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silhouetteofacedar · 3 years

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Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 21: Body Talk

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Mulder’s thirty years past kindergarten, but the anticipation he’s feeling in his body is reminiscent of the excitement he felt as a child over bringing his new model airplane to school for show-and-tell. Except the context is very, very different.

He’s got an envelope tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and he’s highly aware of every crinkle it makes as he strides through the halls, making his way down to the basement.

He’d expected to receive a clean bill of health, so the contents of the envelope weren’t a surprise. Even so… he’s fuckin’ thrilled.

“Morning, Scully,” he says cheerily, waltzing into the office and peeling off his jacket. “Another hot one out there, huh?”

“Mhm,” she responds, already elbow deep in paperwork. She’s always got her nose in some pile of documents, his Scully. God, she’s so cute, it’s unbearable. He thinks of when they first met, how rosy and round her cheeks were. He regrets not having done something earlier; he missed out on kissing her adorable baby face.

He really wants to kiss her now, but they’re at work, and she’s made it abundantly clear that At Work Scully is not open to the physical demonstrations enjoyed by Off Duty Scully. Instead he sidles up beside her, holding out the envelope in front of her.

She takes it, clearly noticing that it’s already been opened. “What’s this?” she asks.

“Just a little something, from me to you,” Mulder replies, going around the desk and plopping into his chair. He clasps his hands behind his head casually, grinning at her as she slides the folded paper out of the envelope.

Scully unfolds the page and scans it, nodding to herself. “Congratulations,” she says, glancing up at him. “This is… welcome news. But you didn’t need to bring me the physical test results, Mulder. Your word is enough.”

“Oh, but I know how much you enjoy solid evidence,” he says with a wink. “So, uh… do you have your results back yet?”

“This is definitely not an office-appropriate conversation,” she warns him, slipping the page back into the envelope.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “But…”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “Last week. I’m in the clear.”

He smiles even wider at her. “So, given this new information, what do you suggest we do, Agent Scully?”

She holds the envelope out to him across the desk. “Right now, our jobs.”

He licks his lips, nods. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, she gets up to put a file in the filing cabinet. As she closes the drawer, she lets out a soft cough.

“Friday,” she says in a low tone. “My place.”

Mulder feels a thrill roll through his stomach. ��Now how am I going to get a single thing done around here ’til then?” Mulder asks. “All I can think about is-”

She gives him a warning look.

“-You,” he finishes. “Every moment, Scully.”

Scully gives him a little pout. “I’m sorry, Mulder. That must be very difficult for you. You know what you need?”

“What?”

She picks up a stack of folders out of their in-basket and drops it in front of him on the desk. “A case.”

Mulder doesn’t find them an actual case, but he does manage to annoy Scully with conjecture and conspiracy for two whole days until it’s closing time on Friday night.

This could be the most important romantic encounter of his life, and he wants to make sure he’s adequately prepared. He takes a cold shower when he gets home, scrubbing every inch of his body until his skin tingles. He clips and files his nails, plucks some stray hairs, trims a few scraggly ones down south. He almost shaves his face before deciding to leave it be. He suspects Scully likes a little stubble, after all.

It’s a warm evening, so he throws on a gray t-shirt and jeans and bounds out the door with damp hair and crisp, soap-fresh skin.

As a rule, he doesn’t sing while driving; but today, he’s humming just a little.

He knocks on her door at quarter to seven, bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to shake out a little anxious energy. This isn’t a prom date, he chides himself. Calm down and be an adult.

The lock is turning and the door is swinging open and there Scully is, looking soft and inviting and dangerous all at once. “Hi,” she says, giving him a little smile.

“Hi,” he says softly, eyes drawn immediately to the low neckline of her simple wrap dress. He snaps his gaze back up to her face again. “Hi, sorry, I’m-”

“A little distracted?” she asks slyly. She opens the door wider. “Come in,” she says, beckoning.

“I, uh, didn’t bring anything,” he says awkwardly, following her into the apartment. “And now that I’m here that feels kinda thoughtless.”

“What would you have brought?” Scully asks.

He shrugs. “Flowers, wine, something that says ‘I want to get laid but I also respect you’,” he says.

“Well, that’s unnecessary,” she says, going into the kitchen and opening her junk drawer. “I already know that.” She pulls out a small stack of takeout menus. “I’m assuming you haven’t had dinner yet?”

I was kind of planning on having you for dinner. “I have not,” he replies.

She hands him the menus. “Pick a place, we can call something in,” she says. She takes a box of matches out of the drawer and walks over to the fireplace.

Mulder glances over the menus, but he’s mostly watching Scully. She seems relaxed and comfortable, lighting a few candles atop the mantlepiece.

“You want a little music?” she asks, blowing out the match.

“Sure,” he replies. “Surprise me.”

“Promise you won’t tease me for this,” she says, flipping through a stack of CDs.

“Any of those restaurants sound appealing?”

“The Italian place sounds good, but I don’t want my garlic breath to put you off,” he admits sheepishly.

She glances over her shoulder at him, giving him a little smile. “That restaurant usually sends a few mints in the bag; and you have a toothbrush here, if it’s that big of a problem.” She puts a CD into the stereo.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he says. “You want me to call it in?”

“Sure,” she replies. “You can order me a chopped salad and some of their spinach ravioli. And get garlic bread,” she adds.

When he hangs up the phone, he sees her standing by her stereo, nodding her head in time to the music. The song is slow and sensual, and somehow familiar. He goes to her, places a hand on her lower back. His spot.

“Marvin Gaye?” he guesses.

“Mm, no. Al Green,” she replies.

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Never took you for a Motown fan, Scully,” Mulder says, pulling her in by the waist. “You always keep me guessing.”

She closes her eyes, sways in his arms. “I save this one for very specific moods,” she admits.

“And what moods are those?” he asks, running a hand up her back.

She opens her eyes. “I’ll show you later,” she whispers.

She’s looking at him with so much heat and adoration, and her lips are so full and soft, he can’t speak; only lean down and kiss her.

They drift together, interlocking shapes moving through space, rearranging patterns of hands and lips.

“We’re going to get interrupted by a delivery guy again,” Scully says against his cheek.

“Mm… kinky,” Mulder whispers, lips brushing her ear. “This is gonna become a pattern for us. Are you an exhibitionist, Scully?”

“Baby steps,” she says, patting his chest as she pulls away. “I need to leave a few mysteries for you to discover later, right?”

They sit cross-legged on the floor next to her coffee table, knees touching companionably as they eat their dinner.

“You know,” Scully says around a bite of garlic bread, “This makes me think we should go on another picnic. Since the weather is more appropriate.”

“What, sitting on the frozen ground at night in February wasn’t your idea of a good time?” Mulder jokes, tangling his fork in linguini.

“I didn’t say that,” Scully points out. “In fact, that was one of my better birthdays in recent years.”

“Really,” Mulder says, surprised. “Why?”

She absently toys with a hole in his sock. “Because… because I’d had a rough year,” she explains, “And you put thought and care into doing something special for me. And it was perfect, in all its perceived imperfections. It made me feel that for once… you were finally paying attention. You saw me.”

“Saw you?” he asks softly, turning his head to look at her.

Her eyes shine into his. “Yes. You were there for me through my cancer, with Emily… you were becoming more attentive. And I felt like you were considering me, caring for me, knowing what I needed. Seeing.”

“I-I think that’s called love, Scully,” he says, chewing pensively. Part of him is surprised this is even happening; them sitting on the floor in her apartment, eating pasta out of styrofoam boxes, talking about their feelings. Hell, he just said the ‘L’ word without breaking a sweat.

“You’re right,” she says, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder. “It is.”

Supper completed, containers emptied, candles burning down to stubs on the mantle, Scully sitting across his thighs as they kiss slowly. She was right about the mints, it turns out.

“Mulder, I’m a coward,” she sighs, running her fingers down his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you for years and I still haven’t said the words.” She presses a kiss to his lower lip. “Even though I know you reciprocate.”

“Take your time,” he replies, carding his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. “I already know. And you technically did just say them,” he adds. “Besides, there’s more than one way to have a conversation.” He smoothes a hand over her kneecap, inching a finger beneath the hem of her dress.

“Mulder,” she murmurs into his neck, his name sweet in her mouth. “I’m ready. I want to be with you tonight. Completely.”

He can feel his pulse throbbing beneath her lips. “I… God, Scully, I want you so badly,” he sighs. “I can’t think of any other words. I'm all out.”

She kisses his nose, untangles herself from him to stand. “Come on,” she says softly, holding out a hand. “I think it’s time for a different kind of conversation.”

#oooh gurl they gonna DO IT #fmcr #xfiles #txf fic #msr #fox mulder closet romantic #my fic

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kumkaniudaku · 3 years

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Hi! You're one of my favs. Can I get a short with yayha: "you did all of this for me?" Please

Sure! Thank you so much for requesting 💜

For Me?

Time moved impossibly slow. Or maybe it was the excitement coursing through Nadia that had her eyes darting from her phone the window each time a noise disrupted the silence. Surprises tended to have that affect on her.

When Tik Toks couldn’t hold her attention, she scurried to the room at the back of the house to adjust the decor. Things had to be perfect before her guest of honor arrived.

“Is blue still his thing? Is serene but like, maybe he’s into orange now. He -,” Nadia ramblings abruptly stopped when a car door slammed in the driveway. “He’s here!”

Outside, Yahya pulled two large suitcases from the Lyft driver’s trunk with tired motions that didn’t match his bright smile. The 13 hour flight back to the states was hell on his knees, but the thought of a nap in a cold dark room kept him going a while longer.

“Preciate that, my man. You mind pressing your horn? She might not know I’m out here.”

“Yahya!”

Nadia’s excited greeting made the driver chuckle. “You still need that?”

“I guess not,” he laughed. “Aye, girl! Where your shoes at? You ain’t in Mississippi no more.”

His joke didn’t stop Nadia from bounding from her small front porch and down the driveway barefoot to greet her friend.

“Oh hush! You need my help or not, superstar?”

“I can pull a couple suitcases by myself, now. I’m not that famous.”

“Let you tell it.”

Yahya scoffed at Nadia’s thinly veiled insult as she laughed at his expense. He stayed hot on her heels up the steep driveway until she stopped short of the front door, causing him to nearly bulldoze her with his chest.

She smiled up at him like a mischievous child. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“I have a surprise but you have to close your eyes.”

“You bullshittin’?” Yahya watched Nadia hold her expectant expression before signing. “How long is this gonna take?”

“Not long, I swear. I need to show you something then you’re free to do what you want until dinner.”

Running his hand across his bright orange beanie, Yahya closed his eyes. “Alright. Don’t let me fall over these bags, girl. If I get hurt, I’ll have to stay here for more than a couple weeks.”

“You might want to when you see what I did.”

While Nadia busied herself with moving his luggage inside the house to create a clear path, curiosity had Yahya’s mind racing. He allowed her to grab his hands and guide him carefully through the front door on the way to his destination as he imagined what his surroundings looked like. He silently hoped that the fluffy couch from his last visit was still in commission to keep him from climbing the stairs on the way to the guest from.

His thoughts were cut short when Nadia stopped him and flicked on a nearby light.

“Can I open my eyes yet?”

“Hold on,” she cautioned before rustling with an item to his left. “Okay, now!”

Yahya’s vision came slowly, but when he could focus, he was welcomed by a carefully curated oasis.

Shades of blue meshed with more neutral tones and wood accents that made his eyes bounce to every corner of the room. One one side, a record player with Marvin Gaye on the turntable sat next to plush pillows with headphones plugged in for private listening. On the other, a meditation center featured a small water feature and printed reminder to relax. The soothing scent of eucalyptus from a diffuser made Yahya briefly close his eyes to inhale.

“I call it your Take 5 room,” Nadia spoke as she wrung her hands. “You were telling me how you feel like you never had a spot to breathe and, I figured that I’d give you one while you’re here. Use it whenever you want!”

Worry began to take over her features until Yahya finally opened his eyes and smiled.

“You did all this for me?”

“Of course. I know things have been tough lately so I wanted to help.”

“Look at you. Come here!”

Nadia found herself wrapped into a suffocating bear hug before she could protest. Their bodies moved side to side from Yahya’s gentle rocking, creating a brief moment of peace.

“Thank you, Munch. You always take care of me. I owe you.”

“You mean that?”

“Mhmm.”

“Good,” she answered as she gently pushed away from their hug. “Because I spent so much time on your room that I forgot to cook. Ethiopian food on you?”

“Wooow. Okay. Alright. If you get out of here and let me take my nap, I’ll get whatever you want.”

Nadia’s excited squeal lingered in the room long after she disappeared, leaving Yahya alone in its aftermath.

He took the short walk to lamp across the room and switch it off before pressing the power button on an unfamiliar contraption. A projection of a night sky lit the room in purple and blue hues with soft music to accompany the mesmerizing sights. He chuckled as he lowered himself to the ground and stretched.

“Alright, maybe she can have more than Ethiopian food.”

#Yahya Abdul-Mateen II imagine #request

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doubleleoenergy · 3 years

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i; Blue Bayou Series

Oh that boy of mine, by my side. The silver moon and the evening tide.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: TFAWS!Sam Wilson x fem!Reader

Summary: Sam Wilson is back living in Louisiana and meets y/n for the first time.

Word Count: 1397

Author’s Notes: I’m so excited for this series, please let me know any feedback you have!

“Alright, I’ll see you next Friday at the base. And Torres, tell your team to try and stay out of TROUBLE until then, alright?” Sam quickly hung up his call with Joaquin, shutting the door to his truck and getting himself situated inside. He was already thirty minutes late for picking up AJ and Cass, and he was sure that the boys would be jumping out of their skin to leave when he got to their house.

After becoming the new Captain America and returning to Louisiana for his family’s cookout, Sam decided it was time to move back permanently to be closer to Sarah and the boys. He could do all his Captain America duties while being the best Brother and Uncle he could be. He had already been back in town for three months and he was already happier than he ever had been. The family business was BOOMING, even more so now that everyone knew who he was. They all wanted some of Captain America’s seafood.

Today was one of those days where he was trying to balance his new role and his family obligations. He had promised AJ and Cass that he’d take them out fishing today, and he was honestly looking forward to a calm day on the open water. The only things that mattered out in the river were the sounds of birds flying overhead, the WAVES rocking gently against the boat, and the laughter from his nephews to surround him. Sam relaxes back into his seat, popping his Marvin Gaye Let’s Get It On CD into the player, letting the smooth sounds of the titled track blare through the speakers of his truck.

Sam pulls up to the front of Sarah’s home, his eyes focusing on an unfamiliar black Toyota Camry pulled up to the front near the porch. Sam puts the car in park behind the unknown vehicle, noticing a Colorado license plate on the back. Who would be here from Colorado? His footsteps are light against the wooden porch, not bothering to knock as he pulls open the screen door. “Sarah? AJ? Cass?” He calls out, shutting the door behind him. He hears the sound of DISHES moving in the kitchen, walking towards the sound. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a hello around-” His voice trails off as he notices the figure standing in the kitchen.

She is definitely NOT his sister. The woman turns towards Sam’s voice, a smile spreading across her face, reminding him of how it felt to feel the sunshine on his skin. The woman had her hands on a tray of biscuits, pushing a few into a row of styrofoam takeout containers on the counter.

“I know you…” Her voice is soft, trailing off as she looks him up and down. He knows where this is going to go, he’d had MANY Captain America fans come up to him since moving back to Louisiana, everyone had a reason to use him for a claim to his fame.

She walks in front of him, the warm smile still on her face as she extends a hand. “You’re Sam, Sarah’s brother right? I’ve seen your pictures in the house and she’s told me SO much about you.” Right, her brother. That’s all he used to be, Sarah’s brother, the Wilson’s BOY, and he forgot how it felt to be addressed as such.

Sam’s hand reaches out to hers, grasping it with his own and giving it a shake. His eyes lock on hers and he SWEARS his stomach feels like butterflies are swarming around. He had never felt that way. “Yes, that’s me. And you are?”

“I’m Y/N.” Her eyes are still locked with him when she realizes they’ve been shaking hands for far too long. Her hand moves out of his, feeling the heat of a BLUSH creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks.

“Sam? Is that you?” He turns his head to see Sarah BOUNDING down the stairs, hands reaching out to hug him. “I see you’ve met Y/N?” She moves from his embrace, standing next to the stranger in her kitchen. Sarah and y/n are matching, both wearing a black sports bra and leggings, each finishing off the look with some Adidas sneakers.

“Yeah, I have...where did you two meet?” His eyebrow is cocked while he watches Sarah finish filling up the styrofoam containers, putting them into an empty large cardboard box on the stool.

“We actually met at the boxing gym downtown. Y/N is QUITE impressive.” Y/N rolls her eyes, washing her hands off in the sink. “Sarah is lying, we are both fairly skilled. She makes for a great competitor in the ring. She’s been nice enough to show me around town these past few weeks. I’m definitely grateful for the company.” Sarah laughs, grabbing one of the filled boxes and handing it to the other woman. “We were actually headed there now since you were taking the boys out fishing.” She moves to look at the stairs. “AJ? Cass? Sam’s here!” Her voice booms, calling out towards them. “They were just finishing up re-organizing their tackle box before you came. We’re taking these plates to one of the boxers at the gym. His family is celebrating a birthday and they LOVE our fresh cajun seasoned crawfish. Y/N was kind enough to offer to come early and help me get all the orders together.” Y/N nudges Sarah softly with her elbow, a gesture as if to say she doesn’t mind helping.

Just then, the boys bound down the stairs, laughing about an inside joke and practically tackling Sam in a hug. “You’re late! We’ve been waiting for you all morning!” Cass cries out, giving Sarah and y/n a chance to slip behind them, boxes of takeout in hand. “I’m sorry guys, I had a work call to take. Grab your poles from the garage and put them in the back of the truck. And no fighting over who gets the window seat.” The boys race outside and Sam can already HEAR them starting to argue over who had the window seat last time. He picks up the last box of takeout containers, following after the women out the door. All three place the boxes in the trunk of y/n’s car before Sarah shuts it, moving to the passenger and opening the door.

Just as y/n steps towards the front driver side door Sam beats her to it, opening it with a SMILE spread across his face. “Thank you, I guess chivalry is not dead after all.” She teases, moving down to get in the seat. Sam still hovers at her open door, bending his down slightly to meet her gaze. He pauses for the moment, unsure of what to say.

“So, uh...since you’re NEW to the area have you been to Thompson’s Kitchen? Some of the best cajun and creole food in the area.” Her head turns to look at Sarah who is rolling her eyes. Sam’s got a way with the ladies, but she hasn’t seen him act like this around a woman in a long time. “I’ve never been there, but it sounds nice.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and Sam’s eyes follow her movements, noticing how her nails are painted a pale blue which CONTRASTS well with her skin tone, yet they are chipping off in many places, most likely from the boxing gloves.

“How about I meet you there tomorrow at 7?” He’d offer to pick her up from her place but he assumes that would be weird, not like asking her out in front of his sister after just meeting her WASN’T weird.

“Sounds good, I’ll see you then.” She gives him another smile as AJ and Cass run up to Sam’s truck, setting their poles next to his own in the back of the bed.

“Sam! We’re ready!” AJ calls out, opening the door of the cab as Cass hops in the middle seat. They’ve decided that the best TWO out of three in rock, paper, scissors was the way to go. “I should head out...see you tomorrow y/n.” He lets her door shut, walking to the front of his own vehicle.

Sam Wilson, you’ve only been in town for three months and you’re ALREADY interested in a woman? Who even are you?

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson #marvel fic #doubleleoenergyworks #blue bayou series

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wienerbarnes · 4 years

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Telephone Line

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1,449

Warnings: pretty sad ngl but not angst, mentions of death, mentions of cancer, these warnings sound bad but i promise its just kinda sad lol

A/N: ngl even i dont know where this came from lol but ill prob make a pt 2? if the idea i have strikes enough material for another part. enjoy anyways tho!

MAIN MASTERLIST

A deep orange hue shines through the cracks of his blinds as Bucky looks at the new shiny exterior of his new iPhone. Being too reckless on a mission led him to a cell phone cracked in two, resulting in him having to spend four hours at the Apple store all the way in Manhattan, quite a ways away from his apartment upstate.

Low trumpets flow softly through the speakers of his record player, a bold blue box that Sharon gifted him this year for his birthday. He hums to Marvin Gaye as he goes through the device in front of him, setting up account after account, typing in password after password. Gaye was a few decades after his time, but he won’t let it show in front of Sam how much he enjoys his music.

He downloads the mindless puzzle games he had on his previous phone and is thankful that the contacts that were in his old phone were able to be transferred for him.

He locks the phone and sets it aside before taking out the small sketchbook from the drawer in his desk. He also grabs a pencil from the cup sitting on the corner of the wood and flips his book open to a fresh page. A new hobby Bucky’s picked up since Steve’s passing.

His real passing. Not the one everyone sold to the world in order for him to live the rest of his life in peace in a cabin far away, probably crowded in trees and flowers; perhaps the house is where a rainbow begins or where the sky rains golden droplets. Bucky wouldn’t know, he never visited after seeing Steve as an old man after he returned the stones.

There wasn’t anger; Bucky and Steve spoke about his plans before he left and Bucky was happy for him, he was finally getting the life he deserved after so much time spent doing the “right” thing, and not what he wanted. It was a situation of feeling… weird and awkward around this new Steve. It was a completely different Steve with different experiences, different memories. A family. Kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. Photos probably hung on the walls of the house of people he wouldn’t recognize. He always wondered what happened to him in Steve's timeline. In other words, he wonders if Steve rescued him from Hydra and spared him the eighty years of torture. He wonders if there’s any pictures of him in Steve’s house. For Bucky, it became, “I’ll go visit him another day,” until, well, there weren’t any more chances.

A sketch of what he can remember Times Square to look like from this afternoon appears on the paper. Rough lines shaping out tall buildings and people, small squares to outline the pavement, bigger boxes to indicate the shapes of the numerous cars that filled the area. He reaches for his box of colored pencils in the side-drawer of the desk when the generic ringtone of his new phone belts out loudly.

A number that isn’t saved into his phone appears on the screen. A Brooklyn area code. Maybe all the contacts didn’t transfer themselves.

“Hello,” Bucky answers after swiping his right pointer finger along the slide bar.

A hitch of feminine breath is heard before a few seconds of silence, before the three beeps signaling the caller hung up. Probably an accident.

Bucky goes to pick up his pencil again before the tone is heard once more, the same number on the screen. An eyebrow quirks upwards and he answers the phone again.

“...Hello?” Bucky says once more. Again, he’s met with silence before being hung up on. Maybe not an accident, maybe a prank caller. I’ve had the phone for maybe six minutes and this is already happening.

The same number calls for a third time and Bucky debates even answering this time. He lets it ring three times before answering.

“Hello?” He asks, met with silence. “Listen, I’m not in the mood for prank callers, so if you don’t mind-”

“Who is this?” A quiet feminine voice finally answers through the speaker against his ear.

“Who is- What do you mean who is this? Lady, you called me first!” Bucky responds, already exasperated with the conversation.

“How did you get this phone number?” She asks, voice shakier than the first time she spoke.

“I got a new phone and they gave it to me? How else do you get phone numbers?”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand. This-this is my husband's number. It can’t be your new number!” The woman responds, voice cracking this time.

“Okay, okay, hey, relax. Maybe there was a mistake? Maybe your husband received a different phone number?” Bucky offers, not really wanting to play Tech Support as he draws to wind down his day before dinner.

“No! There wasn’t a mistake, my-my husband is dead! This was his phone number and-and-and I call it everyday once I-I get out of work! How did you get this number, why did they give his away?!” Pants and shaky breaths are heard between almost every other word as you start audibly crying on the phone.

Bucky’s eyes widen, not expecting that explanation. Great, a fruit gave away her husband to me.

“Hey, okay, take a breath.” Bucky suggests, and waits for her breathing to become a little more regular before continuing. “I’m sorry they gave me your husband’s number, it was randomly selected. I mean, I hope it wasn’t the last thing you had of his voice?” Bucky tries to offer.

“Of course it’s not,” You reply, voice sounding calmer now. “I just wasn’t expecting them to give away his number like that, it stayed for a few weeks so I thought,” a humorless chuckle, “I thought they’d let me keep it.”

“I’m really sorry about your husband. I, uh,” Bucky hesitates, questioning if he should be telling this emotionally unstable widow about his personal life, but continues anyway, “I recently lost someone important to me, as well. My best friend.” Bucky confesses, fingers toying with the circular edge of the back of the colored pencil.

A pause, “Can you tell me about him?”

“He, um, was a good guy. Real selfless. He was uh,” Bucky thinks of how to talk about Steve without actually leading to the fact that he’s talking about the former Captain America, “He was a bit older than me, and he passed away from health problems. Heart problems.” Bucky comes up, technically not a lie, his heart did stop when he died.

A small sniffle, “My husband passed away from lung cancer. The doctors told me there was no other hope for him; he needed a machine to help him breathe and a bunch of tubes in him to help him do everything else. So I asked the doctors to just…” You trail off.

A sudden deep sigh escapes her, the raspiness of her voice heard through the speaker and flows into his ear, “Sorry, I probably sound like a crazy person right now, calling her dead husband everyday just to hear his seven second voicemail.” You apologize, another humorless laugh following your words.

“I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re just trying to cope the best way you can. You miss him.” Bucky objects, still toying with the purple colored pencil in his hand.

“Um, yea.” You respond, probably not even expecting Bucky to actually listen to your rambling.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

“James.”

“Of course it is,” You mumble, eyes closing on the other side of the call.

“What was that?”

“I said, of course it is. That was my husband’s name, too.”

A sympathetic smile pulls at his mouth, even though you can’t see it.

“Listen, if you even want to call again, I don’t mind. I can either listen in silence, or we can talk, or, whatever you want. It’s okay.”

“Thanks, James. That’s nice of you.” You say, voice watery, but Bucky doesn’t mention it.

“I’ll, uh, let you go, James. Sorry for any bother.” He can tell you’re struggling to hold back tears with the way your voice is straining.

“No bother at all. Have a good rest of your night, okay?” Bucky bids her, hoping she will, but accepting that there’s a good chance this poor woman will be in tears for the rest of her evening.

“You, too.”

A couple seconds of silence follow before the call ends. Bucky sighs, locking his phone once more. He picks up the pencil in front of him, ignoring the small tremor in his fingers, and presses the pencil to the paper.

He thinks about her for the rest of the night.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #oneshot #bucky x reader

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queenofallimagines · 4 years

Note

I found you blog today and I love everything about it. It’s nice to finally be able to read something as a black girl that I can relate to with my favorite bnha characters. Can you do a headcannon for black reader whose thick and can twerk her ass off with Bakugou, Deku, Todoroki, and Kirishima reactions and thoughts on seeing her dance like that

Okay so this has been here for a while but dam if it wasn’t the best to write also this took two days BC i kept falling asleep off the itis(when you eat too much and get sleepy) and stopping lmao

Kirishima:

- flustered

- Can’t even look at you

- If you throw it back like that

- Whew he’s gon he shook

- He literally can’t even

- Will try to approach you softly

- “What,,,, ya doing there.”

- “Showing shoes really thotiana.”

- Lmao ard time to head out

- He’s so confused

- Will dance with you when more comfortable tho

- He got a lil lean with it lmao

- Mostly just crip walks

- He’s gunna ask you to dance for him in private later

- If he catches you alone

- It’s to time

- We bout to buss it down FRFR in here

- He will think you’re super confident BC he could never

- If you twerk in him his quirk will activate on accident

Todoroki:

- he’s stoic

- He will be completely still

- What is this???? Lee’s movement

- Will do hella research

- Learns he’s an ass man

- When you clap those cheeks he’s in heaven

- “Thank you lord.”

- Like dam throwing it back for a real one huh?

- He’s gunna rip your booty later

- Like he just gotta touch it

- “Your,,, hand is on my ass shoto.”

- “It’s comfy right there.”

- Lmaooo okay clown

- He’s gunna be flustered but in secret

- You find out tho and send him a twerk video

- 5 hours later he sends back

- “Thanks.”

- Like sir we know you was beating off

- Let’s relax out here

Deku:

- closet freak is shook

- You can do that??? With your ass??

- He already knew you were dummy thick but w o a h

- You can clap without hands??

- Bet

- He’s gunna grab a handful of that ass and squeeze

- Plays slap ass all week lmao

- Hands in your back pocket

- Feeling you up after class

- Snack that ass hard when all getting freaky

- Just a permanent hand mark there

- “Property of the #1 hero Deku.”

- He’s the real fool

- Might eat your ass if he’s feeling it

- Will want to do anal or reverse cowgirl to watch your ass bounce

- Plays Marvin Gaye just BC he’s a real dumbass

Bakugou:

- ard this fool is a cherry boy

- Not a total sex god

- Not yet anyway

- He’s flustered like a teenager

- He’s gunna be red and stuttering

- Will stare at your ass for like 5 days before he asks you to sit on his face

- And even then it’s in a low tone of voice

- Lmao he’s def gunna buy you booty shorts to wear around his dorm

- It’s like a uniform at this point

- Shorts and his hoodie

- Panty sniffing for sure

- He’s a pervert like izuku

- But he’s not as bold

- He will let you gag him with your fancy underwear and ride him

- He’s a sub too

- Sub leaning switch

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou scenarios #izuku smut #izuku midoriya x reader #n*fw #izuku midoriya #todoroki shotō #shoto todoroki x reader #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #x poc reader #x black reader #my writing

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rae-is-typing · 5 years

Text

Universal Language

Description: You, music and the Avengers

Characters: You, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Thor, Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Wanda Maximoff, Peter Parker and Pepper Potts because I love her

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD, mentions of little Stevie getting beat up, and mild language. If there is something I missed, please let me know.

Disclaimer: Some are longer than others, some have dialogue, and I couldn’t think of anything for Rhodey (I’m so sorry!) Tell me what you think, I was trying something new for this one. If you want something more in-depth, lemme know :)

Word count: ~ 2.5k

Tony took you in when you were a toddler. He knew jack shit about raising a child, and enlisted the help of a nanny,. That is until Pepper made him realize how much he was missing of his daughter’s life. He didn’t even know you started crawling. However, he knew the only thing that got you to stop crying was music. He also knew that banging on things rhythmically was your favorite pastime. From then on, he knew that he was going to have a little musician on his hands.

Tony

In Tony’s opinion, the only good things your mother gave you were life and your knack for the arts, especially music. Rhodey and Pepper saw it, too. You took to music the way Tony took to mechanics. He loved your adorable pout when you were figuring the notes out, and the way your face brightened the room when you finally played it right.

The first thing he got you was a toy xylophone when you were three. He would watch you try and replicate the music he was playing over his speakers. You’d look up at him with tearful eyes when you couldn’t get it. He would gently take the mallet from your hands and copy the music, then he’d give it back to you so could copy him. Your giggles of glee when he played were something he’d never forget. He used his knowledge of the piano to help you learn music.

You were six when he got back from Afghanistan. Even at that young age, you knew things would be different. Your father had been gone for months. His arm as in a sling and he looked sick. He pushed you away for a few weeks after that, only staying in the lab, not even letting you stay in the child-proof area he had set up all those years ago. You didn’t understand why he was different, you only understand that he was different.

One night, you were playing in the main room. Pepper was done for the day, and Obadiah was far away and wouldn’t be back for a really long time; you were all alone with only JARVIS looking after you. You were trying, and failing, to play Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. You kept hitting the wrong keys and messing up the rhythms. Frustrated, you huffed and crossed your arms.

Unbeknownst to you, your dad was behind you. He smiled softly, walked closer to you, picked you up, set you on his lap and played the phrase you were trying to. You demanded he play the rest. Soon enough, he had a sleeping kid in his lap.

You were eight when you had your first performance with an audience. It was a piano recital in a small auditorium at your school. He sat in the front, unashamedly cheering for you and loving you. He was there whenever you had solos, and he cried for a lot of them, not that he would ever admit that to anyone but you or Pepper. He records all of your performance, e even has videos of your progress from a four-year-old you playing Mary Had a Little Lamb to sixteen-year-old you busting out Beethoven like its nothing.

Now, he asks FRIDAY to play back recordings of you singing or playing. It helps him calm down, knowing he’ll always have a piece of what matters most to him with him at all times.

Steve

You met Steve when you were ten years old. It was the aftermath of the Battle of New York. Steve and the rest of the team, excluding Thor, had moved into the tower. While you were thrilled to see Natalie-Natasha again, you were a shy kid, opting to stay with Pepper or your dad and away from the others. The larger-than-life Captain America intimidated the shit out of you.

It wasn’t until you saw him sketching in the common are you began to consider him an actual human and not a walking action figure. You had been trying your hand at drawing for months, and while you had made considerable progress, your work always looked off for some reason. After watching him draw for weeks, you managed to snatch his sketchbook, flip through it when left to go get something from another room. He cleared his throat, startling you into dropping the book. You picked it up, heat in your cheeks, and sheepishly handed it back to him with a small, almost scared, “Sorry,”

He only smiled at you, ten-year-olds weren’t all that subtle when it came to spying. He sat you down on the couch, and began showing you all of the drawings he felt were appropriate. Some of them were memories of war-ravaged battle fields, and he didn’t want to give you nightmares. There were lots of old-timey Brooklyn, a man named Bucky, a vaguely familiar, but very beautiful woman named Peggy and Steve’s Ma, Sarah.

You pouted and explained that whenever you tried to draw, it never came out right. He nodded, then smiled. “I’ll tell you what, you help me learn Piano, I’ll help you learn to draw.”

Clint

Clint is a vent-dweller and, much like everyone else on the team, he struggles with PTSD. He uses the vents as a safe space, a way to escape the nightmares and the heartache from the past. However, he doesn’t like to feel alone. He often says above the lab to hear Tony’s loud music, snarky banter with his AI’s, and his empty threats to the ‘bots. Other times he’ll stay above the gym if he knows that Steve or Natasha are doing late night workouts. The soft grunts and the sounds of the equipment are sufficient to keep the loneliness at bay. On very rare occasions, he stays above the kitchen to hear Vision mutter to himself while attempting, and generally failing at cooking food.

Soon enough, he found the music room. Well, art floor.

You were up late, practicing a solo that you couldn’t quite get, but weren’t ready to give up on. He paused, getting clear tone with his hearing aids in. He soon found himself up above the floor whenever you were playing late. The music was a nice distraction, and he could feel himself become happy with your progress, small feelings of pride swelling in his chest at your success. One night, he even left a note on the piano asking you to learn and play Clair de Lune for him. The next week, you told him to be there at midnight, and sure enough, the beautiful piano tune floated up to the vents.

Natasha

You’ve known Natasha since she was Natalie. You mostly kept your distance until one day. You were struggling to play something. You fumbled with your instrument, while penciling something onto the sheet music. She watched you for a couple minutes before asking if you needed help. You huffed out a petulant “No,” before proceeding to struggle for another five minutes. Defeated, you asked for help. She managed to help you figure out the fingerings and the accidentals.

You took up dancing a little later on, and she began helping you after your regular class. With her guidance, you quickly became one of the best dancers in your classes, always rising to the challenge with the work-ethic she helped instill in you.

Even later on, you became her pupil once more when learning to fight. She knocked you on your ass more times than you can count, and still does all the time. But, with her help, you’ve learned how to kick some serious ass.

Thor

It’s no secret that Thor is a big guy. He doesn’t know his own strength,and often breaks things when he wasn’t careful. Out of all the original Avengers, he intimidated you the most.

One day, you saw him holding your violin, examining it like a specimen under a microscope. You panicked, dropped everything and ran to him.

You demanded he stop, resorting to pulling the bow from his hands. He was confused at the tiny child pulling the interesting midgardian play thing away from him.

“Let it go, Thor! You’ll break it!”

Thor frowned, still holding the violin.

“My apologies, young Stark. I do not know what it is, I was merely trying to find its function.” He says, handing it back to.

You relaxed a little, the initial panic wearing off. “It’s a violin, it makes music.”

“How?”

You got into position, put the bow to the strings and drug across the strings. A note rung put, and everything seemed to click in Thor’s mind.

The next time Thor came to visit, he brought Asgardian instruments for you to learn, try and play. You may or may not have cried out of joy.

Bruce

Bruce is a ball of stress, and that is evident to anyone that’s spent any amount of time with him. He uses music as an outlet, letting the sounds wash over him and makes some amount of stress go away. But there are days that things get too overwhelming, there are days where the headphones and opera don’t work, there are days where he needs something more.

Bruce knows that you play, he knows about your talent, and he’s even gone with Tony to watch you perform. There was a day when he shyly asked if he could watch you practice. You were all for it. You practiced in front of him, and he calmed don a lot more.

It became a routine of sorts, you playing, him offering some constructive criticism when he could and you even taught him a few songs on the piano.

Sam

You took the initiative of catching Steve up with modern music. One day, he sheepishly handed you The List, Working your way down, you finally landed on Marvin Gaye. Steve called his friend Sam in so you both could gush about the icon.

You and Sam ended up screeching singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough for him, and managed not to scare him off. You called it a successful day.

After that, you had put together a playlist for him, and had your dad create a portable sound system for his wings so he could fly listening to his fave.

Bucky

Bucky came to the tower after his time in Wakanda. Tony was wary, anyone in his situation would be. He wanted you to stay away from the ex-assassin indefinitely, and you didn’t blame him. You knew what Bucky did. However, you tried not to blame Bucky either. Steve explained the situation as best he could to you, and you understood that Bucky had been taken advantage of, used and manipulated.

Now that he was in the tower, Bucky wandered around the tower when he couldn’t sleep which happened to be most nights. One night, he heard something familiar, something that tugged at his chest in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Somewhere over the rainbow,”

He remembers a warm breezy day, the alley he pulled Stevie out the night before, reaming him for fighting more than usual because of the big day they had coming up. He cleaned him up. He remembers holding a washcloth to a small blond Steve as he tried not to hurt him too bad while he berated him for fighting again that week.

“There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby,”

He remembers walking with Stevie to the theater, paying too much for the tickets and sitting beside his best friend watching color appear on a screen for the first time. Bucky smiles, letting the feeling of nostalgia and the longing for a simpler time linger for a moment longer before heading to another area of the labyrinth to explore.

Wanda

Wanda moved in when you were 13. You were so happy that you had another female in the tower to bond with. When she expressed interest in music, you jumped at the chance to teach her something, anything really. You tried a few things. You started with woodwinds, she couldn’t figure out the embouchure. You moved onto brass, she didn’t like the sounds. You settled on stringed instruments. Her choice was the acoustic guitar, and she was good. She picked it up almost immediately, easily learning the fingerings and chords. Her favorite thing were duets with you, and you often played together whenever you two had time.

Peter

You saw how good Peter was for your dad. He finally had a mentee to teach. Tony really tried to get you into science, he really did. It didn’t work the way he thought it would, and damaged your relationship for awhile until he back off, letting you do you.

You were jealous, admittedly. You weren’t used to sharing your father’s attention with another person your age.

Then you got to know him. You found out through your dad that he was in marching band, and you needed to know more. You began spending a little time together, swapping band stories and laughing at memes. Soon enough, Peter hung out with you before going to working with Tony in the lab for a few hours. It was fun.

You learned the Mii Theme, the Kahoot theme and even put together a duet of meme music to annoy your dad with together.

Pepper

Pepper is your mother. No, she didn’t birth you, and you didn’t call her mom, but she has been there for you through everything. Through your father’s time in Afghanistan, the battle with Obadiah, your first day of middle school, whenever your dad was busy and you were upset, your first period. It didn’t matter, she was with you. She listened to you when you worked hard on a piece. Hell, she even helped you pick out your first professional grade instrument, despite knowing very little about them.

She encouraged you when were feeling less than, she helped pick you up when you were down, she taught how to act around the business assholes in Galas and events.

Pepper loved you and you loved her.

When the proposal happened, Pepper asked you to sing at the wedding. You took this role very seriously, singing ‘A Thousand years’ by Christina Perri and ‘Future Looks Good’ by OneRepublic.

When Morgan was born, you sang to her whenever you could. When she was old enough, you’d sit her on your lap and let her smash the piano keys like Tony did with you.

Pepper couldn’t think of a better older sister for her baby; she couldn’t think of any better daughters.

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adevotedappraisal · 3 years

Text

The Carter Trilogy, part two of five

Lemonade: Ten times out of nine I know you’re lying, but nine times out of ten I know you’re trying

When I last reviewed a Beyonce album it was 2011s 4 (reviewed here ) , which I then lamented as unfocused, seemingly sequenced by committee, and utterly dependent on production as opposed to proper song-craft. I concluded then that the limping hodge-podge of an album was going to be Beyonce’s last okay album, and from there on it was going to be a calculated subsuming into a digital and anonymous cloak of modern production, leaving true emotion and song-craft parched, attritioned and abandoned with each subsequent release. Now, with the album 4 I believe I was proven correct, as the album has aged badly, and other than “Love On Top,” left no indelible mark on the pop landscape. But that conclusion on her future? Man listen, I was way off base.

Turns out this black woman from Houston, Texas got on her grind. She still is observant of all prominent trends in black culture and production, but over the last two albums and their accompanying visual films, Beyonce begun to establish the major themes of who she is and, thanks to directors like Jonas Ackerlund and Khalil Joseph and writer Warsen Shire, has concretely fused herself and her struggles into the larger narrative of black women in America.

And so Lemonade, her second best album, along with the emotional Lemonade(Film), present her as an American wife, defiant against the current rigors of her country, and a past that mutilates and morphs the men in her life. This well-crafted view of her though, is a fabrication, one that many stars have tried to present to the public. It feels digestible and true coming from Beyonce though, given that this album roll out was predicated on a very public (and very real) fight involving her sister Solange and her husband Jay Z.

What this gave the project was a narrative flow and imbued a sense of rage, disappointment or sorrow to the songs set. Those feelings were sometimes derived not from the song itself, but from the news details and gossip that filled in between the lines, or hovered over the whole album. But when the lights turn off and the band packs up, how well did the songs themselves transmit this idea of Beyonce?

The guitar lays a base for the song in curt chucks, not scratchy and acerbic, but warm and echoed, like the lazy, beautiful guitar throughout Bob Marley and the Wailers “Stir it Up.” The bassline curls and growls around the verdant pylons of drum kicks like an affectionate panther, while Beyonce holds a call and response with a choral of Beys, skanking and in love in the middle of this kinky reggae of “All Night.” “I’ve seen your scars and kissed your crime,” she says in a bold voice and melody, then later on she decides “give you some time to prove that I can trust you again,” before she relaxes into the joyous chorus. Her voice here on the hook is clear and strong yet delicate and floating, like Misty Copeland’s legs, or Beres Hammond’s voice on 90s reggae classic “Come Back Home.”

The album gets more interesting and tender like this as it goes along, like with the anthemic thump of “Freedom (featuring Kendrick Lamar),” a song with positive messages of black consciousness and self-determination that gets its blood pumping from the engaging drums, bass, Kendrick’s dexterous flows and the grooving organ.

Similar sturm und drang is found on first half highlight “Hurt Yourself (featuring Jack White)” where the drums and organ synth are agitated and staccato, while the guitars rage on unrestrained like white water rapids. “Who the fuck do you think I is? I smell that fragrance on your Louis V boy,” she demands, the static filter on her voice heightening the tension in her marital threats, and accosting the song.

Elsewhere, “Forward” with James Blake is a moody interlude, the voices and atmospherics setting the tone for the fog of emotional stasis that follows a crisis in relationships and the tentative steps out of it. It is mysterious and melodic, reminiscent of some of those dense songs on the first half of her best album, 2013s Beyonce.

These songs give true dimension to the album, and provide a strong enough thematic base for Lemonade to resolve itself with the Black pomp and majestic boom of lead single “Formation.” That balance between strong lyrics and engaging music in service of those themes is not an easy one to get right on such a varied album, and the whole storyline of the tarnished marriage papers over its mis-steps at some points.

Take “Sandcastles” for instance, a somber ballad with great piano and vocal harmonies throughout, while Beyonce reveals the fragility of love. Ballads like these usually accomplish this theme with a delicate poetry, but here the lyrics are wanting, hiding behind the singer’s dramatic rendering, at points wrenching the words out her throat. And on “Sorry,” the buzzed-about insults and vulgarity obfuscate the hollow production, which even now already sounds dated.

“6 inch” finds Beyonce in her f- me pumps, the woman undone, with The Weeknd narrating this lost weekend of bacchanalia with usual surface-level observations. A booming, strutting song built around an Isaac Hayes sample, the synth work around it though is a bit too overproduced and showy, and the words and the weak chorus don’t truly match the unwieldy production. At points in the song, while her harmonies descend with the grand, arranged music like Cinderella at the ball, none of this matters, but, in the clear light of the day after, the drawbacks remain.

Another factor that softens any drawbacks to the songs are their inclusion in her Lemonade(Film), released the same day as the album. The images, directed by Khalil Joseph and Beyonce are arresting at points, dreamlike at others, emphasizing the connection between the Carter’s marriage and those of the Black community at large.

Here, the image of Beyonce drowning in a room feels like an image any anguished woman might describe to you, and the images of older women in their chairs, the dancers popping and locking to “Formation” all seem like permutations of the same woman finding her way through a yet-to-be-broken cycle.

Many images, film shots and techniques here accompany the songs well, but some feel too weighty and derivative, reminding me too much of the works of Terrance Malick, the illusive director of classics like 1979s Days of Heaven starring Richard Gere, 1998s The Thin Red Line, starring Sean Penn, and 2005s The New World, an exploration of the Pocohontas story. Beyonce’s off-camera narration is very similar to the narration of The New World, down to her prayers to the moon and her dearest mother, shit even the font used for the chapter headings look the same. By the end, the film feels self-important, a spectacle of anguish, as opposed to an exploration of the self or the characters involved.

And it is that self-exploration that usually led to the more nuanced lines and confessions in divorce albums of the past, while on a lot of Lemonade it’s either all invective or adoration.

On Marvin Gaye’s 1979 album Here My Dear, he tells his ex-wife on “Anna’s Song” “Annas here's your song, the one that i promised you all along/ I knew all the time that I’d find the rhyme/ Never have a fear, here it is my dear,” his voice a soft reveal, showing the tragedy of finally figuring out what to tell a woman when she’s on her way out the door. And Lindsay Buckingham tells us on Fleetwood Mac’s “Never Going Back Again,” from Rumours, “she broke down and let me in/ made me see where I’ve been.” Shading in a portrait of a relationship with parts of oneself can lead to illuminating results, and this is seen in one of Beyonce’s best songs, “Love Drought.”

A slinky midnight love song that set up the conflicts and desires of this super-star marriage without being subsumed by the tabloid hurricane around them. “Ten times out of nine I know you’re lying, and nine times out of ten I know you’re trying,” she observes, resonant 808 booms and curling synth notes in the background. The personal life of the singer provides some context, but the songwriting and melodies are strong enough to exist without it, telling a universal story of modern love.

“I always paid attention, been devoted, tell me, what did I do wrong?” she confidently pleads, the film curiously overlaying her words with scenes from a baptism, Beyonce among the apostles of women wading into a body of water, raising their hands, yearning to be cleansed anew by the same tormenting earth.

#music #essay #music review #black women #beyonce #lemonade #soul #r&b #pop #marriage

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janeofcakes · 4 years

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KYFC...: Chapter 12

Hey, y’all! I hope you all had a great week, even in the state of suspense in which I left you. Haha. But seriously, I hope all of you are well and as good as you can be. The story continues. Now we can all see if our intrepid duo is interrupted or if Cakey Jane, evil though she is, surprises you with very exciting and much anticipated intimacy. Only one way to find out! (Also, on a purely ridiculous note, I just noticed when I was typing in the chapter title that the abbreviation is KFC with an extra letter. Lol. Now I feel the need to come up with other words to replace the real ones, like Keep Your Fried Chicken or KY for Comfort. Bwahaha! That’s a good one, if I do say so myself. Sorry. Sometimes I really am still 15 years old. Like when I chuckle every time I hear the movie title “Pacific Rim”. Heehee. I really am very mature, but I do have that Deadpool side too.)

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I’ve been really tryin’, baby. Tryin’ to hold back the feeling for so long and if you feel like I feel, baby. Then c’mon, oh, c’mon. Let’s get it on. -- Marvin Gaye, Let’s Get It On

Their lips move together, even as their mouths remain closed. Sherlock feels dizzy. He has never felt so good or whole in his life. He finds John’s arms with his hands and holds on gently. John squeezes his shoulders and parts his lips just a crack. Sherlock immediately feels the humidity from his breath and lets out one of his own in a rush, like a moan with no sound. John kisses him with fervor. There are sighs into mouths, and across faces and lips. Though the kiss remains chaste, breathing grows heavier and faster. Motivated by blind desire, Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s arms and takes John’s bottom lip in between his own. He sucks lightly, eliciting a loud moan from John, and he nearly comes in his pants right then and there. Sherlock breaks away quickly, desperate to regain control. He drops his head back against the wall and takes in a shallow breath. John does much the same, leaning his head forward and resting his forehead on Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock swallows hard and then sucks in a harsh breath when he feels John’s gentle, incredibly warm lips on his throat. John is smiling against his skin. He brushes his lips over Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and then straightens his own neck, pulling away from the taller man. Sherlock lifts his head from the wall and looks down at John, into his eyes blown wide with want.

“Christ, Sherlock,” his voice is a hoarse whisper. Both men still breathe heavily, sharing the very air between them. Sherlock finally loosens his grip of John’s arms, releasing one completely to run a hand through his curls. He puffs out a breath and tries to relax. His heart still beats fast.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock exhales, his hand still in his hair. “Oh, shit.”

John’s mouth turns up at the corners and he starts to chuckle. Sherlock furrows his brow and lowers his hand back down, ghosting its way down John’s arm to his hip where it comes to rest.

“Problem?” he asks indignantly. John looks up at him with the most beautiful smile and bites his bottom lip. Sherlock’s stomach flips so significantly that his knees feel weak.

“Sorry, it’s just… I’ve not heard you curse before. I mean, unless you’re angry. It just seems so out of place,” John tells him bashfully. Sherlock smiles his response and they both stand there like grinning idiots.

“John,” Sherlock says the name reverently. It’s like a prayer, a promise. The man in his arms is the most amazing man he has ever met. Sherlock looks into those blue eyes and is ready to scrap everything - his theories on sentiment and avoiding it all together - everything to see those eyes forever.

“John, I…” Sherlock bites his lip hard to keep himself from saying it. He cannot say it now. It’s too soon. It’s too much. John will either run or call him a fool.

“Sherlock?”

Maybe he is a fool. Falling so hard and so fast after his disastrous marriage. He has already thrown it all to the wind for John Watson. Sherlock cannot begin to fathom why he still tries to deny it. He is only lying to himself. God, how he wishes Molly was here to give counsel.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is still breathy, but no longer a whisper. “Are you all right? Is this not okay? We can stop, if you want.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and John must know he does not want to stop by the sheer look of horror on his face, but that is not why Sherlock panics. John cannot know his true feelings. John cannot have the chance to reason through this because his brilliant mind will figure it out in a split-second and god only knows what would happen then. Frankly, Sherlock is surprised he hasn’t figured it out already. Or maybe he has. Maybe he is now.

Shit. Shit.

Desperately seeking a distraction, Sherlock lurches forward and crashes their lips together. John gets out a curse before Sherlock’s mouth is over his. They pick up where they left off easily as Sherlock grabs John around the waist and twists their bodies to the side, pushing the doctor up against the wall now. John grunts in surprise, but wraps his arms around the coach nonetheless.

After several minutes, the tip of John’s tongue, which has been tracing Sherlock’s lower lip as John gently sucked, dips tentatively into Sherlock’s mouth and then shoots back out again. Sherlock’s mind officially derails and launches itself off a bridge at high speed. John wants to go further and is seeking permission and it is so sweet Sherlock’s heart may burst. As his brain comes back online, his only thought is a resolute ‘God, yes please!’

His hands creep up John’s back as he deftly slides his tongue into John’s mouth, only enough to touch the tip of John’s tongue. Sherlock takes a few seconds to taste him, just a taste. It is all tea and milk and those delectable little cookies John eats and calls biscuits, even though they look nothing like biscuits. And now, all of this with a hint of wine.

Sherlock pulls back to look at John and receives a grumble in response. He lets out a quiet laugh that could never be helped after the noise John made and meets his eyes. The doctor looks completely debauched and disheveled and gloriously perfect. His eyes are even darker than before, his mouth open and breathless, lips kiss swollen and beautiful. Sherlock smiles affectionately, but gives him a pointed look at the same time. Their faces are still very close together and John makes no secret of the shiver that runs through his body when Sherlock’s gentle breath drifts over his lips.

“You don’t really want to go, do you,” Sherlock breathes hotly. It is not a question, but John answers anyway.

“No,” he shakes his head.

His voice and expression are so decisive that neither leaves room for doubt. They stare at one another for a split-second and then crush their lips and bodies together, so close that no air, not a crack of light can get in between. And then it is all lips and tongues and teeth, nipping and sucking and stroking. It is hot and messy and absolutely fantastic. Sherlock’s hands clench at the back of John’s shirt, his fists are full of fabric and he pulls the shirt from where it is tucked in John’s trousers without even realizing it. John’s hands are in his hair, tangling in the strands. He slides his mouth along Sherlock’s jawline, mouthing at the skin all the way and then smearing kisses down his neck to the pulse point there.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock moans when John begins to suck. His head falls back and his mind goes blank. All is John and the two of them and what they are doing, what they could be doing. It snaps his head up and pulls at John’s shirt hard enough to rip. “John. John!”

The doctor stops immediately and looks at Sherlock in worried question. Their bodies are still pressed together tightly, but John releases his curls and drops his hands to Sherlock’s biceps.

“Sherlock?” he asks breathlessly, his voice rife with concern. “Are you okay? Is this...okay?”

“John,” Sherlock begins in a serious tone, but his lips are soon quirking upward and John cannot help but mirror it, “would you mind accompanying me to the bedroom?”

“Not at all,” John answers with a short, relieved laugh.

***

Sherlock drops flat on his back onto the bed. His dressing gown lies on the living room floor, just outside the bedroom door. His pajama shirt came off six paces away from the bed and now he is watching as John drops his own shirt and tee on the floor at the foot of the bed. The doctor climbs on and crawls up Sherlock’s body on all fours. Sherlock licks his lips and watches hungrily as John’s face evens up with his. As he looks into John’s eyes, he takes a moment to wrap his head around the situation. When they embarked on this trip, everything was perfectly normal. Well, as normal as having your best friend live with you can be. His best friend? Can someone you are head over heels in love with be your best friend?

Sherlock rests his hands on the warm skin of John’s sides, his pinkies just touching the waistband of his jeans. He drinks in the sight of this man above him and shivers under the wisp of John’s breath across his lips. John dips down for a gentle kiss. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed when John’s lips kiss the corners of his mouth, his nose, his cheekbones and jawline. When they find Sherlock’s ear, he has lowered himself enough to lie full on Sherlock’s body. They are chest to chest, shoulders to waist of bare skin pressed together and Sherlock gasps loudly, giddy with pleasure. John is not just warm, he is hot. Unbelievably hot in every sense of the word and, my god, where did he learn to do that with his tongue?

“Oh, god, don’t stop. Don’t stop!” Sherlock whines irritably when John pulls away to look at him. “If you ask if this is okay, I cannot be responsible for my actions,” he tells him with an even gaze of impatience.

“All right, all right,” John chuckles his acquiescence. He spreads his legs to drop one on either side of Sherlock’s and straddles his hips. Pushing himself up to sitting, he looks down at the man beneath him. His hands rest on the plains of Sherlock’s chest. The warm, soft palms lying comfortably on his pectorals, the calm desire in John’s eyes - it is like they have done this a hundred times before. Gone are any nerves Sherlock may have had about their first time or of not knowing what John likes. Truthfully, he had not even allowed himself to consider any of these things until the moment John said he did not want to go back to his own room.

He looks up at John with hooded eyes and as he smiles back. God, he is beautiful. His California tan has faded a bit, but his skin is still sunkissed. Sherlock has no idea why John is concerned about his physique. The lines of muscle visible under his skin are well defined and make him want to explore every dip and angle with his mouth. Sherlock’s gaze roves over John’s torso and ends on his peaked nipples. He instantly wants to touch them. So he does.

As he reaches up to press his palms firmly over hardened nipples while John slides his down to rest just above Sherlock’s hips. He begins to stroke and tease and John inhales deeply, tipping his head back and rocking slowly. Within seconds, it is driving Sherlock mad. He sits up suddenly, wrapping his long arms around John and hooking his arms under John’s. With his fingers splayed on John’s back, Sherlock licks a stripe over one nipple and John shudders in his arms. Sherlock smiles against John’s chest and takes the pebbled skin into his mouth, sucking and nibbling, relishing every gasp and whimper.

He moves to the other pectoral and John is rocking again, a bit faster this time. John’s hands are in his hair, his fingertips feel like fire on Sherlock’s scalp. He leans into the touch, caught up in every sensation. With a wicked smirk, he takes John’s nipple in between his teeth and bites just enough to sting.

“Jesus Christ!” John’s jolts up and he stares down at Sherlock, hands on his shoulders. The buck of his hips hits so hard and fast, the friction has the coach nearly coming in his pants. The thread holding him back suddenly snaps. He scrabbles at John’s button and zipper then spreads the jeans apart at his waist, revealing the prominent erection in John’s underpants and the damp spot at its tip. For god sake, it is more than any man can take.

“Off,” he commands. “Now.”

John scrambles off of Sherlock and both men tear off their trousers. John pauses to look at Sherlock, his jeans around his knees as he toes out of his shoes and struggles to keep his balance.

“Pants too?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yes!” Sherlock insists impatiently. “Pants! Pants!”

Both men continue to strip so furiously that it is only when they are back together on the bed that Sherlock realizes John has removed not just his pants, but every article of clothing. Sherlock’s mouth drops open. He is now face to face with John and his much larger than expected penis.

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims and John immediately loses it. He laughs and laughs, and Sherlock joins him rather than feigning indignance. As it dies down to soft giggles, John strokes his jawline and smiles warmly.

“You said pants too,” his mouth quirks in the most adorable way and he looks like a teen who knows he has been naughty, and likes it.

“Yes, pants,” Sherlock corrects. “Not underpants.”

“Underpa…” John throws his head back in laughter, looking back to Sherlock once he recovers a bit. “That’s right. You don’t call them pants here.”

A little burst of laughter pops out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“No. No, we don’t,” he looks at John’s face, memorizing every detail, squeezing his waist where he holds him. “I love watching you laugh.”

John smiles.

“Me too.”

He leans forward and kisses Sherlock softly. Sherlock kisses back. They continue for several minutes as the kisses become more and more heated. John’s hands are on Sherlock’s waist, holding him in counterpoint to his hard rocking and thrusting hips. Sherlock scratches his nails down John’s back and grabs his plush ass, pulling his body against his own even harder.

“Oh, god!” John moans loudly, his body jolting uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck, yes!”

Sherlock can feel himself teetering on the edge and all he can think is more, more, more. As though he can read his mind, John thrusts harder and faster. Sherlock matches him for every one, digging his fingers into John’s ass cheeks hard enough to bruise.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock pants, his voice taking on a harsher and more throaty edge with each repetition. He can barely hold himself together, the pleasure tearing through every inch of his body until. “OH GOD! OH GOD! OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD!”

He spurts into his underpants in waves and John onto his belly. It is hot and wet on Sherlock’s skin and he memorizes it all - every sensation and muttered curse as he and John ride it out and come down again.

“Jawwwwwwn,” Sherlock murmurs, wrapping his arms around John’s back and nuzzling his collar bone. He mouths and licks it affectionately. “God, John, I lo…”

“Christ, Sherlock,” he says in a rush, squirming under the man’s touch, “that was amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he pulls away from John, straightening abruptly. He looks at John with panicked eyes. What the fuck was he about to say? What the hell was he thinking? It would have been the single biggest mistake of his life. He can’t say that after one night together. It is a sure fire way to guarantee post-coital awkwardness. His brow wrinkles as he considers that perhaps this will be a one night stand for John. His face flinches with the pain of it.

“Sherlock,” John studies him with concern, his brow furrowing, “are you all right?”

No, he knows more about John than that. John Watson is not a man who has one night stands.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock smiles. He kisses John’s lips softly when his worried look remains. He rests his forehead against John’s and inhales deeply. His nostrils fill with John’s scent, comingled with sex and sweat. It is positively intoxicating. Sherlock feels lightheaded, but he uses John’s touch to ground himself.

“I can put my pants back on, if you like,” John suggests. “Maybe this was too much.”

Sherlock jerks back to meet his eyes. His brow knitted, donning an appalled expression.

“Absolutely not,” he announces disdainfully. John smiles immediately, squinting his eyes closed for a few seconds in silent laughter.

“You do know which kind of pants I mean, yeah?” he jokes.

“Of course I do!” Sherlock replies indignantly and then adds with a cheeky grin. “Now.”

John cannot resist a chuckle.

“Well, as long as that’s clear,” he looks at Sherlock fondly and brushes a curl off his forehead. They stay this way for a few long minutes, but not nearly long enough. Forever would not be long enough. They do not speak, but watch one another, periodically stroking with thumbs and fingertips. Sherlock feels warm and safer than he ever has in his life. He could stay here in John’s arms until the end of his days and never get bored. He lets out a long, slow sigh. John echoes it, but then glances between them.

“We’d best get cleaned up, yeah?”

Sherlock wants to say no. He wants to clutch John to his body possessively and keep him by his side as long as he can, but instead he loosens his grip and lets John rise. He kisses Sherlock’s knuckles before letting go. Sherlock watches John’s gorgeous bare ass as he walks to the bathroom. John looks back at him and smiles before closing the door.

Sherlock sighs and flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. John was right. That was absolutely amazing. Mind-blowing. Sherlock has never experienced anything like it. He has never felt this way about anyone in his life. Like a puzzle piece he could not find and now it is right in front of him, teasing him by slipping into place every so often. He sighs again, a wide grin spreading over his face.

The bathroom door opens and John steps out, his body clean. Sherlock sits up and smiles as John walks to the bed. He leans into John’s touch when he cups his cheek.

“The bathroom’s yours,” he tells him.

Sherlock nods and rises to his feet. His hand skims down John’s arm and their fingers lace together. As he studies John’s shining face, a spark of doubt needles at his mind. His head tilts a fraction and he searches John’s eyes for the answer. John smiles and squeezes his fingers as if he knows Sherlock’s every thought.

“I’ll be right here when you come out,” he assures him.

Sherlock smiles again and nods. Their fingers slip away and separate as he goes to the bathroom. Once inside, he relieves himself and cleans up. He removes his ruined underpants and tosses them in the corner. Leaning over the sink, he turns on the water and splashes it on his face. Sherlock places a hand on either side of the sink and stares at his own face in the mirror. He looks different. His eyes seem brighter and his features lighter. He looks happy. He looks like he’s in love. Shit. He’ll give himself away like this. John will know the minute he sees him. Maybe he knows already, but then why hasn’t he said anything? Or simply run for the hills? Shit.

Sherlock towels off and goes for the door, but stops with his hand on the knob. He looks to the corner and then down his own body. All of his clothes are outside in the room with John. He looks to the towels and wraps one around his waist. Best to air on the side of modesty. To his surprise, John is standing in the bedroom fully clothed when Sherlock steps out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” he asks in shock, his stomach dropping to the floor.

“I’m going back to my room,” he says plainly. “We have a bout tomorrow.”

“What?” Sherlock repeats and it is not until John turns toward the bedroom door that Sherlock snaps out of the trance and walks to him in three long strides. He catches John’s hand with his own and holds him steady.

“Sherlock..”

“Stay, John,” he blurts, not bothering to keep the desperation from his voice. “Please.”

“But, Sherlock..”

“I don’t want you to go, if that’s what you think,” he says in a rush. “I don’t want that.”

“No?” John asks hopefully, biting his lip.

“No,” Sherlock confirms softly.

John rests his hands on Sherlock’s slim waist and faces him fully.

“Ok.”

***

Sherlock opens his heavy eyelids at what the clock on the bedside table claims is 7:30. He only squints a moment because the room is fairly dim, having no windows and lit by only a lamp on the same table. His sleep fogged mind tries to determine what woke him when it dawns on him that someone is in the bed with him. Warm arms enclose his waist, one hand resting on his belly. Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder to see John Watson snuggled up against his back, his warmth radiating into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gazes at his sleeping face fondly, his lips parted and the beginnings of a quiet snore every few breaths. He looks so innocent and young and...absolutely adorable.

Sherlock presses a hand to his chest gently and smiles. He wants to stay just like this and watch John sleep, brush the hair from his forehead and kiss him awake. He wants to spend the whole day in bed with this man, the man who holds his heart. However, a few loud bangs on the door to his suite tell him that there are other matters that need seeing to.

He looks at John one last time and slips out of his arms. He quickly grabs underpants from a drawer and pulls them on, along with pajama bottoms. The shirt matching his pajamas is on his shoulders once he heads out into the living room, doing up the buttons and closing the bedroom door behind. He does not suppose John will want everyone to know he spent the night with Sherlock. Not that any of the ladies or staff would give a damn, but he and John should really discuss the relationship before making it public knowledge. Sherlock stops a few feet from the suite door, frozen in the act of pulling on his dressing gown. Is this a relationship now? Does John even want that? If not, will they go back to being friends? Can Sherlock do that? Does he want that? God, no. Sherlock wants it all, everything John will give him. He wants to be John’s boyfriend. As ridiculous as the word is, Sherlock would shout it from the rooftops and tell every damn reporter in Detroit that he loves John Watson. So why doesn’t he tell the man himself?

Another series of loud banging has Sherlock tying his dressing gown and finishing his path to the door.

“They’re both gone,” he can hear Harry HardOn’s muffled, but still loud voice. “What the fuck is going on?”

“He has to be in there. Knock again. Here, let me.”

Sherlock opens the door just as Clara Hell on Wheels raises her fist to pound on its surface. Her eyes widen upon coming face to face with the coach and she lowers her hand with a timid smile.

“Good morning, Coach,” she greets with a smirk. “Sleep well?”

“Until a group of noisy juveniles started beating down my door,” he quips. “What’s going on?”

He looks out into the hall and sees Sally Trixie Belt’em, Anthea Witch Hazel, Janine Ginger Smacks and Bloody Mary are with them. Harry pushes into his line of vision and declares loudly.

“We can’t find Ph.D. Either he sleeps like a fucking rock or he’s not in his room.”

“Is one of you in need of medical attention?” he raises a brow, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Harry answers simply with no intention of offering more.

“We’ve been going to breakfast together on aways,” Clara explains, rolling her eyes at Harry. “It just sorta happened our first time out and we kind of made a thing of it.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums. “Perhaps he went for an early swim with The Woman.”

“Not with what she wears in a pool,” Sally snorts.

“I’m sure John wouldn’t mind. He is a doctor, after all.”

“Did you even check the gym or anything?” Mary asks Harry, who shakes her head. “Well, Jesus, HardOn. He could be anywhere, but you panic and run straight to Coach?”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Harry defends. “I just thought he might know where to find him.”

She turns to Sherlock abruptly.

“Did he tell you if he was going anywhere this morning?”

“He’s probably down there already, hiding the chocolate frosteds before you can take them all,” Anthea says quietly, looking up from her phone with a grin.

“She has a point there,” Janine adds with a playful look and a laugh in her tone. “Y’do fight over them.”

“Come on,” Mary jerks her head in the direction of the elevator. “Let’s go. I want a blueberry muffin and our very delicious doctor might beat me to it.”

“Okay, but we have to find him if he’s not there,” Harry tells her.

“Jesus, HardOn! Why are you so hot on finding him?” Mary demands, getting up into her personal space.

“I’ll tell you why,” she pushes in, nose to nose with the taller woman. “We haven’t lost a single away since Ph.D. started eating breakfast with us. We. Can’t. Break. The Streak.”

“All right, all right,” Sherlock pushes them apart. “Just cool it. Go look for John in the pool and gym. I’ll get dressed and join the search.”

Everyone seems satisfied with the plan and the ladies head for the elevator. Harry and Mary continue glaring at each other all the way. Sherlock rolls his eyes as they all disappear and turns back into the suite. He closes the door behind and makes a stop in the kitchenette to start coffee before entering the bedroom. He stops cold just inside to savor the scene.

John has rolled onto the side of the bed Sherlock had been on. The blankets still cover his legs and waist, but his torso is out in the open air. His arms are wrapped around Sherlock’s pillow, his face snuggled down into the cotton pillowcase. He looks peaceful with a small smile on his lips. It is nothing less than adorable and Sherlock’s heart melts. He parts his lips to suck in a gulp of air, feeling as though it has been knocked from his lungs. Sherlock never wants to be without this man again. He wants to wake with him every morning and fall asleep in his arms each night.

Sherlock shrugs out of his dressing gown and tosses it onto the bed. He crawls up behind John, spooning against his back and pulling him into his arms. He presses a kiss to John’s ear and whispers quietly because he has to say this. He has to let it out before his heart explodes right out of his chest.

“I love you, John.”

Sherlock smiles at first, feeling calm and completely happy. A warmth fills his body, relaxing every muscle. Then he freezes as John begins to stir. Oh, shit. Did he wake John after all? Did he hear what Sherlock said? Sherlock remains frozen as John turns in his arms and pecks his lips that are parted in horror. John snuggles against him, looking very comfortable indeed. He inhales deeply and opens his eyes as he exhales. Eyes focusing on Sherlock, his smile grows wider as the sleep clears from his gaze.

“Hi,” he says almost shyly. Sherlock cups his warm cheek with one hand and studies his face. John looks happy and...embarrassed. Sherlock’s blood runs cold. What if this was a mistake? What if John grows to regret this?

“Stop,” John tells him, suddenly very serious and firm. “Stop what you’re doing. I can hear you worrying.”

John reaches down and pulls Sherlock’s hands to their chests. He rubs his thumbs over Sherlock’s knuckles and looks at him earnestly.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. This will never be a mistake to me,” John pauses. “It was wonderful. Perfect.”

Sherlock finds himself blushing and grinning from ear to ear like a fool. He kisses John’s thumbs, warmth starting at his lips and running through his body all the way to his fingers and toes. He loves this. Everything. All of it.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, pressing his mouth to John’s softly and moving his lips just so. John obliges and, in a moment, they are smiling at one another contentedly. “Much as I would like to stay this way all day, we need to get up. The ladies are looking for you.”

“What?” John is startled right out of the mood and into doctor mode. “Why? Is one of them hurt?”

“No. Everything’s fine,” Sherlock assures him. “Harry says they have to eat with you to maintain our winning streak.”

“Really?” John laughs. “I didn’t realize she was so superstitious. That explains why she’s been so keen on waking me up for it though.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, though he had not noticed she was doing it. Has he really become so distracted as to not notice the simplest of things? “Next she will try to make everyone sit in the same arrangement.”

“No,” John looks at him in disbelief. “You’re having me on.”

“I am… I’m what?” Sherlock laughs and places a hand on John’s shoulder. “Is that another Britishism or pure John Watson?”

“Shut up,” John says with a smile. Sherlock laughs again and begins tracing patterns on John’s shoulder with his thumb. Soon his other hand is on the opposite shoulder, tracing the mirror image of the other hand’s work.

“Are there any other odd phrases I should be aware of?” Sherlock asks with a playful glint in his eye. John watches him with an amused expression on his face.

“Well, there’s pavement instead of sidewalk,” he plays along, puckering his lips and looking toward the ceiling in mock consideration. “Bobbie in place of police, lift rather than elevator.”

“Oh, I’ve heard you use that one,” Sherlock says in an excited tone.

“I’m sure you have,” John does his best to look stern, but still cannot stop a grin when Sherlock starts nodding with an exaggerated look of agreement on his face.

“Stop it, you tosser,” John snorts and lightly shoves Sherlock away. This only serves as impetus for Sherlock to fold his arm around the doctor and pull him closer.

“Oh, tosser. I haven’t heard that one yet. You have to explain what that means,” he nips at John’s jaw. John squirms, but cannot free himself from the other man’s grasp. Not that he is really trying.

“You have a brilliant mind. Surely you can figure it out,” John grins, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock and hugging him close. He kisses at a cheekbone and growls. It is a deep rumble that lights a fire in Sherlock’s belly. He flexes his fingers on John’s bare back and gently digs his fingertips into the skin before laying them flat. He wants John Watson. More than he has wanted anyone or anything in his life.

“I’m going to snog you within an inch of your life,” John says in a low, menacing voice that is more of a promise than a threat. But what does it mean?

Sherlock is just parting his lips to ask when John swoops in. He pushes Sherlock onto his back and lies astride him, kissing his lips hard. Then it is like a dam breaking, the water rushing through and flooding all in its path. There is kissing, nipping, mouthing, licking, biting, exploring and enjoying. Sherlock works his way along John’s jawline and down his neck. He groans in response, clutching at the back of Sherlock’s neck and arching his own spine. John is delicious. His skin is so soft with only a trace of rough stubble for not having shaved yet. The taste of his skin and salt of his sweat is pure delight.

The truth of his desire to spend his life with John consumes his mind and he pushes it away fitfully. He cannot think about it now. He can’t think about anything now and deposits it in a filing cabinet in John’s wing for further study. Another door opens in a rush and unwelcome memories of his life with Victor flood his mind with the many reasons he gave up sentiment. Leaving the filing cabinet, he desperately turns to the door and tries to push Victor back. When he succeeds at last, his back is against the door and he slides down to sit in front of it with his arms folded over his knees and his face buried in them.

“Sherlock?”

Hearing his own name and the concern in John’s voice, Sherlock opens his eyes and pulls away from John to look at him. His blue eyes are full of worry once again. Sherlock must have shut down. He strokes his hands up and down John’s biceps in a comforting motion, wishing to ward away the look on his face.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He runs his hands up and down once more and shakes his head. He cannot talk about this now. He has to work through it on his own in the mind palace before it will make any sense to anyone. And he needs an outside observer who knows his feelings and mind. Sherlock needs to talk to Molly Hooper.

“I’m fine. I just…” he looks away, his mind struggling to find some sort of diversion. He has found it in a moment and his lips quirk up. “What was it you said? Snogging? What the hell is that?”

John is hesitant at first, unwilling to let Sherlock change the subject without explaining himself. It is a battle he loses and soon the two men are laughing in each other’s arms.

“Snogging, right,” John is saying. “It’s what we did last night. The kissing and touching.”

“The touching?” Sherlock asks in a dangerous tone. John shifts in his arms with a groan.

“Your voice should be illegal. You can do things with it that no man should be capable of.”

“You did say the touching,” he says in that voice again and feels John shiver.

“Not that touching,” the doctor answers in a husky tone, trying to collect himself. “The kissing and...like we did just now.”

“Oh, making out. Why didn’t you just say so?”

John stares for a moment with a grin frozen on his face. He hoots a laugh and throws his head back.

“Making out!”

Sherlock watches him laugh, knowing he deserves it. Still, he tries to look annoyed, but it is no use. John looks absolutely glorious when he laughs, especially this kind. A deep belly laugh that shakes his whole body.

“Oh my god. That is the most ridiculous…” he dissolved into laughter again. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips, even from his position on the bed and looks up at John. He raises a brow and gives John a look he usually reserves for Harry HardOn’s shenanigans.

“Come now, John,” he begins and John starts to quell his laughter behind a mischievous smirk. “You lived in California for how long and with hockey players, no less. How have you not picked up on the term ‘making out’?”

“Never had the opportunity to learn, I suppose.”

“What were you some sort of monk?” Sherlock quips. John sobers in a split second. He fixes the man with angry eyes that nearly disguise the hurt and Sherlock immediately regrets his careless words.

“I told you I wasn’t interested in a relationship,” he says defensively.

His voice is tinged with pain and, for once, Sherlock can read John as easily as words on paper. More and more reveals itself as he looks at the doctor and Sherlock cannot stop himself. Being able to actually deduce John is overwhelming and so tempting. Energy rushes through his veins as he takes everything in and he can see it. There is something there. Something John is not telling him, that he does not want him to know and Sherlock has never been able to back away from anything so deliberately hidden from him. So he makes the fateful choice to chase the mystery and push John toward a confession.

“Because something happened,” he begins. “Something in London.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.”

The clues are coming in readily like apples falling from a tree, tempting Sherlock with their juicy details. He cannot resist the puzzle that is falling into place as he watches John’s expression change in ways no one else would see. His own grey eyes sparkle as he deduces more and more.

“A woman.”

“Stop.”

“She hurt you.”

“Sherlock.”

“A baby?”

“STOP IT!” John shouts into the quiet room, bringing all things to a halt.

Sherlock looks at him in shock and then his face falls as realization kicks in. John couldn’t hide it because of the pain at its memory. It overwhelmed him as much as the ability to deduce did Sherlock and he took advantage of that, knowing that he should not. He is a complete and utter asshole.

John is off of his body and the bed in a flash. Sherlock sits up and looks at him with pleading eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, but no words come. John gazes at Sherlock for a moment, pain and profound hurt in his eyes. Sherlock’s heart breaks in two and bleeds in his chest, causing an ache he cannot bear.

“I thought you didn’t deduce the team,” John says quietly, anger filling every crack in his voice.

“John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock swivels his body so he can face John again. His legs hang over the side of the bed, his feet on the floor. One of his big toes just grazes John’s and the man steps back as if burned. The pain in Sherlock’s chest strengthens and he feels like he cannot breathe.

“Stop,” John snaps. “Just shut up.”

John shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest. He still looks furious, but also hesitant and regretful. Sherlock tilts his head in confusion, having no idea what to expect as John looks away and shakes his head. He puffs out an angry breath and looks back to Sherlock.

“You...you’ve told me so much and shared your life with me, and I…” he inhales deeply as if centering himself and looks at Sherlock with a meaningful gaze. “It’s not fair for me to…”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Sherlock rushes to say, wishing he could reach out and touch John, just touch him and make this all go away, but John is too far away and has no interest in closing the gap.

“I told you I’ve not been close to marriage. I’ve never even considered it. I’ve never been in love like that,” John interrupts. His voice is still angry, but also sad now. This is part of his life he would prefer to forget. God, Sherlock is a stupid, stupid man.

“She didn’t… She wanted more of a commitment than I could give,” John drops his hands to his sides in defeat. “So she lied. She said she was pregnant.”

Sherlock is an ass.

“John, don’t,” he raises a hand to him, palm out in the universal signal for stop.

��Why not?” John is angry now, only angry. The hurt is but a memory and his hands are clenched at his sides. His face twists in a sneer. “It’s what you want to know, isn’t it? What you deduced?”

“No.”

“I still wouldn’t marry her.”

“John.”

“It wouldn’t have been fair to her or the baby, but she said I was just being selfish.”

“I’m sorry.”

Miraculously, John is silenced by those two words. He looks at Sherlock with hard eyes, his hands still clenching. And then all of the fury drains from his body. Right down his legs and out through his feet. It pools around him like blood on the floor.

John blinks his eyes and seems to sag. He is vulnerable and full of regret. Sherlock presses his lips together in a tight line and scolds himself silently. John had wanted to tell him this in his own time, when he was comfortable with Sherlock knowing and that time is not now, not today. Sherlock curses himself for being so careless and infantile, never once considering John’s feelings and only thinking of the mystery.

“Me too,” John mutters.

A moment passes in silence and then another until John finally sighs and begins collecting his clothing. A pang of fear bursts in Sherlock’s chest. He has ruined it. He loves John with all his heart and he has ruined it in the span of one night. He had everything and it has slipped right through his fingers like water in a sieve.

“John,” he croaks quietly, trying to find his voice. The doctor does not stop even to look at him.

“Best get to my room for a clean up and changes of clothes before Harry tears down the hotel looking for me,” he feigns levity.

With that, he closes himself up in the bathroom. Sherlock is gutted. He does not know what to do or say. He has no idea how to fix this or if it even can be, but he must try. He has to. John is his life, wholly and completely, for better or worse, and doesn’t even know it.

Sherlock rises, pulls on his dressing gown and leaves the room. He is in the kitchenette pouring coffee on auto-pilot, his mind spinning. What can he say to John? What should he say and what can he do? Taking a sip of the scalding liquid and trying desperately to think, a favorite song comes out of the shadows of his mind palace as if to taunt him.

I’ve grown accustomed to his face. He almost makes the day begin. I’ve grown accustomed to the tune he whistles night and noon. His smiles, his frowns, his ups, his downs are second nature to me now. Like breathing out and breathing in. I was serenely independent and content before we met. Surely I could always be that way again, and yet… I’ve grown accustomed to his look, accustomed to his voice, accustomed to his face.

John interrupts the tune when he comes bustling into the room and stops suddenly. He watches Sherlock for a moment with wide eyes as though he has been caught trying to escape.

“Coffee?” Sherlock offers and nearly face palms at the idiocy of it.

“Uh, thanks, no,” John darts across the room to the door. “Best be off to breakfast.”

And he is gone.

Sherlock can only stare at the closed door, the last trace of hope fading away.

-----

KYFC can stand for something else?? How about Oh My Fucking God, Jane?!?! WTF are you doing?? Yes, I reward your patience with adorable togetherness, cute joking and hot sex only to crush your hopes. Why can’t Sherlock leave well enough alone? Curiosity kills the cat and this man wants to know everything he can about John Watson. Poor man stumbled right into it and now there’s no turning back. So what’s gonna happen now, Jane? How will you fix this? You’d better fix this! You’ll have to tune in next week to see if chapter 13 turns out to be unlucky or lucky 13. In the meantime, stay safe, everyone. I love you all. Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @tooolforthissh--stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa @thetranslucentwallaby @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @francj96

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #sherlock au #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby

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marvel-lucy · 5 years

Text

The Walking Disaster, Chapter 3

All chapters are on the Walking Disaster Masterlist

The next time I saw Steve, was actually out in the wild. I saw wild, I mean outside the apartment building. I was out for coffee and doing those mental acrobatics to justify spending $5 on a coffee when I could have had it for free at home. Today’s excuse? I was keeping those baristas in employment. I’m all heart, me.

As you can imagine, a coffee shop is fraught with dangers for someone like me. There’s the coffee for a start. Not only is it a liquid and therefore spillable, but it’s also caffeine, and god knows even I’ll accept I don’t really need any pepping up. My mouth would run away with itself under general anaesthetic. I’m asking for closed casket at my own funeral just so my corpse doesn’t accidentally insult my cousin’s dress sense. Then there’s the people. Lots of them, all with legs that might stick out and trip me, conversations for me to get too caught up in that I join in, children who might decide to bite my ankles (don’t ask. It’s a thing) … it’s a wonder I don’t stay inside all the time.

But I was there, with a friend. Yes, even a human fiasco like me can have friends. There’s hope for us all, even Calamity Jane got married. In the movie anyway. So, there I was, with my friend. I don’t know why she’s my friend to be honest. She’s so together. She looks like a ballet dancer, all long legs and muscles. The most beautiful red hair you’ve ever seen, and she’s a killer, Natasha – with put downs and sarcasm that is. But for some unknown reason she tolerates me. Perhaps even likes me. Maybe she’s got some debt she’s paying community service for.

Anyway, as always, I digress. There we were. I was buying us both coffee (carrying two drinks? Why not juggle fire next?!) and had somehow navigated my way to our table and put the drinks down safely when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Ever turned around to see an angel? You should try it.

‘Hi! Steve! Hello!’ (Sophisticated with a side of casual disinterest is what I was going for). His friend was standing behind him, and I could see him appreciating Natasha, quite rightly. Me, I could feel the flush forming because it was only a few minutes ago that I’d been telling Nat all about my new neighbour, Steve, and I could tell from the arch of her eyebrow that she’d worked out who this was, and was going to watch this play out with amusement. With any luck she’d take pity on me and save me from myself, but I doubted it.

‘Hi, I’m Natasha,’ she said, sticking her hand out towards Steve. She obviously didn’t trust me to manage to speak coherently. Steve shook it, then gestured behind him.

‘This is Bucky.’ His friend mock-saluted and I knew Natasha well enough to see her interest rise. ‘Can we join you?’

Oh Lordy.

Steve took a quick look around the coffee shop and spotted a couple of empty seats, dragging them over, and then we were four, around one of those too-small round tables. I was sitting at an uncomfortable angle trying to avoid bumping knees with Steve, who was next to me. Me, Steve, Bucky and Nat, all friends together.

I picked up my coffee and took a big gulp to hide my confusion. You know the thing about coffee though? It’s hot. Really hot. Especially when you take a big mouthful.

And that’s why I ended up spraying Nat with a mouthful of hot coffee, then turning scarlet as I choked. To be fair to Nat, she’s used to it, and she’s the one who decided to sit in the splash zone, so she didn’t scream, but just rolled her eyes and pulled up a pile of paper napkins that she’d wisely thought to pick up before she sat down, and started mopping herself up. Meanwhile, I tried to get my coughing under control, tone down my redness, regain feeling in my tongue, and get a hold on myself. I’m usually pretty OK with being such a catastrophe, but some days I’d really like to be cool, not make a fool of myself, especially not in front of someone quite so cute.

When I finally looked up, Nat and Bucky had started communing over mopping up some puddles on the table, and I could see her sizing him up. He’d be eating out of her hand soon, it’s like she brainwashes them. I risked a glance at Steve out of the corner of my eye, and he was smiling at me. But oh. OH. Bless him, he didn’t even look like he was laughing at me, just… smiling.

‘Too hot? I swear the coffee in these places is nuclear. ‘S’why I always get iced these days.’ He gestured towards his iced coffee, then tilted it towards me. ‘Want a sip? Cool your mouth down.’ Was ever a man more charming? I challenge you to name one.

I didn’t take a sip. I mean, I wanted to, my mouth hurt. But it seemed a little forward when I’d not really managed to speak a sentence to the poor guy. And knowing my luck I’d end up poking his eye out with the straw anyway.

So we sat there, the four of us, for an hour or so. I drank my coffee, eventually, when it was a bit cooler, and I didn’t spill any more of it. I relaxed a bit and didn’t freak out (externally) when my knee bumped into Steve’s. I found out a bit about him, and about Bucky, and Nat told them about her, and I told them about me, and Nat only had to kick me twice under the table to get me to remember to stop rambling. I couldn’t help it, I was trying to find the right thing to say, that would make me seem less of a disaster; trying to find the right phrase that would make me sound as cool as Nat, only my approach seemed to be to keep on talking in the hope I’d get there. Hadn’t worked yet, but first time’s a charm, right?

Here’s what I found out.

1. Steve liked his coffee cold.

2. Steve had the most beautiful blue eyes the world has ever seen.

3. Steve’s knee felt really warm.

4. When he picked up his drink, his biceps bulged.

Oh, wait, what, you want facts? Whatever.

Turns out they both did really good people jobs. You know the kind that make you rethink your existence? I mean, I’m not a bad person, but Bucky worked with disadvantaged kids in Brooklyn, and Steve was an art teacher, and they probably both rescued kittens from fires and knitted homes for orphaned bunnies out of organic wool. I may be exaggerating, but saying ‘yeah, I do admin for the VA’ just didn’t sound that impressive. Nat was her usual secretive self, and just went with ‘I do the jobs that people need doing and are willing to pay for.’ Makes ‘I’m currently signed up with an agency doing temp work’ sound much cooler.

What else did I find out? They’d known each other since school – it showed, from the way they teased each other. They’d lost touch for a few years – I get the feeling Bucky had made some bad choices, but they glossed over that – and now that Steve had a new job, they were reconnecting. Steve used to be scrawny (I found that hard to believe, but Bucky pulled out his phone and showed us this picture of a teeny Steve before his growth spurt had hit).

Here’s what they would have found out about me.

I like cats, the colour blue, Thai food, prefer Star Trek to Star Wars, like Marvin Gaye’s Trouble Man album, and can’t shut up.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m remembering. I mean, they stayed there with us for a while, right, and it can’t only have been because Nat is worth staring at for an hour. Maybe? Perhaps? But right now it’s 3am and I’m sitting in the dark and wincing as I replay the conversations in my head. Doesn’t help that my head is throbbing either. I didn’t mention that did I?

See, it wasn’t going so badly. I mean, we were chatting, and if I’m being kind to myself, I’ll be honest and say that I did say some things that made sense, and the conversation flowed, and Steve laughed on occasion and, it could have been worse. So then I needed to go, because I had an appointment, so we did the whole ‘lovely to meet you’, ‘see you around’ thing, and I managed to untangle myself from the chairs and tables pretty easily, and headed for the exit with Nat. I could feel her just waiting for us to get out of eyesight of the windows so she could pin me up against a wall and quiz me about everything, and I was kinda looking forward to doing the same to her; she wasn’t going to get away with that kind of flirting with Bucky without some interrogation.

So I just needed to hold it together for a few more seconds, just pretend not to be a complete farce while I walked out of the door.

You can see where I’m going with this, right? Shame I couldn’t. You see, I tried to do this sophisticated sweet little turn of the head, waver over my shoulder, leave them wanting more as we left. Which would have worked great, if I hadn’t pulled the door a little too hard, turning my head back towards it as I went, and slamming the door right into my own forehead.

Starbucks employees are very generous with their ice cubes when your head is developing a lump the size of a small planet.

And that’s why I’m sitting here, regretting my life choices, and planning to move to another state by morning. Wish me luck.

-------

@melconnor2007 @avengerscompound @kittyslove @badassbaker @phoenix21love @lbouvet @bellenuit45 @prplprincez @gingerrootknits @pineapplebooboo @feelmyroarrrr @avengerofyourheart @eyeofdionysus @hellomissmabel @learisa @mitra-k-w @imhereforbvcky @shaddixlife @iwillbeinmynest @amrita31199 @whatsbetterthanfantasy @pixierox101 @edward-lover18 @madcheshire89 @heartfulloffandoms @chipilerendi @kenya-17 @mckorni32843 @amandarosemire @rda89 @nyxveracity @sea040561 @mrsalh32611 @ruinerofcheese @callmebucky-doll @vintagepigeon @bubbasmom @sassycanoodler @ladylorelitany @natcad @thisismysecrethappyplace @mywinterwolf @moderapoppins @rinthehufflepuff @holyfuckloueh @onebatch--twobatch

#steve rogers au #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x ofc #marvel au

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hooked-on-the-feelin · 4 years

Text

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough

——————————————————————————————

- 2k+ words

- Pairing: Peter Quill/Star-Lord x Reader, Slight Thor x Reader

- Summary: After the attack on Asgard, you find yourself drifting through the space with The Guardians of The Galaxy. Thor, being protective of you because you’re a dear friend of his, tries his hardest to protect you. But he can’t protect you from Peter Quill’s pelvic sorcery.

——————————————————————————————

Everything was gone. Your home, your family, your favorite restaurant. All of it. It was all because of Thanos. All because he wanted the damn infinity stone.

Random thoughts swirled through you head as you became light headed. You couldn't breathe. It was all too much. You felt weightless. You felt like a feather, just drifting through the open galaxy.

Your eyelids began to close and everything faded to black.

"Wake," A voice rang through your head and you shot up suddenly, chest heaving. Your eyes began to water as you scanned the room. Who the hell were these people?

You shuffled back slightly, nearly falling off the table you currently rested on. Your heart was racing as tears began to well in your eyes.

The bottom of your floor length dress was tattered and torn. The bodice, which was outlined with metal for support and some protection, was sticking out at different angles.

Your best friend had given you that dress as a birthday gift. And now? It was ruined. They had died on Asgard, along with your family.

"Y/N," A voice spoke from behind you, causing you to turn towards it. You spotted Thor, who was currently seated on a bench behind you.

"Thor? You're alive!" You exclaimed, then realized that you were in a random ship filled with random people, "Who are they?"

Thor shrugged, "Why don't you ask them? They explain it much more creatively."

You turn to them, studying them each. A raccoon. A tree. A woman who was currently staring at Thor. A man with... red tattoos? A woman with antennas. And finally, a man who was currently staring you in the eyes.

The man smiled softly at you, causing you to relax a bit. Your grip on the table loosened as you returned the gaze. You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

"Peter Quill. But most people know me as Star-Lord," He leans against a shelf, causing it to come crashing down shortly after.

A small laugh escaped your lips, "Who are you guys? Where am I?"

"I am Groot," The tree says, his gameboy resting at his side.

"I'm Y/N," You respond.

Peter stands the shelf up on its side on the floor, taking a few steps towards you, "We're The Guardians of The Galaxy. The fluffy rabbit here is Rocket. Careful, he will steal. Over there in the Green is Mantis. Don't let her touch you if you have any secrets. Thor's not so secret admirer is Gamora. Big man is Drax. And this," He gestures to the ship, "Is home. For us."

You looked around the interior of the ship, "It's... nice. Really."

Peter nods, slapping the side of it, then pointing to a stereo. Inside was a small cassette, labeled 'My Awesome Mixtape Vol. 2', "This is my pride and joy."

You nod, "Any good songs?"

He smiles, nodding eagerly, "Yeah, great songs. The best."

"Maybe I could listen-" You were cut off by Thor rising out of his seat, grumbling, "We're not here to socialize, Y/N. We have places to be."

"What places?" You question, "I never signed up for any of this."

"We need to do this. For Asgard," He says with a sigh, rubbing his chin.

You bow your head, singing your legs so you now sat on the table, "What can I do?"

"I'm sending you down to Earth. I have some friends there that can help you. You just need to be somewhere safe," Thor explains, "Ready?"

"Hold on. I didn't agree to your proclamation. You may know this people but I don't," You hiss, slipping off the table all together, nearly tumbling to the ground. You let out a cry, clutching your knee. When you pulled your hand away, you saw blood oozing down your arm.

Peter came to stand beside you, "You're hurt."

Rocket slaps a hand to his head, "She has eyes, Quill."

A frown appears on his face, "I'm gonna get you back on that table, alright?"

You nod, your eyes screwed shut as the pain travels further down your leg. You inhale sharply as Peter helps you back onto the table, placing his arms under your shoulders and lifting you up, setting you down gently.

It was then that you realized how close you were. You swallowed the bile rising in your throat and mumbled, "Thank you."

Peter then turns to Thor, "She can't travel if she's injured. Hell, she can barely walk. If it's alright with her, she can stay here until she recuperates."

He clenches his teeth, "We have doctors on Earth who can actually help her. Come on, Y/N, I'll help you."

"No."

Thor's brows furrow, "No? What do you mean? You've always wanted to go to Earth!"

"He offered. I'm staying. I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I don't know when you got it in your head that you control what I do- but it ends now. I make my own choices."

Rocket snickers, "I like 'er."

"If that's how it is," He frowns, "Then so be it. I guess I'll avenge Asgard myself."

You shrug, "Who said I can't help out from up here? Hmm? I'm sure I can do something. Whether that's mopping the floor or doing something more meaningful."

Gamora lets out a small laugh, "The floor is dirty. Peter never wipes his feet when he comes in."

"Gamora..." He says in a hushed tone, pursing his lips, "You said you wouldn't tell anyone..."

"We all knew it was you, Quill," Rocket cackles, "You have tiny little man feet."

Peter blushes, "I don't have tiny little man feet!"

"Ask the real man," Drax says, "He's has muscles."

"I have muscles!" Peter protests, lifting up the arm of his shirt.

You scanned his arms. He did have muscles. They weren't overly large like Thor's- and they weren't small like one of your old friends. They were... nice. Really nice. Nice to look at. You tried to look away- but you physically couldn't.

"Eh," Rocket says, "I stand by what I said earlier. Yer one sandwich 'way from bein' fat."

"I don't think you are," You say meekly, causing Peter to smile and say thank you."

"So, you're really staying?" Thor asks bitterly, already knowing the answer. He wished he wouldn't have asked.

"Yes," You answered, then turned to Peter, who was currently leaning against the table, "Do you guys have anything I could use to bandage his up?"

"I'll help you with it. It looks deep. You may need some stitches," He replies, grabbing a med kit from above you.

"Peter, let me handle the stitches. Last time you gave someone stitches, you had to get some, too."

He sighed, "But I know how to do t now!"

Gamora shakes her head, "You're not supposed to poke yourself with the needle!"

"How was I supposed to know that?" He questions, crossing his arms.

She groans, "I quit."

"You can't quit. We're in space."

————————————————————

As you and The Guardians headed to a planet that you didn't quite remember the name of, you sat quietly on the table.

Peter has began to clean your wound, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that the cut wasn't as deep as he had thought, "You don't need stitches, but this is gonna stick like a mother."

The word "mother" made your heart sink. It reminded you of the family you had lost during the attack. You looked away from where Peter kneeled on the floor, tending to your knee.

He had been right. It did sting like a mother. You let out a cry as he began to disinfect it, applying alcohol.

You squirmed, gripping the table as tight as possible.

He pauses momentarily, setting the supplies down on the floor beside him and walking over to the stereo, pressing play, "Hope this'll distract you."

Listen, baby. Ain't no mountain high, ain't no valley low. Ain't no river wide enough, baby.

You smiled at the lyrics. It eased the tension a bit and you loosened your grip on the table slightly.

If you need me, call me. No matter where you are, no matter how far.

You let out a cry as Peter reached a sensitive area on your knee, once again gripping the table. Your eyes were screwed shut.

In an effort to lighten up the mood, he sang along, "Don't worry baby. Just call my name, I'll be there in a hurry. You don't have to worry!"

A smile grew on your face as you looked down at him, mouthing a thank you as he finally put the alcohol away.

Although the majority of the pain had stopped, he continued to sing along, "Cause Baby there ain't no mountain high enough! Ain't no valley low enough! Ain't no river wide enough- to keep me from getting to you, baby."

You looked up at you through his eyelashes with a classic smile,

"Remember the day I set you free? I told ya you could always count on me! From that day on, I made a vow. I'll be there when you want me- someway, somehow."

He repeated the chorus once more, this time as he wrapped a bandage around your knee, securing it a moment later while singing, "Oh no, darlin'. If you're ever in trouble, I'll be there on the double. Just send for me!"

You let out a small laugh as he stands and takes your hands in his, gently rocking from side to side

You gazed into one another's eyes as the song continued to play in the background.

My love is alive, way down in my heart. Although we are miles apart, If you ever need a helping hand, I'll be there on the double- Just as fast as I can!

Ain't no mountain high enough! Ain't no valley low enough! Ain't no river wide enough! To keep me from getting to you-

"Babe," Peter finished, leaning forwards to take yours lips in his own. You wrap yours arms around his neck, pulling him closer as your legs wrap around his, your knee still aching.

He rests a hand below your upper thigh, deepening the kiss as "Brandy" began to play.

Your hand squeezed his upper arm, and you briefly pulled away, "All muscle."

He smirked and let out a breathy laugh before pressing his lips to yours, one hand now resting on the back of your hand, tangling in your hair.

You could get used to this.

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sorry-didnt-mean-to-stab-you · 5 years

Text

Marshmallows and Melodies

Word Count: 1551

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Lil’ bit of angst

Summary: They found each other amidst the silence

A/N: So, this is for @imhereforbvcky‘s Cap2 Challenge based off of the prompt: Silence by Marshmello and Khalid. I honestly loved this song when it first came out and would listen to it on repeat for hours, so hopefully I’ve done it some justice with this fic :)

“Do you even know any of the songs on here?” she teased him, glancing at him through the corner of her eye as she flipped through the songs.

Steve caught a few songs that felt familiar, but he was sure that it was only because they were similar to the songs that played on the radio occasionally back at the camp during the war. The row of songs began to thin out, and he soon grew certain that he wouldn’t be able to find a single song that he knew. That was, until his eye caught a quick glance at the title ‘AC/DC’ scrawled out in shaky letters.

He swiftly plucked it from the pile and presented it to her.

“You know AC/DC?” her voice was playfully skeptical, her eyebrows cocking in disbelief. “I refuse to believe that America’s golden boy listens to rock and roll in his spare time.”

Steve chuckled at her as he flipped the record through his fingers. “Stark plays them all the time when he’s working in the garage, the songs seem to make the entire compound shake.”

“That I believe,” she grinned, but when he held it out for her to place it on the record player, she glanced down at her shuffling feet and gently bit her lip. “Would it,” she began, looking back up at him with guilty eyes. “Would it be mean of me to maybe not play it this time?”

Steve met her eyes, carefully making sure that he looked sympathetic rather than curious. “Is anything wrong?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just that my ex was obsessed with them and their songs just kind of remind me of him, so…” She diverted her eyes back to the pile and let out a sigh.

He held himself back from giving her a hug, reminding himself that it would probably be weird considering they’d only known each other for an hour or so. They’d met when Steve asked what song she’d been humming to herself as she was working behind the bar, and soon they were discussing everything music even up until now.

“I'm sorry,” he gave her a gentle smile. “You choose a song, I'm sure I could do with a new taste in style considering I'm slightly out of date.”

Stepping back and moving his arm to present the player to the girl he was becoming more engrossed in, he felt his heart twitch at the small grin she gave him. He studied her practiced movements as she flicked back through the pile, her fingers moving with such ease and fluidity that there was no questioning that she knew every song there. After a few moments, their eyes met each other again, her hands gifting him a bright yellow record with a man flaunting a large, white square head over his own.

“Marshmello?” he quipped, turning the record over to reveal no other songs listed on it. The only word written on it in large capitals was ‘SILENCE’.

“It’s a single,” she spoke up, leaning on her tip toes to look at him from over the record. “I originally bought it for myself to play at home but considering that I spend most of my waking hours here, I eventually brought it in and well, now this is where it stays.”

Steve frowned, wondering for a second if he would actually like it, taking into account that the only songs he’s ever liked were old dancing songs from the 40s. He wasn’t so much into the DJs and upbeat rave songs of the 21st century, save for some of the artists like Adele, Queen, Marvin Gaye and George Ezra, who were all Natasha’s forced ideas.

However, pushing his doubts to the back of his mind, he slapped on a smile and nodded. “Let’s do it.”

As the song began to play, she took his hand and led him over to the pool tables. It was around two in the morning and the bar had closed, allowing them to sit themselves down onto the green velvet, her soft hand still intertwined with his. She closed her eyes and began to sway to the tune, and he gazed absentmindedly at the way her lips mouthed the lyrics, and how her eyes moved from beneath the lids, her eyebrows occasionally quirking. The tune, he immediately realized, was transcendental, a melody only fit for the girl beside him. He noticed how the singer’s voice had weaved its way into his head, the words melting into each other as he sang, the beat lifting his fingers and dropping them with a rush of sadness. The artist wasn’t one that he would typically enjoy listening to, but perhaps it was her influence that made him rethink what he tones he thought were dulcet and sweet.

Before long, the song had come to a close, and Steve was blessed once more with the colors of her eyes as they opened.

“So,” she shrugged with a smile. “Did you like it?”

“It was beautiful,” he answered honestly. She rolled her eyes as she hopped off of the table, leaving his hand horribly cold and empty, and carefully replaced the record back into its cover.

“I think it’s sad and lonely if you ask me. And yet there’s something about it that just… hits you hard with a feeling of finally understanding yourself,” she rambled as she shoved the box of records back to beneath the player.

“How does it help you understand yourself?” Steve asked with curiosity, his eyes remaining on her body as she returned to sit back next to him.

Twisting her body to face his, she crossed her legs and began to roll one of the pool balls between the palms of her hands, a laugh escaping her mouth. “Oh, that’s way too deep for such an early time, buddy. I doubt you wanna talk with a stranger about her woes right now.”

“I’ve found that it’s the times when the world sleeps that you can talk about yourself the best,” he recited, remembering all the deep conversations he’d have with Bucky until four in the morning. “Maybe that’s just me, but it’s easier to talk deeper when there’s not so much background noise.”

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head at him, and for the first time that night, Steve noticed the ghost of an exhaustion hidden in the crevices of her face. “If you say so, Rupi Kaur.”

And even though he had no idea who Rupi Kaur was, he remained silent as she took a deep breath and relaxed her tense shoulders.

“Me and my ex split up about two months ago because he’d been cheating on me with my best friend for the majority of our relationship.”

Steve’s stomach dropped as he heard the words. She looked both tired, angry and desolate all at once, and he couldn’t help but feel guilty for her as well as wanting to punch the guy for hurting such a kind and sweet girl.

“Yeah, it’s sad and all. But I think it hurt more because so far, every one of my boyfriends has split up with me because there was someone else. Because my friend was better, or the barista at the coffee shop was better, or my sister was better,” she then let out a dry laugh, causing Steve to flinch slightly at the pain behind it. “It’s funny, because I’ve shared every one of my relationships with someone who was better than me. And I tried so damn hard to keep it all going, to work better and try harder to get them to stay, but they never did. So, when I found out that he’d gone and had his own private relationship with my childhood best friend for over a year… I don’t know, I guess I got tired of fighting because it’s the only thing I’ve ever done. You know?”

Steve nodded. “To some degree, yeah. All my life I’ve been fighting the bad guy, literally in this case, and I'm still fighting them over seventy years later. I guess I'm tired of all of it, and all I wanna do is go home and hang up the shield, but I don’t think I ever will.”

“That sounds lonely,” she looked at him with knowing eyes, and all Steve could think was that this girl, someone who hadn’t lived the life that the team had lived, and someone that didn’t have to suit up every day because they had nothing and no one else, understood.

“It is,” he agreed. “I go home to an empty apartment, I wake up to an empty apartment, and my day job is one where I have no idea if I’ll return back to that empty apartment.”

Steve’s mind had been wandering off as he stared absently at the carpeted ground of the bar, but he broke out of it when he felt her hand on his shoulder. She looked at him with something other than pity for once, something different than ‘I'm sorry you’re in the wrong time with the wrong people’. It was a mix of understanding and her own isolation. She didn’t try to fathom his experience, but somehow, she connected with his words and for one rare moment, he didn’t feel alone.

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