elle you are an incredible person and an amazing writer, i couldn’t be more grateful to have met you and call you friend. love you!!
i am so sorry it took me so long to post this but i hope you like it
(the biggest thanks to @maghnvsbane who was the most patient beta i could have asked for and went above and beyond when helping me with this)
reminds Magnus of a cat.
remember the first time the idea formed in his mind, but it had probably been
before they started dating. Back then, Alec had acted like a stray cat, wanting
affection but so afraid to receive it – letting his guard down one moment just to be defensive the
next, wary and hissing every time he felt threatened. Magnus had found himself
reacting in kind, scared of doing something that would only spook him further,
instead extending a cautious hand and holding his breath, hoping it will be
perceived like the offering it was but knowing it could be scratched instead.
Now that they
are together, the image Alec conjures in Magnus’ mind is that of a content,
spoiled cat. Never shy about seeking affection when they’re alone, closing his
eyes and melting every time Magnus runs his fingers through his hair,
practically purring when touched in the right places – and Magnus delights in
discovering and exploring all the right places.
Before Noir could respond, both cat heroes perked as Marinette popped up with a plate. “Ok, you said you wanted tea Noir—”
Faster than either of them were prepared for, Noir stood before Marinette, flashing her a charming, sweet smile, flattering, “How very kind of you, humoring this lost stray tonight.”
“O-oh it’s nothing,” Marinette chuckled, rubbing the back of her head, still a little wary of this new cat but open to trust him.
Behind Noir, Chat hissed his displeasure.
Marinette leaned over at gave him a look.
Noir in turn spared Chat a smug grin.
Chat crossed his arms, his tail swishing about.
He did not like this at all!
Idea that Felix wound up dropped into the show’s canon, and somehow learned Marinette’s LB and seeks to get a kiss from her so he can be free; only Chat’s a jealous kitty.
And Marichat May is done. I can’t say if I will do a story for all prompt ideas that appeared, for sure I will do something with Manynette since she’s a super fun akuma. She’ll either have her own story or she’ll be an akuma in one of my fics, more likely upcoming fics than any current fics.
Written for Day 7 of NurseyDex Week 2017 - “Future NurseyDex”
The twins are talking to each other
over the baby monitor.
Spooned around his back in a long line
of heat, Will tightens his arms briefly, then bites Derek’s
shoulder. “Your kids are awake,” he mumbles.
Derek cracks his eyes open, looks at
the clock, and then groans, shoving his face deeper into the pillow.
“Before seven a.m. on a Saturday? Fuck no. Those are your kids.”
Will snorts into his shoulder. “Funny
how that works,” he says.
Neither of them move. Over the monitor,
Sara jabbers something in baby gibberish, and Omie giggles and talks
back. They’re happy, silly kids, as content to talk to each other
as they are to spend any time with any of the rest of the family.
Still, they’ll need to be changed, and eventually they’ll start
whining for breakfast.
Will seems to come to the same
conclusion. He pokes Derek’s shin with his bare toes. “Hey,” he
says. “If you get up first and let me sleep for another, I’ll eat
you out tonight after the kids go to bed.”
“No deal,” Derek says, not opening
his eyes. “You’ll do that anyway.”
There’s a huff of a laugh against his
neck. “Fair,” Will admits. “But also, like. I got up with them
“I’m sorry, are you bitching about
parenting your children right now?”
“No, I’m bitching that my spouse
gets his beauty rest and I haven’t seen the cool side of a pillow
after seven-thirty for like, four months.”
Derek rolls over in Will’s arms.
“Tough life, buddy,” he says, layering on the saccharine
sarcasm. “I’m sorry that your beautiful, loving husband–”
“I already regret this rant,” Will
sighs, slinging his arm over Derek’s waist.
“–who literally lives to do nothing
but make you happy, who slaved over a hot uterus to give you the
children that you now take for granted–”
Will groans, picks up his pillow, and
hits Derek in the face with it. Derek cackles and retaliates,
grabbing his own. A brief scuffle ensues, and then Will seems to get
bored, throwing his pillow aside, taking Derek’s, and leans over
him to kiss him, low and deep. Derek hums into it, pleased, and lets
Will press him down into the pillow, pressing his fingertips into the
bruises he put on Will’s hips last night.
“Dada!” Sara sing-songs over the
“Baba!” Omie echoes. “Dada-Baba!”
“Three outta five callin’ for you,” Derek says.
“Out ya go, buddy.”
Will groans, dropping his face into
Derek’s shoulder. “I regret that you ever got good at math,” he
sighs, but puts a smacking kiss on Derek’s cheek and gets up.
“Bye,” Derek says, making a
cheerful show of re-wrapping himself around his pillow. Will slaps
his ass, and Derek grunts. “Don’t start shit you won’t finish,
“That’s Poindexter-Nurse to you,” Will
“You’re damn right,” Derek says.
Will smacks his ass again, and then pads out of their bedroom. A few
minutes later, Derek hears the twins break out in delighted babbling
as Will walks into their room. Smiling, he closes his eyes. He’s
still sleepy enough that it’s not long before the warm morning
sunlight and the softness of the pillow starts to pull him back down.
He can hear Will talking to the babies, can hear them giggling back.
He must fall back into a doze, because
the next time he wakes, he smells coffee. It’s close enough that
his attention perks, and he picks up his head, basically nose-first,
just in time for the bedroom door to open.
Yasmin pokes her head in. “Baba? Are
“Mmhm,” he says.
Her face lights up in a smile, and she
shuffles into the room. She has a mug carefully held in both hands.
“Daddy said to bring you coffee,” she tells him solemnly, coming
over to the bed in her Princess Jasmine nightgown.
Derek raises his eyebrows. That’s not
Will’s style. “How nice of him,” he says. “Did you sleep
“Uh-huh.” She comes to the bed
and puts the mug carefully on his bedside table, and then climbs up
into his lap when he sits up. Derek kisses her mussed curls, and she
giggles. “Me and the babies were playing with the cats.”
“Yeah?” Derek wraps an arm around
her to keep her steady on his lap. “And what did Guinevere think
Guinevere is their aging golden
retriever. She’s immensely tolerant, and the kids adore her, but
she’s less exciting than the two cats, Ophelia (or, these days,
Ophie) and Puck.
“She didn’t mind. I petted her
ears, so.” She pokes his shoulder. “Are you gonna drink your
Derek chuckles. “Yeah, sweetheart,
He reaches over to the bedside table
for the mug. It’s lighter than he expects, and when he lifts it
closer to his mouth, he snorts–there’s barely a splash of coffee
into it. He looks down at Yasmin, and finds her mouth curved up, a perfect miniature of Will’s smirk. “You,” he tells her, “are a little trickster,
Yasmin’s smile broadens. “Maybe,”
she says, with the crafty slyness only a seven-year-old can manage to
make seem charming. Derek raises his eyebrows at her, sipping his
meager mugful. “Daddy said to tell you ‘first one’s free.’”
Derek snorts into the cup. “Your
daddy,” he says. “Is a menace.”
“Nuh-uh,” she says. “Daddy’s
“When he wants to be,” Derek
allows. He squeezes her close, and then hoists her off his lap.
“Alright, babes, off you go. Tell Daddy I’ll be down in a
She grins at him. “You’re not gonna
go back to sleep?”
“I pinky promise I will not,” he
says, and Yasmin giggles.
“Okay, Baba.” She takes his mug
away from him, though, because she’s Will’s child at heart and
therefore knows all the best ways to chirp at him.
Derek gets out of bed, reaching for the
sweatpants he’d tossed to the end of the bed last night. He pulls
them on over his boxers, and then he gets to his feet. Yasmin
stretches her arms up for him, and Derek chuckles, hoisting her up
into his arms.
“Alright, big strong girl,” he
says. “Should we go downstairs and see Daddy and the babies?”
“We have to,” she says,
faux-solemn. “That’s the only way Daddy’ll give you more
Derek laughs, and kisses his daughter’s
cheek, and goes to start the day.
Keith was completely fucking useless in the care department the first time Lance got sick (in his defense, nobody had any idea any of them could get space-sick, so no one was prepared, but he was still fucking hopeless). He didn’t know what was going on with Lance at first, which got him worried right away, but he had no idea what to do about it, so he panicked and ran off to find the rest of the team to help him. He hovered awkwardly over Hunk’s shoulder while he checked Lance over (because Hunk is both a mother hen and a concerned best friend), and took every single one of Hunk’s suggestions and instructions to heart.
Lance shamelessly took advantage of being sick at first, whining about how shitty he felt and getting Keith to do stupid little things for him just because he had him at his beck and call, but he eventually noticed how Keith was getting increasingly anxious and despairing, thinking Lance was actually going to die or something (part overreaction on his part, part Lance’s dramatics making things worse), at which point he dropped the act and reassured Keith that he would be just fine no worries buddy, sorry for freaking you out.
Keith acted mad about it, but he was honestly just relieved that Lance was okay.
Hi! Could you please do a no. 10 for SuperCat? Thanks and happy new year!
(The happy new year just showcases that it’s been 84 years since I last posted anything but I thought I’d try seeing if I could still make the words do the Thing I am sorry this took so long).
10. “I just want this.”
& bonus 19. “Come home with me.”
It starts with a messy kiss on
Cat’s balcony, as Supergirl tells her goodbye and wishes her luck on her latest
They’re stood close together, arms
pressed against one another as they both gaze out at the city, and Cat can’t
help but revel in being so close to the woman that has come to mean so much to
her over the past few months.
Kara might think that Cat is only
interested in the Supergirl side of her, but that is far from the truth – and
Cat would tell her so, if only Kara would tell her the truth. But her final fishing attempt had been brushed off with a
soft smile and an amused laugh, and Cat isn’t going to push it any further.
If Kara wants to keep up the
charade, then so be it.
He’d had so many names over the years (many years, far too many years). The Fist of Hydra. James. The American. The Asset. Jerk. The Winter Soldier.
Once, he had even been Bucky.
He still is, according to Steve. Steve who has lived too long, and has his own string of names trailing in his wake. Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. Stevie. Star Spangled Man with a Plan. Punk.
Steve is still Steve, he may even be Stevie. He’s not Captain America anymore, not since the Winter Soldier appeared at his window, metals fingers pressed to the bullet wound in his stomach, scratching at the glass to be let in, like some kind of stray animal.
Steve, Stevie, still had no sense of preservation. He should have closed the blinds and left the thing that had tried to kill him months ago bleed out on the fire escape. But no, he wrenched open the window and dragged the assassin into his home (for fuck’s sake Stevie).
The Winter Soldier had bled all over the bedsheets, and as far as anyone was concerned died there, leaving a ghost.
The ghost of James Buchanan Barnes.
Steven Grant Rogers, Stevie, Dumb Punk, gave up his shield. He had picked it up to save Bucky once, and put it down to the same ends.
They didn’t so much live as warily co-exist in the apartment, on the corner of a street both familiar and strange. They had lived there before, Steve told him, but the building got torn down and they built a new one. Best thing for it, Bucky had said. The old one was a death trap. His mouth did that sometimes, opened up and words spilled out, unexpected and sweet and bitter. Like a head full of firecrackers, memories popping and snapping and if too many went off at once it made him flinch. Made him shiver and tuck himself into the smallest. darkest corner of the apartment, like a stray animal.
So Steve filled the refridgerator with the kind of things the ghost used to eat. Filled the shelves with books that the ghost used to read. The apartment was never silent, a radio in the kitchen, the volume turned low, played big band and swing and jazz, things the ghost used to dance to.
Steve was always so damn stubborn.
Baby steps, the therapist said. Small victories.
He’s killed presidents, and now he’s supposed to feel pride when he walks downstairs to get the mail. He’s brought down governments in a single night but barely manages three stops on the subway.
But it’s worth it, worth all of it and more to see the way Steve lights up when he comes back upstairs with the mail and announces the mission suffered zero casualties. When Steve’s hand wraps around his on the crowded subway and squeezes.
So he walks down to the corner store for milk when they run out, and eats at least once a day, and all the other little things that keep the furrow in Steve’s brow from running too deep.
And he doesn’t punch through the metal side of the dumpster when it starts rustling.
He had managed to pick up orange juice from the store. Not the nearest one just across the street from the apartment, but a bodega two blocks away. When he walked past the dumpster down the nearby alley (old habits die hard and he’s more likely to enter Steve’s apartment by the roof than the doors on the ground floor) it rustled at him and let out a pathetic whine.
Bucky had lifted the lid and found the cat.
The thing was not much more than a scrap of fur and fleas. He had no idea what colour it was, its coat dingy grey and matted. It still had a mouth on it, giving him a half-hearted hiss as he pulled it out of the garbage by the scruff.
The Ghost stared at the cat, and the cat stared back. Then bit his finger.
He offered it a metal fingertip and it bit that too, not even slightly dissuaded by the way it’s teeth skidded over the metal plates.
For the first time in seventy years, Bucky smiled.
The bodega stocked catfood, though Bucky had no idea if the cat preferred the wet stuff in cans or the dried kibble in boxes, so he bought both, the cat safely zipped up in his jacket, it’s flat little head poking out. It’s oversized ears swivelled back and forth as Bucky held out a can of chicken chunks in gravy in one hand and salmon pieces in aspic in the other and told the cat to make up it’s damn mind.
“Mrrr,” the cat said finally, which Bucky chose to interpret as ‘both’.
He pays for the items and walks back out onto the street. The cat makes itself comfortable, borrowing down into his jacket and going to sleep. It’s needle-like claws prick at his thin shirt, digging in whenever he turns too sharply or moves any faster than a walking pace. Since Bucky doesn’t want to be completely perforated he walks slowly down the street rather than take to the rooftops, and anyway he has a bag of catfood.
Steve didn’t look up from his spot on the couch when Bucky slipped through the apartment door and kicks off his shoes, though Bucky would bet good money that he’d spent the whole of Bucky’s absence at the window, quietly worrying.
“Hey Buck,” Steve muttered with a forced nonchalance that fools no one. “You get lost?”
“Mowr,” the cat answered.
Steve’s head snaps up, “What-”
“I founds it in the trash,” Bucky blurted out. “It’s greasy and cranky and smells like crap but…” he falters at the complicated run of expressions that passed over Steve’s features. “You seem okay with taking in strays,” Bucky finished weakly.
Steve frowned silently, and Bucky tensed up, one hand curled protectively around the lump of fur under his jacket. Something in Bucky’s expression seemed to settle him though, and he dropped the book he was reading on the coffee table.
“We’re gonna need more stuff,” Steve announced and pulled out his phone.
He wasn’t Captain America anymore, but that didn’t mean Steve couldn’t get things done when he put his mind to it. Twenty minutes later a harassed looking SHIELD agent dropped off several boxes of random crap that were supposedly essential for cat ownership.
Bucky couldn’t understand the need for a litter tray and unscented, clump-forming, biodegradable whatever-the-fuck to go in the tray (cat’s went outside, right?), or the twine-wrapped wooden kitty adventure playground thing. The collar, okay, fair enough. The shampoo and the flea drops, fuck yeah.
Steve read the instructions on the bottle carefully and gave the cat a wary look. “You’ve got the vibranium arm, you can hold it.”
They covered the bathroom floor with towels, and Bucky placed the cat carefully in the bath, where it gave him an unimpressed look and sat down to wash itself.
The disdain might have been more effective if the cat didn’t stop every time it licked itself to twitch and flap it’s tongue.
Bucky poured a little shampoo into his hands and coated his fingers before rubbing them into the cats matted fur. It gave him a curious ‘Prrrp’, but didn’t freak out until Steve turned on the showerhead, checking the water temperature on the inside of his elbow.
The cat hissed and yowled and bit Bucky’s metal thumb, sending half the tub water onto the floor in its thrashing. Bucky pressed his hand between the cats shoulders and it flattened itself on the bottom of the tub while Bucky rinsed off the soap. Underneath all the grime was silky black fur with white paws and chest and a splodge of white on his nose.
Bucky wrapped the cat up in one of the towels until it was a damp and squirming burrito, it’s nose poking out of one end. Bucky cradled it in his arms, murmuring softly as he carries the cat out to the living room and sits down on the couch. The cat bites his wrist half-heartedly, teeth skidding over metal plates. Steve watched silently from the doorway as Bucky carefully dried the cats fur, working through the tangles with his fingers until it curled up in his lap and falls asleep.
Bucky glanced up when Steve sat carefully on the couch beside him, silently waiting for permission before reaching over to stroke the cats still-damp fur.
Bucky thinks of his first night back, when the Winter Soldier bled to death on Steve’s white linens. It had taken days to heal, the bastardised version of superserum that crawled through his veins forcing out the bullets and knitting flesh and skin back together.
Steve had carried him, bridal style, to the bathroom and placed him in the tub. It hadn’t mattered, ghosts couldn’t feel the washcloth passing over bruises and scar tissue. Ghosts didn’t lean into the touch of hands in their hair, carefully rinsing away shampoo. Ghosts didn’t sigh at conditioner being massaged into their scalps, large, gentle fingers teasing out the knots and tangles.
Ghosts didn’t fall asleep on the couch, wrapped in towels and blankets, half listening as their failed mission made endless phone calls in a hushed voice, pulling apart the pieces of his life and putting them back together again with a ghost shaped hole in the middle. In the heart.
The cat purred in it’s sleep, it’s claws flexing rhythmically, leaving pinholes in Buckys jeans.
Piece by piece, everything falls into place
“He needs a name,” Steve murmured.
The cats head was pillowed in the palm of Bucky’s metal hand, fingers curled loosely around it’s fragile skull. It had one paw wrapped around Bucky’s wrist, holding him in place. As if he could even consider leaving.
Such a fragile little thing, and yet it trusted him. Trusted him to keep it safe and warm and alive.
Bucky glanced at Steve. “He?”
It’s not the thing he wants to say. There aren’t words in any language for that. There isn’t time enough in their artificially extended lives to explain it all.
“I got a, uh, eyeful when he was thrashing around in the tub,” Steve mumbles. “Definitely he.”
Ghosts don’t have names. They have identities - The Weeping Woman, The Headless Horseman, The Winter Soldier. Not names.
Bucky isn’t a ghost’s name.
Bucky shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Steve knows him too well to fall for it. “You pick.”
Steve takes a long moment to consider the cat. Bucky watches him from the corner of his eye. The lines of Steve’s face, the curve of his jaw. Things that ice and time and mind-wipes couldn’t erase.”
“He’s your cat, you choose,” Steve says finally.
Bucky huffs. “I’m bad at names. You’re the one who came up with Bucky. You pick.”
Steve lights up, and for a moment Bucky can’t look at him. It’s like staring into the sun.
“You remember that?”
Bucky bristles under Steve’s look of surprise. “Yeah. ‘Course I remember.”
Steve turns his face to Bucky’s neck and has to take a deep, shuddering breath.
Bucky waits for Steve to pull himself together, Steve’s breath, hot and damp against his skin raising goosebumps.
Really, it’s frankly embarrassing. A former spy and a decorated military tactician, and neither of them had figured it out yet.
You don’t go against your commanding officer and damn well walk into enemy territory in a stage costume for a friend. Seeing an old friend doesn’t break seventy years of Hydra programming.
You don’t hand over your shield to a guy dressed like a bird for a friend.
“Tom?” Bucky asks.
Steve snorts, still hiding in the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s not very creative,” he mumbles.
Bucky shifts and turns to Steve, pressing his lips to the top of Steve’s head.
Steve’s head snaps up, and he meets Bucky’s eyes. “What?”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth ticks up. “I went out to get orange juice.”
Steve coughs out a laugh. “Seriously?”
Bucky gives him a mock glare. “You gotta problem with that?”
Steve shakes his head, his eyes bright.
“You want to keep him?” Bucky asks softly.
“Yeah,” Steve nods.
“You want to keep me?” Bucky murmurs.
Steve frowns. “You’re not a thing, Buck. How many times do I gotta explain-”
Bucky leans forward and kisses him, soft and brief. Steve falls into a shocked silence.
“I mean…” Bucky whispers against Steve’s soft, warm lips. “Do you want to keep me?”
For a second, a heartbeat, Bucky thinks that he’s made a terrible mistake. Steve lets out a soft breath and kisses him back.
“Yes,” he chants between sweet presses of lips. “Yes. Yes.”
More dragon nonsense! One of the dragons becomes enamoured with Jesse and starts following him everywhere -EVERYWHERE. It's starting to become a little exasperating because a guy needs time to himself, yeah? But it looks at him with those adoring eyes and wants to cuddle with him at night and he just can't say no to that. Hanzo looks grumpy about it but never mentions it until Jesse finally asks and Hanzo explains the dragons represent the duality of his personality. And that one loves Jesse.
(I’ve gone for the fanon dragon names!)
Jesse initially didn’t have any objections when Udon started following him around.
He had quite the fondness for Hanzo’s dragons, often watching Hanzo sitting on the couch with Udon and Soba wrapped around him like giant long cats, bellies in the air for a scratch, whiskered faces resting against Hanzo’s. He’d tried to get close once or twice, but Soba invariably hissed at him and Hanzo would chuckle, warning him away until they got used to him.
Well, it seemed that Udon was certainly used to him. Jesse woke up one morning to find a gently snoring blue dragon in bed with him, surprisingly warm and firm for a spectral beast. He tentatively reached down and scratched his ears, and Udon woke slowly, stretched, and purred.
It was fucking adorable, and Jesse quickly grabbed his phone to send a photo to Hana and Lucio.
Having a spectral dragon in your bed was one thing. Having the damned thing follow you everywhere was quite another. It didn’t take long before Jesse started to become a little exasperated with the entire situation. Going to the bathroom, for example, was something a fellow needed to do on his own, without a long blue cat wrapped around him like a scarf. But whenever he closed the door, Udon would whine and scratch until he realised he could just turn spectral and come in anyway.
It was hard to say no to such a beautiful creature, though. Udon seemed to know his moods, and whenever he sensed Jesse getting riled up, he turned his big eyes on him and purred quietly, and Jesse sighed.
Hanzo seemed to be somewhat put out by the entire thing. Jesse noticed him glaring across the room at him one morning as he stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, Udon stretched around him and nuzzling his neck.
“I didn’t mean to poach your dragon, darlin’,” Jesse said carefully. He didn’t want to ruin his budding relationship with Hanzo, but it wasn’t his fault Udon had latched onto him so.
Hanzo sighed and ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Soba rubbed his face against Hanzo’s, letting out an inquisitive chirp. “You did not poach him,” Hanzo said tiredly. “He is driven by instinct, and no small measure of that comes from me.” Hanzo cleared his throat uncomfortably, glancing away, and Jesse dried his hands and came to sit next to him. He shyly slipped one hand into Hanzo’s, rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand, and Hanzo relaxed a little.
“So he’s latched onto me because–” Jesse prompted.
“The dragons embody aspects of my personality. Soba – “ Hanzo scratched him under the chin, and he purred – “is more easily angered because that is the part of me that he senses most. Whereas Udon –”
“Yeah?” Jesse said encouragingly when Hanzo fell silent.
Hanzo turned slightly towards Jesse, angling his body so he could lean his head against Jesse’s shoulder. Udon chirped in excitement, purring in Jesse’s ear and sliding over so he was curled around both of them. “Udon senses those I care for deeply.”
Jesse’s heart skipped a beat, and he tilted Hanzo’s face up. “I’ll thank him later,” he murmured, and gently kissed him.
Udon wriggled in joy, and even Soba started purring again.