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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

Text

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bitsmasterlist

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genderfluidkevinday · 6 years

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genderfluid kevin day headcanons bc i can do what i want and also i have the perfect url to spread my “please representation” propaganda.

“how did you know?”

because in the quiet of nights when kevin is supposed to be asleep but he cant, not really, when his heart is still pounding from practice and every breath riko makes him terrified of being caught, he reads what he stole from the public library and it says sometimes people do not fit into the gender they were assigned and

because by sneaking searches on the internet when he can, kevin finds words. dangerous, un-raven-like words for how to love someone and how to be yourself. he finds words that mean you are not alone.

because he wakes up one day and demands to be the queen of exy, to be seen as what he is. the best. more powerful than the king. (not entirely cisgender?)

because it feels right.

because in the quiet between exy and family, kevin day has the time and the love to have the quiet understanding that this is who kevin day is.

it’s kinda a shitty realization process to go through- kevin starts questioning in the ravens, then immediately goes “No TM !” and internalizes all those feelings

kevin internalizes All the feelings, always ! compartmentalizing!

bisexuality? put it in a box!

gender identity? put it in a box!

feeling crushing inferiority? put it in a box!

mom died tragically? put it in a box!

ur dad isnt here? put it-

jesus fuck these headcanons were supposed to be happy and it got SO derailed 2 points in

anyways

post canon, kevin starts to become more comfortable w every aspect of himself, and finally takes the time to have a gender crisis

and then, immediately, decides it was all ridiculous and he was actually a cisgender all along !

he does the dumb thing i did. which is spend about a month going “lmao i’m cis but i wish i wasn’t, i don’t need a gender!” while badly ignoring his gender crisis

it’s renee who finally helps kevin out a little

kevin, dumbass: pfft, gender is stupid, but i’m cis so whatever! renee, nb lesbian icon: are you sure? kevin, having a crisis:

renee actually sends kevin a bunch of links to pages that have lots of words, and “what gender are you” quizes, and dumb memes about being trans/nonbinary and it shouldn’t help as much as it does.

renee is the first person kevin quietly texts at like, 2 am, and goes, “uh, can you use they, i think?”

her response is, obviously, “of course!”

so they’re like, pretty sure they’re not cis, but they bounce around labels for about a week before they end up settling on genderfluid.

sometimes kevin day is a boy, with loud opinions and soft hands. sometimes kevin day is a girl, with messy hair and a bright smile. sometimes kevin day is neither, with clumsy limbs and determined eyes

(however- kevin day can always outclass any striker on a court.)

it just feels right, in a way nothing else did.

theyre like,,, super nervous about coming out, like, they can’t even come up with the courage to tell their dad they’re bi, how the fuck are they gonna end up telling anyone else? solution! don’t.

except kevin is becoming more comfortable with every aspect of themself, and being casually bisexual around the foxes (nicky makes one too many jokes about kevin’s “”hetero guy crush”” on jeremy and they end up snapping “bitch i’m bi there’s nothing hetero about it.” and nicky is immediately like !!!!!!!!!!!!!) (but thats another post)

so kevin, with the growing comfort that yes, you can be non-heterosexual and non-cisgender and still be fucking amazing at exy, they start to come out

it’s a slow process because when they tried to do it all at once, they got tongue tied and just walked away without saying anything. so they end up doing it individually.

allison first (because renee can be there and give support AND bc allison is also A Trans), and kevin whispers, “so, I’m genderfluid.”

allison, casually: what are your pronouns? kevin: she/her. i’m a girl today. allison, with all the softness of someone who has been there: do you want me to do your makeup? kevin, with all the softness of someone who’s new to this: maybe one day.

after allison is andrew+neil, because they spend so much time together at night practice it’s inevitable it comes up

and by that i mean kevin screams halfway through night practice “THIS IS GENDERFLUIDPHOBIA” because andrew keeps blocking her shots.

andrew flips her off.

neil asks if thats an actual term.

kevin says to fuck off and keep practicing.

next is wymack.

oh boy.

so kevin isn’t even sure how to be a good son- she has no idea how to go about being a good daughter. she has no clue how to be a good child.

she doesn’t know if wymack even wants that.

but she goes to him after practice and he snaps, “what is it?” in a voice thats maybe a little less gruff than usual

and she says, “i’m genderfluid.”

he stares at her for a while.

she continues, “i’m a girl today, actually, and i just thought you should know.”

wymack asks, “you’ll tell me when it changes, right?”

kevin nods and leaves.

its a start.

telling jean feels like a really big deal, but in hindsight its about fifteen minutes of bad puns that follow an awkwardly worded coming out.

kevin: so like... guys right jean: yes? kevin: what if... i wasn’t one jean: are you trying to come out to me? kevin: is it working?

the rest of the monsters follows after that- aaron obviously doesnt understand, but he doesnt say anything rude. (he looks into it later). nicky, immediately, takes a supportive role.

nicky: I’M GONNA STAPLE A GENDERFLUID FLAG TO MY FACE THATS HOW MUCH I SUPPORT YOU kevin, softly: please don’t how would you play exy.

matt and dan get a less official coming out, because kevin isn’t sure how to be friends with them at all. but they manage a “so, i’m not a guy, actually, i’m genderfluid, and right now i don’t have a gender.”

dan gives them a set of pronoun bracelets for their birthday and matt gives them a book about the history of the nonbinary community and yeah, maybe this is how to be friends.

the baby foxes don’t get to find out. kevin doesn’t trust them as much, and isn’t ready to be... out out.

kevin has absolutely no desire to change their name, at all.

kevin: why would i change my name i’m an ICON.

WAIT i lied,,, they change their middle name to kayleigh.

the first time kevin gets invited to a girls night, she cries

its a surprise, which is hard to plan- girls nights are always on tuesdays, so they have to wait for a tuesday where kevin is free and feels like a girl

renee casually mentions that they have a history book that kevin might like, so she should come pick it up

and then in the dorm, dan and allison are setting up a movie and popcorn and renee is getting her nails painted. dan waves kevin over and tells her to pick a movie, allison tells her to pick out a nail polish, and renee actually does have a history book for her.

kevin finally accepts a make over from allison.

she cries like five times that night and tries to brush it off as nothing but... kevin can finally exist in a space, and feel welcome, and also feel... wanted.

it’s a good feeling

kevin, wearing a crop top with the genderfluid flag on it, painting renee’s nails as they watch the trojans game: lmao can you imagine thinking i was cis? what was i thinking? i was so dumb lol. renee, sweetly: no it was a perfectly normal reaction to being raised in a cisnormative society, and i’m very proud of you for figuring out that it wasn’t right for you kevin: dammit renee why do you have to be so kind and supportive just let me make jokes about my moron-ness in PEACE

kevin day is the fucking QUEEN of exy !!!!!!! she’s better than you and you know it.

each and every day kevin day hears misogonistic comments towards female exy players and each and every day kevin day wants to scream B I T C H in their face

he wanted to do this even before he figured out he was genderfluid bc kevin day drank respect women juice before realizing he was also drinking sometimes i am women juice

kevin actually 100% hates dresses a lot bc they can never find any that are a good texture and its Sensory Hell, and also you cant play exy in them?? what the fuck???

they end up liking crop tops and short shorts, and a few kinds of makeup, but skirts and dresses are dumb and itchy actually

kevin goes on an impassioned rant about this at LEAST once a month

you know that really good feeling when you wake up one day and you realize you’re happier knowing who you are and maybe it’s rough and maybe it’s not perfect but you get to know who you are and your friends respect and love you for who you are and you start to realize you love knowing you too????????

yeah.

kevin day is genderfluid and this is my hill to die on thank you and good night

#aftg #tfc #aftg headcanon #tfc headcanon #kevin day #if u follow me ur legally obligated to rb this bc its in line w my url #(joking)#genderfluid kevin day #renee walker #if only bc she features so heavily #i dont wanna tag all the others

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0poole · 6 years

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Mulan and Pocahontas

So after rewatching Princess and the Frog (and I guess Ralph Breaks the Internet, technically), I realized I want to go back and watch every one of the Disney Princess’ movies just so I can actually see what’s up with them. Obviously I’ve seen bits and bobs about them, and I basically get the gist of who they are, but even if I did see their movies, I’ve probably forgotten the actual events of it because I honestly think child me didn’t really care to remember much. So, I started with Mulan and Pocahontas, really just because they’re the ones on Netflix...

Mulan did kind of start this spiral, since I wanted to watch this movie anyway. I could definitely sing along to a bit of Make a Man out of You, but I didn’t remember how the movie resolved exactly. I knew she shot a rocket at a mountain to kill some of the Huns with an avalanche, but I thought that was the very end of them. I didn’t know about the final bit, so that was fun. I also didn’t really know what was up with Mushu either, apart from him being a part of the comic relief animals.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do with those types of characters in Disney movies, especially in these ones, but Mulan more specifically. They tend to just ruin tense moments for me. There was that one scene in Pocahontas where they remarked at the killing of one of the Natives, but that was about it. In Mulan, though, they really should’ve just been kept out of that scene where the troops look upon the thousands of dead soldiers near that attacked village. You already got a feel of dread and sadness from the village, and then panning over that bloodbath with all of the characters showing visible grim on their face, and one of them bringing up the helmet of the dead general, and then... cut to proto-Will Smith in dragon form with gigantic puppydog eyes. It just breaks the feeling.

It’s also weird, though, because those three other soldiers who basically are comic relief also don’t feel as bad when reacting to such a scene. Maybe it’s just because they’re designs aren’t quite as exaggerated as the animals? I don’t know. It’s almost how upbeat they usually are that makes their somberness so much more impactful, especially when the scene cuts their joyful shanty short.

Speaking of songs, Mulan’s Princess ballad actually struck a chord with me. I say “actually” because it was pretty much a generic “I want to be what other people don’t want to be” sort of deal, even with the “women are supposed to be seen not heard” tones of the film that are a little blown up nowadays. I mean, if you’re ever going to use that tone, it should be in ancient(?) China, but still. The song really got me.

I mean, that’s basically all that needs to be said. It was a great movie, obviously. There’s 0 chance in hell that I’d watch the sequels, though. I don’t think anyone would shame me for that.

Pocahontas was probably the weirder one for me, even apart from the obvious historical inaccuracies, including but not limited to ol’ Poca not being of legal age when meeting the dreamboat Smith. I mean, when it comes to the fictitious version, frankly, this might’ve been the most believable love-at-first-sight I’ve ever seen. They established that she (I’m not going to type her name out every time) wanted someone with a distinct personality and a wild side, so naturally she’d be into a strange man with strange trinkets from a faraway land. Not to mention, he was seriously charming. I was honestly charmed. I’m not even into that type, and I wanted them together. It was probably helped by the fact that they didn’t resolve it with the perfect happy ending too. If you don’t resolve it yourself, then the audience will be more likely to want it resolved, anyway. If you do it for them, it feels slightly cheaper.

With Poca herself, I got that same sort of vibe I got when watching Lilo and Stitch. I’ve always seen her in merchandise and whatnot, so she never felt entirely like a character, and more like an image. Her few bits in Ralph Breaks the Internet just sort of cemented my preconceived notion that she’s the more reverent and quiet princess, but seeing her in action broke that, which is a little bittersweet. Obviously the wild-type is super charming, always has and always will be, but that seems to be the case with basically every princess. Obviously again, she’s one of the earliest princesses, so you couldn’t really blame them for maintaining a trend, but having a more quiet princess would be nice. Maybe that’s what they’re going for nowadays. It’s hard to tell, since she’s in basically nothing, especially with Elsa taking the Disney Princess reins.

It was also weird sometimes with the discrepancy between the flawless, probably rotoscoped faces of Poca and her friend, mixed with the highly cartoonic (cartoony? apparently cartoonic isn’t even a real word?) animals. It really gave off that same feel when a live actor is (trying) to interact with a CGI character, but decades before CGI was even a thing. It’s kind of interesting in that regard, but still really jarring. Thank God animation isn’t doing that anymore. The normally animated humans, like Ratcliffe, looked great though. They seriously spared no expense in the animation, as is the case with early Disney works. I just thought this movie was going to be more reminiscent of Snow White or Sleeping Beauty, where it was good, but not quite as polished. It was definitely polished.

The climax of the movie genuinely got me going, though. Both clans interchanging the same beliefs but from different sides through this gigantic, angry song was actually fucking amazing. You do sort of side with the Natives though, since they’re the ones acting in self defense, pretty much. By the end of it all, you of course realize that Ratcliffe was the source of the altercation, and frankly I wish one of his men shot him just as he was about to shoot Poca’s father. That would’ve been amazing. But, alas, John had to take the bullet. If only it were that easy in real life... There are just one too many Ratcliffes in the world.

Again, the sequels might as well not exist, because I ain’t touchen em.

I’m going to hope that I’ll get the chance to watch Snow White and Sleeping Beauty next, because I really want that classic Disney dose. I’ll take Brave as a substitute, even though that movie was seriously a disappointment in concept at least. I wanted a badass warrior princess, dammit! I mean, the only time I’ve actually watched Brave was on a party bus during a school field trip, so maybe I’m missing something.

#poole #disney #princess #escepades #pocahontas #mulan #animation #opinions #thoughts #rant #rambling

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bpellerin · 6 years

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Sociopathy properly understood

Currently ("currently" here is a word meaning "sometime near the middle of January 2019" so yeah I'm slow to post) reading yet another Brené Brown book, this one called Braving the Wilderness, and like her other books it's about belonging and vulnerability and how we don't need the first as much as we think but very much require the second and -- wait, I've got that wrong.

We do need belonging, but not the way you'd normally think of that word. Not in the usual sense of trying to fit in with a group, or being accepted into an existing society of fellows unless they're secretly a bunch of annoying but well-connected jerks.

Or, in her case, to be accepted into the cheerleading team back in high school.

Me, it was both being accepted by the cool kids but also making it and being accepted as a musician despite hailing from a different social-economic background than most mainstream pianists. I was an ordinary kid from the grubby suburbs. You know the place other people always made fun of? I lived there. We were the Newfoundland of suburbs. The kids who participated in the music contests weren’t necessarily richer than us, though they probably had a bit more discretionary spending at their disposal than I did. But they lived in Sillery or Ste-Foy, the nice areas we couldn't or wouldn't afford. Either way it wasn’t my fault where my parents had chosen to live. But I got punished because of it regardless by being sneered at and never accepted into the group. The other pianists were polished and sophisticated, something I’ve never felt.

No, not even now.

I was always a bit raw. I do appreciate that my physical features allow me to clean up alright. I can walk in heels, and evening gowns don't look comical on my frame. I used to make a living in television, dammit. I can make myself look good and polished. But it’s not me.

Me is feeling comfortable in an ugly old fleece because it’s minus stupid outside and jeez, you know. It’s having my hair in a ponytail because I’m training twice today and why bother doing anything else with it? It's a mess of frizzes when I try too hard, and the blow dryer makes me sweat. Makeup is just stupid. Why not spend the time and money eating well and exercising instead? Oh sure, when you need to make a super duper impression under very bright lights like that time they asked you to be on the cover of Time magazine, go ahead. The point is not to look natural when natural means "slightly dead-looking". The point is to be natural and to let others see you that way. IRL, like the kids say. A little touch of blush here and there, if you insist, alright. But come now. Blue on the eyelids? On what creature is this normal?

Your face tells the story of your life, and it's the one you should be wearing instead of hiding behind three layers of concealer and whatever they call that powder that sits on top and makes your face feel like a slightly overgreased pancake. Let yourself be seen, even if the story of your life includes episodes you'd rather not think about just now thanks very much. That's what gives your expression depth and meaning. Wear it with pride, and to hell what Cosmo says.

So anyway, to make a long story short(er), I don't spend too much time polishing my exterior shell. It's clean and tidy, and I wear clothes that don't make me uncomfortable by their cut or poor tailoring, but that's about it.

Back to Brené Brown. She starts the book with a quotation from Maya Angelou (I really need to read everything this woman wrote, too) about the freedom that comes from belonging only to oneself. Brown used to disagree with that quote pretty strongly, but now she gets it.

Funny, because I got it right away.

"You are only free when you realize you belong no place - you belong every place - no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great." That's how Angelou said it in a TV interview back in the early 1970s.

I say I got the point of the quote right away, but that's only if you start counting from a few months back. If you start counting from when I came out of the womb or, if we're going to be generous, from when I came of age, er. I took a bit longer.

I have spent a lifetime and a half struggling to belong. In a family that didn't feel like one. In a school where I either got ignored or bullied. At jobs I cared about so much I alienated everyone else by trying to win everything and beat every record. In relationships I killed with way too much attention and subservience. I would bend over backwards so many times I had no idea what time zone I was in anymore. That's how far I'd go to fit in and be accepted. Because that's what I thought one needed to be happy; to fit in with the cool kids and be accepted as one of their own.

It was only recently, in the last year or so, that I discovered that sometimes the best way to be the best you can be is to stop giving a fuck what people think or feel. I'm 48 now. It's been a long trek going the wrong way trying to achieve goals that wouldn't make me happy if I succeeded not that I had any chance of doing so.

Shit.

So now I'm learning to be a bit of a sociopath. Not the kind the police need to worry about, obviously. But the kind that motors through life not paying too much attention to what other people think or say.

By the nature of my work I often wind up pissing people off. I have strong opinions about topics people care about. Like Donald Trump and his terminally ugly band of supporters. Or institutional daycare for babies under the age of two. (Not sure which one I despise more.) I'm also not keen at all on the segregation of humans; I don't understand why we park kids in their own buildings while older folks get dumped in retirement homes full of other old people. Why not mix them up, like they do in some European places where they give highly reduced rent to college students in old folks homes in exchange for them mingling with regular residents and performing odd jobs for them, like helping them write letters or just spend time chatting over tea. When I talk about this I often get a wallop on Twitter to the effect that in this busy day and age nobody has time for this sort of stuff anymore and come on, be realistic and stop dreaming in technicolour.

But I like technicolour.

I'm happy to have others who like technicolour as much as I do to hop on my merry wagon and travel along with me. I'm also OK with people reading my stuff just to argue with me - though I would be eternally grateful if they actually did try to understand what I was saying before they started shouting. That'd be real nice. But I don't need it, and I certainly don’t need them.

Any of them. I don't write for an audience. I write for me. I'm delighted to have an audience. But it comes after the work, not before.

That's the hardest part of trying to belong by not trying to belong, to be perfectly honest about it. Most of us who enjoy the work we do also enjoy feedback about same, especially if it's positive. But sometimes negative feedback is enjoyable too, if it makes you better at the work you already enjoy doing. (Pain to the ego is usually temporary. Right?)

Not having feedback on the work I do because it's not out there yet, wow, that's hard. Years of daily blogging have made me very dependent on visitor statistics and other social-media metrics for validation. Love or hate my stuff, whatever I don’t care, but at least engage with it. That way I'll know I've done something alright.

But all this stuff I've been writing these past few months that's sitting quietly in my files waiting to be edited and submitted somewhere? I have no feedback on that. And frankly at the moment it's kind of OK, because the truth is I'm scared shitless of what the feedback would be if there was any. I mean, what if my fiction is no good? What if it sucks? Worse, what if it doesn't suck enough to be interesting in its suckiness? What if it's just, gasp, boring?

To say this feeling makes me anxious would be a fine understatement. But somehow I have to put that anxiety aside and keep plugging away and not - repeat, NOT - sneak out to the megaplex and watch something explode on screen while I stuff popcorn into my maw. (Mymaw, a popcorn mymaw, popcorn mama, can't stop thinking of possibilities. I have issues.)

No. I have to keep plugging away, doing the work I was put on this planet to do. And do it for me, like a proper sociopath should.

#Books #Brene Brown

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notsugarandspice · 6 years

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Let’s Talk About Parks

Parks & Rec AU!

This one is mega fun to write. Thank you to wonderful Mal @sagansrecord (a fellow Parks & Rec enthusiast) for helping me with the choice of characters. I initially wrote it differently about a month ago, but I wasn’t happy with the personalities and decided to switch things around.

(THIS FIC FEATURES ALL THE LOSERS AND SEVERAL STRANGER THINGS CHARACTERS. IT’S NOT CENTRAL TO ANY SHIPS, BUT THE MAIN ONES ARE GOING TO BE STANLON AND REDDIE)

Read it on AO3.

CHAPTER 1: THE PIT

“Lucas, how many people are here exactly?"

"Obviously not enough to fill this auditorium. What were you thinking anyway?"

Mike couldn't believe that anyone showed up. It was his very first Community Outreach Public Forum. Sure, he has attended some before, but he was too young to lead one until now. Since he now had access to that responsibility, Mike was just grateful to have someone there with him. Willingly, or not.

He liked Lucas, he really did, but the guy could be a little... self-centered. And Mike thought he seemed too disinterested for someone who's working in a Parks and Recreation department. I mean, it's not fucking Washington, but it’s a government job nonetheless. Lucas should be grateful. Jim finally asked him to run the meeting, and whether Lucas liked it or not, he was going to help out.

Emerson Elementary School seemed larger when you had to speak in front of dozens of people. But it's all good. I love my job, I love my job, I love my job.

"Thank you so much for coming! What an amazing turnout," said Mike, speaking breathily but enthusiastically into the microphone. His old suit hugged the shoulders too tightly, and Mike instantly wished he was curled up in his office chair, doing the overnight paperwork.

Lucas was sitting on the chair next to him, slumped so much that his feet almost dangled off the stage.

"My name is-"

Mike didn't get to finish introducing himself because, all of a sudden, the lights went off and the auditorium turned pitch black apart from the light coming through the small window at the exit door. Without hesitation and before anyone had the chance to bolt, Mike nudged Lucas’ shoulder, and the other rolled his eyes in understanding.

They changed the location to a small classroom on the other side of the building, cramming a couple of dozen people in the small space. But Mike was content. I'm having my Outreach meeting, dammit.

"I'm Mike Hanlon, and with me is department member Lucas Sinclair,” said Mike and nudged the other in the arm. Lucas weakly waved and stayed slumped in his seat.

"We are here to answer all of your questions," said Mike enthusiastically, fidgeting his polished shoes on the floor from anticipation.

A grey-haired male stood up swiftly. "Well, it's a great day, because last month they put me in jail." The room grew dead silent, and everyone looked left and right. What the actual FUCK.

"That's right! The head of the police is a ninth degree asshat-"

It didn't end there.

"STOP THE GRAFFITI, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD-"

Mike sighed heavily. "Sir, I don't like obscenities in front of children either-"

"Look, I've got my three-year-old, and we're going through the park, and someone's like 'Hey, dick! Suck my cock!' and the other guy goes 'You suck my cock, you dickhead!"

Lucas’ stifled snickers were bouncing off the walls of the small room.

Michael, they just LOUDLY care about their community. In and out. In. And. Out.

"Alright, does anyone else who hasn't spoken yet want to voice their concern?" asked Mike, interrupting the ex-con who was about to start yapping again.

"I-I would!" exclaimed a handsome white male, standing up from the small chair. Mike nodded encouragingly.

"Hi. I'm... Um... I'm Ben Hanscom. Honestly, I don't care much for politics-" Loud clapping erupted throughout the room. Ben patiently waited for it to die down. "I'm here to talk about the abandoned lot on Sullivan Street."

Mike instantly piped up. "That sounds like a great idea!"

"Um, no. It's a problem. My boyfriend almost died there." Mike’s face instantly fell.

"There's a lot right next to my house. Someone dug it up for some new condos, went bankrupt, and now it's nothing but a giant pit that's been there for almost a year."

Mike nodded in understanding.

"My boyfriend, he's a musician, um, I support him, he fell in and broke both his legs."

“Ben, let me ask you something. This boyfriend of yours who fell into the pit, are you two serious? Like, do you live together or what's going on there?" asked Lucas suddenly and Mike had to fight an urge to strangle him.

"Um, yeah," answered Ben, thoroughly confused.

"I'm sure it's super tough on you. If you feel like you need to move on, I could give you my number and counsel you, you know, through these tough times."

Ben blinked for a couple of seconds and then continued. "Look, I complained about this pit countlessly, and nobody has done anything. YOU need to do something about it!" Another round of applause erupted in the room.

Mike felt his heart thundering wildly in his chest. "Okay. I will help you. I'll do it."

"Is that a promise?" asked Ben, folding his arms.

"Oh, it's a pinky promise. To all of you, that the ugly pit will become the most beautiful damn park in Indiana." Mike put on his most dashing smile, keeping eye contact with Ben’s bright green eyes.

"Babe, can you please clean up? Those people from the City Hall are coming over," said Ben, pointing at the mess on and around Richie's lap.

Richie handed him the empty beer bottle without looking, too occupied with the TV and an open Cheetos bag in his lap.

Ben went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee, but before he had a chance to press the button, a doorbell rang.

"DOORBELL!" Richie's scream rang through the room.

"For fuck's sake, Rich, I heard it."

Ben opened the door to reveal the attractive dark-skinned man again, in the company of two others. One man from last night who kept up the ridiculous flirting, and another, with some weird dark liner underneath, dressed in a cardigan and dark jeans, all grumpy attitude and disinterest.

"Hi, Ben! This is Lucas and Eddie. Eddie is our college intern. He's going to document our conversation if that's okay."

"Um, sure. Whatever you guys need. I'm just gonna grab my phone."

Ben went towards the bedroom, and Mike helped himself in, followed by Lucas and Eddie, both of them carrying solemn expressions on their faces.

"Whoa, this must be the man of the hour!” exclaimed Mike upon seeing a tall, dark-haired man sprawled on the couch, two casts resting on the coffee table.

"I'm Mike Hanlon, it's so nice to meet you." Mike extended his hand for the stranger to shake.

The man took one hand out of the top of the cast, wiped it on his shirt and extended it to Mike, smiling ear to ear. "Hi-ya. Me llamo Richie Rich. Could you pass me my itch stick?" asked the man, pointing towards the piece of wood trapped between beer bottles on the coffee table.

Mike blinked a couple of times. "Uh, sure." He reached out to the piece hesitantly and handed it to the man.

Richie started scratching underneath, making inappropriate moaning and groaning sounds. Eddie snorted loudly, coming further into the house, peeking over Mike’s shoulder.

When Ben came back, they all went outside, positioning themselves right next to the edge of the pit Richie fell in.

"That's the spot," said Ben, standing with hands on his hips, squinting through the morning sun.

"Damn," exhaled Mike. "This place has so much potential. I mean, imagine a swimming pool, a tennis court, basketball court, a Ferris wheel, bowling alley-"

"Um, this pit is not that fucking big, man,” said Ben raising his eyebrows.

Mike did a double back but quickly recovered. "Okay, Eddie, document this," said Mike walking towards the edge.

Eddie pulled out his phone and started filming, a playful smile on his face.

“What are you-“ Ben started but saw that the man has a hard hat on, and seemed to know what he’s doing. He folded the hands in front of himself and tried not to panic.

"In order to assess the damage done to the skinny one back there, I need to get straight into the belly of the beast," said Mike, crawling backwards towards the slope.

Lucas and Ben stared at him incredulously, and Eddie kept smiling mischievously.

"OH, FUCK!" Before Mike got a chance to slide down easily, he tumbled down the slope, arms flailing wildly and clothes filling with gravel and dirt.

Next thing he knows, Mike is sitting on the couch next to Richie who is too occupied playing video games to notice his awakening. Ben suddenly appears on the side handing him a bottle of water and some Advil. Mike lets his eyes rake over the man’s scrubs. Fuck, I forgot he's a nurse.

"Oh. Thank you," said Mike straightening a little and taking the bottle with pills.

"It's alright, don't worry about it. I do have a shift in twenty minutes though. Do you want me to drop you off on the way home?"

Mike lifted his head and turned around, seeing Eddie and Lucas laugh maniacally over something on Eddie's phone, glancing in his direction occasionally. Mike furrowed his brows and stood up slowly, grabbing onto the falling compress, no longer cold.

"Nah, it's alright. Those two will give me a ride. So, do you want to come to my office tomorrow to talk about this? I think we really do have a shot there."

"Yeah, okay. Um, we could try."

“Good.” Mike stretched his neck to the side, feeling the stiffness there. “Do you have something like a neck brace?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, one of those things you wear when you break a clavicle or something, like a cast for the neck?”

“Honestly, you didn’t break anything,” said Ben and walked towards the kitchen to grab his coffee to-go.

“Honestly, it fucking hurts,” muttered Mike and started carefully walking towards the front door.

“Is that a travel pillow around your neck?” asked Jim, looking at Mike with a blank expression.

“Okay, irrelevant. You’d understand if you’ve been down at the pit. Have you, Jim?”

“No, can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Well, I have.”

“When you fell in.”

“When I visited the place where Richard Tozier lost the function of both of his legs,” said Mike, putting several photographs of his unconscious body at the bottom of the pit in front of Hopper. “I want this subcommittee. You won’t find anyone else more devoted to this.”

Jim looked at the photos in mild amusement, folding his arms on the stomach.

“Michael, you know me well. Do you realize that I don’t want this department to build anything because the government is a big sham?”

Mike looked at his boss with eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging open in shock.

“If I ever want to see this department privatized for the benefit of large corporations, I can’t have you planning something equally big.”

Mike closed his eyes for several seconds, regaining composure. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that. Can you promise to at least think about this?”

Jim looked at his employee with slight irritation but eventually sighed, leaning on the table. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Mike instantly beamed and bolted towards the door. “Leaving before you change your mind!”

“I didn’t say-“

“This mural is one of the more gruesome ones. It’s so bad that we have to put advertisement posters on top to make sure that children can visit,” said Mike, pointing at one of the largest murals in City Hall, coffee in hand.

“That sounds-“

“Awesome?” “-horrible,” said Ben, cringing at the painted blood that’s still visible from the corner of a rather small poster.

Mike whipped his head around when he heard the approaching clinking of male dressing shoes. Lucas was jogging towards them at a leisurely pace, a satisfied smile dancing around his features.

“Mike, you won’t believe it. Hop approved the committee!” Lucas clapped Mike on the back, and the other beamed at Ben, shaking his free hand in excitement.

“We should celebrate!” exclaimed Mike, dragging all of them back to the Parks and Recreation office.

It hadn’t even been an hour, and everyone was already tipsy from cheap champagne and full of sour cream and onion chips that Mike kept under his table for special occasions. He found himself chatting with Ben who enthusiastically sipped on the glass, more relaxed and open than Mike had ever seen him.

“Man, I’m barely in mid-thirties, and I already landed a subcommittee. I’m an unstoppable force of progress!”

“You know what, you’re like the first government person who makes me believe in democracy,” said Ben, slightly hiccuping from the bubbles.

“Yeah? Well, it’s a promise that this is getting done. We’re in America, baby! The land of cute guys and rapid growth.”

“And I promise to help get that godforsaken pit filled in, even if it takes a couple of months.”

“Whoo!” exclaimed Mike, clinking their plastic glasses and spilling some champagne into his lap. Neither of them noticed.

“Dude, Mike is the most ridiculous drunk you’ve ever seen.”

“How come?” asked Eddie, confidently pouring some champagne into his coffee cup.

“Every single time we have these gatherings, he gets hammered from zero to none liquor. He’s the biggest lightweight,” said Lucas and made his way back to Mike, pouring more champagne into his glass, gesturing for Eddie to look.

“Have you ever forced him to do something stupid?” asked Eddie when Lucas finally made his way back.

“Oh, this one time, a water delivery girl came by and I dared Mike to kiss her. It was hilarious, and he denies it to this day.”

Eddie snorted into the mug and nodded for more champagne.

Perma Tag: @happytozier @studpuffin @j0ys @qwertykevin @its-stranger-than-you-think @trippy-alexissss @letmybabyystayy @tinyarmedtrex @d-nbroughs (let me know if you want to be perma tagged or tagged in this specific fic! <3)

#reddie #mike hanlon #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #ben hascom #my writing #parks and rec au #stanlon #lucas sinclair #jim hopper #stranger things crossover

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timetospy · 7 years

Note

Could you please a 00q fic based on the sex scene from The Thomas Crown Affair remake?

This was quite fun, thank you for this prompt! I hope this is what you had in mind

Obviously NSFW, so under a cut

Contents: 00Q, anal sex, rimming, blowjobs, Bond is a charming asshole - but what else is new

Bond sets the Walther down on Q’s desk, and Q can’t quite believe what he’s looking at. It’s in one piece. One whole entire piece. He looks from Bond to the Walther and back again.

“Well done, Double-Oh-Seven,” he says, and the words want to stick in his throat. It’s not like Bond needs the compliment - the man’s ego is inflated enough as it is.

“Thank you, Q,” Bond purrs and flashes that infuriating grin that sets fire to Q’s insides. He saunters out of the Branch and Q watches him go. There are already rumors flying, despite Q doing his level best to keep it professional, and Q has quit pretending he doesn’t find Bond unbearably attractive. Doesn’t mean he’s slept with the arsehole, but he allows himself to look his fill, and James puts on a good show - hips swinging just so under his suit jacket.

Q tears his eyes away as Bond rounds the corner toward the exit and picks up the Walther. He frowns. Something’s wrong with the gun, but he can’t quite tell what it is and just as he’s about to pull the slide back, an alarm sounds. Hildebrand shouts something unintelligible over the immediate din in the bullpen. Q sighs. Of course there would be a metaphorical fire on the other side of the globe right at this moment. He sets the Walther aside and gets to work.

It isn’t until well after he’s supposed to have gone home that Q once again takes up the Walther mystery. He hefts it in his hand. He immediately notices the balance is off, and idly pulls on the slide to check the chamber. The slide doesn’t move, not even a millimeter, and Q scowls. He tries taking the weapon apart, but none of the parts will loosen. It’s when he’s trying to dislodge the clip that he figures it out: it’s been super-glued together.

Q’s face twists in disgust. He’d actually complimented that...that cock-mongering bastard and it had all been a ruse, a put-on, a farce. He slams the gun down onto the table, and on impact it shatters into its component parts.

“Where is that sack of shit? Right now, where is he?”

The bullpen jumps, scurries satisfyingly at his words.

As Q glares at his screen, waiting for a small green blip to appear over a map of London, an idea begins to percolate in the back of his mind, and the glare becomes a terrifying grin.

***

The blonde is a terrible conversationalist. Bond’s not really listening to her, but he doesn’t need to. It’s the same old drivel, and he makes appeasing noises when he notices a pause, and she’ll go home later that night and tell her friends what a wonderful listener he was.

He thinks about taking her to a hotel, then dismisses it as a bad job. She’s pretty, of course, but looks don’t make up for everything. She is a decent dancer, though, so there’s that. He tries not to think about what it would be like dancing with Q instead. The man would never let his professional guard down long enough to do something so base as dance.

Bond almost feels bad about his ruse with the Walther. Almost.

But hearing those words from Q’s lips had been so utterly satisfying, the resulting temper tantrum was likely worth it. And now that he knew what it sounded like, maybe he’d be tempted to try and actually bring his kit back in one piece.

“What’s so funny about Chanel retiring seafoam as their on-trend color?” the blonde asks, frowning in a way that Bond is certain she thinks is cute, but only manages to make her look constipated. How unlike Q, who manages to look like an affronted housecat even when livid. His lips curl into a smile at that.

“Did I say something funny?” the blonde asks, her sharp tone pulling Bond from his thoughts at last.

“Did you mean to?” Bond replies smoothly. He’s not looking to get a laugh out of her, but does anyway. She must think he’s trying to be charming.

He spins her across the dance floor of Maury’s Piano Bar - it’s on the near side of pretentious, with a wine list longer than his arm, all dark wood and polished brass and burgundy leather. But he knows the owner, and Ned is always glad to have him on the dance floor, and Bond is happy to oblige when he’s in town and in the mood. He has to admit the ensemble tonight is excellent. It’s a pity the company doesn’t measure up to the music. For the four hundredth time, Bond wishes it were Q instead of this blonde in his arms regardless of how utterly daft the idea is. There’s a lull in the music, and the blonde stops moving so suddenly Bond’s concerned for half a moment that he’s trodden on her foot. She spins away, and he can barely believe his eyes.

Q stands in front of him, dressed to the nines in a hunter green sport coat that follows the line of his body, and Bond’s jaw tries to drop. He keeps it in place with a force of will that he wasn’t sure until that very moment he possessed.

Q cocks his head, sizing up the blonde, then narrows his eyes at Bond.

“I’m cutting in.” The blonde’s face contorts, puzzled, and Bond watches her mentally shrug and move to dance with Q, who laughs. “Not you. Him.”

Bond’s eyebrows raise, and the corners of his mouth turn up. He reaches for Q, and now the blonde really looks confused. God knows what she’s thinking, but she scoffs and stalks off the dance floor just as the music picks up tempo. It’s a slinky bossa nova and Bond can’t quite believe his luck as Q steps in to take the blonde’s place.

“Did you really think you’d get away with it?” Q asks as Bond spins them towards the center of the dance floor.

“And here I thought it would make you laugh,” Bond says. Q’s graceful, light on his feet, following Bond easily through the steps. Bond’s ghost of a smile sticks in place, an easy expression in this moment, countered by Q’s cracked glare. Amusement sparks in Bond’s eyes as he realizes Q’s enjoying himself despite everything.

“I cannot imagine you ever making me laugh,” Q mutters as Bond pulls him in close after a spin-out.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Bond says into Q’s ear. “Either that or you have a terrible sense of humor.”

“There is nothing wrong with my sense of humor, merely your idea of a joke.”

Bond laughs at this. Q is willing to match him barb for barb, and Bond loves a verbal shoot-out nearly as much as an actual one.

“This little dance we do,” Bond says, picking up the pace of his steps, “poking at each other, looking for the chinks in the armor. Does it excite you? Is that really the game you want to play?”

Bond spins them and dips Q without warning, and Q’s eyes widen, his pulse throbbing in his neck and Bond wants to taste it, wants to taste it so badly that he can feel the want in the back of his throat. The only way to clear it is to speak.

“Or…,” Bond can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe they are doing this. How many times had Q danced through his thoughts, and how many times had Bond convinced himself it would never be? And now here he is, in his arms, heart beating wildly, “do you really want to play something else?”

He watches as Q’s adam’s apple bobs once, twice as he swallows and Bond lifts him slowly out of the dip. Their eyes lock, and the moment stretches on, and on, and Bond is drowning in bottle-green.

Q’s staring at him, all the animosity drained out of his expression, and something else, something more heated, fills his eyes.

Bond doesn’t know who moves first, but in the end it hardly matters - they kiss, hard and desperate. Q grasps at his neck, Bond’s fingers tangle in Q’s hair. The music fades from his perception, and the entire world is in Q’s mouth. He advances a step, hands moving from Q’s hair to his shoulders and Q clutches at his lapels. They break apart with a gasp, and Bond suddenly realizes what’s just happened. His eyes scan the crowd, taking in the reaction. It’s an old habit. There are a few stares but none are angry. His hackles recede to the background again, and he guides Q to a secluded corridor behind the dance floor by his lapels.

Q’s hands slide under Bond’s jacket, hot and insistent against his sides, up his back, and James groans into Q’s perfect neck and takes his first delectable taste. Q gasps, arches his back, and Bond can feel Q’s erection pressing into the crease of his thigh, and every muscle in his body tenses at the touch.

Q’s lips are nearly as warm as his hands - which have travelled south and are kneading at his arse as he presses Q against the wall, his elbows bracketing Q’s head as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss…

***

The ride to Bond’s flat is an exercise in torture - hands roaming, whispers in the dark, all while Bond darts through traffic like a heathen, causing more than one cab to blare its horn. This wasn’t what Q had had in mind when he went to go confront Bond. He’d meant to berate him, perhaps humiliate him, not end up arching into Bond’s hand like a teenager as they speed through another amber signal.

Bond pulls to a screaming halt outside his flat. It’s smack in the middle of Notting Hill, and Q lets out a low whistle. Bond smirks at him as he opens the door and ushers Q into a frankly ostentatious entry hall.

“Sometimes,” Bond says as he locks the door behind them, “a place like this just...falls into your lap.”

“Know the former owner, then?” Q asks as he runs a finger over the marble statue resting comfortably in the curve of the stairway.

“Intimately,” Bond murmurs, and Q turns to see him loosening his tie. There’s something about the motion, about the intent of it, that sends lightning shooting through Q’s gut, and he bites his lip as he shrugs out of his sport coat and lets it fall from his shoulders to puddle around his feet.

He knows what happens next, and he knows it’s the worst idea he’s ever had. But dammit, if he only has this one chance, he’s going to take it. He’s managed enough missions to know that Bond is no slouch in bed, and more than once he’s wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that intensity.

He’s about to find out.

Bond stalks towards him like a great cat on the hunt, suit jacket falling to the floor as he approaches, and god damn, no man has a right to look that good in braces, but he does. His fingers are numb as he fumbles at the buttons of his shirt. Too slow, he’s too slow, but somehow his shirt falls open as Bond takes the last step, closing the distance between them, and Bond’s hands, calloused and rough and so, so warm slip between fabric and shoulder and slide his shirt to the floor.

Q takes a breath and his eyes slide shut as Bond bends to taste his neck just over the pulse point. Bond crowds him against the wall, and Q pulls at his undone tie, sliding it from his collar with one smooth tug, then working on Bond’s buttons.

Q can barely concentrate as Bond’s wicked mouth ghosts across his shoulders, collarbone, neck, ear, the almost-touch of his mouth maddening.

“I’m still,” Q hisses as Bond’s teeth find a tendon in his neck, “upset about the gun.”

“Mmm. But you know, you wouldn’t be here but for that.”

Q groans as Bond tweaks a nipple, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to refute Bond’s logic at this point, and Bond knows it.

“Shut up and get on with it,” Q says instead as he ruts against Bond’s leg, desperate now for something more, something less, anything at all.

“Tsk. So impatient. All in good time, Q.”

And god, the way he says that letter makes it sound filthy, and it’s on the tip of Q’s tongue to give him his name, just so he can hear how the vowels sit in Bond’s mouth, see the way those lips shape the sounds. He kisses Bond instead, hard and demanding, biting at those perfect lips.

Bond lifts him, backing him against the statue, settling their hips together so their still-clothed cocks slot against each other with delicious friction, and they both groan into the other’s mouth. Bond backs away, Q wrapped around him, and takes a few steps toward the stairs, stutters, then lays Q down on the floor of the foyer and tugs his trousers and pants down to his ankles with one swift pull.

This isn’t Q’s first time around the block, but here, with Bond above him, he feels stripped in a way that has little to do with clothes. Bond is every inch the predator here, hungry, prowling, cornering his prey - which Q suddenly realizes he is. It’s a heady feeling, being on the receiving end of such a stare. He wants to know what it’s like to be devoured.

Q kicks off his shoes and wriggles the rest of the way out of his clothes, stretching his arms out above his head, schooling his face into a semblance of vulnerability.

Bond trails a finger down the center of Q’s chest, pausing to tweak his nipples, drawing out a hiss, then toying with the nest of dark curls at the base of Q’s leaking cock.

“Do you always play with your food?” Q asks as Bond’s hand trails around to Q’s hip, thigh, knee, everywhere but where Q wants him.

“Only when it plays back,” Bond replies, and bends to kiss Q’s belly.

When Bond’s mouth finally, finally closes around his cock, Q nearly comes on the spot. He only hangs onto his dignity by a shred, digging his fingernails into his palms as Bond swallows him down, again and again. It’s like his very soul is being siphoned out of his body through his cock, but he doesn’t want it to be over--not like this, not yet. With every last ounce of willpower he has left, Q pushes Bond away, presses his advantage, and rolls Bond onto his back. Q climbs over him, smoothing his palms over Bond’s chiseled pecs. They really are as solid as they look, and Q is fascinated. Lips follow fingers across Bond’s body, tasting the skin he’d forbidden himself to touch for so long.

This isn’t anything but self-indulgence, but Q gave the ruse of professionalism up the minute he let Bond lead him across the dance floor. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, really, although Q’s continually surprised at Bond’s interest. His off-the-clock companions tended to be, with very few exceptions, female, and Q had chalked it up to a dead-end crush. Obviously, he was blessedly wrong. For once.

A small voice in the back of Q’s mind tells him that the whole thing is a set-up to get Q exactly where he is, but a much larger part doesn’t much care as he eases Bond’s thick cock out of his trousers and flicks his tongue over the tip. The bitter tang of precome and salt are the most potent aphrodisiac - as if he’d needed more - and it’s Q’s turn to swallow Bond down. His lips stretch pleasantly around Bond’s girth, and he moans as he opens his throat.

It isn’t long before Bond is pushing Q off and rolling him over, backing him up against the bottom of the stairs. Over and over, back and forth, they make their way upstairs trading pleasure for pleasure, the gasps and groans and cries echoing through the foyer as they climb step by step to the landing.

Q lands on his arse on the top step with a grunt, Bond just below him. Their breath comes in great heaves and both are covered in a sheen of sweat. Bond crawls towards him up the stairs, grinning. Q scrambles away, backwards, and Bond lunges, misses his ankle by a hair’s breadth, and falls with a grunt to the carpet. Q takes his chance. He jumps up, and before Bond can regain his composure - what’s left of it - Q sits astride him, knees in his armpits. To Q’s shock, Bond raises up on hands and knees, and crawls forward. Q hoots and slaps Bond’s arse.

“Giddyap!” he calls, and laughter bubbles up and spills out of his mouth. It’s utterly ridiculous and somehow also completely erotic, this impromptu rodeo. Bond rears back, and Q holds tight, laughing all the harder for Bond’s embracing the role.

Bond all but prances into a room that looks remarkably like a study that opens into a bedroom behind, but they don’t quite make it to the bed before Bond finally pitches Q headfirst into a club chair. He’s still laughing madly as he scrambles up into a seated position in the chair and peers at a bottle of water on the occasional table. He swipes it, takes a long drink, then pours some out over Bond’s head as he looks up at Q.

Bond pushes a hand up through his hair, wiping the water out of his eyes, and that predator’s gleam re-ignites in the glacier-blue depths.

“Did you think I was done?” Bond asks, pulling Q’s hips forward.

“I’d rather hoped not,” Q replies glibly, but swallows, ruining the effect.

“By the way,” Bond says, kissing at Q’s inner thigh. “I did make you laugh.”

The observation, apropos of nothing, pulls another bark of laughter from Q, and Bond grins again.

“I always get what I want, in the end,” Bond says.

“And you want me?” Q asks, sitting up and running his fingers through Bond’s hair.

Bond doesn’t answer, but he does pull Q forward with a jerk and lifts his legs in the air so that Q is on his back in the club chair, Bond once more between his thighs. But this time, he’s not swallowing Q’s cock. He dips lower, tasting Q’s hole, and Q groans, long and low, wriggling closer to Bond. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

It isn’t long before a lube-slick finger joins Bond’s tongue, then a second. It’s been a while, but Q is half-drunk on pleasure, and Bond’s fingers find just the right spot to set Q dripping, and within a minute he’s begging with all but his voice.

Bond grins, pulling his fingers out and leaving Q feeling empty for a moment while he rolls on a condom and slicks himself. Q has about three seconds to catch his breath, then Bond is pressing in, torturously slowly, stretching Q wide. It burns deliciously, every nerve alive to the point of breaking.

Q scrabbles at the armrests of the chair, needing something to cling to as Bond starts to move inside him, slowly, pushing deeper and deeper until their hips meet. Bond’s eyes slide shut, and he groans - the sound echoing what Q would never admit: ‘I’ve wanted this for so long; finally, finally.’ Bond pulls out and the loss of him so soon after being filled is maddening. Q reaches for him, and Bond is already there, lifting him out of the chair. He swipes an arm across the coffee table behind them sending papers and magazines scattering in all directions, then lays Q down.

There’s a moment of pause, Bond hovering, gazing down at Q, and the expression is fleeting, momentary. Afterwards, Q isn’t sure he saw the way his eyes softened at all, can’t recall the specifics enough to know it wasn’t his imagination that smoothed the lines around his mouth, eased the tightness in his shoulders. But in the moment, it is everything, and Q lets his expression slide open, accepting. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, for this moment Q allows Bond to see. It will likely get him into trouble - Bond isn’t one for sentiment - but there’s little Q can do to stop it.

And in a flash, the moment is over, and Bond hooks one of Q’s knees over his shoulder and fucks into him without preamble, staring Q down with those impossible blue eyes. It’s every fantasy Q’s ever had, every daydream, every late night in the shower.

A bright mottled flush spreads across Bond’s chest as his rhythm speeds up, staring into Q’s eyes and blinking the sweat out of his own. It’s intense in a way Q hasn’t known. This molten steel ribbon twisting between them, tying itself in knots at the base of Q’s spine, and every thrust, every grunt of effort, every drop of sweat ties another knot, pulling them closer and closer and closer.

It’s all so much, Q can’t catch his breath. He tries to hang on to Bond, but his fingers can’t find purchase, and he has to settle for the edge of the coffee table - his knuckles go white. Skin slaps skin as Bond snaps his hips, lost to his own pleasure, now, chasing it inside Q.

Q wraps a hand around his own cock, matching Bond thrust for thrust, and the steel ribbon creaks at the breaking point. Bond shifts his angle ever so slightly, brushes Q’s prostate, and the ribbon snaps. A soul-deep groan oozes out of Q’s mouth like lava, and come splatters across his chest, pools in his navel, dribbles, finally, over his fingers. Bond isn’t far behind, and as Q shudders with aftershocks, Bond stutters to a halt, teeth clenched, buried to the hilt inside Q.

They rest for a moment, and Q turns to kiss Bond on the cheek as he catches his breath.

***

The next morning finds Bond seated at the kitchen table wrapped in a brown dressing gown with well-worn elbows, the morning paper, and a steaming mug of coffee. Q wanders in, his own dressing gown distressingly white and fluffy and new. Q hopes it’s a failed Christmas gift, and not an indicator that he’d been expected. He yawns and takes a seat opposite Bond, nabbing one of the other sections of the paper and wrinkling his nose when he discovers it’s Sport.

“Good morning,” Bond says, and nudges a second steaming mug towards Q, who picks it up suspiciously and sniffs it, takes a sip, then another, eyes wide in surprise. It’s Earl Grey, fixed just how Q likes it, and he narrows his eyes across the table.

“You didn’t just pop out to the shops this morning for tea, did you. I know you don’t keep it - you tell me often enough how you loathe ‘grass water.’”

“Well, I do hate tea, and no, I didn’t pop out to the shops this morning.” Bond’s response is casual to a fault, and he folds the paper over to peer at Q with that self-satisfied smirk.

“Dammit, I hate being a foregone conclusion.”

Bond, that infuriating arsehole, simply grins and passes the toast.

#00q #timetospywrites #mi6cafechallenge #//nsfw #prompt fill #cool-and-creative

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