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keelywolfe · 3 years

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FIC: Pity in Short Supply (baon)

Summary: In the aftermath of the kidnapping, Red has a few thoughts. There's a reason he's always called 'em liabilities.

Tags: Kustard, Domestic, Established Relationship, Sans/Underfell Sans, Aftermath of a kidnapping, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus, Background Spicyhoney, A Touch of Lemon Goodness

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

By the time the sun was thinking about hopping over the horizon and getting started on its daily workout, the warehouse parking lot was starting to clear out. All the ambulances were long since gone, the only one of ‘em with a person in the back was the guy who was still stuck in that weird foam shit.

Red didn’t believe in karma; he’d spent much too long eating shit himself for that, but if there was any lingering threads of justice still clinging stubbornly in the air, it’d take a long, painful time to get that fucker loose.

Most of the Embassy Security teams were heading back with all the evidence stacked in their backseats and Red was standing in a shadowed corner away from the streetlights watching them pack it in. Some of ‘em would start working on interviewing the kidnappers who didn’t need a few hours to cut them loose from a little chemical warfare, along with the agents the FBI shipped their way. Some were gonna work on getting shit together for the inevitable interviews with the kidnappees sometime this afternoon. Red had some pull and plenty of strings to yank, but even he wasn’t gonna be able to hold back the tide of questions much longer than that.

There was probably gonna be a fit pitched somewhere along the line that he’d sent his trouble twins home to sleep before getting much info, but Red would have to hula that hoop when it rolled in. Wasn’t only about Stretch, it was about his bro; there was only so much the boss could take before he slammed face-first into his breaking point and he’d been skating a little too fucking close tonight for Red’s taste. Better to let him take his pretty little liability home, clean him up, spend a li’l time rubbing his scent all over him again like a dog in heat and wasn’t it a damn good thing none of ‘em could piss.

The last thing any of ‘em needed was his bro snapping and hauling his honey away like a shorter, skinnier, bald version fucking King Kong.

(and was the memory of his brother's bleak face as he sat there waiting for answers while Red lied out promises about getting his liability back in one piece gonna haunt his nightmares, fuck yes, 'course it was, gotta balance those books somehow, there was always a price, he'd learned that lesson fast while he was still carrying his baby bro on the streets. always a price, fucking always)

Red wasn’t too worried about losing any info, anyway. Wasn’t much chance of Stretch forgetting much, not with that eidetic memory of his. Not being able to forget was half of his fucking problems to begin with.

Out in the mostly deserted parking lot, the last couple agents were finished packing up their car, not even seeming to give him a second glance as they climbed in. ‘Seeming’ was the real shit there, to anyone who wasn’t used to watching. The driver, a deceptively slender deer Monster, their antlers cut stylishly down, paused just long enough for their eyes to flick his way. The subtlest of looks, but that was it. They didn’t make a show of asking if Red wanted a ride, didn’t play any ego trips over spotting him, just hopped into the car and sped off.

Good instincts. Red made a mental note to keep an eye on that one. Good, not great, ‘cause they didn’t notice the one standing further back behind him, the guy who took up the best shadows before Red even showed up.

He stepped up now, hands stuffed into his pockets as he shuffled his way to stand next to Red, untied shoelaces dragging on the damp asphalt. They stood there together while the first unbearable rim of sunlight crested and took the shadows with it, bathing them in painful, golden light.

Red pulled out a cigar and bit off the end, spitting it to the ground. He lit a match with a flick of his thumb and held the tip in the wavering flame. When the end was smoldering, he flicked the match into the puddle, the faint hiss of it extinguishing unheard as he asked in a cloud of exhaled smoke, “how’s it going, sansy?”

Red was looking at the empty parking lot, the puddles dotting it like a scattering of miniature lakes across a land of broken asphalt, so he didn’t see Sans shrug, but he could feel it, a ripple in the still air around them. “went like clockwork. we planned for this sort of shit, you know, planned it out for years. worked out possible sceneries with fuzzybuns, toriel, all the diplomats.” Sans’s ever-present smile widened humorousness, “even had a few for edge and stretch, guess we shoulda brainstormed on those ones a little more. don’t know if we coulda come up with that one, though. drugging him was always a contingency, but no one guessed they’d strip his ass down and lose every damn tracker on him.” Another tight shrug, one quick. cramped motion, “we’ll know better next time.”

The plume of smoke rising from Red’s cigar curled in the air, drifting like a mist in the dawn light. Red watched it and nothing else, letting his sockets fall half-closed as he followed the wispy path with his eye lights. “ain’t asking about the fucking ops. how’s it going, sansy.”

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the rough scrape of gravel shifting under Sans’s feet as he rocked on his heels. “you know, i took up with the security department for paps,” Sans said conversationally. “wanted to keep a close eye on him when he went traipsing around the big bad world to spread the good word. back underground, that whole sentry schtick was an excuse for a paycheck, i wasn’t guarding anything but my own g and a nap.”

“yeah?” Red stuck his cigar between his teeth and bit down, tasting the scatter of soggy, bitter tobacco on his tongue as the jagged tips tore through the fragile wrapper. “that so, sweetheart?”

“yeah, that’s so, dollface,” Sans chuckled mirthlessly. “little ironic, ain’t it, that it turns out i’m good at this shit. who would’ve thought.”

“yeah, never woulda guessed a judge might not be bad at the whole diggin’ up covert info,” Red shook his head sadly, “a shock, really, that ya could put that empty skull of yers to some good use.”

“sweet talker. gonna end up sleeping downstairs with the cat you keep that shit up.”

“fuck, don’t do that,” Red shuddered. “already worried if i don’t get up fast enough to feed that bitch, she’d gnaw off my pinky toe before i wake up.”

“that picky little shit wouldn’t eat you if you rolled yourself up like sushi and slathered on caviar.” Sans hesitated, then asked, softer, “how’s stretch doing?”

“like shit.” Red didn’t bother to cushion it; his pity came sparingly and Sans could take it. “he’s got his judge all cranked up to eleven. caught a helluva glimpse of me when i got here, thought he was gonna puke on my shoes.”

Sans let out a long, ragged exhale. “that’s my fault,” he said bleakly, “i got him to hit his on switch to look for that lost kid, should’ve known he’d have a hard time shutting it down again.”

“maybe.” Red wasn’t too concerned about it. If Stretch wanted to retire and shove all that down into the dark, wasn’t any dust off his ass, but the only way he’d lose it entirely would be if someone ripped it out of him by way of a dustpan. “if those fuckers hadn’t tried to pull a limburger baby on the kid, then it woulda died back down on its own.”

This time Sans chuckle was more real, a little honest humor creeping in. “don’t let stretch hear you call him kid, he’s already got his panties twisted halfway up his spine.”

Red scoffed, tapping away the ash gathering at the tip of his cigar. “honey bun might be the same age as us, but he ain’t as old as we are. don’t matter how the universe tried to age him up.”

The sound Sans made might’ve been a hum of agreement or the juicy, hawking prelude to spitting. The sun hadn’t had a chance to chase away the evening chill and Sans’s jacket was zipped up against it. Over the tab of his zipper, nearly concealed by neckline of his hood, Red could see the glossy rim of well-oiled dark leather, the slightest glint of metal. He let himself look at it for a long moment, take a sip of dark satisfaction at seeing his collar right where it was supposed to be. Then he looked away, back across the empty, crumbling parking lot.

Sans didn’t try to touch him, only shifted his stance until their fingers brushed in a way that could pretend to be accidental, bone lightly scraping bone.

“we should get going,” Red said. The sun was climbing higher, the stars giving way to gauzy, useless clouds. At least stars were interesting, a reminder there was another Aboveground than this one, another path upward that might someday be reached. “we got a lot of shit to do downtown.”

“we do,” Sans agreed. He tipped his head in Red’s direction, slanting him a glance out of the corner of his socket. His eye lights were tinted golden by the sunrise, sly and knowing in a way that had nothing to do with magic. “want me to blow you in the stairwell before we take off?”

Red didn’t wait for him to finish, tossing his half-burned cigar into a puddle, dousing it and sending a splash of ripples through the still water. “fuck, yes.”

He followed Sans into the warehouse and in moments he was braced against the rusty handrail with his shorts around his ankles in the dust, shuddering at the feel of that hot, wet mouth around him, worshiping his cock with lovingly sinful familiarity. Every inch of his focus was taken up by that and there wasn’t room to think about a single other thing. Not even the phantom sensation of metaphorically getting flayed alive by a wild orange gaze, the unexpected, needle-sharp feel of every one of his sins digging in their spidery claws as they crawled up his spine.

He didn’t think about it at all.

-fin

#kustard #sancest #spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underfell sans #sans #by any other name

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pallasperilous · 4 years

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Funny Bone

The other day Supernatural9917 threw out this meme as a cracky Halloween Dean/Cas prompt and I was SO MAD, because I then had to write it:

And so here it is. Goddammit.

Funny Bone

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761150 Words: 4930 Castiel/Dean Winchester Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, No Angels AU, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Gore Mature (mentions of lewd acts, canon-typical violence, and some truly horrible pickup lines)

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland. It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

Discovering the bunker in the first place was a helluva surprise. The whole facility is legitimately batshit; Dead Guys of Letters knew how to live (and, apparently, die. All at once.).

But after plowing through a dozen rooms worth of priceless treasures and crusty boobytraps, even Sam was looking kinda full up on shock and awe.

“We can hit the basement tomorrow,” he said. There was a big smudge of dust across his nose and some cobwebs in his hair.

“Nuh uh,” Dean answered, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot. “If there’s shit still kicking down there, we gotta clean it out before it cleans us out. It’s that or we’re sleepin’ in the car.”

“Ugh,” Sam said, as if twenty minutes ago he hadn’t been losing his mind over a rare book about werewolf hemorrhoids.

So discovering that the basement included a no-shit actual dungeon felt more like an unanticipated bonus, and stumbling across a skeleton while exploring it barely even registered. Skeletons and dungeons! They go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor, inside a big circle of greasy black ash. It looked a little mildewy in in places. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.

It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

“Welp,” Dean had said, holstering his gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re all clear. Let’s head back upstairs, salt the shit out of everything, and then we can pick up some groceries.”

“Do I get to buy a vegetable that doesn’t fit in a bun, or are we still in the refractory period?” Sam snarked from the corridor.

“I don’t see you cookin’, “ Dean started, shuffling back towards the hall, and that’s when the skeleton butted in.

“Are those astronaut pants?” it asked. “Because your ass is outta this world!”

Dean absolutely did not scream, but it’s possible there was a yelp.

He almost unloaded a clip into it – unclear what that would’ve possibly done, but it’s good to start with the simple, available solutions. Next he nabbed the lighter fluid off of Sam and dumped out half a pound of kosher salt as a chaser and set the fucker alight.

This does not have the intended effect.

“Baby, I’d like to put my meat on your grill,” the skeleton says, greenish flames dancing between its ribs, “because you’re hot, and I’m smokin’.” Then it sits up a little, just enough to shoot Dean some finger guns.

“What the fuck,” Dean says.

Sam makes a little evaluatory noise. “Sexually harassed by a skeleton,” he chuckles. “I think that’s a new one. Even for you. Is that a new one? I know a lot of strange shit went down in Purgatory.”

The skeleton perks up even more at that, grungy eye sockets sweeping up and down Dean’s body. “Are you a time traveler?” it asks. (Maybe he asks, because the voice is pretty deep and dude-ish, although possibly just on account of its vocal cords being leather shoelaces.)

“Wh…no, I’m not a time traveler,” Dean fibs. He’s more of a time trafficking victim, anyway. “Oh, wait, god,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking that because –“

“– I can see you in my future,” the skeleton finishes, eagerly, and Dean really wishes this thing had eyebrows so he could tell if they’re waggling.

“Yeah, okay. That’s enough for today,” Dean groans. “I need a drink.” He starts to back out of the room as a pre-emptive strike against Bones commenting on how he hates to see Dean leave, but loves to watch him go. Dean’s working on stumbling back again Sam’s left shoe when the skeleton pipes up one last time, this time with a husky, anxious edge.

“I realize that Purgatory isn’t accessible through a simple chronological shift,” it says, teeth chattering. “But it does require travel between modalities, and if you’re capable of that, I would very much like to speak with you again.”

Dean and Sam’s heads slowly swivel back towards the skeleton, like two little pizzas on the same Lazy Susan.

An hour later, they’re still in the dungeon, working on dousing the skeleton with every possible anti-bad-stuff solution they’ve got, just in case he’s a vampire skeleton or a ghoul skeleton or a witch skeleton or maybe just a wendigo that’s incredibly bad at its job. In between progress reports, he’s still hitting on Dean.

“Dude, don’t you have an off switch somewhere?” Dean asks him.

“Well, Dean, you certainly make me feel like a light switch,–“

“– because you turn me on,” all three of them say in unison.

The skeleton looks a little embarrassed, which is kind of impressive when you think about it. “You’ve…heard that one before?” he asks.

“I spend a lot of time in bars,” Dean deadpans. “Okay, sage is a no-go.”

Sam strikes a line off on the clipboard he found upstairs. “Is this part of a curse or something?” he asks, glancing up at Bones. “Like on top of being a sentient skeleton, you can only speak in horrible pickup lines?”

The skeleton shakes his head, which produces a sound Dean recognizes from his kneecaps on cold mornings. “No, the spellwork allows me to speak freely on most subjects; except who I am, or how to free me. But it’s helpful to use language modern humans can easily understand.”

“Huh. Well, in a way, it is Dean’s native tongue,” Sam says, smirking.

“You shut your face,” Dean hisses.

“When I first saw you, I lost my tongue. Can I try yours on for size?” Bones asks Dean.

“Buddy, I don’t know where you get your information from, but nobody actually talks that way,” Dean tells him. “Nobody sober, anyway. Who isn’t a virgin.”

The skeleton slumps. “I learned from my last visitor. He tried to release me on several occasions, but he either died or abandoned the project.”

Dean arches a brow. “The project being…you?”

“I would be very valuable under the right circumstances.” The skeleton shrugs and casually holds out an arm for Dean to scrape at with the demon blade. “He gave me lessons in modern vernacular as a way to pass our time together.”

“Sounds like a peach,” Dean says, before he can catch himself. “If you have a peach-related pickup line in there, man, you’d better just sit on it.”

“That’s what-“

“I will smash you with a hammer,” Dean barks.

The skeleton relents, but with obvious reluctance.

They call it quits before Kansas rolls up the sidewalk for the night and leaves them stranded with nothing but two Clif bars and a gross of septuagenarian cans of franks ’n beans. Bones shifts nervously when Dean leaves – “Which is better, pancakes or waffles?” he asks.

“Pancakes,” Dean says, with a sense of grim duty.

“Because I’d like to know what you’re making me for breakfast,” says Bones, his voice trailing off as Dean books it down the stony corridor.

By lunch the next day (bologna sandwiches, so sue him, he’ll make something good later) they’re pretty sure that Bones doesn’t pose any known, immediate threat – other than to Dean’s sanity – so they switch gears to springing him. Maybe he will be worth something, or maybe he’ll crumble into dust and Be Free, or maybe he’ll just stop being chained to the basement wall, in which case he can become their skeleton butler or something.

There are weird runes on the ankle cuff, so Sam snaps some quick photos and heads upstairs to feel up the library. This leaves Dean in the basement with Bones, some good old-fashioned power tools, and Bones’s ex-suitor’s gross sense of humor.

“You know I can understand you just fine when you’re talking normally,” Dean says. “You’re just reciting some prehistoric shit that idiots say to girls to get a pity-laugh, hoping it leads to a pity-fuck.”

“What’s a pity-fuck?” Bones asks, all mildewy innocence. Dean’s pretty sure the grunge in his eyeball sockets is dried eyeball.

“Pretty much what it says on the tin, my guy,” Dean answers, and reaches for the acetylene torch.

“Enochian,” Sam says, when Dean surfaces for another sandwich and possibly a beer. He’s really disappointed about the torch.

“Gesundheit?” Dean replies, around a mouthful of bologna. Like everything else here, the kitchen is pretty schwa, although the inside of the fridge required three exorcisms and half a jug of bleach.

Sam paws around the smelly old book in a way that makes Dean feel sorry for the girls Sam dated in high school. “The symbols on the cuff. I think they’re Enochian. It’s a fake celestial language made up by some sixteenth century con artists.”

Dean coughs up a bit of Wonder Bread. “I respect the hustle, but what’s it doing on an ankle cuff in a dungeon younger than Mickey Mouse?”

Sam frowns. “Well, it could be for show. But just because some nutbars made it up doesn’t mean it’s totally powerless. Maybe it does have some kind of…heavenly mojo.”

“Liwl probbem,” Dean observes, finishing off his sandwich. “Def nuh heggen.”

“Huh?”

Dean takes a swallow of beer. “I said: there’s no heaven.”

Sam shrugs. “We didn’t think there was a Purgatory, either.”

“Okay, but if we find out angels are real,” Dean snorts, “then Bones can fuck me in the ass.”

Sam reports his findings to Bones, who sits placidly on the back of his pelvis, carpals splayed out on his kneecaps. What’s even holding him together? Dean can see what’s left of his ligaments, but they look like petrified gas station jerky.

“Do you know what they mean?” Sam asks him, pointing at the sigils.

Bones’s jaw creaks open a little, then closes again, and then he shakes his skull (something rattles inside.) Finally he makes a little frustrated noise and replies – “Baby, are you a book? Because I’d like to check you out.”

“Hey!” says Dean. “Keep it in your pants, man, I’m right here.”

Sam squints. “I think…Dean, I think he’s trying to tell us something, but the spell on him means he can’t say it directly.”

Bones clenches his fists, releases them, clenches them again.

“Yeah. Keep him talking. Let’s see how close he can get.”

Clack clack clack.

“Uh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Do I need to, like. Give you some kinda opening?” he asks Bones.

“Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better,” Bones answers, then clacks his knuckles on his brow with exasperation.

“Sorry, Christ. Hit me with your best shot, buddy. Dealer’s choice.”

Bones clears his…ghost throat? and tries: “Tell me, Dean…did it hurt?”

Dean blinks. “When I…fell from heaven?”

Sam claps his hands. “Fucking knew it. It is Enochian, and it does have something to do with this. I think he wants me to check the library for another book. Maybe there’s one misshelved or something that I can actually use to translate. Or I can Google around, maybe there’s a subreddit.”

Dean’s pretty sure Bones has never heard of a Google or a subreddit (for that matter, does Dean actually know what a subreddit is?), but it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope deep in those scum-holes.

Sam gets translations for a few of the words – “obedience” and something he’s fifty percent sure means “millstone” – but the rest is still gobbledygook, and he hasn’t come down with another update in hours. The dungeon is pretty roomy, but it’s not like there’s a foosball table or a cable TV pickup down there, so Dean and Bones wind up lying on the cold-ass ground, staring up into the dark reaches of the ceiling together and, like. Chatting.

Occasionally Bones goes quiet and Dean glances over at him. He really could just be a totally normal, completely dead dungeon skeleton. A good power washing and the right mounting hardware and he’d be ready for a high school biology classroom.

“So if these runes are a celestial thing, does that mean you’re some kinda demonic...thing?” Dean asks. “Cause I gotta say, you’re a much less of a douche than the demons I’ve met.” He snorts. “I know you probably can’t say.”

Bones sighs (how? With what lungs?). “The last person who tried to free me was a demon.” He shifts a little, maybe surprised that he can say this out loud. “It had been so long since somebody had spoken to me…I’m afraid I came close to actually enjoying his company. But he was no better than his kind usually are.”

“Don’t suppose you caught his name? Maybe Sam or me killed him for you already.”

“He called himself—no, I can’t say it.” He makes a sound resembling a harumph.

Then his skull creaks over to look at Dean. “Does your name start with ‘C’?” he says, very deliberately.

Dean is momentarily puzzled, but he works it out by the time Bones wincingly adds “…because I’ve got a D that wants to come behind you.”

There aren’t too many demons under the “C” tab in Dean’s blood-stained mental rolodex, and when he says the name out loud, Bones makes a sound like an entire set of dominos being thrown down a spiral staircase.

Crowley is pretty pissed, which is fun.

It’s nice that the dungeon floor already has a perfect trap on the floor; they don’t even have to hit up Ace Hardware for paint. A damp shop cloth and a little nail polish (Wet ’n Wild in “Red Red,” don’t leave home without it) brings it right up to working order.

“Why does it smell like a nail salon fucked a bloody wine cellar?” Crowley says, after he’s settled down a bit. He manifested right in the creepy torture chair (in the shackles, even! What service!) and he made some escape attempts followed by angry noises about rust stains. Now he’s recovered his dignity and has kicked back a bit, legs crossed, fingers steepled, oozing maximum levels of 2 cool 4 school.

“How do you know what a nail salon smells like?” Dean retorts.

“I get a monthly mani-pedi. There’s no shame in a little self-care, boys.” Crowley’s eyes trickle down to their feet. “Imagine what fungal horrors those work boots must conceal.” Then he squints, and looks up, finally taking in the whole room. “Could swear I’ve been here before. Little upscale for you, isn’t it? Did we splurge for a vacation rental?”

“Crowley, why don’t we roleplay Titanic?” Bones growls from the wall behind him, and Crowley’s face goes slack. “I’ll be the iceberg, and you can go down.”

Crowley swallows and slowly twists back, as far as the shackles let him. “Feathers, is that you? Well, as I live and breathe.”

“You do neither,” says Bones, with so much gravelly contempt that Dean suppresses a little shiver.

“Oh, I still breathe now and then, when the mood takes me. I’m a sentimentalist.” Crowley cranes his neck a little harder and squints into the dim. “Goodness, you’ve dropped some weight since we last spoke, haven’t you. Finally let go of all that pesky soft tissue?”

Bones tilts forward and kind of clatters onto hands and knees, then tipsily begins to rise up to standing. Dean’s a little concerned he’s gonna topple right over and they’re gonna spend the next two hours collecting him in a basket, but when he moves to help out, Bones waves him off. After a couple false starts he makes it up onto his feet bones and then shuffles out to the end of his chain, right under one of the overhead lights. He’s still a good couple feet off from Crowley, but Crowley looks like he wouldn’t mind a few extra acres.

Bones sways a little bit, just enough for Crowley to wince. “You didn’t come back.”

“I got busy.”

Sam shifts impatiently. “What is he?” he snaps, gesturing at Bones.

“Exceedingly dull,” Crowley says. “I should’ve guessed you were friends.”

Dean uncorks a fresh bottle of holy water.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley amends, quickly. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’d be like giving a laptop to a pair of howler monkeys.”

Dean puts his thumb over the mouth of the water bottle and holds it over Crowley’s head. “Try me.”

Crowley scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he is, since he’s useless as long as he’s chained up. And I wouldn’t have left him down here if I had a single clue how to smuggle him out. I haven’t even been in here since the Bay of Pigs; I’d worked a loophole in one of the defense spells here that let me in. When it broke down, I lost my exploit. Wasn’t worth the bother after that.”

Dean slides his thumb a millimeter north of a perfect seal, and a fat drop of water busts its ass open on Crowley’s forehead and sends up a thin line of steam. “Good thing I’ve got a limitless supply of bother,” Dean notes. “Sam, we still got those syringes in the trunk?”

Crowley snarls. “Go ahead and melt me like the cartoon shoe in Roger Rabbit, it’s not going magically make me come up with a solution.”

Bones grunts and rattles his leg chain. “Do you speak Spanish, Crowley? Because you look like the Juan for me.”

“Did I teach you that one? You absolute xylophone.” Crowley glances back at Dean. “Do your worst, Squirrel, I deserve it.”

Sam frowns. “He uses the lines to get around the spell’s speech restrictions. This is something about speaking languages…were you able translate the Enochian symbols on his cuff?”

Crowley blinks. “What symbols?”

After a whole lot of faffing around with mirrors and terrible cellphone photography, they confirm that Crowley can’t see the symbols at all.

“More demon-proofing. Clever little buggers, those Men of Letters,” Crowley sighs. “A real shame they were peeled and eaten like bananas.”

Finally Sam just hunkers down with a pencil and pad to transcribe the entire ankle cuff, and Dean awkwardly holds up Bones’s ankle, like he’s being sized for a glass slipper. When they shove the results in Crowley’s face, Dean watches his eyes dart along the words.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, boys. Along with the usual wankery, there are instructions on how to release the cuff. I can translate it,” he finally says, with an unusually low inflection of bullshit, “but I’ll thank you to release me, first.”

Dean is flummoxed. “What, you’re not gonna haggle for a cut of the profits or anything?”

“Activating the release mechanism will free him completely, and restore his…restore him. I’d rather be at a safe distance.” He glances back at Bones, looming in the shadows. “A continent or three should do the trick.”

“If it doesn’t work–“

“I’d be more worried about what happens if it does,” Crowley sighs. “But feel free to summon me back for tea and sympathy. Here, I’ll even give you my number. But please, no personal photography. I pity you enough as it is.”

Crowley finally smokes out, and Dean has a beer to celebrate while Sam looks over the list of what they need and Bones clatters his fingertips like castanets. The ingredients are (as always) larded with shit that’s exotic and expensive; Sam is looking crestfallen at some of the items. “I’ve heard of all of this, but I’ve only seen maybe half of it for sale anywhere.”

“Baby, are you a yard sale? Because you’ve got some serious junk in that trunk,” Bones monotones. He’s back to lying on the floor.

At least it’s getting easier to translate this shit. “They’ve got all the ingredients here somewhere,” Dean says. Sam looks skeptical. “C’mon, Sam, no way these dudes would use a lock when they didn’t have the key.”

The ensuing scavenger hunt takes a few pints of elbow grease, but at least by the end they’re both familiar with the Bunker’s floor plan, document filing system, and inventory records. They find virtually everything in-house, though they do end up driving to the nearest farm stand for some hen’s eggs and rosemary (and heirloom tomatoes, because they look bomb).

Dean christens – or maybe exorcises – the kitchen range with some red meat, and they fuel up with burgers before taking the plunge. Dean’s still licking the ketchup off his fingers when Bones pipes up one last time. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

Dean and Sam brace for impact.

Bones sighs. “That’s not the start of a pickup line. I genuinely have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you so intent on freeing me? You could have just left me down here. I’m not a threat this way. You only have Crowley’s word that you might profit - or suffer - from my release.”

Sam gives Dean a look; it’s the look that says I sure hope you have an answer, because I think this entire thing has been dumb as shit and half as necessary. It’s a look Sam uses pretty regularly.

“Uh. It’s the right thing to do? As far as I can tell, you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything else to deserve being down here. We went through all those records upstairs, and there’s no note that says ‘by the way, that skeleton downstairs eats babies for breakfast.’ This place is cool, but the dudes who built it were obviously shady as fuck.”

“I see.” Bones sounds a little disappointed.

Sam fake-coughs into his hand, and Dean sets down his paper napkin. “Also, you seem cool. Like, you’re easy to hang out with. Other than the stinky one-liners, and we’re gonna wean you off of those.”

Bones straightens himself out a little. “Thank you, Dean. You know, on a scale of one to ten, I’d rate you a nine.”

“Okay, okay. Why not a ten?”

Bones sets his chin on his knuckle bones with a tidy little clack. “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”

Dean groans, but he thinks the guy might be smiling, somewhere behind that skeletal grin.

By hour two, Sam’s pretty tuckered out from pulverizing a billion and three mummified dove livers while reciting nonsense syllables, and Dean’s right arm is about to fall off from holding up this giant silver swizzle stick that’s either a really weird short sword or a decorative javelin, but Bones has never looked perkier. He’s lying on a nice white bedsheet and looking fresh as a recently exhumed daisy.

“Okay,” Sam rasps. “Light the candle and we should be good to go. Any last words, Bones?”

“Are either of you religious?” He crosses his arm bones over each other.

“Fuck no,” Dean answers, before Sam gets a chance to launch into it.

Bones shakes his skull fondly. “You should reconsider. Because you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Dean makes a gagging noise and lights the candle.

What happens next (well, after the cuff pops open) is some of the freakiest shit that Dean has ever seen, and his Freaky CV is pretty fucking impressive, thanks. Bones tells them to avert their eyes, “just in case”, but he takes a peek between his fingers anyway, because he’s an idiot.

For a second Bones is just lying there, and Dean has a second of real disappointment that maybe he’s Moved On Past The Veil or something, but then he starts…foaming. It starts out kind of uniform and colorless, but then it really picks up speed and volume and starts to separate into swaths of distinct and horrible colors and textures. He closes his eyes again for a second to give his stomach a chance to reboot, and when he looks again the foam is gone, and instead there’s a whole lot of angry jelly trying to form into organs.

Just as the jelly is really getting its shit together and looking more like lungs and intestines and stuff, the heart-jelly pulses once and sends out a fistful of big squishy vines…veins? and a fat white worm of nerve scrambles down the spinal column and starts putting out franchises. This is followed by some disturbingly tasty-looking red sheets of muscle that swiftly sheathe over all the whole scene, and then the muscles start sweating out fat and cartilage and this is the point where Dean decides that looking away is actually definitely one hundred percent for the best. Even then, the sounds are tough to handle.

Kinda wild: he’s seen people taken apart, but watching one get put back together is somehow gnarlier. Well, if this guy is even a person. It’s a human skeleton, sure, but god knows even Mickey Rourke has one under there.

Finally everything seems to have quieted down.

“How you doin’ over there, Bones?” Dean asks, and dares to take a peek.

Bones is crouched down in front of them, fists balled up in the bedsheets (it’s a relief that the bedsheets didn’t get accidentally sucked into the muscle layer or something, like one of those surgeons who leaves a sponge behind). Dean sees white guy skin and some dark messy hair and gets the gist of a decent build.

The face slowly cranes upwards, and Dean is really truly ready for anything here; tusks, fangs, Klingon forehead ridges, gingivitis. Instead he gets a faceful of hot math teacher. Bones’s eyes are still closed, but he’s frowning like he’s mentally reviewing his strategy to explain the quadratic equation to a roomful of horny teens.

He slowly rises to standing (yikes! Naked! Dean is a Moderately Bad Man, so he glances, but just long enough to register “nice), uncurling slowly and carefully.

Then he’s all the way up. Bones squares his shoulders and straightens the last kink in his spine, and the frown resolves. Dean’s about to say something, when his eyes snap open, and this cold white light absolutely blasts out of them, and fuck, Crowley wasn’t kidding: this guy is definitely A Thing. The whole room flattens and distorts in the light. Shadows race up the walls like they’re looking for a way out, then snap together into the shape of enormous ragged wings, stretching thirty feet higher than the actual ceiling clearance.

Then the light dies down; the wings fade into regular-grade shadows. Instead of a terrifying unearthly avatar of Oh Shit, Dean’s looking at a buck naked thirty-something math teacher. Who happens to be an unearthly avatar of Oh Shit. And has nice eyes.

“My name is Castiel, angel of the Lord, Seraph of the First Shield,” the avatar says, in a piss-shakingly resonant version of Bones’s voice.

Then: “Do you speak English, Dean?”

“Yes?” Dean fumbles.

“So do I,” says Castiel, and smiles.

Then he makes finger-guns.

Castiel sticks around for a grand total of five minutes before he’s suddenly gone again, because angels are (a) real and they can (b) teleport? at (c) any moment because (d) fuck you, then he reappears six hours later (clothed) standing over Dean’s bed, having apparently forgotten that humans like to sleep; this time Dean does shoot him, but luckily he doesn’t seem to take it personally.

“I located Crowley,” Bo- Castiel says. The silver sword-javelin thing is sitting on the kitchen counter in front of him; apparently it’s an Angel Blade and it lives in Castiel’s coat sleeve and can vaporize demons. It doesn’t look like it has any Crowley on it, but maybe it’s self-cleaning.

“Did you kill him?” Dean asks, now that he’s semi-coherent and wrapped around a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Not this time,” Cas answers. “He did help, after all.”

“Sure,” says Dean.

“You don’t need to let me fuck you in the ass, either,” Castiel says, and Dean honks some coffee up the back of his nose.

“Oh,” he gasps. “Okay. Cool. Thanks. Didn’t realize you could hear that convo all the way down there.”

“Angels have excellent hearing. Mine wasn’t impacted by the spell.”

Dean can think of at least three very private moments Castiel almost definitely could hear every instant of, and longs for death. Or maybe not, since apparently this guy lives in Heaven and could hear him there, too. “Great. Good to know. Noted.”

“But…” Castiel looks wistful.

“What?” Dean nudges him. Dean Winchester: angel nudger.

Castiel frowns. “If I said…” he stops himself. “This is…what I want to say is very irregular, at least between angels and humans.”

“Jesus christ on a goddamn pogo stick, man. It’s three in the morning, some of us have a circadian rhythm and a limited lifespan. Say whatever it is you gotta say.”

Castiel looks up and drowns Dean in his swimming pool eyes, which Dean has learned belong to a radio ad salesman in Illinois, who Castiel possessed a few years back before jumping several decades into the past to run some errands and getting rope-a-doped by the Men of Letters and then warehoused in their basement; after they all spontaneously bought the farm, he just slowly ran out of the power reserves needed to keep his vessel from turning to mush and hey presto, talking skeleton.

Classic story, really.

“If I said you had a beautiful body, Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly, “Would you hold it against m-“

Dean doesn’t let him finish. {AO3 version}

#spn fanfic #destiel #deancas #profoundnet #prompt fic

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rudysrings · 4 years

Text

Twin Pogues of the OBX - 2

A/N: Ayyy. Seems like no one hates the concept so I decided to go ahead and continue... Let me know what you guys think!

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of sex, guns, slow burn

Word count: 3190

Masterlist

ON WITH IT!

Once you reached the depth of the boat, you released the anchor, letting it fall out of view. You swam across the Grady-White, looking for anything worth collecting, hoping not to find a body, especially your dad’s body.

Near the floor of the bow of the boat, there where keys. You swiftly picked them up, your lungs beginning to burn from the lack of oxygen. You worried that you would take an involuntary gasp of air, so you turned back with only the keys. You wondered how the keys didn’t get lost during the storm.

You broke the surface with the keys in your hand, brushing your hair back from your face. Your friends were over the side of the boat and John B let out a sigh of relief.

Kiara huffed too, “Oh my god, that took forever.”

Pope asked if you had found any dead bodies and you shook your head no. You saw JJ mutter something to himself and look at you with slight guilt. You were gone awhile. He probably thought he had pushed you to your death.

You hoisted yourself up onto the bow and swung your legs over.

When you told the rest of the pogues that what you had found was a motel key, they seemed slightly discouraged and sarcastic that that was what you had salvaged.

Kiara suggested that you guys report the wreck to the coast guard, hoping for a finder’s fee.

On your way there, JJ approached you at the bow, his hand resting on your shoulder. You turned, and he looked at the deck.

He patted your shoulder and pulled his lips inside his mouth, making his face resemble a monkey’s.

“I’m glad you didn’t, ah, drown or something, aight?” He patted your shoulder awkwardly and walked away before you could even respond to that extremely random statement.

You heard Pope laugh at him, slapping his head, “Dude, glad she didn’t drown? Is that the best you can do?” JJ stopped his laughing real quick with a hard shove to the shoulder.

“Ay, shut the hell up, will ya?”

Going back to your beer, you turned back to the water. Kiara nudged your shoulder. “JJ’s right you know, that wasn’t rational.”

You smirked, swirling the last of the beer at the bottom of the bottle. You wrinkled your nose as you realized it was probably just backwash. You took a swig anyways, “Since when am I rational, Kie?”

Kie scoffed, shaking her head at you in disbelief. “You could have died you wretch!”

You shrugged, tossing the bottle aside, “And? Wouldn’t have been the worst way to go. Y’all would have had a helluva story to tell, eh?”

“Story, what the fuck, Y/N?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. Her nurturing reminded your brother. “Honestly, you and John B are the same person. Just gender swapped. You’d be amazing together. I’d never escape your combined mothering powers.” You watched your legs swing over the edge of the boat, something that was far from safe but kept you on edge in a good way. You saw Kiara’s blush and smirked. “Diving was fun, anyways.”

Kiara pursed her lips. “Honestly, you guys are perfect for each other, too.”

You weren’t entirely sure what she meant, but you had a good idea. You knew asking questions would simply draw more attention, so you decided to let it slide.

When you reached the coast guard, John B and JJ went inside to notify them, trying to make their way through the loud crowd.

You crossed your arms as you waited with Kiara and Pope. Pope was staring at you intently and eventually you had enough of it. “What is it, Pope? Why are you looking at me like one of those corpses you so badly want to study?”

Pope didn’t flinch at my obvious attempt to deflect the conversation. “You gonna keep pulling shit like you did back there?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” You said.

Kiara raised her eyebrows as Pope said. “Even if you don’t, I think you should know that John B’s blood pressure can’t take you risking life and limb to check out a goddamn boat wreck.”

You rolled your eyes, “I think I know what my own brother’s blood pressure can take, but thanks for the evaluation, Pope.” You brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear, folding your arms, “Besides, it’s not like my blood pressure can take John B’s constant delusions that our dad’s not dead at the bottom of the ocean somewhere.”

“Y/N!” Kiara hissed at my bluntness.

You held your hands outward, questioning, “What? We all know it’s true.”

Just then, John B and JJ returned, JJ saying, “Well, that went well. So what’s the plan?”

John B insisted that you guys check out the motel room that those keys opened, Kiara agreed to be look out.

As you guys pulled up to the motel, JJ let out a low whistle. You could see why. Agatha had really done a number on this place, even worse than the Chateau. The shingles were barely hanging on to the roof and the entire place just looked drowned, like it had aged fifty years overnight. You noticed furniture all around outside, probably to dry since it would collect mold and mildew if left damp indoors.

It didn’t make sense that someone who owned a Grady-White would stay in a run-down place like this. John B voiced this thought of yours.

You, John B and JJ hopped out of the boat, JJ tying it down. As you guys turned to leave, Pope said to John B, “Don’t let them do anything stupid.”

JJ shrugged, “Oh, we will.”

You winked at Pope, John B sighing, “I’m not making any promises.”

Kiara handed the motel keys to John B, warning in a low voice, “Be careful.” At John B’s lack of response, she leaned forward, giving him a hard look. “I’m serious, be careful.”

You nearly laughed out loud at your brother’s dumb response, an awkward chuckle and a breathy “Heh, yeah…”

As you guys walked down the hall, JJ nudged your side and nodded his head at John B, as if to say, “Watch this.”

He grabbed John B by the shoulder and chin, turning his face towards his; they were only inches apart.

John B’s eyes widened, JJ saying with an overly romantic tone, “Just be so careful, John B.”

Laughing, you watched as John B shoved JJ off harshly, sending him into you. Your back hit the back of his tank top and you caught a whiff of his scent. At first you were repulsed, expecting boyish BO, but surprisingly, JJ smelled of salt, sea salt. He must have been surfing this morning. You pushed him forward, ignoring his dumb grin.

John B looked disgusted, “God, you’re so weird.” He said to JJ.

JJ shrugged, his shoulders reaching his ears. “Dude, what the heck was that about?”

John B looked at him sarcastically. “I don’t know; maybe she wants us to be careful.”

JJ rolled his eyes, clapping him on the back, saying “Every since you’re being threatened with exile, she’s just been like—” JJ caressed John B’s face again, “Oh, be so careful, John B.”

You snorted when JJ added, “Just give me that John D already. Like when are you gonna swoop in on that?”

You but in, agreeing, “You two need to just bang already. I feel like I’m going to puke every time I look at you guys.”

John B’s looked tense. “You know the rule, guys. No pogue-on-pogue macking.”

JJ looked over at you, mocking John B’s statement silently.

You giggled and John B said, “JJ you need help. Not like a little help, you need a lot of help. ‘Cause it’s like every girl who has a heartbeat, you’re just like… UNGHHH…” John B stuck his hands out, acting as if a magnet was forcing him forward, dragging his body.

JJ scoffed, “What? It’s not a big deal. Your sister’s no different!” He defended, gesturing to you.

You slapped him on the shoulder for bringing you into this.

John B turned to JJ, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t bring my sister into this, dude.”

JJ held his hands up. “Whatever, man. I was just sayin’…”

You sighed, walking over to the door. “I think this is us guys, twenty-nine.”

JJ walked over, knocking on the door swiftly before raising his voice to a high-pitch and mimicking in one breath, “Housekeeping.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. That sound nearly sent you. JJ had always been a master of voices, but this was one of your favorites.

When John B asked if he should open it, JJ added something in Spanish and your eyes widened. You brushed your hair forward, hoping no one would see your random flush of skin.

“No power. No security cameras. No one’s gonna know,” said JJ. It was true, this was a beyond ideal situation.

Your brother unlocked the door, letting the three of you in and locking it behind him.

There wasn’t much inside. You figured it was probably a man over 50 given his choice of clothing, but there was no identification. There was a map with some coordinates pointing to off the continental shelf, which made no sense since no one fished there.

John B found a safe, but was trying to guess and check the password, JJ focused on the map. You realized there was a post it with a pin number on it and you picked it up, handing it your brother. “Here, try this.”

It worked. When he opened the safe, you immediately saw piles of cash. “Well, shit…”

You called JJ over and a giddy smile took over his face as he saw what was inside. Of course, he immediately went for the gun.

He picked it up, turning this way and that, pretending as if you guys were in some sort of lame action movie and he was taking down some cronies after him.

In all honesty, you were jealous. Crossing your arms, you pouted. “I wanted the gun.”

JJ shrugged. “Too slow.” Adjusting his position, he asked, “Come on, take a picture of me.”

John B stood up, shaking his head.

You looked at him like he was an idiot, “Seriously? You want to make our own incriminating evidence?”

Suddenly there was a hard rock hitting plexiglass sound from the window and John B looked over, before jumping to the blinds by the door of the motel room, hissing, “Cops.”

There was no way you guys would make it out in time.

You looked over at the window, ushering the guys over, “Hurry! Out here.”

JJ went out first, John B following. You shuffled out quickly, and felt an arm at your waist. You turned to see JJ, who was looking at your feet, focusing on helping you onto the ledge he was on. You leaned out, nearly falling but trusting him to hold on to you as you closed the window door with your hand. JJ pulled you back to the ledge with one swoop, the quick movement making you crash into his side.

Luckily your hair was in a braid, or it might have gotten you guys caught.

John B held his finger up to his lips, gesturing for you guys to be quiet.

You nodded. JJ didn’t remove his arm from around you. There was hardly enough room for one person. Afraid you would fall, he pulled you even closer, so that your feet were on top of his. You were chest to chest, your back against the wall, JJ caging you, but not touching you. He wasn’t looking at you but into the window, his eyebrows furrowed with anxiousness.

Without anything else to look at, you stared at him. Your breath was coming fast from your fear, making you pant and take in large gulps of hot air.

Sea salt. Once again, you could smell it. Stupidly, your mouth moved before you could control it, “Did you go surfing this morning?” You whispered.

JJ turned to you, face blank and confused. “What?”

You saw Kiara and Pope run back to the HMS Pogue.

You flushed immediately, and JJ watched your blush reach your chest. “Uh, what?” You repeated. “Nothing, never mind.”

You looked to the side, trying to ignore his stare on you. His hand reached up, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from your braid behind your ear.

He leaned back towards the window and John B and him shared a look of astonishment. They had taken the money. The cops had stolen from a crime scene. JJ whispered, “What the fuck?”

You looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he shuffled slightly, and the gun that was loosely tucked into his waistband slipped, clattering on its way to the ground.

Fuck.

JJ punched the wall slightly in frustration and cursed under his breath.

John B glared but didn’t say anything. You all flinched when the window curtain was opened abruptly. Afraid you guys would be seen, JJ moved closer, his chest flush against yours now. You could hear his heart racing and you were sure he could feel how fast your chest was rising and falling. Because of the crisis. Right, because of the crisis.

He leaned forward, hiding his face beside yours, his scruffy blonde hair tickling your left cheek.

You took a deep breath before holding it, your eyes closed. You didn’t want to catch anymore of his scent. It made you foolish and disoriented.

It was tense minute. It felt like hours to you. Finally, they were gone. You released your breath onto JJ’s shoulder, and you noticed him shudder slightly.

He pulled away, making eye contact for a little too long before moving. John B opened the window and hopped inside. JJ followed, disentangling his limbs from yours.

JJ reached his hand out to you to help you up, but as usual, you slapped it away. He rolled his eyes as he watched you hold onto the sides of the window frame, hoisting yourself through the space. For some goddamn reason, today had to be the day the tip of your foot got caught on the frame and you stumbled.

Instantly, JJ had his arms out, helping you through.

Once inside, you patted him softly on the chest and he let go of you.

You straightened your shirt, clearing your throat and following John B out the door.

When you reached the HMS Pogue, Kiara and Pope had it ready to go. You guys got in and Pope drove off.

Pope asked if you guys found anything and JJ held up the money and the gun. While Kiara and Pope shouted at him for taking something from a crime scene, you gave him a high-five.

What was life without a little danger, anyways?

When you guys returned to the docks, they brought in Scooter Grubbs’ body. Apparently, he had drowned while taking his brand-new Grady-White into the storm.

When you returned to the Chateau, you guys pieced it together. It was obvious that Scooter had to have been a drug dealer, otherwise it wouldn’t have made any sense that a marina rat like him could have copped a goddamn Grady-White.

Despite Pope’s initial doubts, you guys wanted to go after the contraband that was no doubt hidden in the boat.

For now, you had to lay low. Of course, to you guys, that meant throwing a kegger on your side of the island. You even invited the kooks. They were great at attracting attention, which meant less attention on you guys, and less attention from the fact that you guys had a gun stolen from a crime scene.

It was late, and you walked over to your brother with a beer in your hand. He was leaning over one of the campfire logs, looking out wistfully with his chin in his hand. You followed his eyes and saw that he was staring at Sarah Cameron, the local, certified golden girl of the kooks. Rolling your eyes, you gave him a shove. “Find someone in your own league, bro!”

He shook his head quickly. “What? No, I wasn’t—”

You stopped him from saying anymore. “I don’t care, JB.”

You turned, looking to get more beer when someone twirled you from behind. You were met with a solid chest and looked up to see Asher.

He gave you a grin and you gave a wary smile, uncomfortable with his sudden physical contact.

“We always run into each other at keggers, ay?” Said Asher.

You nodded, pursing your lips. “Seems that way.”

Asher threw his arm around your shoulder, taking the rest of your drink and downing it. “We should really try to change that.” He suggested.

He was asking you out. Embarrassed, you tried to shoot him down nicely, “Ahh, I kind of like it better this way.”

Asher turned to face you, stopping your pace. “Aw, come on! Let me take you out, Y/N.”

You smiled. “Sorry, Asher, but dating’s really not my style.”

Confused, Asher laughed, “But whoring it up is?”

You heard a sharp, “Hey!” and JJ appeared from behind you. How long had he been there?

He shoved Asher. “What the hell did you say?” He questioned, gaining on Asher.

Asher put his hands up in the air, “Listen, man, I don’t want any trouble. Besides, who the fuck are you?”

You saw Topper appear, Sarah Cameron at his heels. “What’s going on here? You dirty pogues giving my little brother a hard time?”

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Asher was Topper’s younger brother? You had slept with that?

Repulsed, you wrinkled your nose. John B approached to see what the commotion was about as well. He asked what was happening and JJ gestured accusingly at Asher. “This one’s calling Y/N a whore.”

John B’s eyebrow rose, his expression dangerous.

This was not going to end well.

“He did what?” Before he could reach Asher, Topper shoved John B, provoking him to shove back, leading to an all-out brawl.

You were tempted to join in, but Kiara held tight to your arm, not letting you out of her grip.

One thing led to another and Topper had John B’s head in the water, drowning him.

“JOHN B! Topper get OFF!” You screamed.

You watched as JJ’s jaw clenched at your hysterical cries. Steeling himself, he ran up to the fight, pulling the gun out of his shorts and holding it to Topper’s head.

Everyone on the beach scattered at the sight of a gun. Pope cursed with his hands on his head, furious.

JJ muttered something to Topper and he held his hands up, releasing John B. Kiara finally let you go and you ran up to your brother, who was coughing his lungs out.

Kiara joined you, helping John B up and walking him out of the water.

He shook you guys off, glaring at JJ.

You guys blew it. This was the complete opposite of laying low.

To be continued…

Masterlist

@treestarrrrrrrr

453 notes · View notes

handlewcaare · 4 years

Text

When one read the comic books, being a teenage hero was a helluva lot easier than it was.

Spiderman didn’t have to watch his grades gradually plummet with each “emergency” meeting the Avengers set up for him. Nor did he have to turn in half finished homework because he forgot to do it when he ran off to handle a Behemoth of a beast. It was smooth sails for the likes of some friendly neighborhood vigilante.

Badd wished it was that simple.

He couldn’t complain it was all that rough. Kids at school knew of his devestating strength, so much so that a few would text him about a monster nearby. At times, he’d handle a monster in exchange for a free tutoring session for a class he was struggling in. It was a fair exchange, a life for a decent test grade.

Some people at school would greet him, but he was hardly popular. If anything, he was just as good as company as a cardboard cut out. Someone to briefly pause what he was doing to stoically pose for a photo-op. Though, some people just assumed he wasn’t as friendly as the stature he put on.

“Badd, right?”

His brow arched, momentarily breaking the signature snarl he naturally adorned (it wasn’t a scowl, it was just his face). The voice came from a girl who’s face was speckled with a constellation of freckles. He knew of her, that she was a new transfer student from H-City, but he never got to know who she really was.

“Ya know anyone else that looks like me?”

“Yeah,” the girl remarked, “hate to say it but a pompadour isn’t exactly a unique feat of yours.” Despite his frown, she went on to resume, “I was gonna ask if you had a spare hair tie.”

Out of all the things she could have asked him to do, she asked for a meager hair tie. She might as well have asked a practical mountain of a man to do her makeup. What an odd thing to ask, “how the hell do ya know I even have one??”

What should have been a snide remark about how he always had a spare hair tie for his little sister was accented with a shrug, “The girls in my track team say you do. I don’t mind using my shoelaces though—!”

“Ya can do that??” He implored as he surrendered the hair tie that was nestled within his pants pocket, “wouldn’t it be flying out of yer hair or somethin’ ?”

“You just have to know how to tie it,” after she briefly gave her thanks, she secured her dark hair within a high-ponytail. After a beat, she made a full presentation of the bun atop of her crown. “Ta-da! How does it look?”

“Like a pineapple.”

What insult would have made girls scoff or bark out a bigger insult at him only prompted a wrinkle from the girl’s nose as she laughed. Her grin radiant, almost contagious for a guy renowned for his intimidating glare. It didn’t take the girl long to skip back to her team—‘thanks Badd!’ She would chirp over her shoulder—and he offered a small wave of goodbye to her.

To say it had been the last time they spoke would have been a blatant lie. The girl, who’s name was revealed to be Hikari, would be variant in her greetings. Some days would just be utter small talk: ‘how are you?’ ‘Fine, you?’ ‘Could be better,’ and other days would be exclusively full of excitement. Most notably were they the days that she had just finished her track season or after practice:

“—what I’m saying is that Ayame started acting funny when she dropped the baton,” Hikari said as the two of them sat along the edge of the rooftop during lunch. Her brows furrowed as she plucked a piece of grilled salmon out of her bento box and set it over for Badd to eat.

“Ya still won though, right?”

“Yeah, but it was like something startled her? I can’t say what exactly, but she got a little frazzled after the tournament,” she hummed as she pursed her lips, “maybe ‘m overthinking it.”

“Ya gotta bad habit of that,” he quipped as he took a bite of the surrendered salmon, “she prolly jumped cus she dropped it.”

As it turned out, that wasn’t wholly the case.

The more he talked to Hikari throughout the months in school, the more exposure he got from Ayame. How she often would ask for one of her friends to come with her to the bathroom or how she would stay longer than an hour or two after practice. He wasn’t a psychologist, but Hikari’s concern became more understandable.

Once he was invited to eat lunch with Hikari and her track team, that was when he met Ayame.

As always, Hikari was rather jovial with introductions. Her excitability practically lightened the mood, even when some girls felt a little unnerved to be around a guy who could easily crush a monster’s skull with an indestructible weapon. Those girls he left very well alone for their comfort. The others were met with his gruff nature, he wasn’t sure whether Hikari told them he had a soft spot or not, but Ayame was the one who stood out the most.

The girl was kind and soft-spoken. She loved talking about her cat named Sakusa and she couldn’t help but find pictures of Tama to be an absolute delight. Though, Badd couldn’t lie, Sakusa was just as adorable.

The thing was she couldn’t afford to look him in the eye, nor could she barely manage a tone beyond a small murmur. When Badd would growl out a ‘huh??’ over a mean jest, she would flinch instinctively. Such a response evoked a small ‘sorry’ from the bat-wielding hero.

Lunch became rather awkward between them after that. Fortune came in Hikari’s emotional intelligence, otherwise Badd would have tried to make some means of dramatic compensation. He picked up a giant bouquet of roses for Zenko’s concert when he missed her piano recital once.

It wasn’t until school was no longer in session that he caught a glimpse of Ayame retreat to an older man. Her arms folded across her chest, though the heightened bark of the man made her flinch once more.

The man could have blended in well with the white collar types: nicely trimmed suit, slick back hair and an expensive pair of gloves that would have made Amai Mask green with envy. Their insignia was rather reminiscent to a bamboo lily.

He didn’t just have money, he had money to buy himself out of consequences.

By now, the grip around his signature bat became rigid in a white-knuckled grasp. His storm merely accented with a twirl of his instrument to rest atop of his broad shoulder.

“—and I told you to do the dishes!” The older man exasperatingly barked, “the hell were you doing??”

“I just...” Ayame paused as she shuffled closer to the masonry, “I h-had practice okay? It’s not a big deal—“

“It is a big deal!” His voice was now a tornado that swam tension within the air. His face was beet red and his fists practically quivered from the intensity of his own storm, “I had my fuckin’ brother over and—!”

Without a hint of hesitance, Badd rammed the hilt of his bat directly into the man’s diaphragm. The sheer velocity of his strength evoked a shriek from Ayame and a wheeze from the stranger. Had he known he shattered a rib or two, he probably would have offered a menacing simper.

“Do Yer own damn dishes next time,” when the man attempted to scramble to his full height, Badd hadn’t hesitated to step in front of Ayame. It wasn’t everyday he handled an abusive shithead, but they were marginally easier to handle than a stray papermache volcano come to life.

As the man scowled, his glare dripped over to Ayame, “this isn’t over—!” Once the threat had seeped, Badd simply let his metallic instrument slam into the concrete. A cobweb of weight bloomed under the strain.

“You bet Yer ass it is,”

This was a monster, no doubt, but he had heard from Daichi that some monsters liked to isolate their victims. Norte dam syndrome or something like that. As soon as the man retreated, Ayame began to present signs and symptoms of that.

“He wasn’t going to hurt me,” her voice was distant compared to the staggering man who retreated with a very polite warning. “He was just being an ass, okay? You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know what bein’ an ass is,” Badd scoffed, “and that wasn’t it.”

Being an ass meant Hikari poking fun of Badd crying in the middle of Zenko’s piano performance or Badd poking fun of Hikari not knowing how to do algebra, but being able to chemistry. Neither of them would have dared to clench their fist at the other, let alone make the other flinch in response.

Ayame only shook her head, “no, he just... he didn’t mean it.”

“ ‘s that what he tells ya?”

“Of course not, I—“ she sighed, her small shoulders slumped when she practically hung her head, “look, I know you’re supposed to be a hero, but he’s just a guy. You must have bigger priorities, right?”

Bigger priorities meaning bigger monsters; nothing like the abusive asshole nextdoor. Badd couldn’t help but wonder if that was really what being a hero meant to these people, that they were just as fictional as their comic book alternatives.

Whether the answer was blatant or not, it didn’t matter, “I don’t want ya gettin’ hurt, so call Hikari and stay with her, alright?”

“W-What are you gonna do??”

Badd simply unbuttoned his uniform jacket and let it draped over his shoulders.“ ‘m gonna go be a hero.”

It was a slow day at the notorious deadman detective agency. The gentle hum of the fan being the only company the detective had, among the various files of cold cases he tried to decipher in his day off. He didn’t mind the breaks, rather he milked them as often as he could, but they could be rather tedious at times.

Fortunately, his answer came in the form of his phone vibrating against the table. The caller ID consisted of a simple “Badd”. Chances were that the kid needed someone to pick up his sister or ask about homework he didn’t understand.

“Well, good afternoon to you too,” Daichi hummed leisurely.

“Ay, real quick!” If Badd hadn’t been huffing so much, he wouldn’t have assumed the intensity of the situation required a running start, “ya know anyone who’s got a flower on their gloves?”

There was a pregnant pause when Daichi tucked the phone along his shoulder. What sprawled evidence files had been tucked into their respective cabinet drawers, yet there wasn’t anything that could have resembled a nondescript flower. Aside from the insignia a murderer had carved into the wood of his victim’s furniture.

“What kind of flower was it?”

“Iunno??” Badd grunted, seemingly vaulting himself over a fence from how the chains rattled under his weight, “like a Lily or somethin’ ??”

Had his blood not been lethargic like tar, it would have ran glacial through his veins. He never quite noticed how reminiscent it was to a lilac flower, only that it was scrawled and messy. Though, it would have been a bold assumption to make Badd would keep him alive, “You’re planning on going after him, aren’t you?”

“Yep!”

He figured.

Hastily did Daichi retrieve his beige coat and slid his arms through the sleeves, “don’t do anything like kill him. I’ve been looking into cases like—!”

“Ah, I gotta go. I think I see him!”

“Badd, wait-! Wait, did you hear—?!” When the line was cut off to evoke a triad of monotonous beeps, Zombieman hissed a curse under his breath when he rushed to grab his keys and head to C-City. He didn’t even bother to shelf his evidence back when he bolted out the door.

Kids, he swore...

#one punch man #opm #metal bat #metal bat OPM #character study #Zombieman #Zombieman OPM #what kendall writes.#A.k.a. Badd respects girls and fights abusers #all while his uncle exasperatingly tries to collect evidence

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hunter-the-sad-skeleton · 3 years

Photo

So Helluva Boss Episode five dropped and I decided to write. May continue this, who knows. Enjoy!(Reblog if ya enjoyed reading this! :D)

“The Harvest Moon Festival,” Skip read from his phone. “Is a festival that takes place in the circle of Wrath every year to celebrate the harvest with Prince Stolas cursing the locals with the glow of the true Harvest Moon.” Skip hummed.

“It’s a lot more than that, hon!” Millie grinned. “I can’t wait to introduce ya to my folks! They’re gonna love ya!....Maybe!...We’ll see!” Millie smiled.

Skip grimaced, pulling his legs to his chest, tail thumping against his seat anxiously. “Dad, do I have to go…?” Skip asked Blitzø anxiously.

“Now, Skip, this’ll be a fun experience for ya! You need to get out more anyway! Maybe you’ll make some new friends here!” Blitzø smiled.

Skip sighed. “Maybe even someone more than a friend~!” Blitzø winked.

“DAD!!!” Skip squeaked, discomfort evident.

“Kidding, kidding!” He chuckled.

Millie grinned excitedly as a sign came into view. “Rough and tumbleweed ranch.”. Skip chuckled to himself at the pun.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, if they made a pun like that, maybe he’d get along well with them.

...It took him all of five minutes to not feel comfortable around them. He didn’t voice this fact, that would be rude, but the mention of “An Imp is only worth a dime if he can tear the head off a beast” made him feel uncomfortable.

“Guys, come on, lighten up!” Millie smiled shakily.

“I-I can go…” Skip said shakily.

“Wait!” Millie called, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“Ma, pa, meet Skip! He’s Blitzø’s adopted son!” Millie introduced.

“H-How d’ya do…?” Skip asked shakily.

“Hm. Doesn’t carry himself well.” Joe shrugged.

Skip internally cringed and curled into himself, internally screaming at himself to just run off, run away and never come back.

“I suppose y’all should meet our newest help.” Joe said. Skip tilted his head in confusion. “STRIKER!” He called, Skip jumping at the sudden volume increase.

Skip heard the sound of thundering hooves and...flames…? He immediately perked up, knowing what it was right off the bat. What he DIDN’T know, however, was the absolute SIZE of the beast.

He could only see up to around his belly without looking up. Then came a voice, Silky as high quality curtains and smooth as freshly melted butter.

“Howdy~!” He greeted.

Skip’s jaw hung loose as he took everything in.

“Is your, uh, friend okay?” Lyn asked.

“Hold on, I can check.” Millie said. “Skip? You alright, hon?” Millie asked.

The rider’s gaze drifted down to Skip. Skip now wished he could spin off into space, never to be seen again. He began nervously messing with his tail.

“Skip, huh? Nice name.” Striker smiled.

Skip processed everything for a moment, eventually snapping out of it. Oh Lucifer be merciful, he started accidentally infodumping about Hell Horses that he learned around when he was six-ish, since he took to teaching himself.

It took him about thirty minutes before he realized he was infodumping and he stopped, face heating up in embarrassment.

“Sorry, that was weird.” Skip coughed.

“Huh, never knew someone liked Hell Horses that much.” Striker chuckled.

Skip wringed his tail nervously. He internally screamed at himself. He’d embarrassed himself again, in front of everyone.

“I-I’ll go, uh...do...something away from here…” Skip trailed off, turning around.

“Shame, I was gonna see if ya wanted to pet him maybe.” Striker shrugged.

Skip’s heart skipped a beat. He’d embarrassed himself in front of everyone else, and yet he was being offered pets for a Hell Horse? “I-If you’re okay with it, s-sure!” Skip squeaked. Striker chuckled, gesturing for Skip to come closer.

Skip slowly walked over, freezing when he looked at him. “I...don’t think he likes me.” Skip gulped nervously.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” Striker smiled.

“He looks like he wants to kill me.” Skip added.

“That means he likes ya!” Striker beamed. “He thinks you’re worth killing and hiding!” Striker joked.

Skip’s heart stopped. “Um...Good Horsey…?” Skip said, gently patting the tall animal.

Striker laughed. “That he is, Tiny!”

Skip slowly smiled. “He’s really soft…”

Skip’s tail slowly started swishing back and forth in happiness. “How did ya know all that about Hell Horses, Tiny?” Striker asked.

Skip froze, collecting himself quickly. “I had a, uh, Hell Horse G-I had a Hell Horse phase.” Skip corrected swiftly, smiling and hoping that Striker didn’t notice the slip-up.

Either he didn’t notice, or he did but just didn’t care. “Ah.” He nodded.

“Y’all should consider entering the pain games! It could be fun!” Lyn suggested. Skip perked up at the mention of games.

As they began to describe them, Skip lost interest and wandered off elsewhere.

(With Skip)

Skip wandered through the open fields, drifting off and spacing out and getting lost in his thoughts.

He thought over the events that had happened so far. He’d asked his dad if he could stay behind, but he ultimately got forced to go.

He embarrassed himself in front of everyone on multiple occasions.

But he met a Hell Horse, so that was good. He also met Striker. That was also good.

When Skip thought of Striker, he felt...Happy. He felt warm, fuzzy, happy, at peace, calm, almost in-he stopped himself. No. He wouldn’t let his dad be right. He refused. Even if Skip wanted to know what hugs from him felt like-no. Skip threw the thought away.

He wouldn’t.

He COULDN’T.

Love had hurt him so many times in the past, why would now be any different?

He eventually found a clearing and sat down, letting his thoughts settle.

He couldn’t let his dad be right...But why? Why was this such a bad thing?

Why did he let one bad experience dictate his view of such a widely celebrated thing?

Why did he find himself hating himself for allowing such good feelings into his heart?

Why did he not want this to be true? Why did he renounce such feelings? Why did he never want to be in a relationship ever again?

Why did he find himself so in lo-Why did he find himself so attached to Striker?

Why did he want to spend more time with Striker? Why did he want to know more about him?

Was it the Hell Horse? The thrill of finding someone else with his same interests? The potential for a new start?

The chance to find a Millie to his Moxxie? The chance to, Lucifer forbid, finally fall for someone in such a way that he would bare his soul to another party?

The fact that, despite having just met him, Skip would enjoy spending more time with Striker?

He had been so spaced out that he didn’t hear hoofsteps coming his way. “Got ‘nough room for one more?” Striker asked.

Skip nodded, still slightly spaced out.

Striker climbed down from his mount, sitting next to Skip. “Ya know, I didn’t find ya weird back there.” He sighed.

Skip snapped out of it as he realized who had sat next to him and his face heated up.

“Y’alright, Tiny?” Striker asked, half smiling at the smaller imp.

“Fi-ye-yeah, fine!” Skip chuckled shyly, wringing his tail again. “Um, uh….sorry for, uh, running away back there…” Skip apologized.

Striker scoffed, shrugging it off. “Your dad said ya have anxiety, so I don’t hold it against ya.” Striker shrugged.

Skip shuffled his feet nervously. “Still sorry, I, uh, unloaded a lot…” Skip stammered. As Skip spiralled, Striker rolled his eyes, giving the smaller imp a quick peck on the cheek, shutting him up immediately.

“Stop apologizing so dang much.” Striker smirked.

Skip’s face was now a bright crimson red and his brain was now basically tv static. Was this...what it was supposed to feel like?

Striker chuckled, leaning back. “You’re a great guy to be around, ya know?” He complimented.

Skip was now pure crimson and trying to hide in his hoodie. Lucifer, please come riding in a flying chariot pulled by flying pigs wearing togas made from clouds and take him away from this night-no, he couldn’t call it a nightmare. He...Enjoyed it.

“Thank you…~” Skip mumbled.

Striker put an arm across Skip’s shoulders. “Ain’t nothing, Tiny.” He smirked.

Skip stumbled for words, still caught off guard by the sign of affection from the farmhand. It was too good to be true. It HAD TO BE TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.

His dad COULDN’T be right.

“Got anything ya wanna tell me, Tiny?” Striker asked, almost as if he could read Skip’s mind.

Skip stammered, struggling to find words to say. Skip’s heart froze as he was pulled closer to Striker. “I’m all ears, Pumpkin~” He hummed softly.

Skip struggled to find words, but was shut up as he was given another quick peck on the cheek. “You’re so easy to read, Tiny~!” Striker hummed.

“I...You...Uh….” Skip stammered.

“Sure ya don’t have anything to tell me, Tiny~?” Striker repeated.

“I….I just don’t wanna get hurt again.” Skip said nervously, breaking eye contact.

Striker hummed, tilting Skip’s chin up and making eye contact. “Come now, Tiny~! Would I ever hurtcha~?” Striker asked innocently.

Skip’s mouth flapped open and shut multiple times. He couldn’t think of any words. “I…” Skip trailed off.

Striker pulled the tiny imp into his lap, putting his head on top of Skip’s. Skip’s tail swished happily. “Called it.” Striker smiled.

“Huh?” Skip asked.

Striker smirked, rubbing Skip’s horns, earning a contented sigh from the smaller Imp. “You’re in love, huh?” Striker hummed.

“N-No!” Skip protested.

“Then why’s your face so red, Tiny~?” He hummed, sending chills down Skip’s spine.

“I...Um…” Skip stuttered.

Striker rubbed Skip on the back. “It’s okay to love people after a bad experience, ya know.”

Skip shook his head. “No. That’d mean Dad was right.” Skip objected.

Striker chuckled, Skip internally swooning at the sweet-as-honey sound. “Is that all that’s holdin’ ya back, Tiny~?”

Skip struggled to find words to say. He didn’t have to. Skip was stunned into silence as he was pulled into a kiss.

He was shocked at first, but relaxed after a few seconds.

Eventually, the two separated. “Like I said; easy~” Striker hummed. He eventually stood up, Skip following suit. “Come on, your dad’s probably worried sick.” Striker said.

Skip gulped nervously. “I-I….Don’t know how to get back...I kinda spaced out…” Skip winced.

Striker quirked an eyebrow, grabbing Skip by the sides and lifting him up.

“Huh?!” Skip squeaked in confusion.

“I’m takin’ ya with me.” Striker said, hopping on Bombproof with Skip.

“Just stay calm and you’ll be fine.” Striker instructed. Skip nodded. “Also, hold on.” Striker said.

“Wait, what-” Skip started, getting interrupted as Bombproof burst into a run, Skip barely holding on.

(With Blitzø and the others.)

“Has anyone seen Skip come back yet? I’m kinda worried about him.” Blitzø paced nervously.

“Don’t worry about it, Boss, I’m sure Skip is fine!” Millie assured.

The group’s attention was grabbed by thundering hoofsteps approaching them.

Striker came thundering into view riding Bombproof, Skip holding on tightly.

“Ya know how to halt a Hell Horse, Tiny?” Striker asked.

“Y-Yeah, kinda, but-” Skip started.

“Great! Time to test that knowledge!” Striker said, hopping off, leaving Skip in control.

Skip shrieked, quickly taking the reigns, struggling to stay on the Hell Horse, bouncing up and down at the speed he was going at.

“S-Slow down! Please!” Skip stammered.

“YOU’VE GOT THIS HONEY, JUST LIKE YOUR DADDY TAUGHT YA!!” Blitzø called happily.

“DAD!” Skip called, face heating up in embarrassment.

Skip eventually stopped Bombproof, falling off and landing on the ground. “I’ve never seen someone stop him like that. Nice job.” Striker winked.

Skip smiled shakily. Blitzø rushed over, picking up Skip in a hug and spinning around happily. “Ya did it! I’m so proud of you!” Blitzø grinned widely.

“Dad…?” Skip asked.

“Yeah?” Blitzø asked, smiling widely.

“How do you feel about me having a small crush on someone?”

“I’m sorry.” Blitzø started.

“WHAT?!?”

#Helluva Boss #Helluva Boss Millie #Helluva Boss Blitzo #Helluva Boss Striker #Helluva Boss Millie's parents #(I DON'T REMEMBER THEIR NAMES-)#Helluva Boss Bombproof #Helluva Boss Oc #my oc #Skip #Ask to tag #Smooches #I GUESS???#Idk-#Tagging is ass at this point-

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whiskey-bumblebee · 4 years

Note

Hello lovely! After 5 weeks of being trapped in the house I wondered if I could request a bit of escapism with some holiday romance with Pale? Many, many thank-you’s in advance!

Same here pal! Sheesh, I know I’m an introvert but 4 weeks of lockdown has been interesting to say the least! That said, I hope you enjoy this!

Jump

Pairing: Pale/Reader Word Count: ~2000

Pale tossed and turned for weeks over it, your first holiday together. Wanted it to be a surprise but a good one, didn’t want to fuck it up. Looked at Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Bahamas, even Alaska. You’d been working yourself to the bone recently, deserved some time off.

There was a TV Pale walked past every now and again when he was working his ass off too, and sometimes he’d see some blonde on a boat, singing about the wonders of cruising. It looked a little bit like hell, being stuck on a boat that long, but once he started reading about it, it started looking pretty fucking good.

Entertainment on board, it wouldn’t be Broadway but hell, with your lips around his cock in the back row it didn’t matter, did it? All your meals cooked for you, buffet and fine dining options, sun loungers out on a deck somewhere, docking at a tropical island for the day and snorkelling, whatever you were meant to do on an island.

“Baby, do you gotta minute?”

“Mhm, what is it?”

“Could you get some time off work if you asked real nice? Just a week or so?”

“Probably,” You started to smile and walked over to Pale from where you had been doing your eyebrows in the bathroom. “And by probably, I mean yeah, I’ve been savin’ my vacation days.”

Pale pulled you down into his lap, kissed under your ear. “How’s a vacation sound then?”

“Sounds good, what do ya wanna do?”

“You,” Pale smirked. “I was just thinking I’d do ya somewhere different.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Where have you booked?”

“Haven’t yet, wanted to check with you first and make sure you wouldn’t hate it or nothin’. You seen those big fuckin’ cruise ships that take you outta Miami?”

“Yeah,” You started to light up, getting all excited.

Pale stroked the side of your face. “How about one of those? Eatin’ and fuckin’ and swimmin’ in the bright sunshine all day. Sounded real nice to me.”

“Where to?”

“Jesus you ask a lotta questions. Don’t gotta be to nowhere, they started selling trips where you just sit and get fed and look out the window and don’t stop anywhere, but wouldn’t that be awful? Anyway the Bahamas or something, a day in Cuba, I think I’d like Cuba.”

“Baby, at the moment even Cubans don’t like Cuba,” You teased, played with your man’s hair.

“Then we stay on the boat the whole day and fuck, go to shows, go swimming, dancing, whatever. Fuck if I care.”

But you could tell he did care, he’d gone to so much trouble to research all this for you. Knew all the answers to all your questions, had a million ideas about what the two of you would do.

“I’m in, should I pack?”

Pale smiled wide, wider than you’d seen in a while. “Yeah, pack.”

* * * * * * * *

The flight had been fine, New York to Miami. Pale had rented a car so the two of you could drive around for a few hours before your ship left. Miami looked so alive, crawling with rollerbladers, men kissing men and all sorts.

“Fuckin’ hot as hell. Gonna jump in the pool just as soon as we get on the boat.”

“Same here. Do ya think I have to wear a top?”

Pale glanced at you and you shot him a wink.

“You better, Jesus Christ. Think I’d die of heat stroke and a heart attack at the same fuckin’ time. Wouldn’t even fit on my death certificate.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at your man, complaining even now, even here.

“Pale, I love you so goddamn much.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still don’t get it but I believe ya.”

You were quiet for a moment then, content to listen to the pop on the radio. Pale had ceded and let you play the billboard hits for an hour or so while you were driving. It had to be quiet but it made you laugh, seeing this tough grumpy man driving through the neon streets of Miami with Van Halen playing.

“Do you miss Miami?”

Pale was quiet, drummed his fingers across the steering wheel as he thought.

“Some of it.”

You nodded, knew if he wanted to talk about it, he’d keep going on his own.

“The coke here is cheaper, but the cops are all over it. Weather’s good but it gets boring. College kids all over the damn place sometimes. It’d be nice to see my kids more. Nice to have the beaches nice and close. You know, normal shit.”

You nodded and rested your head on his shoulder.

“You wanna go and say hi to them while we’re close?”

Pale turned his head slightly to kiss your forehead. “Where do you think we’re going?”

You sat upright then, looked at him, surprised.

He smiled. “Yeah I wanna see ‘em. We only got an hour or so left so the missus can’t get too wound up, I’ll be in and out.”

“Am I... Do you want me to-”

“Nah, I’m gonna drop you at the mall if that’s okay. Don’t want you to see it, she gets pretty loud.”

You nodded and went back to resting on his shoulder. “You want anything?”

“Pack of cigarettes, don’t know what else we’re allowed to take. Maybe some Twizzlers.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That your holiday food?”

Pale hummed in affirmation. “Yeah. Helps me get rid of all the tension in my jaw ‘cos it’s like eating rubber.”

You smiled, picturing a younger Pale chowing down on a pack of Twizzlers, chewing real hard.

* * * * * * * * *

“C’mere, you’re gonna get all fuckin’ pink on your shoulders.”

“Pale do you got a timer set or somethin’? You’ve been at this every hour on the hour,” You teased.

“It’s hotter out here than it is in New York. You’ll burn easier, just wanna take care of ya.”

“What time do you wanna get dinner?”

“Maybe 6:30, show starts at 8 so that gives us time.”

You nodded, melted into Pale’s touch as he rubbed the sunscreen all over your chest and shoulders.

“Do you wanna go to the restaurant proper? I think it’s Italian or somethin’.”

You hummed as you thought of a basket of dinner rolls with fancy little bowls of butter, then spaghetti and pizza.

“Yeah, sounds real nice.”

“Can you wear the blue dress? That one with the sparkly shit on it?”

You nodded.

“It’ll look real nice with the ocean and the lights and everything reflecting off ya. We could get a photo taken or whatever.”

“We can get it printed nice and big and hang it in the apartment. Can ya let me read my book for a minute, sweetheart? I’m dying to finish this chapter.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop being a menace.”

Pale picked up his own book, a thriller. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander down his torso, following the trail of hair from his bellybutton to the band of his swim trunks.

“You know, we might need to go back to the room for a snack,” You said under your breath. “Getting a little peckish.”

Pale glanced at you over his book. “Oh are we?”

You nodded and pulled your lip into your mouth. “Just let me finish the chapter.”

Pale shuffled a little awkwardly and draped his towel over his lap.

You didn’t even have to look away from the pages of your novel to know what the sound of the towel moving was.

“Go jump in the cold pool, you menace,” You teased.

* * * * * * * *

The show was great, the costumes were amazing even if the set was sparse. Pale’s hands had wandered more than you could admit without blushing. In the interest of time before the show, you’d skipped dessert. The 24 hour buffet would serve you well.

While you helped yourself to carrot cake, Pale made small talk with the chef dishing the hot food.

“Shit shift, huh?”

The chef laughed.

“New Yorker?” His accent gave his own origin away, and you could sense the rapport that grew straight away.

“Yeah, taking a bit of a break with my girl, wanted to get some sun.”

The chef nodded. “It isn’t a great shift but there are always a few schmucks who come for dessert after the show. Real nice to see the stars though, rather see the sunset than work through sunrise on breakfast.”

“Jesus fuck, you guys gotta be up at four or whatever to serve us assholes cornflakes?”

The chef laughed again, a hearty laugh, and you joined Pale, looped an arm around his waist.

“Thanks for sticking around, sorry to be one of the post-show schmucks.” You said sheepishly.

“Nah, you guys ain’t got nothing to worry about. Nice to meet someone who actually sees me as a human fuckin’ being.”

Pale nodded in commiseration.

“What do you do in New York?”

“Restaurant industry, actually,” Pale replied.

“No shit! That’s nice. Manhattan?”

“Yeah, 90 percent of the time. Hey, uh, odd favor to ask but any chance I could come into the kitchen and see what’s going on? Must be a helluva lot of food back there, industrial ovens and shit.”

“Yeah, of course man. Let me hook your girl up with some cream though first, cake gets a little dry this late.”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

* * * * * * *

“Pale, it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah you are.” Pale swooped in for a kiss.

“Careful, sun’s making you all soft,” You smiled.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll be back to normal as soon as we’re back stateside.”

Pale lay out the picnic blanket on the sand. You smiled at the way the wayfarers sat over his nose.

“So what’s in that bag of yours?”

“That guy I met the other night, the chef, he gave me a bit of bread and some fruit salad. He said it wasn’t enough to save to put out tonight so it would’ve gone to waste.”

“And this?” You laughed as you pulled out a bottle of champagne.

“Thought you might like a mimosa or somethin’. Gotta stay hydrated.”

You sighed with a wide smile and lay down on the picnic blanket, soaking up the sun and the love you felt for Pale.

“Thank you.”

Reaching out with your eyes still closed, you fumbled to hold his hand.

“He’s a nice guy. Might help him out with a job or two once we’re back.”

You hummed. “You getting nervous? All that talk about being back?”

“A little. There’s a reason I’m the top dog over there, I’m the only one who can keep that shit all happening like it needs to. Fingers in a bunch of pies and all that.”

“But you’re glad you’re here?”

“Of course sweetheart. Probably would’ve keeled right over if we’d stayed, I needed a break. Can’t say I feel any less tired with how often we’ve been fuckin’, but still.”

You laughed and swatted at Pale with your hat, then moved it back over your face.

“I checked with some of the crew who know this island and they said you’re all good to whip off your top, even out the tan lines. Locals don’t care.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, so c’mon, roll over. I’ll untie ya.”

You half-heartedly rolled, enough for Pale to reach the strings of your bikini top.

“Don’t go gettin’ too excited,” You teased.

“Too fuckin’ late, I’m hard as a rock just from seeing you in the bikini.”

You laughed. “Pass me a grape or something?”

You stayed on your front for now, didn’t feel like showing off your tits to the whole beach just yet. Pale took a grape out of the salad and extended his hand over to you. With a deadly smirk on your face, you licked the sweet syrup off his fingers, then sucked the grape out of his grip.

“Baby, that ain’t gonna help my situation.”

“C’mon then, I’ll feed you one.”

Pale’s eyes widened and you laughed as you pulled a piece of melon from the salad.

He shook his head with a smile and bit the melon from your fingers. “You’re a terror.”

You laughed again and he couldn’t help but smile at the sound.

“What now?”

You glanced at him from under the floppy sun hat.

“Lovers of New York, Book Two: The Terror Goes Tropical.”

#pale/reader #for babbushka #pale x reader #pale #my writing #burn this #pale burn this #pale/you #reader insert #self insert #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction

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itsybitsyspiderling · 5 years

Text

don’t touch my stuff

find it here on ao3 !

Summary: Peter decides to take an old Iron Man suit out for a spin. Naturally, Tony finds out.

Words Count: 2.8k

“Mister Stark?” Peter calls, walking into––what seems to be––an empty workshop. He’s light on his feet, careful not to make too much noise while the older man recovers from a nasty cold that has riddled him useless. So far, he’s been out for three days and counting. A lousy three days.

Oddly enough, Peter’s been going out of his way just to contract the damn thing. His textbook immune system makes it impossible to miss a single day of school, and he’s tired. He just wants to sleep on the couch and eat nothing but toast while he watches Cartoon Network for several hours. Sure, he knows he could lie and pretend he has a sore tummy, but his unrelenting guilt would eat him up within the first hour. He would easily come clean before May could leave the house.

The workshop is a perfect reflection of how his mentor handles having an illness. A coffee stain the size of New York sits idle on his desk, and half-used boxes of tissues are littered across the room. DUM-E is currently in the process of cleaning up the discarded, crumpled-up tissues that have been there since the first wretched day.

One thing Peter wouldn’t have guessed about Tony is that he’s a complainer when he’s sick. Peter doesn’t understand why he––a sixteen-year-old with bigger problems like homework and acne––is left to take care of him. The man can’t go twenty minutes without groaning and moaning about his stuffed sinuses. Peter can’t stand it.

“Hello, Peter,” FRIDAY greets. “Boss is upstairs sleeping. Would you like me to alert him that you’ve arrived? I’ll be careful not to wake him too abruptly. We both know how he gets.”

Peter laughs and fidgets with a few stray tools on a nearby workbench. A lot of their old work has been left untouched since they last got together. Since they were both healthy and able to talk like normal people. Now, Tony’s been hopped up on NyQuil for three days straight.

“Um––nah, I’ll just hang out here for a while,” Peter says and smiles over at DUM-E. The robotic arm whirs back gleefully. “What’s his temp today, Fri?”

“99.8 degrees Fahrenheit,” she answers.

“Oh, good.” Peter crosses the room. “That just means he can finally get off his ass soon and help me for once.

“He’ll probably still be congested for about another week or two.”

Peter groans, head falling back as he trudges the floor. “I don’t think I can last another day,” he says. “Please don’t tell him I said this––it’s gonna sound really mean––but, God, he’s such a baby. I used to think I was bad when I got sick.”

“Believe me, Peter, no one can be as bad as him,” the AI affirms.

Peter settles down at Tony’s desk and shuffles through the stray papers on top. Letters, fan art, more letters, more fan art… Peter pouts. He wishes he could get fan art.

“He’d just tell me to suck it up, probably,” he mumbles, brain still on the topic of his mentor’s ailments. “I’d have t’suck it up and 'spidey up'––as he calls it, and then I’d pass out on the job, and he’d be all ‘Why are you on the floor? Why didn’t you just tell me you were sick, Peter?’ and ‘Why didn’t you stay home and have your lovely aunt make you a nice pot of soup?’ And then I’d be forced into saying that he told me so, when really, he didn’t. Like, at all.”

“Sounds like something he would do.”

Peter’s lips quirk into a small smile. He likes FRIDAY––he likes her sassy moments, and as much as he loves Karen, sometimes he needs that shift back down to earth. He also needs someone else that will poke fun at Tony when everyone else is afraid to.

“It is something he would do,” says Peter. “I twisted my ankle once, and he was like, ‘Well, that’s dumb, why would you do that?’—like I had a choice in the matter. Sometimes he just really—”

Before Peter can finish his thought, one of the monitors above Tony’s desk flashes. The word “Complete” blinks in bright green.

“Complete?” Peter sits forward. “What did I complete? Did I win something? I didn’t touch anything, did I?”

“You didn’t,” says FRIDAY. “The Mark Forty-Five has just received a new paint job.”

“Oh, cool.” Peter nods and, a beat later, states, “wait, but he doesn’t use that one anymore.”

“Boss likes to maintain a certain… look.”

Peter’s brows knot together as he thinks. Long and hard. And what he eventually thinks up turns out to be a terrible, terrible idea. A good terrible idea. “Interesting. Is—is that suit here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Mister Stark would notice if I took it out for a little spin?”

“I don’t even think the Boss can touch his toes," the AI replies. There’s hardly an inflection in her tone.

Peter hums. A familiar excitement bubbles in his chest. Sure, he’s thought about asking to wear the suit a million and one different times, but the idea of doing without Tony even knowing––Peter has never jumped out of his seat so fast. If Tony ever finds out, Peter is toast. But he won’t. Just a brief flight. Nothing could go wrong.

“You won’t tattle on me, right, Fri?” he asks.

“Of course not.”

“Knew I could count on you.” Peter smiles, but it falters as he stops in his tracks. “Wait––this is stupid. I’m stupid. Aren’t the suits coded to him?”

“Yes, but he has them coded to you, too.”

“What? Really?”

“He has them coded to all of his loved ones.”

Peter blinks. He blinks again. “S-say that again?”

“Boss has given his loved ones access to his suits in the case of immediate mortal danger,” she says. “That includes you.”

“Quit pullin’ my leg, Fri,” Peter half-chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Just tell me I can’t use the suit.”

“I’m not pulling your leg.”

He rubs at his forehead and lets out a breath.

“Your body language suggests that you’re nervous.”

“Yeah, yeah, well––” Peter squints his eyes shut. “I mean, it’s Mister Stark. What if––what if he finds out? My head’ll be served for breakfast. A-and then he’ll take away Spider-Man, and Fri, I don’t know if I can––”

“Are you going to let fear dictate your life, Peter?”

His eyebrows raise at the question. Holy shit. He’s never heard FRIDAY speak so philosophically before. And she called him scared. He’s not scared––he’s just spending a little extra time making sure it’s the right decision, of course.

“No,” he mumbles, biting as his lip. “I don’t wanna do that.” Around him, provocative prototypes and unfinished creations await his final verdict. The bare bones of a gauntlet scream his name on a table to his right. Peter nods. “Okay. Okay. I’m doing it. Fri––oh shit, I’ve always wanted to say this––all right, let’s take this outside.”

Tony is in the middle of dreaming about fighting an army of robot dogs when FRIDAY’s voice intervenes. He awakes in a daze, torso slumped to the floor while his bottom half remains comfortably on the couch. There’s a tissue stuck to his hand, another flat on his t-shirt, and the pressure in his sinuses goes right back up to his head once he sits up.

“Oh, Jesus,” he groans out, clutching his forehead as he leans over his knees. “Wh-what is it? I was just fighting robotic French Bulldogs––and losing.”

“Peter Parker has asked me not to tell you that he’s taken the Mark Forty-Five out for a flight,” the AI replies.

Tony winces. Mark XLV. Gosh, he hasn’t used that one since Sokovia. It did a helluva fine job, but the memory makes him shudder. He’s successfully not thought about that battle since at least last week, and while it’s not as fresh as some of the others, the reminder still leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Mister Parker doesn’t even know the half of what––wait a minute.

“Hold up. Say that again.”

“I’ve been told not to tell you that Peter Parker is out in the Mark Forty-Five suit.”

Tony sits up, and his sinuses flare once again. He doesn’t even react. “M-my Peter? Peter Parker?”

“Yes, boss.”

It takes a few seconds for Tony to stand, meanwhile, he clutches the sides of the couch to keep from passing out. He’s not sure if it’s possible, but he thinks he might have an iron deficiency. And, somehow, Peter Parker has everything to do with it. The stacks of homework, the near-death situations, the constant stress he’s put the poor billionaire under… there’s no question about it.

“And he asked you not to tell me?”

“Yes, boss.”

Tony lets out a breath. “Not sure where exactly your loyalty lies, but I’ll take it. What’s he––why is he––? Oh, I’m gonna kill him. Run me the live audio. Where is he?”

FRIDAY doesn’t answer. Instead, the Mark XVL’s live feed is fed through her operating system. The living space of the compound fills with static, wind, and the familiar, all-too-cheery, soon-to-be-dead-as-a-doornail voice of Peter Parker.

“All righty then, Fri––”

Tony furrows his eyebrows. That’s his nickname for FRIDAY. Son of a bitch.

“––let’s see what this baby can do––oh, shit!”

As the harsh sound of rattling, crackling, and somehow, buzzing, echo throughout the room, Tony rolls his eyes. He’s never been given the chance to forget how young the kid is.

“Okay, okay, I didn’t like that,” Peter says. “Let’s not do that again. Jesus, how does Mister Stark not get motion sick?”

“Cut the feed,” Tony urges. He isn’t sure how to handle his anger. He keeps it contained in his chest while his fingers claw at the couch cushions below him. The rest of his anger resides in his jaw. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m literally gonna kill him. Get me a suit.”

“Boss, your temperature has climbed to––”

“I don’t care,” he says. “Don’t fuckin’ care. I need a suit. I need t’keep my kid from killing himself before I kill him.”

“Incoming call from Tony Stark.”

“W-what?” Peter sputters. “No, no! Fri, don’t answer.”

“Declining call from Tony Stark.”

“Holy shit, thank you.”

Peter has learned three things since he left the compound as Iron Man nearly ten minutes ago. One, he’s not great with changes in altitude. Like, at all. Two, the suit is massively uncomfortable. He’s not sure how Tony can manage more than a half-hour without feeling claustrophobic. And three, Peter has never felt so cool in his entire life.

Ever since he can remember, he’s looked up to Iron Man. The hero has always been untouchable––almost unreal––prior to Germany back in ‘16. Granted, Peter has been a kid for that entire time, and kids think everything that breathes is awesome and larger than life. But with Iron Man, it’s been different. Iron Man has been an emotional crutch, something he could always trust. And now, he’s in the suit.

Peter can’t wait to tell Ned.

But––why did Tony call him?

“I think we’ve had enough fun for today,” Peter says, chuckling nervously as he figures out how to stop flying.

“Setting a course back to the compound,” FRIDAY states. “Do you want me to alert Tony that you’re on your way back?”

“What? No!” Peter’s heart jumps while he takes off soaring in the opposite direction. He’s tired, and he’s flown into too many trees. And he thinks he might have knocked a bird out of its nest earlier in the flight. “Shit, wait––does that mean he knows? Is that why he called me?”

“Your personal phone is not connected to the Mark Forty-Five’s heads-up display,” she replies.

“Oh,” Peter whispers. After that, he finally registers what she meant. “Oh. Oh no. Th-that means he called himself. He called the suit. I’m dead. I’m dead meat.”

“Incoming call from––”

“Don’t answer.”

“Override.”

“Parker.” It’s Tony.

Peter flinches, eyes screwing shut as he holds in a breath. “Hey, Mister Stark.” He exhales shakily.

“Hey, Mister Stark, yeah, okay––” Tony chuckles, but it’s not genuine. Not in the slightest. Even the soundwaves in the HUD look menacing. “Where have you been?”

“I’m out,” Peter answers, "on a stroll.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

He’s dead. He’s literally dead. He doesn’t know how he can lie his way through this, but hell, he’s going to try. “Honest. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Tony laughs again. It’s frighteningly evil. And congested. “Kid, if you’re somehow not dead by the time you get back, I may just kill you myself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, just watch me.”

Peter’s skin crawls at the sound of Tony’s voice. He’s dead. “Mister Stark, I’m––”

“Get your ass back here,” Tony says. “Now. We’ll talk then. FRIDAY, take him home. Turn off manual control.”

“Yes, boss.”

Before Peter can interject, the call cuts off and the heads-up display returns back to normal. His eyes well up, and his throat clenches as he tries to breathe through––what feels like––a straw. Under his breath, he mutters, “traitor,” but FRIDAY doesn’t answer.

Peter’s landing is rough, and it’s almost comical for Tony to watch. But nothing is funny to him, not right now. It was one thing when Rhodey took the suit some-odd years ago––it was Rhodey, a full-grown adult––yet Tony’s stomach twists at the sight of Peter under that faceplate. There’s anger, and then there’s something that many people know as heartbreak. Tony just doesn’t want to admit he is possible of feeling that type of thing. Peter has broken his heart more times than he can count.

“Mister Stark, I’m so––” Peter tries, eyes wide as the suit peels away from around him. He’s startled by the action.

“Nah, I don’t think you get the chance to speak first,” Tony says. He adorns a suit himself––spanking new nanotech that, surprisingly, feels comfortable. Like a second skin. “Did you even think about your actions, or did you just assume that it was a good idea?”

Peter shakes his head a few times. “No, no. I-I did think. I––”

“Yeah, clearly, you didn’t!” Tony waves his arms, and they drop back down to his sides. “Newsflash, kid. That suit costs more than yours tripled. If you had even scratched a finger––”

“I would’ve fixed it, Mister Stark,” Peter replies without a beat. “I would have repaired it myself. You taught me how. I wouldn’t have––”

“How did you expect me to react to this?”

Peter’s shoulders slump. “I didn’t think you’d find out,” he mutters.

Tony wants to laugh again. So this is what being a parent feels like. May deserves more credit than he’s given her. “If you think you’re such an ‘Iron Man’ expert, then you should’ve just made your own damn suit.”

Peter’s gaze drops. He accepts blow after blow without question.

But Tony, well, he just gave himself an idea.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted your own suit, kiddo?” he asks, feeling his anger slowly diminish by the second. And meanwhile, ideas of a possible “Iron Spider” fill his head.

“I-I––” Peter hugs his arms. “I dunno.”

Tony ponders. His excitement to tinker suddenly outweighs any irritation he once had. Of course, he’s still mad, but seeing the kid look so discouraged and defeated makes Tony’s heart do something weird. Maybe he does see the kid as his kid.

“All right, well,” he begins, lips twisting while he nods toward the compound, “get inside. Maybe we’ll brainstorm while we talk about how grounded you’re gonna be for the next ten years.”

Relief floods over Peter, and he chuckles. Together, they make their way back inside. The Mark XLV follows.

“Why are you in a suit?” Peter asks after a few seconds.

“Oh, yeah, forgot about that,” Tony mumbles, tapping at the unit on his chest before the nanites trickle back into it. He sniffs, and suddenly he can feel the ache of his sinuses once again. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know if I was gonna have to chase after you or scrape you out of some crater you created because you fell five-hundred feet.”

“I actually think I did pretty okay.”

“Kid,” Tony says, laughing, “I saw you fly in. You definitely almost killed someone.”

Peter huffs and folds his arms. “Well, Fri said I was doing great for a first-timer.”

“Fri––since you insist on calling her that now––is a liar,” Tony replies. “And she definitely likes you too much. I think you’ve become her favorite.”

When he looks over, Peter is smiling.

“What?” asks Tony.

“Nothing.” Peter shrugs. “Just that you made her, and somehow, I managed to become her favorite. S’all.”

“Shut up.” Tony elbows the kid, and it pushes him back a few feet.

“Hey!”

“That’s what you get,” Tony mocks. “Next time, don’t touch my stuff.”

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vagabonds-art · 5 years

Text

History at the Gap

Characters: Kebechet (My guardian), Saint-14, Osiris, Lord Shaxx

Word Count: 1,691

Summary: Kebe is given a broken weapon frame as a reward from the Sundial. Saint tells her were to go to fix it. Neither of them really saw Osiris butting in nor Shaxx for that matter.

A/N: Most of the dialogue is straight from the mission, there are potions I added to tie it all together <3

Read on Ao3 HERE

A jaunt through the Sundial was nothing special. The group of five random Guardians Kebechet ran across helped her get the job done easy enough. However, what was special about this run was the fact, the Hunter received the shattered frame of a very old gun.

“A timelost weapon?” Demon asked, the small ghost materializing at her shoulder.

This weapon, if it could be called that, was one she had never seen before. For a moment, Kebechet had thought to take the frame to Shaxx, see if he knew anything on how to rebuild it. Then again, the Titan was busy running the Crucible. There was always Saint-14. A smile flashed on the Hunter’s face as she set her ship to take her back to the Tower’s hangar. It would be foolish to forego the opportunity to sit with her uncle.

She thought so at least.

Being dropped into the work space, Kebcehet hit the ground running. Her boots carrying over to the exo at the back of the hangar. His back had been to her as he sprinkled seeds down for the dozen or so pigeons that flocked at his feet. He was humming some old tune when Kebechet tapped at his shoulder.

He turned quickly, “Hunter! I almost did not see you. You’re so small, this is good makes you harder target.”

“Uncle Saint,” Kebechet laughed pulling off her helm. “It’s me.”

“Little bird,” the Titan beamed pulling the Hunter close in a tight hug. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Demon and I just got done in the Sundial,” she explained, her ghost dropping the broken frame in her hands. “Papa gave us this as a... Reward? I think it was a mistake but maybe you know what it’s supposed to be.”

Saint took the gun in hand, studying it for a brief moment. “This is a piece of our history,” he said at last. “But it is destroyed.”

“Think we could fix it up?” Demon asked hovering over the weapon.

“It is possible, there could be fragments of this weapon out in the EDZ.” Saint handed the gun back, describing the pieces Kebechet would need to hunt for in the field. Reminding her to be discreet in her search, “I’ve been made aware the area is now a stage for Shaxx’s Crucible. Even if it isn’t in use today, best to keep your head low to avoid trouble.”

“You say that like I’m not small and easy to miss,” the Hunter smirked putting her helm back on.

“A little bird is as big as an eagle in a clear sky.”

“It’ll be fine,” Kebechet promised. “In and out.”

With that Guardian and Ghost were back in their ship, taking the quick jump to the lone Crucible map. She landed just as easy as it was to get there. Looking around, she realized this was--

“Welcome to Twilight Gap,” Saint said into her coms. “The place where humanity nearly died.”

“Kebechet?” Osiris spoke next, his tone of light surprise. “There are no Crucible matches scheduled for the Gap today.”

“So much for being discreet,” the hunter muttered under her breath.

“Osiris! How did you know we were here?” Saint asked while Kebechet began her search. Starting at the boulders she landed by.

There was a brief pause before the Warlock answered, “I saw her arrive.”

“You’re spying on her!?” the Titan accused, a bit too loudly.

“Uncle Saint,” Kebechet called from where she knelt beside the broken body of a forgotten Redjack. “This is supposed to be secret. The whole Tower’s gonna know if you keep shouting.”

“To clarify, I watch all Guardians of stature,” Osiris spoke, a factual tone to his voice. “And I have the right.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little creepy?” the Hunter asked tucking a piece she had found into the frame. “I get I’m your kid and all, but y’know…”

“Know what?”

“You could have told me!” Kebchet huffed walking into the old shipping building. “I’m not the most coordinated Guardian.”

“What makes you say this?” Saint asked curiously.

“I may have fell a few times in the last couple of days.”

“Little bird, there is no harm in a small stumble,” the Titan calmly replied. “All of us have fallen in our lives.”

“She tripped over a rock and fell off a cliff.” Osiris chuckled.

“You did see it!!” Kebechet shouted stomping her boot on the grated floor she stood on. The old metal gave way, dropping her to the lower level of the building. She lay flat on her back for a moment, glaring through her visor at the hole above her. “Say one word about this, I’ll kill both of you.”

Silence followed her threat. “Demon…” she called sitting up, spotting another Redjack.

“Sorry,” the ghost answered after Kebechet found another piece. “We... “ he paused trying hard not to laugh. “We had to mute ourselves.”

“Of course you did,” she sighed exploring the lower half of the building.

A short time had passed and Kebechet had found a few more parts to the weapon. She stood next to the cannon that would fire off every now and then, putting the pieces into the gun. She turned to look out at the wilderness, a breathtaking sight to anyone who took the time to see it.

“The battle against the Fallen that took place here,” Saint sighed. “It made Titan’s famous… And not in a good way.”

“You say that like the Warlocks and Hunters sat on their hands,” the third Guardian interjected defensively.

“Get off this line Osiris, I’m showing Kebe something very important.”

“Make me.”

At this, Kebechet and Saint laughed. “You would not survive that,” the Titan promised. “But… you make me laugh. You can stay.”

Looking around what appeared to be an old gandila, the Hunter found her sixth piece. As her eyes scanned the area for any more Redjacks, Saint spoke once more.

“The fabled Gjallarhorns of legend were constructed from the armor of Guardians who died here,” there was a heavy weight to the Titan’s words. Kebechet could almost feel his pain as she looked down at the fallen Redjack before her. “Final deaths... all of them.”

“What happened here wasn’t your fault,” Osiris commented with a softer tone than either Guardian was used to. “Or mine.”

“We would have lost if not for Shaxx’s last stand,” Saint reasoned. “With Nkechi and Abdi and Truce. Lui Fang. Ana. They all believed in him.”

“He’s more stubborn than you,” Osiris added, Kebechet thought she detected the hint of a smile in his voice.

“I have never known him to give up, ever,” Saint replied with a small chuckle. “Ah...He’s taught me a lot.”

“Have you thought of catching up with him?” the Hunter asked shuffling through another set of remains. “He’s always around and easy to find.”

“I will soon, little bird,” Saint promised. “I have many questions to ask of him.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to answer them,” she smiled putting the pieces to the gun. There were still two more components missing. Part of Kebechet almost didn’t want to find them. This was fun for her, it was the closest she would get to having her family whole again. Which was why she almost groaned finding another Redjack leaning against a set of stairs.

“Kebechet,” Saint called in the comms.

The Hunter paused, ready to listen to what he had to say.

“To think when we met, you were this small scrawny thing, I could lift you with my pinky. Watching you grow and learn as you have, I should have known you’d be the Guardian to save me. Whether you wanted it or not, you’ve become the best of us. Hm... or close to it. Without you, there would be no Saint-14, the battle of Twilight Gap might have been lost.”

The Hunter smiled once more, looking out to the Traveler from where she stood. Though in her mind’s eye she wasn’t looking at the Great Machine itself, rather the people under it. For the first time in a while, she allowed herself to reflect on all that happened. From rebirth to here, it’s been one helluva ride.

The moment could have been considered perfect, that was until….

“Saint,” Osiris called next. “Your ego knows no bounds.”

“And you have a fat head, Warlock.”

Kebechet laughed at this, a full fit of mirth in her throat to the point she had to hold her sides. The way it all happened, the quick quips, it was just something she had to take in. “Now there’s a sound I haven’t heard in ages,” Saint commented.

“She laughs all the time,” Osiris sighed.

“Not like this she doesn’t,” the Titan started to laugh as well.

“Never change,” the Hunter giggled stepping into an open shipping container. There was the last body of a Redjack. Shifting through a few parts, Kebechet found the last piece she needed. Sliding it into place on the frame, the gun flashed with a small amount of light becoming the Devil’s Ruin.

She admired it, looking it over and aiming down the sight, nearly dropping it as she jumped. “What’s all this?” Shaxx boomed in the comms. “Guardian! There are no sanctioned matches at Twilight Gap right now.”

“That’s exactly what I was saying.”

“Osiris?” Shaxx replied.

“Warlord Shaxx, as I live and breath.”

“Saint-14? I thought you were dead.”

“Brother,” the other Titan spoke seriously. “I’ve always hated you.”

The two then broke out into laughter over the comms. When they had finished, Osiris spoke up, “They’ll be a this for a while, Kebechet. Feel free to move about the universe, I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to this.”

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Shaxx,” Saint began. “The Crucible, what have you done with it?”

As the other Titan answered Kebechet sauntered over to a cliff edge that overlooked the city. Sitting herself down she reached into one of the pouches on her belt, pulling out a small bag of trail mix. There was no way she was going to miss this conversation.

#kebechet #destiny osiris #saint-14 #saint 14 #destiny 2 #season of dawn #Vagabond's Writing #my guardian #fan fiction #my writing

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clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Choice ― III.iii. Belief

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Some people spend their whole lives looking for something to believe in. They're lucky that they never had to.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Two months later…

Cynbel watches as Ambrose leans against the railing with hands braced on the cold metal. Colder sea spray lashes at their cheeks under the night sky but they pay it little mind. They have, perhaps, had enough heat and fire to last more than one mortal lifetime.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a fill in my life.” The American groans, and Cynbel actually feels bad for him.

“There is far more to this life than fighting someone else’s wars. Give it time — you’ll see why we were starving so.”

Together the man glance down to the depths below. Where the foam left in the wake of their ship fades pink from bodies already lost underneath the ocean’s current.

“If y’all eat like that every day I’m startin’ to get it.”

And true enough the last few weeks of travel have been positively lavish compared to the squalor of mine living. Even this limited food supply seems boundless when they remember the rot of starvation in their bellies. But that does not diminish how good it is — how good it feels to be, not unlike the sea, free.

Sayeed held up her end of the bargain, so it was only fair that Cynbel and Isseya do the same. The where of their journey did not matter so long as they were far from Virginia’s shores. The when was with haste — and for good reason.

With none left to lead them the remaining militia of the Order of the Dawn was made harmless. The comparisons of the sides were unfortunately fraught with similarities, some not even Cynbel could deny. As the Order had culled the Old Blood; the vampires who had survived centuries of their fruitless extermination attempts, so had the war turned in their favor. But with only the newly inducted left to lead them — and many with ties that bound them to communities, to families; to vulnerability — their ‘holy mission’ was made second to the more pressing matters of the not-so-United States.

He couldn’t care less about the Godmaker’s plans now, whether he chooses to retaliate against the Trinity’s desertion of him or not. Two decks below his beloveds pass the boring hours with card games and wistful possibilities of when they make port.

He needs nothing else.

Now imagine their surprise at the familiar sight catching the last call to board. His battalion may now be nothing more than ash but there was no reason for Ambrose to turn and run. In fact Valdas had a strong inclination to name him Gaius’ spy and cast him overboard.

With only a matter of days before they find Europe on the horizon… he actually can’t remember why they didn’t.

A life for a life.

In between shuffled decks and lavish feasting and their halfhearted attempts at breaking through the hull by way of their beds, though, the Golden Son has found himself fond of the man. Older in appearance and admittedly wise beyond his years — but still so very new to what this life could offer—would offer, now.

Habit makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand when Ambrose reaches inside the breast pocket of his coat; eases when he sees the tinder box and cigarettes rolled with absolutely no skill whatsoever in his hands.

Ambrose sparks the tinder. Cynbel swallows down nightmares of hellfire. They share a moment of quiet.

“I should have said this before…” Cynbel begins around a mouth of ill-tasting smoke, “but when we make port this — our camaraderie — will come to an end.”

He’s come to expect the long silences in between answers, so much so that it barely feels like any time has passed at all when Ambrose finally does speak.

“I thought as much.” And doesn’t that just make the older vampire laugh.

“Two millennia and only now do we meet someone who understands. Shame and pity.”

“Oh I don’t, not even a lick.” The eyes that meet his, though, contradict Ambrose in every way. Eyes that seem sure and solid despite the rocking beneath their feet. So he continues.

“You three — whatever you’ve got there is… it’s dangerous.” So they have been told, and by lesser men. “But through this whole fight I’ve seen men Turn, live, and die over and over again without even a drop of the conviction you two’ve got for your Maker. I’ll be frank with you, Cynbel. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s love.”

“Is that what love is? I’m really askin’ here. Because I sure as hell ain’t ever felt a love like that. Not in this lifetime or the one that came before it.”

Just like that the conversation takes a turn for the uninteresting. Cynbel draws his attention out to the midnight horizon, where one can’t tell the sky from the sea. “All the more pitiful are you, then. I will not justify what we are for your whims, Ambrose. Not for you, not for Sayeed, not for anyone.”

“You misunderstand.”

“I doubt that.”

“It ain’t your strange-like love I’m interested in, but rather what it makes you.”

The only reason he’d offered Ambrose company was because Iss’ refused to play anything other than rummy, and he’s terrible at rummy. And standing here he can’t help but wonder which is more of a torture.

“You and Isseya nearly died for him. And I think you would have should that have been what you needed to do.”

“Of course we would have.”

“And I couldn’t understand why — not really. Why you’d risk yourselves, risk anyone else, but not him.”

Cynbel doesn’t bother hiding the venom in his answer. “Because He is more than they were. More than Iss’ or myself could ever hope to be. That is the kind of devotion He inspires. Would you not do the same for Augustine? Or your First, to make a finer comparison of it.”

The same long pause — but this one drags out. Thin, fragile between them and quickly unraveling at the seams. Then—

“No.”

“Then you’re wasting time searching for answers when you would not even recognize them when found. We would have died for Him — of course. But that is merely part of it. That is what the rest of the world sees and takes us to be entirely. We are more than the death we bring and would bear for Him.

“No one seems to realize that we lived for him. Just as fiercely — perhaps even more so because we could have died, but we did not. That is what has driven our lust for living; not that we would fall to our knees and take the sword with our necks for Him, but that He gives us the strength to take the sword in hand and say ‘no more.’”

Perhaps it would be nice to be understood for once. For the ages not to seem so ignorant and dull as they always have because one person — just one, that’s all it would take — realizes their love is not about sacrifice. But that it is about survival.

In silence Ambrose takes out another cigarette, more flint. Offers him one but Cynbel declines with a small shake of his head. Four weeks he’s been able to put the events of that day behind him as he had always done. Left it in the past and continued on to a future where they need not worry about being apart.

Four fucking weeks, but that’s all.

Ambrose keeps the cigarette between his lips when he speaks again. “I lived human for forty-some years. Spent my whole young life livin’ just as most did; you understand,” —he marched the breadth of those states just the same, he understands quite well— “and Turnin’ gave me more than just the power to free myself. It gave me — well, I thought — somethin’ to believe in.”

“Immortality?”

“The First.” The way he says her name is wistful enough to strike up a curiosity in Cynbel, much like the small flame struck up on his tinderbox.

Wistful, and no longer so reverent.

“Won’t say I’m the only one, either. There were a lotta boys like me who heard about the First Vampire who rose herself up from false judgment, from bein’ put in chains on another’s lies, and not only struck her enemies down but wanted to make a place where all like her were just as free.”

They are words that draw Cynbel back to Charlottesville, to the barn and Ambrose with his little box of ashes and his little gathering and his little words of worship and meaning in their comrade’s death. Strange that the man from then is the same one who stands before him now.

“Faith does wonders in times of strife.”

“It did — ‘til I heard you two talk about your Maker, your Made-God.”

“And what has that changed in you, hm?”

“The first time I ever heard Augustine tell the story of the First Vampire he made sure we well knew that every death was a piece’a her power going home — just another drop to fill some vessel that would bring her back to save us.

“But you don’t think like that,” Ambrose says it like a revelation; like wool no longer being pulled over his eyes, “and it got me thinking about what exactly I’m keepin’ immortality for. ‘Cause I gotta say doin’ it for a love like that sounds a helluva lot better than staying around just so some day I can die for a myth.”

Cynbel narrows his eyes. “The First was no myth. She was very real.”

“I’m sure she was, Old Blood. To you and Isseya and even Valdas, probably. Just like she’s real to Augustine and Sayeed. But that’s all two thousand years gone now. Who knows if she’ll ever come back, or when. That makes her pretty myth-like to me.”

What does one say to that? He may have propositioned Ambrose for this their night of feasting with a bottle of cheap liquor in hand but it wasn’t nearly enough to bring this kind of philosophical debate out of him. Yet it’s affirming in a way—not that any of the Trinity would seek affirmation for themselves, for their devotion to one another—he didn’t quite expect.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re trying to confess your love to me or not.”

“Ha!” Ambrose laughs so hard his cigarette tumbles into the sea not half-finished. Deserves it. “In your dreams. Though I’ll start rackin’ up a tally seeing as that’s the second time you’ve propositioned me.”

“You’re being terribly rude. And it’s a terribly long swim back to the colonies.”

But the other man just shakes his head. “Truth be told no one’s ever let me ramble on this long about anythin’. Ended up a little off the tracks.”

“A little?”

“All I’m saying, Cynbel, is you and yours —”

“The Trinity, respect your elders.”

“— yeah, sure. Whatever you call yourselves—that kind of devotion can be inspiring to my kind of folk. A lot more than prayin’ on ‘maybes.’ What was that thing, the one Isseya said in the caravan.”

“Which — oh, while she was eating your man for insubordination?”

There’s a clatter behind them and both men turn towards it. They had found themselves so deep in debate that neither took notice to the young couple stretching their legs under the moon. To the young wife who looks aghast and sullied just for hearing the words and to her young husband suddenly trying to pull her to some imagined safety.

Cynbel and Ambrose take the same moment to watch them scurry along before they resume. A needed break in the tension.

He remembers it of course. Clear as the daylight that had struck them down. Even in their desperation and fear for Valdas’ fate it was hard—literally—not to hear such things from her bloodied teeth and find himself aroused.

“‘I choose to believe in a God who walks beside me. Who will answer when I call.’”

Ambrose nods. “Strange and, pardon my French, fuckin’ insane as she was then, that’s the kind of stuff gospels are made from.”

“So you’re proposing, what,” Cynbel’s disbelief is obvious, “The Gospel of Valdemaras?”

Silence. Real, non-hesitant silence. The kind of silence that forces Cynbel to face the man for answers and finds them in a resolution unfounded in those strange, dark eyes.

Well… one person finally understands. If only he knew what that means.

#bloodbound #bloodbound fanfiction #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #choices bb #oc: cynbel #oc: isseya #oc: valdas #oc: ambrose #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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the-one-eighteen · 5 years

Text

New Normal

(read on ao3)

Buck stared at the ceiling, caught between the vague sensation that the universe was laughing at him and the urge to find shapes in the ugly-ass popcorn ceiling.

The former was just a common occurrence these days, so he’d settled for the latter. Not that he had a lot of progress to show for it.

Eddie’s street was in a quieter part of LA, but a quieter part of LA was still LA. It was never truly quiet or empty, and every time headlights stretched across the ceiling, filling the room with dull gold for a breath and stretching the shadows impossibly long and dark around him, Buck’s eyes went fuzzy and he had to start over.

It was two in the damn morning and he just. Couldn’t sleep.

He was tired, sure. Who wouldn’t be after a double shift? But his brain was just...going.

This happened every time he slept over at Eddie’s. Every single time. His brain would just go and go and go. Until he ended up passing out around four in the morning. Then, whenever the Diaz boys felt nice enough to let him escape (and who the hell was he kidding? He overstayed his welcome way too often for him to put that blame anywhere near them), he’d go home and pass out for a nap.

He knows this about himself. Knows this habit. Has for a while now.

And yet...he can’t say no when Eddie offers. Physically cannot say no to those warm eyes and Chris’ sweet, sleepy smile, and oh god he was doomed.

He’d tried escaping this time, was the thing. He’d tried.

He’d dropped by Eddie’s that night after their shift, because that was just what they did when their times lined up. Said goodbye after work, separated long enough for Eddie to pick up Chris and for Buck to go home and change, and then met back up at Eddie’s for dinner and movies, or video games, or lego tournaments, or whatever Chris was feeling like. There’d been that night, about two weeks ago, when they’d had a fort building competition.

(Buck won. Don’t ask Eddie - he’s still just mad his fell down. Buck had nothing to do with that, honest.)

And then, like always, Buck had gotten up about the time Chris had started yawning a little too often to ignore and Eddie had started talking about getting ready for bed. He’d said something to the effect of getting out of their hair, and he’d even made it halfway to the door after giving Chris a hug goodnight, when Eddie had winged a couch pillow at his head, and told him in no uncertain terms that he’d seen him yawning too and like hell he was driving.

So, here he was, at two in the morning, stretched out on the couch and trying to find patterns in the speckled ceiling without much luck while his brain went into overdrive.

And what really sucked? Is that there weren’t a whole lot of places Buck would rather be right now.

Only one, really.

But, despite that place being literally twenty feet away, Buck wasn’t going to get that, so, as much as he was complaining? He’d take the couch.

He’d take the couch, just so he could see an excited Chris and a rumpled Eddie in the morning. He’d take the couch, just so he could join in on making breakfast, watching his two favorite people light up at the idea because Eddie still hadn’t quite mastered much beyond cereal and the occasional toasted bagel.

He’d take the damn couch, and a helluva lot more, for those mornings where he got to sit at the table with Eddie and Chris, the morning shining and bright, laughing as Chris makes a mess and as a half asleep Eddie almost spills his coffee, listening to their plans for the day and feeling, just for an hour, just for a moment, like he was part of it.

God, he needed sleep. Groaning, he rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard enough that he saw spots for a couple moments, before grabbing the pillow and dragging it over his face. The urge to scream into it was intense, but even he wasn’t quite that dramatic. For now. Maybe in an hour.

It took him a moment to register the sound coming from down the hall - didn’t actually place the click of a door being opened until his brain caught up to the shuffling sound that came after. Peeking out from under the pillow, he frowned slightly at the hallway.

It wasn’t Eddie, he knew that immediately. But why would Chris be up?

It was quiet for a long minute or two, and Buck was about to go back to hiding from the world, thinking Chris had either just made it to the bathroom or had gone to Eddie’s room, before he sees a mop of curls peek around the corner.

He sits up immediately, “Hey buddy...what’re you doing up, huh?” He asks, softly, so as not to wake up Eddie. It still sounds loud in the too quiet house, and Buck winces slightly.

Chris hesitates a long moment, then sniffles and rubs hard at one of his eyes, and Buck feels his heart shatter in his chest. He’s up off the couch in the next moment and at Christopher’s side the next. He holds out his arms long enough to get a slightly shaky nod from Chris before scooping him up and holding him close. Chris hiccups and curls his hands in Buck’s shirt immediately, burying his face against his chest, and what was left of Buck’s heart is crumbling, even as he tries to keep his voice calm and low as he heads back to the couch. “Hey, hey, Chris, what’s going on?”

Chris doesn’t answer immediately - just snuggles in close when Buck drops down on the couch, making himself as small as he can in Buck’s lap, and instead of pushing, Buck just murmurs softly and holds him close. He’s already got a pretty good idea what happened, and he knows better than to push if he’s right.

“Ha-had a nightmare…” Chris mumbles into his shirt and Buck sighs softly, gently running one hand through his curls.

“Oh...oh sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Buck murmurs, pulling his little body closer and reaching over to grab the discarded blanket to pull around them before a thought hits him. “Do you want me to go get your dad?” he asks, blinking slightly when Chris quickly shakes his head.

“Didn’t wanna wake him,” Chris says, pulling away long enough to wipe ineffectually at his eyes again. He sounds better at least - voice still rough, but definitely not as...as quiet as before. “Didn’t wanna wake you...either…” And there’s a thread of worry there in his tone that Buck needs to squash, immediately.

“You didn’t Chris, promise. I was already up. Besides, I wouldn’t have minded, and I know your dad wouldn’t have either.”

Chris just nods, curling back into Buck’s chest again now that he’s calmed down a little. “I know but...Daddy’s been tired. And so were you.” Buck holds Chris a little tighter at that, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“That’s sweet, buddy, that you’d think of us. But I promise you, we’d want to know, okay? Even if it’s just a little thing.” The very idea of Chris not wanting to tell anyone just because he didn’t want to wake anyone up...the kid’s all heart, but he really doesn’t like the idea of Eddie going through that. Again.

“Okay, Buck…” Chris says around a yawn, clearly feeling better, regardless of whatever it was that drove him out there.

“Good kid...now, we should get you back to bed, yeah?” Buck says, moving to stand up when Chris shakes his head again.

“Can I stay out here? With you? Just for a bit…”

Buck is a strong man, but he’s not strong enough for this. So, he settles back into the couch, gently maneuvering Chris around so he’s a little more comfortable and a little more under the blanket.

“Sure buddy. Whatever you want.”

Chris falls asleep again quickly after that, still tucked up against Buck’s chest, with one little hand curled in his shirt. And Buck means to take him back to bed, a little after he’s fallen asleep.

Means to.

Can’t quite make himself get up.

Before he really knows it, he’s falling asleep too, one arm curled protectively around Chris, the other making sure the blanket stays on them.

---

Eddie wakes up to a quiet house.

It’s odd enough that he’s immediately unsettled and possibly on edge.

Normally, when his days off were on the weekend, Chris was bustling into his room around eight. Especially if Buck stayed the night, so the two of them could go startle a still sleeping Buck and Chris could beg him for pancakes.

It was basically a tradition at this point, and one Chris was always excited about.

Eddie sometimes felt a little bad about waking Buck up, when it looked like he slept so heavily on their couch but...well, he never really seemed to mind, if the sunshine-bright smile he got on his face every time he realized when he realized what was happening was anything to go by.

He glanced over at the clock, his sleepy brain taking a moment to actually register the digits. 8:33.

What the heck.

Groaning softly, he pushed himself up out of bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair and down his face in an attempt to both wake up a little more and to try and wipe away the feeling of uneasiness. It’d been a late one last night. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he was just the first one up.

Getting out of bed, he quietly made his way to the hall, then to Chris’ room to check on him. His bed was empty.

Okay, breathe.

Buck was in the house too, and he had almost as much of a hair-trigger as Eddie when it came to Chris. No way in hell could anything happen with the two of them in the same damn house.

While the idea helped calm him for the moment, his gut was still churning uncomfortably with an anxiety he didn’t want to put a name to.

He didn’t quite run to the living room - the only real testament to his control at the moment - but it was a close thing.

What he saw immediately settled his anxiety, set his beating heart to slow, and he knew he was smiling kind of stupidly within a couple seconds - and only half out of relief. He leaned against the wall slightly, laughing softly to himself.

Buck was sitting upright on the couch, head leaned over the back in a way that did not look comfortable for sleeping, while Chris was curled against his chest, the blankets tucked up around him like a little cocoon. Both were still completely dead to the world.

Right, so, he needed a picture of that.

He slipped back to his room as quietly as he could to grab his phone, managing to snap at least one pic before Chris started stirring, muttering and rubbing at his eyes. And Chris shifting and moving seems to be all it takes to wake Buck up. Somewhat. He groans anyway, even if his eyes stay closed.

“Morning, buddy,” Eddie says as he slips over to crouch by the couch and help Chris up out of the tangle of blanket.

“Morning daddy!” Chris chirps back, completely awake in a blink. It wasn’t often Eddie was jealous of his kid, but damn, that was a skill he’d like to have.

“What’re you doing out here, huh? C’mon, let’s get off Buck so he can get up too…” Eddie’s not actually expecting an answer, which is for the best as Chris doesn’t seem inclined to give one. “Why don’t you go get ready, and we’ll get breakfast, okay?”

“Okay!” Chris beams at him before heading down the hall. Eddie watches him go for a moment before looking back to Buck, who’s kind of just blinking owlishly at this point.

“Morning to you too, sunshine.” Eddie says, grinning. Buck grimaces slightly, using one hand to reach up and rub at the back of his neck and the other to throw the blanket over Eddie. Eddie just laughs and drags it off, standing again, holding out a hand, “You get breakfast started, I’ll get you some Advil, alright?”

Buck eyes his hand suspiciously for a long moment - no doubt not too happy being laughed at this early in the morning - before taking it and hauling himself up off the couch. “Deal. You actually go grocery shopping recently?”

“Yes, you jerk. You went with us, remember?” Eddie shoots back, still grinning.

Buck just makes a shooing motion at him before heading for the kitchen. Eddie rolls his eyes, but goes to get the Advil as promised. When he makes it back to the kitchen, Buck’s already got out everything he needs for pancakes.

“You know, he gets really, really upset when you’re not here and he can’t have pancakes.” Eddie says, slipping up to lean against the counter beside him, offering over the pill bottle.

Chris isn’t the only one that’s upset when Buck isn’t here in the morning, but that’s another matter entirely.

Buck just rolls his eyes, even as he takes the bottle with a muttered thanks, downing a couple with a glass of water Eddie hadn’t noticed. “I’ve tried to show you how to make ‘em, you know. Hell, they even have instructions on the box mixes. It’s not that hard.” He’s grumbling, but Eddie can see the curl at the corner of his lips, and just laughs when Buck hip-checks him to try and get his point across. Or possibly to move him away from the mixing bowl. Either way, it works.

“Yeah, yeah. I can make the box mixes, but it’s not as good and you know it.” And Eddie meant it, even if Buck just rolled his eyes and went back to prepping. A lot of things just...weren’t as good without Buck’s hand in it.

He loved the mornings he actually got to spend with Chris that weren’t a mad dash out the door to get him to school, or to get him to his tia’s or abuela’s so he could make it to his shift. He loved just hanging out with his kid, both of them in their pjs, eating cereal in front of the tv, or doing their morning exercises, or just...just hanging out in the quiet of a slow morning.

He wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

But, watching Buck bustle around his kitchen like he owned the place, remembering how his first thoughts that morning went to their little ‘tradition’, and how his heart had just...melted, seeing the two of them together this morning...Goddamn, he’d give a lot to add to their mornings. To add Buck to them.

Speaking of which though…

“So...why was Chris out here?”

Buck pauses slightly, not looking up, before he huffs softly, shoulders slouching a little. “He had a nightmare. Didn’t really wanna wake either of us. I’m pretty sure he checked your room first, then came out to me, to see if either of us was already awake.”

And something in Eddie’s chest clenches hard as he glances down the hall.

“Hey…” Buck says, and Eddie has to drag his eyes away, finds Buck watching him with a small, lopsided smile. “We talked, okay? He’ll wake you up next time. He just thought both of us were tired lately. It wasn’t about hiding, just a bit of a way too grown up worry for him.”

Eddie feels his lungs unclench, nodding slightly. “That’s…yeah,” he sighs softly, “Thanks, Buck…”

Buck just hums, going back to his pancakes, like it was nothing. Like staying up with his kid in the middle of the night was just something he did. Like everything about this morning was...was normal.

And Eddie watches him for a long moment. Takes in the rumpled state of Buck’s sweats and shirt. The crease in the back of his hair from where he’d been leaning back against the couch. Considers the fact that he hadn’t thought twice about the fact that Buck was there to help if something had gone wrong with Chris.

Thinks about how, every time he smiles that sleepy, sunshine dipped smile those mornings after they managed to convince him to stay over, Eddie’s heart skips a beat, and all he wants to do is make those mornings last forever.

Thinks about just how much he’d give to make those mornings their actual normal.

Gets a crazy idea blooming in the back of his head, even as his heart starts beating double-time in his chest.

Starts wondering if it really was so crazy.

Buck turns to ask something - what, he has no idea - but pauses, blinking at Eddie. He gives him a confused smile, “Eddie, you okay man? You look a little…” he makes a hand motion that Eddie’s not entirely sure how to interpret.

“Buck. I’m about to do something, and all I ask is that you don’t punch me.”

Buck blinks. “Uh, okay?”

And that’s all Eddie needs to duck in and press a soft kiss to Buck’s lips - a sweet slide of skin and breath and he’s pulling back again, bracing for...for whatever Buck’s reaction is going to be.

And Buck...Buck just stares at him for a long moment. And Eddie’s getting prepared to apologize, to back pedal hard enough he knows he’s going to hurt himself, just to...to fix this because holy fuck he didn’t actually think that could go wrong. But of course it did, because he was being impulsive and goddammit he needed-

“Does it count as punching if it’s with my mouth?” Buck asks, and Eddie...Eddie does not get that. At all.

“What?” is about all he can manage.

Buck scowls at him, but he’s also apparently trying not to laugh, before he’s grabbing Eddie’s shirt and hauling him in closer, “Get back over here, Diaz,” and Eddie still has no idea what’s going on, but Buck’s actually kissing him again, and you know what, he doesn’t need to know what’s going on because that? That is fantastic.

Buck’s still got one hand curled in his shirt, the other wrapping around his neck, and Eddie has no idea what to do with his hands, so they settle on Buck’s waist because it’s there, and with how Buck basically melts into him, Eddie’s going to go ahead and assume he did okay then.

For all that they can’t seem to get close enough, the kiss stays soft, almost exploratory in how they move with each other, just figuring out where one starts and the other begins. Buck is heavy against his chest and sweet on his tongue. (Eddie vaguely remembers seeing raspberries on the counter, can’t help but smile at the thought.)

“Daaaaaaaaad, Buuuuuuuuuck,” Chris whines, startling both of them apart. Eddie blinks at Buck, who blinks back at him, wearing an almost dazed expression that Eddie’s pretty sure he’s matching, before both of them turn to look at Chris, who’s standing in the doorway. He’s dressed and his hair is brushed, and he looks incredibly grossed out. “Not by the pancakes,” he tacks on, before making his way to the table.

And Eddie...Eddie just laughs, Buck busting out barely a breath later, having to bury his face against Eddie’s neck to try and muffle them. It fails miserably, and all Eddie can hear is these hiccuping, helpless little giggles in his ear, and feel them shake Buck’s chest against his.

Eddie turns his head enough to press a kiss to Buck’s temple, even if he himself is still laughing a little too hard for it to be coordinated.

Looks like their new normal was off to a fantastic start.

#911 fox #my writing #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #buddie #ff #long post

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rigginsstreet · 5 years

Note

Fredsythe and 50

50. writer’s preference (we doin 9. “Don’t you ever do that again!”)

he’s woken up by the sound of tapping at his window.

at first he just thinks it’s a dream, and then maybe the wind, until it sounds like whatever is hitting the glass is getting bigger and is followed by whispered yelling.

“wake the fuck up, fred! do not make me come up there!”

it’s alice. fred could recognize that shrill anywhere.

he groans, rolling over to look at his bedside clock. it’s 2 a.m. and fred has no idea what the hell could be so important that alice smith needs to risk waking the entire block up just to annoy him.

throwing the covers back, he trudges out of bed and over to the window, lifting it up with what feels like more effort than usually needed with the way his arms feel like jelly from barely being awake. “what the hell, al? do you know what time it is?” he can’t even keep his eyes open.

“it’s fp.”

it’s like he’s just been doused with ice water. two words is all it takes to bring fred to full attention. even with a sleep-addled brain fred knows alice coming to his house in the middle of the night because of fp doesn’t mean anything good.

“alright. hold on,” is all he says before looking around and grabbing the first pair of pants he sees on the floor along with his rhs hoodie. he climbs out the window, shuffles down the side of his house and jumps the last few feet before rushing over to alice. “what happened?” he sounds panicked even to his own ears.

alice starts walking - jogging, practically - to where fred can see a motorcycle parked on the curb. “i dont know. gladys and i were hanging out at the wyrm and fp comes in. his face was all…” she lets the sentence trail off. fred can fill in the gaps. “next thing we know he’s stealing a bottle of bourbon from the bar so gladys and i follow him out, try to get him to talk. we end up at the school and now he’s on the roof and we can’t get him down.”

“he’s on the roof?!” fred practically screams, and alice has to clamp her hand over his mouth before the entire neighborhood actually does wake up.

“gladys is keeping an eye on him.” she removes her hand and grabs the helmet that’s hanging off the bike’s handlebars before shoving it to fred’s chest. “but you know he’ll only listen to you. come on.”

they waste no more time, fred hopping on behind alice and holding on tight as she speeds off into the night.

–

the second they reach the school parking lot he’s off the bike and on his feet, tossing the helmet to the side and looking up at the now ominous building. the lighting is for shit, but fred can just make out the silhouette of someone stumbling along the roof’s edge and his heart sinks.

“f…” he breathes, more to himself than anything. he knows enough not to yell out. doesn’t want to surprise his best friend lest he lose his footing.

he doesn’t wait any longer, dashing into the school and not stopping until he reaches the roof. alice must still be trailing somewhere behind him but he can’t focus on that. all he sees is fp in front of him, walking along the roof’s ledge like some tightrope routine, albeit clumsier.

fp’s got a half empty bottle in one hand, taking occasional swigs from it while he dangles his foot off the side of the building like he’s tempting fate. all fred wants to do is run over and grab him, bring him back to safety, hold him close. but he can’t. no sudden movements.

fred takes his eyes off fp for just a moment to notice gladys nearby, hands in her hair, visibly stressed, trying to talk fp down. it’s obviously not working.

she lets out a breath and turns around, finally noticing fred, and her body deflates. “oh thank fucking christ.” they meet each other halfway, fred’s eyes never leaving fp. “you gotta do something, fred. he’s not listening.” she looks back at fp briefly before returning her attention to fred.

“what am i supposed to do?” fred asks, sounding all too much like a scared child. it’s exactly what he feels like. powerless.

“he listens to you, fred,” gladys tries to reassure. reaches out and squeezes fred’s arm.

fred takes a deep breath, nods his head like he actually believes he has this situation under control. he doesn’t. he’s in way over his head here. if they were dealing with anyone else he would’ve told alice from the start to get the police, or at the very least an adult. but this is fp, and if there’s one thing fred knows it’s that either of those things would just spook fp. get him pissed. send him off running. or worse. it’s a sobering thought realizing he really is the only one who can talk fp down.

he braces himself for the unexpected, not knowing which version of his best friend he’s going to get with so much alcohol in his system. he approaches slowly, like he’s trying to tame a lion in a cage.

“f...” he starts, voice quiet.

fp looks over his shoulder. there’s something shining in the reflection of the moonlight on his face. something wet. fred’s stomach twists when he remembers what alice said to him earlier. “that you, freddie?”

“yeah. yeah, buddy. it’s me.”

fp scoffs, takes another drink. “buddy,” he mocks. “that what we are now?”

he’s trying to pick a fight, fred knows. “why don’t you just come down so we can talk, huh?”

but fp doesn’t move. just finishes off his bottle and holds it out in front him, watches as he lets it fall from his hand and all the way down to the ground below. waits for the faint sound of glass shattering before he speaks. “shit, if we’re just buddies you should’ve told my dad. could’ve spared me an ass beating.”

it’s hardly the first time fred’s been made aware of forsythe senior’s particular brand of punishment, the hell he likes to unleash on his son, but it never gets any easier to swallow. he had tried in the beginning to get fp to tell somebody, begged him, really, but he never would. too afraid of ending up lost in the system. too afraid of what his dad would do if shit didn’t pan out. fp’s entire life seemed to be ruled by fear.

“fp, please. just-”

“fuck off, fred!”

fp stumbles from the force of his yelling, too much booze in his system to keep him steady, and there’s a moment where fred thinks this is it. he can hear a gasp from the girls behind him as he’s lunging forward to grab fp. but fp rights himself on his own, and fred feels like he’s about to keel over from the heart attack he’s just almost had.

but it lights a fire in him. “ok, you know what?” it’s reckless and stupid but he’s climbing up to stand next to fp. hears alice in the back yelling “are you fucking crazy?!” but ignores her.

even fp’s eyes are blown wide as he turns his head to look at his new company. it’s the first time fred’s really able to get a look at the damage done. it’s bad. really bad. but he can’t focus on that right now.

“the fuck are you doing?” fp asks.

fred shrugs his shoulders, trying to be as nonchalant as he can with his heart pounding in his chest. it’s not so much that he’s afraid of heights.... he’d just rather not be standing on the edge of a roof without a safety net below. “you jump, i jump.”

“jesus christ, fred. i wasn’t gonna jump.”

“you could’ve fooled me!”

“i wasn’t! i just... don’t care if i fall.”

“well i care!” fred feels like he’s on the verge of hysterics. maybe he’s already there.

“well i didn’t ask you to!”

“that’s too damn bad!” he and fp have had their share of stupid fights in the past but this.... this has got to take the fucking cake. “one of these days you’re gonna have to face the fact that people actually care about you.”

fp doesn’t say anything, just keeps his jaw clenched as he looks at the ground below him.

“i care about you,” fred emphasizes. “and i think i’d lose my mind if anything happened to you.”

fp finally turns his gaze to fred, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “i’m real fucked up, fred,” he whispers, voice breaking with raw emotion. “can’t even get my own dad to love me.”

fred’s heart breaks for him, and he wants nothing more than to run down to the south side and lay into senior; kicking and punching and wailing about how he could do this to his son. “screw your dad,” is what he settles on. he reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind fp’s ear, let’s his hand linger there. “i don’t know how to make things better for you, but i’m here. and i’ll always be here. for as long as you need me.”

fp sniffs, looks away. “that’s a helluva job to take on. you sure it’s worth it?”

“yes,” fred responds without missing a beat.

fp’s head snaps up, his eyes searching fred’s for any sign of deception, like this is just a ploy to talk fp down and the words are meaningless. they’re not, he knows. doesn’t make it any easier to believe.

fred hops off the ledge then, back onto the roof, holds his hand out to fp like a beggar. “come on, f.” he doesn’t need to say please. it’s written all over his face. “let me take you home.”

“i’m not going back there.”

“you know what i meant.”

fp looks down over the ledge again, contemplating the fall, before look back to fred, to his outstretched hand, to his safety line. he takes it, hopping down onto the roof and as soon as his feet hit fred’s pulling him into his arms and holding him like he’s trying to crush fp’s bones. the dam breaks and fp can’t stop the tears, burying his face against fred’s shoulder, sure he’ll leave bloody stains behind on the fabric of his hoodie.

but fred doesn’t seem to care. he keeps holding fp impossibly closer, pressing his lips to fp’s hair and saying “don’t you ever do that again! you hear me? fucking scared the shit out of me.”

fp cries harder. keeps repeating he’s sorry, he’s sorry over and over.

fred pulls back, gentle cradles fp’s face in his hands, careful not to upset his wounds. “i fucking love you, you know that?” he says it with such determination, like he needs fp to know.

fp nods his head. he can’t even see fred’s face properly through his tears but he doesn’t need to. the sincerity is loud and clear. there’s no mistaking it. “take me home, freddie.” he sounds so small, so childlike. so vulnerable.

fred nods his head before pulling fp into another hug, lips right to his ear. “yeah, baby. let’s go.”

#fredheads #hmmm angst #fredsythe #fred andrews #fp jones #my writing #briana answers things

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elder-schraderham · 5 years

Text

I’ll give everyone a nice two for one deal here. Two more small dabbles in my Kastle + Amy domestic au series. Plenty more ideas where these come from!

This one, they add some furry four legged members to their family!

Part 1

___

A few of the other construction workers said their goodnights to Frank, or Pete, on their way home for the night. He’d be following suit in a few minutes, just cleaning up a bit from the demolition work he spent his day doing. Another day, another wall demolished. Construction jobs were always the same; clock in, do your job, don’t fuck up, clock out, go home. Simple.

Frank had thrown an armful of debris into one of the industrial dumpsters at the site and was about to head back to his truck when he heard a tiny whimper from behind him. Great, he thought, a kid got in here.

He did a lap around the dumpster to find no one there. Everyone else had gone home for the evening and it was just him. By this point, he just shrugged it off and started walking away before the sound came again. He spun around again and still saw nothing there. Now he was going insane from all of those blows to the head.

Chalking it up to insanity, he finally heard the whimper again with a matching movement of a piece of cardboard besides the dumpster. Curious now, he walked over and knelt down to move the cardboard.

Underneath was a tiny black and white mass wiggled around as it’s shelter had been removed. The whimper got louder, now scared being exposed to the world. Frank shushed the mass comfortingly and picked it up gently, not wanting to scare the thing even more. The tiny mass in his hands sniffed him as he ran his index and middle finger over it’s head. It’s eyes opened up to a beautiful shade of blue. Shit. Now he was going to have to take it home.

“Ah hell.” He sighed and stood up, cradling the mass in his jacket now. “Karen is going to have a fit.”

This tiny mass was not going to be left in the cold evenings of Montana alone. No. It was going home with him, whether Karen liked it or not. In his own defense, no one else was around to offer. That’s something she couldn’t argue.

He took the mass back to his truck, holding it under his jacket for warmth. Thankfully he had a towel laying in the back behind one of the seats. It was going to be a helluva lot easier to wrap it up like a burrito instead of attempting to hold it and drive. The tiny mass didn’t fight being wrapped up in the towel, probably it was just happy to be warm again.

Frank made damn sure that little mass was secured in the passenger side of the truck before heading around to the driver side and jumping in. As soon as it started up, the heat went on. It was a fifteen or so minute drive to the house and it seemed that every ten seconds was glancing over to the mass to make sure the little thing was still breathing. Each time he looked, yes. The mass was still alive and well. That was a huge plus and an even bigger relief.

The normal fifteen minute drive seemed to only take ten or less but what mattered was that there was no cops following him to give him a speeding ticket. He pulled into their half a mile driveway into the woods. Karen’s car was already there. Shit. Well. This wasn’t what he was planning on the way over but it was better to just be upfront about the tiny mass.

He parked the truck and shut it off before picking up the tiny mass burrito. Still cradling it to his chest, he jumped out and headed inside the side door. The sun had disappeared behind the trees and the light from the kitchen indicated that’s where she was, probably just starting dinner and waiting for him to help her. After this endeavour, more than likely he was going to be cooking for the rest of his life.

With a deep breath, he put the burrito mass behind his back with one hand and opened the side door that lead into the kitchen. Karen looked up from what she was doing. “You’re home a bit late. Everything okay?”

“Please don’t freak out.”

Her face fell. “Frank, what did you do?” She threw her hands down on the counter. “God damnit, Frank, you promised us you would stop doing this shit.”

He gave her a look. “What? No, not that.”

Karen looked over at him and didn’t see any bruises, cuts, or blood. At least he was telling the truth then. She let out a deep breath. “Okay. So you didn’t kill anyone. Why don't you want me to freak out? I’m freaking out a bit right now, Frank.”

Without a word he pulled the burrito mass from behind his back. She gave him a strange look before going to the little mass in the towel to get a better look at it. The tiny mass yawned and licked her fingers when she went to pet it. She gave him a look and was about to scold him for bringing the little thing home when Amy walked in the door.

“What’s going on?” She asked, her eyes then focused on the tiny mass in Frank’s hands. Her eyes lit up with excitement. “You brought home a puppy?” She beamed and walked right over to the puppy, gently petting its head with her two fingers just as Frank had earlier. “We’re keeping it, right?”

Frank was giving Karen a victorious grin. For once, he had won with the aid of his kid. “Ask Karen.”

Amy put her face against the puppy’s face gently, batting her bright blue eyes at Karen. “Come on, Karen, please?”

Her bright blue eyes, Frank’s dark brown eyes, and the yawn of the puppy all at once made her cave with a huff. “Fine.” She shook her head and went back to what she was doing. “Three against one is by far unfair.”

Frank handed the puppy to Amy to get set up in a box for the night, that gave him a chance to walk over to her and kiss her head. “Ain’t so fun now, is it?”

She shook her head, trying to hide a smile. “You’re ridiculous.” She looked up at him and whispered, “where the hell did you find that little thing?”

“Work. Mama probably abandoned it, so I did what you would’ve done.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t think you’re going to get out of this so quickly.”

“Can we name it?” Amy yelled from the other room.

Karen shoved Frank away. He found the dog, he wanted the dog, he can name the dog and do whatever else came with the responsibility of owning the dog. All that mattered was that she didn’t say no.

“We’re keeping it, right? Of course we can name it.” Frank answered, still trying to get a rise out of Karen. She was already pissed but it was too late now. They had a dog now.

***

Karen would always refuse to admit that Frank was right, even when he was. When he brought Carbine home he said that it was what she would’ve done. Now there was no way that he could get mad at what she found on the way to her car from work.

Snow began to fall in their small town and it was going to get heavy very quickly. It was for the best to just go home before the roads got too bad for her car. The alleyway was right besides her car, which was where the tiny meow came from.

Her first thought was ‘shit’, all prepared to find the cat and take it home. She unlocked her car and heard the meow again. Great, now she couldn’t ignore it. She locked the doors again and began to walk to the alleyway.

She called out to the kitty, trying to coax it out. Another tiny meow. From behind a knocked over trash can she found the little orange and white kitten. It was a big bigger than when they had first gotten Carbine, at least it’s eyes were open and it could walk relatively easily. It meowed again as it padded its way over to her.

The kitten pawed at her foot and she sighed. Well, a new addition to the family it was. She scooped up the little kitten and wrapped it in her jacket. The second the little one was wrapped up, it meowed again and started to purr. Great. The little one was going to be very content in their home now.

The entire drive back to the house was spent with the kitten in her jacket, half asleep from warming up after being in the cold for who knows how long. Frank can’t get mad, she thought, he can’t get mad.

At the house, Frank and Amy were on round who knows what of three card monte at the kitchen table. Carbine had been asleep at Frank’s feet as he picked wrong card after wrong card. Each time, Amy laughing as she gathered the cards to shuffle them again. Amy had asked Frank a homework based question and somehow it ended up with them playing the card game for forty five minutes. She had time, school was already canceled for the following day anyway. Three day weekend was okay with her to get her work done.

Karen walked in the kitchen door and shook off the snow that had quickly gathered on herself. “Why Montana? Who picked Montana as the state to live in?”

“Collective decision?” Amy offered, sliding the cards to Frank.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Frank asked, pointing to the center card.

Amy flipped it over and revealed the Jack of Spades. “Too bad, too bad.” Her sarcasm was intoxicating. “Another round or will you finally give up?”

Karen put a hand on his shoulder. “Just give up, Frank.”

He was about to answer her when he saw a tiny orange head poking out of her jacket. “What’s that?” He pointed to the creature.

“The newest member of our family.” Karen smiled proudly, removing the tiny thing from her jacket and placing it on the table.

Amy squealed with delight. “Awe! Where the h-e-double hockey sticks are you guys finding these baby animals?” She eagerly reached across to pet the little kitten. It meowed as soon as she touched it and she squealed again.

Frank opened his mouth to protest before Karen gave him a stern look before pointing at the dog at his feet. Damn her and her law background. “Fine.” Frank caved, there was no point. He had a gut feeling that she’d even that score eventually.

#fanfiction #kastle #kastle + amy #punisher #daredevil #fluff #domestic fluff #kastle au #my writing #kastle + amy + pets

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catch22inareddress · 6 years

Text

Abandoned Series Chapter Three: Cap’s New Mission

You jolted awake and a stifled scream unaware of where you were. You heard shuffling in the darkroom and immediately jumped out of the bed and flew past whoever was in the room and hit the lights. It was Steve and from the looks of it he had fallen asleep on the love seat in your quarters and was alarmed from being awoken from your scream and the flurry of you turning on the light in such a frenzy. His arms were up like you were a frightened animal. "Hey, it's just me, Blue. You're ok." You exhaled deeply, relieved that you were safe at home and it was Steve and not some creeper or HYRDA agent in your room. You had a nightmare and safe to say it freaked the shit out of you, thankfully not literally.

His gaze softened and turned rosy and his eyes darted down your body then he looked away. You looked down and you were in your lace bra and lace boy shorts. Several shades of red gracing your skin to complement the dark panty set. "D-did you undress me?" He shook his head. "No Wanda and Nat cleaned you up and put you to bed while I cleaned up, I just didn't want to leave you alone tonight. Slept on the sofa. I hope it was ok?" You nodded in response. "Of course." You looked at the clock, it was 2 am and you were tired from the mission. "I-I'm going to go back to bed. I'm exhausted." You narrowly walked past him taking in his clean linen and soap smell mixed with leather and climbed into your bed and scooted to the middle. He just stared at you for a beat. "It was dangerous what you did, doll." He voice was soft yet there was anger underlying it. "And I'd do it again Cap. We had no cover and they were trying to kill all of us." He put his hands in his slow slung sweat pants and shook his head. "Not you. I've gone over it a thousand times in my head. Talked to the team. They seemed to want you. Tony and FRIDAY are trying to decode the information that we extracted. It may be nothing but if its something, ten to one I think it has something to do with you." You sighed and rubbed your eyes. "I'm nothing to them Steve. A sideshow Dr. made me??" He sat on the edge of the bed and you could see the lines of his face and you sat up. You pressed your fingers to smooth out the creases between his brows with a small sympathetic smile. "You're special. I have a feeling in my gut that it was a trap to get to you. I need to you trust me." You could see that, at least tonight, you weren't going to win the argument and to be honest you just want to rest. "M'kay. I trust you." His shoulder relaxed a bit and he made a move to get up. "S-Stay. I mean will you stay with me again?" His eyes widened and then he nodded. You slowly laid on your side with your back to him and he laid down and curved his body towards yours. "N'ver been the big spoon." You laughed. "Are you the little spoon often, Rogers. And with who do you spoon with?" He laughed and his breath on the back of your neck tickled giving you shivers. "I may not be a virgin but I haven't cuddled with women a lot. Most of the time they just want a one and done with Captain America-Steve Rogers isn't really their type." You scoffed at his comment. "Wow, well they're fucking idiots." He laughed and pulled you closer. "Especially because I'm finding that your one helluva good cuddler, never knew I liked it." He was silent for a minute. "You and Bucky didn't cuddle?" You bit your lip. "Yes and no. He and I would lay together and console each other during nightmares but not hold each other like this. It was more like holding each other to keep from falling apart. I think that's why would've never worked. Too broken and damaged." You could feel his face dip and his mouth settle on the back of your neck. "You'll find the one that'll make you feel whole someday. You deserve the world. You protect others before yourself and make everyone laugh and keep me humble and like me for Steve not Cap. You just need to stop seeing yourself as a sideshow because none of us see you as that." You just hummed in response.

"Damn you, woman." He leaned over you and you were slightly startled. " I know you've had a shit life and my best friend was a metal-armed ass hat. But my new mission is to make you see yourself the way we see you. Badass and amazing." You smiled under his intense gaze but in the back of your mind, you still heard how quickly he said No to Bucky when asked if you were his and the disgust at the thought of being romantically involved. Or at least the disgust you thought you heard, it was hard to convince yourself that when he was so close to you and held you closer than that damn shield of his. He laid back down when you rolled over and put his face flush with your neck both of you dozed off. Truth was, you were orphaned and then captured and tortured by the creep show doctor for years on years. Then the Avengers rescued you. You mistakingly became close to Bucky between shared experiences but both of you were too traumatized to be good for one another. Yet, you still loved him and he would be perfect for someone, just not for you. He nearly broke you beyond repair and yet here you were, stronger than before but yet still would any man ever want a woman like you. A tortured fighter with the self-esteem negative 40?

You awoke an hour or two later to his kicking and heavy breathing, it was like he was struggling with Casper. When you wiggled out of his grasp you could hear him groan and saw his brows stitched together in pain and he was breaking into a thick sweat. You got up on your knees and were careful to wake him. You remembered once when you woke Bucky he grabbed you by the throat and nearly crushed your esophagus. It was a few nights before he left. "Steve. Wake up." You said in a calming voice. "It's Y/N, you're ok. You're safe." You put your arms on his damp shirt and shook him gently. "Steve?" His eyes widened and he bolted upright and nearly slammed into you. "Holy fuck!" You bit back you smartass remark on language and instead decided to try to sooth the frazzled soldier in front of you. You went to climb off the bed to get him some water. "Please don't go." He voice broke and it nearly killed you. "I was just going to get you a water."

He shook his head and held your hand to keep you from leaving. His chest was heaving and he held his head low. "Do you...do you want to talk to me about it?" There was infinite silence between you two as you sat with him while he held your hand. You started rubbing it slightly knowing he would do the same for you. "I sometimes have dreams where I lose you, or other friends. They feel so real. ...I've just lost so many people in my life. I can't lose anymore, doll." He sounded so broken and his voice was barely above a whisper. His breathing was finally back to regular and your heart broke for him. He was always so busy taking care of all of you that he never let anyone take care of him. You went to get up and his eyes were pleading. "I'll be right back, Stevie. I promise." He let go and you went to grab a cool washcloth and came back with some water for him. He drank it all at once and then you reached for the bottom hem of his shirt and he looked at you confused. "It drenched. Take it off. I promised I won't take advantage of you, Captain." You chuckled and this elicited a small smirk from him. You took the cool washcloth and ran it over him to cool him off.

"You don't have to do this, doll." He said quietly as you cleaned him up, so to speak. "S'fine. Who says I don't like taking care of you." He risked a glance at you and you locked eyes with him. He looked ashamed for some reason and you tried to not let your face betray your emotions at that moment. "I don't like you...a-anyone, seeing me like this." You let a dark chuckle escape your lips and he frowned at the sound. "What? Human." He shook his head. "Weak." You put the washcloth down and then laid next to him not touching him but still you found each other laying face to face, while his body cooled. The proximity did nothing for your flaming cheeks but at least the darkness of the room hid the color from him. "Nothing wrong with being human. Doesn't make you weak, Stevie. If anything, just makes us want to follow you even more. We trust you because you're not perfect or infallible. You hurt when we hurt. You hold us when we cry. Your an amazing leader and an even better friend." He laughed. "I don't hold Sam when he cries. He's on his own, little shit." You laughed at him and relieved that he had calmed down.

"I didn't hold Bucky this time either." His voice was dark and low and he looked at your collarbone, anyplace other than your eyes. "Hell, for the first time I can ever remember I didn't choose him." You didn't want to break up a nearly century-old friendship and tears were threatening to spill over onto your cheeks. "Ya know, it's ok Steve. I won't be mad if you go to him, ever. He's your friend, s'ok." He still had his hands under his chin balled into a white-knuckled fist as he spoke to you. "It's hard when I don't agree with what he did, doll. He wasn't a gentleman. Part of me still clings to the thought of James Barnes and he's not him. I need to accept that he's a different man. Don't get me wrong, he's partly him but he's also a new man which has some of the Winter Soldier mixed in. I don't think he's truly found himself."There was a pause and then he continued. "I do think he loved you, as much as he could. Then he ran off when he got scared, because that's all he knows. Or at least knew to do. B-but to take your virginity and then leave you? You just don't do that to a dame that you care about ...that love you. If someone can love us like you loved him. Love a man like him or me through all the shit that we do. The fights the battles the nightmares and fuck---all of it. You fight for a dame like you, you don't make love then run off! I-I can't. I woul---" He ran his hand over his face to steady his outburst. He wouldn't what? He was so angry at Bucky for what he did to you and it made your heartbreak to know that Steve didn't have that love but at the same time, you it felt blooming in your heart for him. If Bucky was your first love you felt like Steve was your eternal one. He was what you soul ached for and what was the source of your energy. You would fight for him even if he would never know or want your love but because a man like Steve Rogers deserved to have someone to love him above themselves.

He snapped you out of your epiphany with his strangled words. "He just did you wrong. He abandoned you and... he abandoned us all. So don't blame yourself, Y/N. This was an easier choice than you-you may ever know. We'll work it out he just needs to come to peace with the fact that he needs to move on." Tears ran down your face and he wiped them away and pulled you closer. "Hey...You ok? I'm sorry if talking about him upset you." You shook your head. "I'm not upset about me and him, per se. I just wish that he and I could be friends and that you and he were fine. That it was just..ok. I'm ok with it all, really. What's done is done. I loved him and now I don't." Your head was buried into his bare chest as you calmed yourself and he held you.

"I think tomorrow we should take the day off and everyone go to Coney Island? Whaddya say, doll?" You turned your head over his heart and could hear it beat. Was it always quickened? You assumed so due to his super-soldier status although part of you wished it was because of how he was holding you. "That sounds perfect, I've never been." He scoffed in disbelief. "You know what I like, Cap?" He hummed in question. "Besides your ridiculous Man-muscly-boobs, I think I like when your Brooklyn accent slips out even more." You were exhausted and things like that tended to slip out. Wanda said you had word spittle similar to when you were drunk. He just gave you a lopsided grin. "Also, I swear I don't cry this much Steve, fuckin' hell." He rubbed your back. "Maybe I just wanted to be snuggled between your manboobs." He let out a hearty laugh. "Hey these are not manboobs! They are man-muscles. I could probably crack a walnut with them" You turned your head so you could breathe and chuckled. "Well considering at this position I could motorboat them, I would say the technical term is Manboobs. And the next time I have a walnut I'll place a bet to have you crack one." He pulled away and looked at you. "You're somethin' else, doll. Ya know that." You nodded. "If this is how you act whenever I lay on my Brooklyn accent I should start using it more, huh?" You laughed at him and his flirty side, loving it. "I don't know, what if it's a combo of shirtless and accent." You could hear his heart beat quicken and knew it was the serum this time and gave yourself a victory high five. "You're saying you would want me to walk around without a shirt and have thick Brooklyn accent." You paused for effect. "You're right, that would be a bad idea." You pulled back and shook your head quickly for dramatics and he looked at you with his brows stitched together, "Yea, how so, doll?" You gave a light shrug. "You have enough women falling all of you, Rogers. That would create mass hysteria." He smirked and pulled you back in. "Go ta sleep, I'm taking ya to Coney Island tomorrow." With that, you fell asleep in the arm of the man you had fallen head of heels in love with.

#captain america #captain america reader #captain america x reader #captainamericaxreader #chris evans x reader #chris evans imagine #chris evans reader #Steve Rogers #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #fluff #cap

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