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alittlebitmaybe · 3 years

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i’ll stay warm

for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo!

Prompt: ice skating

Relationship: Geraskier

Rating: G (with very mild language and a tiny bit of blood)

Warnings: None

Other Tags: Fluff, Companionable Snark, Already Dating But Too Dumb To Notice, First Kiss

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Read more on ao3 or below the cut!

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Geralt says, “Why?”

“Because Priscilla asked me along, and it’s good fun, and you can do all sorts of loop-de-loops and swirlies and spinnies and whozits and, uh, whatzits. I dunno, Pris knows all the tricks, I never got the hang of it. But, Geralt, people have been doing this in Oxenfurt for years. It’s the only way fashionable and exciting persons such as I pass the winter these days, gliding as an angel over the ice, cheeks chapped fetchingly pink, you know, it’s all very attractive, one may say winsome—”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in the small chair and tucks his shoulders in. He takes up too much space in Jaskier’s quarters, and already he rues the day he agreed, in a fit of insanity, to pass the season in the city instead of trekking up to Kaer Morhen as usual. “You’re going to die.”

Jaskier hacks a laugh into his steaming mug and nearly spills tea all down his robed front.

“Nonsense!” he cries, once he has recovered himself. “We go every year once the freeze is hard enough, me and Pris and all my many other dazzling friends, which I absolutely have.”

“And if Priscilla told you it was fashionably good fun to walk yourself off a cliff…”

“I’d do it, obviously,” says Jaskier, not missing a beat. “Haven’t you ever had to cross a frozen river on your travels, Witcher? How’d you go about it then, if not on skates?”

Geralt levels him an incredulous look. “How would I get a horse across a frozen river?” he asks, and Jaskier frowns in thought as he takes another sip.

“I mean, you could just—,” he mimes pushing outward with one palm, “—give ‘er a good shove and see how far she gets.”

“Could give you a good shove. Bet you wouldn’t make it far.”

“I’ll have you know, I have the grace of a, a, er…elk? Are elk graceful?”

Geralt nods and says seriously, “Especially the newborns.”

“There you have it. Graceful as a tiny baby elk with those on my feet, I am.”

“Maybe you should wear them all the time.”

“What good would that…” he starts, and then comes, “Hey. Rude. Remind me why I wanted you here?”

Geralt grins and shrugs. His own mug is on the small table, and he sniffs the steam coming off of it. Floral. He takes a sip. Carefully does not spit it back out. Sets the mug back down farther away.

When he has successfully resisted the urge to spit on the floor to clear out his mouth and looks back up, Jaskier is still holding his own mug gently in the curl of his long fingers, and a lock of rumpled hair has fallen into his eyes. His robe hangs open at his collarbone, down the line of his chest. He wears a strange expression that lies between the exasperation Geralt expected and something startlingly softer.

“So you’ll come with us,” he states.

“Someone has to take your body back to your mother when you break your neck,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You jest, but Mum would be thrilled to see you. Likes you better than me, I think. Her only son! But you’ll come, eh?”

Geralt ducks his head quickly to hide the smile creeping across his face, grabbing his boots and yanking at the laces before acquiescing, “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“There now,” Jaskier says, appeased, “that wasn’t so hard, was it.” He knocks back the dregs of his tea, then stands and pads to the sink, talking on. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t let you stay cooped up in here all winter. I’ll have to see if I can dig out my spare pair of skates, they’re older—animal bone, not iron—but they might be big enough for your witcher feet, and it really works just as well. Or maybe Pris knows someone…I even heard they’re renting the things out down at the river now. Industrious, isn’t it, the ways people come up with to make some coin?…”

Geralt half-listens as he ties neat knots, lost somewhere in the midst of mulling over what Jaskier has described, trying to give it the benefit of the doubt despite its obvious frivolity. Based on the day’s weather it will be a clear night with a brisk breeze, a bright moon. The wind chill will have them each bundled up in furs, and the tip of Jaskier’s nose will go pink as he rubs his gloved hands together for warmth and glances happily over at Geralt. The river ice will be torchlit and smooth as glass, and they’ll strap on their skates and step out onto it. They’ll have a good hold on each others arms, for balance, but then as they gain their footing they’ll find their fingers threaded together and neither will let go. Geralt will listen to the quickened beat of Jaskier’s heart as they pick up the pace, and eventually Jaskier will break their hold to skate backward and taunt Geralt with a small twirl that ends only a little unsteadily. Geralt will smirk and give chase, chuckling when Jaskier squawks and takes off at speed. It’s no use, of course, even with Geralt’s inexperience; Geralt will anticipate his movements, head him off, catch him by the wrist, by the shoulder, and they will collide chest to chest with a huff, the momentum from the chase sliding them a few more feet across the ice before they come to a halt. Their cold noses will almost be touching, there will be frost on the riverbank, there will be a distant owl hooting its nighttime song. Jaskier will quirk his lips and say, “Gotcha, Witcher,” and Geralt will lean in, feel his hot breath, press their lips together—

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, tapping him on the shoulder. A hand waves in front of his face. Geralt keeps his expression carefully neutral as he comes out of his sudden reverie, though he’s been caught red handed. “Are you meditating? We’ve got to be off to the market. Have you even been listening to me?”

“Never,” says Geralt, and Jaskier scoffs and whacks him gently upside the head.

The riverbank smells like dead fish.

Geralt knew this. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t know where the pine-scented idyllic winter wonderland from his earlier distraction even came from, because it couldn’t be farther from reality.

Besides the fish stink, his boots squish and stick unpleasantly in the muddy ground, and the place is teeming with cityfolk, the crowd so thick that you can’t see the opposite bank even despite the abundant torchlight.

“Are you sure it’s frozen solid enough for this?” Geralt asks sourly.

“Of course,” Jaskier replies.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Couldn’t we go around the bend where there’s not so many people?”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“Breathing room.”

“I asked about the fun, Geralt. Ah, there’s my girl!”

Priscilla pushes through a group of loitering teenagers and throws her arms around Jaskier’s neck, only her toes left on the mud. “Jask! I see you got your…friend to join us.”

She pauses before friend, eyeing him overtly, but Geralt doesn’t notice because one of the teenagers has been shoved, giggling, into him by another of the group. He steadies her, and does not react when she turns to apologize, catches his unnatural gaze, and stifles her laughter. He doesn’t see Jaskier watching him past Priscilla’s ear, the fond crinkling around his eyes when Geralt gently straightens her and returns her to her place in the circle, which subsequently puts a few feet between itself and the newly-noticed witcher.

“It was either this or die of boredom in the dark, wasn’t it, Geralt?” Jaskier says finally as he releases Priscilla.

“I chose the dark,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier sticks out his tongue.

“Well,” Priscilla says, straightening her skirts, “shall we?”

Geralt pulls both sets of skates from his deep cloak pockets and passes the iron pair to Jaskier, who hops around indelicately while securing them over his boots, rather than plop himself on the soft ground—which is, of course, what Geralt does to put on his own. Priscilla and Jaskier waste a few minutes on a tiff over whether it is polite or belittling for Jaskier to insist on helping her with her own skates whether she wants it or not, but eventually they are all ready to go.

Geralt is the first to the ice. He tests the toe of his bone skate against it, judging the friction of it, deciding if it is likely to hold his weight even with the evidence of the dozens of people currently gliding and spinning past him. It seems stable. Stepping out, he finds it surprisingly easy to get a feel for balance, the minute shifts of weight that send him one direction or the other. He swings himself wide and turns around to see Priscilla and Jaskier also stepping out onto the river, Jaskier clutching tightly to Priscilla’s sleeve, face white and eyes trained on his feet.

“It’s okay, darling, you’ve got this. You made such good progress last time, come on now,” Geralt can hear Priscilla murmuring under the loud chatter of nearby skaters.

When Jaskier sees Geralt watching them, he bodily removes Priscilla’s hands from his person and says, “Please, Pris, I’m a capable man.”

She bristles immediately, leaving him to stand on his own. “And I wasn’t a capable woman when I was putting on my skates?”

Jaskier ignores her to begin shuffling awkwardly across the ice, his knees locked straight.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says apprehensively.

“Doing peachy, thanks, it’ll come back to me, just need to recall how to, um—oh no—” Jaskier starts with a strained voice before he promptly stops, because he has begun to slide inexorably forward. Priscilla and Geralt both reach toward him, but they’re too late; Jaskier’s arms wheel wildly, he tilts on wobbly ankles, and he faceplants onto the ice.

“Ow,” squeaks the Jaskier-shaped lump.

“I think your nose is broken,” says Geralt. He dabs at the blood on Jaskier’s top lip with the edge of his own cloak. They are safely back on the bank, and Jaskier is, this time, sitting in the mud. “I guess you were right,” he goes on wryly. “You’re exactly as graceful as a baby elk.”

“I knew you were making fun of me,” Jaskier says thickly, due to the nose injury. “I also knew you’d be a natural. Bastard. I could never get the hang of this stupid bullshit.”

Geralt hums and wipes off the last of the blood. At least it’s clotted quickly. Maybe it’s not a break.

“You didn’t need to lie about your abilities. Who are you trying to impress?”

Jaskier snorts, then winces in pain. His fingers twist in his lap. “Oh, that’s funny.”

Now, Geralt is often joking, but he’s fairly certain that that wasn’t one. Did Jaskier also hit his head? He pushes back Jaskier’s fringe to check his forehead for signs of bruising and doesn’t find any. “Um,” he says, “what is?”

Priscilla skates past holding hands with a woman that Geralt thinks she met approximately three minutes ago. She calls, “All right, Jask?” and in reply, Jaskier gives her a bitter thumbs up. She winks and swoops away as quickly as she came.

“Because I was trying to impress you, obviously,” he answers, gazing after her, before he turns his eyes back to Geralt.

Geralt pauses. “Why?”

“Because I’m actually always trying to impress you. And everyone else, constantly, but…mostly you.”

“You don’t do a very good job of it,” he says, and regrets it when he hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth.

Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine, if a little wistful, like Geralt has amused but not surprised him. “I am well aware, thanks.”

He reaches for the words that will take that edge of resignation off Jaskier’s face, feeling like a fumbling fool. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you don’t need to try to impress me.”

“Yes, I know it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help—”

“No,” Geralt interrupts, “I mean you don’t need to try because you do.” He clears his throat. “Impress me.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, and then nothing more. “That’s. Okay.”

“Yeah,” says Geralt. He has never been so exposed in his life. He thinks that’s probably a bad thing. “How’s your nose? We could try again, if you want.”

Jaskier looks around at the laughing crowds and shrugs. “Came all this way, got all bundled up. Might as well! I’m sticking with you this time, though.”

They find a spot at the farthest reach of the torchlight where the ice is less populated to step out. Geralt goes first, as before, and finds his footing even faster this time. He returns to Jaskier’s side after a moment of testing the reliability of his newfound skills, and presents his forearm as a handhold. Jaskier does not protest about his capability this time and takes the offering. With a long preparatory exhale, he puts one foot and then the other onto the ice.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier replies, “I know you do.”

“Can’t let more harm come to the money maker. I’ve gotten used to staying in inns.”

“Good gods,” says Jaskier, “I’ve broken him.”

They gradually move farther from the bank. “Loosen up,” Geralt tells him. “Don’t lock your knees. It’s like you’re trying to fall over.”

Jaskier grumbles but takes the advice, and eventually he gains the confidence to move a little faster, though not to stop hanging on to Geralt. They stay on the fringes where they are less likely to be run into by a distracted stranger, gliding along at pace, with Jaskier remarking on the who’s-who of Oxenfurt society who are also out tonight. Geralt recognizes some of the more powerful names, but mostly he lets Jaskier chatter on so he doesn’t think too hard about his feet.

Priscilla passes by and greets them a few more times with her new companion, who at one point proclaims, “You two are so cute together!” before Priscilla drags her back into the mob. Geralt glances over and thinks Jaskier might be blushing, but that might also be due to the swelling around his nose.

“Should ice your face,” says Geralt.

“Sure, later. Hey!” He swings around to face Geralt, stopping their progress. “Spin me!” At Geralt’s no doubt dubious expression, he pouts. “Geralt, I demand to be spun. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Geralt sighs.

He takes Jaskier’s hand, and has a flash of his daydream. There’s too many people, and it does still smell like fish, but this isn’t too far off—

He collects himself, holds their joined hands over Jaskier’s head, and gives him a little push to start him spinning, not too quick, but Jaskier takes it upon himself to propel himself a little faster. Jaskier laughs and maintains his balance remarkably well, until he exclaims “Oops—dizzy—!” and topples directly into Geralt, succeeding in knocking them both down, Geralt on his own back, Jaskier flat on his chest.

Geralt, trapped between the frigid ice and Jaskier’s weight, looks up as Jaskier starts to laugh. The steam of his breath hits Geralt’s cheek, and his knitted hat has gone askew, and his nose is turning purple, and Geralt puts his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulls him down and kisses him.

Jaskier leans away. “What?” he asks, eyes wide, then continues, “oh, who cares,” and leans back down.

Later, with an ice pack pressed to Jaskier’s face and two more hot mugs at the kitchen table, Geralt watches Jaskier rummage through his cupboards. He comes back with two packets, one matching the floral tea from earlier and a different one. He hands the latter to Geralt.

“Black tea,” he says, “for you. Noticed you didn’t like my herbal stuff. I don’t either, to be honest, but I already spent the coin on it.”

“Thanks,” Geralt replies, oddly touched.

As Jaskier passes Geralt to take his seat, he leans down and pecks him on the cheek. Smiling faintly beneath the ice pack, he says, “You know, Witcher, I’m glad you’re here and not up in some weird lonely castle,” and Geralt finds that he is, too.

#my fic #the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #it's fluff time friends!

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rattlerinthewheel · 3 years

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Beast of Our Behaviors: Scud/OMC

Scud and a friend hang out like old times.

For a prompt request by @pandoratriestowritestuff: 9) "I don't care how good it feels, you'd better not cum until I tell you to" and 13) "Touch yourself for me", taken from @palettes-and-prompts’ 100 Smut Dialogue Prompts.

Fic title is a song from The Crystal Method.

Chapter title is lyrics from TCM and Bubba Sparxxx’s PHDream, which is what Scud has playing when he meets Whistler.

- - -

"Old man, fuckin’ prick. Ain’t even around yet and he’s pissing me off. 'He’d do this, he’d do that.' Bullshit."

Something about one of his bosses not being around, and they’re looking for him, Marley thinks. He isn’t sure, he’s been zoning in and out, letting Josh vent.

Marley lets his head go ragdoll-limp and flop on the lump of beanbag his weight’s rearranged. Just getting a hazy picture of dark shapes, so he blinks, and then he can make out a pair of pacing red denim legs. They’re baggy and hide the feet, except for the toes of the white socks. The only bright thing in the studio, with the lights off, except the crummy TV playing some DVD the guy on the street said was popular overseas (didn’t tell him it wasn’t in English, the asswipe, so it’s reduced to background noise rather than entertainment).

The pacing halts, blocking half of the yellow-haired chatterbox, and a sigh freshens the earthy reek that was just beginning to fade. He pulls it in, a deep inhale, like he isn’t high enough already. Not like second-hand does much for him.

Any kind of it. Emotions included, which is why he ignores the grumbling and reaches out, fingers wavering because his world’s inverted, to snag the hem of the pants. "Jus’ tell him to fuck off, then."

The denim kicks free. Marley goes for it again, getting a better grip, ignoring the, "Quit bein’ an ass," as the denim kicks again but can’t get loose.

"Point’a you coming over if you’re just gonna bitch?" Marley asks. Something in his neck aches as he lifts his head to look up at the face that owns the denim he’s latched on to. "Thought we were gonna do shit."

"We always do shit," chapped lips huff.

Marley licks his own. Inspired, forgetting about the denim, he fumbles off his bean bag and drops to his haunches in front of his mini fridge. Bristling with anything a stoner could want (well, the shit that doesn’t need to be cold is piled on top) but all he goes for is a soda. He thinks he read something once about it dehydrating more than doing him any good, but he’s pretty sure that’s bullshit. It’s cold going down and wets his lips, how couldn’t a drink hydrate?

Government bullshit.

But when Marley turns around, his seat’s been stolen. He doesn’t mind the view it gets him: Josh, splayed out across the chair, an angry starfish. His joint’s in one hand, sagging in a half-assed pinch between his middle and ring finger, and Marley would worry about the carpet catching if he wasn’t drawn to the point where those sprawled legs lead.

Haven’t done shit yet, might as well, so he takes one big swig of his soda, jams it up on top of the fridge between two bags of chips, and pounces—if crawling over on his hands and knees and pawing at the practically-offered bulge could be considered a pounce. A stoner’s pounce, he decides: lazy and slow.

"Mm, thought you’d never," Josh hums, and Marley scoffs and elbows his thigh.

"Been tryin’," Marley grumbles as he pries away the zipper, then the boxers beneath, to get at the stiffy that’s just beginning to take. It’s easy to pull it out, get the foreskin down, and he gets in three slow pumps on his own before Josh starts to arch into his hand. "So now you wanna."

"Man," Josh pants, somehow going boneless and tense at the same time: his limbs melt while his body goes rigid. It gives Marley something to work against, and the sigh a slower pump earns puffs the hit Josh takes up into the stuffy apartment air.

"Gimme," Marley tells him, thrusts stumbling as he reaches for the joint with his free hand.

The end’s bitten and wet but he gets his lungs filled with earthy smoke anyway, and he forces them to hold it longer than he usually would’ve. When Marley does let it go he’s dizzy, and he wavers on his knees and has to grab one of Josh’s thighs.

The joint sticks out between his fingers, wagging with him, and Josh hisses as it bobs dangerously close to his cock. "Watch it."

Marley giggles as Josh reaches for the joint for another hit. It’s a brief fight, because Marley knows Josh was hogging it way too damn much and Josh doesn’t want to interrupt the hand job. In the end he’s got the joint back in his mouth, and he’s not a starfish anymore, propped up on his elbows so he can watch. Marley doesn’t mind an audience, so he gives Josh a show.

"Fuck," comes on the heels of his thumb swirling around the head, then his palm taking its place so his fingers can drape down and stroke up. That doesn’t get as much of a reaction, so Marley goes back to his first grip. The firm, sluggish stroke down to the base mashes his hand into the blonde curls springing around it.

Josh bucks his hips again, and Marley freezes, near the tip this time. "Behave," he teases.

Blue eyes lock onto brown and Josh growls, "Y’want me to do you after? Keep goin’."

Marley giggles again, a true high giggle, as Josh tugs him forward so he’s close enough to kiss. It’s awkward, the joint getting shoved to the corner of Josh’s mouth, singing their cheeks. But it’s good, because that means Marley gets a mouthful of earthy smoke on top of the sugar of the donuts they scarfed down earlier.

Josh’s cock twitches in his grip when he leans forward enough that his own stiffy, clothed, bumps it. "Uh uh, you ain’t finishing unless I say."

And Josh snorts at that, and Marley can’t keep his composure. He outright laughs and topples onto the stoner under him, kissing him harder, forgetting about the hand job. Josh doesn’t, grinding under him, which reminds Marley that yeah, right, he’s got one too. Funny how weed can make him forget that. It aches, like he’s going to explode right there, now that he remembers.

"Touch yourself," Josh pants as Marley’s rucking up his band shirt. It’s awkward, with how he’s straddling Josh, his legs kind of holding him and kind of not. Too much distance, the bean bag and body puts between the floor and his hips.

Marley’s too busy running his fingers over the scars webbing the exposed belly to pay attention; a pinch to his hip makes him jump, and he’s scrambling for his own fly as Josh watches, smoke fogging his face, but Marley can still see the tongue poking out in the corner that means he’s concentrating.

"Cute," Josh teases as Marley gets his jeans down as much as he can while keeping his position—because right, his zipper’s busted, damn—but pauses to scowl. "What? They are."

Marley scoffs and parts his boxers briefs—ignoring the red, yellow, and green zig zags; so what if they’re stoner colors, they were a gag gift someone got him, they fit, so why not use ‘em?—and groans when he plants one hand on Josh’s shoulder to brace himself and starts to stroke. Easy to ignore, when he wasn’t getting too much stimulation; but now, shit, he’s shaking and greedy and gladly lets Josh paw at him to help.

They get in their scuffles, know how to fight, but it’s not too often they resort to it; not now, either, but the rough pets make Marley shudder, the lack of lube, the tugs that rut his balls against Josh’s pinned shaft under him. They’re both getting off, this way.

"Not till I say so," he hums when he feels it—pre-cum, not his, making a damp spot on the thigh of his boxer briefs.

Josh hisses, holding out. Marley gasps as Josh’s other hand clamps onto the back of his neck, holding him down so Josh can buck his hips up. Josh’s cock slides along his thigh, up onto his hip, and Marley angles them down to trap the rut.

The carpet’s concrete compared to the bean bag as Josh flips them. "What was that about not being a fighter, Fromeyer?"

A scoff pants into his neck as Josh tucks in to nip. "Scud, like stud, dammit. Dunno why you don’t just call me that."

"Because it’s stupid," Marley grunts as Josh picks up the pace.

They’re grinding like horny teens, kissing and pawing, but fuck it—Josh’s got work now, and it’s been a while. Probably will be, again, before they can do this again. Hopefully his hardass bosses don’t drug test.

Josh’s leaving a bigger damp spot on his thigh as he trembles and finishes. Marley’s on his heels, getting that band shirt dirty, he’ll get bitched at for that. But for now, he’s content to just let the other stoner lie on top of him. They’re trapping the mess, getting it over more of them, but fuck it. They’re high, and Marley sighs, and grabs for the joint that’s been left smoldering on the carpet. Landlord’s an asshole, anyway. Can deal with it when his lease is up.

Marley snatches his fingers back as a boot grinds the joint to nothing. He yelps, and Josh fumbles and swears. The unfazed face above them tracks Josh as he gets to his knees, no real shame as he tucks himself away, then to his feet, gesturing at their intruder but not kicking his ass. Knows him, apparently.

"B? The fuck, man?" Josh hisses. Yeah, he knows him.

Marley isn’t as brave, and his high tanks as he blushes and tries to make it look like he doesn’t have white striping his thigh, smearing his hip. He stuffs himself away, at least, in time for the black dude to finally look at him.

"Uh, hi." And because Marley vaguely remembers manners, he points to his fridge: "Pretzels?"

Which feels wrong to ask this guy, somehow. Doesn’t fit with the vibe the room’s got now. He’s still a little high.

B ignores him, and Marley can’t help but frown when he sees Josh is packing up his shit, zipping his bag and jamming his boots on. He’d hoped they’d have a little more time. Not be interrupted, at least.

"You said you were grabbing provisions," B tells Josh flatly.

It doesn’t sit right with Marley. He doesn’t talk... normally. Too formal. But Josh is used to it, doesn’t say anything except, "Yeah, had a detour. Relax, man."

"Oh, I’m a detour," Marley scoffs, poking at the remains of the joint as B steps off to look out the kitchen window. Well, the everything window, since it’s a studio. Joint’s done for, and Marley sighs. His fun’s over, anyway.

"We’re already late."

"Yeah, yeah, I—Jesus." Josh is in front of Marley, then, as he finally clambers to his feet. That catches him off guard. So does the nudge Josh gives him. "Should be back in a few months."

"Months? Shit, what kinda job is this, dude?"

"Classified," comes from the door.

Josh rolls his eyes. "Tell Davey to have more of that good shit grown, yeah?"

"Only if you bring better snacks," Marley negotiates. Chips had been salt and vinegar. Gross, even if he’s too high to care much about flavor.

"Deal."

The quick peck Josh sneaks when he headbutts him surprises Marley, and then Josh is gone, scruffy and flushed and clomping down the stairwell outside the door with his bag. Too soon, too fast, Marley thinks. Would’ve been nice if they could figure out what the DVD was about.

Not as fast as B, lunging back into the room when he looks like he’s going to leave—no, checking to make sure Josh’s gone—and hurling Marley back against his bookshelf. It doesn’t hold a lot of books, more just junk, and an empty turtle shell clatters to the floor.

"Name?" B asks, and his coat twitches, and—holy fucking shit, that’s a big knife, and Marley tells him so. "It’s a sword. Name," B says with the weird patience of someone who doesn’t have time but knows he’s dealing with someone who’s high, and forcing him to hurry won’t do any good.

"Marley." The knife, the sword, taps his shoulder. "Jacobs. Wait, what—"

The hand pinning him goes for his face, his mouth, and Marley winces as his lip’s stretched down. B lets it curl back up just as fast, leaving behind the taste of fake leather, then he’s tilting Marley’s head to the side. Marley wants to tell him to maybe take the shades off first, but then he remembers this guy has a sword. He’s learned a thing or two from buying weed and a little bit of harder stuff. Don’t piss off the guy with the sword isn’t a rule verbatim, but it’s a cousin to don’t get into shit with Stevie, who’s known to carry.

"How do you know Scud?"

Josh, Marley thinks. "Uh, friends. High school, kind of." At B’s head cock, he hurries, "Well, Josh dropped out. We still hung out after."

"Why don’t you call him Scud?"

Jesus, who is this guy? "Not his name," Marley shrugs. "I’unno, I... like it better."

"And you hang out."

Marley says, "Yeah," even though he doesn’t think he’s being asked.

B’s tone suggests he knows what hanging out implies. Marley nods, and B steps off him. For a beat, there’s nothing but the background noise of the TV, what’s a funny pastime for them flat-out embarrassing now. Doesn’t matter that it’s not in English, the yellow-haired boy’s voice is grating, annoying to both the other characters and the audience. Chanting something about a hokage, whatever that is. Soup looks good, though.

The stack of junk over the fridge crinkles as B takes something—a bag of pretzels.

"Hey, what..." Marley trails off, expecting to be ignored as B heads for the door, this time for real, Marley thinks. But he pauses. Waits. "Is Josh okay? He got this job after he got jumped at some festival, I dunno if you knew. But he’s... what kind of job is this?"

Because it clicks. B: this is Josh’s boss. Josh sure bitched about him often enough. Not to mention: provisions, running late, classified.

"Like I said," is all B gives, which, yeah.

But Marley tries anyway. Steps forward, kicks his turtle shell by accident. It skitters further than it ought to, bumps the heel of a clunky boot. "Look, just..." I don’t know what the fuck happened, but is he suicidal? Is this some bullshit he took up to off himself? Is he in too deep with something? Mob? Cartel? "... is he gonna be alright? Is he gonna come back?"

The boots turn. A gloved hand picks up the shell, and then B’s pushing it into Marley’s hands. It’s not gentle, but he think it tries to be. "He’s useful."

That sounds... less than great, but Marley takes it. How many teachers bitched at Josh for goofing off, skipping classes, not being anything but a waste of space?

"Yeah," Marley says, "okay."

- - -

In the morning he wakes up hungover, the TV screen on a purple input screen, the DVD player fried because his soda must’ve fallen off the fridge and spilled. Marley wants to just turn over and go back to sleep on his futon, but blue and red are thrown up on the walls, cops—and Marley’s wide awake and checking that his stashes are hidden like any good stoner.

There’s a body bag being rolled out of the lobby, he sees, with his face pressed up to his window. When he pokes his head out to see if his neighbors know anything, one tells him it was the landlord being carted off. Shot point-blank, and Marley cringes at that. Sure, he was a strict asshole (only available at night, no food in the lobby, no black lights in the apartments) but that’s just... rough.

Well. Hopefully Josh doesn’t have to deal with that kind of violence, wherever his job takes him. Marley entertains the idea that maybe he’s with the CIA. Nah, not Josh, who treated Rage Against the Machine like commandments when they were in high school, who rolled his eyes at army recruiters, who laughed as they got their asses chased by truancy officers.

He’d just as likely be running around with monsters, Marley snorts, and rips off a chunk of stale donut and goes back to bed.

#blade 2 #scud #scud x oc #prompt request #season of kink #felt weird having OCs and different readers in the same thing #just organizing #ignore me

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ofmythsandmadness · 4 years

Text

pretty eyes.

you love diego hargreeves pretty eyes, sober and drunk off your rocker. only, when its the latter, it’s a little harder to hold back your eager compliments.

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WARNINGS & DETAILS: gender!neutral reader. mention of alcohol & drinking, some fighting later on in the chapter (it’ll make sense when it comes), idiots being idiots, mutual pining, a tad bit of angst. WORD COUNT: 6.5k NOTES: at the end (read please).

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“DO YOU KNOW WHY THE SKY’S BLUE?”

Diego didn’t look back, but from the sounds of tiny pants and dull clunks of shoes hitting the ground, he knew enough to paint a picture. You, struggling to rid yourself of the coat he forced you to put on, dropping the heels you claimed you hated so vehemently, all the while probably grinning from ear to ear like he imagined little kids looked on Christmas Day. He knew you’d be waiting for his answer, just as you always did, expecting something greater than he could give you in his own flustered state.

Sometimes you were predictable. But he liked that about you.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“No, silly! I’m asking you!”

“Oh.” His tongue danced across his bottom lip, wetting the chapped skin before responding. “I dunno. Sorry.”

Only a sparkling laugh and a thump answered him. He whirled around to see you flat on your butt on the ground, staring up at him with drooping doe eyes. It would be an irresistibly pretty sight, if he knew it wasn’t from extreme inebriation and you were completely off your rocker at the moment.

Still, pretty.

“Help me up?” You laughed, waving your hands aimlessly towards him. “Puh-lease?”

Diego grimaced slightly but moved anyways. He grabbed at your hands (clammy, another symptom of your heavy drinking choices) and yanked you towards him. Only he overestimated you and greatly underestimated his own strength it seemed -- instead of lifting to your feet like any normal person, you practically flew towards him, landing just under his chin and flopping against his chest.

And Diego froze.

Normally he would have pulled away and shrugged it off as a mistake. Neither of you would mention it again and would move on with your lives, forgetting how close your bodies had been and the way your gaze was intoxicating upon itself. He had rules for those things; never getting too close to a friend who made his heart beat in a rather unfriendly way was one of them.

But as you looked up at him, still smiling dopily and eyes almost crossed, he couldn’t remember a single thing about rules or precautions or anything of the sort. All that was on Diego’s mind, was you.

Your smile softened a tad, painted lips closing over your teeth and only hinting at the dimples he had stared at many-a-time before. Up close, he could see flecks of black under your eyes, staining flushed skin with ebony freckles that no one could believe was natural. He didn’t know the word for it, but guessed it was from you rubbing at your eyes and forgetting you had painted them hours before. Despite it, you still looked absolutely radiant.

“You have really pretty eyes.”

Diego blinked, startled by your giggled statement. “W-what?”

“Sooo pretty,” you gushed. One of your hands left his chest -- he hadn’t even realised they had been pressed there, but he suddenly missed the warm sensation -- and caressed his cheek. He shuddered at the touch. “Maybe the pre...prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen!”

If merely standing near you was heart-attack inducing, Diego was certain that all this was going to explode the vessel. Any second at that point, it would just burst and coat your grinning face with its guts--

-- he shook his head, ridding himself of both that image and the foolish thoughts flooding around it. You were drunk. Everyone said and did stupid stuff when they were drunk. Right? Like the time he lost a fight with a lamp post -- he wouldn’t do that sober, but alcohol made everyone a fool. You just chose compliments over actions, maybe.

The saying ‘drunk words, sober thoughts’ lingered in his mind for half a second, but he pushed it away. That only worked in late night television or shitty rom-coms, not reality. Not with them.

“You should get to bed,” Diego said gruffly, pulling away from your fingers. He didn’t miss the flash of disappointment on your face, but tried to push it away for his own emotions’ sake. “You’re gonna want to, ‘fore all this hits.”

“You should smile more.”

Diego froze. He didn’t turn back to her that time, knowing it would only hurt him more, but he couldn’t bring himself to move another inch.

“Your eyes are fu...cking beautiful, but your smile?” Clapping echoed paces behind him; his jaw clenched with every smack. “Diego, you’re so pretty!”

He reached behind him blindly, scrambling and feeling stupid before finally launching onto you. Still avoiding your charming smile, he pulled you along, leading you out and into your bedroom. “I’ll be back to get you some Advil. Sit down.”

“I wish you’d smile more,” you said, completely ignoring every word he said. You fell down to your bed with a plop. “It lights up those pretty pretty, pretty eyes so much...so fucking pretty, Diego! I can’t even think of any other words, that’s how be-yew-tiful you are.”

“Okay, I--”

“-- and you always look so grumpy. It’s so funny!”

Diego should have been long gone, at that point. For his own sake and for yours, because you would hate that you rambled on so much, and he was going to pay for the emotional turmoil you were putting him through. But he couldn’t. He simply stood, still and awkward in your bedroom doorway, watching as you tried to twist your face to look like his own.

It didn’t work at all. Your lips fought angrily to smile again, and your eyelids just drooped, so far you looked stoned, or maybe like a zombie ready to bite. But even if you looked beyond ridiculous, his mind still screamed at how adorable it was, and despite himself, Diego smiled.

“See! See, there - there it is!” You pointed frantically at his own face, like he didn’t know it was there. “God, I wish I had a mirror to show you how pretty you are! Lil...lil sunshine boy!”

Okay, ‘sunshine boy’ was new. It took a little bit of the piss out of everything, and he was able to grumble and walk away finally from your singing self. Calls of his name paired with nonsensical titles followed. Diego tried his best to ignore them, but he knew the coos would haunt him later. Even as he searched for a glass, the sounds bounced through his head like injured bats in a cave; no way out and too blind to escape, forced to flit around endlessly until someone ended their suffering.

But Diego, unfortunately, did not know how to do that. So he simply bore the weight of your compliments knowing that they were nothing but sounds and syllables made up by a confused mind, trying to push through the night with as little baggage as possible.

As he walked back to your room, he sighed. This wasn’t how he planned things to go. It had been a good night -- sure, he might not have had as much fun as you looked like you were having, dancing and drinking and laughing, but at least he was with you. And he liked that, and the lax nature you took on when you drank, making him feel less pressure about constantly being the best version of himself. He hadn’t felt like he needed to put on a show, he was just Diego, for better or for worse. And somehow, you didn’t mind that.

He only wished that he could have more than that and all the time.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat after the word came out garbled. “Uh - got you this, you’re gonna want to drink it and take these now. Okay? And I’m putting these here for tomorrow morning, so you can take that as soon as you’re up. You got that?”

Your head bobbed up and down excitedly, but he knew you didn’t take in a word he said. So as you swallowed the tablets and gulped down the water, he scribbled out a note to remind you of what definitely went right over your head.

Diego paused, pen slightly trembling in his hand, before jotting down two more sentences. Thanks for last night. Had a good time being with you, as always. He hesitated, hovering over the slip of paper before cursing and scribbling out the lines with added violence. He tried again, being a little bit more poetic (which wasn’t much, but words really were not his thing) only to be disappointed again, pushing down on the pen so hard he was sure it would burst. Once he was sure nothing but scribbles could be made of the mess, he put the note under the Advil bottle and stepped away.

“You wanna change out of that?” He asked, gesturing to your clothes. “Doubt that’s comfortable.”

“Nah,” you drawled. You smiled up at him and even dared to wink (it was more of a sloppy, half-assed blink, but it still made his head swim). “I’m just comfortable. Do...you…’re you comfortable?”

Diego chose not to answer that. He pushed you back gently, deciding not to fight with you on changing and instead just going with sleep. You didn’t fight him much. If anything you leaned into it, holding onto his hands for seconds longer than you should and mumbling sweet nonsense up at him.

“You know,” you sang, “you know what, Di...Diego?”

He didn’t pause. “What?”

“I would do anything...and everything...in order to make you smile forever. You know? Anything.”

Those were the words that weighed heaviest on Diego’s conscience as he drove back to his place. It was as though they had erased everything else, anything that had happened that day or any time before and just left that in its place. He didn’t know why, but they stuck, and as he wove through the dimly lit streets, your voice floated about like a bodiless apparition, set to destroy his mind and drive him mad.

Diego had had his heart broken several times before. It happened almost easily in his childhood, normally by the hands of his vindictive father. He had learned how to patch it up, sew up the cracks and try to make it so it wouldn’t happen again, and eventually he got better at that. But it shattered again when Ben died, and he realised that they were just kids, forced to play heroes in a horrifically gruesome world they didn’t belong in. That took a while to mend, but he did, until he screwed up at the police academy and Patch left him too. After that he had let the fragments just sit in piles in his chest, digging at his ribs and leaving him winded after long nights in the cold darkness. He hadn’t cared; he thought that was what was expected of him. Nothing but a broken heart to hold him when the nightmares got too bad.

But when you came along, he didn’t have to stitch himself back together. You did it for him. Somehow without him noticing you had snuck into his chest and unravelled the poor stitchwork and blotted out the stains left that he hadn’t bothered to clean up. Over time, you had managed to make it almost brand new again, and it was a whole new experience of smiling and watching as you failed to finish your joke again, only because you were already laughing too hard. Of getting wasted on Wednesday’s when your job sucked more and dancing down the streets up to your apartment, uncaring of those who watched. Of you chiding him for the cuts and bruises collected from his vigilante expeditions, but always being there to wash them out and make a fresh pot of tea. Of you, merely existing, and allowing him to bask in your sunshine a while longer.

But hearing those soft words leave your drunken lips, spilling out like tar from someone so angelic, hurt. Diego didn’t think that was possible with you.

He sighed, turning down the street towards the gym. It would be a sleepless night again.

YOU WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING CONFUSED AND ACHING.

Not as much as you normally would be, which was a nice change of pace -- you assumed you had enough common sense to take premature headache meds, knowing how bad the hangover got for them. But your drunken self did not have the thought of changing out of your stiff, uncomfortable going-out clothes, instead draping yourself across the mattress smelling like the shitty bar you had careened in and leaving every part of your body pissed off. Sweaty fabric clung to your skin, leaving you feeling soggy and misworn and eagerly wishing you could have made better choices earlier.

You groaned and slipped out of the comforter, already missing its heavy warmth. Slowly you staggered over to your desk where you must have left the Advil for that morning. “Thank you, past me,” you sighed, twisting open the cap with a grimace.

A paper caught your eye, small amongst the stacks of work files you had yet to comb through. Downing one pill, you grabbed it, taking in the scribbled letters through tired, squinting eyes.

Leaving this for you because you’re too drunk to remember what I said. Take these and drink water before you die of a hangover. I’d hate to find your body that way. Also left your things on your kitchen counter, they’re not stolen. Also left your burrito in your microwave -- you insisted on buying one last night, so don’t forget about it. Take care.

Underneath were two lines of thick black scribbles, covering up whatever was written under that and leaving only a scrawled ‘Diego’ as your final clue. But, despite whatever mystery the pen covered up, you smiled and pinned the note to your bulletin board.

“Thanks, bud,” you grinned, speaking like he was there to hear. “Hope I wasn’t too annoying last night.”

You went about your morning with a smile despite the pounding pulverising your muscles, and enjoying the lazy Sunday hours spent cleaning up. You even spoiled yourself with a long shower, eating up your hot water minutes with joy, knowing you’d hate yourself for it two weeks later. After an hour of cleaning up, washing your face free of the makeup smudged across your cheeks and devouring that burrito left for you, you finally felt refreshed and better about things.

You glanced up at the time. Diego would be up, probably manning the desk for Al as he did most Sunday’s (the facet of his job he hated most). But, at least that meant he would be available to take your call. You missed him, even after seeing him just the night before, and selfishly craved the distraction of his low rasp. Maybe you could even make him laugh, cheer him up during his boring shift.

But five minutes later, you were left disappointed when none of the three calls went through. You tried not to think too hard on it -- he was a busy guy, and was either working or doing his other line of work, and ignoring your call meant nothing. Course, it probably didn’t look good for a boxing gym, but...you’d settle.

You would just call back later. He would definitely be available to talk then.

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE YOU LAST TALKED TO DIEGO, which was the longest either of you had gone without even speaking to one another in the history of your friendship.

On its own, the fact wasn’t so troubling. You were both working adults who had their own lives to sort through, jobs and bills and other friends that you didn’t like half as much as each other, grocery shopping and patrolling the streets alike, filling up both schedules easily. But the two of you were closer than that, and definitely more than just friends that saw each other every other week. You didn’t care about those friends like you cared about Diego.

And it hurt, that he was going to such lengths to avoid you.

Every time you stopped by his gym, Diego was gone. Al simply shrugged off your questions with a non-committal ‘I don’t keep track of the shithead’ and even when you went to knock on his door to check if he was lying, you got nothing. No regulars knew either, which was strange; he always liked to spend his afternoons training with a couple people, sometimes you if you showed up at the right time. You considered doing just that and waiting for him to show -- but even after hours of sparring, the man was nowhere to be seen.

You had tried everything, to the point where Al was annoyed and you felt like you were losing your mind. Surely Diego hadn’t just disappeared off the face of the earth. That didn’t seem right or possible and you knew you hadn’t made him up, because you had the pictures and notes to prove it. You could see his face, disgruntled and sometimes smiling in the photos you had snapped of him -- so why couldn’t you find it anywhere else?

With all options exhausted, you gave up for a few days, allowing yourself the chance to catch your breath. However, with that came the exhaustive process of trying to figure out why on earth Diego was avoiding you. And unfortunately, all that linked back to your last night spent together, and the bitter realisation that you must have fucked up the night somehow and left him not wanting to see you again.

And that thought broke you.

Thursday night was spent crying alone on your couch, trying to push past the depressing thoughts and failing miserably. You couldn’t remember half of what you did that night, but you knew he hadn’t been drinking as much as you, and alcohol always rendered you a ranting, rambling fool that he must have had to deal with. He had got you home, but for what? And what if it was all in that stupid note he had left you, scribbling out the real reason he was leaving you high and dry?

You threw the note out that night, staring down at it in the trash with tears pooling in your eyes. If only you could know why.

The issue was, Diego was more than just a friend to you. Sure your relationship had been built on totally platonic foundations, but it soon blossomed into so much more. He was a companion, your partner, the man who made you feel comfortable enough to wheeze into laughter-induced tears with, or just sob against his shoulder without feeling judged. He was the guy who brought you fast food when you forgot about dinner when work ran late, and the one who let you sleep over when you didn’t want to be alone. He made you smile by just being there -- like, you would open your door (or window, usually) and just grin like an idiot at the mere sight of his face. He was just Diego, but that meant more to you than you had ever been able to say.

Maybe, hell, you loved him. Was that so bad? It hadn’t been intentional to fall -- one day you had just been eating pizza on your countertop way too late in the night, and you looked over and realised your heart had only ever fluttered so violently for him. That he was the guy you could imagine spending the rest of your days with and never getting bored. Of course, you didn’t act on it, knowing that it was a platonic relationship and admitting such would destroy it completely -- but that didn’t mean your official break-up didn’t hurt any less.

You skipped work Friday, something you never did.

When your coworkers called, you wrote it off as illness related, while still drowning in the sorrow of being left high and dry.

Friends hit you up to make some ‘end of the week’ plans, but you ignored them.

You fell asleep at nine that night -- the earliest you had in aeons.

You stayed in bed for most of Saturday, staring at the ceiling or the photos pinned to your walls of the two of you, wondering if this was all just a weird dream you were going to wake up from.

Six hours later, you hadn’t woken up from your dream, but you had made up your mind.

One hour after that, at almost ten o’clock at night, you were rolling up to that same boxing gym you had haunted for that week, dressed in dark activewear and parked a ways away from the actual space. Steely-eyed and with your jaw clenched, you marched out the vehicle and into the building, knowing full well what you were going to find. You had a plan, and whatever it took, you were going to put it into motion.

Maybe it wasn’t the greatest plan, and maybe you had only just come up with it, with barely any time to consider it’s workability and whether or not you were just throwing words together, but nevertheless, you persisted.

You were going to get Diego back.

“DIEGO FUCKING HARGREEVES,”

The man, back turned away, stiffened and immediately went to move,

“run and I will end you, boy,” you growled, stomping towards him with force; he could practically feel each stomp echoing in his chest, cracking him down to the size of a pea. Somehow, he couldn’t move, frozen in place by your command. “Okay?!”

“H-hey, I--”

“--why the hell have you been avoiding me?!”

His eyes were wide and panicked and frantically, he searched all around for a way out. Unfortunately, your body in front of him blocked his only exit, leaving him stammering for answers you knew he didn’t easily have. “Look, I--”

“--I have been worried and scared and sad and out of my mind this entire week,” you snapped, jabbing a finger into his tank top, pushing him back in his steps. Your anger dug deep into him, thorns grabbing onto every bit of vulnerable flesh -- and the worst part was, you were absolutely right. “You know that? I have called everywhere I could -- I even called the police, wondering if you were in custody and I just missed that news drop. But no, you were just gone, avoiding me for who knows what reason!”

“I didn’t--”

“--what did I do, Diego? What happened, what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing! You’ve done nothing.”

“Then why won’t you even look me in the eyes?” you hissed back, staring up at him in hopes he would catch your gaze. But he didn’t; his eyes still looked far away from yours, searching for something to give him a way out with. “You won’t even look at me, that’s how pissed off you are at me.”

“That’s not true.”

“I get if I did something wrong, but you can’t just pull away from me like that -- this friendship isn’t built on shit like that. I can’t cope with this void left by you deciding you don’t like me anymore!”

“That’s not what happened,” he insisted, his own voice raising in volume. “I swear!”

“Then what, Diego? What possible reason could you have that isn’t related to me doing something wrong? Because that’s all the evidence I got out of this and unlike you, I have zero detective skills so I’m working on one freakin’ theory here!”

His eyes averted to the ground, staring down at the both of your feet, one pair tapping angrily and the other shuffling in hopes of escape. He felt himself folding in, a habit he had broken a long time ago with you, one he thought he had killed off forever. But apparently it hadn’t.

“You can’t even answer me,” you shuddered. Your sneakers squeaked against the shiny linoleum, leading you back a step. “You - I don’t understand this. At all. And you can’t even give me an answer why? D-don’t I deserve a reason for why I hurt you, Diego?”

“No, c’mon. I…” he hesitated once more as expected. Whatever he was planning on saying died in his mouth and thickened his tongue, leaving him once again stumbling for an excuse. He felt your eyes on him as well as his father, reproachfully clicking his tongue at once again, his stuttering, bumbling fool of a son. “I did...I didn’t…”

“Forget it. Screw this.”

“W-wait, don’t leave--”

“--I’m not leaving!”

He froze, holding onto your bicep in an attempt to stop you. Slowly, his hand fell away, “w-what?”

“I’m not leaving,” you repeated, and slowly he watched as a devilish smile stained your cheeks, pulling away the angry lines of before. “I didn’t come here to leave, I came here for answers. And I guess I just have to fight you for ‘em.”

At that point, Diego’s head had been through the wringer so much, he felt like it could just pop off if he wasn’t careful. And yet still, his eyes bugged out and he stared at you in complete shock, unsure just how he was supposed to process that last sentence.

“I’m sorry, what?!”

You shrugged like it was nothing at all, “c’mon. I know you’re better with the physical stuff and I wanna catch you off guard, finally get an answer out of you. I’m gonna, like, fight you for the truth.”

He watched as you toed off your shoes and shrugged off your thin jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with little care. You seemed ready, like you had planned this all along -- and had you? What was the reason behind all this? Was there something that he just wasn’t getting, in his state of emotional disarray? Or were you just losing your mind because of him?

“L-look, I’m s-sorry, but I,” he paused, trying to form the syllables in his mouth so they weren’t so thick and jumbled. “I can’t just fight you.”

“Sure you can. We spar all the time.”

“But w-w-why?”

Once more, your shoulders lifted and fell; ever the nonchalant dramatic. “Call it a bet. I win, you tell me why you avoided me for so long. And if you win, which you probably won’t but if you do…” you grimaced. “I’ll leave and you never have to see me again.”

Diego baulked. “I don’t want that.”

“Clearly you do,” you jabbed back. “Right?”

“No. I don’t. I don’t want to lose you.”

You huffed; clearly you didn’t believe him, but you also seemed set on the idea that you were definitely going to win, so he wasn’t sure where he stood in that. “Fine, pick your prize and keep it to yourself. I don’t care.”

Diego still hesitated, hovering to the side as you wrapped your hands. There seemed no way out of the situation, but surely there had to be - surely you weren’t just going to hop into the ring for an explanation.

Was this some ill-fated revenge?

You must have noticed his expression, because he heard you laughing from a whiles away. “I’m not looking to hurt you, Diego. Trust me, no matter what you do, I’d never want to do that.”

His heart fluttered.

“It’s just,” you cocked your head, thinking over your words before smiling again, “like you said when you first started training me. Freestyle, baby.”

You had deepened your voice tremendously to mock his own -- and while it was a horrible impression, it did call back to the one you did before of him. Not that you seemed to remember that, you had been piss drunk, but the thought still made him cringe.

All this, because of him. He screwed it all up and for what?

“Rules are the same as always. First person to pin the other down for more than five beats wins. No serious hits, so like, don’t break my nose or anything.”

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled, even as he stepped into the ring. “We don’t need to do this. We can just talk.”

You sighed and looked back at him. There was a fierceness in your eyes, a determination for something he wasn’t quite sure of -- like there was a plan in motion, only he couldn’t figure out where the steps lead. “I didn’t come here to walk away, Diego. I’m here to win a bet and get my friend back, and also kick his ass if I have to because I’m desperate. You can’t convince me to leave, so wrap your hands and let’s get this going!”

“But-”

“-it’s either this or I just stare at you until you crack,” you said, no longer smiling. “And I doubt you want that typ’a torture, do you?”

He stared at you askance. “Really?”

You didn’t answer him with words that time.

The fight was fast, and almost evenly matched -- you had a slight advantage with your eye on your prize, and he was faltering with every other blow knowing he couldn’t bear to hurt you. But the pace picked up and soon it was like you were one fluid being, predators locked on and desperate to claw the other away from them while simultaneously, drawing them back in. Fists flew and every so often he saw the sparks fly from the fire in your eyes, catching on everything he turned from and leaving him surrounded by the flames you spilled.

For a moment, Diego thought he had it. He had managed to pivot away from your last onslaught and pulled you away from the centre, edging into the corner where he could finally pin you down. His arms outstretched and for a moment he was actually smiling because it felt like the good old days -- sparring way too late into the night when he should have been working with the girl he secretly loved and the stars watching from way above, admiring the gruesomely pretty sight.

But in a flash, everything switched.

He lunged, you slid.

When he fumbled, your legs wrapped around his own, pulling him back and flipping over one another like beetles rolling in the hot sun.

You were everywhere, smothering his smoke with your body, forcing him down before he even realised what was happening.

Diego blinked, and suddenly you were on top of him, legs on either side of his waist and your hands holding his own up above his head. Your expression edged on feral as you grinned down at him, straddling him and fighting everything he pushed back with.

But he couldn’t fight back. Not when you were on him and everywhere and he could smell your shampoo as your hand dangled around him, dripping your scent around him like he was in that poppy field from Wizard of Oz, ready to give into the toxin and be one with the flowers. Your hands held his own and he wished he could slide his fingers into the clasp, holding them to him and kiss each bruised knuckle with tenderness he didn’t know he possessed. Your hips, legs, chest pressed against his own, both heaving and waiting for the other to move and interrupt the tension rising with every passing second.

“One,” you began, voice low and teasing. Did you know what you did to him? “Two…”

Diego writhed in your hold, but it was no use. You had him. He was yours and he would be satisfied to be so for the rest of your days, if only you never let him go. His gaze flitted across your face, tracing the way your eyebrows furrowed and relaxed with the numbers, eyes still wide and filled with emotions he didn’t quite know how to read. Sweat beaded on your brow and stained your cheeks and yet still, he thought you were as perfect as you could be, mere inches from his own darting eyes.

“Four...four and a half…” your smile grew and you got a little closer, almost touching his face with your own. “Five…”

He didn’t dare to breathe.

“I win, Hargreeves.”

But despite the hushed declaration, you did not move. Your body stayed over his, hands pushing his own down with gentle force but keeping him locked under you. Your eyes remained on his own, locking them in place as your face grew nearer. Soon enough your nose was just touching his own, nudging softly and turning so it fit better against his lips, which were parted and so close to pressing against your own-

-but you pulled away.

Just as Diego’s eyes had shut, your weight left his and he was left to sit up confused and watch you stomp away. You slipped out of the ring and down to the ground with a soft thump. He watched you unwrap your knuckles and to his surprise, he saw your hands shake with the movement.

“This was a mistake,” you mumbled to yourself. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear. “This was stupid, I have to-”

“-don’t go,” he mumbled. In one swift movement Diego had jumped back to his feet and pulled after you. You stumbled back a few paces; he raced after, hurrying to your side with an aggression he didn’t know he possessed. “Don’t go.”

“Diego, I-”

“-I pushed you away because I screwed up,” he said, all in one breath and so fast he wasn’t sure if you could understand him. “I messed this up. We’re only supposed to be friends, I know that, but I-I can’t not be in love with you, not when you’re that perfect and so beautiful and you make me smile e-even when I feel like the shittiest sh-sh-shit and-”

“-kiss me.”

“What?”

You stepped forward, angling yourself just under his chin. Your chest heaved. “Kiss me, asshole.”

And slowly his hands moved on their own accord, cupping your cheeks and holding you to him. His eyes darted down once, staring at the pink lips before reaching your own again for a silent affirmation. When you nodded in his hands he acted, pulling you to him quickly and pressing his lips against his own, finally.

It was fast and passionate, both beings pulling at the other, urging the other closer than the skin they already pressed against. His one hand left your jaw to hold your neck, angling your face so he could better caress it, smudging himself across your lips with little care. He felt your own touch against his back, sliding down to his hips and pulling -- without even thinking, he moaned, feeling your lower body roll up against him and leave his mind in overdrive.

You pulled away for air finally, gasping only to be pulled in again for a softer, gentler kiss. He pecked the corners of your mouth before finally taking your lower in between his teeth, biting softly before sucking on the tender swollen skin. He pulled away then, dropping his forehead to your own as you both took another breath.

“If…” you paused to inhale, grinning through the gasp of oxygen, “if I knew you were holding all that back, Diego, I would have kissed your ass a lot sooner.”

“I’m...I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmured. He felt your hands leave his waist, pulling up to the one he still had cradled against your cheek. Your head leaned into the gentle touch. Even as your fingers held his. “I just...is this why you stopped talking to me?”

Diego shook his head softly against your own. Once more his heart faltered and threatened to burst, but he ignored it. “No, I just...I realised that I was-”

“-sorry, I don’t - you have an eyelash.” He froze as your fingers stroked his cheek, pulling away the evidence that had caught your attention. Your eyes darted up to his for a moment, and he watched as they widened and brightened under his perplexed gaze. “Your eyes really are pretty.”

His heart stopped for a beat.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“That’s why I stopped!” he exclaimed. He pulled away from you then, gesticulating wildly around like the air was going to supply you with answers. “That’s why!”

You frowned, cocking your head like a lost puppy. “You...because of your pretty eyes?!”

“What? Wait, no, that’s not why.”

“I’m so confused right now, bud, and I just--”

“--last week,” he rushed, cutting you off before he could lose momentum again. “I took you home. You were wasted, and you kept talking and - and you told me I had pretty eyes.”

Still, you looked bewildered.

“I-I have been obsessed with you since the day I met you,” he said, soft and unsure if any of the words would come out right. Or if they themselves were the right ones to say. “I couldn’t help it. And I didn’t let myself act on it because I knew that it wouldn’t wo-wo-work out, you’d get mad and I’d lose you. I rathered having you as a friend, then losing you cause I was in love with you.”

“Love?” you questioned, barely a breath of a sound lingering between them.

“But that night, you went on and on and I realised then that I was too gone to keep it in. And I realised that you wouldn’t feel the same...and I didn’t want to hurt you, so I left. And…”

“Diego Hargreeves, that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

His brow furrowed low, anger mingling with befuddlement on his flushed skin. “Hey, I-”

“-first of all, you really think I would just hate you because you thought of me as more than a friend?! Even if I didn’t like you - which I do, by the way - I wouldn’t do that, I value you too much. But second of all, you’re telling me that you never noticed how much I liked you back?!”

“I-”

“-I have felt like an idiot for the past year, holding in my feelings for you and wishing you could feel the same way. And when you left, I thought - I thought that was it, and that I screwed things up when I was drunk, which I guess I did but-”

“-you didn’t screw anything up, I did!”

“No you didn’t, I did! I’m the drunken initiator!”

“I shouldn’t have just left!”

“Okay, so we both screwed up!” you shouted, throwing your hands up in the air in exasperation. “But dammit, Diego, I have loved you for ages, and you - we - this is what it came to?!”

“Well, I-”

“-I can’t believe this!” you chortled. “All this time?!”

“I guess so,” he said, voice catching on the ‘so’. “I guess, yeah.”

“Holy crap.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“I love you,” you giggled, breathless and still flushed, messy and beautiful in the shitty gym lighting. “I love you, Diego Hargreeves.”

His heart didn’t break. It didn’t even crack. Diego instead felt the slight twinge as the organ settled in his chest, content and buzzing with the panted cry. The breaklines of before didn’t feel so harsh, mended by your shiny eyes and swollen lips that he wanted to stare at until the end of his days. For once, his heart actually felt whole.

“I love you too,” Diego mumbled, smiling like a little kid. The muscles in his face, rusted over with age and disuse, groaned at the extreme grin but he kept it on anyways, smiling down at you with the strangest feeling of happiness coursing through his body. “A lot.”

And you beamed. “Have I ever told you, your eyes look like, a thousand times prettier when you smile?”

A/N: WHY DO I KEEP WRITING ALCOHOL BASED IDIOTS TO LOVERS FICS?? Have I any other creative thoughts?? Does this make me seem like that’s all I think about?? These are the thoughts that now run through my mind as I rush to post this...and truthfully, I don’t have an answer. I swear I’m a little more creative! I just...have a hankering for these things. Oops.

I wrote this weirdly super super fast and it’s super nonsensical, especially the middle bits? But I weirdly like it. I’m not sure. The plot is a ~little~ wonky but I’m rolling with it!

I’m open to make more stuff on here, I’ve gotten quite bad at it but I like writing these things as practice pieces. So, if you want to read more, requests are open and you can find a list of prompts (if you want them) in my masterlist. I’m putting out an updated list later on in the month, but I also am just open to have any sorts of requests. xx

(also as always - if you enjoyed and you want more, follow, reblog, and consider buying me a kofi! linked in my bio bc tumblr doesn’t like direct links on posts, please check it out if you’re feeling generous because I’m recently unemployed and any bit helps. but sharing this post and showing others the work is appreciated a great deal and i love you if you do!)

#diego hargreeves x reader #mine #diego hargreeves oneshot #diego hargreeves imagine #tua x reader #umbrella academy x reader #hargreeves x reader #gender neutral reader

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heyitsjay03 · 3 years

Text

Aeipathy: Chapter Two

Disclaimer: i don’t (unfortunately) own Marvel or any of their characters, plot points, etc. so all right are to them and their our overlord Disney

AN: yeahhhh this one’s a shorty but i promise the next one will be longer and filled with plot and angst and shit so prepare yourselves <3

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: angst, mentions of torture, mentions of murder/arson, HYDRA collectively is a prick

Chapter One is available here!

Gnawing.

It claws through my body on all fours. Tearing, ripping, hacking, burning.

Monstrous fangs that sink into the deepest parts of muscle- I can feel it in my bones, the burning.

There is no noise, just the sound of whirring and the unholy screeching of demons in my ears. Faceless demons, demons whose faces have too much detail, demons that stare, demons that scream. Demons, demons, demons.

I have fallen. Fallen from grace. Fallen from…

No, no.

I am falling.

Something catches me. A savior in blue. Scarlet red smeared across their chest. Blood. My blood- the blood of sinners and saints and bystanders. Of children and ancients and of rich and poor.

There’s white streaked between the red. Piety. Purity. Righteousness. Desperately, I cling to the stark white stripes. Indecipherable mumbles pass my lips as I stare at the white. I beg for purity, to be clean again.

Every time I wake up, it’s always the same.

The immovable weight in my body. The unceasing shivering. The bite of frost. The writhing of filth in my veins. In my nerves. In every fiber of my being. Festering. Growing. Rotting. Corrupting. Remembering.

But why can’t I remember?

All I can remember are the demons. Faceless, nameless but never silent. Always screaming.

Screaming, screaming, screaming.

I cling to the white. The righteousness of my savior. Solidity in turbulence. Silence in cacophony. Purity. Cleanliness. Life.

I cling to life.

But life burns under my fingertips. It shrieks and squirms under my touch- tries to escape. Repelled by my presence, it retracts away from my grasp.

Color retracts into shapes as I take in my surroundings. An almost completely empty room completely made of concrete. A single contraption behind me made of metal. Icy fog slithers out of the open door, hissing and flicking at my ankles.

Words, however, remain blurred. The savior holds me upright- pulls me to my feet. Everything burns and aches. I’m so incredibly cold. Frosted water paints my skin, coats my clothes to my body. A puddle gathers beneath the writhing fog.

This seems familiar.

My eyes turn up towards my savior. The blood-stained guardian. Words fall from their lips, landing on deaf ears.

My body trembles as the cold becomes more vicious with its fangs. The savior turns away and says something. Everything is muffled- faraway and distant and like someone has their hands clamped down over my ears.

“Why am I awake?” I ask, straightening up. Every inch of me quivers while every part of me wishes to stop.

But I was awoken for a purpose. My mission.

And I’ll complete it.

Hail HYDRA.

Location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters

Date: 2012

“Woah, easy, ________,” I mutter, holding her upright. Her eyes wide, they flick around the room. Her hands grip my chest as she shakes violently.

She’s here. She’s alive.

She… she died. Died on that table- how is this…

“Steve,” Tony mutters, holding out a blanket. I take it and start to wrap it around her shoulders.

As her glazed eyes lock with mine, I look over her face. She’s drained of color- blue and white. Her chapped blue lips open and close violently.

Hoarsely, she starts to speak.

But not anything I can understand.

Over and over, she repeats questions with her eyes wide and wary of every moment and movement. My eyes dart over to Tony- who watches ________, his eyebrows furrowed.

Russian.

That’s what she’s speaking. Russian. And fluently. Extremely well. Why… Why is she…?

“She didn’t… usually speak like this, did she?” Tony asks, gesturing vaguely to her as she continues to shake in my arms. Broken words off a stolen tongue hiss past her lips. She furrows her eyebrows as she looks between the two of us.

“Her files told me she was-” Tony continues.

“She’s… she’s never spoken this before,” I mutter, adjusting my grip under her arms. “Raised in Brooklyn for most’a her life- I dunno why-”

“V chem... moya missiya?” ________ hisses, her voice shaking. I look down and watch her straighten up on unsteady legs. “V chem moya missiya?”

“...why is she…?” Tony mutters, stepping in front of her. He lets his head fall back with a sigh as he taps his leg with his finger. “It’s been a long time, let’s see if I can do this.” Rolling his shoulders back and snapping his neck, he focuses back on ________. “Kto ty?”

________’s head tilts to the side slightly. Her eyebrows furrow further as she glares at him through them. “...Hetaerae. V chem moya missiya?”

Tony sighs and closes his eyes as he speaks. “Ch… chto… ty. Chto ty?”

Her eyes glaze over as she stops shaking, standing upright. “Ya HYDRA.”

“...she’s… She died, Tony. I don’t… I don’t know what else to tell you,” I mutter, looking up from the desk. “She… she died before I even got the serum. I hadn’t even seen Doctor Erskine- Bucky… he hadn’t been shipped off to Europe yet.”

“I may be able to help explain that,” Tony says as he gets to his feet. In his hand is a thick folder filled with papers and photos and notes and scraps of paper. He places it in front of me with a thud. “Apologies- I would opt for the digital version but, uh… you… don’t even know what... that… is.”

“Tony,” I say sharply as I open the folder. He just shrugs and sits down across the table again. The top paper is mostly blacked-out with a few words left untouched. ________’s name. Her age. Her parents and their causes and dates of death. And other words that… don’t make sense. ‘Mistress’. ‘Replication’. ‘Improvement’. ‘Rejected’. ‘Baroness’. ‘Salbei’.

‘Hetaerae’.

Repeated over and over throughout the sea of black streaks is that word. ‘Hetaerae’. At the very bottom of the page in tiny letters are the words ‘Project Samsara- Hetaerae’. In the corner is a skull with tentacles writhing beneath it. ‘HYDRA’ is written along the curve of the skull.

My stomach churns. If HYDRA really is behind this then...

I start tearing into the folder. Photos of the various angles of the steel container from when I woke up. Under it is a handwritten note. ‘Cryo-container; Vrsn: Hetaerae’.

Another photo- this one of a chair. On the armrests and legs are cuffs, along with another one on the back of the chair. Something metal comes around the chair. It juts off the side of a machine and looms over it like an archway. A note is written over the photo. ‘Neck brace may prematurely terminate subject. Issue logged during first programming session’.

Another blacked-out stack of papers. The same words are repeated over and over again. ‘Hetaerae’, ‘Baroness’, ‘Samsara’, ‘Salbei’, ‘HYDRA’. My fists clench the papers before tossing them to the side. Tony watches in silence.

What the Hell is this? What were they doing- what did ________ have to do with it?

My eyebrows furrow as I manically flip through the papers. Papers fly to the side as I tear through the folder. I can feel myself getting rigid as I near the end.

Nothing. I’ve learned nothing. Not a single goddamn thing. There’s nothing here-

My hands stop as my eyes rest on the last few items. A file not blacked out. It’s completely intact. Nothing scratched, no scribbles, no hasty lines cutting through words. I snatch it and start reading.

Project Samsara; Hetaerae

Subject Name: ________ Bishop

Subject Age: 26

Subject Info:

Daughter of Leon Bishop (deceased) and Catherine Chambers (deceased)

Resident of Brooklyn, NY

Military background

Non-combatant medic

Attempted pilot training

Worked under Doctor Akin Nachtnebel- HYDRA researcher

Personal friend of Captain Steven G. Rogers, Sergeant James B. Barnes, political activist Odessa Lily Mae Ababio

Official status: Deceased

Simplified Process Log (see file 178953 for detailed logs):

Day 1:

Body retrieved by HYDRA.

Blood and tissue samples taken.

Heart/respiration rates taken.

Note: Hetaerae seems to be semi-lucid. May require sedation.

Day 13:

Serum incubation complete.

Visible changes in body structure internal and external.

Bone density increased slightly, muscle mass increased, other changes to be tested.

Day 23:

Regen. abilities test positive

Enhanced reflexes test positive

Body modifications test optimal

Note: Hetaerae seemed to negatively respond to pain. Possible weakness. Must train to not respond.

Day 68:

First programming session prematurely terminated. Hetaerae reacted negatively to programming.

Admitted to medical wing.

Near strangulation and bruised trachea.

Removing neck cuff on programming station and attempting again tomorrow.

Day 100:

Programming temporarily successful.

Hetaerae could not recall set of numbers given pre-programming for forty minutes.

Memory wipe testing will continue.

Day 173:

Hetaerae admitted to medical wing for treatment.

Major vocal cord damage.

Damage not irreversible.

Memory wipe testing will continue.

Note: Hetaerae begged for ‘Steve’ and ‘Bucky’ repeatedly during memory wipe. More research needed.

Day 234:

Three guards admitted to medical wing.

Hetaerae had clawed at their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths

Broken nails were taken from guards’ faces.

Admitted samples for research.

Extra-long memory wipe testing done.

Hetaerae will be allowed a day to rest after strenuous session. Cannot allow for subject’s termination.

Day 250:

Near disaster.

Hetaerae attempted escape.

Four guards killed. Two more seriously injured.

Must increase security.

Note: Hetaerae lethal before combat training. A promising candidate. Akin, in his paranoia, chose well.

Day 276:

Hetaerae broke free of restraints during memory wipe.

Too exhausted to attempt escape.

Memory wipe has prevented Hetaerae from remembering subject name.

Will begin codeword implantation process tomorrow.

Day 342:

Hetaerae begins Samsara training tomorrow.

Complete memory wipe achieved.

Hetaerae is the only thing within subject.

Day 3658:

Samsara training complete.

Winter Soldier co-training complete.

Complete memory wipe complete.

Codeword implantation complete.

Hetaerae to be placed in cryo to await orders.

Hail HYDRA.

HYDRA status: Active. Ready for use.

“Look at her track record,” Tony mutters, sliding a thick wad of papers over to me. Turning away, I shake my head. “...fine. I’ll read it for you.” He huffs, flipping through the various pages. “Uh… her first mission was to…” he scoffs, “To take out a mid-level politician that had apparently laid his eyes on something he shouldn’t have. ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’.”

“Tony…” I warn quietly, my shoulders getting tenser with each word.

“A few missions later, she’s retrieving lab samples and… and destroying the lab... Fourteen people killed. ‘Mission: success, targets: terminated’.”

“Tony.”

“I’m skimmin’ here, Cap, but listen- an orphanage in Saint Petersburg, a… a couple in Prague, a woman in Athens, a man in Cairo...” Tony continues skimming through the pages. “‘Mission: success, target: terminated’, ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’, ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’-”

“Enough!” I snap, turning to look at him.

Tony sighs and puts the papers down. Running a hand down his face, he purses his lips. “Dunno how else t’tell ya this, Cap- she’s dangerous. She has killed hundreds of people. She can speak seven languages, she can infiltrate a political atmosphere and topple it, she can... camouflage in any… social situation, she has a perfect kill record... Whoever she was before-”

“She’s still in there,” I cut in. “She’s still in there.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Are… are you not... hearing what I’m telling you?” He gestures to the original folder. “They laid into her for… ten years. Subjected her to torture. Wiped her slate clean. Whatever was in there, pal, it’s long gone.”

A huff leaves my lips. “...you don’t know what she was like,” I mumble coldly, reminiscing over what it was like to live with her, to live with her at my side like I was at hers. “She was… the most... hard-headed… stubborn dame I’d ever met. And strong, too.”

“Rogers-”

“She’s still in there, Tony,” I snap, my eyes flicking up to him. “She’s strong.”

“Good morning.” I say, waving at ________ as she sits on the chair. Her breathing is steady, eyes trained on the opposite side of the room. Her wrists are handcuffed to the armests- the same with her ankles. They clink slightly as she breathes.

The room is completely empty except for another chair across from hers. My shield lays against the chair- ‘a precaution’ Fury called it.

‘A threat’ is what I would call it.

I step further into the room and sit down on the chair. With glazed eyes, she watches me. “Are… those too tight?” I ask, gesturing to the cuffs.

She says nothing. Only blinks in response.

She… she looks so empty.

Her face was always glowing, her smile illuminating the clinic when Buck and I would walk in to bring her lunch or just to bug her. Letters would flood in every now and then from past patients or their families, thanking her for her patience and kindness. She would keep them all in a shoebox under her bed.

And her hands. She would wrap bandages around my wounds with care. She’d always tell me to not get it in my head to fight again… and then ask where the punks lived so she could ‘pay them a visit’. Her hands were always feather-soft when checking every injury’s progress.

Now they look… darker. Not in color but just… darker.

Stained.

Did she know what she was doing when she killed those people?

________ shifts slightly, the sound of the handcuffs pulling me out of my head. I clear my throat and straighten up. “...do you know who I am?” I ask quietly.

No response.

“Do you know who you are?”

“Haetarae.” She answers, eyes still glazed.

“Do you… do you know who you actually are?”

________’s eyes narrow for just a moment. “...HYDRA.”

“No. No,” I mutter, pointing to my chest. “...do you know who I am?”

...nothing.

“Steve. I’m Stevie. We… we grew up in Brooklyn together. With Bucky. We, um… Buck ‘nd I, we helped you out of a fight when you were thirteen. That’s how we met… you… remember that…?”

She blinks, eyes scanning over me.

Getting up from my seat, I reach into my pocket and tug a photo of the three of us out of my pocket. It was taken after she had gotten her nursing credentials. We had gone out dancing, just the three of us. We found someone willing to take our photo. A smile crosses my lips as I look down at it.

Colors start to fade into the black and white photo. Every detail is so crisp. ________’s chin is resting on my head as she stands behind me- a bright, red-lipped smile on her face. Her arms are wrapped around my chest as she leans over. Her hair is done perfectly- up with roses in her hair. Neat and tidy like she practiced. The skirt of her dress is the same shade of red as her lips. Black dots pattern the fabric of the skirt. The bodice was black- matching her heels. Hooked through her elbows was a creme-colored fur boa.

Bucky’s got his arm around her waist and he ducks down to my level. He holds a pressed black suit, wearing a red undershirt. His suit jacket is hung over his shoulder with his undershirt’s sleeves rolled up. I remember him shining his shoes that day while ________ meticulously placed roses in her hair. Bucky had sewn and hemmed my pants with pride. ‘It’s a special day, punk’, he mumbled with the needle between his lips, ‘can’t have ya trippin’ on your pant legs.’

She shifts again and I’m pulled right back into now. ________ sits in front of me. No smile, no roses, no brightness. And Bucky… Bucky’s dead and gone. Lost a long, long time ago. Slowly, I hold out the photo. “...see?” I mumble, “That’s me… before I… had a growth spurt. And that’s Buck.”

I look up to her. She’s focused on the photo, eyes slightly squinted and head tilted to the side just barely. “...Buck ‘nd you,” I laugh quietly. “He… he was… so crazy about you. He just… never realised it.”

The door behind us cracks open. Her body snaps tightly, eyes back to glazed. Tony peeks his head into the room and tilts it back. “Eyepatch wants you.”

I sigh. Looking back at ________, I tuck the photo into her hand. Slowly, her fingers wrap around it delicately. I nod once and start out of the room. As the door swings shut, I spare one last look. ________ looks down at the photo, her head slightly tilting once more.

“It may be our only option,” Fury sighs. “She’s unpredictable at best.”

“She’s still in there- if I can just… keep talking with her-”

“That is out of the question,” he says firmly, eye flicking up to me. “...you’re too close on this one, Rogers. I’m making the executive decision to-”

Lights start to flash overhead- red and screaming. A wailing buzz rips out of the hallway as the red light bathes us in scarlet. The door slams open, Tony standing in the doorway, panting. Fury slowly gets out of his seat, eye wide.

“She… She got out,” Tony mutters, gesturing outside.

My body launches forward as I run into the hallway. People are running, an anxious chatter swarming around them as they pass just in front of me. As I push into the main hallway, elbows and chests are thrown into me. Flicking to each person, my eyes catch the room where ________ was held. The door is almost completely torn off the hinges- the wood cracked at the handle.

I start to push through the sea of people. Like water, they throw themselves against me- eager to leave the building and get the hell out of harm’s way. But as I make my way to the door and push out the other side of the tempest, I can see the dangling cuffs still hanging around the armrests.

My fingers graze the splintering wood door, tracing the ridges of where her fingers had dug into the wood- leaving grooves in the shape of her hand. The hinges look relatively new as they hang lifelessly off the wall. The debris littering the floor is kicked around, leaving a partial trail down the hallway. I follow with a solid grip on my shield.

“________?” I hiss, looking around the empty hallway. Everything is dimmed by the red lights and the screaming of the alarms haven’t stopped. “________!”

I round a corner and every adrenaline-fueled tension melts away. At the very end of the hallway is a floor-to-ceiling window. Broken glass lays at the base of a gaping hole.

She’s gone.

#captain america #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x female reader #captain america x platonic!reader #eventual relationship #slow burn #angst #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #series #nick fury #tony stark

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tendoki · 4 years

Note

hug prompt 5 with tendouuuu

┏━━━━━━•❅•°•❈•°•❅•━━━━━━┓

angy tendou kinda makes me 😳 ngl. this has a lot of build up? I left the ending VAGUE because it just seemed right yanno? this was fun and cute to write though :)

┗━━━━━━•❅•°•❈•°•❅•━━━━━━┛

Tendou . S - Snapmaps

-> genre: comfort

-> prompt: angry hug (not at eachother)

-> warnings: swearing, reader is lowkey horny for tendou, again I wrote this at 5am and projected my thirst onto y/n so my bad lollll, bad grammar maybe?? dunno

not sponsored by snapchat <3

He was pissed off.

Like, super pissed off. You could see it in the way his shoulders were tensed and how his leg bounced under the desk, the furrow of his brows and dark lines under his eyes screamed 'i am three minutes away from committing a murder'. His breathing seemed to be heavier too; and you guessed you wouldnt get much of a chance to talk to him once class was over if the way his eyes seemed to flicker to the clock every few seconds was any indication.

You werent anyone particularly close to Tendou Satori, though you'd consider the two of you friends if asked. In truth, you never thought you would get this far with him, the guy seemed to disregard anything that his teammates werent already fond of; you were lucky, in a sense, that as Goshiki's tutor you were deemed worthy of his attention.

Of course, occasionally your mind would slip, sliding down a dangerous path of 'what if?'s and 'why not?'s. Tendou was attractive, in that weird way, where your friends sorta make fun of you for liking him, before they turn and take a second look themselves. He intrigued you, the way he was so observant as to even bag a friendship with the ever elusive Ushijima kun.

You supposed that's why you bothered to chase him after class ended.

You had lost him pretty quickly though, thinking about it, you seriously wondered how in the hell you could lose a six foot, two inch, scarlet haired loudmouth like Tendou, as if slipping into a crowd and being invisible was something he was used to (something else to add onto the 'Mysteries of T.S' list you had compiled).

After escaping the crowd and seeing no sign of him outside, you relented, recognising that this was a losing battle. With a huff, you pulled out your phone to check his snap maps; he'd always turn them on once he got into school, claiming that it was to make sure if he skipped practice then Semi could track him down and beat his ass with no hassle.

Ramen shop

For the better, you were starving anyway. immediately picking up the pace, you took the 10 minute walk it would take to get there.

how did he manage to go so fast? damn him and his stupid long legs

You arrived, and the place looked empty, probably because of the sign on the door, stating that it was closed for the day. Looking down at your phone again, you confirmed that this was the right address, seeing your own bitmoji stood near Tendou's.

Then the door opened, Tendou, in all of his sweaty, (guess he mustve ran) brilliance, looked you up and down, an action you're ashamed to admit caused a jolt in your stomach. He looked suprised to see you here, but seeing your phone lit up with the familiar interface of Snapchat maps, he smirked.

"What brings you here?"

He sounded amused, though you could still hear his aggravation in how throaty his voice was, you werent used to hearing him speak so roughly, and part of you wondered what it would take to hear that kind of tone from him more.

"You uh seemed pissed off earlier, in class? and I wanted to check up on you. Why... are you in an empty, closed ramen shop?"

"Family owned joint, 's empty 'cause we're closed, and its closed 'cause it's empty"

"Doesn't closing it because its empty make for bad business practice? you're not even giving people a chance to enter, Tendou"

He jolted at this, you were usually so formal and appropriate with him, that hearing you challenge his logic so openly and speak without honorifics was unexpected; his shoulders sagged a little, tension easing from his body as a bemused smile made it's way across his face.

"Huh, guess you're right. Well, since ya here how 'bout coming in and taste testing some of our food before we open to the public again, for safety", the last line was spoken differently, as if he was daring you to say yes, like agreeing on a totally-not-date with Tendou Satori would be the worst mistake of your life.

So, naturally, you bit right back.

"You askin' me on a date now, Satori?", using him first name was dangerous, but you figured he'd get the message that you were trying to be playful, while giving him the ultimate choice of what would happen next.

Once again he was taken aback, before another sag of his shoulders and spread of a smile took over his body; he wasted no time in gently grabbing you by the elbow and ushering you inside.

The interior was gorgeously decorated, the tables scrubbed clean and the whole place smelt like heaven, Tendou sat you down on the nearest chair and rushed off to the back, promising to make you a ramen anyone would consider to be 'better than sex'

It was an hour later you still sat in the shop, laughing with Tendou about whatever tiktok trend he had roped his team into this week, you had texted your parents to let them know you were with a friend, not keen on making them worry and get the entirety of the Miyagi police force interrupting your totally-is-a-date.

Things were quiet for a moment, as you sat and drank some pop Tendou had offered you. You took the silence as an opportunity to appreciate the view; Tendou Satori, in the golden light of a 6pm sun, with his hair down in sweatpants and a graphic tee designed off of one of his favourite anime. You had been nervous when he excused himself to change and 'let his hair relax', but now thanked every and any god in existence for giving you the chance to see him looking so dearly delectable.

Your thought process was disrupted, however, when your eye candy spoke;

"Thanks. For coming, I mean. I've had a pretty shitty day and it means a lot to be sat here joking around with you"

He smiled at you, an intimate one, not mocking or sardonic in anyway, you, of course, locked this moment into your mind, committing the gentle red of his bitten and chapped lips, sloping so carefully, to memory.

Then you registered his words, your brows pinching together in concern, as you reached across and grabbed his hand.

"You wanna talk about it? I'm here to listen and I dont have anywhere to be for the time being"

He looked shocked for a moment, scanning your face to maybe check if this was some cruel joke, like he was going to start telling you and you'd laugh and walk away. After a few moments had passed of him studying your expression, he turned, heaving a sigh and standing up to go to the back, presumably preparing another two bowls of ramen.

He returned not long after, placing the bowls on your table, he began pacing, annoyance rushing back to him as he recalled what had him wound up so tightly earlier.

"... and now he's back in town! God, whatever, I just hope his stupid ass doesnt end up in the same classes as me, I dont wanna see that prick's face again", he had been bullied as a child it seemed, a detail that explained most of the contents in your list of Tendou mysteries, the bully was back in town, and your companion had ran into him when he had left school grounds for a moment; it seemed the boy's attitude had not changed, he had recognised Tendou and began layering on the taunts once more.

He was mad again, you could see it in how his shoulders tensed and his mouth now curled into an ugly sneer while venting.

You sighed before standing up, he needed some comfort, and the worst that could happen is that he pushes you away. You could always just excuse it by saying you have an affectionate family or friend group, and that it's just nature by now to give someone a hug when they're upset. Though there was every reason to think that he wouldnt fall for that, and you could make him uncomfortable. After such a huge leap in your progress with him, taking such a big risk is hardly smart or sensible-

fuck it.

But before you could move, his arms instead encased you. His body shook with brimming rage as he burrowed his head into the crook of your neck, bending awkwardly to properly reach. Hesitantly, you reached your arms up, one hand going to rub circles across his back and the other pulling and playing with the red locks of hair by the nape of his neck. The two of you stayed like that for a while, you leaning on the table once your legs got too wobbly to be trusted. Every so often you'd press a kiss to his shoulder, letting him know that you were accepting his affection wholeheartedly, not just reciprocating out of pity.

Despite the hug lasting longer than any other hugs you had given to friends and family, it still felt like it was too soon as Tendou began to pull away, standing back to his full height, though, his arms remained around you.

"Thanks, I needed that"

"yeah, uh, no problem, Tendou kun"

#tendou satori x reader #tendou satori fluff #tendou satori #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader

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vicunaburger · 4 years

Note

Sup friend! Could I request some nasty Movie BeeJ trying to woo the reader? ♥️

WARNING: Spicy Content

ALSO WARNING to Everyone Who is Not Clair: This Is Movie!Juice. Meaning he is a gross nasty man and we love him. And that is just fine and dandy. 8D Enjoy!

Being dead was a drag.

Did it really surprise you that the afterlife was an endless cycle of menial drudgery? Not really, but you would have expected a little variety once in a while. Different folks were dying everyday, and by that logic, new opportunities to stave off the increasing boredom.

You supposed you deserved this fate; sifting through mountains - literally - of paperwork that never seemed to get smaller no matter how much work you finished during your shift. You did help commit grand larceny when you were alive, but the dying part wasn’t your fault.

How were you supposed to predict that your partner would shove you in front of the cops like a meat shield as they open fired?

Ah well, once he made his way down here, he’d get what was coming to him. You thought about all the ways you would make him suffer while you mindlessly pressed a few buttons on the copier in front of you.

The sound of a throat being cleared brought you out of your murder visions, and you turned around to find a man standing very close behind you. Invasion of personal space would have been a gross understatement, practically feeling the static from his clothes on your skin.

“Heya, babes.” The man grinned, proudly displaying a mouthful of jagged, yellowing teeth. “Don’t think I’ve seen ‘yer pretty face ‘round these parts. And I’m a regular. Might even call me the welcoming committee for newly deads such as yourself.”

You blinked slowly at him, taking his his full - grotesque? macabre? - unique appearance. He was lanky and ragged like battle-tested scarecrow; dressed in a suit of grime encrusted black and white stripes, the jacket unbuttoned casually: expertly tailored. If nothing else, the garish fabric served to emphasize his height over you.

Off-white skin was shaded with dark, sunken features and caked-on mold. His hair was a shock of dirty blond; sporting bits of what you could only assume was dirt and dust around the hairline.

“Uh, well, only been here a week I guess. There’s no clocks around here.” You replied, trying to subtly take a step away.

“Oh-ho? Fresh as a daisy, ain’tcha?” He chuckled, reaching out a delicately moving some hair away from your forehead. “Save for this nasty little gash here. What happened, sweetheart, run into some shady unsavories in a dark alley?”

Frowning, you absently touched the large, gaping wound on your temple, “Fell onto a marble floor during a bank robbery.”

His grin widened, yellow eyes catching the dim light of the office, “Yeah? Get scared by banditos?”

“No, it was after I was shot by the SWAT team. Fell head first, if you could believe it. My luck, right?” A waft of mild decay hit your nose at his continued closeness.

Laughing heartily, he put his hand on your shoulder, squeezing tight, “You’re spunky, kiddo. I’ll give ya that one. Better’n all these other stiffs around here. Speaking of stiff things.”

In one swift motion, he backed you against the copier, one hand on the machine to keep you in place, while the other trailed down the length of your neck. You could feel his sharp nails scratching so lightly against your skin; more sensation than you have felt since your untimely demise.

You shivered, glancing down to watch his hand continue downward, “You trying to make an offer?”

His tongue darted out to lick his chapped lips, “I dunno. Would hate to waste my valuable time if I wasn’t gettin’ anything outta the deal, know what I mean?”

He was picking at the bullet holes in your blouse, following the trail down to your skirt, “Could say the same thing, you know. I noticed a few men around here are missing some limbs, would hate to be disappointed by something else missing.”

With a soft growl, he pushed his knee in between your legs, pressing his notable bulge against your thigh, “I ain’t missing anything, babes.”

Your mouth fell open in a soft gasp, and your new un-living playmate took full advantage of the opportunity. The hand that had been keeping you pinned found its way around your jaw; sticking his thumb in between your lips and pressing it against your tongue. You felt those nails of his pricking at the skin of your thighs, traveling up under your skirt with the softest of movements.

Trembling, you grasped the lapels of his suit, balancing yourself as you felt his fingers trace the curve of your underwear. He had yet to do much of anything and you were already aching for his hand to just move a little closer… a little more inward…

Leaning down, he caught your earlobe between his teeth, and you whimpered at the sting, “Two doors to the left. Closet. Be there.”

#clairjohnson #anon requests a thing #request fulfilled #writing time #movie!beeltejuice #beetlejuice x reader #film beetlejuice

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awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat · 4 years

Text

Supernatural and Good Omens Crossover

“Hey, Cas!” Dean shouted, a strange excitement clouding his voice (and judgement). Sam and Dean locked eyes for a moment, and Sam could’ve sworn for that brief second, he saw the corner of Dean’s mouth beginning to form a small smile. “Cas! You comin’ or what?!”

Castiel entered the bunker’s hall to see Sam and Dean standing in front of the table, a bowl perched hastily, surrounded by some very common ingredients for spells. A virgins blood, the bone of a saint, goat liver... you get the gist.

As Cas edged forward, a blinding light shot up from the bowl, forming a beam-like shape right next to it. “Dean,” Cas said gruffly, and so very tiredly, “what are you doing?”

“Hey, c’mon man,” Dean replied, pouting, “you can clearly see our own personal witch Sammy has the spell book. Not me.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, causing both Cas and Sam to simultaneously roll their eyes.

“We got him,” Sam spoke finally, much to Dean’s content, and further, to Cas’ dismay, mostly because Castiel knew exactly what Dean was doing and he was very much, as the youth say, done now.

Cas recalled a recent incident about the fight he had with Dean. It was late and Dean had just come back from a very exhausting demon hunt, which had turned out to be quite disastrous, what with all the involvement of Hell Hounds.

Sam had gone to bed early that day, saying that he’d catch up on some research to help beat Chuck, but Cas and Dean both knew that whatever Sam was catching up on, it wasn’t research. Dean could hear dialogues sometimes, coming from Sam’s room. Most often, it was “Title of your sex tape”, which always intrigued Dean very much, and googling it turned out to be a very bad idea.

So, Cas and Dean were relaxing in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of whiskey, talking about everything and nothing. Dean suddenly started talking about how Crowley had turned out to be not such a bad guy for a demon. Then Dean thought about how Heaven, Hell, the Empty and the Purgatory were all in utter chaos, which led his train of thoughts towards resurrecting Crowley. Cas had made a mental note that day: late nights, whiskey, demon hunts and exhausting days always gave Dean the stupidest, most idiotic ideas of all time.

“Sammy can bring him back,” Dean had said, to which Cas was certain he had put up quite an argument but the fight turned slightly vicious and both Cas and Dean spent the following week shooting daggers at each other. Cas eventually forgot what he had said, but Dean stood by his statement.

This was the reason why Sam and Dean had been trying to bring back Crowley for several weeks now; trying different spells, different ingredients, different places and hell, one time, different clothes too (if you must know, Dean insisted that they wear a black suit. Yes, it had been a long day and Dean was down two glasses of Whiskey; why do you ask?). Everytime it didn’t work, Dean would spend days on end in his room, eating nothing but stale pizza, watching reruns of The X-Files. Cas was worried it would happen again.

“Cas? You there, buddy?” Dean pushed Cas back to the present with a small but sturdy tap on his shoulder. “We got him, Cas, we got him.”

Cas tilted his head in confusion and frowned, then looked at Sam, who nodded in agreement. They all focused on the bowl in front of them as the light grew warmer and brighter, until a figure began materialising from the beam.

Crowley opened his eyes to see himself in a strange place, a place he’d never seen before, nor considered running away to. Three men stood in front of him, tall and very well built, wearing an absurd amount of flannel. Crowley looked to his left to see a blinding light, and for a second, he thought he was in Heaven again, with that purple-eyed monster.

“Which poor sucker are you wearing as a meatsuit, Crowley?” The man with the scruffy, short, light hair said.

“Wait, wait, what? Meatsuit? Don’t be stupid--” Crowley sat up straight, looking around frantically, he said, “what the hell did you do with Aziraphale? Where is he?”

“Uh, Dean,” Cas began, clearly suspicious, but Dean cut him off.

“Just hold on to your horses for a second, Cas, let me handle this.”

Cas sighed.

“WHERE IS HE? And, and, did you just say Crowley? Nobody, in all of six thousand years, has ever called me “Cr-ow-ley”.” Crowley spoke angrily, then in exasperation.

“Where’s who?” Sam said, understanding something was definitely off.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley hissed, but it wasn’t an angry hiss, it was more of a habitual, slurring-of-words-hiss.

“Who’s he, your side chick?” Dean joked, but by now he was certain that whoever this person was, it was not Crowley. Sure, he had the accent. And if Crowley had been more focused on looking like an overdramatic sass queen, then maybe the black attire too. But this man, or whatever he was, he was not Crowley.

The blinding light grew brighter still, flashing an almost heavenly glow now, as another figure materialised from the beam.

The figure was more angelic than any form Castiel had seen. Michael could never. Cas could feel the figure’s aura deep inside him, resonating with his own grace, a soft humming of something divine.

“Oh, my, you seem to have caught us in quite a compromising position,” the heavenly figure said, his voice lilted, and apparently apologetic.

“You two are holding hands?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself. “If you think that’s compromising, boy do I have news for you.” Dean subsequently made a mental note to never talk again.

“Well I grew impatient and--” Before the figure in all shades of beige could complete his sentence, the man calling himself Crowley jumped to his feet.

“Angel! Where were you?” Crowley had gathered his senses and he was not going to let his angel go anywhere again. “Aziraphale, you gave me quite a fright, you bastard.”

“Wait, can someone explain to me what is happening?” Sam said, his hands raised, angel blade in one and holy water in the other.

“Is that...that’s holy water.” Crowley mellowed down, a frown making its way up his face.

“Now, that isn’t very kind of you, sir. There is absolutely no need to bring in weapons. That would be simply preposterous!” Aziraphale, replied calmly, miracling away the weapons from the tall man’s hands. This seemed to cause a chain reaction, making more weapons surface. Now all three men were clad with some sort of weaponry; very nifty ones too.

“There is,” Aziraphale began again, more sternly this time, “simply no reason to be feral, dear boys.”

“If you’re wondering, I am Crowley. Crow-ley. I am a demon; didn’t fall, though; sauntered vaguely below. And this is Aziraphale. Now boys, as much as I’d like to stay here and make your lives miserable by, I dunno, replacing all the real bacon with vegetarian bacon, I’d rather wrap this up quickly. We just dealt with an apocalypse and I have the alarm set for a decade of sleeping. And trust me, you don’t want to wait for Aziraphale to start with his magic tricks.”

Dean made a face at the thought of vegetarian bacon but quickly got over it, concentrating instead on the fact that this was Crowley too. Crow-ley, apparently.

“So, you’re not Fergus? You mother’s not Rowena? God Dammit Sammy, what’d you do?”

Sam looked as confused as everyone right now, but he could’ve sworn he had called Crowley from this universe. Something must’ve gone wrong.

“Just give us a moment to talk,” Sam said to the angel and the demon, and turned to Cas and Dean.

“And no monkey business,” Dean added, causing Sam to roll his eyes in disappointment again.

“So, my dear, before we go back, don’t you think it would be wonderful if one could, you know, miracle the one with light hair and the one with the trenchcoat together? I would, but it has become a little--” Aziraphale began suggestively, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“What? Angel, they are just friends! Like us,” Crowley replied.

“My dear, we are married,” Aziraphale sighed, deadpanning.

“Wait, we are?! Since when?” Crowley screamed, obviously taken by surprise.

“Since you went to talk to Holmes, quite an interesting chap, about your secret admirer?”

Crowley shook his head, still confused.

“We got married the next day, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed again.

Crowley shook his head yet again, much to Aziraphale’s disbelief.

“You proposed!”

Sam coughed, interrupting Aziraphale and Crowley’s very important conversation about if they got married or not.

“So, here’s the thing: we think that while we were trying to contact Crowley of this universe, you, Crowley, from another universe were summoned here instead. This could be because of two things: Chuck is going insane and he no longer has control over the veils between universes, or two, because Jack (he’s a nephilim), is back, his powers might have overwhelmed the spell. We also think that because of your “compromising position”, both of you got summoned, instead of just Crowley. Either way, you are free to go.”

“Or you could stay for a couple of drinks, if that is okay by you,” Cas said, hoping they’d stay, just so he could get to know them better.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a knowing glance, coming to an agreement.

“It is noon presently; would you have cocoa by any chance?” Aziraphale chimed happily.

_______________________________________________________________________

Hey y’all! I am sure this has been done before but I am currently practicing escapism by writing silly fanfics so please bear with me through this phase.

I’m gonna tag some awesome people: @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @petrichoravellichor @all-or-nothing-baby @telefunkies @jensenackles-ismyreligion @mystybloo @thedepressedexpress

Tell me if you want me to tag you or if you don’t want me to tag you.

Thank you for reading uwu

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bluenanners2 · 4 years

Note

dentist fetish 2doc drabble hnnnng

The smartly dressed woman tucked behind the tiny secretary’s desk at the front of the waiting room poked her head over the tall counter in front of her. Stuart didn’t look up from his phone, not until he heard her voice pierce through the still quiet of the dentist’s office. “We’re ready for you, Mister Pot,”

Stuart pushed himself up to his feet and tucked his clamshell in his pocket, swiping his palms against the front of his hoodie. He stalked forwards, shoving his palms into the pockets of his jacket so that his slim shoulders hunched forwards while he walked. He really didn’t like the look of this place. From the flickering fluorescents overhead to the grimy tiles underfoot, to the secretary he’d caught smoking indoors, nothing about this tiny, private practice screamed “professional” by any definition of the word. It was, however, the cheapest place he could find, and with his shit-awful insurance and minimal allowance while away at university, Stu really couldn’t afford anything better.

He stopped in front of the front desk, lips parting to ask something, but the petite woman behind the desk answered gruffly before he’d even spat it out, like she’d read his mind. “First door on the left, it’ll say Doctor Niccals on the doorway,” “..Right,” He nodded once, reaching up to brush a stray blue lock out of his eyes, then proceeded down the short hallway.

At the previously indicated doorway, Stuart found himself pausing. Behind it he could hear the hiss of gas, a guttural groan and then giddy laughter. What the hell? He reached up to rap one knuckle against the doorframe. Immediately, whoever was tucked behind it cursed, and the sound of something plastic being dropped against the hard ground sounded out, before the young adult heard a gleeful. “Come on in!” He pushed the door open and stepped inside. He’d met with a strange looking man, sporting one of those silly doctor’s reflectors perched between his temples, the kind of thing you’d see in a cartoon, not real life. His white lab coat was unbuttoned, revealing a tight-fitting black sweater and beneath it, baggy brown pants and a thick leather belt. The strange fellow bore a huge, unnaturally wide grin across his features, wide wild eyes, and a hairstyle that looked familiar but Stuart just couldn’t place where he’d seen it before. He was crouched in a rolling stool next to a reclined examination table, and beside him, a large canister of what could only be laughing gas. The plastic mask for it was on the floor, as if it’d just been dropped. “Evening!” It was two in the afternoon, if Stuart was remembering correctly. He fixed the other man with a puzzled look. Doctor Niccals gave the younger a beckoning palm, before slapping it against the grey faux leather of his examination table. “Come, come! Have a seat, yeah? Let’s get you fixed up, Stu-... Steward-” Stuart should’ve been alarmed that the guy couldn’t seen to recall his name. He was incredibly alarmed, in fact. Anxiety was already creeping up his spine but he didn’t want to make a fuss or be rude, only wanted this to be over with, so he corrected him cooly, sliding down against the chair gestured to. “Stuart. Stuart Pot. I’m er... I’m here about the tooth ache?” The doctor clapped his hands together and laughed at his own blunder, a little too loudly. “Ah! Right, right. Sorry chap, you go through as many patients as I do a day and they tend to blur together,” The waiting room was empty when Stuart had walked in, the check-in sheet he’d signed was also barren. He squinted at the other, but said nothing.

The doctor leaned across Stu once he’d gotten settled, his fingers jamming into a cardboard box located on the small table besides the younger and extracting two blue latex gloves from its confines. He shoves his fingers into one, pulling the plastic down to his wrist before letting it snap sharply against his skin. The sound made Stuart wince. “So, which one of the little buggers has been bothering you, mm?” The second glove was pulled on, latex snapping against the older man’s wrist. Stuart shrugged his shoulders vaguely. He felt so uneasy about this whole situation, his eyes kept darting towards that canister sitting on the ground besides the doctor. What the hell was it doing out? Wasn’t that sort of thing reserved for surgeries? The bluenette opened his mouth and reached up, poking his index finger against his left canine, before looking back towards the gas. Niccals hummed and nodded, he reached up, gloved fingers tucking under Stu’s jaw before he gripped him, turned his face towards the doctor’s and peered into his open mouth. “Let’s see here...” He released Stuart’s jaw after a moment, before two fingers slipped past those open lips. His index finger pressed between Stu’s molars to pry his jaws further part, his middle squished against his tongue, pinning it to the base of the younger man’s mouth. The doctor’s eyes, mismatched shades of brown, fixed on that problem tooth. Stu’s tongue wriggled beneath the grip.

This was... odd. He’d never tasted latex before, in fact he’d never had a dentist shove fingers in his mouth. It felt strangely intimate, the way those digits flexed against him while the doctor inspected his pointy canine. Above him, Niccals grunted, he was so close Stu could feel his breath puff out across his cheek. The sensation made him shudder, he flexed his jaw and swallowed around nothing. “Uh huh. No visible cavity, lucky you! Would hate to have to drill today. Thing’s been on the fritz lately” The dentist adjusted his grip, retracting his fingers before the two digits pinched around that problem canine. “Tell me, does it hurt when I do this?” He squeezed, wiggling that painful tooth back and forth, it was just slightly lose in the poor college kid’s gums. Stuart flinched hard, he gasped through his nose and his shoulders tensed up, a whine pouring from his open lips before he could stop it when pain shot right up to his brain. “Ow, ow- Yesh- yesh tha’ ‘urts!” Murdoc pulled back, the tsked, and then grinned. He grinned at the pained look on Stuart’s face, the cruel look made his stomach flop.

“That’s no good, Stuey. You been remembering to brush, yeah? Been flossing like a good boy should? Mm?” Stuart fixed the man with an incredulous look. He closed his mouth as soon as he was able, reaching up to rub at his cheek and mutter meekly. “Not as often as I should,” Murdoc, who had turned to regard a rather menacing array of instruments to his left, froze up, his head turning too-quickly back towards the other man, a briefly furious expression overtaking his features, before they softened again. It gave Stu whiplash, really. He stared at the other, sinking as far back into the examination table as he could. “Ohh, Stuey. You should know better,” He chuckled, leaning down at the waist to pluck the laughing gas’ mask up off of the floor by the plastic tubing connecting it to the valve. Murdoc cuppe the plastic in his palm, rolled imself up closer to the younger man, who was by now quite anxiously gripping the sides of his chair. “Not to worry, by the time we’re through here, you wont be forgetting to brush anytime soon.” ____________________

I dunno if I’ll ever finish this and im getting DRUNKER so fucking.... fucking HEREE take it good god i am so sorry

#banana fics #banana asks #suggestive #anon #2doc

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soupyboysforlife · 4 years

Text

The Little Angel

Summarry: An AU where Dean transfers to Castiel’s school. They quickly fall in love with each other but keep those feelings hidden out of fear that they won’t be reciprocated. Dean winds up in a terrible accident and goes into a comatose state in which Cas cares for him anonymously.

This fic was inspired by the song Class Clown by Anthony Amorim.

-----

Chapter 1

An attractive boy with black hair sat in the back corner of the semi-crowded class. He was staring out a nearby window. There was a look of disinterest shrouded on his slightly stubbly face. He was the first thing Dean noticed as he walked into the noisy and crowded class. Some students looked his way when he entered the classroom. The teacher cleared his throat to introduce the new student. They quickly silenced, turning to the front to face the pair. Dean was nervous but he smiled at them confidently. He was used to moving around and going to new schools. Dean’s gaze wandered over the other students before returning to the attractive boy who hadn’t bothered looking towards the front.

“Everyone I’d like you to meet Dean Winchester,” the teacher said, gesturing towards Dean, “Please take a seat.”

Dean sat in the empty seat in front of the boy hoping to strike up a conversation. Before he got the chance some other kids by him started to introduce themselves. Dean introduced himself to them.

Castiel’s morning had been uneventful as usual. He didn’t have any friends in his first-class today. Instead of gossiping about the new kid, he stared out the window listening to the hushed whispers of girls debating about what he would look like. Cas finally glanced at the front of the classroom when Mr. Shurley cleared his throat. By his side was a boy. His eyes were scanning the students. Cas looked back out the window. Sure the boy was cute but Cas had no intention of talking to him. Not at the moment at least.

Mr. Shurley introduced him, “Everyone I’d like you to meet Dean Winchester. Please take a seat.”

The name registered in the back of Cas’s head just in case he needed to know it. Cas only moved when Dean sat down in front of him. He looked at him in surprise. There were a lot of other empty seats in the classroom. He dismissed the thought creeping up in his head. Cas’s heart was beating quickly.

After Dean was done talking to the other people in front of him he turned around and smiled.

He was even cuter up close. Cas tried his hardest not to blush, though he was sure some of the heat made it to his cheeks. Dean had beautiful green eyes that were crinkled with his perfect smile. His cheek and jawbones were sharp. There was a light sprinkle of freckles brushing his face.

“Hi, I’m Dean,” he said, reaching out his hand for a handshake.

“I know. I’m Castiel.” Cas responded as he gingerly shook the other boy’s hand. Sparks. He must have imagined that.

“Castiel, huh? Weird name” Dean said with a slightly confused look on his face.

“Yeah, like the angel. My family’s religious.” Cas shrugged.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Cas.” Dean said with a wink before turning back to the front of the class as Mr. Shurley began the lesson.

Cas was sure his face was as red as a tomato. He spaced out for the rest of the day, thinking of the green eyes and calloused skin that belonged to the new kid.

And so the crush began.

“Cas’’ a whisper.

That smile.

“Cas.” slightly louder.

Those green eyes.

“Cas!” a yell, this time he was being shaken.

Cas had been lost in his thoughts of Dean Winchester. He finally snapped back to reality. Gabriel, Castiel’s best friend, was shaking his arm.

“Dude, you okay? What’s wrong?” Gabe asked.

“N-nothing.” Cas managed to get out.

“Is it the new kid? Did he hurt you?” Gabe interrogated, this time with a look of concern and rage.

“No! Nothing like that.” Castiel assured him. It had been a couple of weeks since Dean had transferred to their school. He’d started a few weeks after the second semester began. Cas had noticed the air getting warmer. Spring was on its way along, bringing along Promposals and a new set of gossip.

“Well, what the-” Gabriel started, his face quickly changed from confusion to realization, “Ooooh. You like him.”

Cas’s only response was his face turning a light pink. Gabriel and most other students at Heaven’s Gates High had known that the blue-eyed boy was gay for years. His sexuality wasn’t a secret. Luckily, no one seemed to care about it.

“D’aw, you two would make the cutest couple.” Gabe teased, earning a glare from Cas, “You should ask him to prom.”

Somehow that thought made Castiel’s face impossibly redder. He glanced over to where Dean was sitting with some of the school jocks. He was laughing at a joke one of them made. Dean made eye contact, making Cas look away quickly. Heat radiated from his cheeks as he felt the green eyes staring at him. Instead of looking back he turned to Gabe and leaned his head on the table.

“I can’t. He’s probably straight, even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be interested in me.” Cas sighed sadly.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Cas. I’m sure he’d like you if he wasn’t straight. Hell, I would like you if I was gay.” Gabriel stated with complete confidence, making Castiel chuckle.

“Thanks, I think,” Cas answered.

“Anytime,” Gabe reassured him.

That conversation helped Cas get through the rest of the day with a relatively peaceful mindset.

It had been a few weeks since Dean had started at the new high school. He was already pretty popular, though he doubted that he’d be able to maintain the popularity for much longer. That’s how it has been so far in his high school career. This was his, 4th? Maybe 5th high school. Luckily, this was his senior year and he wouldn’t have to worry about school much longer. His plan was to pass high school and carry on the family business.

Dean’s thoughts made their way back to the group of jocks he was sitting with. Dean was relatively good at football. He had just joined the school's team and was now attempting to bond with some of the players. One of them, Benny, had just made a joke. Dean hadn’t been paying attention to it but he laughed anyway.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Sensing a pair of eyes watching him, he quickly scanned the lunchroom. He quickly found the source. It was Castiel, the cute boy from his pre-calc class. Dean quickly decided to take a shot at flirting from a distance, but the other boy had already looked away. Dean’s face fell a little. He sat, staring in disappointment for a moment longer, hoping the blue-eyed boy would look at him again. When he didn’t Dean rejoined his teammates’ conversation with an awkward chuckle.

Lunch was over too quickly but he only had one more class for the day.

Dean never paid attention in Economics. It had to be the most boring class that he had. Lucky for him it wasn’t hard to distract himself from the seemingly eternal boringness of the class. His eyes dragged across the board at the front of the room. They picked out every small detail, eventually coming to a stop at the date on the edge of the board. Wednesday, February 12th. Two more days before the weekend. He sighed in defeat. The only thing he had to look forward to was pre-calc in the morning. Dean’s mind wandered to the handsome boy who sat behind him.

A smile crept along Dean’s face as he thought of the details on the boy's face. How he turned pink when they saw each other.

Dean imagined cornering the smaller boy, trapping him between Dean’s body and the wall. He pictured those perfect blue eyes staring up at him innocently as he leaned down and pressed his lips against the plump, pink ones. Moistening the chapped lips with his tongue. Maybe he’d run his hands along the boy’s hips and back. Kissing the scruff along his jaw and neck. Fingers slowly exploring every nook and cranny of-

Fuck

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He took a few deep breaths. His mind searched for other things to think about.

Dean heard the chair behind him squeak over the monotone script of his teacher.

“Hey, Dean.” a low voice said behind him with a nudge to his shoulder, “You going to Adam’s party?”

He turned his eyes and head slightly to put a name to the voice. It was Kevin.

“Dunno man, when is it?” Dean responded.

“This weekend. You gotta ride?”

“Yeah man, text me the address,” Dean said. Maybe he’d be able to pick up a chick or two to take his mind off the blue-eyed boy for a while. Dean’s cell phone pinged with the texted address.

“Thanks.” Dean smiled.

The next day Dean stumbled, tiredly, into his pre-calc class. Usually, he didn’t arrive so early but his Dad had an early meeting and a busted tire, so he and his little brother, Sammy, were dropped off at school early. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Finally noticing how empty the room was. The only people there were Castiel and Mr. Shurley. Cas was at his desk using his hands as a pillow. While Mr. Shurley graded some papers.

“You’re here early, Mr. Winchester.” the older man commented without looking up from his papers.

“Uh, yeah. My dad had an early meeting and had to borrow my car.” Dean responded with a chuckle.

This time Mr. Shurely looked up from the paper and folded his hands before answering. “I don’t recall asking. Now have a seat. I need to finish grading these.” He gestured towards Dean’s desk before going back to his writing. He made his way to the desk in front of the boy.

Cas still had his head resting on his hands. Upon closer inspection, Dean realized he was asleep. Cas’s back was rising and falling steadily under the large, blue-grey sweatshirt he was wearing. Dean leaned a little over his desk while putting his bag down to look at Castiel’s face. His usually blue eyes were closed gently. His long lashes reached for the bags resting under them. Dean’s eyes wandered down towards the man's plump, chapped lips. They were slightly parted. A small trickle of drool ran out from between them, getting caught in the light stubble on his jaw before trickling onto the back of his hand. A light snore emitted from the parted lips with every breath.

Dean smiled and let out a small chuckle at the sight. He had to force down the temptation to reach out and wipe away the spittle. Dean’s chair creaked loudly when he sat down making him wince. Castiel immediately sat up. His ocean blue eyes looked dazed from sleep. They stared directly at Dean for a while, not fully registering what was happening. Dean felt his face start to heat up as he tried to hold back a laugh. Cas made a sudden gasp of realization. His eyes cleared and widened as his cheeks began to turn pink. He wiped the drool from his cheek and ran out of the classroom.

Dean sat, unmoved, at his desk. Wondering if that actually happened. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the other boy’s messy bedhead and dazed out, sleepy face. If that wasn’t relatable he wasn’t sure what was.

Mr. Shurley let out a ‘tsk’ of annoyance as Castiel ran out of the room. Dean stooped down and unzipped the front pocket of his bag, grabbing some cash from it before zipping it back up. He stood and walked out the door. Dean tugged on the bottom of his ridden up T-shirt as he wandered down the hall to the Cafeteria. His eyes quickly scanned the lunchroom in search of some kind of vending machine. He finally spotted one and bought two Gatorades. One was purple, the other light blue. He wandered haphazardly around the halls, looking for Castiel. He gave up after a few minutes and went back to the classroom. It had a few more kids in it then before but it was still pretty empty. Dean looked over towards his desk. He smiled when he saw Castiel sitting in the desk behind his. Cas looked a little more cleaned up. His hair was more controlled and his eyes were more alert. The dribble remains from his nap earlier had been washed away. Upon seeing Dean his face grew red once again as he tried to sink into his seat further to hide from view. Dean chuckled. Damn, this boy was cute.

Once he reached his desk and sat down he turned around. Castiel had his long sleeves pulled up to his fingertips. He held his hands in front of his eyes in embarrassment.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” Dean teased, hoping for a reaction out of the other boy, “I got you something.”

He set down the two bottles on Cas’s desk. Cas peeked out from behind his hands curiously before reaching out and taking the purple Gatorade with a muttered thanks. He struggled to open it for a second and Dean hid his smile by taking a sip of his own Gatorade. He smacked his lips loudly and inspected the bottle, wishing they sold something stronger. They sat in silence for the rest of the class.

Stand by for part 2!

#destiel smut #destiel fluff #destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel feels #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #cas #i love these idiots #its unhealthy #i spend way too much time on this #this is a cry for help #someone love me or i might write the forever to fill the emotional void in my heart #supernatural #spn #fanfic

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pokeshippingflashfic · 4 years

Note

ok no prob ^^ what about a 'we should kiss just to break the tension' kinda fic?

[Okay so when I received this I had a really fun little idea that didn’t perfectly match the quote - if it’s supposed to be a quote, I wasn’t sure - and I felt my inspiration… may trump my uncertainty about possibly not quite meeting anon’s expectations for this fic… Very sorry in advance!]

He’d thought things were finally back to normal.

Ash Ketchum was not what one would call particularly observant. He himself had admitted on at least one occasion already to not fully understand the female, or rather one specific female’s, mind… But he’d seen Misty bristle in irritation when Melody introduced herself on Shamuti Island’s beach and he’d inwardly blanched at the redhead’s aggravated and curt response when he’d asked her to join him in fulfilling his role as the so-called chosen one in the Shamuti Island legend.

Lugia had since returned to their deep sea home, the other legendary birds had retreated to their respective islands, all of the Pokemon that had journeyed to the supposed end of the world had begun to withdraw… Ash and friends, including his mom and Professor Oak, had spent one final night on Shamuti to nurse their thankfully small wounds and new emotional scars. A feast was thrown and everyone who’d had a part in securing the three elemental orbs that quelled their respective titans’ fury had retired to bed rather early.

And, by end of next day, Misty was back to glaring daggers and offering little more than argumentative commentary whenever they shared the same space.

Ash sighed, squinted up at the twinkling stars from his position at the rear deck of the ferry he and his friends were riding on to reach their next destination. Honestly he was too tired to be playing detective. There was a reason he’d opted to take a ferry instead of sailing to Pummelo on Lapras…

Speaking of tired, he yawned, standing to his full height and stretching. There was no point speculating on Misty and her weird moods. He did hope though that whatever she was going through would resolve itself before he completed the Orange League. Truth be told, it was nice to think of her cheering him on…

“–Ack!” The half-formed complaint formed in Misty’s throat as he turned and knocked straight into her.

“Mwah! Sorry! I… oh, Misty.”

“Geez, Ash, look where you’re going! And don’t sound like you wanna take back your apology just ‘cause it’s me you ran into!” she rebuffed briskly, turning her nose up at him.

“Uh, what’re ya doin’ here? It’s pretty late to be wandering around,” he replied almost sheepishly instead, choosing to ignore her attitude.

“I was going to the bathroom, not that it’s any of your business. I thought I’d take the outdoor route since the ocean at night is so nice to look at,” she told him almost absentmindedly, though he saw the twinkle in her eyes as she confessed her admiration. “But I could ask you the same thing. You can’t be this restless after everything we just went through, right?”

For half a second, he wondered to himself if that was concern he’d heard in her voice.

“Actually I was just going to bed, was thinking about some stuff but I’m done now.”

It was awkward. For all of his lack of knowledge and experience dealing with Misty Things™, even Ash could feel the air thicken with restrained hostility. Neither of them moved, not even to create enough space for the other to pass them by.

“Well, see ya in the morning then,” she told him in that same curt tone he’d practically gotten used to (again, for she’d all but ceased in using it since the first few months of their travels together… and honestly, what kind of friend acts that way for no reason), her gaze sharp as she stared him down.

“Hey wait!” he practically shouted, even going so far as to grab her hand and pull her softly back, forcing her to face him. Well, sorta. She refused to look him in the eye all of a sudden, and he swore her face looked a lot redder than what was normal.

“Wh - what?”

“Is something the matter? You’ve been treating me weird the past couple days.”

“Wh - huh?” she responded blankly, though the lack of ire lasted mere seconds before her brow knitted in irritation, lips pursing to keep herself from saying anything she’d regret too much as she tugged herself free from him and placed blunt and somewhat callused fists on her hips. “Why of course not, Mr. Pokemon Master. Don’t be silly! I’m treating you normal.”

No, you’re not, he thought automatically, somewhat frustrated but not enough to risk raising her temper by calling her out aloud.

No, I’m not, she internally relented but she shouldn’t have to point the obvious out to him and, really, she wasn’t emotionally prepared to be that open with him anyway. Maybe things would just have to be unfriendly between the two of them for awhile yet. They’d gotten through a rough patch before, right? They could do it again.

Because how could she tell him the reason she was so upset was due to another girl coming on to him? Kissing him on the cheek? Not to mention twice!

It hadn’t seemed to phase Ash quite as much the second time around but Misty, having only just found it in her to be honest about his importance to her, had not planned for Melody’s second attack just before their departure from Shamuti Island. The redhead had half a mind to ask if that had been more for her response than his but hadn’t gotten the opportunity.

But perhaps the most shocking part of it all was that Ash noticed anything was wrong to begin with. The only hope she had now was to keep from giving him anymore clues. About anythi--

--She was interrupted by a three or so second long soft and rather chapped pressure against her left cheek.

Wide-eyed, breath stifled somewhere between her lungs and throat, the redhead clamped both hands quickly over the victimized part of her face, doing her best to form an accusation.

“Wh - wha... what’re you doing, Mr. Pokemon Master? What was that?!” she whispered in an oddly high-pitched voice, face burning as bright as her hair looked, mind turning a little gooey despite her best attempts to stay vigilant.

“Uh... I guess it was a... kiss?” he replied, his face scrunching a little in distaste of the admission. He didn’t offer her anymore information off the bat, perhaps focusing more on his own reaction to such a choice. He’d never done that before after all, for anyone, and had never even been tempted in the past.

But while Misty had been thinking hard about Melody’s final transgression against her, kissing Ash on his cheek a second time before he and his friends left her home island, while she’d been resigning herself to her reigning temper and temporary fear that he’d somehow manage to put two and two together to figure out her feelings, he had returned to playing detective.

And the fact that he’d kept circling back to was that Misty had been angry again by the time their group left Shamuti. And she’d been angry within minutes of them first arriving on Shamuti. And somewhere towards the end of their latest perilous adventures in the archipelago region, she’d temporarily gotten over that feeling. So her anger didn’t seem to be tied to frustration over him getting caught up in something dangerous, nor did it have to do with her part in saving him from that something dangerous...

He’d acted instinctively, so swiftly after coming to his conclusion, that he too hadn’t had time to mentally prepare for its ramifications before kissing her chastely, intimately, on her cheek... just as Melody had done to him.

“But why did you kiss me, you dummy?” she practically squealed, eyes glinting though he couldn’t tell what emotion was clouded behind them.

“It, uh... I dunno,” he finally confessed after trying and failing to find a better excuse. “But you’ve been mad ever since Melody kissed me so... I figured this would help break the tension.”

Break the...

“You... Agh, Ash Ketchum!” she wailed finally in response, stomping her foot against the ferry’s deck and wishing desperately that it was his dumb face.

“Mwah! Was I wrong?” he yelped, leaping back a step, momentarily pursing his lips together afterwards as he replayed the moment where he leaned in and pressed them against her cheek, eyes squinting tightly shut. Weirdly, he hadn’t much minded such a gross decision but there was no time or energy to dwell on that at present.

“Gah! Of course you...” she began in reply, fists formed and looking mightily prepared to fight against something. But her anger burned to fumes rather quickly as she looked the oddly nervous boy up and down before it hit her... that he had no idea how deep this whole thing went, he couldn’t possibly fathom the details. He simply thought things were resolved now.

What a nice thought that was.

“... Maybe... you’re right, Ash.”

“I - I am?”

Misty sighed, blinking her eyes closed as they threatened to roll out of her head. A little romantic voice was screeching in joy at the back of her mind, the part of her that had knowingly declared herself to be Ash’s protector not more than two days ago. Most of her still seethed at his audacity to decide a kiss from him would quell her passionate fury but...

“Let’s just... call it even,” she abated, smiling faintly for the first time in at least a day, hands up in defeat.

He squinted suspiciously at her, unsure how to counter. Call it even... What had been uneven to begin with? He still didn’t know. Maybe such things were for the best. It was weird that his redheaded companion, usually so capable of holding a grudge, was acting so suddenly forgiving. But was it a good idea to look a gift Ponyta in the mouth? He certainly didn’t mind the idea of things returning to normal... even if a part of him now felt as though something different and new was burgeoning from deep down.

But Ash Ketchum has never been the observant type. And he generally had little to no patience for Misty Things™.

“Well, that’s good then... So we should go to bed?” he asked hopefully, pointing in the direction of the room their group was sharing.

“Oh, uh, you first. I still have to take care of something, y’know?” she replied, face tinged red once more for reasons unrelated to her romantic scope, reminding him what had made her venture out of bed in the first place.

Her rather smooth response reassured him that things would be fine though as they went their separate ways.

And by next morning, all was normal, mostly because both of them had convinced themselves that the kiss had either been some weird fantasy or some unexpected dream they had no option but to shake off.

But good luck trying to figure out who thought which.

#pokeshipping #fanfiction #flash fic #aaml #ash x misty #requests #anon #word count: 1796

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soupandtissues · 5 years

Text

Going Too Fast (4/?)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The angel has arrived!

Aziraphale held his breath as he slipped his key into the lock. It flashed green and he pushed the door halfway open.

“Crowley?”

No response, so he pushed the door all the way open to find the room empty.

It wasn’t the stark empty room that he had dreaded though, but that only heightened his worry along with a sense of confusion. The bed was mussed so obviously it had been slept in recently. His bag was open, but still where he’d left it. Crowley’s things were still around too, but there was no sign of the demon. If he felt under the weather it seemed strange that he’d go out. In fact his glasses were still on the table where he’d tossed them Wednesday night.

Now the sense of dread was working its way to proper terror. Had someone come for him?

“ESSHUUHu!”

Aziraphale jumped at the monstrous sneeze and turned towards the closed bathroom door. He sighed in relief and then rushed over to it.

“Crowley, may I come in? Are you decent?”

There was a mumbled response that sounded like “define decent,” and the door swung open.

“Oh, good lord.”

Crowley looked horrible. His hair was tangled and matted, framing his face that was far too pale. The door frame seemed to be doing all the hard work of keeping his body upright; a body that was only wearing one of Aziraphale’s sweaters and a pair of black shorts.

“Uh, hey.”

“Crowley, what on Earth-”

He was cut off as Crowley turned away from him, his nose, red and chapped, suddenly twitching and his eyelashes fluttering.

“Oh, not a-again-ehh I don’t want to sneeihhh-HEEH-ASSUUh! EESSAHHh! Huh-huh’ESSUHhh!”

The fit bent him at the waist and as he stood up he tried to grab the door frame again, but missed. Thankfully Aziraphale caught the bundle of disoriented limbs and gasped at the heat in his arms.

“Crowley, you’re burning up!”

Crowley said nothing, just looked at him with a hazy gaze like he didn’t actually believe he was really there.

“Come on you shouldn’t be standing,” Aziraphale said, and gently put his arm around his shoulders.

“ngh, go slow, dizzy.”

“Of course.”

Together they got across the room and Aziraphale carefully got him seated on the bed to get a better look at him.

“How long have you been like this?” the angel asked, keeping one hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Dunno, what day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Tuesday then no Thursday, Thursday. I was awake for Thursday right?”

Oh lord he’d been this ill when he’d called.

Without another word Aziraphale stood up and shifted the covers to get him in bed. Crowley didn’t protest just stared at the sweater he was wearing.

“If you’re getting your stuff I can give this back. Just…smelled like you, back when I could smell.”

“It’s fine keep it.”

Crowley gave a flimsy nod as Aziraphale tucked the covers in around him and placed the cool cloth he’d had earlier back on his forehead. It would have been perfect, or at least as perfect as one could get given the circumstances if it wasn’t for the slight prickle Crowley felt in the back of his nose. He sniffled thickly, but that only made it worse. He wanted to rub it away, but the covers made everything seem too heavy.

“Aziraphale, I neeehh need to ihhh-heh-heh…”

His angel nodded and grabbed a tissue, pressing it to his quivering nose just in time.

“huh’GGNSSHHuh!”

“Gesundheit.”

“I’b sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Crowley blew his nose half-heartedly into the tissue and kept his eyes closed afterwards. As if the act of keeping them open was just too exhausting. Aziraphale didn’t need to ask if he had a headache. The tightly closed drapes and the tension lines between the demon’s eyebrows easily told him the answer was yes. He remembered that Crowley had asked him to get aspirin, just one simple thing to make this easier and he had denied him it.

Ashamed Aziraphale sat down next to him and gently started working his fingers around Crowley’s head. Pressing certain spots to try and provide some relief and loosen up some of the strands of tangled hair.

“Angel.”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Don’t feel well.”

Aziraphale frowned as he saw how Crowley trembled so even under the covers. His poor serpent got chilled so easily. Snapping his fingers the blanket became a plush duvet similar to the one he knew Crowley had at home. Then he got under it with him.

“I know, dear,” Aziraphale said, letting Crowley curl around him and bury his face against his chest. “But don’t worry I’m here now. Everything is going to be all right.”

Part 5

#g/ood o/mens #snz fic #let the comfort begin #and a little bit more whump later just cause

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bet-your-ash · 4 years

Text

Sandy Ass

Cherry Tree: Chapter Three: Sandy Ass ~1,500 words masterlist | extras | << chap. 2 | chap. 4 >>

“Lila, I see spiders,” Ashley whined, clinging to Lilac’s arm as they walked under the boardwalk. Lilac rolled her eyes, not exactly annoyed by Ashley’s touchy feely habits that arose when she was scared, and said, “You’re so dramatic. They won’t hurt you. You know that out of forty thousand species of spiders, less than one tenth of one percent have been responsible for human deaths?”

Ashley just stared at her, and Lilac sighed. “What?”

“Numbers,” Ashley said with a grimace.

“Jesus,” Lilac muttered, smiling despite herself. “My point is, they’re not gonna hurt you. Besides, they’re smaller than you.” Ashley pursed her lips, eyeing a dark corner warily as they walked by. “Grenades are smaller than I am too,” she said. “Wanna tell me they can’t hurt me either?”

Lilac laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly correct,” Ashley said back, and Lilac just smiled and didn’t dignify her with a reply. A few seconds of silence passed before Ashley asked, “When’re we stopping, again? My feet hurt…”

Lilac raised an eyebrow, glancing down at Ashley’s flip flops. “Told you to wear sneakers.” Ashley huffed. “They’re new,” she said. “I don’t wanna get them dirty.” Lilac sighed. “You’ll never wear them anywhere with that mindset.”

“Lilaaaaaa,” Ashley dragged dramatically. “I’m so bored! What’re we even gonna do? There’s nothing to do under here besides twiddle our thumbs!” Lilac rolled her eyes. “Think. Sometimes we just need a second of silence.” She frowned, feigning curiosity. “Do you know what that word means? Silence?”

“Fuck off,” Ashley grumbled, crossing her arms across her chest petulantly.

Much to Ashley’s relief, Lilac stopped a few seconds later under a section uncovered by shrubs or people and gestured to the sea, open and blue, stretching out before them. “Here we go,” Lilac said. She sat down in the sand, leaned up against a wooden support for the boardwalk, and closed her eyes as she took a deep breath.

She peeked one eye open when a few too many seconds passed without a complaint from Ashley, and then closed it again when she saw her expression. Ashley was standing above her, her face contorted in an expression combining severe disgust and mild incredulousness.

“What’s wrong?” Lilac sighed.

“You want me to sit in the sand?”

“You do it all the time, Ash.”

“With a towel! In a swimsuit!”

Lilac opened her eyes. “Ashley,” she said firmly, “sit down.”

“I’m blaming you if people stare at my ass on the way back ‘cause it’s covered in sand.”

Lilac snickered. “People stare at your ass anyway,” she muttered under her breath, and Ashley scoffed a laugh and flipped her off. “Impossible!” she exclaimed, and Lilac grinned. “Impossibly correct,” she mimicked, raising her voice a bit.

Ashley rolled her eyes. “What were you saying about a second of silence?”

Lilac let her jaw drop dramatically, mocking disbelief. “Ashley Maxwell, asking for peace and quiet - never thought I’d see the day.” Ashley put her head in her hands and groaned, “Shut up,” as she finally sat down across from Lilac.

Lilac just let the silence linger, watching the waves crash against the shore and the moon sparkle against the inky night sky. Ashley looked up a moment later, glancing at Lilac before following her gaze to the sea. She opened her mouth to say something, but then looked back at Lilac’s happy expression and decided against it.

They sat like that for only a few minutes before Ashley moved to sit next to Lilac, who scooched over a bit to let her lean against the wood. “We’re graduates,” Ashley whispered, and Lilac nodded, keeping her gaze on the water. “Sure are.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Ashley bit her lip.

“Have you ever been to the drive in?” she asked softly.

“Nope.”

“Wanna go?”

Lilac finally met her eyes, an eyebrow raised, and said, “Why? Thought you had a traumatizing date with the idiot from your calc class there…” Ashley shook her head. “Nope. That was the diner behind school. But I’ve never been to that theater, and… Shouldn’t we go before… I dunno, before we’re adults?”

Ashley felt a flash of panic at getting rejected as Lilac paused, but then it was washed away when a smile curved Lilac’s lips and she nodded. “Yeah. Sounds fun.” Ashley grinned. “Bet your ass it does. More fun than this mess, anyway.”

“Bar’s not too high,” Lilac sighed, and Ashley’s grin widened. “Ha!” she exclaimed. “Agree with me, then, do you? This isn’t as, uh… exhilarating as you thought it’d be, huh?” Lilac smiled as she rolled her eyes, shaking her head, and began to get up.

But Ashley stopped her, putting a hand on her arm and sending an electric shock through her body, and said, “Wait, wait - I’ve never seen the sunrise on the beach, either. Let’s stay? For the bucket list?”

Lilac scoffed. “Oh, so now you wanna stay?”

“Shut up and sit down, sandy ass.”

“Sandy ass,” Lilac echoed with a grin. “That’s a new one.”

“A new, impossibly correct one.”

“Oh, shush,” Lilac murmured, settling back down beside her.

There, they sat for hours. They bickered back and forth, remembering various high school shenanigans and watching the waves, until Lilac heard Ashley’s breaths slow and felt her head rest on her shoulder as she fell asleep.

Lilac smiled at the sea, and closed her eyes, and fell asleep happy.

***

Lilac woke up first. It must have been fate, because the sun was just peeking up from the horizon as her eyes fluttered open, and, resisting the urge to kiss her awake, Lilac gently nudged Ashley’s arm to wake her.

“Hey,” Lilac said softly. “Hey, your bucket list’s calling.”

“Tell it to fuck off,” Ashley mumbled.

Lilac grinned and shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Ash. My back feels like shit - I’m not spending another night under the boardwalk for you.” Ashley groaned but opened her eyes, stretching her arms above her head before waiting two seconds and promptly falling back on the sand.

“Ashley,” Lilac said. “The sun’s coming up.”

“Can it wait?”

“You’re missing it…”

Finally, Ashley sighed and sat up, rubbing at her eyes, and Lilac turned to watch the sun.

It really was quite the sight. Wisps of clouds tugged at the sun’s rays, pulling hues of magenta and orangey gold as the sun made its way to the sky. Seagulls flew above them, looking almost majestic, silhouetted against the sun.

“Hey, Li?” Ashley said softly.

Lilac glanced at her, not one bit sorry to miss the beautiful scene in front of her in exchange for Ashley’s morning glow, and Ashley gave a little smile that warmed Lilac’s heart more than the sun ever could.

“Thanks for doing this,” Ashley murmured.

Lilac grinned. “It’s my pleasure. I was the one who wanted to come down here, remember?” Ashley gave a half laugh, but Lilac frowned when she saw that the laugh didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Lilac asked.

Ashley cleared her throat. “Thanks for, uh… thanks for dealing with me,” she said.

Lilac smiled, nudging her foot with her own. “Thanks for dealing with me.”

“No, seriously,” Ashley said. “I know I can be annoying, and you’ve… You’ve really stuck by me, huh? After all these years?” She bit her lip, looking down as she played with a loose thread on the sweatshirt Lilac had given her the night before when she’d complained about being cold. “Just… thanks for that.” She looked back up, giving a small smile. “You’re a really good friend, Li.”

Ignoring the twinge that really good friend sent through her heart, Lilac smiled back and said, “So’re you, Ash. I never would have made it through school without you.” Ashley finally gave a real smile and gave Lilac’s shoulder a gentle push. “Bet your ass you wouldn’t have!”

Lilac grinned as she rolled her eyes. “Stupid of me to think the second of sincerity would last more than a second.” Ashley blinked. “That was way too haughty a sentence to use casually, dude,” she said after a second, standing up.

Taking Ashley’s hand as she offered it, Lilac stood up too. “Haughty itself is a haughty word, hypocrite,” she told Ashley, and Ashley grinned. “I think the conclusion here is that we’re both haughty.”

“I’ll agree to that,” Lilac said, nodding as they walked back towards home. Ashley frowned, biting her lip a bit, and went on, “I mean, obviously you’re just a little more haughty since you started it, but -”

Lilac scoffed. “You’re haughtier just ‘cause you said that!”

“We could do this all day,” Ashley sighed.

“You’re the one who brought it back up!”

“You’re the one who started it!”

They bickered all the way back home, and fell asleep together in the tree house like they’d done many times before.

***

🍒 la fin 🍒

aaaand another very cheesy one!!! this was super fun to write hehe so we hope you enjoyed!!!! if you did, and wanna be a gem, you can reblog and give us some feedback here!

***

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#writing #writeblr #oc #fluff #original writing #creative writing #wip #wips #ocs #cherry tree #sandy ass #also don't mind us posting an hour late 😊#anyway!!!! hope u enjoyed and see u wednesday!!!!#muah

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