curtains and heading to the bathroom to take a shower.

And shave his damn face, he guesses.

“God, you look exhausted,” Ruby says to him in place of a greeting, sliding a cup of coffee across the table towards him.

Next to him, Detective Mills lets out a small laugh, though he tries to cover it with the back of his hand when Killian glares at him.

“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to tell me that today,” he mutters, almost not wanting the words to be heard in the first place. But the diner is slow right now, somewhat normal for his early lunch time, so Ruby hears it anyway.

She looks around the restaurant, though it’s just Leroy and Mr. Clarke sitting at the bar and Jacinda leaning against the refrigerator scrolling on something on her phone, so she slides into the empty seat across from the detectives. “It’s Emma, right?” she asks, her face full of excitement, and for a moment, he’s terrified. How does she know? What has Emma told her? Does she know about the— “She’s keeping you up all night with her crazy sex antics? Not letting you sleep because she’s so insatiable?”

This is somehow… worse?, he realizes, needing to take a sip of his coffee to try and keep his emotions off his face, especially after young Mills chuckles beside him again. Because, gods above, he wishes that were the truth. It would be one thing if he were able to continue to sleep next to her, even just to be able to feel her beside him instead of only in his nightmares, but the truth is that he’s barely even touched her since that first night, only daring so much as to kiss her goodnight before taking his place on his couch.

He has no idea how to even respond to her. The half-terrified laugh that gets stuck in his throat is certainly not the right answer, but it’s the only one he can conjure.

But instead of requiring an answer from him, the bell over the door rings, and Ruby’s attention turns from him to that.

To her. Because of course it’s Emma walking through the door, wearing the same exhaustion on her face that he has on his, though hers is covered with a fine layer of powder and a flick of mascara (he would know, he watched her apply it in the rearview mirror of his car that morning), making her look much nicer and put-together than he is even capable of hoping to be.

“Swan,” he breathes, smiling across the diner at her, and he pushes down the urge to jump from his seat at her arrival — especially because of the young Mills sitting beside him, keeping from leaving the vinyl booth.

“Hey, Em,” Ruby calls, her arm around the back of the booth. “I was just talking to your boyfriend here—”

“He’s not my—” she starts, crossing the small diner, but something between the fear on Killian’s face and the smirk of Ruby’s stops the words. So she shrugs, dropping into the booth next to Ruby.

“He was just telling us about how you’ve been keeping him up all night with your sexual antics,” Ruby jokes, nudging her with her shoulder.

She does her best to paint a smile on her face, though when her eyes meet Killian’s he notices that her smile doesn’t make it that far.

Thankfully, Granny saves them all, popping her head out from the kitchen. “Ruby,” she calls, looking first to her normal seat at the bar before scanning the restaurant. “Come help me.” It’s not a question, and when Emma recognizes the look on her face, she silently steps out of the booth to let Ruby out.

Startled by Granny, Jacinda sticks her cell phone into the pocket of her apron and crosses the restaurant, pulling out an order pad as she reaches the table. “Can I take your order?”

Killian shakes his head, not looking up from his cup of coffee. “This is good, thanks,” he mumbles. Emma orders a grilled cheese and a water. But when all that comes from Henry’s spot is silence, all three sets of eyes turn slowly towards him.

He still says nothing, his mouth practically hanging open as he looks up at their waitress.

“Mills,” Killian says, gently elbowing the man next to him, but a plan begins to formulate in his head.

“How opposed would you be to being set up for a date?” Killian asks when they’re back in the cruiser, though he ignores meeting Henry’s eyes as he pulls out of the parking lot for the law office Emma works for.

“What?”

“Come on, Mills,” he says, managing a smile. “I saw the way you looked at Miss Vidrio during lunch. She’s friends with Emma. You’re obviously interested in the girl. Plus, she lives in the apartment above the Nolan brothers’ bar, which aids in our need for rationalization.”

Henry stays quiet until the end of the block. “Sheriff Humbert isn’t going to like this.”

Shaking his head, Killian breathes out a laugh. “Believe it or not, Mills, I don’t need to run everything I do past Graham. This is my investigation.”

When Killian glances towards the passenger seat, he watches as Henry runs his hand across his face. “But — I don’t — um, wouldn’t — wouldn’t we be using her? You know, not telling her the whole story?”

“That doesn’t make going on a date with her any less real, lad.”

Again, silence.

“Listen, if it’s alright with you, I’ll run the plan by Emma and she can see if Jacinda is even interested.”

This time when he glances over at Henry, he’s nodding. “Yeah, alright.”

With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and turns to where he has his phone propped on the coffee table. 12:42. It’s been over two hours since Emma tried to stifle a yawn and Killian insisted she go to bed. In those two hours, even though every inch of his body argued, his brain focused on every movement of the building, every shift in the foundation and movement out on the street, his hand glued to the pistol resting on his chest. Every time he closed his eyes, his exhaustion taking over, he heard another noise, adrenaline snapping his eyes open.

His mind wanders back to Liam, as it tends to do in times of trouble. What would Liam do?, the constant mantra of the last twelve years, since the last time he was able to ask the question to his face. Sometimes — usually, if he’s being honest with himself, which is hard not to do at 12:42 in the morning — it proves useless, angry first with himself for not being able to think of anything, and then at his brother simply for being gone, and being angry at his brother for being gone then just makes him angrier with himself.

Tonight, however, that’s not the case. Tonight, something calls him to stand, to cross the living room, and to pull down one of the books from the shelf, the one with the worn blue fabric cover, the words fading from the front both because of its age and because of the sheer amount of times someone has run their hand over the embossing, whether it be Killian, Liam, or their mother, who liked to feel the words under her fingers every night before she opened the book to read them another chapter.

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. He feels the words under his fingers, knows how the cover looks even in the low lights of the apartment. Back on the couch, though now with the lamp behind him on its lowest setting, he props the book up on his pistol, resting on his chest, and quickly loses himself in the words.

He does not know at what late hour his eyes finally give out on him, the words he knows practically by heart running together, but judging from how exhausted he feels pouring himself a cup of coffee, it couldn't have been before 2 a.m., and he feels every hour of sleep he's been deprived of with every movement of his muscles.

tags: @shireness-says @kmomof4 @thisonesatellite @let-it-raines @wellhellotragic @darkcolinodonorgasm @profdanglaisstuff @stahlop @teamhook @snowbellewells @carpedzem @pepperspotts@imlaxdris71 @gingerchangeling @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @scientificapricot @resident-of-storybrooke @ultraluckycatnd @itsfabianadocarmo @galadriel26 @jennjenn615 @therealstartraveller776 @nightskylover @xarandomdreamx @kristi555 @nikkiemms @vvbooklady1256 @withheartfulloflove - if you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know

#my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #to serve and protect #the detective fic #yes I added Jacinda #and s7 henry #come fight me

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hattywatch · 5 years

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J. Vesey - Love Songs Companion Piece

Originally posted by knosi

Author's Note: This is a companion piece to Love Songs. I don't think anyone needed or asked for this, but here it is, because when I was writing the first part, all I kept thinking was Kevin getting the photos of her dress and immediately texting Jimmy, so this is what you all ended up with. This is for @HockeyandTaylorSwift while she's off her feet for a while. Send her some love! Excuse the formatting, I did this in HTML

He doesn't get it. Doesn't get why she's crying, doesn't get why this is such a big deal, doesn't get why he's in a suit he hates and a tie he'd rather shove back in his closet, doesn't get why he's dropped a small fortune inside a $7 card from Target, but he knows it's the right thing to do… and there's an open bar. So here he is, sat in a pew in a church with no air conditioning with his best friend and his best friend's cousin, who he's had a crush on since puberty.

There's probably 100 other ways he'd rather spend his Saturday.

When she sniffles, Jimmy can’t help but look over. He wants to roll his eyes, but he also wants to kiss her, so he settles for safe, leaving his gaze on the bride and groom- who are reading their vows off of the little index cards in their hand.

Kevin chirps her and if he was waiting for an opening to talk to her, this is it. Jimmy leans in before he can stop himself, always caught in her orbit, "What are you even crying for? Shouldn't you be happy?" When she rolls her eyes, he wonders for a second if he's crossed a line, made her upset with him, but she catches his eye once more and gives him a watery smile while she blots at her tears so he's probably okay.

Cocktail hour is spent stood at a table, eating fancy cheeses that sound nicer than they taste, listening to Kevin and his cousin chat about nothing in particular. He interjects a few times when they bicker, taking her side over Kevin's, always. Finally everyone is funnelled into the main room for the reception.

Kevin's been scoping out this pretty bridesmaid since the second she walked down the aisle hours ago and it's all about to come to a head. "Well, I'm going to go make my move. My cousin is over at the bar," he points,"if you wanted to suddenly find your balls, man," he pats Jimmy on the shoulder sardonically. He hates that Kev's a little right, so he sneers but lets him walk away unharmed.

Jimmy eyes the table full of escort cards in the corner and scoops up his and hers, tucking them into his jacket pocket. Kevin can go get his on his own, since he wants to be a prick. It's probably time to take advantage of the open bar, and really, (y/n) is already over there, so two birds one stone and all.

In a moment of bravery, marked by clammy palms and a little bit of heartburn, he sidles up next to her at the bar. His hand gently slides along the smooth skin of her lower back, exposed by her dress. She looks over, and appears surprised to see him there. He's come this far, so he leans into her ear and plows through the best he can.

"Hey, use your powers for good and get me a beer. I don't want to wait in line." She still seems a little shocked that he's there, but orders his beer anyway. It's not until he sees her throw a flirty smile at the bartender that he realizes he may be cramping her style and regrets it all, suddenly remorseful for taking Kevin's advice.

He doesn't think she knows where she should be, considering he has her table assignment in his pocket, so he leaves his hand where it lies and directs her towards their table, praying silently she can't feel the sweat on his palm and trying to figure out something to say. He's better at this in a group, but now all her attention is on him and it makes his skin prickle self consciously.

"I grabbed yours too," is what he finally comes up with when he gets her to their table. Ivy league education and he can barely talk to the girl he likes. Pathetic.

"Thanks," she says to the floor as she finally kicks off her ridiculous heels. He wants to keep talking, make her laugh and smile and stay by his side all night. He's not sure what he could say that would have that effect, but it's probably not what he says next.

"Why do you wear those things if you can't even handle them for an hour?"

He's not sure why he's always ribbing her. Probably because she always takes his joking in stride, always knows when he's kidding even though he stays stoic. She gets his humor, gets him, he thinks and his chest tightens unhelpfully.

(Y/n) sits back up and clinks her champagne glass against his beer, unaffected by his question.

"Because they make my ass look fantastic," that has him choking on his beer and he relaxes, drops his guard and unclenches his jaw. She makes him laugh, comfortable and loose, when usually he holds his emotions close to his chest.

She isn’t wrong about the heels, and he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind that she may be flirting with him. Surely that's carte blanche to take a peek when she stands up. He’s not completely sure though, so he lets her drink her champagne in peace and watches Kevin.

It must be nice to be Kevin, he thinks. Kevin doesn’t have a self conscious bone in his body- loud and unapologetic. He’s dancing like an idiot with that bridesmaid from earlier. Jimmy’s envious. He just walked right up to her, probably even said something stupid like, “Hey, I’m Kevin,” and now they’re like old friends, close on the dance floor. He’d never be able to do something so bold. Jimmy can’t help it, he’s always been a little more reserved, shy even- especially when she’s around.

Not when he’s on the ice, though. He feels confident there at least.

He wishes he could take off his skates and helmet and not simultaneously undress himself of his confidence. He can feel her gaze on him. She’s sitting there, gently sipping from her flute, he doesn’t suspect that she knows he can feel her stare.

She's been around forever. He remembers when they were young, hanging out in the bleachers hip to hip watching Kevin skate around, cheering for the older boy's team. He remembers when he hit puberty, suddenly becoming more self-conscious around girls and slowly realizing that he liked her differently. It was warm and it started somewhere around his chest and dripped down his whole body, heating him up and tying his tongue. Whenever she came around he always lost his edges, stumbling over himself.

The beer is settling his nerves a little, so he bucks up and says what's on his mind. "I don't get this whole thing," he waves his hand around, at the room in general.

She looks confused and rolls her hand on her wrist, asking him to continue.

He breathes deep, relaxing at the idea of a normal conversation. This he can do, he's good at having opinions, good at engaging in a little debate, not so good at being cool and smooth, but he'll work with what he has.

"Seems like a lot of pomp and circumstance to prove you love someone." She laughs and that's not exactly the response he was expecting, but he'd play the fool forever if it meant he'd always get to see her like this, eyes scrunched and nose crinkled, smile spanning her face.

"Jimmy, sometimes when two people really like each other they just wanna shout it from the rooftops." He rolls his eyes, but she looks like she really believes it. The way she’s looking at him right now, he’s pretty sure he could be convinced to make his way to the rooftop with a megaphone himself.

Kevin sinks down next to her, sweaty and breathless, "I think I'm in love," his eyes are still focused on the bridesmaid. She knows what she’s doing, peering back at him flirtatiously as she dances with the flower girls. (Y/n)'s eyes shine with the knowledge that she's won.

"Case and point, my friend."

He honestly just needs a minute. Sitting here with her is overwhelming. She's too much: too beautiful, too funny, too sweet, and probably too perceptive. She has to know he's different with her around, less cool, less calm, and less smart. So, he finishes his beer and -like everything he does in life- coats himself in a thin layer of sarcasm, "Had about enough of you softies," before getting up and heading over to the bar. He doesn't turn back to see if she's watching him, she probably forgot the second he walked away.

The bartender knows his order and hands him another beer, but looks past Jimmy for something else, "Where's your girl?"

Jimmy likes the way that sounds, so he can't bring himself to correct the innocent bystander that she is not, and will likely never be, his girl. So he does what any mature person would do and lets himself pretend. "Her feet hurt. Heels, ya know? Lemme get her another champagne?"

He throws a twenty into the tip jar before he heads back to the table, high on the idea that anyone could picture them as a pair.

He intercepts her and Kevin on their way to the bar, and doesn't miss how her eyes size him up with appraisal as he hands her the drink. Kevin on the other hand is less impressed. "Dude, hello?" Jimmy's still floating on the fact that (y/n) was clearly pleased with him as she takes small, delicate sips of champagne so he allows his usual banter with Kevin to shine through as he shrugs at his friend, "Bar's that way. Cheers, bro."

He catches sight of her smile going wide behind her glass as Kevin huffs away. If his chest inflates, that's his own little secret.

He doesn’t get much time with her after that. It leaves his heart feeling a little cold inside his chest. She’s up dancing with some of the other people from their table, smiling friendly and big, clearly a little tipsy, arms moving a little too wildly to be strictly sober.

When the music gently lowers and the emcee’s voice booms through the speakers for the first dance, everyone surrounds the dancefloor with their cameras out and she somehow ends up next to him, right in front of their table. It’s only a few bars into the song that he hears the sniffle, and he can’t help it, he doesn’t want her to cry, but it’s undeniably funny how soft she is.

"Would you stop crying? You're a mess, kid." Blaming his next move on a combination of the beers he’s had and his heart breaking while watching her cry, he puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side.

She gets tense for a fraction of a second, but one hand swings around his waist and the other comes up and wipes at her tears as she asserts that she’s “fine.” It’s less than convincing. She looks around as the DJ invites the guests onto the dance floor- probably for Kevin, but he’s wrapped up in his own little world with that bridesmaid he’s been following around like a lost puppy all night. Jo, Jimmy thinks her name might be, but he’s a liar if he says he’s been thinking about anything other than the girl tucked under his arm for the past few hours.

They start playing that Elvis song, he hates it. The Righteous Brother’s version of it is better, almost passable. He has no plans on making his way onto the wooden dance floor, but she sighs, and he feels it since she’s still snug against his body and he’d do a lot of dumb things to make her smile.

He’s clearly lost his mind as he nudges her with the arm that is wrapped around her shoulders, “C’mon.”

She follows him, eyes scrunched in skepticism, but he doesn’t have to pull her much, her body belies her combative words- already leaning into him, to his delight. “Jimmy stop, you hate dancing, you don’t have to.” He can tell her heart’s not in it, and she’s been dancing all night at this point, so what kind of man would he be to let a pretty girl stand on the sidelines.

"It's fine (y/n). Three minutes won't kill me. Just turn off the water works, yeah?" She scoffs but promises to try.

When she places her hands on his shoulders he gets chills from his head to his toes, feeling the warmth of her hands through his button-up and he's so, so sure that she can see his ears grow red. If she does, she keeps it to herself and he's appreciative.

The only thing on his mind is that he wants her to smile again; at him, for him, because of him. So he gets grumpy, she always gets a kick out of that. "God, I hate this fucking song." That does it, she lights up, eyes peering up at him from around his chest, she's so small.

"You're a spoil sport, Jim." He rolls his eyes and tightens his hands around her waist. She sighs again and he almost removes his hands from her, thinking he offended her in some way, but he follows her gaze to Kevin.

"Kev's gonna kick me out of our room tonight isn't he?" He looks over and laughs, because she's definitely correct, and there's only one possibility swimming around his mind, and he's tipsy enough that he doesn't hate the idea of it.

"Yeah, yeah definitely. That's a good assessment."

______

She’s unsure for about a second and a half after he asks if she wants to share his room. Realization starts to dawn and it’s not like she has much of a choice. So she huffs into the shuttle that takes them from the reception to the hotel and stands a little too far from him in the elevator and stares at the floor, suddenly shy like they haven’t known each other forever, haven’t had Mario Party nights in Kevin’s basement all piled into sleeping bags on the floor.

He slides the key into the door and she starts unpinning her hair before the green light comes on. “I really appreciate this, thank you again. Kevin’s a douche.” Jimmy laughs because he’s been on both sides of this situation before, but he’s happy he’s here to help. The second she’s inside and he starts to rifle through his duffle bag, she sees the problem.

“I don’t… damnit!” she’s mostly talking to herself, but he’d be rude not to answer. When he turns around to head towards the bathroom to change she’s unclasping her necklace and taking off her earrings and he feels like he’s intruding on a private moment.

“What’s wrong?” He’s not really good at this, but he thinks shes on the brink of tears, eyes tired and getting glassy as she gently lays her jewelry onto the dresser.

“All my clothes are back in my room. I just want to go to sleep. This is the worst,” he’s sure she’d stomp her foot in a tantrum if she could, frustration furrowing her forehead.

“I brought extra clothes, (y/n) it’s fine,” in reality he didn’t bring much in the way of extras; what he traveled in, his suit, a pair of shorts to sleep in, and what he planned on going home in tomorrow, but he hands over his clean shirt and sweats and pushes her gently towards the bathroom.

He starts turning down the bed and realizes that it’s not a viable solution to the problem he’s got on his hands, so he turns around and starts pulling the cushions off of the pull out couch and rearranging the desk to make room; honestly who even uses it- waste of space.

When she comes out of the bathroom drowning in his clothes, he has an entirely different problem on his hands. He didn’t think he’d have such a visceral reaction to her stood there in an old Harvard Hockey shirt and some dopey llama pajama pants an aunt bought him for christmas years ago. The fact of the matter is that it hits him square in the chest and takes his breath without his permission.

She managed to get most of her makeup off; she looks a little rosy from the scrubbing. Her hair is piled up on top of her head and his pants are rolled at least 4 times around her waist, but the legs are still far too long. It’s not like she needs them, his shirt is longer than the dress she just took off. He immediately realizes the error of his ways when he starts that train of thought, so he grabs the one pair of shorts he knows is in his duffle bag and heads straight into the bathroom to throw some cold water onto his face.

After brushing his teeth and a few deep breaths, Jimmy exits the bathroom in only his shorts; he didn’t pack any extra shirts, so he hopes she’s okay with his bare torso. He throws his suit into a heap on the floor and drops down on the pull out couch, it squeaks under his weight and he knows it’s going to be a long night sleeping on this thing.

When (y/n) hears the squeak she stands up out of the armchair in the corner where she was scrolling through her phone, “Jimmy, no. You’re like 12 feet tall, you can’t sleep on that thing.” She gets up and walks over to him and pushes against his bare shoulder. “Move, I’ll sleep here.”

He laughs at her trying to muscle him out of the way, she doesn’t look happy about it, but that just makes him laugh harder, and maybe flex a little bit more if he's honest. “Go lay down. You must be exhausted from all that crying you did today.” That does it and she sniffs and turns on her heel to the bed.

“I take it back, you deserve whatever that does to your back, you bully.” That just makes him laugh again.

She tucks herself into the bed and throws two pillows at his head. He catches them both and she settles in, “Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you one.” He turns off the lamp and tries to get comfortable, “Anytime.”

______

Jimmy lies there and listens to her steady breathing, he's been tossing and turning for about 30 minutes and he can't figure out what's wrong. The couch is more comfortable than he thought it would be and he's exhausted, so he's not sure why he can't succumb to his heavy eyelids.

He rolls over and scrolls through his phone, somehow finds himself meandering through her Instagram. It's not the first time it's happened, but it feels a little forbidden since she's in the same room, barely 10 feet from him.

He scrolls back slowly, careful to not double tap anything on accident. It's his favorite photo. A throwback, her and him with a bunch of their friends from high school at some beach party they organized for Kevin graduating and going to college.

It's too vivid when he thinks about it. Earlier that day he was sat in the locker room listening to Brian go on and on about (y/n). It made his stomach turn the way he talked about her, getting into her pants at prom, one last hurrah before he goes away to school and maybe gets drafted. Jimmy never really liked him (and he never ended up getting drafted, so jokes on him). Everyone else seemed to like him alright though, especially the ladies. So, he kept his mouth shut, shoved his pads into his bag and pushed his feet into his sneakers before getting out of there as quickly as he could.

Later that night she's stumbling over to him after a few wine coolers, calling him Vese, like she's his coach. He turned her down, figuring he'd rather not have her explain that she had a real date a few months down the line, rather experience the heartbreak sooner than later. He didn't even end up going to prom, just the thought of her wrapped around Brian was enough to have the bile rising in his throat.

Jimmy's not stupid, knows they're grown now, some may even use the word "adults." Brian's name has never fallen from her lips once. She's clearly single since she came to this wedding with only Kev. Then he thinks about Kevin and Jo, how they're probably wrapped up together a couple of rooms away and thinks back to how Kevin so lovingly put it a few hours ago, maybe he'll work on finding his balls.

After he makes this life altering revelation he has a much easier time rolling onto his other side and slipping into sleep.

What feels like minutes later, the sun filtering through the curtains he hadn't quite drawn all the way closed wakes him up. She's gone, he thought this might have happened, have her leave like he dreamt the whole thing, with nothing from the last night to hold onto.

When he gets up to use the bathroom he discovers he's wrong. She's left her dress and shoes from the previous evening behind the door and a quick check of the dresser shows she left all of her jewelry as well. He assembles the couch back together and sits to check twitter mindlessly.

The mechanical lock turning alerts him to her return. In conjunction with all of his clothes she borrowed last night, his hat sits on her head, hair curling wildly out from under it. But it's when she wordlessly shoves a coffee into his hand he knows he's toast, made worse by the fact that his order is perfect.

His slightly hungover brain isn't capable of higher functions quite yet, so he reaches out his fist, "Best. Wedding date. Ever," and immediately feels like punching himself in the face with the same fist she's nudging hers against. Luckily she smiles and looks pleased overall, so he doesn't beat himself up about it too much.

______

The invite has been sitting on his fridge for months. When he got it he rsvped right away, checking off 1 and mailing it back to Brady. It's only now that he thinks he maybe should have waited, found a date to bring. Kevin was smart, he rsvped 2 and would call an audible as time ran down, and now he has Jo. Fuck.

He calls Gracia directly. "I don't want to be that guy, but could I maybe bring a plus one? You can say no, I just-" he doesn't even get the rest of the sentence out before she tells him he's a dick, but of course he can bring a guest. She had allowed for wiggle room because she figured he might change his mind, Kevin was bringing a date so she assumed Jimmy would as well. He's so glad Brady's marrying someone like her, so chill and down to earth, never the drama queen.

So he text her. The last time he saw her was out somewhere with Kevin, they made stilted conversation until they warmed up to each other again and cheered on the Pats on the flat screen behind the bar.

Playing as cool as he can he comes up with: Brady gave me a plus one to the blessed affair… wedding date part 2?

He puts the phone down on his coffee table and expects he may have to wait a while for a response and busies himself trying to queue up HBO to binge some Game of Thrones in the meantime.

Turns out he's wrong, she responds within minutes.

Y/N: Obviously. When?

His heart almost bursts with a combination of excitement and relief. After telling her that it's next week, she follows up with a barrage of questions he has no feasible answer for and she says she'll figure it out.

She must talk to Kevin, because he gets a text halfway through the next episode of Game of Thrones from Hayes. It's just the two eye emoji about 50 times in a row. Jimmy ignores it and throws his phone back on the table.

He doesn't get a text from either of them for the next few days, and thinks nothing of it. Finally into the weekend Hayes texts him.

Hayzie: You're welcome bro. Just remember she's my family. Consider this your shovel talk.

Jimmy has less than no idea what the hell Kevin is on about, until his phone buzzes with a notification from (y/n) half an hour later.

Y/N: Can I show you the dress I picked and you tell me if it's okay? Kevin said I should show you so you can make sure it matches your suit?

Instantly his palms get sweaty. He replies as coolly as possible, trying to retain some level of chill despite how very not chill this whole thing feels.

I mean, I’m not really good at that sort of thing, but yeah.

He thinks that's okay. Don't expect him to be much help, but definitely send any and all photos, he's not trying to miss out on that opportunity.

The pictures pop up in quick succession.

Three photos, a front, side, and back view appear in their text thread and he sends out a silent prayer, thankful that the messages app doesn't alert the other person when you save a photo. After quickly studying them and deciding that she can wear literally anything she wants, when and wherever she would like, he opens his thread with Kevin and sends him two little rocket emojis, hoping he gets the point.

All that blue fabric glowing bright against her skin. It looks like she's all made up and his heart thumps at the idea that there is a slim possibility he is the cause of it. The slit up the thigh shows that she's wearing the same heels from the last wedding and as he scrolls down he can agree that, yes, they do indeed make her ass look fantastic. It makes him feel like a creep, but at least he’s an honest creep. When he gets to the side view, he catches a glimpse of the cut outs along her ribs and dry swallows.

He needs to figure out a game plan.

First things first, he tells her that it looks great, and then he peels himself off of the couch and into his bedroom to dig through his closet.

Here's the thing. Jimmy hates wearing nice clothes and would probably only own one suit if he didn't need them for every game day, so he's lucky his closet is full of bespoke suits. Picking out a light grey one, his favorite if he's honest, he suits up and leaves the top few buttons open, trying for casually disheveled, praying it doesn't look too Miami Vice.

He's not dumb, he hopes that this is her flirting, but he's too nervous to get optimistic about it.

As he fixes his hair in the mirror he starts typing out a reply. Nothing he's writing is coming off right though, all seeming like he's fishing for compliments, so he just sucks it up, takes a photo, and sends it before he can back out.

Do you think this will work with a blue tie

He waits face down on his bed, feeling every inch the self-conscious, pubescent teenager he's acting like. Each second that ticks by making his skin burn hotter. She's probably busy, is what he tells himself in the way of calming his nerves. The speed at which he reaches for his phone when it vibrates counters the aloofness he's aiming for, though.

It's just a string of thumbs up emojis, and he feels more than a little foolish getting his hopes up like that, thinking he'd be able to decipher any intent through a text message.

He needs a nap.

Awesome. See you Saturday?

If this is how he’s reacting to photos, he is a dead man come Saturday. He doesn't wait for a response before turning his phone off and putting a pillow over his head, hoping the emotional rollercoaster he was enough to pull him straight to sleep.

______

Jimmy knows they’re supposed to meet at Kevin’s, but he thought about it and decided the best way to make her aware of his intentions would be to go pick her up and be more direct in his pursuit. He gets up early and decides to go for a run, it calms him down, makes him feel serene and in control which is just what he needs today.

The phone rings three times before Jo picks up, “Hey Jimmy, Kev’s in the shower, what’s up?” He likes Jo for Kevin, she’s got the same wild streak, but she’s tenaciously focused and comes from the same kind of big, close family that Kev does. They’re a good match.

“Oh, what’s up? I was just calling to get his cousin’s address. I’m going to pick her up instead of meeting over by you guys. Do you know it off hand?” He wasn’t really prepared to have this conversation with Jo and it’s throwing a monkey wrench into his plan because he knows she’s going to tease him about it mercilessly, all in good fun of course.

She makes an oooooh noise, like the canned crowd on a sitcom during a kissing scene. “Jimmy, I didn’t know you had it in you! I’ll text it to you now. What’s the plan, James? Can I help?”

Sighing, he’s not sure if this would have been better or worse if Hayes had answered. “Help what?” Jo snorts, “Let me help you get your girl!”

That makes him straight up laugh, “Jo, please, your only job is to keep Kevin’s mouth shut.” She cackles, “I can think of some ways to keep him otherwise occupied, if you know what I me-”

Jimmy cuts her off, “It’s been great chatting, just uh, send me that text, see you later!” he hangs up as fast as possible. She sends the message through with enough winky faces that it fills his whole screen.

He feels like he’s going to prom, if he could imagine what that would have been like, combing his hair in the mirror and gelling it. He probably brushed his teeth two or three times this morning because he forgot he already did it. Before he puts his jacket on, he sprays a little cologne on his neck and closes his eyes before grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

He didn’t realize how close she lives and he’s there within fifteen minutes. After walking through the lobby and taking the elevator to her floor he stops in front of her door, takes three deep breaths, checks his reflection in his phone’s camera, and knocks.

The door flies open and she huffs, curlers in her hair and still in her pajamas, "I'm sorry Mrs. Dennehy. I can't look for Bootsie right n-," he smiles, "You are not Mrs. Dennehy."

“Nah. Definitely not,” he walks right past her and into her space, hoping he looks more confident than he feels. "That's a good look, (y/n). I mean… I liked the blue dress better, but I don't know much about fashion," sarcasm is the only thing he knows to calm his nerves and make him feel in control. He’d be worried about her reaction if she were a different person, but he knows she gets him and the worry leaves as quickly as it enters his mind.

She gets right up in his face, so close he could count her eyelashes, and pokes him in the chest with one pointed finger,

"How the fuck do you even know my address. I thought I was meeting you at Kevin's?" There's no feasible way he can explain that he's trying to court her without simultaneously throwing up in her living room, so he goes truth adjacent.

"I asked Kev. I figured we could go over there together. Him and Jo are still in the mushy honeymoon stage and I love him, but I really want to throat-punch him when I have to witness it firsthand." It's not not a true statement.

She nods in agreement, and he can feel the relief wash over him like a cool breeze. When he sits on her couch she tells him she won't be much longer and heads down the hall to the bathroom. His phone is absolutely exploding with messages from Kevin, and he silences it and puts it back in his pocket, standing and walking around the living room looking at the photos on her walls. He hears her heels clacking against the floor a few rooms away, but it's her voice that has his ears perking up.

"Vese?" He hates it. Brings him right back to that night on the beach and he hates the way it makes him feel. Like he has to reject her all over again, keep the distance and get comfortable in the bucket of undateable men in her life.

"I hate when you call me that." Women he's trying to court shouldn't call him that, that's reserved for teammates and coaches and friends at the bar.

She's a ball buster and she smiles sideways at him "Yeah, but it always gets a reaction." She spin so her back is to him and sweeps all of her hair forward over her shoulder, "Can you clasp the top of this please and then I'm ready to go, I swear!"

He does as she asks against his own better judgement. His hands pressed against the nape of her neck, baby fine hairs tickling his fingertips, and it's he can do to keep from leaning down and pressing a burning kiss on her neck.

Fuck him, this is going to be a long night.

______

He knows more people at this wedding, so he’s feeling a little looser, a little more comfortable. It also helps that she’s officially here as his date and not just forced to talk to him out of politeness, she has to like him on some level to sit through this by his side, on her own free will.

She’s crying again. She’s crying again and he can’t even stop himself from laughing at her; they haven’t even finished the ceremony yet and she’s patting at her eyes, fanning them to keep the tears from ruining her make up.

"You cry at everything, huh?" She elbows him hard in the ribs, and he lets out something between and laugh and a grunt. He’s head over heels.

Walking from the ceremony to the reception is eventful, to say the least. They follow Kevin and Jo, Jimmy giving a meaningful glance over at (y/n), so she knows just how clingy they are wrapped up in each other, driving his point from earlier home.

He’s almost jealous, but then (y/n) trips over what is possibly nothing on the sidewalk, he does the gentlemanly thing and throws a jibe her way before helping her right herself.

"You're a fuckin' hazard in those shoes. Look at you."

The smile that slides onto her face is dangerous, "Yeah but they make-"

"-they make your ass look fantastic. I know." He doesn’t realize the error of his ways quite yet, so used to trading good-natured barbs with her it never occurs to him that present company might have a problem with him being so brazen about it.

Kevin pulls himself away from Jo long enough to join the conversation, "Keep your eyes off my cousin's ass, Vesey." Flashing with embarrassment at being caught, all he can muster out is a weak fuck you, but it sends her and Jo off into peels of laughter and that’s enough for him.

______

She and Jo are a mess, sobbing all over each other before the wedding even really gets started. The first dance has them crying as he and Kevin hoot and holler with some of Brady’s other friends, they obnoxiously tap anything they can against their drinks to get Brady to kiss his bride. That sends the girls into another tizzy, crying about true love or something to that effect.

There isn’t a better wedding date. He’s sure of it. She pulls him out of himself, dragging him around the dancefloor by his tie until he gets too warm and tucks it into her bag, the lamest way he has ever marked his territory. She leads him through all the standard wedding line dances, and a few rounds of Shout, lowering softly down to the floor and screaming loud on the way back up. He’s never had such a good time at a wedding and he knows it’s because of her, glowing in the sea of people on the dance floor with her bright smile and laughter.

When the DJ starts calling all the ladies to the middle of the dance floor amid that Beyonce song, Jimmy’s heart stops. There’s no way that what happens next wasn’t planned. He sees it in slow motion. The bouquet leaving Gracia’s hand in a perfect arc straight into (y/n)’s hand. Her fingers curl around it and she cheers with the other girls, before sitting down on the lone chair on the dance floor, looking positively stricken as she watches the men line up for the garter toss.

Jo is cackling.

Jimmy’s not really one to be involved in these types of things, but he doesn’t want her to take is absence on the dance from as a direct insult, so he heads to the floor with the rest of the guys, no real intent on catching anything flung in his direction.

Kevin has to be in on it; he certainly wasn’t vying for the chance to slide a garter up his own cousin’s thigh. That asshole uses his ridiculous reach to knock the garter down straight into Jimmy. After Jimmy plucks it up off of his shoulder, Kevin is pointing at Jo nodding and laughing while she holds her phone camera up high, catching the whole ridiculous spectacle on video.

Every other guy must hate him, he’s sure of it, as he receives various pats on the back and comes to term with the idea of what’s about to happen. It’s not that he doesn’t want to rake his hands all over her body, he just imagined way less people around if he ever finally built up the courage to do it (and by some grace of God she allowed him to). He’s absolutely sure it’s Gracia who wolf whistles, she can do that loud one through her fingers, and he’s positive all of his friends are douche bags, even the bride.

Jimmy stares at the DJ, feigning attention as best as he can. He knows what he has to do, drop down on his knee and slide his hands up, up, up under her dress, placing the garter as hight around her thigh as she’ll allow. He thinks Taylor Swift is playing, but the only thing he can hear clearly right now is the thumpthump thumpthump of his own heart in his ears.

She sits looking up at him, so sure of herself and smiling like always, like he’s not about to have a massive coronary episode. His hands are shaking and his knees feel weak as he kneels down and her eyes follow him, smile never wavering. She drops one foot into his hand and he takes a moment to curse Kevin under his breath. It’s all he can do to smile reassuringly at her, hoping it doesn’t look as manic as it feels.

Taylor Swift starts singing about her dress she wants to take off, and his mind definitely can’t go down that road with her bare expanse of leg under his hands. He’s slid the stupid, lacey garter over her bare foot and up her smooth calf before stopping and placing it chastely on her knee, feeling her goosebumps as his hands brushed back down over her shin. Jimmy is a gentleman first and foremost and he’d rather not have an audience the very first time he’s invited under her dress.

He can hear Jo’s cackle before a “High-er! High-er!” chant starts and he knows she’s to blame. (Y/n) laughs above him and he wishes he could be the pinnacle of cool right now, but he’s about to combust. She leans in close to him encouraging, his hands still wrapped around her calf. "Our friends are idiots," he sighs.

"They really are, but they're not going to let you out of this, Vese," she says his name like a challenge as she wiggles her foot, and he’s never been one to back down.

It takes all of the courage he can muster as he lifts her dress. Circling both of his hands around her knee; they push the garter up her thigh in tandem, centimeter by centimeter as slowly as he can drag it out, not sure if he’ll ever be allowed this opportunity again. Doing his best not to think about his clammy hands brushing across her cool skin, he hopes she can’t feel it.

Time drags as slowly as his hands until he hears her sharp intake of breath when he gets high on her inner thigh and he stops, not wanting to be fresh, but wanting to prove to her that he’s up for whatever the challenge in her voice was asking for. He stops the motion of the garter as her eyes widen, figuring he’s taken this far enough.

Not wanting to let go and face the awkwardness that will surely linger once the bubble around this moment pops, he slides his hands all the way down her leg. Never wanting to let go of her fevered skin, lest he never get another chance to touch. Her eyes look wild and he knows everyone is clapping, but he feels like dying as the dance floor slowly fills back up as he offers her a hand out of the chair and back to their table, but she leaves him there, practically sprinting away from him towards the bar.

______

Kevin can’t even contain himself when he sits down. “That’s gross Jim. That’s my cousin,” Jimmy’s head bounces as he drops it down onto the table between his arms. “This is all your fault.” Hayes literally chokes on his laughter and slaps Jimmy hard on the back.

“You’ll figure it out man. You guys are made for each other,” Jimmy’s not convinced.

Clearly she’s not either, since she spends the rest of the time until dinner arrives dancing with Jo. She has no choice but to sit down next to him when dinner is served, but visibly jumps every time their elbows brush and Jimmy’s worried that he’s taken it too far and made her uncomfortable.

He’s frustrated. She was the one who told him to keep going, he would have stopped right there on her knee, but no, she goaded him with her smart mouth and shrewd eyes and he went against his better judgement and he’s furious for giving into his baser instincts. He pushes the dinner around on his plate, no appetite to eat much of anything.

He can feel her at his side, staring at the dance floor and sighing, it doesn’t look like she’s hungry either, her food sits cold in front of her. He follows her gaze to Brady’s grandparents dancing; they’re the only people on the dancefloor and he can see her wistfully following their movements and sniffling. Kevin nudges him and tilts his head towards her while raising his eyebrows and the beginning swells of Unchained Melody start up.

He doesn’t really believe in fate, but it certainly is quite the coincidence.

"C'mon hotshot," he stands up and dries his sweaty hands in his pockets, a trick his older cousin taught him before his first boy-girl dance in middle school. He’s shocked when she nods, smiles, and stands up to follow him.

Jo yells out, 'Get it girl!' and you’re seriously going to have to talk to Kevin about his woman.

He gently rests his hands on her waist and sways with her, "What gives? Sick of seeing me cry?" Her hands land on his shoulders, before she stands up on her bare tip-toes and winds her arms around his neck, pulling him close. His chest gets tight and it’s hard to draw in a breath with her standing so closely.

He can’t possibly let her think for one second that he doesn’t want to be exactly where he’s stood right now, wrapped up in her arms. "Nah. It's our song," his grip at your waist tightens as he realizes the implications of what he’s said and how heavy his words feel sitting in the space between them, so he clears his throat and adds on, "Tradition," like a coward.

Her smile stretches across her face and he feels like he’s laying in the sun, bathing in her brightness. His heart is flying that he’s still allowed anywhere near her and didn’t ruin everything they had worked towards with the foolish bouquet toss. He spins her under his arm and pulls her back, as close to himself as he can, not willing to let her go for the rest of the evening.

High on the dancing and wedding and endorphins, he kisses her cheek without thinking about it as he drops her at her apartment after the wedding. He’s too scared to see her reaction so he walks back to the elevator with his whole body on fire, and hopes the hallway is too dark for her to tell his ears are a hot shade of crimson during his retreat.

That night he lies in his bed, scrolling through the photos Jo snuck of them dancing, beatific smiles on their faces and close enough that no one would suspect that they didn’t belong to each other.

______

The ball hooks to the left and he drops the driver onto the patch of astro turf and grabs his water, stepping back and watching Kevin drive one 200 yards, straight as an arrow.

“You’re not focusing, Vese. Your long game looks like shit.” He knows this.

“Just distracted lately,” picking up the club he plants his feet to the ground and rocks back and forth, getting his stance on an even keel before back-swinging with straight arms and following through. It hooks to the right this time. “Fuck.”

Kevin laughs at him, diggin in his cooler for a beer. “You gotta sort your head out man. Nut up or get over it. You know her, you’re going to have to make the first move, she’s not gonna do it.”

Jimmy takes the beer Kevin hands him, “I thought asking her to be my date to my best friend’s wedding and putting a garter on her thigh was pretty clear,” but Kevin shakes his head no.

“Bruh,” Kevin tilts his head to the side as if to say, don’t be a fuckin’ idiot, “Jo said she insists you’re just friends. Just figure it out so I can stop talking about you possibly banging my cousin. It’s getting kinda gross.”

He sees Kevin’s point; he still thinks Kev’s an ass, but he sees his point.

______

Obviously Kevin and Jo decide it’s time to take everything into their own hands.

Barely three weeks after Brady's wedding and he goes out with the two of them to a bar for some beers and food, maybe catch a little of the Sox game. It's a nice chill night and he enjoys the time away from his own thoughts mulling around, wondering how far he’s dug his own grave. He hasn't heard from her since the wedding and he thinks he may have fucked it all up, a beer and some food that's not on his usual diet plan helps.

Jo's sitting across from him, next to Kevin and going on and on about this baby she just pulled out a picture of. "He's so cute just LOOK at him!" Kevin is showing no fear at the clear and present baby fever, so Jimmy can tell he's actual facts in love. The kid’s cute; a little blond boy, rosy red cheeks, and at this rate Kevin and Jo will probably be showing him one of their own in a few years.

"His dad was my first boyfriend. He took my virginity at prom and now he has a BABY! I am old. I can't." She shakes her hand, palms out to demonstrate just how much she just can't. Jimmy's uncomfortable at best and not entirely sure where this conversation is going. Kevin smirks through the whole damned thing though. He feels like he’s not in on the joke.

The little bell above the door alerts him that someone new has entered the bar, but the Sox are turning a double play so he doesn't look over to see who Kevin's waving at.

When Jo's eyes light up with mischief, it becomes pretty obvious who's walking their way.

She slides in next to him and he smiles at her, unsure if she was in on the whole set up or not. Taking into consideration her matching confusion, he'd guess not.

"Didn't know you were coming, (y/n)!" She smiles down at him but her brows are still confused, scrunched together on her forehead. He slides over to make room and hands her a menu, which she starts to look over.

Jo can't keep herself still, practically vibrating out of her seat with frenetic energy. "We were just talking about the old days. Feelin' a little nostalgic." He suddenly knows where she’s going with her elaborate set up and his skin prickles, hot and cold.

"I was just telling the boys how I lost my v-card at prom to my first boyfriend. He just had a baby! How far we've come." (Y/n)'s knee is bouncing up and down and he can see that she's a little irritated at the conversation at hand, eyes glued to the menu refusing to look up.

"I wouldn't know about that Jo. Where's the waiter?" By the grace of God, he appears and everyone orders. It's silent after he leaves for approximately 30 seconds before Jo, apparently having forgotten every social cue she's ever learned, bulldozes the conversation right along, "You didn't lose it at prom?"

Jimmy wishes a lot of things; wishes he focused more in business class, wishes he was a little nicer to his siblings growing up, wishes he picked a different color on the Jeep he bought last summer. But, right now he wishes he could punch Jo right in the mouth.

"I didn't go to prom, actually," (y/n) answers, completely avoiding the question, but it makes his ears perk up.

Yes she did.

"Yes you did," he's blurted out before he can control his tongue. "You went with Brian."

She looks at him like he's on concussion protocol, "I think I'd know if I went to prom or not. My memory isn't that bad, Vese."

He controls the flare of hurt he feels at the nickname, "I hate that and you know it." She smirks, but otherwise ignores him; he doesn't miss Kevin and Jo looking on like they're an exhibit in the zoo.

He turns to her on their side of the booth, "No, you did. I heard him at hockey practice. He said he was asking you." It isn't something he'd easily forget- the stinging rush of jealous hearing Brian say he was asking her, paired with a hot flash of anger hearing him talk about her like another conquest. She squirms under his heavy gaze a little, but looks him in the eye when she answers.

"I mean, he did ask. But I said no." The waiter chooses the perfect time to interrupt the conversation, dropping plates down in front of everyone. Jimmy wishes he could punch him in the mouth too.

Kevin and Jo take the opportunity to make the flimsiest excuses he's ever heard to leave the table. They're probably better off without onlookers, honestly.

She's ignoring him having an existential crisis right beside her, watching the game and drinking her water. He can't let it go though, has to take his chance now before he doesn't get another.

"I, uh, really thought you went with Brian." The ‘why didn’t you’ is implied He can't look directly at her; she's like the sun- lighting up his world, he just hopes he won't get burned getting too close for his own good.

When she turns her gaze on him, she looks a little predatory. He likes it. He turns all the way towards her to give her all of his attention, the length of his thigh presses up against hers, "I didn't want to go with him. He was kind of a douche."

"All the girls liked him, though," Jimmy picks up his beer and rolls the cold glass between his hands, hoping to cool himself down. It was so long ago, but he feels like he has to know. He just wants to hear that she didn't like Brian, never liked Brian, didn’t even see him as an option.

"Yeah, the dumb ones," she grins at him before stealing fries off of Kevin's plate, slowly growing cold in his absence. Jimmy sighs, feeling relief crash his body like a wave.

"I wanted to go with someone else. I asked, but you know…" she shrugs. Maybe she really did ask him to prom because she liked him. His body stiffens at the thought of all the wasted years if that’s actually the case.

All this waiting and his stupid false nobility, not giving her the choice. He feels like a heel, "I guess I was pretty dumb back then too."

She doesn't let him wallow into himself and presses her thigh against his to get his attention, before shoving another of Kevin's fries into her mouth. "I mean, you went to Harvard, so how dumb can you really be, James."

"So," Jimmy stops and sighs, he has to tell her. "This is embarrassing, but," he can't go one more day with her thinking he told her no because of anything to do with her when the fact of the matter is that he was an idiot. Still is an idiot.

She puts her hand on his knee patronizingly, patting it gently, "You weren't shot down asking someone to prom, so how embarrassing could it really be?" Her smile is a little sad but it doesn’t reach her eyes and he can’t compute much with her skin on his.

"Touche, but for the record- I only said no because I figured you'd rather go with him. I just didn't want to get my hopes up only for you to change your mind when he asked you." By the time he’s done with his confession her jaw is on the floor and she seems genuinely surprised by his revelation.

Her eyes look a little watery but the smile reaches them, "You're right, Vesey. You are dumb." He knows his face matches, feels his heart go soft and mushy under her attention and he wants. Obviously that’s when Kevin and Jo return, because they’ve been nothing if not completely inconvenient in every aspect of his love life.

When dinner is over and everyone is getting up and ready to leave, he isn’t ready to say good night. They worked through a lot, but he’d be disappointed in himself if he didn’t have the courage to lay everything out on the table in front of her to accept or reject.

He grabs her wrist before she can get too far, thinking as quickly as he can, "I'm going to have another beer, wanna stay with me?" He doesn’t want another beer, just wants an opportunity to talk to her without four extra eyes peering into their conversation.

Everyone says their goodbyes and Jimmy heads to the bathroom. He washes his face in the sink and gives himself a mini pep-talk before walking back out to the bar. She’s sitting on a barstool waiting for him, "I didn't know what you were drinking or I would have ordered it for you."

"Oh, no. I'm good to go. I just wanted them to leave so we could talk alone. Is it okay if we go to my place?" She nods and hops down, following him out the door and into the warm summer night.

______

"Don't the Rangers pay you enough to live in a building with an elevator?" Jimmy laughs and she huffs and puffs, feet thudding up each step behind him. He lets them into his apartment, grateful his cleaning lady stops by every two weeks to tidy up.

She sits down on the couch and he sits next to her, probably too far in her personal space.

"I really wanted to go with you." There. He said it. It’s out there in the open. She just looks at him, wide eyed, so he continues to explain himself.

"If I had known you didn't want to go with Brian, I would have said yes when you asked." He looks down at his hands, wringing them and forcing the words up his chest and out of his mouth. "I know it was so long ago, but I just feel like I want you to know that."

She isn’t giving him much in the way of a reaction, staring at him with her head tilted sideways, with all of his words out there in the open, before a wide smile splits her face and puffs up her cheeks.

"You like me." He can barely look at her without feeling flames of embarrassment lick their way up his spine, and he hopes she won’t hold this over his head for the rest of his life.

He can’t even stutter out a response to her before she’s cutting him off, "No. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. You like me." It’s inevitable, this is the turning point of their relationship. She’s right and he has to be honest about it, no matter how it will change everything for better or worse. He bites his lip and nods.

"Yeah. I just… you know how I am. With feelings and stuff," it takes everything in him to talk about, what he feels is, his biggest shortcoming. He hates addressing feelings. He’d rather keep his distance with snark and wit and sarcasm, never letting anything close enough to affect him. But here she is, wormed right into his chest next to his heart. She could tear him open and destroy him if she so chose.

She’s intent on destroying him straight away it seems, because as he’s about to continue his poor explanation of his feelings. she closes the distance between them and kisses him hard on the mouth. She backs away when their teeth clash and laughs awkwardly.

"So aggressive," he laughs and wipes at his lip. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest at her nonverbal confession, "Slow down, we have lots of time now."

"We really don't though," he just about loses his breath at that, not sure how he’s going to get back in her good graces, "I have to be up in the morning so I don't have all night, Vese. Some of us have been patiently waiting for years."

"Yeah, some of us have been," he leans over and closes the space between them this time. He kisses her slowly and he’s sure if she’d let him, he’d never stop.

_____

Jimmy cries more than he expects when he sees her. She cries way less than he expects too. Everyone is surprising him today, but he thinks he has the best surprise stashed firmly up his sleeve.

When it’s finally time, he pulls her close, the new metal band on his left finger cold against his skin. She looks up at him in her sparkly, white dress.

"Vese," he smiles when it rolls off of his lips, happy the nickname can finally be something that binds them instead of making her feel so far from him like it once did.

"It's Mrs.Vese, actually, James," she snarks up at him, her arms around his neck and nails gently scratching the base of his skull like she knows he likes. The music swirls around him and Jo is happily engaged in flash photography behind his wife, definitely catching his love-sick smile for later blackmail.

"I can't believe you chose this song for our first dance," she pulls him into her as Elvis croons on about wise men and fools, "you hate this song."

He does, it’s true, but it’s brought them together against all odds. He’s overwhelmed with love, so he gives in and kisses her, closing his eyes against all the flashes going off around them. "I really do. But you like it, and I love you."

#jimmy vesey fic #jimmy vesey imagine #love songs #hockey fic #hockey imagine #buffalo sabres fic #buffalo sabres imagine #hockey rpf #companion pie #writing #long post

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

Note

Wait let me try that again - spideychelle + "Angel in the streets, freak in the sheets.”

You’re absolutely right, Anon, so I’m very pleased that you and @itsjacobperalta picked this prompt! I had a lot of fun with it!

Operation Eight-Legged Freak

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: M/NSFWWord count: 2396

Summary:

Despite being nice enough to give a select number of interviews after Mysterio blew his identity, Peter Parker is continually hounded for more. When the media discovers he has a girlfriend, they go after her too. Until now, she’s held back. Until now, they’ve been safe.

Michelle Jones grants a single sit-down interview and, boy, it’s a doozy.

31. “Angel in the streets, freak in the sheets.”

Operation Eight-legged Freak is a go, MJ texts Peter. She spies through the glass front of the coffee shop, searching until her gaze lands on the most reporter-looking person in there. Taking a deep breath, MJ centers herself and hauls the door open.

“Ms. Jeffries?” she asks, stopping at the table against the wall where a woman with decoratively oversized glasses is leaning too close to the screen of her laptop.

The woman straightens up and half-rises out of her chair with a hand outstretched.

“Miss Jones! Call me Elsbeth.”

“Michelle.”

As MJ shakes her hand, she focuses on clenching her teeth instead of her grip; the journalist’s gaze is sliding all over her, sizing her up as she probably internally composes some filler for the article she’s writing on Spider-Man’s girlfriend.

MJ wills the potential descriptions of herself out of her head. Peter’s been helping her practice that, reassuring her every time she comes up with a potential physical or character flaw that the press might hone in on. Of course, a significant portion of what he says is bullshit because he refuses to recognize anything about her as less than perfect. Dork.

“I’m just going to grab a drink,” MJ says, pointing towards the short line to the cash register.

“Oh, no, that’s on me. Or, rather, it’s on the paper. What can I get you?”

“Um, just a latte. Thanks.”

The woman gives her a phony smile and gestures for her to sit while she strides over to join the line. MJ takes the chair across from the open laptop and tries to relax into it. While she waits, she mentally goes over her and Peter’s game plan. Texting him might comfort her, but Elsbeth will definitely be watching. Which adjectives will she use to paint her picture of how MJ sits, how she scans her surroundings? She can’t worry about that. This interview is not about the reporter and MJ tells herself that she needs to remember how value she is.

Since the ‘Peter Parker is Spider-Man’ story broke, her boyfriend’s been under a microscope. It didn’t take a hell of a lot of time before the media found out he was dating someone and, though she hasn’t told Peter this, MJ’s planning unholy retribution against whichever little weasel at their school sold her out for a hasty buck. She suspects Brad. The attention now on her is the only thing keeping Brad’s dick un-punched.

Peter’s played nice―nicer than MJ would’ve in his place―in service of the super-persona the city knows and loves. Basically, he doesn’t want to besmirch the good name of Spider-Man. He’s made himself available for a limited number of interviews (decided upon with May’s guidance), in and out of the suit, always patient and smiling. MJ hasn’t been as accessible. As in, she hasn’t done interviews. Any. At all. Between her boyfriend, herself, her parents, Peter’s aunt, and Pepper Potts (who probably finds their exposure problems ridiculously easy to manage after years of wrangling Tony Stark), they determined that the best move was to withhold access to MJ. Now, being seen or used as an object goes against every belief she has, but this is a power move. They’d keep her as the queen among the pawns, the ace up their sleeve.

Turns out MJ isn’t the ace. She’s the joker.

The strategizing just seemed to go on too long and polite requests for Spider-Man interviews turned into microphones jammed in Peter’s face and photographers slipping into Midtown tech pretending to be parents picking up their kids. So MJ and her super-nerd devised their own plan, quickly realizing her time had come to do her part in shaping the Spider-Man narrative.

Half of what the papers and blogs were publishing wasn’t truthful, so MJ wouldn’t be either. She would grant a single interview and fuck with the press so hard that they would see her as an unreliable source of information (and stop asking questions), be made incredibly uncomfortable by her unprintable answers (and stop asking questions), or maybe just confuse them to the point that they couldn’t scrape together an article out of the array of utter shit she would present them with (and stop asking questions). The tabloid they picked out together for MJ’s interview also happens to already be on the other side of credible, which helps with making every word she says to this woman essentially worthless.

Ah, here’s Elsbeth with her latte.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” she asks, pulling her phone from her pocket.

“Please,” MJ says. She forces herself not to smile because she’d probably hurdle over polite and go straight to looking maniacal.

The woman taps her screen the second she’s set MJ’s coffee on the crowded tabletop.

“I’d warn you away from drinking coffee so young,” the woman says laughingly as she retakes her own seat, “but I guess you wouldn’t be sorry to stunt your growth.” MJ stares blandly back at her, gently swirling the mug, until she continues. “Because you’re already taller than Peter.”

She shrugs as Elsbeth quietly closes her laptop and slides the phone into place between them, eyes fixed greedily on her interviewee’s face.

“He likes my legs.” Before the instant spark of scandal in Elsbeth’s eye can be transformed into a follow-up question, MJ adds, “I think it’s a spider thing. Some kind of dark fetish as a result of him getting totally fucked by mutation. And you should call him ‘Mr. Parker.’”

Wrong-footed, Elsbeth tilts her head in discomfort at having to apologize.

“Sorry, yes, that was a slip in professionalism―”

“No, because that’s what I call him.” Now she’s just speechless. MJ raises her eyebrows like she’s explaining this to a child. “When we’re fucking.” An unusually mature child. “Should I have said at the start that his fetishes are numerous? My bad, I’ve never been interviewed before.”

It has now occurred to MJ that a liberal sprinkling of profanities through her answers can’t hurt either. Can’t hurt her. This interview’s going to require more redactions than a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey in a children’s library.

“I… I…” Elsbeth covers herself (or thinks she does) with a quick throat clearing and a dainty sip from her own cup of coffee. “No, that’s fine, I just normally like to begin with something more… general.”

MJ sighs.

“I regret to inform you that Mr. Parker’s tastes aren’t really in the realm of general.” She locks eyes with Elsbeth like she’s confessing a big secret. “He’s pretty fucking depraved.” After a second of enjoying the flicker of horror across the woman’s expression, MJ pretends to take pity on her. “Sorry, would you prefer if I call him Peter? You look uncomfortable.”

The journalist is darting her eyes around now, but, as ever, MJ isn’t speaking overly loudly and most of the customers of this place seem to get their drinks to-go; there isn’t anyone sitting at the tables nearest to theirs.

“General questions,” Elsbeth clarifies too late. “I meant general questions, about anything.” Something behind her eyes is beginning to look delightfully haunted and this time, MJ allows herself a grin and nods like she gets it.

“Right. Well, I’ve know that Mr. Parker―sorry, Peter―was Spider-Man since before we started dating.” Elsbeth visibly perks up because MJ knows what’s coming out of her mouth sounds like the first usable information since she walked into this coffee shop.

“That’s fascinating.”

And she does sound fascinated. MJ reminds herself it’s just the greediness behind getting a scoop, not legitimate interest in who Peter is as a human being or his many private sacrifices in the attempt to keep his secret before that dumb fuck Mysterio showed up.

“And,” Elsbeth probes, feeling around in the bag at her feet before extracting a pad and pen for supplemental notes, “what was it that made think your classmate was moonlighting as an Avenger?”

MJ takes a long drink of her latte and glances contemplatively at the nonrepresentational art print hanging on the wall beside them.

“He’s jacked as fuck.”

Elsbeth, who mirrored her by going for a sip when she did, nearly chokes.

“Anything―” She coughs. “―about his personality? That would make you think he’d lead a double life risking life and limb for strangers?”

“Oh sure,” MJ concedes easily. “Peter’s kind of a nerd, but he gets along with everybody. You know, one of those people who can be casual friends with a kid in every social clique? People in the neighbourhood who know him as Peter Parker love him too. He’s very nice.” And then she drops the anvil. “Angel in the streets, freak in the sheets.”

Really, Elsbeth should get into comedy. She’s great at abruptly shifting her expression from relieved to panicked. Jim Carrey made a whole career out of his ‘elastic face.’ This woman should totally find an agent.

“Haven’t you heard that expression?” MJ asks innocently, sliding two fingers through the handle of her mug slowly enough for Elsbeth to notice and potentially take as subliminal messaging.

“I’ve…” The woman trails off, lowering her pen again, and devolves her response into an awkward nod.

MJ laughs as though to herself. When she leans forward conspiratorially, planting her elbows on the table, the journalist flinches. She’d feel bad if the whole pack of media people in this city didn’t suck ass. Peter’s never done an interview with Elsbeth’s paper, and for good reason: one of their photographers followed him around for a week trying to get a shot of him changing in an alley as if he weren’t only seventeen years old. Yeah, today’s interview is more than a little about MJ protecting her boyfriend.

“We do shit you’ve never heard of,” MJ offers without being prompted. It doesn’t look like poor Elsbeth’s up to asking questions anymore. “In Peter’s bed, a missionary’s just a traveling priest and G-O-T stands for Game of Thrones, which we never catch up on because we’re too busy tearing another page out of the Kama Sutra.” She laughs like, isn’t this great? We’re having girl time. “Actually, I shouldn’t imply that G-O-T has never stood for ‘girl on top,’ because Mr. Parker does enjoy me riding his cock from time to time, but if we do that, I’m also wearing nipple clamps or I have my hands tied to a ring in the ceiling or something. That freak fucking loves his accessories.”

She takes a tranquil sip of her coffee. It’s actually pretty good and strong enough to keep her bouncing along through this interview. MJ respects an establishment that doesn’t skimp on the caffeine in favour of a mountainous topping of whipped cream. She might actually come by here again sometime.

“Ok,” Elsbeth says with sudden sternness, face contorted in a smile that hints she’s trying to convince herself that, somehow, everything will be fine. “We’ve covered all my questions―” MJ nearly snorts coffee out her nose at this barefaced perjuring. “―so I’ll just,” she explains, shoveling her things into her bag, “give you a call if I need anything else.”

MJ smiles as the journalist gets to her feet.

“Sure thing. I’d shake your hand,” she says, looking up at Elsbeth from her chair, “but you don’t want to know where mine have been. Or, if you do, that’s something we can cover in that phone call.”

The woman gives a nervous laugh and puts her palms up to ward off a handshake.

“No, that’s… we’re good. We’re all set.”

“‘K, great.”

“Thank you for your time.”

The disturbed look mounts Elsbeth’s face before she’s completely turned away from MJ, which just adds to MJ’s delight when she gets to call out to her.

“By the way,” MJ says as the journalist turns, fight or flight likely seconds from kicking in judging by the tension of her stance. “You know I’m a minor, right? So publishing anything I just told you would look pretty bad.”

The woman probably suspected this in the rational part of her brain that MJ’s spent the last half hour scaring into hiding, but she certainly looks irritated by the reminder.

“I guess you’re right,” she acknowledges tersely.

MJ nods to agree that, yes, she is 100% correct, and swallows the last of her coffee.

“Also, because I know you work for the kind of place that likes to share tip-offs with other scummy publications, I’d like you to feel free to spread the word that Spider-Man and his girlfriend are not to be fucked with. And neither is Peter Parker.”

After the woman flees, MJ slumps back, hand shaking as she rotates her mug in its saucer. When the quiet grinding noise breaks through the pounding of the adrenaline-accelerated heartbeat in her ears, she reaches for her phone instead.

Tell me how it goes, Peter texted.

She’s too jittery from confrontation and caffeine to sit any longer, so she pushes away from the table and calls her boyfriend instead, raising the phone to her ear once she’s on the sidewalk with her hood pulled up; it’ll take a little time for the warning to be distributed and, in the meantime, she doesn’t want to be recognized. One interview was enough.

“MJ?” Peter asks from the other end of the line. “How was it? What happened?”

She’s silent long enough to realize she actually isn’t sure how to put it into words.

“I’ll tell you everything when I see you, but there is one thing you should know right away.”

“What is it?”

“I think I made up a sex position.”

The truth―the real truth―is that they’re seventeen, missionary has been a trusted friend, and MJ’s only ever made brief eye contact with a copy of the Kama Sutra from across a display table at a bookstore. She hears her boyfriend inhale sharply before responding with obviously forced coolness.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm. We’re gonna try it.” If her adrenaline’s up, so is her bravado.

Peter fumbles his words, communicating nothing at first, then, “Why was that something I had to know right away?”

“Because,” MJ says, straining to make out the signs above the upcoming storefronts, “I’m planning on stocking up at the sex shop in the next block and I need to know if we’re going to have your apartment to ourselves when I get there.”

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picturetoburnnn · 5 years

Text

Like To Be You - Gang AU (ch. 1) | Ashton Irwin x Reader

word count - 2.7k

warning - mentions of blood and death. slight swearing. gang AU

taglist - @songforhema @asht0ns-world @lukesflaredpants @sunflowerxcal @star-gazing-calum@cxddlyash @emomack @merryblueberry02 @kinglyhood @caswinchester2000 @babe-babylon @irwinkitten @burn-crash-im-ash dm me to be added

author note - this has been sitting in my drafts for about three months now and i finally got on a writing kick on friday and stayed up till two last night finishing this. hope y’all love it

It had been a long day. Y/N took two shifts at the hospital, covering for her friend when she needed a sick day. Then, after what was supposed to be a lovely evening to herself, her brother’s girlfriend broke up with him, and he required her support.

After everything was all said and done, Y/N didn’t get home until close to one that night. She dropped her bag at the door, flinging her shoes off her feet and sluggishly making her way upstairs. Not even bothering to change out of her work clothes, Y/N dropped onto her bed, legs hanging off the side. She was out before she even hit the mattress, ready for a long night’s sleep.

Or at least, it was supposed to be. She woke at three in the morning to a growling stomach. Y/N groaned, finally acknowledging her growing hunger.

“Fine,” she sighed heavily to herself, standing stiffly and stretching. “Food it is.”

What she didn’t expect as she walked down the stairs was to see a dark shape sitting on the floor in her kitchen. Beneath her, stair creaked as she froze. The figure froze, turning around to look at her.

He was dressed in all black, eating Nutella from the jar with a teaspoon. Y/N didn’t buy Nutella, but that was definitely her spoon. His eyes widened as he met hers, standing in a flash. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the dark trail of what might be blood on the side of his face when he snatched off his black beanie.

“I can explain,” the man rushed out, holding out both hands apprehensively, still clutching the Nutella.

Y/N raised a brow.

“...no I can’t.”

“Who are you?” Y/N rushed down the remaining stairs, rushing for her purse and the pepper spray it held.

“Hey, hey, it’s cool. Don’t freak out,” he pleaded.

“There’s a stranger in my house, in the ungodly hours of the morning, eating out of a jar that isn’t mine. I think I’m justified,” Y/N said as she pulled out the spray, clutching it in her hand.

“Look, I just need a place to crash, okay? I got nowhere to go, I’m unarmed, and would rather not sleep on the street.”

“Are you kidding me? Get the hell out! I don’t know you, and you just show up on my kitchen floor in the middle of the night? I think the fuck not!”

He sighed. “Listen.” He pulled his shirt collar down far enough to let Y/N see the snake tattoo adorning his chest. “I’m one of the Cobras. Let me stay here for one night, and I can guarantee you protection and compensation. Just one night.”

The Cobras were the most notorious gang in the city. They were known for being brutal to targets, but never involving or attacking innocents. Cobras traded laundered money, drugs, guns; anything and everything Y/N tried her best to avoid. But they made the big bucks, which meant whatever compensation he was offering had to be good. And that money certainly wouldn't hurt to be in her bank account.

She looked at him one final time, his red hair shining in the moonlight.

“One night only,” she muttered. “But you've gotta let me clean up your head. I don't care who you are, I will not have bloodstains on my sofa.”

“Deal.” The sigh that left his lips was full of relief. “I'm Ashton.” He held his hand out in a shake.

Y/N eyed it carefully, not making a move. “Cool.”

He smirked. “That's the part where you tell me your name.”

“No, this is the part where you get your ass in my bathroom so I can get the first aid for your head injury.”

His expression changed from one of amusement to shock in no time. “Yes ma'am,” he mumbled under his breath.

He passed her, carefully avoiding bumping into her shoulder. Her eyes followed him as he wandered down the hall, his mind reeling as he tried to decide which door led to the half-bath.

“Second one on the left,” she gave in. “First aid kit's under the sink. I'll be right there, don't try to take care of it yourself.”

He looked back at her with a sheepish smile before ducking through the doorway. Y/N's hands threaded through her hair, tugging harshly and she questioned her own judgement. Cobras were ruthless when they needed to be, and she was letting one sleep on her couch.

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Clean off the blood, then talk to him, she told herself. Walking into the bathroom, Y/N didn't spare a glance at the man sitting on the toilet lid as she opened the kit on the countertop.

"Are you bleeding anywhere other than your head?" she asked in a monotone voice.

"My side," he answered lamely. "Although I think it's clotted by now."

"Doesn't matter, I still need to clean it." She turned, finally facing him. "Take off your shirt."

He gave her a cocky smirk, but one look from her had him looking back to the ground. Silently, he removed the fabric, revealing a violent looking gash in his side. Y/N couldn't help but stare.

"You sure you can stitch me up?" His question sounded cocky, but she could hear the faintest hint of worry.

"I'm a nurse, this is not anything new to me," she answered shortly, turning back to the kit.

"Oh," he mumbled. "Gotcha."

The pair sat in silence as Y/N worked on cleaning the area. Ashton winced as she accidentally dragged the rag against the open wound. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"'S fine," he hissed.

“What caused a gash this deep?”

Ashton bristled, not saying a word.

“If you want me to treat this properly so it doesn’t get infected, I need you to tell me what it is.” She really didn’t need that information, but morbid curiosity always got the best of her. Besides, she was letting him stay in her house; she deserved to know at least a little something about him.

He stayed quiet. Y/N sighed, ready to resign herself to silence, when--

“A fireplace poker,” he mumbled.

Where the fuck in their city was there someone pretentious enough to have a fire iron?

“Then it needs to be severely sterilized and watched carefully,” Y/N said, as if that wasn’t already part of her plan.

The boy hissed as she cleaned the gash with antiseptics, but was silent as his side was stitched together.

Tying off the final stitch, Y/N cut the suture cord. “There. All good. Let me see your head.”

Twenty minutes later, Y/N left Ashton in the bathroom to go find spare sheets and a blanket for the couch.

“I’ll drive you back to your place in the morning.” Ashton looked at her, shocked.

“You don’t have to--”

“You aren’t from around here, the Cobra territory is across the city. With your side, you wouldn’t make it there before sundown, and it’d be a very bad idea to sleep on the streets. I’ll take you to the Cobra side of town, and from there you can find your way.”

She made a compelling argument, one that Ashton couldn’t really fight against.

He didn’t reply, and it wasn’t until Y/N was halfway up the stairs that she heard him mumble “Thank you. For not calling the cops, fixing me up, and giving me somewhere to sleep and all.”

She stopped, hand on the banister, before continuing up to her bedroom. “You’re welcome.”

~~~

The next morning was odd. Y/N woke around noon, quite exhausted. She didn’t think about the guy downstairs until she saw him sitting on her couch, reading a newspaper she didn’t know she had.

“Good morning,” she said as she came down the steps, clad in an old hoodie and sleep shorts.

Ashton jumped in his seat, setting down the paper.

Y/N smirked, snickering to herself. She made her way into the kitchen, starting up her coffee maker and grabbing a granola bar from the cabinet. “Let me get my coffee and then we can head out.”

Ashton swallowed thickly. “Thank you, again.”

Y/N smiled smally at him. “You were hurt.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’re a lot nicer in the mornings.”

“I’m no longer hungry and sleep deprived.” She shrugged and he chuckled.

Y/N retreated back up the stairs to change into something a little more appropriate. When she returned, the coffee was done, and Ashton was back to the newspaper.

“Something interesting in that paper?” She asked with a laugh.

“I’m apparently dead,” he deadpanned, showing her the article.

Cobra Member Presumed Dead

A young gang member was reportedly wounded during a break-in in the East Hill sector of town. Outside of the gang’s territory, the homeowner Alex Kei told reporter Eric Townes that a red-haired young man had been rifling through his possessions. Kei claims the gang member attacked him once he realized he was being watched. Kei grabbed the nearest thing to him, his fire iron, to defend himself. Mr. Kei reported the iron struck the attacker’s side, gouging deep. The attacker, holding his wound, fled the house. If David Kei is correct about the severity of the wound, the attacker may well be deceased by now without medical attention. The attack occurred April 11th, just two days ago.

“That’s not what happened,” Ashton huffed when Y/N looked up with wide eyes. “Kei has always had it out for us. I was only--”

“You don’t have to explain to me,” Y/N soothed. “Let’s just get you home.”

~~~

The car ride was silent for the most part, save for the occasional “turn left here,” or “keep going straight to the next light” once they were downtown.

“You can drop me off here,” he muttered after they passed the train tracks that made the Cobra border.

Y/N looked at him incredulously. “You think I’m gonna let you walk around town with fresh stitches?”

He returned her wide-eyed look.

“Point me to your safe-house, and that’s where you can get out.”

The redhead hesitated. “Make a right at the next light.”

Ashton guided her to an old warehouse. “I still don’t know your name,” he tried to laugh through a wince as he unbuckled the seatbelt she insisted he wear.

“Y/N,” she said lowly as she got out of the car, walking over to the passenger side.

She helped him climb out, his voice quiet as he said, “Y/N. That’s pretty.”

“Thanks,” she joked as she knocked on the side door. “Got it for my birthday.”

The door opened, revealing a blonde-haired man even younger than Y/N was. “For the last time,” he sighed without looking at them. “This is not a sanctuary. Go find somewhere else to peddle for money.”

“Aw damn, even me?” Ashton’s smile was huge.

The boy’s head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief. “Ash?” he breathed.

“In the flesh,” he beamed. “Didja miss me?”

But Ashton's name was the only thing Luke could say. The younger boy held his friends face in his hands, tears collecting in his eyes. "I thought we lost you."

"Harder than that to lose me," the redhead quipped before pulling him in for a tight hug.

The two held each other for several minutes, simply reveling in one another's company for the first time in several weeks. Y/N watched with a soft smile on her lips. It was sweet to see this boy who had been so tough around her appear so soft with his friend.

Ashton met Y/N's eyes, as if suddenly remembering she was there. He broke away, albeit reluctantly, and held his hand out between the stranger boy and Y/N.

"Luke, this is Y/N. She let me stay at her place recently and patched me up, made me all pretty again. Y/N, this is Luke. He's… well he's the head of this whole operation, I suppose."

Y/N smiled, holding her hand out for Luke to shake. "Hi."

Luke looked at her hand, then at her. He made no move to grab her hand, instead pulling her into a hug as well. "Thank you, for bringing him home," he whispered in her ear, voice thick with emotion.

As they broke apart, Ashton demanded Luke's attention. "I assume absolutely nothing has been done in the past two weeks, since you've all been grieving and are incapable of doing anything without me." He winked, and Y/N wasn't sure if it was directed at her or Luke.

"We've been making Kei's life a living hell, but other than that… we were a little busy trying to find you."

"Well." Ashton held out his arm to Y/N. "Let's say hello to everyone, shall we?"

They walked through the door as Luke held it open, and Y/N was surprised by what she saw. She didn't know what she expected from the headquarters of the city's biggest gang, but it certainly wasn't this.

In the center of the room was a pool table, surrounded by four men extremely focused on the game. In the corner was a small shelf of books with two small chairs-- a makeshift reading book. It looked like a home more than a base of operations, and Y/N loved it.

"I've been gone for two weeks, and there is a serious lack of crying in this room." Ashton's loud voice rang out over every quiet conversation. The room grew silent, and everyone stared at the redhead in front of Y/N.

"Ashton? Oh my God is that really you?" A bleached blond man shouldered his way to the front of the room, leather jacket heaving up and down with his rapid breathing. The tan man let out a shaky laugh before running to Ashton and enveloping him in a hug even tighter than Luke's. Before too long, everyone had crowded around the pair, all wanting to see their missing friend with their own eyes.

Y/N watched the scene unfold in front of her with a smile, until she felt someone tug at her elbow. Luke pulled her away to the side, far enough that they could have a private conversation but still see the group.

"How bad was he?"

"I put stitches in his side, so he needs to go easy. No running or stretching or anything that could tear that. I don't know how long he was hurt before he got to me, but by some miracle it didn't look infected."

Luke's following sigh sounded heavy with relief. "You may very well have saved his life. We owe you. I owe you. Anything you want, tell me."

"Oh, it was really nothing," Y/N stammered. "You don't owe me anything."

“Listen,” Luke huffed. “That boy you brought with you--” he pointed to where Ashton was, hugging all his friends like he hadn’t seen them in months “--he’s like my brother, and I haven’t seen him in over two weeks. We thought he died, but you took care of him, and didn’t let him end up on the street. You’ve done us a huge service, and we are indebted to you for him. Don’t diss us by refusing.”

Y/N swallowed thickly, nodding.

"Good. You saved his life. The Cobras will from now on be your personal backup. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you come to him, you come to me. Cool?"

Y/N nodded again.

"Y/N!" She heard Ashton's voice. He broke away from the group and jogged over to her.

"You're not leaving yet, are you?"

"I--"

"This isn't really her scene," Luke cut in. Y/N opened her mouth to protest, but he fixed her with a look that dared her to continue.

"Y-yeah," she breathed. "I'm not… this isn't my kind of place. I'm intruding now that my job is done."

"Oh." Ashton visibly deflated, obviously not enthused with the idea of her leaving. "Am I gonna see you again?"

“That depends. I mean, you know where I live.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking something more along the lines of getting your number.”

Y/N smirked.

PART 2 // MASTERLIST

#ashton 5sos #ashton irwin #ashton irwin x reader #luke 5sos #luke hemmings #michael clifford #michael 5sos #calum 5sos #calum hood #5sos x reader #5sos funny #5sos #my writing

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wiener-soldiers · 7 years

Text

hallelujah (i) - steve trevor

summary: Learning how to steal from a young age, you used this skill to help provide for your family. However, after trying to steal a watch from a certain Air Force Pilot/Spy, he comes to with a proposal.

pairing: Steve Trevor x Fem!Reader

words: 2,080 (whoop im back in the +2k zone)

warnings: stealing (dont steal kids), mentions of drinking

taglist: @sebastianstanfoundmymixtape

a/n: it’s been a while, sorry guys. but we finally have an imagine other than marvel! this is gonna be a mini series, im thinking like three parts. i’ll try to have this series finished before school. remember y’all that imagines are open and so is tagging if you wanna be on the tag list!

I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord.

But you don't really care for music, do you?

Well, it goes like this; the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, and the major lift.

The baffled king composing: Hallelujah.

You didn't care how dangerous your job was, it was important. Not many people, let alone women, would grow up to become a spy.

However, you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), are different from other women.

Before the war broke out, you and your family immigrated from (Y/H/T) to London. In your hometown, you were quite the scholar, despite you being a girl. You learned a lot about science in school, but you also learned how to steal, fight, and survive in the streets.

That's how Steve Trevor found you. Or rather, you found him.

After immigrating to England, your family sacrificed more than you could've ever imagined. Long story short; promises were broken, money was lost, and the landlord evicted your family from your small apartment. Now, both of your parents and your younger brother Jack lived on the dingy top floor to the three story building that housed a bakery that both your parents worked in on the bottom floor. They didn't bring much loot home, only whatever they were tipped, the nearly stale loafs of bread that weren't sold the past three days, and a couple of fruits if they were lucky. They don't even get paid regularly, but the bakery owner assured your family that you could stay on the third floor of their building as long as they worked.

Believe it or not, that was the most generous anyone has been to your family since you've arrived in London.

So, being the scrappy, deceiving girl you were, you sneaked out during the day while your parents were working and your brother was learning to read from some old books you brought from your old house, and during the night while everyone was asleep to steal whatever you could find.

Like today.

After double checking that your parents were asleep in their small room, you tiptoed to your brother who lays on his cot in your shared room. Snuggled in his cheap, ratty sleeping bag, his head pokes out to look at you as you pull own your long khaki coloured trench coat, thrifted from a thrift shop down the street. Jack was the only person who knows what you do while you sneak out of the house. The first time you brought home goods (a couple of dollars and a pocket watch), your mother had questioned the source. You told her that you were working as a tailor's apprentice.

As you put on a wide brimmed hat to cover your eyes (it was stolen of course), Jack props himself up with his elbows.

"What are you gonna come back with this time?" Jack says with wide, innocent eyes.

You walk closer to him and press a soft kiss on the top of his forehead. You whisper back, "Dunno yet, Jack. I actually got someone's extra change, so maybe I'll get you some more ink so you can practise writing. I might even stop by the pub and flatter some of the lads up and maybe get a few bucks, maybe a watch."

He frowns a bit, "But your coming back, right?"

You smile at him before slipping on some plain black flats, "I always come back, don't I?"

You blow a kiss to Jack one last time before sliding open the window and hopping onto the fire escape. You slide the window shut behind you and you begin to climb down the creaky steps of the fire escape.

After reaching the ground, you head in the direction of the market. During the day, it's filled with vendors selling goods, but at night, it's pub's are filled with people of all ages, very drunk. It's not the safest place for girls, but it was the perfect place to coax a few drinks out of some younger men and pick up some extra cash, or some watches. You walk into your first pub, one of the nicer pubs on the block. The dimly lit pub was filled people of all ages; some seniors having drinks with their friends, couples going on late night dates, and of course, lonely, moping men.

That's how you had met Steve.

He was sitting in a table alone, head hung low while he rolled a glass of whiskey on rocks. Your heart ached for him, as he looked very sad. But you needed the money.

So you approached him.

You slid in the seat in front of him, placing your arms on the table. He doesn't notice you at first, so you decide to speak. "Are you all right?" you ask in a mock British accent. After trial and error, you found that using an accent makes people trust you faster.

The man looks up and you stare in a pair of the bluest eyes you have ever seen. His dirty blonde messily falls on top of his forehead as he moves.

He's very handsome, you note.

The man looks at you, dumbfounded. "Who are you?" he questions.

"Megan Danning. At your service," you blurt out. It was the first fake name that popped into your head.

"Steve, Steve Trevor. What's a pretty dame like you doing in a place like this alone at night?" he inquires while leaning forward.

"Well Mr. Trevor, who ever said I was alone?" you say while smirking slightly. You had silently wished you had applied some of that cheap red lipstick you had stolen from the store on the corner of the block. You rest your hand on top of his and bite your lip. You fiddle with the clasp on the his watch. You manage to unclasp it and you slide it into you coat sleeve without him noticing.

Steve scoffs, but stares you down anyways. "Late night, pretty girl targeting a lonely lad like me, hand on top of mine. You think I'm stupid, but I know what you're doing." He finishes while pulling his hand away from underneath yours. He pulls down his wrist and reveals empty skin where a watch would normally be.

He smirks a little, "My watch please, Megan Danning. But that isn't your name, is it?"

Shit, you think to yourself. No one has caught you before, so you were beyond surprised.

Without warning, you stand up and bolt. Without looking back, you sprint out of the pub. You can't tell if Steve (if that even is his real name) is following or not. Your flats make a little tapping sound as you sprint down the cobblestone streets, trying to avoid cars.

"Hey!" you hear someone call out from behind you. You immediately recognise it as Steve's voice.

Quickly, you slip into the alley closest to you, hoping that he didn't see you. You slightly peak your head from the wall of the alley that your back is pressed on to see Steve standing a few blocks away in the middle of the street. You watch as he cups his hand around his mouth and lets out a scream.

"I'll find you, Megan Danning! I promise you," he finishes, getting strange looks from passersby.

You furrow your eyebrows and watch him turn around and walk back to the pub. Only after he became out of sight, you slip back onto the road and saunter in the shadows until you reach the house. You silently climb the fire escape, slipping the watch into your coat pocket. Once you reach the third floor, you slide the window open and step inside the room. Jack is still wrapped in his sleeping bag in his corner of the room, but this time he is asleep. You place a kiss on top of his head before stripping yourself from your attire before changing into sleepwear and climbing into bed.

You lay wide awake for what seems like hours, still high on adrenaline. Finally, you succumb to your exhaustion and fall asleep.

When morning came around, you found yourself groggy. You sat up on your ratty cot and rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

"Morning (Y/N)," Jack says from the other side of the room. He had put on some trousers and an old blue button up.

"Morning Jacky," you say while rolling out of bed.

"Ma and Pa went down to the bakery already, but the brought up some jam and bread for breakfast." he says before walking out the room, probably to get food.

You find a plain yellow dress made from old fabric. It's the only thing left in your closet so you slip it on along with your flats. You pull your (Y/H/C) in a low ponytail as you walk out of the room into the kitchen.

"I made some toast for you," Jack says.

"Thanks, Jack."

As you munch on the nearly stale bread with the strawberry, Jack finishes his slice and asks, "Did you get anything last night?"

You nearly choke on your bread.

"No, I didn't," you lie. You didn't want your little brother worrying about you.

"That's too bad. Are you going again this afternoon?" The afternoon was usually the time were you would usually go into the market and slip fruits and vegetables into your purse and jacket.

"I don't think so. We still got a little bit of potatoes from yesterday. Besides, I haven't read with in a while."

Jack's mouth goes wide, a smile forming on his face. He leaps up from his seat and hugs you. "That would be nice," he mumbles into you. You laugh at the boy's enthusiasm.

"I'll clean this up, and you go find a book to read." He nods and runs of to the bookshelf in the corner of the room, eyes scanning for a book.

You finish washing up the dishes as Jack already begins to read his book. As you dry the dishes, you hear someone knock on the door. Assuming it's your mother (she makes visits throughout the day) you yell out, "Coming Ma! Just finishing up the dishes." Instead of a reply, the person at the door knocks again.

You sigh but walk to the door anyways and open it. "Sorry Ma, if you were in a rush. I was ju--"

"Hello."

Your eyes widen in utter shock and your jaw drops.

It was Steve.

Steve Trevor.

"(Y/N)? Who's at the door?" you hear Jack say from behind.

Steve smiles a little, "So your name is (Y/N), huh?"

You push him into the hallway and call out, "Jack, stay inside."

You slam the door shut and spin to face Steve. "How do you know where I live? Did you follow me home? If you like your watch so much, I'll give it back to you. Just, don't hurt my brother."

Steve furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head rapidly, "No, no! You got it all wrong. I'm not here to hurt anyone! You can keep the watch, you probably need it more than I do." he says while gesturing to you.

You scoff, "Excuse me?! What's that supposed to mean?!"

His eyes widen, "Nothing! That's not the point. The point is, I have a proposal."

"I don't care about your damn proposal! Is your name really Steve Trevor? How do you know where I live!?"

"Listen, I'm Captain Steve Trevor of the United States Air Force."

"Then what are you doing in London? I don't know if you've noticed, but a war is about to break out."

"That's why I'm here. They sent me here as a spy for the British, that's how I found out where you lived. They needed all the help they could get."

"So?!" you screech. "That doesn't explain why you're at my house."

"Like I said, they need all the help they can get. That's where you come in."

"Huh?"

"You're really skilled. You almost sneaked away with my watch last night without me noticing. We could really use someone like you, they'd never see it coming."

You cross your arms, "What's in it for me?"

"Security for your family when the war breaks out, a stable job and income, serving your country, y'know, the whole nine yards."

"One request, though."

"Huh?"

"I have one request, and I'll do it."

"Your not really in the position to request anythi--"

"Put my brother in school. Not a bad one, a private one. He deserves an education."

Steve inhales deeply, "I'll see what I can do."

You smile a little, "Great."

Steve smiles slightly and sticks his hand out to shake, "Let's try that introduction again. Steve Trevor."

You smile back and shake his hand, "(Y/N) (Y/L/N). Nice to meet you."

That's when it all began.

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docholligay · 7 years

Text

News Of The Day

So I told you the Patreon was off for March (and it is. It’s automatically set to go on hiatus, and Patreon assures me you will not be charged, and, if it is, I will call and have it all refunded.) This is because, in this year of me and Jill preparing to settle down and have a baby, I am going to Europe. I’ll be gone between March 6th and March 31st.

Doc, that sounds like the worst possible way of settling down. Let me explain. No, there is too much, let me sum up.

When I was a girl, going to Europe was my dream, and it was a dream that was like going to the moon--I come from a relatively poor background on both sides, particularly when I was young. No one in my family had been to the east fucking coast when I was a girl, I saw the ocean for the first time when I was 18 and only because I made it happen. But Europe, you see, was never going to happen, no matter how many avenues I tried, I was still a girl from the middle of nowhere who, regrettably had never been born into wealth.

I was talking to my boss about how it was something I’d always wanted to do before I had a baby, and I was sad that it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to work out. Jill had wanted to send me, but we just couldn’t make it work. It was a thing she really longed to do for me before we had a baby, but the truck broke, and we need a new water heater--the banal things of life. It was disappointing, but it was a dream I was going to let die.

My boss is a complex man, a rich white dude who nonetheless has a sense of compassion and generosity that occasionally strikes like lightning. So he gave me the money for plane tickets, train tickets, and a month off (unpaid). If you’re going to go once in your life, he said, try to make it count. SO I AM. I was originally going to go by myself, as I don’t have much trouble doing that, and actually enjoy a certain amount of solitude. I live in my head a lot. But ever since my Mom divorced my Dad she’s had a pile of money and weeks of vacation sitting there doing nothing, so I invited her to come along, and I thought she was going to cry with excitement.

The Patreon has been an amazing help, and is going to cover my bills while I’m gone. But since it’ll be off that month, and for some of you who have always wanted to toss a couple bucks my way, but don’t want the month to month thing, I decided to set something up specifically for this trip. I want to add that I don’t expect anything--y’all have done enough for me, frankly. And I’ll still be able to borrow money from Mom to make it work, so you’re not ruining my life. Basically, I’m just asking you to help me out with a lifelong dream I’m getting out of the way.

But there’s rewards! SHINY, FANTASTIC REWARDS. I’m not just asking for money, I want to do stuff for it. And when I say any character, I mean it. (Though, if I’m totally unfamiliar with even the property, you’re taking your life into your own hands) Want a postcard from Bill Cipher? PRETTY SURE I COULD KILL IT, ACTUALLY. A letter from Bastion? The most soulful beep and boops you’ll ever read. Usagi goes to the Paris Catacombs? DONE, WITH LOVE AND TENDERNESS.

So here’s the breakdown:

Any level: a photo post thanking you personally with a picture of me doing the thing!

Tier One: a postcard of the country, from either me or your favorite character! Mailed from Europe.

Tier Two: a two page ficlet of your fav character experiencing whatever you got me, or a two page letter from me about it. Mailed from Europe. Example of how I write about food here.

Tier Three: I buy you a small souvenir from said locale, and wrap it up with a letter from your favorite character or me. Mailed upon my return, I can’t figure out the post offices THAT well.

Tier Four: don’t do this, but if you want to, convo me first and we’ll work something out.

How to do this, if you want to:

Message me with what you want to sponsor and your email address. I’ll send you a request via paypal! And let me know which character(s) you’d like your letter/postcard from!

Again, I have no expectation of anyone doing this, so no worries. I thank you anyhow! You’re all amazing. This is a dream I never thought I would fulfill, and all of you have had no small part in making it a reality. I wish I could tell you how much it means to me, and I look forward to all the new shades of adventure we’ll have together.

THERE’S A LOT OF FOOD. I TRUST YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH ME.

Things that don’t cost anything are, obviously, not on here, so if you’d rather have a photo shot of say, Saint Chappele, and you get me a glass of wine, we can totally work that out.

London, England

Tier One

A pint in a pub! [$5, two available] I feel like this needs no description, and yet. Mom and I are actually making an informal tour of East End pubs for Very Important Research Purposes. Lena wants you to buy me a drink.

Fish and chips on the street [$12] Fish and chips is one of those things that’s iconic, and it may be terrible (lol just kidding fried food is amazing) but I feel honorbound to finally have a proper try at it.

Bubble and Squeak and other Breakfast Atrocities [$15] Occasionally, I plan something just for the secret knowledge. I need to know what the hell bubble and squeak tastes like. You need me to know what the hell bubble and squeak tastes like. So I found a traditional British place to show me!

Highgate Cemetary Tour [$15] There’s something that seems right about me wandering around in a park dedicated to the most beautiful ways of representing the mortality of humankind, do you think?

Oysters and Bubbly [$15] Ever since I read Tipping the Velvet, I feel like this is a quintessentially British thing, and I love the sea saltiness of oysters and the prickle of bubbly.

Tour of Winston Churchill’s War Rooms [$20] Help me get tips for the underground bunker I’m going to need to build when the gays declare war!

Tier Two

Tower of London and Crown Jewels [$30] All my favorite things! Murder, torture, imperialism, and tacky jewelry.

Afternoon Tea at the Ritz [$50] This is an exceedingly fancy little adventure, with delicate teacakes and a goddamn harpist, and I’ve always wanted to do it. I will FINALLY get to wear my special occasion dress.

Paris, France

Tier One

Glass of wine in a cafe [$7, five available] Again--when in Paris, drink like Parisians do. I would say Amelie wants you to buy me a drink, but I think we all know that’s a bold lie

A trip to the boulangerie next to our place [$12] I am well aware than in Paris, you can throw a rock and hit a bakery, but I’m still charmed by the idea that we have one so close.

Tour of the Paris Catacombs [$20] It’s a tunnel full of beautiful death. I belong here.

Fancy French chocolates [$20] There’s so many fine French chocolatiers, and we found a few near our place! This will get us a couple fancy chocolates to eat by the Seine

Lunch at a bistro with wine [$25, two available] There’s almost an overwhelming amount of food that looks good in Paris, and I am taking suggestions, but we found this little place that basically looks like cave that serves wine, and I’m all into it.

Tier Two

Lunch at Disneyland Paris at BILLY BOB’S WILD WEST BUFFET [$34] There is no way you don’t want me to share with the class French Disneyland’s understanding of the American West.

Dinner at a slightly nicer place, but also with wine [$40]

Tier Three

Day at Disneyland Paris [$70] One of my life goals, however shallow, vain, and foolish, is to go to every Disneyland/world before I die. This will make it two down and two to go and I think we all want to see my girlish excitement.

Tier Four

Cooking Class in Paris [$95] A cooking class with a professional chef! ANd we get to go to the market and selct stuff and make a four course meal and I have never taken a cooking class in my life so I am thrilled.

Zurich, Switzerland

Tier Two

A TRIP TO THE BIERGARTEN DOWN THE STREET WHERE NEITHER OF US HAVE ANY CLUE OF THE LANGUAGE BUT BY GOD I HAVE A PHRASEBOOK [$40] (beer and food both)

Munich, Germany

Tier One

Tour of BMW factory [$9] YEAH ME AT THE BMW FACTORY. I am completely overwhelmingly excited for this, and you want to hear about it.

Drink at a swanky rooftop bar [$16] Yeah this is A COCKTAIL, but we’re mainly going there to be Kaiohs for a moment in time, so I promise to savor it. Any excuse to wear my fancy dress!

Traditional Bavarian Food with a traditional Bavarian [$20] I confess I have no idea if I can even eat traditional Bavarian food, but by god I know the German word for pork and I have no fear.

Trip to Neuschwanstein Castle [$22] This also includes the little castle next to it! IF YOU THINK I’M NOT GOING TO MAKE AN EICHENWALDE JOKE, STOP YOURSELF RIGHT THERE.

Tier Two

Dinner at Hofbrauhaus: Sauerbraten of Alpine Oc, Dampfnudel, and a beer yes I already know what I’m ordering shut up [$31] Remember when I was liveblogging Bake Off and I said “Wtf is a dampfnudel? THEY HAVE THEM HERE. I WILL FINALLY KNOW.

Zagreb, Croatia

Tier One

Swanky cocktail at Hotel Esplanade [$12]

Drinks at THE HOBBIT PUB [$14] Oath assures there are many magical Croatian liquors that I have never tried, some of which may have me believing that I am, in fact, Gandalf by the end of the night.

Tier Two

Room service for swanky Sailor Moon Night [$30] There’s two here in case someone wants to buy food for Oath, too. or there were, but Jet’s bought Oath’s and told em to get my fucking own.

Dinner at Traditional Croatian restaurant [$33] I admit to having pretty limited knowledge of what Croatian food actually is, and assuming Oath isn’t just playing a massive trick on me and we’re actually performing some sort of fear factor for her amusement, we’re going to find out!

Wine Pairings for the fine dinner! [$55] The wines are specifically selected by a sommelier for each course, I’ve never had anything so fine and I can’t wait for the shade it brings to each course.

Tier three

12 course plated dinner in a fine restaurant [$77] You may have noticed a theme of doing Shit I Can’t Afford In America. Y’all, I am so excited for this, it’s the kind of meal one might find at the 400 dollar level or higher in the states. I have never, ever been able to afford something like this, and I am so excited.

Tier Four

Rental of a box at the Croatian National Theatre for Swan Lake [$100] Getting dressed all tony for our private box! Please believe that I am trying to get some tiny opera glasses, to complete the effect.

Night in a 5 star suite for Swanky Sailor Moon Night [$220] Oath and I, in a fancy hotel suite, Kaiohing it up and watching Sailor Moon over various Croatian liquors. THERE’S WIFI IN THE HOTEL YOU KNOW YOU’LL BE MISSING MY DRUNKEN POSTS BY THEN.

Tallin, Estonia

Tier One

SOUP BUFFET [$5] I love soup like I love few things on earth, and in Estonia it is apparently a THING, and we’re going to a great soup buffet for lunch

Soup and Pie at a restaurant owned by an adorable Russian couple [$6] My friend recommended this place to me specifically, because she knows any place I can get pie and soup is a place I love.

Drink a Western bar called “Tombstone” [$5] I MEAN COME ON

Tier Two

Trip to a whiskey and cigar bar [$16] A glass of whiskey and cigar is something I am going to be missing HARD by this point, I assure you

Tier Three

Dinner at Medieval merchant restaurant [$72] I’M GONNA EAT BEAR. This restaurant is the intersection of history and food, which you may note as one of my favorite things, and the meal we’re getting has a COUPLE kinds of game I’ve never experienced before.

I am also taking suggestions! And remember, I have meetups planned in London, Munich, and Paris! So let me know if you’d like to come.

Again, thank you so much for even bothering to read all this! I love you all!!

#holligay annoys the entire european continent

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