#mentioned jeancrubbles

[sweaterkittensahoy]

hey! if you’re still doing prompts—i saw how you said that you take on any ships sort of like a challenge and everything so may i offer you this incredible crackship: douglass/harding in which harding catches him with his ridiculous amount of rubbers and teaches him how to actually use it right

ignore this if u want, or change the ship if u prefer :)

[This grew feelings. I blame feelings.]

Douglass is on his third "welcome back from the dead" whiskey when Colonel Harding comes up to him at the bar and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sir," Douglass greets.

"How you feeling, Douglass?" Harding asks. He's got a whiskey in his own hand, his cigar in the same hand. His hand lingers for another moment on Douglass's shoulder, then he takes his hand away so he can retrieve his cigar and take a drag. 

"Some bumps and bruises," Douglass says, "but the cuts are the worst of it, Sir."

Harding nods. "Good. Glad to hear it. He leans a little closer, his shoulder brushing Douglass's for a moment. "I do have a question regarding your personal effects, though."

"What's that, Sir?" Douglass asks. 

"Why in the hell do you have so many goddamn prophylactics in your footlocker?"

Douglass snorts whiskey up his nose. Harding gives him one sharp smack on the back as he wheezes. His vision and airways clear after a couple of moments, and he realizes they have an audience. Crosby and Blakely and Hambone and a few others. "Well, Sir," he says, and flashes Harding his most winning smile, "it's been awhile since I had leave."

The boys laugh, and Harding smirks as he sips his whiskey. "For fuck's sake, Douglass, pick a pretty face and get your dick wet before we can float your damn footlocker back to the States after the war."

Douglass leads the laughter this time. "Yes, Sir," he says. "If that's an order, I'll see if I can't trick Blakely right here into a little something tonight."

"I'm still not over the clap you gave me last time," Blakely retorts, which causes even more laughing. 

"Hell, I assumed he just never wears a rubber because the social disease eats through 'em before he even gets started," Hambone adds. 

As the boys keep roasting Douglass, he cuts a quick look to Harding, who takes another sip of his whiskey, then taps his glass three times. Douglass nods once, and Harding steps back away, giving them their space to celebrate again.

"I don't know how you kept laughing like that after the Colonel busted you for those rubbers," Crosby says a few minutes later. "I think I'd have drowned myself in my drink."

"That's where you and I are different, Croz," Douglass says, giving Crosby's a little shake. "I <em>glory</em> in being a pervert. You prefer to keep it between you and the missus," he waits for Crosby to take a sip of his drink before he adds, "And Bubbles."

Crosby spits out his drink. "He <em>told</em>?" he hisses.

Douglass stares. "No!" he says. He covers his mouth. "Holy shit, really?"

"Oh, god," Crosby says. 

"Hey, look, first of all, you know no one fucking cares, right?" Douglass asks. "Wait. I remembered who I'm talking to. So, okay, first of all, Croz, no one fucking cares. We're the fuckingest and suckingest base in the whole fucking ETO. But also, good for you. And Jean. And Bubbles, honestly. If it works, it works."

"I have to go throw myself into an engine," Crosby mutters, putting his hands over his face. "We're gonna–Jean wants to tell her family first, so there's no surprises."

"What? Like a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Crosby?"

Crosby stares at him through his fingers. Douglass heaves a huge sigh. "Okay, that's a yes. So, look, I'm gonna go get your man to come and talk you down from this ledge, and then I'm gonna shut my fucking mouth until the two of you say a fucking word about it, got me?" 

"You love gossip," Crosby says. 

"Oh, I sure do," Douglass agrees. "But you're not the only one trying to figure out when to make a relationship official." Crosby glances at Blakely, which makes Douglass snort. "Nah. Love him like a brother." Crosby looks at Hambone. "Tried it. He bites harder than I like." Douglass watches as Crosby's eyes get impossibly wider. 

"Wait," Crosby whispers. "The Colonel and your foot locker and–"

"Yup," Douglass says, and it's nice to say it to someone, even if Crosby looks like he wants to crawl under the table and never talk to a human being ever again. "So, I know what you're up to, and you know what I'm up to, and we'll both keep our mouths shut until otherwise notified, yeah?"

"Yeah,' Crosby says. He clears his throat and sits up straight, dropping his hands from his face. "I mean, yeah. Obviously. You can trust me."

"I know," Douglass replies. It's true. Crosby's an overthinker, but he only talks too much about his own shit, not anyone else's. "Feel free to tell Bubbles if you want. Only seems fair."

"So, you're gonna tell–" Crosby presses his fingers to his mouth. "It's fine," he says after a moment. "I trust you, too."

"Great." Douglass stands and gives Crosby a grin, then walks over to Bubbles, who's caught in a conversation with a couple other navigators. Douglass doesn't know how the man is managing not to be at Crosby's right arm right now, but he supposes everyone's different when they witness a resurrection. "Crosby needs to talk to you, and for the record, I apologize if he's a little incoherent."

Bubbles gives him a look but doesn't ask, just walks over to Crosby. Douglass watches as Crosby whispers in Bubbles's ear, then watches Bubbles react without words, simply staring like Crosby must be crazy. Crosby nods sharply, and Bubbles laughs, then shrugs, then whispers something back to Crosby that has him laughing, too. 

Yeah, Douglass thinks as he slips out the door of the officer's club, those two and Jean will do just fine. 

He takes his time walking to his destination. He's going to be incredibly early when he gets there no matter, but it feels good to have the air on his face after what he's been through. The fear when they were hit, the crash, the sitting around and waiting for someone who could help them. Then coming back and finding out everyone had thought he'd died. Which, he doesn't blame them for assuming. Everyone saw them losing altitude in a fire fight. He'd have assumed the same. 

But still. 

He looks up at the sky, watching the patchy clouds move for a few seconds before he breathes out hard and looks towards his destination. It's Chick's hut, set a few yards behind the control tower. The lights are on, and Chick's outside, leaning next to the door and staring at the sky like Douglass just was. Douglass gives a low whistle, and Chick meets his gaze. He's mostly done with his cigar, but the ember is still bright on the end, and it shows him the upturned corner of Chick's mouth. 

"I said thirty minutes," Chick greets. 

"Didn't want to wait," Douglass replies. He doesn't stop walking until he can feel the warmth of Chick's body. He's usually a little more careful even though no one ever wanders this way at this time of day. Any possible interest in fucking on, in, or near the control tower is immediately doused by the fact that the CO's hut is within hearing distance. 

Chick takes the last drag of his cigar, and Douglass goes up on his toes, lifting his chin and opening his mouth. Chick holds his chin as he breathes the smoke against his lips, and Douglass feels wild and settled in equal measure. "Come on," Chick says, then just barely touches their mouths together. 

Douglass wants to grab him by his blouse and hold him still while he kisses him until neither of them remember their names. But he remembers their ranks, so he lets Chick open the door and gesture him inside. 

Chick's hut is as classically masculine as he is. A leather couch and chair in front of the wood stove. Simple, dark green curtains on the windows. A small table and two wooden chairs bought from a craftsman in the village next to a low bookcase full of novels and classics. The bed–an actual, real bed–done up in military green with a proper nightstand and dresser but tucked behind a wooden privacy screen that matches the table and chairs. His footlocker acts as the coffee table in front of the couch. There's a single bulb lighting up the whole hut from the middle, but there's also a standing lamp in one corner, angled to reflect the most light from the rafters of the hut, brightening the whole space.

"I thought about this," Douglass says as he looks around the space and notices the changes from just the last few days. There's clean laundry on one of the wooden chairs, and a brand new book on the footlocker. It has a bookmark in it. Chick hasn't gotten very far. 

"Thought about what?" Chick asks. He walks over to the bookcase. The top of it also serves as a small bar area. He opens the whiskey and pours a double-shot into two glasses, then carries them over to Douglass. 

"This," Douglass says, taking the glass with a nod. "The couch. The fire. Your books." He waggles his eyebrows at Chick. "Your bed."

Chick snorts. "Cheeky."

Douglass purses his lips in a kiss. "You've never complained. Not in here, at least."

Chick gives Douglass a considering look, then steps in close. "You were thinking of my quarters while you were crashing?" he asks. 

"Yeah," Douglass says. They've never said much about their relationship, not even to each other. But he's nearly died and was then presumed dead, and then walked back in to a resurrection welcome, and well, that makes a man consider things. "I was scared shitless, and I wanted to think of something safe." 

"Jim, goddamnit," Chick says, looking shattered. "You can't just say that sort of thing without warning." But there's a shaky smile at the corner of his mouth. 

"Well, our navigator shouldn't have steered us into a fucking tree, but here I am," Douglass replies, and the surprised laugh from Chick makes him feel good. 

Chick holds up his glass. "To making it back," he says. "I'm fucking glad."

"Me, too," Douglass agrees, and they tap their glasses together. He takes a sip of the whiskey, then steps forward so he can wrap an arm around Chick's waist. "Now," he says, "let's talk about why you know how many rubbers are in my foot locker."

"I do the final sign off on the inventory slips," Chick says. "I don't usually even read them. Kidd signs off before me, and I know he does. I'm just the final bit of red tape to get them sent. But…" He pauses for a long moment, but he doesn't look away from Douglass. Douglass doesn't look away from him. "I know some things about you, but I wondered what I was about to miss. So, I read it." 

Douglass can't help his chuckle. "And there they were. 200 rubbers."

Chick grins, wide and pleased, the way Douglass always tries to make him grin when they're together. "204, actually."

Douglass throws his head back and laughs. Chick cups the back of his neck like he doesn't want him to get too far away. "They <em>counted</em>?" he says. 

"Wouldn't want anyone to think we stole your rubbers," Chick replies. He leans down and kisses Douglass's Adam's apple. 

Douglass shivers and feels his knees go weak. "Chick," he whispers. Chick mouths his Adam's apple, and Douglass nearly drops his glass. "Fuck." A dragging kiss from his Adam's apple up his throat, across the underside of his chin, then onto his mouth. Douglass's whole body goes tight and wild, and then Chick slips his tongue into Douglass's mouth, and a hint of cigar smoke comes with it, and it's all Douglass can do not to tumble to the floor. 

Chick pulls away, but he keeps his hand on the back of Douglass's head. "Drink your whiskey. I'm taking you to bed."

Douglass nods, lets out a shaky breath, and slams his drink. He wouldn't usually. Chick's personal preference is above and beyond anything in the officer's club, but Chick is staring at him like he plans to eat him alive, and Jesus Christ, he's fucking <em>alive</em>.

Chick throws back his own drink, then takes Douglass's glass and sets them both on the footlocker. He turns back to Douglass and reels him in by the belt, kissing him messy and desperate, his dick hard against Douglass's own through their trousers. 

"Race you," Chick mumbles, and Douglass laughs as they shove each other away at the same time and see who ends up naked first. For all the difference in rank, it's the same amount of clothes, but Douglass has never actually beaten Chick at this silly game and doesn't mind that he loses now. 

"Come here," Chick says, stepping back towards the couch. He sits and reaches for Douglass, pulling him onto his lap. "Let me check on you."

Douglass bites back the urge to say he's fine. He is, really, but they've been doing this awhile, and Chick is just the type to check on bumps and bruises. "I told you," he says because he can't be silent on the matter, "the worst of it is on my face."

Chick makes a considering sound and lightly touches the bruises on Douglass's ribs. He finds the ones on his legs, and his chest, the little knot on his shoulder where he'd slipped and jammed into the bomb site. When he presses, Douglass hisses, and Chick pulls him in so he can kiss where he's caused pain. 

"Softie," Douglass murmurs against Chick's ear. 

Chick smacks his hip, which makes Douglass laugh, and then he checks the rest of the bruises. Once he's satisfied Douglass is just fine, he grabs Douglass's ass in both hands and squeezes hard. "How do you want it?" he asks. 

"How do you want it?" Douglass replies. Chick's fingers dig in, one finger just brushing his hole. Douglass arches forward and bites Chick's lower lip. Chick responds by smacking his hip again. 

"I don't want to hurt you, but I want to give you whatever you want," Chick says, mouth pressed against Douglass's ear. "I always want to give you what you want."

Douglass groans and presses his lips against Chick's temple. "Fuck me," he says. "Fuck me so long and hard I feel fucking alive."

Chick holds Douglass's face in his hands and stares into his eyes for a long, unstoppable moment. "You're alive, Jim."

Douglass feels something tight and hot tie up in his chest, and all he can do is nod. Chick presses his thumbs to the corners of Douglass's mouth, and then the corners of his eyes, and then he drops his hands to Douglass's thighs just under his ass and stands up from the couch, Douglass held secure in his grip. 

And the fear and terror and death wipe away, and he's Jim again. Chick's Jim. Because his parents call him James, and his friends call him Jimmy, and brothers' in arms call him Douglass. And it's Chick, only Chick who calls him Jim. And Chick's name is Neil, but it's not. Not to Jim. Who saw him in a London pub two days before Harding showed up as Thorpe's Abbot CO and said, "My name's Neil, but my call sign's Chick," and Douglass, bombardier to Blakely's pilot, had laughed that of all the men to meet that night, he'd met a fucking pilot.

Chick lays him on the bed and nuzzles his neck, then his chest, then his belly. He grips Jim's thighs hard before he pushes them open, and Jim arches his back at the way the touch goes through him. 

Chick splays a hand wide on Jim's chest before reaching over to the side table. Jim touches Chick's jaw before he can move more and uses a single finger under his chin to lead him up to his mouth. 

They share a shivery kiss, Jim cheating by licking the corner of Chick's mouth, which always drives him wild, and then Chick breaks aways. He comes back for one more, brief kiss, and then he actually turns his head like he has to or else he'll just kiss Jim again.

Jim tilts his chin upwards and smiles at the rafters in the ceiling. His skin is buzzing with <em>being alive</em>, and then Chick drops the open tin of Vaseline next to Jim's ribs, and he arches in anticipation of what's next. 

Chick isn't coy. He rubs two fingers over Jim's hole in a rough caress, and then works both fingertips in at the same time. Jim gasps and grunts, then grabs tight at Chick's wrist before he can pull out. Chick grins, leaning down to kiss Jim's stomach, and then works his fingers in another inch.

"Fucking take me, Sir," Jim says, then laughs when Chick uses his free hand to drag his nails down Jim's thigh. "You're so fucking easy," Jim adds and pushes himself up with his arms. Chick shifts his weight and lifts his hand off Jim's thigh so can can wrap his arm around Jim's lower back and hold him in place for a hot, desperate kiss as he pushes his fingers in another inch. 

Jim sees stars and grabs Chick's bicep. His other hand he uses to cup Chick's face and deepen their kiss. 

They spend several minutes kissing, Chick methodically working his fingers deeper into Jack. When his fingertips press hard on Jim's prostate, he whines and falls back onto the bed. He clenches his muscles around Chick's fingers and groans loudly when Chick leans down to drag his stubble along Jim's dick.

"Please," Jim grits out, pulling at Chick's hair because he can cup his head and clench his fingers. 

Chick chuckles and kisses Jim's slit. "Not enough for you?" His voice is a delicious rumble, low and vibrating. 

But Jim's not easily swayed into admitting what he wants. "I've got 204 rubbers in my footlocker," he says. "I can find someone." He laughs and jerks when Chick rubs against his prostate with unquestionable intent, then pulls his fingers out with perfect roughness. 

"Don't you dare," Chick growls.

Jim watches Chick scoop up Vaseline and grease up his dick. "Well, get on with it," he goads as the fact that he's alive sings across his nerves and Chick's sharp, threatening look of getting fucked into the ground heightens the feeling of it all. 

Chick grabs Jim's hips and lifts him into his lap. He lets go of Jim's left hip for just enough time to line his dick up with Jim's hole, and then he pushes in, hissing through his teeth as Jim grunts and reaches out to grab Chick's forearms and keep him as close as possible as Chick starts to fuck him hard and deep and beautiful. 

Jim pants as Chick fucks him, staring into his eyes as Chick refuses to look away. Jim feels taken apart in a same but different way as he was contemplating his mortality the day before in the fort. The adrenaline is the same. The want is different. Dropping to his death the day before, the want was to survive. Being fucked now, Chick leaning forward with his arms on either side of Jim's head, Jim wants to survive and survive and <em>survive</em>. 

He groans, and it turns into a sound he's never made in his life. A combination of being alive and needing to know he's alive and feeling in every pore how alive he is. Chick sucks hard at his Adam's apple, then kisses his neck and his cheek and finally his mouth. 

"Come on," Chick says into Jim's mouth. "Make a mess."

Jim grabs Chick's shoulders and holds on. He presses his hips upward and whines when Chick grabs his ass and holds him in place so his cock rubs over Chick's stomach again and again. 

"Make a mess," Chick says again. "Make a mess, Jim." 

He comes even as Chuck keeps fucking him at the same tempo. Relentless and perfect and devastating until he pushes his mouth against Jim's ear and comes. 

Jim wraps an arm around Chick's head and holds him close. Chick's own hands press perfectly into Jim's hips as they pant into each other's ears. 

"I thought–" Chick swallows loudly in JIm's ear. 

"Me, too," Jim admits. He digs his nails into Chick's scalp and kisses his temple. "I…" he can't finish the thought, not when they're wrapped up so close. 

Chick breathes in and out. He uses one hand to press Jim gently to the right so they can share a kiss, and as it happens, he pulls out. "Shh," he says when Jim whimpers at the loss. 

"Stay. Stay," Jim says. Something he always wants to say but never has. But he survived his own death yesterday, so he feels like it's okay.

Chick kisses his mouth and his cheek and his collarbone. "Jim," he says. 

"I love you," Jim blurts because it's been caught behind his ribs since he realized he was going to live. "I know we agreed this was a fuck and suck–"

"Hush," Chick replies and his kiss is gentle but certain. "Jesus, when I thought I'd lost you," he murmurs against Jim's mouth, then carefully brushes his thumbs over each of the cuts on Jim's face. 

Jim stares at the rafters and breathes slow and deep. He rubs his hands up and down Chick's back. "Hambone puts those rubbers in my foot locker," Jim says. "He thinks I don't know it's him, but I saw him do it once. It makes him laugh."

"I don't fucking care," Chick says and presses kisses to Jim's chest and arms. 

"It's been rough," Jim says, the closest he can come to admitting the war's fucking exhausting. "And it kept making him laugh."

Chick is taking over his entire line of sight suddenly, so close Jim can't see anything else. "I didn't think you had them to fuck around on me," he says. "If you'd be using them, there'd be less."

And Jim laughs, brash and loud and maybe a little uneven, but it's genuine, and it makes Chick smile at him. They kiss again, slow and easy. But Jim's never been the type who can let something land on soft ground, so when they pull apart, he gives Chick his brashest grin and says, "Hey, so did you know Crosby and Bubbles and Mrs. Jean Crosby are fucking?"

"You might have the worst pillow talk in the entire Air Army," Chick mutters, and Jim laughs and laughs and pulls him as close as he possibly can. When he calms down, Chick is smiling at him like he's wonderful, and Jim takes his chance. "Would you tell everyone about us?"

Chick pushes Jim's curls off his forehead. "Would you tell me you love me?" he asks. 

"I love you," Jim answers instantly. 

Chick kisses Jim on the mouth. "I love you," he replies. It's the first time they've ever said it, but it feels exactly right. Honest but sharp, a little mercenary even. "But at least let me have you all to myself for the rest of the night."

Jim laughs and presses his face into Chick's neck. "Okay," he says. "That feels fair."