Eventual UK/US
Idea by: http://abhauen.tumblr.com/
Fic by: http://ohmygoditsamber.tumblr.com/WARNINGS: for this part, violence and character death.
Author note: any dialogue, unless otherwise stated, is in German. (written in English but the characters will be speaking German)
“So,” Tony says with a tight grin. “Peter, you do not patrol by Stark Tower anymore, okay?”
“Okay,” Peter agrees. “Even if there are Doom Bots?”
“Yes,” Tony grits out. Steve pats him once on the thigh in a consoling faction. “Even if there are Doom Bots.”
Peter frowns. “But what if you guys are having sex again and don’t hear the Doom Bots? You didn’t even hear me until I yelled.”
Steve chokes on air. Tony’s face has gone red and bright, flushed.
“Never,” Tony tells him. “Just—never.”
“Okay, okay,” Peter holds up his hands in defense.
A beat, then, “Did you guys even finish? Is that why Tony’s so frustrated, Cap?”
His country wears glasses. Somehow that’s more surprising than anything else. His country has a dimple in his left cheek but not his right, his country has blue eyes and not green, his country is a man and well, so much for Lady Liberty, but it’s the glasses of all things that get to him.
“I like ‘em,” his country laughs, playing with them. “I’m near-sighted so they help.”
“You’re near-sighted?” Steve repeats questioningly.
His country’s name is Alfred, and he’d told Steve to call him that with a larger than life smile and laugh.
“Yeah,” Alfred says. “I mean, we’re people too, you know? Kind of, at least. I’m human.” He thumps a hand over his heart, gives Steve another dazzling grin—perfectly lined teeth and white as the stripes on Old Glory. “It beats, I swear—although, you know, I’ve seen some of us do some weird stuff. Russia’s heart falls out.”
“That’s, ah. That’s—”
“—really weird, even for us. Mine doesn’t fall out, if you’re wondering.”
There’s a silence. It’s not awkward. It’s maybe not meant to even be filled. Steve had liked to draw in another life, and a part of him itches for a pencil to sketch out the lines of Alfred’s face. America’s young, painfully young, and near-sighted. He’s sitting and hugging his knees, twiddling with the pieces of scrap metal around them. He wants Steve Rogers—his Captain, Alfred had said amazed, Captain America—to like him, earnestly, sincerely.
“So, ah,” Steve begins, “can you do anything ‘really weird’ or…?”
Alfred beams at him, hands working a piece of steel into the delicate bend of a flower. “I’m just like you, Steve. Nothing special, but a hero all the same.”
[spoilers for Captain America movie]
The future—it’s actually the present, the now, but it’s still so much the future and it’s like everything he was promised and nothing at all—is terrifying.
There aren’t flying cars, he realizes somewhat slowly. A part of him reacts, a half-second turn to rib a cocky engineer two steps behind him. Howard isn’t there. Howard will never be there. Seventy years, and the gap is incomprehensible.
The future is bright. It’s artificial.
“It’s New York still,” the man next to him says. “It changed, of course. But it hasn’t lost that feel.”
“It just—it doesn’t—the cars,” Steve settles on. “The cars don’t fly.”
“Man,” the kid—he has to be a kid, he’s younger than Steve, except Steve would be old now, wouldn’t he? In his nineties, at least—“I was always disappointed about the flying car thing, you don’t even know.”
“What?”
The kid shoots him a smile and his eyes echo in a way that Steve knows. It’s something he’s seen in the mirror, washing off daily grime; it’s old, it’s bone-weary, it’s been to the future and been lost.
“You’re not the only one who feels like a fish out of water, Captain. But it gets better, trust me.”
“Why should I? You people lock me up, try to trick me—”
“—you’ve never doubted your country before. Don’t doubt me now.”
Finally, chapter one. Here’s a link to the prologue as I know it was so long ago it’d be a pain to have to go find it:
http://alfredfjonesversustheworld.tumblr.com/post/8655403616/the-venatic-glow-prologue
Hope you enjoy!
Hetalia AU
Hunter!AU Idea originated by abhauen: http://abhauen.tumblr.com/
Author: http://alfredfjonesversustheworld.tumblr.com/
(I don’t know fancy html coding to make those links more graceful, sorry)
Rated M: Adult themes, violence
Pairings: Eventual ArthurxAlfred, implied noncon IvanxAlfred
Mycroft probably should have expected it, Sherlock was very well known to “borrow” his things, and no matter how many locks Mycroft protected his door with, his younger brother ALWAYS could find some way into Mycroft’s flat. Of course, this time, Mycroft had other reasons to be irked with Sherlock’s behaviour, namely one DI Lestrade, whose cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink at the unannounced visitor.
“Don’t stop on my behalf,” Sherlock’s voice drones as he whisks into the kitchen, taking advantage of Mycroft’s rather, ahem, compromising position (bollocks, he probably planned this and had been waiting outside the flat all day for us to start up, Mycroft frantically thinks), but Mycroft won’t be played that way, oh no. Lestrade is practically ready to jump back into his clothes when the older Holmes brother lets out a devastating groan and thrusts slowly but surely into the detective, and with a wink and a nod, Lestrade gets the idea.
Maybe next time Sherlock will have the decency to break in once they collapses into satiated sleep, but then again…
Yeah I need more fics in which the roles are reserved. Please.
Castiel begins to wonder what kind of God would send an angel like Dean. In fact, he’s beginning to wonder what kind of angel Dean even was. He had only known the angel for maybe three minutes and he could already tell he wasn’t going to like him.
“I’m an angel and I pulled your ass outta hell,” Dean grinned, “Couldn’t you tell?’
“Oh, you mean by this?” Castiel struggled with his coat and sweater, but eventually he pulls them down and lifts up his white t-shirt, showing a flaming red handprint on his shoulder.
“In my defense…” Dean started, “You were struggling. It was like you didn’t want to be saved or something.”
Castiel looked down, pulling his layers back on. He didn’t. After what he’d done… Dean was at his side in an instant.
“Look, you’re important,” Dean said, “Really, really, important. So you just need to suck it up and accept your destiny.”
“And I suppose you’re my personal angel?” Castiel mused on that.
“I’m a soldier of heaven wise guy,” Dean snapped, “Don’t think I’m just gonna perch on your shoulder and tell you what to do. You ain’t the only human out there.”
“You pulled me out, you marked me, and you’re not my angel?” Castiel huffed.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” Dean growled, vanishing in a rustle of feathers.
Castiel moaned. That could have gone a lot better.
Castiel’s seen creatures of nightmare his whole life, but he’s never seen anything like the creature of light and brilliance that comes to him, moves in close and smiles like he knows the secrets of the universe. “It’s cool, Cas,” he murmurs, “I’m an angel,” and Castiel can’t resist when Dean — such a regular name for an angel, Castiel’s own name is more angelic! — kisses him with beautiful pink lips and pushes him back on the cheap motel bed. Castiel should be ashamed to have an angel seduce him here of all places, but when you’re used to threadbare sheets and sour whiskey you’ll take any attempt at kindness, and Dean’s so kind — running smooth hands down Castiel’s body, making him twitch and arch and beg. But there’s just enough of the rough edge to Dean, just enough of the hard pull and the demanding bite to his kisses, to make Castiel believe he might be a heavenly warrior.
“Sherlock… it’s been over six months.” Lestrade commented gently. “Maybe you should give it a rest, eh? You could talk to someone, just t-“
“Enough!” The detective snapped. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. It was obvious that Sherlock was tired, exhausted even… but the genius would never admit it. He’d been running at full speed ever since this whole mess began.
Lestrade sighed, and looked to his right. The entire flat was covered with papers, maps and photos. It was the type of organized chaos that only Sherlock Holmes could understand.
“Sherlock.” The older man tried again, a bit firmer this time. “You need to accept the fact that if John Watson wants to disappear… he can. And will. For godsake, he was in the army, I’m sure his ‘stealth’ abilities are considerably high. More than yours.”
The lanky, high-strung detective ignored the comment, and focused on the mapped shrine posted on the wall in front of him; littered with photos of John from survailance cameras. “He’s alive, we know that much based on the images captured by the CCTV cameras.” He muttered. “Most images are somewhat blurred. He knows to avoid them, he knows where they are, and he knows that in a moment of desperation I’ll turn to my brother for information. He’s not wrong. Clever, John… John, John, John…” He growled, running his eyes over every detail, hoping for a clue to his whereabouts.
“You’ll be lucky if he’s even still in the UK.” Lestrade piped up again. “Why don’t you just give him his space. He didn’t take your ‘death’ well. Hell, none of us did, but it hit John the most. Your ‘rise from the dead’ didn’t help either. You know this is all your fault.”
Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at Lestrade, “Yes, thank you for your imput. I was more than willing to make it up to John, but that’s rather difficult now that he’s running away from me!” He hissed.
“You abandoned him for three years. I say good on ‘im if he’s just giving you a taste of your own medicine.” The detective inspector mumbled angrily. “Look, I only stopped by to tell you that you’re on your own. I can’t waste any more police time and energy looking for an army-captain who doesn’t want to be found. If you’re smart, you’ll let him be.”
Sherlock focused his eyes on the extensive map and photos before him. “No. I won’t stop until he’s found. He can’t hide from me!” He yelled furiously. “I won’t let him, he can’t get away… not after everything I’ve done for him…”
“Jesus, would you listen to yourself?!” Lestrade shouted.
“Get out.” The other snarled. “If you’re not going to help then you’re an obstacle. I don’t need distractions! I’ll find John Watson and drag him back here with or without your help!”
Lestrade was about to respond, but the buzz of Sherlock’s phone distracted them both. The consulting detective eagerly opened the message from his brother,
Seen boarding a train in Amsterdam.
Grainy footage, but confirmed eye witness identification.
Car should arrive at Baker Street for you momentarily.
MH“My dear Doctor Watson,” Sherlock muttered to himself as he quickly grabbed his coat.
Without so much as another glance toward Lestrade, Sherlock bounded down the stairs and out the door.
The older detective exhaled slowly, and walked over to the window to see Sherlock slipping into a black luxury car, before it peeled away from the curb quickly.
Taking out his cell, Lestrade typed a quick text:
He’s on to you. Won’t give up, either. It’s getting out of hand.
Don’t you think you’ve made him suffer enough?
GL
It only took a moment for a text reply from an ‘unknown’ number.
No.
About A Bit of Fun in A Busy Life
