Sitting in the hospital lobby, you caught Dr. Hiddleston’s attention on his way to work. Blissfully unaware of your condition, you turned down his help in the first place. When push came to shove, the British intensivist did not leave your bedside.
Bucky blinked up at Clint, his brain struggling to process the words but mostly returning errors.
“Best friends with the Black Widow, Barnes, you better believe my back rub game is strong.”
“I just need -” he waved a hand vaguely. The thing, the reboot thing, the thing with the beds rather than the chair and the metal and the - wow. That way lay nightmares, and there was a distinct possibility he’d cry if his sleep was interrupted again. “Sleep,” he managed, vaguely proud that he’d remembered the word.
“I get that,” Clint said, “I do, but your back is knottier than an escapologist’s wet dream and that does not a good sleep make.”
“How’d you -?”
“Been watching.” The smile on Clint’s face kind of suggested that he’d’ve kept silent if Bucky were more awake, which was kind of a shame - if Bucky’d been more awake he might’ve had a chance of working out what the hell he meant.
“Sure?” he asked eventually. He didn’t like asking for things, not unless he knew he could pay them back.
“Sure,” he said.
“Slow, then,” Bucky answered finally. “Slow but deep.” His voice dropped a little, half way into sleep already, and Clint’s warm hands soothing through his shirt paused and held, tightening the slightest bit in a stutter of morse code that Bucky was too damned tired to translate.
“That’s how you like it, huh?” Clint asked, a little hoarse, and Bucky hummed a happy response, lost in the pleasure of Clint’s warm hands.
“(Y/N)?” Bucky’s voice resonated in your ear as he followed your gaze to the door. “(Y/N)!”
You dashed towards the entrance, determined to confront your father. You had no idea why he was showing up in your life again, you needed to know why. You needed to show him how done you were with him, that he was to stay away from you.
The world spun around you as the cool air hit you. You pushed the people around you, searching for him. Tears backed your eyes as your hope diminished. Was he at the bar as a coincidence? Had he known you had spent a few nights there a week or so ago? Was he trying to find you and toy with your goddamn feelings?”
“What the hell is going on, (Y/N)?” Bucky huffed behind you, desperate to figure out what was going on.
“I…” You paused, you couldn’t tell him what was going on. “Nothing, I thought I just saw someone I recognized.”
“Who did you think they were?” He was prying.
“No one.” You whispered, still looking around for your father.
“So, no one makes your demeanor change to a terrified child and then causes you to run out after them?”
“Yeah.” You sighed, knowing your dad was gone. “Can I sleep at your place tonight?” You didn’t have high hopes, you assumed he’d say no.
“Fine.” He sounded angry but you ignored it. “Let’s go.”
“Thanks.” You watched him call as cab, knowing you’d have to tell him something about yourself to get him to calm down.
Okay, this is super rushed but I wanted to get it out before WidowReaper week started! The inspiration hit me like a truck when I saw a fail video of a baseball game where a guy refused to kiss his girlfriend when the kiss cam came on. So the guy next to her offered and she accepted and their quick kiss made her boyfriend angry enough to leave and I just thought
Gency College AU
College AU. Fluff.
The seats are packed to the point he’s touching arms with McCree
and the girl sitting beside him. So many people roam up and down the steps
eating peanuts and sipping sodas in the baseball arena, but it’s not too bad.
The game’s halfway through, and the team McCree keeps rooting for is winning.
His hollering is enough to make him deaf in his left ear though. Lucio keeps
whooping too, enjoying the day out.
Medic: holds his SOs neck or jaw while he does it, as well as their hip. he controls the kiss and is as adventurous with his tongue as he is with everything else.
Soldier: he likes to come up behind SO and plant a long wet kiss on their cheek. other than that hes a pretty average kisser.
Heavy: all the holding back he does during sex is forgotten about with his kisses. they are deep and passionate. Heavy doesnt kiss, he makes love with his mouth. hes an amazing kisser. he bits and sucks on lips he uses the right amount of tongue… perfect.
Demo: one long hard deep kiss that is soft and loving, he holds his SO as close as he can to him. its warm and enveloping. his kisses is one of the ‘best kisses’ mentioned in The Princess Bride.
Spy: a soft slow deep kiss with lots of adventuring to the neck and ears.
Scout: way too much tongue, he gets excited and tries stuff and messes it up and makes it weird, kinda kisses entire face instead of just mouth.
Sniper: soft but long kisses, the kind that lead to something else.
Engie: controlling deep kiss, not so much tongue but wet and hard. lip bruising.
Pyro: is as likely to tip someone down and french kiss them as they are to lick heir face.
John had left him again. Not even a week, love, he’d murmured into Sherlock’s silvered curls. Some conference. Medical. Military. Whatever. Gentle kisses, gentle reminders. Eat. Drink your tea. Stay warm. Don’t forget. Don’t forget, Sherlock. Yes, John. Just old, John. Hardly senile. Sherlock sulked and stretched his bare feet toward the fire. Alone. He decided to slip into his mind palace for a while. Just to look around. Not for long. Never for long.
He drifted as ever to his mind palace room for John. How it had changed. It once was crammed with everything Sherlock thought he’d need to survive when John finally left him. Old takeaway containers. Chewed-on pencils. Sherlock was quietly terrified then. Time passed. With every year, more was removed. Now the room held John’s chair and his oatmeal-colored jumper. Nothing more. But everything all the same. Sherlock sighed, sat, held the jumper close. Breathed. The windows looked out on a bright garden and the sky. Sherlock dozed.
He woke and the windows were dark. Ice was forming on the panes. So cold. Hardly a night to be going out, Sherlock thought fuzzily. Certainly not. John would shout if he tried. He wrapped his arms more tightly around the jumper and closed his eyes.
He woke and all he could think of was a storm. Muffled bangs like thunder, far away. Almost like shouting. The room trembled and swayed. What terrible weather to shake a room like this, Sherlock thought. Not the time to wander about, then. Maybe later. Something pricked at him, though. Something he was meant to remember. Well. It would come to him.
He woke. He had lost track of time. The storm was over. Now there was just the wind, low and mournful. It sounded almost like John calling his name. My, what sentiment. Sherlock would have scolded himself, but he didn’t have the strength to bother. He was so tired. If he could just get a little more rest. Yes. Just a little more.
He woke. The windows were gone. The walls were gone. The room was full of light. White, blinding. Warm. Sherlock loosened his grip on the jumper and was surprised to see it unraveling in his arms. Thread by thread, rising in the breeze. Breaking, small pieces glinting silver and gold, like John’s hair. Spinning, slowly disappearing into the brilliant light. Sherlock watched, remembering, so much in love, marveling at this extraordinary dawn.
He would have to tell John all about it.
Note: If you can’t bear Major Character Deaths, like me, please read this as Sherlock waking up properly and getting out of there. Somehow.
Also: This has not left me alone for weeks after I came across a brief, heartbreaking ‘What if?’ post by @conversationswithjohnlock about a loveless Sherlock deliberately hiding in his mind palace. I couldn’t go there.