New York (Saint in the City) | Young Avengers | Kate Bishop/Cassie Lang
t: New York (Saint in the City)
f: Young Avengers
p: Kate/Cassie
ch: femslash100 kinks table - #25. Temperature, #26. Texture, #8. Breath, #18. Pain.
r/wc: G/1008
s: They’re Young Avengers, emphasis on the young part, and they’ve both definitely earned more than a little simple happiness.
n: [Title is a song by The Academy Is...] Canon divergent AU in that Cassie has never died. Four drabbles linked into a seasonal-themed story, ridiculously fluffy, I've no regrets.
Temperature (Summer)
It’s August in New York, and the heat is climbing.
It’s so hot that apparently no one wants to try and end the world or whatever, which makes a nice change, and Kate spends her summer doing all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re young and cute and powerful and in love and have access to the rooftop pool Tony Stark pretends he didn’t have installed in the Avengers Tower.
Cassie’s hair goes blonder and blonder in the sunshine, and she tans better than Kate ever will, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks that Kate follows with a fingertip and then with sloppy later kisses; Cassie tastes of sun lotion and laughter and salt and sugar. Everyone gets one hideously cute summer romance, taking terrible selfies with too much sun glare, twining sticky fingers with the chipped nails painted with summer neon colours, fighting for picnic space in Central Park.
They’re Young Avengers, emphasis on the young part, and they’ve both definitely earned more than a little simple happiness.
Kate’s bikini is purple, because sometimes there are clichés she doesn’t mind, a patch of sunburn on one shoulder, as she floats on the surface of the pool. Cassie’s in red and black, hair messily French-braided, tendrils that have worked loose sticking to her cheeks from the water. When Kate looks to her, she sees Cassie caught in splotches of colour, water droplets clinging to her lashes.
She kisses her, chlorine and sunshine, and Cassie laughs.
Texture (Fall)
“I brought pumpkin spice lattes,” Cassie says, clambering onto Kate’s bed, and absently smoothing the band-aid across the bridge of Kate’s nose where the edge is peeling.
Cassie looks like every other student on the streets these days, a slide of gold hair from underneath her beanie, cheeks flushed pink from the wind, fingerless gloves skimming her knuckles. She doesn’t look scratched from their fight last week, though there’s a mess of purple bruises across her ribs that Kate knows are there, even if they’re hidden right now. Kate doesn’t look so put together; cheek grazed from the sidewalk, stitches in her chin, fingers wound with the cheap sticky bandages Clint doesn’t even bother to put away these days.
“That’s my girl,” Kate says, shifting to make room for Cassie and then flopping against her. Cassie is cold from the air outside, her hair a cool spill against Kate’s cheek, her sweater soft when Kate curls her fingers into it.
The leaves outside the window are crinkling and breaking loose to skitter across the sidewalks, to crunch under Kate’s boots when she treks about the city, wearing sunglasses inappropriate for October to hide the worst of the damage that being a superhero with no healing powers whatsoever inevitably inflicts on her face. She likes the crisp bite of the weather, tangling her legs with Cassie’s in worn jeans and thicker socks, but she likes Cassie’s sweaters best: snuggling up against them, soft wool sliding under her palms and sore fingertips.
Breath (Winter)
“We really need to suggest that more fights happen indoors,” Kate says, looking around at the wreckage of the street, the churned-up snow dirty and bloody and slushy.
SHIELD are clearing up, carting their latest set of would-be supervillains off to jail or hospital or both, and the adrenalin is starting to ebb, making Kate woozy and tired. And cold.
America’s still wearing her hotpants even though it’s below zero, because things like winter don’t seem to bother her, and giving Kate an assessing look. “You want my jacket, Princess?”
Kate considers things like pride and then how they’re not supposed to go anywhere for about another half hour, and nods. Kate did not design her uniform with snowy heroics in mind.
“Regretting the hip panels?” Cassie teases as Kate pulls on America’s jacket, huddling.
“You like the hip panels,” Kate replies, smirking as she remembers Cassie’s fingertips drawing circles on the bared skin. Of course, she generally prefers that when it isn’t December, the sky thick and grey and threatening more snow.
“I do,” Cassie replies; she’s a little taller than she needs to be, a little broader, and then she’s stepping up behind Kate, wrapping arms around her. “I like them more when you’re not about to freeze, though.”
Kate’s breath fogs in front of her, bright white as it hits the cold air; Cassie’s matches, and Kate tips her head up, their icy breath mingling before Cassie kisses her.
“Better?” Cassie asks.
“Working on it,” Kate replies.
Pain (Spring)
“I’m pretty sure someone needs to hold an intervention for you and Barton,” Cassie says, trying to sound conversational, though there’s a tremble in her voice that Kate wants to grab hold of, try and smooth out.
“I’m fine,” Kate replies, though this is clearly a lie. She’ll be fine, in the end. Once the hospital discharge her, anyway; for now, she’s bedridden and hopped up on painkillers, and Cassie’s expression is cracked and crumpled.
“Don’t lie to me, Bishop,” Cassie presses, her hand tightening on the sheet by Kate’s thigh. “Or I’ll start taking all these flowers to Clint instead.”
Kate’s hospital room is full of pale pink flowers, light the flush in Cassie’s cheeks in the park when the trees are in blossom and the weather’s warm enough to skim fingers under the hem of her shirt to touch skin, no more layers of scarves and sweaters. Well. When Kate’s capable of that, not laid up wondering how many days concussion is supposed to last, anyway.
“They make him sneeze,” Kate responds, even though it isn’t what she wants to say at all. She wants to say a lot of things, but she’s tired and whatever’s in that drip in her arm makes her tongue clumsy, and anyway, Cassie already knows them.
“You should sleep,” Cassie tells her, kinder than Kate probably deserves, no sense of self-preservation and a girlfriend who loves her anyway. “I’ll still be here.”
Kate doesn’t mean to, but her eyes flutter closed anyway.
f: Young Avengers
p: Kate/Cassie
ch: femslash100 kinks table - #25. Temperature, #26. Texture, #8. Breath, #18. Pain.
r/wc: G/1008
s: They’re Young Avengers, emphasis on the young part, and they’ve both definitely earned more than a little simple happiness.
n: [Title is a song by The Academy Is...] Canon divergent AU in that Cassie has never died. Four drabbles linked into a seasonal-themed story, ridiculously fluffy, I've no regrets.
Temperature (Summer)
It’s August in New York, and the heat is climbing.
It’s so hot that apparently no one wants to try and end the world or whatever, which makes a nice change, and Kate spends her summer doing all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re young and cute and powerful and in love and have access to the rooftop pool Tony Stark pretends he didn’t have installed in the Avengers Tower.
Cassie’s hair goes blonder and blonder in the sunshine, and she tans better than Kate ever will, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks that Kate follows with a fingertip and then with sloppy later kisses; Cassie tastes of sun lotion and laughter and salt and sugar. Everyone gets one hideously cute summer romance, taking terrible selfies with too much sun glare, twining sticky fingers with the chipped nails painted with summer neon colours, fighting for picnic space in Central Park.
They’re Young Avengers, emphasis on the young part, and they’ve both definitely earned more than a little simple happiness.
Kate’s bikini is purple, because sometimes there are clichés she doesn’t mind, a patch of sunburn on one shoulder, as she floats on the surface of the pool. Cassie’s in red and black, hair messily French-braided, tendrils that have worked loose sticking to her cheeks from the water. When Kate looks to her, she sees Cassie caught in splotches of colour, water droplets clinging to her lashes.
She kisses her, chlorine and sunshine, and Cassie laughs.
Texture (Fall)
“I brought pumpkin spice lattes,” Cassie says, clambering onto Kate’s bed, and absently smoothing the band-aid across the bridge of Kate’s nose where the edge is peeling.
Cassie looks like every other student on the streets these days, a slide of gold hair from underneath her beanie, cheeks flushed pink from the wind, fingerless gloves skimming her knuckles. She doesn’t look scratched from their fight last week, though there’s a mess of purple bruises across her ribs that Kate knows are there, even if they’re hidden right now. Kate doesn’t look so put together; cheek grazed from the sidewalk, stitches in her chin, fingers wound with the cheap sticky bandages Clint doesn’t even bother to put away these days.
“That’s my girl,” Kate says, shifting to make room for Cassie and then flopping against her. Cassie is cold from the air outside, her hair a cool spill against Kate’s cheek, her sweater soft when Kate curls her fingers into it.
The leaves outside the window are crinkling and breaking loose to skitter across the sidewalks, to crunch under Kate’s boots when she treks about the city, wearing sunglasses inappropriate for October to hide the worst of the damage that being a superhero with no healing powers whatsoever inevitably inflicts on her face. She likes the crisp bite of the weather, tangling her legs with Cassie’s in worn jeans and thicker socks, but she likes Cassie’s sweaters best: snuggling up against them, soft wool sliding under her palms and sore fingertips.
Breath (Winter)
“We really need to suggest that more fights happen indoors,” Kate says, looking around at the wreckage of the street, the churned-up snow dirty and bloody and slushy.
SHIELD are clearing up, carting their latest set of would-be supervillains off to jail or hospital or both, and the adrenalin is starting to ebb, making Kate woozy and tired. And cold.
America’s still wearing her hotpants even though it’s below zero, because things like winter don’t seem to bother her, and giving Kate an assessing look. “You want my jacket, Princess?”
Kate considers things like pride and then how they’re not supposed to go anywhere for about another half hour, and nods. Kate did not design her uniform with snowy heroics in mind.
“Regretting the hip panels?” Cassie teases as Kate pulls on America’s jacket, huddling.
“You like the hip panels,” Kate replies, smirking as she remembers Cassie’s fingertips drawing circles on the bared skin. Of course, she generally prefers that when it isn’t December, the sky thick and grey and threatening more snow.
“I do,” Cassie replies; she’s a little taller than she needs to be, a little broader, and then she’s stepping up behind Kate, wrapping arms around her. “I like them more when you’re not about to freeze, though.”
Kate’s breath fogs in front of her, bright white as it hits the cold air; Cassie’s matches, and Kate tips her head up, their icy breath mingling before Cassie kisses her.
“Better?” Cassie asks.
“Working on it,” Kate replies.
Pain (Spring)
“I’m pretty sure someone needs to hold an intervention for you and Barton,” Cassie says, trying to sound conversational, though there’s a tremble in her voice that Kate wants to grab hold of, try and smooth out.
“I’m fine,” Kate replies, though this is clearly a lie. She’ll be fine, in the end. Once the hospital discharge her, anyway; for now, she’s bedridden and hopped up on painkillers, and Cassie’s expression is cracked and crumpled.
“Don’t lie to me, Bishop,” Cassie presses, her hand tightening on the sheet by Kate’s thigh. “Or I’ll start taking all these flowers to Clint instead.”
Kate’s hospital room is full of pale pink flowers, light the flush in Cassie’s cheeks in the park when the trees are in blossom and the weather’s warm enough to skim fingers under the hem of her shirt to touch skin, no more layers of scarves and sweaters. Well. When Kate’s capable of that, not laid up wondering how many days concussion is supposed to last, anyway.
“They make him sneeze,” Kate responds, even though it isn’t what she wants to say at all. She wants to say a lot of things, but she’s tired and whatever’s in that drip in her arm makes her tongue clumsy, and anyway, Cassie already knows them.
“You should sleep,” Cassie tells her, kinder than Kate probably deserves, no sense of self-preservation and a girlfriend who loves her anyway. “I’ll still be here.”
Kate doesn’t mean to, but her eyes flutter closed anyway.