#THIS is exactly why people think army are hot trash

[rrapmonster]

the switch up on brian puspos on twitter has been absolutely comical to watch

[queenoftheworldisdead]

The Cult

Summary: A few years after the return of the stones Steve leaves S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers for good. He starts a religious movement. Newly wed James and his wife (reader) visit his old friend at his compound.

Warning: oral sex and sex Bucky x Reader, Dark Steve x Reader Cult AU

This one got away from me its super long. Sorry

The small prosthetics shop you owned normally catered to low income families and people that had little to no insurance. So it was quite the surprise seeing the brunette Avenger waltzing through your doors.

"Don't you army guys get the Stark industry discount?" You teased the sullen soldier as he ignored you completely.

So that's why they call him the winter soldier.

"Or are you spying on me for the competition?" You say as you watch him examine the different prosthetics throughout the store. When he finally stopped in front of a display case that contained a very popular prosthetic. You had to stop yourself from giggling at the irony of it all.

"That one is called 'The Hero'" you could practically feel his eyes roll as you rounded the counter to open up the display case. " It's my most popular and affordable multi-grip bionic arm for folks that have below elbow and upper-limb differences. Would you like to try it on?"

"Yea sure"

"Oh Ok..." you hand him the arm and scurry over to the door to lockup and put on your 'Be right back sign' with the estimated time of your return.

Walking to the back to your workshop you wave him over to follow you. Stopping at your workshop table you pat the top and motion for him to come closer.

"Aren't you friends with Tony or something? I mean I love my stuff, but compared to his my stuff is trash"

He only scoffed in response. Taking off his jacket as he enter the room that's when you saw it. His left shirt sleeve knotted at the top.

As he placed the garment on your table you sensed his apprehension when it came time to remove the shirt.

"Honey you don't have anything I haven't seen or haven't not seen before" you joke trying to lighten the mood.

By the look on his face you could tell he didn't find you the least bit amusing. With his right arm he grabbed the shirt at the hem and pulled it up and over. The sculpt of his body was amazing. Suddenly it felt as if the heat in your little back room shot through the roof.

"Take a picture it will last longer" he joked with a half smile and with that the mood shifted in the room. You tried to think of a retort, but your brain was fried. Instead you opted to examine his left side tracing your finger around lazily before going to grab your notepad.

"Well you will need something customized for sure. Come back in a week and I should have something ready for you."

As he redressed while you stole glances at his exposed muscles. When he looked back at you, you pretended to write down more notes on your note pad.

"They don't let you take that kind of stuff with you when you retire" Bucky could tell it was a question you had wanted to ask the moment he walked in. He was referring to his now missing infamous vibranium arm.

It had been over a year since the Winter Soldier first entered your shop. Your prosthetics were durable, but were no match for his super strength. It was almost a bi-weekly occurrence that he would enter your shop in need of repairs or a new prosthetic.

"OOOOOH! Looking sharp." You call out to Bucky as he enters your shop for the third time this month. His hair was freshly cut and his face clean shaven. Showing off a jawline that could definitely cut glass. "Got a hot date tonight?"

"That depends on if you say yes" He frankly as he pulled a bushel of flowers from behind his back.

You were dumbfounded as he smiled down at you with those gorgeous blue eyes. The only thing you could do to reply was nod your head like an idiot.

Waking up with your husbands head between your legs was the best way to start your three year anniversary. Looking down at the tuft of brown hair tickling your thighs you were tempted to pull on them, but decided against it.

Bucky's hot breath on your folds made you involuntarily squirm alerting him that you were now awake. You could feel the grin on his mouth feathering over your clit. The anticipation of his touch had you grasping the bed sheets beneath you.

"Good morning Bucky" you say with a squeeze of your thigh.

He didn't answer only flattening his tongue to finally make contact. Bucky pressed it down your center, separating your folds and the sensation had your head falling back onto the pillow. You had to fight the urge to flip him over and ride his face.

His tongue going over every inch of your sex. You reach down and thread your fingers through his hair almost tempted to take the strands and pull him closer.

When you began to grip too tightly though he bit your inner thigh. Hissing you released it and Bucky rewarded you by kissing the area. Grinning to himself as he trailed kisses back down to your soaking pussy.

Before you knew it he took your left leg and swung it over his shoulder. Locking you in with his arm around your thigh, Bucky swiftly brought your mound flush to his face.

You gasp on impact feeling the devilish smile on him. Taking your clit in his teeth gently holding it there as his tongue flickered over it. Your back arched up from the bed as he sucked it completely into his mouth.

Releasing your leg his arm moved down your inner thigh. His thick finger spreading your lips apart. You sucked in a breath when one finger sank into you.

"Look at me baby" the vibrations of his voice on your clit had you buzzing.

His eyes waiting for you to rest on him. You couldn't do it the sight of him like that would make you cum immediately.

"Look at me" his voice became more demanding. Whimpering a soft no in defiance.

When his second digit joined in the fray you cursed out. "Fuck! James" you cry as you look down at him.

Bucky was making you uncontrollably wet. Flattening his tongue he licked and nipped on your folds. Cleaning your thoroughly whilst his finger pumped deeper and faster into you. You lost control of your thighs and squeeze his head, grinding your pussy on his face while you clutch the sheets.

"James...I-I can't take it" you could feel the pressure build in you. Your breathing became heavy as you rode out your orgasm on his face.

"Shit James" you moan as your head falls back on to the pillow.

"Happy anniversary" he said pulling back to sit on his haunches.

"Happy anniversary to you too" you pant out. You wanted to sit up on your elbows but you just felt too weak. The bed dipped as Bucky climbed out of it. "Where are you going?"

"I had planned on making you breakfast" he walked over to place a kiss on your head.

"Oh. I thought women from your time did the cooking while the men brought home the bacon" you tease him. Rolling over on your side you watch him grab a pair of grey sweat pants from the dresser.

"Seeing as though you work and I'm retired some might say the rolls have reversed."

You weren't going to argue with getting breakfast made after a great orgasm. If this man wanted to pamper you, you wouldn't fight it.

"I like my bacon crispy" you call out as he walked out of the bedroom. Your legs were still a bit weak, but you managed to pull yourself out of bed. Stretching as you walk to the bathroom.

After you brushed and showered you got dress to go to the mailbox. You were expecting a package that you wanted to surprise James with, but with all the pandemic madness it was arriving later than excepted. Through the mail slot you picked up the papers and huffed disappointingly at the lack of parcel. Shuffling through the pile of mail you head into the kitchen to check on James.

"Smells good." The aroma was making you hungrier.

"Sounds like you were doubting me" he said with his bare back to you.

"Never of course not" you lied. He had burnt more than one meal throughout your relationship so you always tried to monitor him on the sly. "You got a letter, no stamp which is super weird" trying to change the subject you slap it on the counter behind him. "Ooooh is it some secret spy stuff"

You expected him to huff and brush you off, but he didn't. He looked as if he was frozen in place.

"James?" You became concerned and started walking towards him.

He turned to the letter, dropping the spatula to grab the letter. Opening it he started to read, his face contouring throughout the process.

You moved passed him to start on the coffee until you smelled it. The bacon was starting to quickly burn. James was so lost in thought that he didn't smell the smoke coming off the now very over cooked bacon.

Spinning around you rush to turn off the stove. The blackening bacon emitted more smoke as you ran it under the sink. The smoke detector shrieked out and you dropped the pan to open the kitchen window to air out the room. As you started to cough Bucky was unmoved.

"Bucky what the hell!" you scold him.

Clutching the letter in his hand you couldn't tell if it were the smoke or the letter but his eyes were red and watery.

"It's Steve" you looked at him confused until it hit you. Steve was a buddy from his past. Another man lost out of time.

*Flash back

When they realized Steve wasn't coming back after returning the infinity stones a decision was made. They didn't want to cause more damage to the time line than what they had already done and Bucky knew exactly where to look.

Steve was dragged back to the proper time line by his Avenger buddies. He did not take his friends intervening into his second chance with the love of his life too well. The chance to not be the man out of time.

The frustration and the feeling of betrayal ate away at him. Bucky had taken the brunt of his ire. He began seeing himself as a soldier stuck in a constant war and of all the people that could understood Bucky should have. Steve's mental state was breaking down and a festering hatred for S.H.E.I.L.D. and the Avengers grew. The super soldier was turning into something his friends could not recognize.

Then one day Captain America vanished. S.H.E.I.L.D. and The Avengers scoured the four corners of the earth looking for him. Despite their combined resources  

James took Steve's disappearance the hardest. He blamed himself for the deterioration of Steve's mental state. Steve saved him, but it seemed he could not return the favor.

The guilt and pain of losing and betraying Steve took its toll on him as well. S.H.E.I.L.D. did not want to risk harming Bucky's mental state. With his history with brainwashing they thought it wise to relieve him of his duties. So within a year after Steve's disappearance Bucky was forced into a mandatory retirement.

*Present

In the letter Steve told Bucky he had started a settlement and invited him to visit. He left instructions on how to contact and find it. When he asked you to come with him you said yes without hesitation. He didn't think to question how a letter with no postage found its way to the house. It nagged you a bit, but you brushed it off as Avenger/spy stuff. It also nagged you that Bucky had searched for Steve a long time just for him to randomly make himself known on your anniversary.

You hated flying, but you did it for Bucky. The journey out of the country took several hours to complete. Once you two landed you were dismayed to find you had to immediately board a helicopter. When the propellers started up you fastened your seat belt and held on to Bucky's arm for dear life. Your never were completely shot and you were exhausted. As the small plane travel over the tree tops you couldn't bring yourself to look.

This was your first time out of the states and you cursed Bucky for taking you to god knows where instead of Hawaii.

As the chopper started its descent your were able to calm down. When you felt it hit the earth you looked out the window. This wasn't an airport. This was a makeshift tarmac in the middle of the tallest trees you had ever seen.

Scanning around you spot a Jeep. "James do you know those guys" pointing to the man standing outside their vehicle.

"No, but I'm sure he must be a transport to the town"

"Who builds a "town" way out here?"

When the propellers slow to a stop James unbuckled and you followed suit. Grabbing some luggage he exits the chopper.

"Your taking me to Hawaii when this is all over, you know what scratch that Paris" you huffed out as you struggled with your bags.

A tall man pushes off the jeep and walks over. Looking up at James, his face ferociously serious.

"Mr. Barnes I presume" he extended his hand to shake, but Bucky only looked at it.

"Well I'm sure your not Captain America so who are you" you tried to break the tension.

The tall man eyed you as if you had offended him for speaking out of turn.

"Right this way we will take you to him"

Rude

He turns from you two to walk to the jeep. "Are you sure about this James" you ask softly so that the man can't hear. Bucky looks down at your nervous face and softens his gaze, placing a hand on your lower back.

"It's alright I got you" he reassures you then kisses the top of your head.

Despite his effort that did little to comfort you. When you reached the Jeep Bucky tossed the bags in the trunk then you piled into the back seat first followed by your husband.

The vehicle started up and headed towards a dirt road. Each side of it aligned with trees. The hum of the ride lulled you to sleep and you passed out on his shoulder.

The halting of the jeep woke you. From the back seat you could see a massive wooden gate.

The compound was amazing, encased by a tall log fence surrounding the premises. As you passed through it the site wasn't what you expected. Once inside you could see plowed fields on one side and cattle, sheep and the odd chicken enclosed in its own gate on the other.

It stretched out for a while before you saw cute little wooden houses, some with flowers or little gardens of their own and laundry lines some with or without clothes hanging to dry. You had assumed you would see tents or some kinda shabby twig shack.

Further down the road you saw a much larger structure. As you approached the jeep decreased in speed. There were groups of children playing care free. Some running along the vehicle to beat it to its destination before giving up and turning back.

When the jeep slowed you saw him. There he was, Captain America, standing in front of a massive wooden church. It was the biggest structure out of all the houses you passed along the way.

You could feel Bucky's muscle tense in your arms. Stroking his arm you try and sooth him.

After parking the car the driver walked around to your door and opened it. Helping you out much to your surprise. Bucky filed out after you. Moving past you to walk straight up to Steve.

Captain America out stretched his arms and engulfed Bucky in a bear hug. It took a moment before Bucky lifted his own arms to hug him back.

You watched from the sideline, both men fighting back tears. The reunion had long sense been over due.

"Punk who is this?" Steve broke the hug and looked at you.

Stepping back to put your hand over your shoulder bringing you into a side hug. "This is my wife Y/N"

Steve eyed you and smiled. You felt so small all of a sudden.

"Welcome Y/N" his hand out stretched to receive yours. His smile blindingly bright.

"I've heard so much about you. I mean not just because your Captain America." If you would've blinked you would have missed  it. There was a slight twitch in his eye. You reach to shake his hand and he clasps his hands over your own.

His grip was firm but not too much. Slipping your hand out it felt as if his hands resisted the break for just a moment. Almost as if his fingers tips linger to tickle atop your skin.

"No one calls me that any more. Here... Here I'm just Steve."

"Well, Steve this place is very impressive" you smile at him. "I must say I expected little grass huts not actual houses." You didn't miss the smirk on Steve's face.

"Every building was built by hand. We teach all the men how to do carpentry" he boasted. "And we run everything on solar energy."

"But no running water I'm afraid, but we are working on  it"

"Wait, just the men?" You corked a brow.

"Ha... the women are welcome to learn too, but they tended to gravitate else where"

You had an assumption of what he might have meant, but you didn't want to press him on it. James was reuniting with his dear friend after such a long time. You didn't want to ruffle any feathers.

"After a long trip like that I'm sure you two must be hungry"

He was right. You hadn't eaten since you left the US. The plane ride had your stomach in knots so you couldn't eat there either.

Leading the way Steve rounded the opposite side of the church with Bucky right on his side. Both chatting about past missions or the war you weren't quite sure. Bucky looked so happy, the smile on his face made your heart ache. You were happy for him, but Steve would glance back at you as he spoke to Bucky. There was a smile on his face all the while but his eyes looked as if they hid something.

The aroma of the food hit your nose taking your attention away from him. As you looked about for the location of the food your stomach to growl.

You weren't sure if it was a special occasion or if this was a nightly occurrence. In the distance you saw women setting the tables with food and plates. Each table aligned next to each other. When the bell rang you were startled. It must've signaled that dinner was ready because people where gravitating to the tables taking a seat.

Steve of course sat at the head of one of the largest tables. Bucky sat next to him while you sat across from your husband. As people filled in the people sat and talked amongst themselves. The food look great, but you wondered if it would be bland. As you looked around the room you could feel eyes on you when you turned to look at Bucky he wasn't looking at you, but when you looked at Steve you saw him as he just looked away.

When Steve rose from his chair the room grew quite. All eyes looked at him.

"Let us say grace" his voice boomed. The woman next to you nudged your arm, her hand turned up right ready to receive yours. Awkwardly you take her hand.

"Steve's too" she whispered into your ear before she lowered her head. You turned your head and found Steve's hand waiting expectedly. His head down with one eyes open looking towards you to take his hand. Timidly you take his too the then he closes his eyes. You look around the room and even Bucky was bowing his head, so as to not be rude you did the same.

This was very awkward for you. As your hand rested in Steve’s you felt his thumb trace slowly around your palm. It took everything in you not to snatch your hand away. You didn't want to cause a scene in this peaceful moment, but you sure as hell would tell your husband what just happened.

When he finished the prayer you pulled your hand away swiftly. Rubbing against the fabric of your jeans as to scrub him off. Bucky was once again in deep conversation with Steve and everyone else resumed talking. Leaving you to feel lonely and out of place.

A little girl not older than 10 you thought came with a pitcher to refill your glass. The poor thing poured too much spilling on to your lap.

"Shit!"  You looked around and every one had paused. The little girl was almost in tears. "Oh no it's okay sweetie" you took a napkin and blotted your wet blouse.

She looked passed you for only a second before she cried and ran off.

"Shit fuck" you sighed out.

"You shouldn't be cursing like that" the woman that sat next to you admonished. For a moment you forgot where you were. Of course a place like this would look down at that kinda language."

"Sorry my bad" Looking at Bucky he only smiled knowing how you were, but you caught Steve’s expression before he changed it. Unpleased.

Oh great

Your clothes weren't getting drier and your body was running on E.

"Um Steve" you reluctantly turned to talk to him as you dabbed yourself. "Where are we going to be staying I think I would like to change out of this and call it a day." Yawning as you spoke to him. The effects of the long day was taking its toll.

"You will be guest at my home." Steve waved over to one of the women at the table. You go up and walk over to Bucky. Wrapping your arms around his neck you lean down to give him a kiss. "Have fun" he kisses you again before you depart.

The woman Steve called older was a bit elderly. Smiling at you she wordlessly guided you to Steve's house. Walking through the grassy knoll you could see a house just past the church. It was larger than the houses you saw along the road. Facing opposite the church she walked up the stairs through the back door. The door lead to the kitchen. You continue following her until she stops in front of the guest rooms door. Your bags already waiting for you.

"Thank you Mrs." you say to her as she smiles back at you before gingerly walking off and out of the house.

Closing the door you strip down. You wanted to take a bath, but  you remembered there was no running water. The queen bed called out to you. Flopping on it you drift off to sleep.

You awoke to a faint sound. Through your tired state you listened intently. Someone was crying. Your heart fell when you realized it was Bucky.

"James?" you groggily call out. Getting off the bed you walk over to him.

"Are you alright?"

Clearing his throat he assured you he was fine. Hugging tightly you rub his back and you could feel his tears fall on your shoulder.

You couldn't imagine how he must've felt to loose a friend and find them again in the ways they have. The emotional toll it must be taking on them both.

This was the worst time to talk about this, but you were never much for holding your tongue. Stepping back from the hug you took a deep breath and blurted it out.

"James I don't think I like Steve"

Bucky looked at you quizzically, you felt like shit.

"What do you mean" he looked a little upset but still listened.

"I feel like he lingers. His touches, his eyes on me. He just makes me.." You say as you sat down heavily on the mattress.

He swooped down on the bed to get close to you. Placing his hands on your shoulders rubbing you.

"Steve and I are from a different time. The Punk has always been awkward around beautiful women"

Dipping down his head to be level with yours he began kissing you. The salty taste of his tears fell on your tongue as he   passionately kissed you.

Pulling back you thought that maybe he was right. Maybe all of this was making you paranoid or weird. Steve was from a different time and this place felt like it was from a different world.

"Your right its just a little different here. I'm sorry" you try and back track.

Pushing you backwards you hit the rough mattress. Bucky stripped himself of his clothes. His hands reached for your knees spreading them apart so that he could position himself between your thighs.

Wrapping your legs around his waist you press him to your sex, grinding on him with a desperate need. He dived to your lips kissing you again rougher than before. This time with a hunger that you both shared.

"Fuck Bucky... Fuck me" you pant in-between breaths. His cock growing harder as it slicks with your juices. Lining himself up he pushed into your need and you claw into his back as his cock stretches you.

"Y/N" he moaned into your mouth as he began pumping harder and harder. His pelvis slamming into you and despite the pain of the fullness you could feel a damn of pleasure waiting to break.

"Bucky baby" you moaned as he kissed down your chin to your neck.

The modest home walls were thin, Steve stood out side his guest room. Stroking himself to the music of your love making unbeknownst to you. Sweat beaded off his forehead as he imagined you. Placing a palm on the door-frame he grunts as he feels himself reaching his peak. As Bucky shouts your name Steve whispers it in the empty hall.

*Ding Dong

The sound of the church bells could not be ignored. Your eyes opened with annoyance at the noise. The light of dawn had not even begun to crack the sky.

Patting the mattress you discovered your husband gone. He had been know not to sleep well some nights and would walk around your house, but you felt uneasy and worried this time. Something felt off.

*Ding Dong

Throwing your feet off the bed you stand to get up. In the darkened room you feel around for the dresser to find a long shirt and your cell, but it was missing. Feeling along the wall you search for the light switch, but when you find and flick it nothing happens. From what you could see, he wasn't anywhere in the room. You bit your bottom lip and pushed yourself forward toward the door.

Opening the door you peer out the area was darkened too.

"James" you whisper into the hall. Leaving the room you begin to walk down the tiny hall of the unfamiliar house.

*Ding Dong

Feeling around the wall you search for your husband. At the end of the hall you could make out the large living room window. Despite its size the light that came from it did little to illuminate the room.

"Shit!" You cursed as you bumped into some corner table. The panic building in you helped dull the pain.

"James" you call out a bit louder as your eyes scanned the room.

*He wasn't here.

Off to the right you could see the entry to the kitchen. You gingerly walk into it hoping to find him, but your stomach tightened when you saw the back door wide open.

*Ding Dong

The bells of the church was louder here. Building up the nerve you slowly walk to it.

Before the bell could chime again you felt something impale you hard from behind. The pain from it was so immense your vision went from blurred dizziness to black in an instant.

Your back ached in discomfort as your eyes fluttered open. Laying on the floor you turn, but your shoulder hit a ceiling. When the smell of cedar hit your nose the panic really set in. There was very little light that broke through the seams of the  wall, but you couldn't see through it. It felt like you were running out of air as your heart picked up speed.

Your finger tips felt around and you filled with dread. You were surrounded by four walls.

"Bucky!" You screamed. You bang your hands on the wooden ceiling. "James! Help me please!"

Your were hysterical you needed out. If this was a nightmare you needed to awake. You shouted and screamed for your husband, but he didn't answer.

"Buckyyyyyy!" You screamed.

You beat the ceiling even as you felt blood trickle down on your face from your bloodied fist. The air felt thinner and thinner as you whaled.

"Bucky" your voice fainter now as you felt yourself slipping away. You couldn't catch a breath, your hands too heavy to hold up. Falling limp on your chest as you try and call for him again, but the darkness consumed you once more.

tag list: @shadowcatsworld @sllooney @tinystudentfirepurse

[hey-its-nonny]

Chapter six!!

can’t wait for you guys to read it :)

we have about three chapters after this! (i’m estimating, dont quote me on this) i’m so excited but also kinda sad because my first multichapter will be over :/ but it’s for good reason because there will more than likely be a second one

please don’t be mad at me for this one

sorry for the rambling. enjoy!

~~~~~~

You inhaled a breath, warmer than ever despite the chill outside.

also, a forewarning, there’s a bit of angst if you squint hard enough on this one at the end

sorry for the rambling. enjoy!

~~~~~~

You inhaled a breath, warmer than ever despite the chill outside.

The three of you had gotten word that a grand annual celebration was being held tonight in honor of Rohan’s army, and decided it couldn’t hurt to go. So, you all went separate ways (really, Legolas and Aragorn just paired up.) to find some decent clothing.

Your eyes wandered around the store, searching for anything to wear. You’d caught sight of a casual (f/c) dress, almost instantly falling in love with it. You didn’t shop often, but you enjoyed it when you could. The dress was on the lower half of your price range, so you decided to get it.

You bought it and went back to your room at the inn, already excited for the festivities to come. You washed your hair, drying it and styling it as best you could.

You took a deep breath, staring at your reflection in the mirror with a content smile. And as if on cue, a knock sounded on your door. You strode over and opened it after one last look in the mirror, revealing a clean, very well dressed elf.

You smiled, giving him a once over with a sharp breath. You were about to speak, but Legolas beat you to it. “I- Um,“ He stammered quietly, his cheeks and the tips of his ears going bright red. He looked you over, unaware that Aragorn was watching from afar.

Your face lit aflame at the reaction, and you smiled bashfully. “Do I look alright? My only fear is that it may be too much.” You asked, slightly self conscious about the whole getup. The elf shook himself out of whatever trance he was in, only making it harder to keep your calm.

The elf nodded, taking a deep breath. “More than alright. You look incredible, Y/n.” He replied, offering his arm to you. “Aragorn sent me to get you for the celebration. Shall we?” He asked, to which you nodded, looping your arm through his.

”We shall.” You beamed, stealing a glance at Legolas with a sharp breath. You decided to go ahead and compliment him as well, your cheeks burning. “Also, thank you. You look amazing as well.“ You smiled warmly, walking alongside Legolas with a lopsided, bashful smile.

Aragorn watched carefully, a smile growing on his lips as the affections blossomed right before his eyes. He couldn’t have been more blessed to have the privilege of watching it happen. He’d have to talk to Legolas later though.

He approached you two, walking over with a teasing grin. You both looked away from each other, clearly embarrassed at what he was implying. “Y/n, you look beautiful.“ He grinned, earning a smile from you. “You look beautiful too, Aragorn.“ You retorted, a wave of quiet laughter sounding from the three of you.

Once you were done laughing, you all decided to make your way to the venue, chatting along the way. You grinned upon seeing the decorations, taking a breath to calm yourself as you approached. Aragorn spoke up, looking at the both of you. “Y/n, why don’t you go ahead? I would like to have a word with Legolas.” He asked, and you nodded reluctantly, walking through the entrance.

Legolas, who seemingly knew what this conversation would be about, stood tall, waiting for Aragorn. “She truly is beautiful, isn’t she?” He asked the elf, and he nodded with a fond smile. “Yes, she is.” He replied, relaxing as they walked away.

Meanwhile, you weaved throughout the sea of people, careful not to bump into anyone. You hummed, watching people laugh and talk to each other while the children ran around, laughing. Just as you were gaining some confidence in the sea of people, a young, golden haired boy no older than seven bumped into you.

You gasped, looking down at the child in surprise. He looked mortified, picking up the toy sword he held in his hand. “I’m so sorry, miss! I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He apologized, frantically dusting his shirt off. “It’s alright. What’s your name, young one?” You asked, offering a warm smile.

The boy looked up at you, placing the sword in your open hands. “Theoden. What’s yours?” He asked, watching you wield the sword. “Y/n. Did you make this?” You asked, surprised with how well it was crafted. The boy nodded, looking at his sword proudly “You’re a fine craftsman, Theoden. Would you like to see a real blade?” You asked, heart melting at the way the boy lit up, enthusiastically nodding.

You grinned, standing up after handing Theoden his sword. “I’ll be back shortly. Wait here.” You smiled, standing up to run back to the inn and grab one of your daggers, as well as it’s case. About ten minutes later, you returned, Theoden patiently waiting exactly where you left him.

You unsheathed the blade, kneeling before the young boy. He grinned, eagerly eyeing the detail on the blade. “You can hold it, but you have to swear you’ll be careful.” You cautioned, watching Theoden nod with the same level of care and respect.

You placed it in his hands, watching how he held the blade with care and skill. As if he’d known you were surprised with his skill, he spoke. “My father taught me how to care for a blade.“ He explained, handing the blade back with care. “Thank you for letting me hold it.” He smiled, bowing his head respectfully.

“Thank you for taking such care with it, Theoden. You will be a fine swordsman when the time comes.” You grinned, ruffling his hair before turning on your heel to return your weapon to its other half.

You walked to the inn, making sure you still looked okay before you left again. You strolled back to the venue, allowing your thoughts to take you away momentarily. Your thoughts wandered back to Legolas and his whereabouts, a smile resting on your lips.

The closer you got to the venue, though, the more evident it became that the music had begun. You picked up the pace, entering the area with a certain excitement you hadn’t felt in a while.

You were so distracted by the music, that you bumped into yet another person. This one was much taller, though. “Excuse me. I wasn’t paying attention.“ You apologized, your cheeks heating up when you saw who it was you bumped into.

Legolas grinned at you, clearly pleased to have found you. “I was just looking for you.” He offered his hand, nodding towards the stone dance floor. “Care to dance?” He asked, a wry grin on his lips as you took his hand, doing your best to keep it cool. “I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.”

The song previously being played ended, the musicians switching to an upbeat tune. You grinned, leading Legolas onto the dance floor. Just before you could start dancing, though, Legolas placed one hand on your waist, and grabbed your hand with the other, pulling you close.

You didn’t think your face would ever get as hot as it was, but it felt like you were on fire. You watched him closely, letting him lead. “Follow my lead.” He grinned mischievously, which would’ve made your stomach if Legolas had given it time.

He lead you in a set of surprisingly uncomplicated steps, fitting perfectly with the music. You trusted him and it paid off. With a smile, he pulled you closer to his chest, speeding up just a bit. You chuckled, rolling your eyes at his skill.

He hummed, making an ”oh-really?“ face, stopping momentarily. Your eyes widened while he held you close, spinning you around in circles. “Legolas!” You gasped, erupting into a small fit of laughter before the elf pulled you back to his chest.

He laughed, leading you around the dance floor in the same sequence of steps, pairs of guests clearing the dance floor to watch you two dance the night away. After a minute or so, you’d gotten used to the steps, gliding over the stone floor with ease.

The song picked up a bit, and you followed the music, letting Legolas lift you in the air to spin you around when the music piqued, earning a round of applause from the crowd you’d accumulated. You smiled brightly once you’d landed on the ground, the feeling worth all the gold in the world. You went back to the dance, spinning once more until Legolas dipped you at the end of the song.

You were both panting, faces nearly inches apart as the crowd roared with applause. You both laughed, smiles bright. Careful not to spoil the moment, you leaned in, Legolas doing the same until your lips just barely brushed.

You let your eyes start to flutter shut until you felt Legolas hesitate.

In his deep blue eyes, you saw that same pain and sorrow in his eyes in replacement on the joy in them seconds ago. He pulled back, lifting you up to stand up straight. You stared at him, searching for an explanation as to what just happened.

He shook his head, turning around to leave you alone, deserted on the dance floor.

~~~~ CLIFFHANGER MUAHAHAHA

no seriously though was that okay? i loved the dance stuff but i kinda think it’s trash lol

tag list: @elvish-sky @themerriweathermage @from-patroclus-with-love @iwenttomordor@

@wishingtobeinadifferentuniverse @redheadedfaye @ophieles @ahs0katan @raven-emxralds

[smokeybrandreviews]

Smokey brand Movie Reviews: Stop, It's Already Dead

I’ve been trying to watch Army of the Dead since it came out but every time i start, i end of bailing on it because it’s trash. Yeah, that’s it. This movie is trash. You can literally stop reading this review right now because that’s the verdict. Army of the Dead is shallow, inconsequential, zombie murder porn wit that trademark Zack Snyder, edgelord, spice. It’s f*cking ridiculous and i hated every minute of it. That’s it. That’s the review. Don’t watch this rancid spooge. Now, if you want to know why i hated it so much, read on. But it really is one of the worst things i have seen all year.

The Adequate

Dave Batista works magic with the material on hand. Zack Snyder isn’t know for having emotional bite or a realistic edge to any of the characters in his films but Batista was able to hone in on something and does a decent job of letting me tolerate this clusterf*ck. His Scott Ward is easily the best thing about this flick.

The carnage displayed while the opening credits rolled was almost as dope as Zombieland and i appreciated that. Literally the only time during the film where i didn’t feel like someone was standing on my sack and twisting.

Also, Hiroyuki Sanada is in this. I don’t know the name of his character and i don’t care i just genuinely enjoy Sanada’s work. He is an excellent actor and, similarly to Ken Watanabe, makes everything he’s in better, regardless of his role’s size or relevance.

The integration of Tig Notaro was kind of seamless. That sh*t was surprising because every one of her scenes was added in post. She had no interaction with any of the cast, not even in pick-ups. That’s just her, in front of a green screen, talking to herself. Of course, there are scenes where that is very apparent but the fact she was even able to replaces an entire actor wrapped month beforehand, is kind of a miracle and testament to the absurd technical skill Snyder wields as movie maker.

The Horrid

Zack Snyder. Literally everything i am about to unload, is Zack Snyder’s fault. This “film” is pure Zack Snyder. More so than the Snyder cut of Justice League. More so than BvS. Even more than f*cking Sucker Punch. Netflix gave this man a bunch of money and told he to go “create” and, to his credit, Snyder did just that. Unfortunately, he created hot dumpster water topped with soggy diarrhea.

Seriously, everything i have a problem with, has Zack Snyder’s name on it. He was the director, the writer, the screenplay writer, AND the f*cking cinematographer. What the f*ck, dude? Like, you want to be an auteur director, fine. Be good at it. Be good at movies if you’re trying to wear all of those hats. Zack, as a filmmaker, is bad at ALL of them. At best, he’s pedestrian, so doing all of that, just infuses abject mediocrity throughout this movie and it shows.

I’ve seen a lot of cats haring of Snyder’s depth of field choices but I'll take it one step further; What the f*ck was up with the shot composition as a whole, in this film? It was bad! All of it was so bad! There was no substance, no dynamism in the camerawork or the way the shots were set up. I’m not going to sit here and say it was just a bunch of static work, like how someone would film a play for theatrical exhibition, but it wasn’t that much better. I was watching this sh*t and thought to myself, “Hamilton had better camera work than this. F*ck.”

The whole ass plot is paper thing. I’m watching these first few minutes and it’s readily apparent that the guv’ment knows zombies be doing a zombie and Vegas is lost. Why the f*ck didn’t they nuke that motherf*cker off the face of the earth. Straight up Raccoon City that b*tch. There is nothing, no plot contrivance or mental gymnastics that could make believe that Las Vegas wouldn’t have been scrubbed off the map, within a week of this outbreak. Not after seeing actual paratroopers floating in to their deaths and straight up napalm strikes on the Strip. Why did anyone think building a fence out of shipping containers was a good long term option for containment! And that’s literally just in the opening credits! It gets worse as the flick progresses, man! The actual plot is trash!

Now, the actual premise? Interesting. It could have been interesting. But then Zack Snyder snyder’ed it up with the f*cking execution. Look, in order to write a great zombie flick, you need a strong human element. That’s where the audience is going to focus. They’re going to try and find the humanity in a sea of despair. Every great Zombie flick has a laughably strong lead and fantastic supporting characters you come to care about, usually withing the first act. 28 Days later is a fantastic example of how to execute your Zombie disaster apocalypse. You do not give a sh*t about any of the characters in Army. Snyder tries with Batista, thus the father-daughter relationship, but that cliche sh*t was cookie cutter from a whole different movie, which I'm going to get into next...

Army of the Dead is Aliens. It’s just a popularization of Aliens. It’s the same f*cking movie, but worse. There are shot-for-shot recreations in this movie, with just enough changed so Snyder won’t get sued. Just, off the top of my head, the ending. It’s exactly the same as f*cking Aliens! Literally the same goddamn ending! Heroes survive a gauntlet of monsters, rush to the top of or roof. Pilot of escape flying contraption kissing. Hero curses pilot of said whirly dervish. Queen Alien or Zombie King shows up. Pilot returns at the last minute to save survivors. Same. F*cking. Scene. And that’s just one. There are SO many in this thing you’d think Snyder watched Aliens everyday on set and just stole sh*t from that flick to add to his. It’s real bad. Real f*cking bad, man. which exasperates my next point...

This movie is f*cking boring. i was bored. If you’re stealing the entirety of Aliens, how do you f*ck that it up so bad? The same movie, which thrilled and entertained me thirty years ago, sh*t the bed so hard, today, and i don’t know how that happened. It’s infuriating when i think about it for too long. Speaking of long...

Why the f*ck is this anal prolapse, two and half hours long?? Why did you need this much movie to tell so little story? Seriously, how the f*ck is there this much run time yet, no actual f*cking characters outside of whatever the f*ck Batista was able to save with his sheer screen presence? How do you have all of this time and still not craft a character in which to invest?? In a f*cking Zombie movie?!

Also, he hired a rapist.

The Verdict

This movie sucks. For all of the reasons outlined above. I told you that in the beginning. You didn’t have to rad this far. You knew i hated this movie within the first sentence. This sh*t was a waste of my life. Batista is good in it and that sh* Snyder did with Tig was pretty cool, but everything else is bad. All of it. None of this movie is good. It was boring. It wasn’t entertaining. There are no characters. The plot is dumb. The execution is worse. The run time is absurd. Did i mention how bored i was? Army of the Dead is garbage. This is a bad movie. This is what you get when you just let Zack Snyder do whatever the f*ck he wants with no limits or boundaries. Snyder is bad at movies and he keeps proving it. I have no idea why people keep giving this obvious fraud work.

[batmanie]

Old Habits - scriddler

“Jeeezus!!!” The yelp was quite loud and – to be honest – quite satisfying. Eyes wide, and with a hand clutching onto his shirt, exactly where the heart would be, Nigma made a perfect example of someone who was suffering a cardiac arrest. His chest was rapidly rising and falling as he was trying to catch his breath. “Did I scare you?” He knew he did, and it felt so strange that he was still able to enjoy those little things in his life after all he'd been through. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” “Perhaps I'm seeing one?” Edward had to take a moment to collect himself, his voice was still hoarse and breathless, which would have made the old Scarecrow smirk – not the new one, though. The 'new him' didn't know what fun was anymore. “And it's an ugly view,” Riddler frowned. “How did you even...” “Survive?” Crane cut in with the most casual tone. He took a step toward the source of the light but his whole head was hidden in the shadow of his hood. “How did I escape? Crawl out of the sewers? Drag myself back to the town with a broken leg to get medical attention? Well, obviously not thanks to you...” “I was going to ask: How did you manage to make yourself look even more ridiculous than before?” It was almost jovial how quickly Nigma was getting rude and offensive when feeling attacked. 'Some things never change', Scarecrow thought with a pang of nostalgia. “It is good to see you too, Edward.” It really was, even if Riddler didn't look too happy to see him. This little reunion in the dark and unwelcoming system of the underground tunnels which were currently Riddler's hideout was giving Scarecrow the false but somewhat soothing impression that nothing had changed while he was gone. “How have you been?” He decided to keep the conversation going – talking was one of Riddler's favorite activities after all. “Perfect!” Nigma waved his hand in a nonchalant gesture. Crane, being no less observant than he had always been, had already noticed all the signs that were telling otherwise. The room they were in, one of many in this maze of a place, looked like it hadn't been cleaned up in ages. Multiple papers were scattered across the floor along with some cables, tools, and all kinds of trash. Riddler must have spent a lot of his time down here, as his skin was so pale that it probably hadn't seen any natural sunlight in months. His cheeks were hollow, his hair messy and there were dark circles around his eyes. And in this sad picture, the only two things that seemed to be alive were Edward himself, and his eyes – radiating confidence, intellect and thirst for revenge.

“I assume you didn't kill the Bat?” “Not yet.” The man shrugged, pretending not to care but at the same time nervously tapping his fingers on the desk – one of his many motor tics. “But with my new plan he is as good as dead, don't you worry about that! As you can see, I'm very busy right now and I don't need you, or anyone, to distract me. I am a perfectly self-dependent one-man army, capable of besting the Bat on my own!” His angry, slightly high-pitched tone told Scarecrow just how much Riddler had actually changed. His time-alone had done the man no good but he was too far gone to notice that. “Do you want me to leave then?” “Yes, please!” Edward crossed his arms. It was more of an angry order than a polite request. “If you expected that I will ask you to stay, just because we used to be... whatever you want to call that. Well, sorry to disappoint you,” he turned his back to Scarecrow, now facing the desk littered with some blueprints. “I bet you are still very busy playing dead – so busy that for the past six months it didn't cross your mind to inform me that those news about the crocodile eating you alive were exaggerated!” Now, there was something new in Edward's voice, something similar to a sad and bitter undertone. Jonathan immediately caught on that shift and he had to admit, it got him interested. “Would it have been so hard, to contact me earlier?” The man continued, holding onto the edge of his desktop, as if it was a lifebuoy preventing him from drowning in his own madness. “Instead of treating me like I was nothing to you? Like I was one of those morons who wrote you off as dead?!” “I was dead...,” Scarecrow stated with a hushed, almost murmuring tone. “Jonathan Crane died that night in the sewers of Gotham. Now, there is only Scarecrow.” Riddler turned his head and laughed mockingly, the short, bark-like sound lacked any joy. “Oh, really? You seem rather fine for a dead-man!” “What makes you think, I am fine?” Riddler went silent and looked at him, surprised. It was a long, calculative stare, the longest one Edward had graced him with yet. Jonathan was sure, Riddler was about to ask him about the leg brace – the newest addition to Scarecrow's already terrifying look. He didn't – his gaze lingered on it but soon wandered higher. Jon stepped forward, sensing that this was the time to present his 'new face'. He took another step toward the man so the two of them were really close now. There was the desk behind Edward's back – no place to run – and even if the situation seemed harmless, Jonathan could already sense the tension between them. Slowly, he pulled his hood down, revealing the disturbing view underneath. Riddler's blue eyes widened at the sight of the dirty piece of cloth stitched to the very skin of Jonathan's face. Edward's right hand twitched and instinctively reached to examine the stitching but before his fingers touched the fabric, the man stopped himself. “Are you...insane?” He breathed out, in a half-shocked, half-furious manner. Scarecrow observed his reaction with anticipation, their eyes locked together as both of them refused to look elsewhere. “It felt like a necessity back then,” Crane made sure his voice was as smooth and chill as possible. He had quite a story to tell, however, he doubted Edward would understand him. “I had to patch up the open wound that used to be my face. All I had, was my old burlap mask so that was my first choice. Not the smartest one, I admit, since the infection spread through my whole body just a week later, leaving me delirious and weak for the next two months. And it was only worse from there...” Edward just stared at him, saying nothing even though he looked like he wanted to. Driven by old habit, Crane observed how the small veins over the man's temples pulsated with the rush of blood, and at the same time, he did a quick analysis of his own actions. What exactly had he expected from Nigma? Was it his pity that he sought? Did he desire to see, how poorly the man was doing without him? Well, he had gotten a taste of that, but did it please his cold, dark heart? “As you can see,” Scarecrow pulled up his hood and backed off, letting Riddler return to his comfort zone, “...I wasn't exactly in shape to come to you earlier. I did not mean to offend you...” Oh, so it was making peace then, was it? That was the purpose behind coming here after all those months. To convince himself, to convince Edward, that everything was, as it had always been – even if it was not. “Well,” Nigma awkwardly cleared his throat, his eyes examining the dirty, stone flooring for a little while before he was able to look at his guest again. “I guess, I have no choice but to accept your reasoning.” “That's very generous of you, Edward.” Riddler tried to smile but it came out more like a nervous twitch. “But where are my good manners,” he reminded himself and it seemed like all the resentment that had been there before, had vanished. An almost child-like eagerness replaced it. “Sit down, please.” He offered Scarecrow the only chair he got in his cramped, lonely dumpster. “Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Hot cocoa? I had a second mug...somewhere around here.” “No, thank you, Edward,” Crane stopped him from searching through the dusty shelves. “I can't have hot beverages just yet. But I appreciate your effort. I think I will go now.” “Already? Why don’t you stay longer? I will share some juicy details about my next, big plan with you, and I can even show you a prototype of my latest contraption. I promise, it will blow your mind, haha. Metaphorically speaking, of course.” Edward must have missed that – talking to someone who would just sit down and listen to his crazy ideas.

To be honest, he himself might have missed the sound of a human voice just a little.

Deep down, Scarecrow knew his days were numbered, his body broken beyond repair. And it was his fear of dying defeated, humiliated, and forgotten that brought him back to Riddler.

...because of all people, it was Riddler who could understand that fear best. “Fine... Let’s talk about that plan of yours.”

[anonil88]

A Green Night on the Town.

Is this a modern au? No. Ruby and Christina end up meeting the neighbors as William and Hillary. But Ruby wants to go to the bar and live a little, 👀.

Ruby Baptiste X Christina Braithwhite

Inspired by comments and posts by @dreaduquesne and @taylor144. I did do some research for this, the one song is from the 1960s but we are gonna pretend it's not. If you are going to be negative just for negativity sake please don’t. Wanted to post this before tonight’s episode where this ship may go down in flames. One more ep left after tonight *insert sad emojis*

Songs in order of appearance in story: Put on my Shoes by Mary Anne Fisher, I don't know by Ruth Brown, One Man's Poison by Liz Lands, It's Your Voodoo Working by Charles Sheffield.

MATURE RATING

LINK TO STORY ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN 

Ruby sat in the Bentley checking her image in the side mirror. The red lipstick she reapplied was new and came in a gold bullet with roses carved into it. It was the shade Ruby and she got it on one of her shopping adventures. As Hillary of course. The matte color clashed with Hillary's choice of clothing but perfectly matched her pink dress with red and blue flowers stitched onto it. She wasn't only checking her face but looking out for unfriendly neighbors.

In the weeks she's been with Christina in the house, the looks she's gotten are usually not friendly. Kids and parents alike staring her up and down like she is trash. In her most unholy form of self they smiled "Fake ass white folks ," she thinks. They were lucky most white people did not want trouble knowing William lived with her openly. As openly as they could be, the city of Chicago has always cared less about couples like them but the people sure do care enough. Ruby glances at the door that sits far behind iron gates. 

After her day out, William introduced her to some of the neighbors on another street who had kids. Kids who looked innocent playing in the streets. A group of men talking on the street flagged the Pontiac down making Ruby tense but William's hand rested atop hers in the middle of the seat.  They spoke across her wondering where they could get themselves a car and a woman that. William chuckled and made small talk which Ruby side eyed her partner for. 

That led to them both getting out of the car introducing themselves to these men and their wives as Hillary and William Davenport. An invitation for dinner came from one wife who kept commenting on the bump in Hillary's hair too nicely. Ruby heard a little bit of Christina's snark in Williams no and tampened that response with, "Sorry we have plans tonight." Which thankfully was accepted and before then they had no plans but now Ruby wanted to spend the night dancing to music, maybe singing just a little. As herself, after an exhausting day of keeping up with the Joneses or Smiths or whatever white slave master name they probably shared with a poorer distant cousin on the Southside. Damn she kinda missed the Southside. Christina had been before but not like this.

She sees a teenage boy dragging a trash can down the driveway next door but listens to the sound of feet making their way down the walkway. Slowly she puts the lipstick in her purse that will get left in the back seat because tonight she wants nothing to hold her back. Ruby watches Christina open and lock the gate with her back turned. Hair perfectly swooped to the side even in moonlight.

The tall blonde was in a green dress fitted at the waist that was far too fancy for whatever jazz joint they were bound to end up in. It looked new but Ruby swore Christina had too big of a closet, almost big enough for two people. William had a vest in a similar color, he wore a few days ago...well she wore Ruby guesses. Christina looks nice as she saunters towards the silver drivers side and Ruby bit the inside of her lip. There was something about the way the woman was so sure and confident in her walk, how she sat, or how she inserted the silver key into the ignition. Even when she was out dressing her for a simple night on the town. Those long hands just so handling the key before slipping...

Ruby swallows her jealous admiration and rolls her eyes, "Seriously?"

"What, is this too much ?" Christina asks, smoothing her fingertips over the leather of the steering wheel. She leans over Ruby likely too close and slips a vial of William's blood in the glove box. Giving Ruby an amused stare that makes Ruby roll her eyes even harder. Christina thinks of this as a game, one they both play. There are days she has already taken her potion and is dressed in slacks eating breakfast. Ruby will saunter into the kitchen dressed in a number that makes Christina wonder if keeping Ruby hostage would be so bad. Probably, if Leticia found out there would be a makeshift army outside her front door.

"Ha," Ruby laughs out loud and Christina smiles, "You fucking think, it's a jazz joint not the Ritz. Who in the Sam Hill are you trying to impress tonight?"

Christina lowers her eyes to Ruby's lips. She thinks of just exactly who she was continually trying to impress as covertly as possible. Ruby looks away and back realizing Christina is still staring at her like....that. She does it in William's skin too, those eyes sizing her up. Two piercing blue eyes always staring at her so deeply Ruby thinks she could burst into flames. No matter the face she does find it hard to look away. 

"Don't look at me like that. I warned you about that, now drive." Ruby says crossing her arms in her lap listening to the engine come alive. Christina grins to herself but keeps her words to herself as she shifts the car into drive.

The night leads them to Vesey's where Ruby is plenty filled with free drinks. She already sang at the last spot with a band but her presence rouses the crowd that is already not slow at all tonight. The bar is more packed than normal and Ruby forgets to ask why. She did hear Sammy whisper across the bar to a man next to her something about a discreet open door to friends of Dorothy for once. As soon as her and her unlikely plus one arrived, Christina said she'd be fine on her own. 

Ruby took that for truth but tried to read her half truth anyway. Christina held her own well but not like this...this would be a first. That was something Christina would say often "a first" with practically anything it made Ruby wonder if her secret-sometimes lover had any childhood or life at all before her sister came barreling into that mansion.

The whiskey is neat on her tongue as she tosses it back quickly before blearily grinning at Sammy. Tonight felt good and light and fun. No white eyes staring at her making her feel undone in front of them. Ruby in her skin surrounded by her kin and music that was sewn into her spirit. No matter how sad the lyrics could get the beat was full of life.

"And we have our resident songstress in the crowd tonight," someone on the small stage called out. Whistles came from the bar and the crowd mid dance at the stage. Andre, the young barkeep, winking at her taking her lipstick stained glass back behind the bar.

"I guess that's my cue Dre," Ruby raised her brows at him. He nods back, touching her hand sitting on the bar lightly. He sure was cute, she thought before slowly getting up from the stool. She makes her way past the packed house and in front of the band playing. Shouts and hollers come from the crowd as she holds out her hands. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Ruby Baptiste." The man pushes the mic in her hand and whispers good luck to her. She isn't a stranger to singing while drunk or singing well while drunk. Not even with a big audience but there is a feeling of nerves in her fingers as she grips the mic and slips it back in the stand.

"Hello Southside," Ruby says into the mic. Whistles get louder and someone bangs on the bar. This crowd definitely had some new faces in it but they were smiling or leaning against someone else like lustful animals. "Alrighty i guess y'all are entitled to a few songs."

Someone yells from a booth, "Yea, where you been Ruby left us on the south side for the north side."

Ruby laughs into the mic, " Y'all think I would leave this behind never!" She looks at the guitarist, "maybe you." Folks gossiping was always a trend her name sour on so many people's mouths.

Everyone laughs in response and she laughs quietly to herself. She whispers to the band "Put on my shoes".

Ruby sways with the band as they start before leaning into the mic.

"Should I feel a little hot, you almost drive me insane, All your good intentions. Seem to wash right down the drain, put yourself in my place. You'll see what I mean and you'll know how I feel. And you'll feel, you'll feel a pain in your heart."

Ruby scans the crowd with her eyes, landing on random spots of the crowd that look more enthused then others. Her voice still gravels out...

"Baby I've been let down more times than I can remember how you cheated on poor lil me from January to December. Put yourself in my place. You'll see what I mean and you'll know how I feel."

Her hand cradles the mic as she throws her words into it. She knows that pain even if it is not her current romance. Her heart had been split open once or twice before. Maybe that's why she held her heart back in  this thing with William, Christina, or as Montrose called them Chrilliam.

"And you'll feel you'll feel a pain in your heart. I've always been faithful and I've always been true but there's gotta be the death gotta be a change in you."

Fuck him, she thought throwing her anguish in het voice before leaning back up to scan the crowd.

"Put on my shoes for a day.

Put on my shoes for a week.

Put on my shoes for a month or two, know what I've been through."

If only she could make a spell or potion, so that Christina could understand. Understand why she gets so angry and frustrated with the woman in and outside of her own blackness. She finally finds the blonde blending in surprisingly well. Christina has a drink in hand leaning against the wall, watching her. Blue eyes sweeping across the stage as Ruby moves about the space. Instead of looking away Ruby croons out....

"Go on and have fun after all is said and done."

Someone bemoans out yes sing Ruby sing. Ruby watches Christina stare at her not breaking the tension between the two of them. If this was an empty house it would be much more obvious that Ruby had been stuck. Stuck on the way Christina clutched the glass in her hand to her lips. The way her eyes didn't waver or move from Ruby eyeing her up and down.

"Put on my shoes you'll get the blues the blues the blues if you put on my shoes."

The song starts to end and Ruby finally looks away. Her heart is beating so loudly it could probably take over for Gordy the drummer if they need be. If only Christina could know authentically how it felt to be in skin like hers. Not some misplaced gesture that could have gotten her dumb ass killed...if only. 

Christina half listens to the short woman sharing the table with her. She did not care at all what the woman was saying but she fully understood she had no power in this establishment. Magically yes, but physically she was the outsider here. If someone wanted to sit at the same table in this bar they could. This bar was thick with smoke, heat, and loud. Christina observed it all, everyone seemed at home in this small establishment. A home full of strangers that couldn't cross into Lincoln Park with that same joy and comfort. She didn't understand that feeling but she also never really had a "home" to connect to. A comfort as distant as her ability to empathize with these people.

A taller full figured woman stands next to the shorter darker one before sitting down eyeing Christina up and down. Which Christina doesn't change her one note expression for. The shorter woman is still yapping on about something and Christina flits her eyes between the two. At some point the taller one leans in and introduces herself as Celia. Christina leans in a bit to hear her and nods. Celia has a cool confidence she immediately picks up on instead of the jittery energy in between them.

"Isn't this wild Cil I've never seen a white woman walk in this place alone," the short one finally says in between winds of her story.

Celia smiles at Christina and says lowly, "Alone is right." Christina sees something in the taller woman's eye and grits her teeth a bit. She isn't alone, not really, with Ruby in the same building. But neither of them is kept and Ruby doesn't often kiss her without the pieces of William stuck to her skin. 

"What's he coming over here all fancy like for, she's just white. Not royalty." a man in the booth next to the table huffs out loud enough for Christina to hear. One purpose most likely she knows.

Christina turns and sees the owner of the bar walking over to the table with a tray holding a wine glass filled with red. A few bystanders jump out of his way or side eye him. This didn't seem like the place where people went to for a glass of wine. Sammy was his name, she remembers that from her own bits of research on her extended family. She has also heard whispers that he was or is linked to her cousin's father, in that way. He stops in front of her and places the glass on the table. 

"On the house Braithwhite." Sammy purses his lips a little at her and she crosses her eyes at him. "A request from..." the stage he mouths. She softens her look when he walks away and pulls the glass to her. Sipping it she almost laughs, it's an awful merlot that tastes like pennies. The copper taste sits on her tongue and her eyes go wide. Slipping her hand into the pockets on her dress she feels for the glass vial that should be there. After a moment of panic she feels the cold glass pulling it out a bit to ensure it's still full. It is. She sighs relief into the glass and sips it again.

The music from the band is still blaring as the crowd in front of the seating area sways and moves back and forth. No singing comes through the air and Christina leans her neck slightly to find Ruby on the stage or in the crowd. It takes a bit before a wheezy laugh proceeds and sees a man on stage with Ruby. He is swaying behind her as she holds the mic singing into the mic, 

"Could a heart so right be led so wrong if his love is weak would it last this long. I don't know but I hope and pray that he comes my way oh oh." 

Christina grips at her own thigh with the hand still sitting in her pocket.

The horn player toots out loudly and Ruby turns around lightly pushing away the tall built man behind her. It was all in good fun as the band kept playing and he sidled back up to her slipping his hands back to her waist teasingly. She hears the band transition into another song while she dances on stage. Left, right, left, right. She feels her hips sway away from the fingers resting above her dress. She recognizes this song and shakes her shoulders along to the music that's all around her. Looking back at the crowd she can see the stares that she is receiving from the men in the crowd. It is all temptation and fire from many directions but Ruby shrugs to herself. She did not come for a man, she had one of those already, which was obvious others heard about. Her core tightens thinking of that man, so adept with the way he took care of her. Where is he? She wonders looking back to the table she sent that bottom shelf wine to earlier. She sees Christina but Christina is holding a conversation with a glass half full. A conversation that Ruby blinks at, a woman, a very pretty light skinned girl is undressing Christina with her eyes. Ruby knows she can't hide the look on her face and bites her tongue. It earns her an, “Ooo gurl what's on your mind,” from the guitarist who she sees her face flare with jealousy. He’s following her gaze to the table and whistles loudly. He never thought Ruby went that way, but he didn’t know a lot about Ruby outside of rumors.

Braithwhite never looked out of place even in a place like this. She just fit in well without trying like a chameleon making herself comfortable in someone else's home. If Ruby did not know some of Christina’s truths this would concern her, but not so much now. At least even at her most sordid she was honest. The green of the dress did stand out but it felt see through to Ruby. She was pretty sure the woman on the other end could only wish for the type of knowledge she had. The alcohol and revitalized confidence in her gives her half the mind to throw her shoe from the stage. Maybe knocking Christina's eyes, that were probably not bulging as much as Ruby's liquored brain saw, back into her head. Ruby thinks better than that and sits the mic back in the stand and clears her throat into the mic.

Eyes including those blue ones find their way back to the stage. Ruby glares a bit in Christina's direction then directs her words back to the crowd. "Aight y'all this is my last song for tonight, it's something me and the boys have been cooking up."

Ruby hears the band whistle and mumble about someone having her in a mood tonight. The four count from the symbol goes off and Ruby clenches the mic letting her voice seep out,

"One man's poison is another man's meat, what's good for Johnny will kill poor Pete."

People in the cloud clap at the new sound. Folks lean up off the wall to move towards the dance area or to move with the crooning in their spot. Ruby smiles with her words as they continue. 

"I'm good at loving so make no mistake I was his gravy but I'm your steak. Kiss me baby hold me tight everything's gonna be alright."

Ruby sways her hips back and forth a bit. Christina feels her eyes getting heavy dragging up and down Ruby's frame. She catches Ruby glancing her way and licks her lips quickly before the woman turns away from her. 

"One man's evil is another man's pure, kiss me baby I want your sweet loving tonight." 

Ruby extends her leg on stage twisting it with the music as she dances with the fill of the band. Moving back to the mic she slides her hands around the tall skinny pole.

Christina empties the contents of her glass not moving her vision from Ruby. She's leaning out of her chair slightly, but tries to pull herself together. If the times allowed her to, she'd have Ruby right there on the stage and she guesses if the crowd wasn’t soaking in the way Ruby reeled them in. Ruby was full of magic and had an effect on people that Christina was sensitive to. Even the first time she heard her sing.

Ruby grins as the band keeps playing and nods to them. Which they respond with air kisses. The crowd jeers as Ruby makes her way off the stage. A man's arm outstretched guides her off the stage even though she didn't need any help. Ruby can feel fire on her skin likely from Christina at the attention from a few gentlemen as Ruby passes them on her way to the bar for a glass of water. When she makes her way towards the seating area she teasingly saunters past the table she knows the blonde is sitting at. Ruby feels the eyes outlining her from behind and hears someone excuse themselves from a table behind her. She keeps walking to the bathroom she knew was at the end of the hall. 

The sound of heels matching her stride as she opens and lets herself in the single person toilet.

Ruby swallows her moans while slowly tugging the long blonde hairs in between her fingers. Light tugs feeling soft rouged cheeks against her inner thighs. Lips kissing up against her thigh garters and stockings. Ruby exhales pulling Christina's head back up to hers.

"Is that what you wanted, sitting there pissed off because someone had your new toy."

Christina exhales feeling Ruby's nails scratch her scalp ever so. Her face is flushed, she can feel it, but she shakes out no lightly. "You aren't a toy," Christina pushes Ruby's hand away from her and leans over her. Less than inches away, "I guess I'm just a little jealous and it seems you are too." 

Ruby scoffs but doesn't deny it, instead she drinks in the way Christina looks at her. With a vigor and a hunger that makes her thighs clench against the hand there. Fingers that sting in her memories from the car stroke up and down and Ruby does something she rarely does. She leans in and pulls Christina's lips to hers.

Christina revels in the slow tongue inching along hers. Ruby's hand on the back of her head, pulls her closer, and she slaps a hand against the tile wall surrounding the mirror. She likes this Ruby whoever this Ruby is. Unattached. Christina whimpers, feeling her head shoulders pushed downward. This Ruby who kisses her even without her being William. She also feels good in Ruby who is bound and only kisses William.

"You said you'd kiss whatever I wanted Braithwhite," Ruby gathers the blonde’s hair in her hands. Sinking her red fingernails into the blonde scalp, she opens her legs wider putting more weight on the metal sink. Ruby feels her breath hitch watching Christina sink to her knees while biting her lip at Ruby's words. Christina is undoing the snap of her garter while pushing Ruby's dress further up her thighs. It's almost around her waist, but this was not the place to just strip of it completely. Ruby leans her head back in relief feeling Christina inch the lacey cotton fabric around her hips down until they are off completely. She hopes Christina tucks them in her pocket at least.

Christina sighs pushing the lacey fabric into the same pocket holding William. She lightly bites into Ruby's thigh before moving to taste her fully. There is a low shudder and the grip on her hair tightens as she dips her head forward closing her eyes to fully immerse herself in Ruby. Ruby feels the hot coils in her stomach snapping and crackling. Her free hand moves from clenching her mouth to gripping the sink. She doesn't want to ruin Christina's dress but the heel of her shoe is pressing into the blondes back. A gasp like moan escapes her mouth as a shiver runs across her collar bone.

"Oh shit," the door next to them squeaks open and shut quickly, making both Ruby and  Christina open their eyes. Christina turns her head upward to stare at Ruby. She can't say she feels any shame in her current position, but Ruby might. Ruby can only see the blue eyes peeking at her with concern and heat from the bottom of her dress. But, she feels like wetness on Christina's chin on her warm thighs. Ruby leans over to the lock on the door and twists it shut before leaning her head back on the wall. She regrips Christina's hair, "Kiss what I want."

Ruby moans out loud while music and a jazzy tune slips under the door.

“Your love is voodoo and I just can’t last. It's your voodoo working, voodoo working, voodoo working and I can't get a lick…..”

[madamebaggio]

Notes: Previously...

Guess which crossover it is ;)

Also, I used “England” here, because it’s what the King calls it on the movie, so it’s his word... hahahaha

****

Chapter 1

It didn’t occur to Sansa to ask where they were going until two weeks in.

As she’d promised Captain Neville, she spent most of her time in his cabin -that he’d kindly conceded to her. Sometimes he’d take her out to the deck of the ship, but it was always under his watchful gaze -for her own safety, he said.

She mended shirts and other pieces of clothing for the crew, then one of the man asked her if she could embroider a handkerchief for his lady back home, so she did. She was also embroidering one for Captain Neville as a thank-you gift.

As she was considering how much time she’d have to do that, she asked where they were going.

“England, lass.” He informed her.

Sansa looked at him in shock. “England?” She repeated.

England was a completely different kingdom!

Well, she had said she’d go anywhere, but she’d never considered…

“Are you alright, Cat?”

She nodded numbly. “Sorry. I’d never thought you’d be going to another country.”

“Should’ve warned you…” He grumbled.

“It is fine.” She sighed. “I don’t think there’s anything left for me in Westeros.”

Neville was watching her in silence. “What happened to you, lass?”

Sansa pressed her lips together. “I lost my whole family. There’s no one left.”

“Who was mistreating you?” He wanted to know. When Sansa looked at him alarmed, he clarified. “You had decent clothes, but you’re too skinny and pale to be a pampered lady. Was it a husband?”

“No. My husband was kind, he was just powerless to keep me safe.”

The captain put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I have family in Londinium. It’s a simple life, but my sister can take care of you. That is… If you want it.”

Sansa gave him a grateful look. “Thank you.” She said, even as tears started flooding her eyes.

“No need to cry, lass.” He spoke quickly, clearly uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry.” She dried her tears quickly. “It’s just been a long time since someone was so kind to me.”

Neville sighed. “That ain’t something good to hear, Cat, but you’re safe now.”

She’d never been more grateful in life.

***

The journey to England took two months, and by then Sansa was more than ready to get off that ship.

Her first impression of England was of dark grey skies and cold rain, but she didn’t mind it. She was dead tired of the stifling hot days in King’s Landing.

Captain Neville had a friend waiting to pick him up and take him to Londinium and Sansa was brought along.

She watched in avid interest as they traveled through the roads. There was much to see.

“I don’t remember the name of your King.”

Neville’s face became clouded. “Vortigern, the Usurper.”

His friend gave him a warning look. “Don’t say that aloud, Neville. You’ll get in trouble one of these days.”

Neville scoffed. “It’s what he is.” He said. “Killed his brother for the crown.”

Sansa felt a chill running down her spine. “What type of King he is?”

There was silence for a long second, until Neville replied. “Cruel.”

***

Londinium wasn’t exactly what Sansa expected it to be. Well, she didn’t know what to expect, but there was a sense of heaviness over the city. There were guards dressed in black everywhere -the King’s army, Neville had warned her -and the place was dreary. The people seemed burdened by something, a certain weariness to them.

Neville and his friend decided to stop for food, and asked Sansa to wait in the wagon quietly.

Shortly after they entered the pub, a group of soldiers came in, then Sansa heard the commotion.

She ran to the dirty window and saw two guards grabbing at Neville, putting iron around his wrists. He was getting arrested.

He didn’t see her there -nobody was paying attention to anything but him as he trashed against the guards -but he screamed, “CAT, RUN!” She would’ve heard it even from the wagon.

Sansa didn’t know what do or where to go, but she took off running anyway. Nobody stopped her -people seemed to get out of her way -so she just kept running without a direction, down stairs and through narrow alleys, until she saw herself in open space.

It was a place by the water, with a few smaller boats around and women washing their clothes. She looked around wildly, lost and confused.

Now she was in another city, another land and even more lost than before. She didn’t know where to go or what to do.

She tried taking a deep breath in, but it didn't seem to be working. She was going to hyperventilate.

Not for the first time, she felt stupid and useless. She couldn’t help but think that Arya would know what to do, because Arya was smarter than she was.

Sansa was just Sansa.

She started walking along the water, but slipped on the wet stone and fell back. It wasn’t a hard fall, but tears came to her eyes anyway. She’d finally found someone kind, and now she was lost again.

What would happen to Neville? Would he be fine?

He said the King was cruel and those were the King’s men. Why was he being arrested?

She covered her face with her hands and tried to calm herself, when a shadow covered her.

“Are you alright?”

She looked up and saw a group of four women looking down at her. Their clothes had bright colors and they had baskets with them, and looked genuinely concerned.

“I’m lost.” She confessed.

One woman tilted her head to the side. “Your accent… You aren’t from around here.”

Sansa shook her head.

The women exchanged looks. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

Sansa shook her head again. “The man who was going to offer me shelter was taken by the guards.”

The women seemed horrified.

“You look very young. How old are you?”

“Five and ten.” Sansa told them.

“She’s just a baby, Kay.” One of the women turned to the one in the middle.

“I can see that.” Probably Kay sighed. “Look, sweetheart… I’ll be honest with you. We live in a brothel.”

Sansa was caught by surprise by this piece of information. She didn’t think those women were the kind to explain themselves to others. “Alright…”

“I’m telling you this because you look like a good kid.” Kay continued. “Now, if you need a place to stay for tonight -and tonight only -you can come with us.”

Sansa was worried. A brothel was a brothel. As far as she knew, these women would take her there and then she’d have to…

“Not so happy to be talking to us now, hm?” Kay pressed.

“That’s not it.” Sansa was quick to say. “But… You have to see from my point. You’re offering to take me to a brothel, and I have no one to worry about me.”

“Fine.” Kay conceded. “But do you really have any other option?”

Sansa didn’t and she knew these women knew that as well.

“Don’t worry, puppy.” One of the others smiled kindly at her. “You won’t be the first one we rescue while doing laundry.”

That was a curious thing to say. However, as Kay had pointed out, Sansa didn’t have any other option, so she got up and followed the women.

[subarubi]

Desert Days

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Summary: “If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him.”  

Warnings: 18+, profanity, angst for days, extreme injury and death (blood), mentions of PTSD, implied smut

A/N: 9.6k word count, goddamn. This is a very Sam heavy one-shot. Also, I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible! 

2001. 

A colossal mountain of mutilated steel and concrete rubble sits, smoking, in the center of the world. Lower Manhattan. Financial District. Eight blocks that make up ‘Wall Street’, some elusive playpen for the invisible but potent power of ‘stock’. Destroyed. And with it, lives, hopes and dreams. 2,606 bodies buried there in the debris. An illusion of invincibility crushed in too. In the flames that lick at ruins of the Twin Towers, an Indian summer. The warm September haze forcefully burrows itself in the guts of New Yorkers, Americans, the world. It’s fear, not flush. It’s anger. 

How could this happen? To us?

The news outlets evoke the memory of a vastly different war. They call it a day that will live in infamy. Which, it will. Undoubtedly. Yet, it’s hardly the same as Pearl Harbor. Perhaps, the only thing comparable, but dissimilar all the same. Since the greatest generation created generations of their own, the pastime of waging war happened elsewhere. On other lands. In other homes. To other people. 

September 11th, 2001 burst the bubble of willful ignorance. War is happening. And there is a debt to be paid for crimes. All crimes. Even American. 

Sam Wilson is only twenty when it happens-- 

--waking up next to a girl from English class that he’d been playing footsie with in the library the day before. Her cellphone, pink and bejeweled, rings at 7 am drawing them both from slumber. Sam rubs the hangover from his temple as she unwinds her limbs from his, both sticky with sweat. Through tears she turns and tells him. 

Four planes hijacked. Two crashed into the World Trade Center. One at the Pentagon. Another in a Pennsylvania field.

Sam’s from New York City. Harlem. He’s stood at the bottom of those towers before-- a kid with a skateboard carving lines over all five boroughs. But he hasn’t been back to the East Coast in years. No reason to. Mom was laid to rest next to Pops and Sam ran away to the other side of the country not long after. The news isn’t any less devastating.

He’s at UCLA, majoring in philosophy of all things. It all seems so pointless then. Studying knowledge, reality, existence, when the rest of the world is bleeding. 

Everyone is in pain. 

Soldiers. Doctors. Accountants. Car Salesmen. Kindergarten Teachers. They demand their pain be spread. They want revenge. They want blood. War is now felt by all.

In October, the US invades Afghanistan.

Sam enlists in November. 

2003.

“Superman School” is what it’s called. Sam thinks it should rather be called simply, “Hell”. 

Indoc is easy. Sam has always liked the water and it’s just nine weeks of basically swimming. But what follows is two grueling years of vicious emotional and physical exertion. The events, the ache inside that led him there, are practically forgotten when the training starts. In Combat Dive School, he’d panicked the first few times an oxygen tank was strapped to his back and a regulator shoved in his mouth. In Paramedic training, he’d slipped and stabbed his fingers practicing sutures so much that he lost feeling there for a week. During SERE, Sam lost a toe nail; that hurt like a motherfucker. It was probably the most physical pain he’d ever been in at the point of his life. The guys, other PJs in training, don’t let that one go for a couple of months. At least. 

The best part, perhaps the only remotely good part, is Army Airborne and Military Free-fall Parachutist training. 

“It’s not exactly flying, but it feels like it,” Sam speaks animatedly into the receiver after chow on a Tuesday night, “It feels like fucking flying and you always imagine that flying is cool but then you do it and, I swear--”

He spends the next fifteen minutes going on and on and when his girlfriend, Lisa from English class with the pink bejeweled phone, finally hangs up, Sam feels like there’s so much he still hasn’t gotten to say about it. 

In a different life, I might’ve been a bird, he says during a poker game later that night. 

They're all chasing their own highs after the first jump, but no one’s as dumb with it, as corny about it as Wilson. They give him shit for it. Sam is too hopped up on finding his first love to care.

It’s easy to forget why they’re there and what they’re working toward. Graduating. Deployment. War. 

Afghanistan is a long way from Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. But with every day, every training course completed, Sam Wilson closes that gap with flying colors. And eventually, in May of that year, he found himself in Nevada with the 58th Rescue Squadron. Impossibly, closer now to Afghanistan. 

There, he’s given a maroon beret and dubbed a “Guardian Angel”. Small consolation prizes for the news he’s being deployed. 

2004.

It’s hot in Afghanistan, he’s heard. Sam had never expected it to be so bad; it’s summer, everywhere’s hot in the summer. The hottest place on earth is the Lut Desert in Iran. Barren, sparsely vegetated, open scrub. 70.7 Celsius recorded. That’s about 160 Fahrenheit. But nowhere, not even the hottest place on earth, is as sweltering as Bagram Airfield in July. With fatigues stuck to his back with sweat, stomach coming up on ‘E’, split red knuckles being bandaged: 40 Celsius feels like 5,000 Kelvin. Dry heat with nowhere to go but through him. It adds ten pounds at least to the weight in his shoulders. 

Sam made one comment. Just one. But a scathing reply from his least favorite Squadron member was enough to unravel him. 

This is the land of your peoples, Wilson, stop bitchin’.

Sam flexes his fingers on his bouncing knees, sitting and waiting stoically; internally, he’s burning. 

When he enlisted just three years ago in a fervent bout of passion and patriotism, he didn’t anticipate the racist pieces of trailer park trash he’s supposed to call brothers. The amount of self-control it would take to not punch the asshole square in the jaw. The fucking heat.

Three years after waking up that fateful morning, turning on the news with Lisa taking calls non-stop, flames and smoke reflected in his brown eyes and he’s stuck waiting in a tent for disciplinary action. At least it’s reprieve from the merciless Afghanistan sun. 

The tent flaps rustle softly, heavy boots command Sam reflexively to stand at attention. It gets his knee to stop bouncing. It’s in his face when he sees you. The faltering expression in his eyes that he tries to hide behind a stone slate. You’re not his CO there to NJP him, he’s never seen you on the base and he’s sure he would’ve remembered your face had he, but the patch on your chest dominates him anyway. A stray bead of sweat tickles Sam’s temple underneath your blank stare. You’re not, but you look ten feet tall over him. He’s never been someone so easily intimidated, but you? You are formidable. 

He wonders which part of you gets to him the most.

It might be your impossibly straight posture, one that he could never fully get right much to the ire of his commanding officers. Or maybe it’s the sharpness to your eyes, dissecting him piece by piece before he even hears your voice. Or, it could be, that you’re really fucking hot. 

Christ, are you. 

But that last one might be skewed by the fact that he’s been on tour now for a couple of months and his girlfriend, not Lisa, now Kerry, has been giving him blue balls. Sending letters so salacious, they’ve found home in the john for everyone’s personal use. 

He’d remember you if he saw you. He’d never be able to forget. 

Another body entering the tent brings a breeze to save him from the downright oppressive warmth of your stare. A man, another Sam has never seen around, stands much more relaxed and close to your side. He’s tall and blonde and somehow pale even after hours spent in the sun. 

You look at him and smile. So nice and pretty without any trace of your previous hardness. 

“So, you’re Sam Wilson?” he asks with a hint of a smirk in his voice, “Heard a lot about you.” There’s laughter playing at both of your smiles and Sam’s fists instinctively clench. Are you making fun? He’s not in the mood. It’s hot and sticky, and he might be fighting down an embarrassing and painful semi. 

“Yes, sir.”

The man at your side laughs, digging his elbow into your side, “You hear that? He called me sir!” 

“Fuck off,” you roll your eyes, flicking his ear so hard it draws a hiss. The first words he hears spill from those lips, twisted now in a smirk, don’t match your silvery voice.  

Fuck off, so rough and yet said in dulcet tones with affection. 

Sam’s hot again when you step forward, away from your partner-- the breeze was only fleeting. Nowhere is as hot as in that tent on Bagram AFB, you, just five feet from him, hand held out with a soft smile to introduce yourself. Warm and sweet, but somehow it burns. 

God, he needs to get laid, like, yesterday. 

He didn’t even realize he shook your offered hand until he misses the feel of it as it slips from his own. “And this is Riley, he got dropped on his head as a baby,” straightening beside the man in question, Sam catches an all too short flash of white as you laugh. 

“So, what did he say?” Riley asks. At the quirk of Sam’s head to the side, he gestures to the wrapped right hand, “I mean everyone’s talking about it. You’re gonna be on latrine duty for weeks!”

“Riley,” you sigh, smacking his chest that shakes in laughter with the back of your hand. A comforting smile when you turn back to Sam, “We have business to do.” The file you hand him, which he had not noticed was in your hand until it was heavy in his, it changes everything. 

Why me? Sam doesn’t let the question slip past his tongue, but it’s there. 

You shrug, as if you’d heard him, “You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.” A soothing smile, big and easy. Like the one you sent Riley. He’d like to see it his way again. 

And you’re not lying. 

9 months in Afghanistan and word carries of a PJ falling from the sky like some vengeful archangel of salvation, laying suppressing fire steady as breathing, healing hands flipping the bird at death. Sam Wilson, orphan boy from Harlem, amateur philosopher, provider of quality spank bank material, was made for this.  

The first time he sees it, Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at. 

Like a big black horseshoe crab, washed up dead on the shore, metal back shining slick with sea water. Three of them, laid out on a table in a hangar removed from the rest of the air base. Engineers rattle off all sorts of specs, some Sam understands, some he hasn’t the slightest idea the meaning of. He looks to his right, at you, then Riley. The pair of you, grinning at each other, bouncing on the balls of your feet like children. Always so lively with each other. Always overflowing with enthusiasm-- in each other, something you now extend to him. 

All happening so fast. Too fast. Sam’s queasy from the whiplash. 

A month ago, he’d only just gotten used to the cycle: Jump. Find cover. Fire back if need be. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. Back to camp. Brush his teeth. One. Twice. Rinse. Repeat. 

How did the saying go? ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. Sam’s swallowed enough of his own vomit that the taste doesn’t even phase him anymore. Partially because he’s scrubbed his tongue raw and numb with toothpaste. 

Then, you and Riley ripped him from it. 

Bought him dinner in Kabul. Offered him a cold beer. Which, he hadn’t had one in a year and fuck if it wasn’t orgasmic on his tongue. You two wined and dined him, told him he was special, he was meant for more. Made him feel good. Reminded him he wasn’t just some cog, some tool in a war that was quickly losing support. That he had a chance to do something important. Christ, he was surprised there wasn’t a good old fashioned fuck at the end of it. He’d put out on the first date.  

EXO-7 Falcon. In a different life, I might’ve been a bird. He maintained a year out that jumps were everything. 

But wings? Actual wings?

It’s unbelievable. No. Fucking insane. He can’t fathom it. Not free-falling and convincing himself its as close to flying he’ll ever get, but actually flying without the disappointing fact that eventually he’ll have to pull the chord. 

It’s just a prototype, don’t blow your load too soon, you laugh, hand on his bicep, for now, we just get to ogle them looking all nice and pretty. 

He doesn’t have the balls to tell you he already has. In the showers. Numerous times. Your smile flashing behind his eyelids. 

It’s just a waiting game now for the prototypes to be approved. 

Sam finds his stride again, much quicker than the last, in this new routine. He suspects his easy adjustment has everything to do with you and Riley. PT at 0600. Showers at 0800. An emergency non Falcon rescue mission about two, three times a week. Chow together in the mess at 1730. Sometimes, the three of you eat MREs outside instead, watching the sunset like a bunch of cornballs. 

You guys talk a lot, typically always over a meal. And Sam, who usually speaks a mile a minute, is slowed and forced to take a breath. Between the three of you, the fight for air time is intense. 

Everything is learned and shared in that small circle of three, sometimes too much. 

In some sleepy Georgia town, five houses away from each other, you and Riley spent your entire childhoods not meeting until basic.

Kismet, Riley grinned between mouthfuls of a macaroni and chili MRE that he traded for. That green sucker had no idea what he was getting into with Riley’s chicken a la death. 

The pair of you, southern belles, you’d joked. Attended the same Sunday service, learned how to ride a bike on the same stretch of asphalt, enrolled in the same high school but different years. Riley lost his virginity to your older sister in the back of his dad’s wood paneled station wagon. You remember she complained about a cum stain on her favorite skirt around that same time. 

Too much? you ask with a widening smirk at Sam’s grimace.

The two of you are so close, Sam can only be grateful for how easily you’ve let him fall into place by your sides. As welcoming, as kind and as warm as you are, in those early years, Sam can’t help feel an outsider sometimes. 

You and Riley are so so close. 

He’s sure he’s only seen you guys separated by bathroom breaks and sleep. An inordinate amount of time side by side. Fond smiles come often and effortlessly. Only ever fully at-ease in each other’s vicinity. You’re left handed and Riley’s right handed and your elbows always knock when eating. Which seems purposeful because once, when Sam suggested you just switch your normal places at the table, he was met only with blank stares and shrugs. And when the three of you walk across the airfield together, Sam naturally has to fall back slightly because he’s pretty sure you and Riley are tethered together with an invisible string, footfalls in sync. Your right leg in time with his, strides equal. 

He’s not sure he’s met a pair of friends ever more suited to each other.  

So, are you guys, like, together? Sam asks Riley hesitantly one night when you’ve gone to speak with some other officers. The pair of them lay on their backs on the rocky ground, gazing up at the clear expanse of stars. The new addition to your little merry band of friends tries to appear casual when asking. But really, it’s been nagging at him for months now. 

It’s a valid question. 

You and Riley are almost abnormally close for two people that have only known each other for a couple of years. Sam’s never seen anyone, not even his disgustingly in love for 30 years parents, so attached. If he were honest, sometimes it’s scary. Uncomfortable. 

Mostly, because it’s never been defined. And Sam is, by nature, curious. 

Partly, because the things he thinks about you... well, he doubts Riley would appreciate him thinking about his significant other that way. Especially a friend thinking that way. 

Riley’s bellowing laugh draws angry hushes from surrounding PJs trying to sleep. He cackles so hard with hands clutching at his abdomen, he practically rolls.

You’ve got it bad, Wilson, is his only reply before getting up to go take a leak. 

2005. 

Euphoria. That’s the only word Sam can use to describe it. Like sex. Maybe, even better. Up there, in the clouds, where everyone below are just little black dots, his stomach lurches and flips and folds itself over and under. Actually flying, not free-falling and biding his time until he eventually must pull the chord. He’s shaky with it at first. Like a baby on fresh legs, wobbly and awkward. Even still, he’s fucking flying. 

Back on the ground, him and Riley gush with it. Joy. Freedom. Ecstasy. 

They talk a mile a minute, even though their burning lungs are screaming for them to just breathe. They brush off the medical staff urging them to put on oxygen masks for a few minutes. Can’t, Riley rejects it, too fucking wired. 

You’re up next, burning with the need to get yours too.  

It all moves so fast. Sam and Riley each in one of your ears, telling you how amazing it feels. How much you’re gonna love it. They watch, chests heaving, hands on hips, as you’re strapped in, take your place 50ft away and nod along to all of the instructions given. Giving you pointers like they’ve been doing this for years. You roll your eyes. The pricks only have an hour of experience each. Though, that’s an hour more than you have, so you listen despite your pride. 

You fail. And just as everything you do is, you fail brilliantly. 

Sam and Riley watch helplessly as you crumble in the clouds, tumbling in the wind, barreling towards the hard rock and sand beneath their boots. The limp wings thrash in the wind, punching sharp welts into your sides. Your blood curdling scream rips out above, echoing in the valley. They can see you scrambling, panicked brain searching for a fight or flight response. But you can’t do either. 

Can’t fly. 

Can’t fight the merciless pull of gravity. 

You get ahold of yourself long enough to pull the emergency chute at the lowest possible altitude. A heap of nylon lines and cloth on the ground, your impact striking up a cloud of dust. 

Their feet can’t move fast enough, rushing to your side, hearts in their stomachs and stomachs in their asses. 

Don’t fucking touch me! 

Riley’s hand that gently grabs your bicep swiftly retracts as if you’d burned him. You won’t let them help. You just lie there, forehead pressed into the sand, body shaking with adrenaline, pained wails vibrating behind your grit teeth. 

Silence except for the sick sound of your brokenness. 

More than the acid cuts on your palms and cheek. More than a cracked rib. More than the ugly smattering of red and purple that will appear on your torso later. You mourn what is lost in your failure. 

Back on the ground, you gush with it. Wrath. Anguish. Woe. 

Sam feels sick beside Riley. Watching you there is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He reminds himself of the careful routine. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. He remembers the taste now. 

The prognosis is: you are a no-fly zone. 

You barely hear the flurry of words thrown at you, in front of you, around corners when you’re not supposed to hear. Cracked rib. Major contusions to the trunk. Sprained wrist. Can’t handle it. Right side too weak. Six weeks recovery, then return to regular duty. Maybe, you can work on it in PT and try again in 6 months. Not likely. Third prototype destroyed. Only two Falcons. 

Weren’t supposed to hear that. 

The next few days are eerily quiet. Filled with silent tension, Sam and Riley sending worried glances your way, forcing down winces at your every labored movement. You’ve abruptly walked off at seemingly random points of conversation. You’ve lashed out at Riley when he tries to help a little too much, pushes back against your attitude a little too hard. You’ve retreated. No joking around, no smiling. They have, at least, the clemency to avoid any mention of the Falcon jetpacks in your presence. 

When they train, you avoid it like the plague. 

The crowds they draw. The hooting and hollering cheers of the other PJs as Sam and Riley defy all odds in the air. The time will come soon, for them to employ the EXO-7 Falcons in an actual rescue. You pray that you aren’t healed by the time the first mission comes. 

God, whomever, hears your pleas whispered into the tough canvas of your cot. 

Four weeks after your failed flight test, an Apache helicopter goes down in Taliban infested territory. You haven’t been cleared. 

Sam walks up on the Chinook, dressed for the first time in his full suit. It would feel so gratifying, had you not been standing there with Riley, heads bowed lowly in short whispers underneath the raucous whirring of the engine. 

You haven’t talked to Sam in more than a few words. Only Riley. You only really talk to Riley. Sam has walked in on an abruptly cut off conversation a few times now. Shut out. It burns at him in the middle of the night, keeps him from drifting off in much needed slumber. You and Riley are his people now. Confidants. Friends. Comrades. Family. He wants to be there for you both, but you don’t let him. Just, give her time, she’s upset, Riley had supplied a dejected looking Sam when you stormed away at his advance for the third time. 

Now, at his careful approach, you look up and force a tight smile across those lips he sees in his dreams. An awkward, heavy hand on his shoulder that makes his heart clench, Good luck, Wilson. 

He’ll still feel it burning through his fatigues hours later. 

When they successfully return with the entire crew safe and sound, the base is alive with celebration. A friendly football scrimmage is thrown together by Riley in amber skies of late afternoon, their focused play-calling set behind 50 cent blaring on the boombox. 

You’re noticeably absent. 

Sam stands outside of your barracks with his hands stuffed in his pockets, uncertain if you’ll even speak to him. You haven’t before. Why would you now? When everyone is happily relishing in something you can no longer be a part of. His boots scuff in the sand as he debates leaving. Letting you alone for the night to surely lament in your loss. 

“Shouldn’t you be out there kicking ass, superstar?”

Your face, a familiar smile there that he’s been desperate to see for weeks, evokes an overwhelming sense of guilt in his gut. It was you and Riley from the start. Always you and Riley. The two of you had recruited him. And now he’s taken your place and they’ve left you in the dust. 

His return smile comes out more like a grimace without his permission. 

The large tent, usually filled to the brim with airmen stacked atop of each other, is empty. Everyone’s either getting chow or at the makeshift field spectating or playing. It’s just you sitting on a makeshift bed on the ground, softly closing the book you were reading when he entered. Sam doesn’t think the two of you have actually ever been alone together. Not like this. No Riley, no one milling about in the background, no rescue mission. The closest thing might’ve been the first time you met. And even then, you hadn’t said anything to each other until Riley joined. 

“Honestly,” Sam swallows hard, shaking his head in what looks like a humorous gesture, but really, he’s trying to find his footing again. “How does Riley have so much energy?” 

You smile wider and his heart, it fucking aches. For you. 

Knees pulled up tightly to your chest, ignoring the sharp pangs in your ribs at the action, you tilt your head softly up at him, “It’s all sugar and tai chi.”

Sam nods, a ghost of a chuckle humming from his throat. He sits on the ground next to you, knees bent, forearms hung over them. Tries not to make the hitch in his breath known when your thighs brush against each other ever so lightly. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. 

You shake your head at the ground, sighing deeply in defeat-- as if it would magically ease the pressure in your temples. “I think I forgot, it’s so easy to forget. But I dunno, all this self-pity and for what? Because I don’t get a cool pair of wings?”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” his hand hovers over your back. Half afraid of hurting you, half afraid of you rejecting him. 

Eyes like the cosmos lift to his and you lean back to close the distance for him. The press of his palm over your shoulder is warm, his fingers flexing slightly in the contours of your back. Gooseflesh fanning out from where they indent your skin, hidden beneath the fabric of your shirt. 

“My last rescue op, that kid whose lower half was blown to shit?” Sam nods solemnly, he remembers. How could he not? “He couldn’t stop crying about how his girlfriend was gonna break up with his dickless ass. And then he broke into a whole other fit because he didn’t have an ass either,” you laugh humorlessly, “I’m alive and in one peice. I’ve got a sweet ass and a fucking elephant trunk of a dick swinging between my legs.” Sam snorts, can’t help the gap-toothed grin that makes his cheeks ache.

You pause, licking your lips. Sam’s got a smile is like the sun. All warm and bright. The way it feels to bask in it’s glow, a personal beach day, you don’t think you’ve ever been so content to just be looked at. 

“I guess, I just-,” brows furrow, struggling to find the words. “You spend months preparing for something, with your best friends, you’re all excited about it, mostly because you’re doing it together. Me. Riley. You. Demented three musketeers,” you smile sadly, a cracking phantom of a thing Sam has come to love. “And then it all goes to shit. So easily slips through your fingers.”

There are tears that you’ll never let fall, but you trust Sam enough to let him see the way your eyes shine with it. The glossy finish of your glum and how it paints you blue. 

“I’ve been with Riley since basic. Never been an op where I haven’t had his back and him mine.” 

You know. You know you’ll never fly again. No one’s said it outright, but they look at you like a kicked puppy enough for you to get it.

“Will you promise me something, Sam?”

Sam. Sam. Sam. He’s heard his name said a million times in a thousand different cadences, but never like that. Never so soft and honeyed and certain. All at the same fucking time. 

“Anything.”

“There are going to be ops for just the two of you that the rest of the unit, that I can’t go on. Will you look after Riley?” You’re so close, practically whispering. Sam could count your lashes if he wanted to. “I love him, but he’s a fucking idiot. Just doesn’t think sometimes.” 

Without question. Fervently. For you, “Absolutely.”

And you just listen to each other breathe. In and out. So steady and sure. Content in just the sweet sound of each other, living.

2007.

Hands, calloused from fast-roping down from a helo, splayed out on the contours of his shoulders. Hot and urgent, everywhere and nowhere at once. The emotion in them permeates through his skin-- flooding him, filling him to the brim. Had he always been so empty before? Or had that space always been carved out for your touch? Your eyes are above him, searching, pleading. Lashes fluttering down at his face. Lips falling open in soundless utterances, mouthpiece of the gods. Breathless. His ears are ringing, eyes blinking away that white hot blindness licking at the edges of his consciousness. You’re so beautiful there, rays of sun peeking out behind you, he might pass out.  

Wilson, can you hear me?  

And then a laugh. Loud and boisterous and Holy shit! You just got your world rocked! Riley beside you, his face a picture of delight, buzzing with adrenaline. 

Along with the rapid pops of gunfire and cracks of an AK returning, gentle jingling of hot casings hitting the ground, steady lines of communication running down the line of airmen, Wilson, I need you to confirm that you are okay.

He nods dumbly at your insistence. Remembering suddenly how to breathe when you grab him by the vest and yank him up off the ground. He’d been blown on his back by the sheer force of a screaming mortar impacting the earth nearby. Your smack on his helmet is enough to refocus him, and all attention is back on the vic, packing the wound, applying pressure. You radio in controlled and calm-- GSW to the leg and shoulder, hoist out exfil necessary, popping green smoke on our location. 

Helmand is hell. But you grin and bear it so well. 

Things have levelled out. The three of you adjust to yet another new routine; much remains the same. The months are filled with morning PT, showers, any and every conversation under the sun shared over chow, a game of Slapjack or Bullshit after the sun’s gone down. Standard combat search-and-rescue, thankfully, for your sake is unchanged. But you have to get used to watching Sam and Riley soar through the sky like it’s what they were born to do. You stick to field medicine when they become something altogether different than PJs. Though, they were never just PJs. And you pretend it doesn’t just ache the tiniest beat when they leave you behind for some confidential mission.

Being the failure is hell. You grin and bear it to keep the pain from spreading to them. 

Hours later he finds you pelting the metal floor of the HH-60 Pave Hawk with an unwavering jet stream of water, diluted blood dripping from the sides. 

“Any special plans for when you get home?” Sam watches your face as it remains focused on lazily hosing down any memory of a bleeding young Corporal laying slack in your helping hands from the bird.

Six weeks. His tour ends in six weeks. He plans on sleeping-- sleeping hard, sleeping in, sleeping around. Riley joked about Sam burying himself in alcohol and puss, ‘it’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’. Sam laughed and cheered in good fun, but the scent of JP-8 stung his nostrils. You and Riley have three more months left in this tour. Sam doesn’t like to think about the fact that he’ll be home, smelling apple pie and boob sweat, and you’ll be stuck here, sniffing jet fuel; that’s the smell of freedom, airmen say. 

“Might take up yoga,” he quips. 

Your eyebrows raise slightly, lips spreading into an easy and knowing smile, “Bet you would, you horndog.” Yoga pants, nylon and lycra second skins that hold everything just so, are all the rage all of the sudden. 

Sam laughs, leaning against the side of the helicopter with a cheeky smirk. That smirk you know so well now after three years. You count on that smirk. Pray on it. How something so small can bring you so much comfort, impossible to say. 

“If you come to LA, I can take you to all the studios. You’d love it.” 

Sam Wilson’s always been a social butterfly. The lifeblood of every party. The guy that gets along with everyone. The funny, effortlessly cool guy. He thrives on meeting new people and cracking jokes. 

But really, if Sam could do anything when he gets home, it would just be to see you. And Riley, of course. He wants you to come to LA, go to a bar, hide in some corner and just talk. Like you always do. Except, in civvies and heavily lubricated. He’d wait that excruciating month and a half before you’re back stateside too. He’d wait, not so much as think about alcohol, if it meant the three of you could share that first cold one together. You and Riley, you’re family. The first he’s had in a long while. 

He can’t help himself. “Will you? Come to LA?”

You smile, so nice and pretty, big and easy, like the one you’d once reserved only for Riley. 

2008.

Hands, softened with shea and two months R&R, fisting the back of his shirt so tightly he fears the fabric might disintegrate. Feverish and needy, fingernails digging into his warm skin, leaving ardor shaped crescents in wake of their campaign to conquer his back. Scorched in the spots first touched, soothed by the soft sound of sliding skin. 

Panting. Clenching. Burning. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking at the edges. Lashes, all 359 of them -- he’d counted -- fanning his cheeks. Sweet wetness. Trembling fire. Mouths, hot and urgent, moving against one another. Whiskey tongues, sliding together, worshipping every inch. Lips numb. Teeth clanging. Both chests heaving, humming with moans too gentle and too desperate. You’re so beautiful there, in a bar’s dark and dirty bathroom stall pressing chest, groin, thigh, and leg against him. 

Gushing with it: joy, freedom, ecstasy. Overwhelmed by what he swallows from that heavenly spout: wrath, anguish, woe. 

You’re so beautiful he might die-- without question, fervently, for you. 

2009. 

The world works in strange ways. People will pay a 1,000 USD for a mattress that perfectly shapes to the curves of their spines. Commercials demonstrate you can balance a wine glass and simultaneously jump like a giddy kid in a hotel room without any risk of stain-- and for good measure, in the event it does stain, some special formula ensures it’ll come right out. Such strange desires of men. Sam sighs into his pillow-- zero cost, no secret formula. Sand, his mattress covered in 1500 thread count egyptian cotton; rock, his feather pillow that corrects his posture; a heavy coat of dry heat, his comforting New Zealand sheep wool blanket. Riley snores soundly beside, drool dribbling from the right corner of his mouth, chest spluttering in his exhales-- his white noise machine. 

He’s never been more comfortable. And in strange ways, he’s glad to be back, just starting his second tour at twenty-seven now, another successful Falcon mission recorded with the capture of Khalid Khandil. 

Sam’s almost disgusted with himself. He’s so stupidly content to be there, in the middle of the Afghani desert, sleeping on the ground. As if it’s not a fucking war. 

Well, as the world turns. 

Do you ever think it’ll be over? you’ll ask one night, a whisper on his lips as soft as the dripping beside you. Never defined, never talked about, but most nights, when sleep evades you, you’ll slip from the barracks to the empty showers. And you’ll sigh in pleasure in time with the echoing splash of leaky faucets.

And Sam has to bite his lips from saying the words ‘God, I hope not’ into your neck. 

Stateside, he has a joke of a life. The year in between tours was almost unbearable. He’s supposed to call that land home? It feels more foreign to him now than Afghanistan. A place where people create mattresses with different settings on two sides for maximum comfort. 

Strangers see him in uniform and either say ‘thank you for your service’-- which always feels hollow-- or looking like they want to spit on him. Suffocating. He could only breathe the three times you visited him in Los Angeles and the five times he came to Virginia for you. Only felt comfortable there with his face in your thighs, heart and breast in his hand, lips in his teeth. 

Here, he has structure. Purpose. Brotherhood. You. In war, he’s important. He’s helping people, not in any misguided, easily skewed fight for freedom and self-righteousness. He’s actually helping people. ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. It’s what PJs do. 

In Afghanistan, he gets to fucking fly. 

In the US, his wings are clipped and everything feels so dull in comparison. 

Eventually, it has to, he’ll murmur back to spare you from his terrible thoughts. You’re so soft and sweet under him, and Sam knows just how much this war tears you apart. 

The guilt that plagues you because not everyone can be saved, but everyone should be. You’ve said before that the PJ credo implies death yourself. ‘That Others May Live’. But you’re alive and so many have died beneath your palms despite best efforts. Those trained fingers that sometimes feel useless apart from bringing Sam to bliss.

If you knew how he truly felt, how even if he’s a good man he harbors such selfish thoughts, it would only hurt you more. 

So he keeps it to himself and kisses your worries away. Soft pecks at your eyes that never cry but are always on the brink; the tip of your nose that’s become immune to the overwhelming metallic scent of blood; the crease between your brows that screw together in torment; lips, that despite all of the above, smile for Riley and for him. 

He’ll hold you so tenderly with strong steady hands, that it’s easy to forget the two of you are pressed together in a shower stall. You seem to have a habit of getting into compromising positions in bathrooms with Sam. 

A soft moan of appreciation escapes your lips, just to see that charming gap-tooth grin it draws from him. A taste of his light. So wanting, so desperate for that warm glow that emanates from Sam Wilson, you peel the shirt from his back sticky with sweat. Fingers scrambling to run across the smooth, hot skin there, chasing that tranquil day at the beach that is him even in the middle of a goddamned war. Greedy hands draw silken lines down the length of Sam’s spine, smiling in his mouth at his shuddering. How he leans into your touch reflexively. 

You’re drawn tight against him, his arms snaking around the base of your back, your hips flush against his, heels digging into his hamstrings. So close you become almost indistinguishable from him, simply a heap of warm skin and desert camo bracing the shower walls. 

A single kiss, languid and saccharine, suddenly turned quick. Sam is urgent in unfastening your top, splaying it open to lay you bare and panting before him. Each snap undone, a breath more labored. Your own hands, fumbling for the belt at his waist, mourning the loss of kissed raw lips against you. Hurried, as if at any moment one of you will perish. And the other, having tasted a body so divine, would simply crumble into dust-- there could never be another that they craved the same. Disappear forever in this desert, to perhaps be stamped down by another set of lovers’ boots. Here, in the sand soaked with your blood, Sam’s sweat, Riley’s tears

A vow taken in the sighs of pleasure quieted by amorous mouths. 

If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him. 

2010.

He’d wished for this, hadn’t he? 

To live in War. This ungodly, disorienting flurry of chaos that feigns a sense of order. Mayhem, no matter how many hours ripping apart his muscles to put them back in place in accordance with military regulation, how much firepower there is to decimate enemies. A messy, merciless machine, endless. Running on the energy expelled from eating-- young men chewed up and spat out, shoved back into the hungry mouth, and chewed and spat again. And again. An emulsified puddle of blood and sweat leaking from the bottom.  

This, is war. Not fucking in the showers, watching the sunset while playing cards, and trading MREs like it’s elementary school. 

Structure. Purpose. Brotherhood -- all of the things Sam craved. It all means jack shit once someone steps on an IED, the distinct crisp sound of AKs firing off, or staring an RPG straight in the eye. 

Sam can’t stop looking at the way the blood squeezes through his shaking fingers. Thick and scarlet and slippery, bubbling through the cracks, seeping into the lines of his skin. Unyielding to Sam’s hands desperately clasping at the ripped flesh, trying and failing to apply pressure to the wound. No matter how much pressure he applies, the blood persists. Gushing, oozing, turning black under his palms. Because it’s everywhere and he only has two hands. Why did God make man with only two hands? Why?

Come on, man!

It’s a pathetic sound, the way it rips from his throat, raw and pleading. His arms, trembling so hard they shake the body beneath him too. 

Sam removes one hand to pop a yellow smoke outside of the ditch he’d pulled them into, using his teeth to pull the pin from the canister. 

He’s whimpering, choking down the sobs he so desperately wants to let out, communicating in broken sentences through the radio. Deaf to the return chatter. 

His eyes refuse to leave his bloodstained hands when the Pave Hawk is hovering above, his team of six fast-roping down, quick and methodical in employing care under fire protocol. Four of them stationing themselves at a pole just outside of the ditch, laying suppressing fire. 

You’re there, he can feel you rushing forward with your pack already slung over and onto the ground at their sides. But Sam won’t look at you, can’t-- if he sees your face, he’ll lose it. 

Moving, but nothing feels like it’s by your own volition. Rather, muscle memory. Flipping up your NVG, your eyes flit over the scene fast, thinking, but not feeling. And somehow, you’re thankful you’re numb at the sight. 

You’ve never seen it quite so... he doesn’t look human. 

It was just supposed to be a standard op. A marine stepped on an IED, and no one had metal detectors so the normal PJ unit couldn’t land. They were supposed to fly in and out, barely even touch the ground. 

And it all got fucked. How had it gotten so fucked? 

Helpless. Nothing he could do. Like he was up there just to watch. Squint in the dark night for a body barreling towards the ground. So much like your first flight test. That sickness churning his gut. 

Sam. Sam. Sam! 

His eyes flit to meet yours wide and white in the dark and just can’t bear it. He careens over to the side, retching this morning’s powdered eggs ugly and loud. Emptied, body too spent, the sobs finally overtake him. 

Quickly, you cut open his top, pulling the tattered fabric from where it tangled up with his body. Your hands take up the spot where Sam’s once pressed, pulling out combat gauze with your teeth. Deperately packing until you run out of gauze. It does nothing. The white is quickly stained so red that it just resembles more mutilated strings of flesh. 

“Okay,” you breathe, but it does nothing to return the oxygen to your lungs, “okay we need to stabilize the wound, tourniquets”-- the wound, he’s more wound than whole-- “and I need someone on chest compressions.”

You’re met with stares. Seven red-rimmed eyes, just staring as the very fluid of his life drains from him, body going cold under your hands warm, soaked in his blood. The only thing holding him, all mangled chunks of burnt tissue, together is you. 

“But-”

“But what?” 

But, it was an RPG. So what? We’re fucking PJs, aren’t we? But, he’s lost too much blood. We’ll do a transfusion. But, he’s dead. 

“Just do it!”

No one has the heart to stop you.

You work over Riley’s corpse for the entire ride to the hospital. They have to rip you from him on arrival. Because he’s dead. And you’ve just spent an hour elbow deep in a mess of blood and guts that feel like your own, exhausting yourself-- keeping nothing alive but your own sanity. 

Riley’s a pair of boots, an M16, a helmet, and two shiny dog tags clenched in your fists.  

That’s it. 

The rest of him was put back together as best they could, shoved in a pine box shrouded in stars and stripes, and sent off to Georgia. He’ll be received by his parents, two little brothers, three nieces, and his dog. They’ll write about him in the paper, a hero he’ll be called-- when really, he was a dumbass that got dinked by a rocket. 

He’d enjoy the fame in your small town. 

Idiot. 

Dropped on his head as a baby. 

As you squeeze the dog tags hanging from his M16, so do you squeeze a tear from your eye. A warm thing running down your left cheek that feels just like Riley’s blood in your palm. 

Sam’s behind you, head bowed low, maroon beret in his hands. The amount of times he’s said sorry, some blubbery, some frustrated, some murmured in your hair, some screamed at you.

You’re both raw. 

Hands scrubbed with soap, but stained Riley red.

Those showers have been tainted now with the fresh memory of pink streams circling the drain. Where once you found yourself lost in lust, now, in misery. Riley in your hands disappearing into the pipes, into nothing forever. 

“My tour’s up in three months,” Sam watches you carefully as you release the silver tags imprinted with Riley’s information. You stand and face him, wiping away that traitorous tear. “I’m going to leave active duty.”

When he was twenty, and the world was bleeding fresh scarlet, he’d hardly imagined he’d be retiring at thirty. But twenty seems so far now, just as the aftermath of 9/11. Now, the blood has caked into a mountain of pain, dried brown. Revenge, and then some. 

He enlisted for patriotism, duty, selflessness. He stayed for you and Riley, for flying. 

He can’t stay anymore-- can’t see you die too.

"You’re retiring?” your cloudy stare, brows pulled together, eat at him, “Okay.”

Okay. Sam never tried to guess what you’d say, but ‘okay’ somehow seems like the only thing that would ever make sense on your lips. So soft and simple. You. Always supportive, always sure. 

You nod with a gentle smile, and while he doesn’t know where you’re headed-- somewhere that’s not Riley’s makeshift shrine-- Sam trails closely behind. Partially because he has more to say, but mostly, because he’s bound to you now. His chest is tethered to yours, feet instinctively falling in line. He heels, like a dog. For you. 

The barracks are empty for chow again. Neither of you are hungry. Meals are different without Riley.  

So familiar, the two of you sitting side by side on the ground, knees bent, forearms resting on them, thighs brushing. Alone together. 

Sam has ocean eyes. Warm brown eyes that look like the ocean. They’re still on you but they move. You’ve never noticed. How they swell and glimmer, so constant yet always in motion-- pure in how he allows himself to live so freely. Going with whatever flow his heart takes him: dropping out of college and enlisting; punching ignorant airmen; and giggling like a girl at the feeling of flying. Making promises you both know he has no control over. Kissing you in a bar because he can’t take the longing for a second more. Leaving the Air Force because it’s getting in the way of his light. Even if it means giving up flying. 

Sam slips his hand in yours, so warm and soft, his squeeze, a plea. 

“Come with me.”

You’ve never met a person who lives like him. 

You laugh, fondly. Sam Wilson is so earnest in almost everything he does. 

“Can’t.”

So tempting. You remember now, how close those words once were to falling from your tongue. I love you. It seems pointless to say now, he’s leaving, you’re staying. 

“Come on, don’t be a martyr.”

Like Riley, he says without ever needing to flex his vocal chords that way. 

Morbid as it may be, you’d be glad to die like Riley. He always believed in the cause more than either of you. He was dumb and goofy, but he truly believed in it. All of it. You’ve never been so bound by an unearthly force like that-- religion, ideology, patriotism. 

Must be nice, Riley mused, not having to answer to God. No, it really isn’t. It’s... lonely. You want to try your hand at it now. Might do you some good. You’re looking at another two years, or whenever your tour is up, alone now. Why not fuck around and find some higher power? God, the PJ creed, macaroni and chili MREs. You’ll figure it out. 

“Eventually, it has to end. Right?” It’s his own words. You knew he never believed them. And neither do you now, really. “So I’ll see you then.”

Or in a pine box. 

Ocean eyes are wet with his sorrow. You are so lovely. Love. He loves you. He thinks he might’ve loved you from the moment he first heard your velvet voice. Fuck off. So lovely. Sam kisses you, and the waves have come to drag you out to sea. If he could, he’d beg you to come home in his riptide. 

Wherever that is. 

2012.

A Goliath building with tall glass windows that turn sunbeams into rainbows with rows upon rows of fresh tulips surrounding. Brilliant yellows and oranges-- like poppy field sunsets in Afghanistan. In the center of the free world. So much meaning there now behind what it means to fight for freedom. No place knows it quite like this house of warriors. This is a place of healing. Of mending brains put in a blender, frozen in some eagle shaped mold, and then thawed out with guns in their hands and a burning vendetta to satisfy. 

Sam Wilson is thirty-one now, and remains a man of routine. 

He wakes to darkness. Unfolds himself from the tight ball he’d curled into at some point. On the floor. Again. Sam gives himself just five minutes to lay blinking at white walls painted 5 am blue, bleary eyed birds just starting up their morning songs. 

And then he’s up. His teeth are brushed, sneakers laced up, keys thrown into the pocket of his shorts. Sam runs along the Potomac with the familiar soft pink aura of dawn crawling along the horizon. Around the Washington Monument, past the Lincoln Memorial, down Pennsylvania Ave.

He feels so small among those giant monoliths of the land of the free. Not purple mountain majesties, but the marble Hill. 

Sometimes, he feels you and Riley running beside him, like all those years ago bright and early for 6 A.M. PT-- wearing ankle high socks, grey t-shirts with white wings splayed across the chest and those little navy shorts Riley complained crushed his balls. 

God, he misses Riley. 

He misses you too. 

In college, Sam was a philosophy major of all things. He studied questions of human nature while picking up ‘cerebral chicks’. 

A decade later, the questions he once pushed away have all come up again. It all seems so important now. 

When he closes his eyes he sees your smile, yes, but he sees fire and smoke too. Like the rubble of the Twin Towers, his memories of war are shrouded in destruction.  

Sartre said, Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from defeat.

So much cost, tangible and not. Cities riddled with bullet holes and missile craters, conquered and hailed as a successful operation so long as it forces the Taliban back. Beautiful landscapes marred with IEDs and shrapnel which will make the Americans wish they never step foot in Afghanistan. Invisible things too, like a mass grave of men, women, and children-- some military, some civilian. Glass shards of minds, not broken, but cracked. 

Sam is bleeding. Veterans are bleeding. Everyone is bleeding. 

The puddle of blood and sweat at the bottom of that machine, fathomless. 

He ends up in D.C., staring up at that Goliath building with the scent of fresh spring tulips in his nostrils-- Department of Veterans Affairs. He needs help and he needs to help. Post-traumatic stress disorder is such a big name, and he never fully understands his meeting. What he does know: sleeplessness, irritability, paranoia, numbness, waking nightmares. 

Healing is a process, but Sam’s doing it now. Himself, through others. 

Things are getting better. 

He’ll never be completely whole, but the circle helps. ‘It’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’, Riley joked. Sam laughs up at the sky, his dumbass friend was probably sporting a smug smirk wherever he is. 

This morning Sam is chipper, today is a good day. He smiles wide at the girl at the front desk; she’s pretty and shy and always tucks her hair behind her ear when he’s flirting. Sam  snags a classic glazed from the box of free donuts from Astro and it hangs from his mouth as he goes about setting up for a meeting. Unfolding chairs, he arranges them in a comforting position. In a circle, everyone is equal-- no one is alone or an outsider. 

And then he waits with a welcoming smile as everyone filters in. Some are regulars and he’ll exchange ‘how are you’s. Some are new and uncomfortable so he gestures to an open chair and says ‘Welcome’ with that beach day grin. Soothing, calm, comforting. 

Sam listens so well. 

For as much as he likes to talk, listening is sometimes better. He only speaks when he’s sure they’re done and comfortable, offering what has helped him best. 

Adjusting to civilian life is hard. No one expects how hard it truly is, because it’s never talked about it. They’re supposed to push themselves to the extremes of human experience and then come back as if any of that was normal. As if they didn’t just come from a war, that still persists. Even if by a different name, in a different place, against a different group, it persists. And no one ever tells them how hard it is to just sit there, surrounded by friends and family where you’re supposed to be happiest, and act like it’s not burning you from the inside out. 

But it’s important to remember the good things too, he’ll tell them. When the dark shadow threatens to swallow them up whole, there is always light. It’s important to know that and make sure they stay separate. 

Like Astro donuts and playing soul music all the time and showering without a dozen people next to you. And the freedom of getting to do whatever the hell they want. 

Sam tells them, if it makes them happy: do it. 

“You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.”

He’s seeing you, looking just the same as the last. With that smile, that’s only his now-- nice and pretty, big and easy. You are beautiful, so beautiful Sam wonders how he’s survived so long without seeing it. 

His own smile falters when his ocean eyes travel from your face.

You are exactly the same, except, you’re missing a few pieces. 

Your left arm, which he expects to lead down to those calloused hands somehow impossibly soft, is cut off abruptly, cruelly, above the ghost of your elbow. The left hand, your dominant one, that he had known the comforting feel of on his shoulder, burning through the cloth of his uniform, gone. The hand that breathlessly trailed down his torso, tickling and seducing, leaving goosebumps in its wake, missing. 

He’ll ask another time. You’ll tell him of more casualties of war, this one visible, and of others invisible. 

But for now, he’s rushing at you, and it’s still not fast enough to quiet his screaming heart. He grabs you, doesn’t care if there are still people lingering from the end of the meeting, and really kisses you. And your right hand still finds its way to his torso. 

I love you, breathless. It was never pointless to say. 

No, the war is not over, maybe not even eventually, but you’re here in D.C. wrapped in his waves, alive. 

He’ll never be completely whole, but you get him damn near close to it. 

[savrenim]

mx savrenim! mx. savrenim! I have a writing question: Im writing a story about people who can see the future, and I'm wondering how you made it feels more like a memory not like, a gut wrenching tragedy? Its deffo painful, but Im pretty sure you mentioned wanting to give it a happy ending? If so: how. The concept of future vision is so cool but the implications and the way it plays out is horrifying and heartbreaking rip. I just wanna give my characters some chance at a happy ending

gods okay this is a good question that I have a lot of Weird Strong Feelings about bc time is the single thing that I have the strongest opinions about let’s go under the cut

so the thing that makes your question interesting to me-- “how do you make a story with future powers not a gut-wrenching tragedy”-- is that..... to me, at least, there is absolutely nothing inherent in the setup of future-seeing powers that should imply that the story should be a gut-wrenching tragedy? your problem is assuming that there has to be anything tragic involved. free yourself from that perception and you will be free to write whatever you want.

ifmlam is a gut-wrenching tragedy right now because the feeling that I was going for was “hmmmm the exact gut-wrenching feeling that The World Was Wide Enough makes me feel” and it’s having a happy ending because I decided to write a fic bc “goddamnit I need a fix-it, like, right now.” Seeing the future is cool but it’s also just a plot-and-setting device. and the story feels the way it feels because I designed how it works around exactly how I wanted it to feel?

my current other major project, trash novel, is about a seer who hunts down other seers for dramatic stop-the-world-from-devolving-into-war-and-maybe-ending reasons. except the vibes are... SO different. the vibes are “shit there’s like a dozen way way overpowered teenagers and twenty-something-year-olds who hold the fate of the world in their hands except they’re being dumb assess getting overly involved in personal drama with one another and are maybe going to blow up the planet.” and so instead of this quasi-religious worldwide honor around a single Seer and visions of the future that work one particular way and the main character being this poor fragile darling that needs to be protected and the reverence with which the plot treats the usage of future-powers, the main character of the opus series named herself “Fuck You” and has the power to see like ten seconds tops into the future and uses it to be really fucking good at magic fistfighting and accidentally gets involved in trying to take over a foreign/soon to be enemy government while trying to make friends with the ambassador that it’s her mission to protect him and like spy on that government to make sure they’re not messing with the future, but because he’s really pissed off at his ex and his shitty parents kind of for trying to force him to marry his ex and also his entire home country for siding with his ex he decides to take advantage of the fact that Saes thinks that overthrowing a government is maybe appropriate friend bonding activities to Take Revenge. and overthrow the government. meanwhile his cousin just outright admits in her second scene that she is trying to take over the first their government in then the world and is like 90% of the way there and really isn’t trying to hide the fact that she has committed to a plan that makes everyone think she is The Villain but Saes in particular bc Saes doesn’t want her home country to be conquered, but while Saes thinks this makes them moral enemies Asterna thinks that Saes is very hot because Saes is the single person who can beat her in a fistfight. they get into a misunderstanding fake-dating relationship for at ~80k words of the first arc. the ex is also trying to take over the government partially bc he feels the family pressure to continue their influence and partially bc he’s still in love with Luka and wants to try to win him back. at least three main characters have very poorly thought out one-night stands with other characters just for spite. there’s a character whose name is “Godkiller.” 

you can probably tell from the description that it’s very VERY different vibes from ifmlam. there are seers with more longreaching abilities than 10 seconds in the setting, who are trying to use their powers to seriously manipulate outcomes of events, and some deep political implications of that; it’s not all flashy ridiculousness. there are parts of it that get tragic (gods do parts of it get emotional and gods are some of those emotions tragic), but it’s never terribly tragic for very long, and it never feels like a heart-wrenching tragedy as a genre. everyone is a gay mess, extra emphasis on the gay AND the mess, and it reads like ridiculous action drama intrigue almost like a DnD campaign? 

and it’s because of both (a) the seer powers that are being highlighted work differently but also (b) the seer pov character has a fundamentally different perception of themselves. Aaron Burr sees himself as pretty much a McGuffin and he hates it and there’s a large portion of his character and character arc and hence the plot itself that revolves around him not feeling like he has any sort of control over his life or the impact of his powers. he’s afraid of himself and what he can do, he’s afraid of letting people in and being used, he’s afraid of the impact that he or someone wielding him might have on the world, and he doesn’t quite see himself as a person, more like a glass statue of one housing powers -- and that contributes to the tragedy and vastly affects the tone of the whole thing. when the viewpoint character feels helpless, when the viewpoint character doesn’t believe in themselves, when the viewpoint character is pretty much a McGuffin: incredibly powerful and useful to powerful people, but unable to control their own fate -- that gives the story a certain feeling.

Saes Imirin is nothing like Aaron Burr because Saes isn’t afraid of herself. Saes is completely at peace with what she can do, and actually thinks it’s pretty cool. She’s working for the people she’s working for because she’s decided that’s probably where she’ll do the least harm in the world, and also because she likes her apartment. if she changes her mind she changes her allegiance. she has stared down armies and has never really feared for herself, because she’s a fucking badass, and she knows that she can always pick the future where she wins so why should she ever feel afraid.

if you don’t want your characters to feel tragic, then don’t have them be afraid of themselves. don’t have them doubt themselves. but also, construct the way that future-seeing powers work so that they’re not set up to be a tragedy. the biggest being the most important pair of questions: how accurate/specific are the powers? and how unchangeable is the future?

Saes Imirin’s powers are 100% accurate and 100% specific, albeit contained to usually one to three but at most ten seconds. The future is also 100% changeable; the way her powers works is that she sees all possible futures and then physically moves the way that she did in the one where she’s won. Aaron Burr’s powers are..... death visions I’d put at, like.... 90sh % “accuracy”? in that they always show a possible and in fact usually most probable for the timeline we’re on now sort of death for someone. but they’re also very changeable. but time itself has a momentum and “pushes back” against those changes in the plot of ifmlam (someone doesn’t die in one duel will die in another, etc) which lends to a strong feeling of inevitability despite the relative amount of freedom those powers have. 

imo, future-seeing usually lends itself to tragedy when it’s about seeing something terrible/attempting to subvert something that cannot be fixed because it is the future. if you establish early on that all visions/prophecies must come true exactly, that will usually put a fair amount of tension on your plot and it will make things feel tragic, especially if characters end up getting a future that they really really don’t like. the more unchangeable things are, the more it usually tends towards tragedy.

(I say “usually” because, like. I’m still waiting for a story in which future-seeing is absolute and someone gets a prophecy that “and if you choose to go forward and step through this room your fate will be sealed, you will die on this specific day in this exact way and nothing in the universe can change that”, the character goes “cool”, does it, and promptly begins taking advantage of their immortality up until that day to do Utterly Ridiculous Things to become a weird hyper luck-based superhero of, like, “I can jump off this building bc in the vision I was fine and unhurt so I can’t get wounded in any sort of way that’ll make me unable to run and jump around” “I can totally try eating this mystery goo let’s see what it does” “hmmm the enemy fired their superbomb into the heart of our capital guess I just have to sit here next to it so that it will keep malfunctioning in some strange unspecified way and not going off because it can’t kill me here and now my fate is set in stone” etc. just. someone give me that comedy p l e a s e. I’m picturing Monty Python level of shenanigans.)

but yeah, usually, the more set in stone a future is, the more likely a story is to take a turn for the tragic, because when the future isn’t ~set in stone~ prophecies function more as useful warnings that can be interpreted to do useful things and save the day and not terrible foreboding omens of doom. high accuracy with high changeability is a cool superpower. low.... specificity, at least, leads to stories where usually you go “oH SHIIIIIT” afterwards as you get the end and the last thing clicks in place and now the entire plot in hindsight is So Much Different and they only lend themselves to tragedy if they’re useless as warnings and are just “fuck oh THAT’S what it meant and if I understood it I could have changed it”. and then inherent low changeability is both easiest to lend to tragedy and imo the hardest to write because you write yourself into a corner? (and you also make some pretty deep philosophical statements about determinism and free will depending on how you characterize time.) but so long as everyone has a chance to change things, the story won’t feel hopeless.

this has gotten long and rambly bc it’s ungodly o clock in the morning and, like, if the heart of the thesis of your story is “knowing the future is Fucked Up and Fucks You Up” and your story is on the deep seated societal implications about a world where some measure of seeing the future exists, like.... there are ways in which things might be tragic, but there are ways to counter that by making things mundane? a la lightening benders in legend of korra working at electricity plants. having seers with tiny mundane powers and/or who don’t really care about their powers and don’t use them too much or who just think of them as annoying side noise, but at the heart of it, oops stealing also from mob psycho 100 bc oops I just rewatched it and am mildly obsessed with it and its message and just dear gods how it manages to pull off its emotional impact....

psychic powers are just another trait. like people who can run fast or who study hard or sing really well or have strong body odor, or have psychic powers. they don’t make you any more special than anything else. who you are and what you do isn’t set in stone, it’s choices that you can make.

and finally, if your world is tragic bc you’ve decided to lean into the “the public perceives seers as special / dangerous / other “ and so you don’t want to adjust how the powers themselves work and how the public sees it, there’s always the trick of just, like.... let characters’ actions have meaning. let them win. and it won’t be a tragedy, not really.

[meggiejolly]

Messing up the Freshly Made Bed

Word count: 1609 Rating: G Fandom: Captain America (Movies), MCU Written for: Stucky Remix 2020 (@stuckyremix) Inspired by: Pillow Fight (Art) by @the-steve-bucky-ship  Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Summary: Steve and Bucky are undercover as cleaning staff in a Hotel. Who's brilliant idea was that? Everyone should know that Steve “Captain fucking America” Rogers, national icon extraordinaire was a bad choice for pretty much all undercover missions. Links: AO3, Fanfiction.net 

Steve and Bucky were undercover as cleaning staff in a hotel to gather information on a potential Hydra operative.

How anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. had thought that two super soldiers, one of which had a metal arm, would make convincing maids at a fancy hotel was beyond Bucky. He was very good at undercover work and blending in, but even he had limits.

And Steve “Captain fucking America” Rogers, national icon extraordinaire was a bad choice for pretty much all undercover missions.

Nonetheless here they were, and after a few very confused looks and questions from the head of staff, they had been hired. Those looks had nothing on the looks from the other employees though. Luckily the hotel was high brow enough that all guests pretended the staff didn't exist. Even they spared a second glance when Buck's metal arm glinted at them from the gap between his fancy starched shirt and the gloves.

The person who had decided that white, starched collared shirts with long sleeves would be a good uniform for cleaning was almost as bad as the person who picked them for this mission. They were uncomfortable, hot, wrinkled as soon as you did any cleaning and got stained way too easily. Plus, the hotel didn’t really have sizes that were equipped to handle a metal arm or a shoulder to hip ratio of someone like Steve. So they were too tight on top of all other problems.

Between the fact that Bucky and Steve had grown up in a time when the only pride people could take in their Brooklyn homes was keeping them perfectly clean, the army, Sarah Roger’s lessons in making beds the hospital way and Bucky’s questionable experience in cleaning up crime scenes, the cleaning part of their jobs wasn’t a problem. Though all the different tools and cleaning agents confused them from time to time. Why did they need so much stuff if a bucket of water, some soap and vinegar, a couple of rags and maybe a brush would do the trick? Though Bucky had to admit these micro fibre cloths really worked like a charm to clean glass.

One thing was for certain though, there was no job better suited for snooping than the cleaning staff. You were required to rifle through things and all the tools needed to clean up any evidence of your snooping were right there and not suspicious at all.

It didn’t take them too long to find incriminating evidence, and from then on out they laid low and kept their eye out for any more evidence until the Hydra operative checked out. The plan was that Clint and Natasha would follow him in the hopes that he would lead them to one of the higher ups. Bucky still thought it would have been easier if the teams switched and Nat and Clint did the undercover work, but he was just following orders.

Not that he thought Clint and Natasha weren’t capable of following the Hydra guy. He had seen them in action and he was not suicidal enough to doubt any of Natasha’s abilities. He had helped train her after all. Fuck, this train of thought would get him in trouble with her no matter what. Implying he was in any way responsible for her skills? Almost as bad of an idea as implying she couldn’t do something. And he knew very well that Clint would either help her in tearing him limb from limb or stand by watching and laughing his ass off. Steve probably wouldn’t be of any help either.

But either way, Nat and Clint would follow and catch the operative, while Bucky and Steve would give their notice and return home, standing by in case they needed help. Which they wouldn’t because they were Natasha and Clint. So this whole mission was boring and annoying. Rich people were terrible slobs who treated their rooms like pig-sties. And they didn’t even leave proper tips! They were rich for fuck’s sake.

Bucky chose to ignore that both he and Steve had somehow ended up with a lot of money due to Army back pay and the fact that they lived rent free at the Avengers compound which made this fancy hotel look like a dump. It was the principal of the thing.

So yeah, cleaning the room of a businessman who was clearly here with his mistress, judging by the lingerie and the wedding ring that was hidden in the bedside drawer, was not engaging enough to keep his mind from wandering. Hopefully the Hydra guy would leave soon. This was getting tedious.

After two more weeks he finally checked out and Steve and Bucky were assigned to get his room ready for the next guest. Which was more work than expected.

“What did he do in here?" Steve asked once they entered the room. "It looks like a bomb of stray bedding and mini toiletries exploded.“

Bucky just shrugged. “Who cares. Let’s just clean it up, look if he left anything behind and then give our one week notice.“

“You’re right. You wanna take the bathroom and dressing room, I’ll take the bedroom.“

“Deal, but I’m taking this ridiculous shirt off. This one is even more stiff and scratchy than the others.“ He shrugged it off, carefully hung it over a chair to avoid wrinkles and headed to the bathroom in his undershirt. Steve followed suit, which was a little surprising, since he usually followed any uniform regulations to a T.

The towels were soaking wet for some reason and every little soap package was ripped open. What a goddamn idiot! Bucky got to work and had the bathroom cleaned quickly. The most interesting part was always the trash. Seriously, you would think a relatively high level Hydra operative would know not to throw important information into the trash without so much as ripping it up, but that was exactly where they had found the incriminating evidence. Bucky seriously had no idea how Hydra had lasted so long if they had idiots like that.

The bathroom trash was boring this time, but the one in the dressing room produced a slip of paper with a phone number on it. It did say cab company, but it was handwritten, so it was at least worth a follow-up. Bucky pocketed it and made his way back to the bedroom where Steve was placing the ridiculous amount of pillows back on the freshly made bed. Knowing Steve, it had perfect hospital corners and was tight enough to bounce coins off.

Steve’s stupid Dorito shape was only emphasised by the white undershirt and the fancy black pants and Bucky couldn’t help but stare for a moment. The effect was even stronger when Steve turned to him and gave him his patented Steve smile. Which was distracting and unfair, especially because they had stuck to being completely platonic for this mission. They had hoped to draw a little less attention that way and since the public didn’t know about Captain America dating the Winter Soldier they didn’t want it coming out, because S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t know how to pick people for undercover missions.

For now he decided to distract himself and get back at Steve for being so Steve by taking one of the freshly fluffed pillows of the bed and whacking him with it.

Steve’s expression was one of such utter surprise and confusion that Bucky almost fell over laughing. So much for the battle hardened, tactical genius that couldn’t be fazed by anything.

But then Steve used his fit of laughter to get him back with another pillow.

“That’s for messing up my freshly made bed!“

Bucky laughed and grabbed another pillow to throw it at Steve.

“That was just one pillow. But this—” He used Steve ducking out of the way of the pillow to grab the blanket off the bed and lunged across to throw the blanket over Steve’s head and pull him onto the bed. “Is messing up the freshly made bed.”

Steve let out a loud yelp and started to struggle against the blanket while Bucky tried to wrap it more tightly around him. Both of them giggled uncontrollably and eventually one of them ripped a hole in the blanket.

“Shit, that wasn’t supposed to happen. You would think a fancy place like this would have sturdier blankets.”

“We are Supersoldiers you punk. I highly doubt blankets that sturdy exist.” Bucky corrected Steve and then decided to fuck it and ripped a pillow open just above Steve’s head to shower him in feathers.

One of them floated so close to Steve’s nose that he sneezed, which in turn blew feathers into Bucky’s face and more importantly his hair which made Steve dissolve into giggles again.

“You… look…” He was struggling to get the words out between laughter. “Like a… flock of... birds attacked… you.”

Bucky tried to use his murder scowl, but it was impossible with all the laughter, the feathers and the adorable way Steve was sprawled out on the bed.

“You have even more feathers stuck to you - you just don’t have my fabulous hair that provides contrast,” he mocked instead and pressed a quick kiss to Steve’s lips before grabbing another pillow to continue their fight.

The fight grew more and more heated and probably would have turned into something else if the door wouldn’t have opened to reveal the manager of the hotel.

Her face said it all and Bucky turned to Steve to say with a smirk,

“Well at least now we won’t have to quit.”

[quirkwizard]

Comment Response #4

From the Love of La Brava, @underwaterrain said: i thought the same at first, that it was a very lazy quirk, so yeah, louder for the people in the back

This confuses me. Are you agreeing with my analysis, or agreeing when I said I first thought it was lazy?

From Math With Quirkwizard, @jordan-angel said: Sir, will that chart be on the exam?

Yes, it will be. There will also be a essay section about the failings of the Meta Liberation Army and the History of Quirks. 

From this, @fishin-lakitu said detective and his sister have very similar quirks but they aren’t the same (i think one is stronger than the other) so I think adjusting them could be fine?

I get that, but what the person was asking for was “the exact same Quirk”. I’m fine sibling having similar Quirks, but I don’t it could be exactly the same.

From this, @exhausted-drone said: Oh my lord

I’m not apologizing for it.

From this, @just-some-random-trash-can said: I think whickh quirk is the more powerful of the 2 depends on the user.Dabi's body is not suited for a fire quirk and that's why it's a disadvantage.If he's body was fire resistant he would be able to use a quirk with a higher flame output for as long as endeavor can use his hellflames making it the superior one 

I always assumed that it was a natural drawback of the Quirk, having it be an exchange of power for safety. Kind of like “Gas” and “Somnambulist”. Yes, “Gas” is more powerful in range and effectiveness, but is considered inferior for the amount of risk it poses to the user.

From Class 1-A: Tiered by Panel Time and Character Development, @thevegetablewhichnoonedaresname said: but can we move Jiro up to mid or high mid? Imo the school festival puts her on maybe Tsu's level. She hasn't gotten a whole lot of time to shine, but when she did, it was notable. Plus, I was just rewatching the first season, and considering none of the side characters do much at all, she's one of the first ones we really get to see in action along with Yaoyorozu and Kaminari and a couple others. I'm also gonna say that I really appreciate your putting Yaoyorozu with Uraraka and Iida. I feel like a lot of people miss her arc, maybe because it's in the background, but it started getting built up in the first season! Anyway long story short I love Momo and thank you for respecting her XD 

The thing about Jiro is that I really struggled to think of anything she did. She fought at the USJ and in Sports Festival, but by that logic, I should bump all the other students up because they fought as well and Jiro still did not do much in either. I was also going by the manga, which she did not do much in either.

And I will never miss out on an opportunity to praise Momo. And no matter how many people seem to hate her, this is a hill I am willing to die on.

From Original Quirk #14

@micshinobi said: S t o n e F r e e !

Actually, the Quirk was much based around Doflamingo from One Piece, specifically his ability to manipulate people’s bodies.

@bignuttie said: Very happy to see your own takes on quirk creation again and not just the marriages.

...While I am the first one to agree that I have been asked a lot of Quirk Marriages, I have done plenty of Original Quirks. This is just one that was not prompted by someone else.

From this, @dwebble-downer said: This is very jojo

The sheer Jojo energy that radiates off that man is nothing short of menacing.

From this, @indecisofan said: Its because some think they are hot. 

At least you are brave enough to say it. But to be fair, Dabi is pretty hot. I mean the guy creates fire, how could he not be?

From “This is Villainy”: A This is Halloween Parody

@rippedteabag said: I love it so much

@ninja-my-cat said: I love the original song but i would absolutely love to hear a cover/parody of this version

Maybe that should be one of my events: compiling an album of all the songs and parodies I did.

From Tail/Creation Quirk Marriage:

@sokumotanaka said: Ojiro is not a nobody, rude

@udonutseeme said: Don’t you dare call him that ರ╭╮ರ

Given how the word “rude” has been used as of late, I’m just going to assume it is a synonym for “honest”.

@shushtaouk said: I always thought that since he can control the intensity of the sound waves his vocal chords produce (taking frequency into account) , he could also logically immitate any voice? (it should be way easier than just make his voice really loud) He could use that to gather information from villain. Tbh sound waves can be very destructive when cleverly used. Wish the author could give him more complex abilities

I don’t think that’s how “Voice” works. Present Mic seems only capable of amplifying his voice, not adjusting it’s frequency. That’s why he’s always yelling and has sound amplifiers like speakers and megaphones as a part of his hero equipment.

[letmeringabell]

Legends Never Die - Chapter 1

Lately, I’ve been consuming a lot of Mortal Kombat content (Especially Erron Black and Kabal ones). So I thought that I should contribute in some way to the fandom, because you just gotta be the change you see in the world sometimes.

My OC’s name in this, is Vanessa. Basically, this is an Erron x F!OC fic, where the OC is a field medic, and Kotal wants to have friendly relations with Earthrealm by calling Special Forces for a field trip. 

I’m sorry for a slow first chapter, but sometimes you gotta lay down the framework, the same way you lay down a table mat before you eat to avoid making a mess. God, I’m so hungry.

Anyway, enjoy! I’ll include a link to the AO3 fic, or you can just search for it with the same name. 

Link : https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806688/chapters/49453874

- 

“And thus, Kotal Kahn has agreed to receive Special Forces’ Entourage as a sign of trust and cooperation between Outworld and Earthrealm.”

She hears General Blade’s voice boom throughout the hall, the entire fleet pays close attention to their leading officer-in command.

“This delegation will be led by Commander Cage. I, myself and Johnny will stay behind to watch over things here, just to make sure Earthrealm is kept in check. Take this as an opportunity to further sharpen your skills and reflexes. Don’t ever let your guard down, you never know what danger finds you in Outworld.”

There is no sugar-coating with General Blade, but it is apt for the situation.

General Blade continues on with her announcements; The time and place for the Delegation to assemble, the necessary and optional squadrons needed, and a briefing in Outworld Etiquette and Propriety later in the evening. The General ends the meeting, and dismisses everyone early to allow for preparation and packing. Every soldier needs to be fully ready; Their physical fitness at their peak, and iron-clad mental fortitude to persevere through the unknown days ahead.

Despite the warnings and precautions, the allure of danger and mysticality still has everyone whispering excitedly, or worriedly. She can’t tell at this point, because all sorts of whispers seem to drown out any distinction between the two.

What would they be doing there? What would they see in Outworld? What does Kotal Kahn want with Special Forces? Is Outworld coffee stronger than Earthrealm? Better yet, does Outworld actually have coffee?

She doesn’t stay long for the excitement nor dread that has everyone rapt in their conversation. She sees Jacqui and Cassie in the distance, and calls out to them eagerly. There are more pressing and urgent matters on hand, and she has a tendency to procrastinate.

-

“And here I thought packing my stuff would take the longest,” Cassie grumbles as she hoists another box to the corner of the room.

Jacqui is busy going through her extensive vault of books; Any journal, document, or research paper that would be useful goes in the box while others, would collect dust on the large shelf during their 6-month stay in Outworld. Jacqui is impressed by the sheer volume of reading material in the office, but silently hopes that this is the last of it. The whole sifting and sorting process is wearing her spirits down, and she feels the impending migraine pulsing at the back of her head.

“Don’t worry gals, I have come with gifts,” She comes in with a tray of hot coffee in hand, and immediately, the girls lighten up.

“God, I needed a break from all these books!”

“And I need a break from all this heavy lifting. We’ve gotta KonMari your office when we get back, Van,” Cassie says, taking the offered coffee with a tired hand and a soft thank you.

“We’re almost done, actually. All that’s left is the books, and after that, we can start moving my stuff onto the trolleys.”

“Thank God! If I have to sit through another ‘Cardio’, ‘Surgery’ and ‘Benign’, I’ll go nuts and throw the books through the roof. Why do you need so much books anyway? Most of the information is in the Special Forces Database.”

She shrugs carelessly, “Some of them are very old tomes and medical journals that are not online, and I prefer having paperback anyway. Makes jotting and scribbling little notes easier.”

“What ever you say, Doc,” Cassie holds her hands up in defeat, “Just make sure you pack for all sun and no rain, because Outworld is hot as hell.”

“No kidding. I almost got a heat stroke, and Outworld’s bedside manners aren’t exactly… up to par,” Jacqui’s grimace at the recollection is evidence enough that Outworld weather is not to be trifled with. Although, it does sound like the perfect weather to have ice cream and brownies, and every other dessert on the chilled spectrum.

Her glance moves beyond the window, into the outside world, and finally, settles at the sunset sky – The splashes of purple, pink and orange washes the sky in vivid technicolor, and it leaves her feeling some kind of way; Like she would never come to see the sunset sky the same way ever again. It is somewhat unsettling, yet, she doesn’t feel her skin prickle at the thought. Maybe it’s just her nerves or paranoia flaring up.

All of them finish packing her things up, and unloaded the boxes onto the designated trolleys. At least, she’s packed her stuff early and if she ever needed to pack more, she could just add to the load.

Cassie is the first to initiate the conversation, “So, Jacqui, Van, where do you wanna eat? We’ve got 2 whole days before we make a move, so we might as well start satisfying every craving known to man now.”

“Should we make a head start on sushi, then?” Nothing could’ve been any better.

-

Outworld is every bit as hot and dry as Jacqui and Cassie had described it to be, and she is thankful for their advice; Her medical outfit is light and loose, allowing for easier movement and a reprieve from the searing heat. She wonders whether everyone else is suffering in the heat, and if they’re cursing their decision to come to Outworld—Whether the allure of ‘I’ve been to Outworld and survived its hell’ had been worth the attraction in the first place.

Although, it is not her place to doubt the Special Forces. All of them had been trained for extreme climates and situation, and this delegation is no different. Cassie is front and center, with Jacqui at her side as her right-hand man. Everyone has their guns lock and loaded, and a contingency plan had been formed prior to their arrival should anything go wrong.

She catches a glimpse of 3 figures in the distance, and she can only guess who they are: Kotal Kahn, Kitana and Jade. They had rolled out the red carpet treatment, coming to greet the delegation themselves. The air surrounding the Force tenses in anticipation as they near the Kahns—Everyone’s standing a little straighter, and the grip on their guns tighten ever so slightly.

“Welcome to Outworld, fellow Earthrealmers,” His welcome had been loud and clear, “We hope that you enjoy whatever Outworld has to offer, and do not worry, we have prepared food and accommodation for your stay here.”

The Imperial Army had descended upon the Special Forces, (and to their relief) started helping them with their equipment and luggage. Immediately, everyone was up in arms, trying to work and sort through all the different boxes and luggage, making sure they don’t accidentally end up in the trash or some other unsavory place. She’s never went dumpster diving in Earthrealm, and she’s not going to start the habit in Outworld.

The Imperial Guard guided her through the Palace halls, and like any person with new experiences, she observed her surroundings; Talltalltall ceilings overshadowing longlonglong hallways, the pillars stand strong with their embellishments of royal red and gold, and there are windows interspersed to grant the Palace inhabitant a splendid view of the City from above. All in all, this Palace is bigger than any castle she’s seen back home.

The infirmary is nothing out of the ordinary – Cabinets filled with medical equipment and solutions, the beds are adjacent to the wall and there are people filing in out and out of the room. Her office is neat and tidy—Tables, bookshelves, and other assorted furniture had already been moved in for her comfort. I could get used to this, she mused to herself. Her office back home wasn’t this big nor spacious. It wasn’t cramped either, but one could always upgrade to bigger spaces once in a while.

There is a garden outside of her office, and its splendor can be admired from the infirmary. The spread of green stretches as far as the eye can see, yet there are fragments of oranges, reds and white that makes the garden all the more surreal. She spots the row of unknown plants in one corner of the garden, and wonders if there are herbs planted here for easy access. Maybe, she’ll ask some of the other doctors for help.

“Miss Vanessa,” The guard brings her out from her daydream, and speak of the devil, “I would like to introduce to you the Palace Doctors. They will be here to assist you should you need it.”

“Thank you, but I think I would be needing their help more than they mine.”

“Don’t be so modest, Miss Vanessa. We could all stand to learn from each other,” One of the Doctors joked, and before she knew it, she was being huddled by all these strangers. She was relieved to be welcomed so warmly, the fear of being an outcast had been an idle thought playing in the back of her head for the past few days.

The routine in the infirmary had been simple; 2 off-days, make sure that the medicine cabinet is always stocked, all rounds must be completed on schedule, paperwork must be filed, and other things she was already doing back at Earthrealm. She is reassured by the fact, that there is something that she is used to doing and it makes adjusting to life on Outworld a little easier.

Clack!

The sound of heavy footsteps against the marble floor had everyone’s breath held, there had been some sort of frenzy; Some frantic urgency that had caused them to file out of the room like a deer out of headlights. She was… confused? Confounded? What? She had walked to the doorway to find the reason for the commotion, and true enough, there had been a man at the center of it all.

Deadly—Had been the first word that came to mind. Gore and glory seem to go hand-in-hand because he shows up bloodied and slightly haggard (with mud trailing behind him, to her annoyance), yet his mere presence is enough to command everyone’s respect, is enough to have people whisper in awe and alarm at the sight of him.

He is tall—He towers over some of doctors crowding him, and even she can see that his physique is packing serious amount of muscle under all that clothing. He is dark – The tufts of brown can be seen in his sideburns, and he has a slight tan from all his days of yeehaw-ing around. Is he handsome? Hard to tell considering he has the bottom half of his face obscured with a mask.

He looks at her, and it makes her stand a little straighter. His eyes are intense, and it scares her how deeply he’s staring into her, but she still can’t look away-- Something in her tells her, forces her to hold his gaze.  It feels like forever since they’ve been staring at each other, but finally, something in his eyes change, and he subtly tips his hat off to her. Whether it is a sign of respect or acknowledgement, she doesn’t know.

But she breaks their staring contest, turns around and shuts the door behind her.

 -

1868 words

[luescris]

Discovered

Edit: Because this has always been a thing I wanted in the show, I decided to write about what would happen if the Turtles got found out. :P Enjoy!

------

Joan Groody--the reporter of the live TV show Groody to the Max--crept down the passageway of the sewers under New York City, her cameraman following behind closely, looking around wearily while trying to keep the camera trailed on the newswoman. She peaked around the corner they came upon, and once seeing it was clear, turned it. 

“You all may be wondering why I'm down in the sewers,” She said into the microphone in her hand quietly. “The answer is simple; there have been some strange reports going on down here. My intention is to find out what exactly has been causing those reports, since no one else has wanted to do it. Is it unsanitary? Maybe. But it will be worth it if we manage to catch anything.”

The cameraman rolled his eyes. He could've done other things than wasting his time and talents following around a crazy lady that thinks leprechauns are real. He didn't know what he was getting himself into when he signed up for this job. He was promised adventure, new discoveries, but so far the only discovery that they made was of Trash Man and all the invasions of the alien brains. Everything else had been misleads, especially of the story of mutant ninja turtles. Seriously? What kind of nonsense was that? He knew that was the real reason as to why they were down there-- and he bet his boots so did the people watching. She wanted to prove to the world that she was right, no matter how many fans she lost, no matter how many times she'd been called crazy. Joan said so herself to him. He just found it pointless. There was no such thing. 

Or so he thought. 

Joan stopped suddenly, holding up a hand and looking down a sewer with train tracks going down it. “Wait. Listen.” She whispered. 

The cameraman strained his ears, but he didn't hear a thing. She really must be going insane. He thought bitterly when she moved forward, slower than before. 

The silence was supposed to be intense, especially with the way Joan was moving. Body tensed, footstep after footstep gently meeting the concrete ground. And at first, all the cameraman felt was annoyed. He took a breath and opened his mouth to say something (Which went against the very meaning of being a cameraman, since they were supposed to be unknown and quiet, but he really couldn't take anymore of this), but then a voice, as loud and clear as day, echoed from the depths. He didn't know what was said. 

But they both stopped. 

Joan looked behind at the camera after a second, an excited gleam in her eyes and a grin stretching her lips apart. She made a jerk motion with her head; move. 

The cameraman couldn't help but get excited himself. Logic said it could've just been another human being. Maybe a worker trying to fix a broken pipe. But the other adventurous side of him told him that maybe, just maybe, Ms. Groody wasn't crazy after all. So he followed as she crept closer to where they heard the voice coming from, allowing himself to slip into the tension. They stayed close to the railroad next to them, and that seemed to have been the right thing to do. There were more voices, he was sure of it. And he could make out what they were saying. 

+-+-----------------

“Mikey!! You cheated!” Raphael roared, throwing the game controller onto the couch and sending a glare of daggers at his younger brother. 

“Nu-uh!” Mikey retorted. “You just can't handle being a loser! Raph's a soreee loooserrrr~~!” He taunted with a teasing grin, pointing up at the hot-head. 

Raph scowled and narrowed his eyes. “I won't be the only one who'll be sore.” He pounced off of the couch like a cat. “C'mere!!!”

Mikey yelled out in fright and tried to scramble up to his feet to run away, but was too slow. Raph caught him, wrapping a tight arm around his neck and pinned him against himself. Mikey struggled to break free, grasping his brother's arm desperately. 

Leo, who had been sitting aways from the two, sighed and shook his head as he stood. “Alright, that's enough you two. Raph let Mikey go. I think we've had enough video games for today.”

He picked up the tv remote as Raph gave Mikey a rather painful knuckle sandwich before letting him go. Mikey gasped, falling to his knees and rubbing his neck as Raph stood above him with a triumphant smirk. 

“Who's the loser now?” He sneered. 

Mikey pouted, and stuck his tongue out angrily. 

Leo rolled his eyes and looked away from the two, switching to the channels. “Wonder what sort of thing Groody to the Max is snooping out now.” He muttered. 

He froze when reaching the live show, eyes widening. 

“Woah,” Mikey said from behind him. “That looks like us!”

Them it was. The television showed the three in the angle of the entrance, camera zoomed in enough to see every detail of each mutant turtle. 

“That.. That's because it is us!!” Leo cried. He whipped his head to the entrance to see that there was, in fact, a camera pointed straight at them, and the woman standing in clear view looking almost as bewildered as Leo felt, but with a smile on her face. 

Donnie’s voice interrupted the sudden tension, panic in his voice. “Guys!! Guys!! You're on--!” He went rigid once seeing the two humans. “.. Oh shoot.”

“I can't believe it..” Joan whispered. “There are four of them..! I was right..!”

“She was right…” The cameraman murmured. 

Raph gripped Leo's arm. “Leo,” He whispered hoarsely. “Leo, what do we do??”

Leo wasn't sure. He was so shocked to his core, he was freaking out on the inside like never before. He wasn't thinking straight, felt like his world had suddenly cracked and torn away. 

They were found out. 

This couldn't be possible.

All he managed to say was one single word:

“Run.”

That's exactly what they did. The three bolted after Leo away from the direction where the two humans stood, disregarding any and all ninja training for complete and utter panic. 

“No!” Joan cried after them. “Wait!” She looked back at the cameraman. “Come on! Follow them!”

He nodded and the two ran off as well. 

“Through the garage!!” Leo hollered to his brothers. “Donnie, you close the door so that they can't follow us! We gotta get to the streets!!”

“How many people do you think were watching that?!” Raph cried. “They'll be waiting for us up there! There's nowhere to go!”

“Not if we go stealth! We'll find a way out of this!”

They reached the garage, and Donnie stopped and waited until the other three ducked under the door before closing it from the other side just in time, locking it in place quickly. Then he ran after his brothers. 

“Not sure how long that'll hold them!” Donnie yelled once rejoining the group. 

“Just keep running!” Leo called back. 

They ran for a while, looking for a way to escape what was once their safe home, hearts pounding in their chests for four different reasons. Mikey, scared that they might not ever return to their home. Raph, completely forgotten about Chompy and hoping for dear life he'd stay hidden. Donnie, worrying that they might find and take all his precious inventions that he had in his lab. And Leo, fearing what they were going to find up in the streets once they climbed out of a manhole. 

He spotted one, speak of the devil, and pointed it out to the others. “There! Manhole! Go!”

He paused and waited as Donnie went up first, with Raph close behind and Mikey following after that, gripping onto the bars of the ladder fearfully. Leo climbed up after him, ignoring the pain in his eyes from the light that shone down on him when the cover was opened. Donnie climbed out, disappearing from the hole for a second, then his head and hand popping back in. Each turtle grabbed it one by one, and he pulled them up. Leo came out last, and he gave a nod of thanks to Donnie and made to move forward when a voice stopped him. 

“Freeze, freaks!! Hands in the air!” 

All four heads turned. 

They were surrounded by police and army men alike, guns all pointed and trained on the turtles. They were all parked in a circle around the manhole they had climbed out of. There was even a tank, canon pointed downwards at the four who backed into each other's shells, looking around their surroundings with plain fear. Humans were all clumped up around the weaponry behind the police tape. Most of them had their phones out, taking videos that were most likely being seen by thousands of people across the world. 

“I said hands up!!” Terence Monahan--the chief of the NYPD--hollered into the megaphone, standing on top of a car. “I know you can understand me, you monsters!”

“We're not monsters!” Mikey hollered back, though sounding like a whine, as if he was close to tears. 

About twenty guns cocked in unison. 

Leo slowly rose his hands in the air first, glaring at his surroundings. Raph looked at him incredulously, and looked as if he was going to say something, but the leader in blue shot him a look that said, there's nothing we can do. Try anything, and we die. 

So Raph followed his lead slowly, though looking as if he'd rather not. Donnie and Mikey rose their arms up as well after Raph, giving eachother nervous glances. 

Joan came up from another manhole not too far from the scene, startling a few policemen as she climbed out. She took a few moments to take in her surroundings as her cameraman followed after her, and gasped upon seeing what all the guns were pointing at. The four turtles she had discovered, three-fingered hands raised in the air and wearily eyeing every piece of machinery they were surrounded by. 

This.. This doesn't seem right… Joan thought, bewildered. 

She looked around and made her way to the commander of the army, calling out to him. "Sir, excuse me sir! What exactly is happening right now? What's with all these guns?"

The commander turned to her, looking rather irritated. "Don't you already know? You are the one who found them after all. These creatures are obviously hostile and dangerous, and have been living under this city for who knows how long." He turned back to the scene, narrowing his eyes. "I know this, because I've met them before. Nasty things they are. I've been trying look for them, and now that I have, thanks to you, I can finally finish them off."

Joan blinked in confusement. ".. But.. They didn't willingly attack when I found them. And they're not doing anything now. Could it be that it's all just a misunderstanding?"

"Negative. It's all just a ploy. A trick to have us fall into a false sense of security." The commander replied. "That's what they want you to think. But I know better." He walked away, leaving Ms. Grody staring after him.

The commander pushed passed all the guns and armored men, slowly making his way to the clearing in between the missionary and the mutant turtles. He studied all four creatures with a clear look of disgust, and stood with his hands behind his back. All four turned their attention to him when he stopped, the tension in the air immediately rising.

"Which one of you is the leader." The commander demanded.

The turtle with the blue mask on met his gaze with a hard look. "I am."

The commander smirked. "Figured. Tell me, freak, what were you doing in the sewers under the city?"

"That was our home." Leo responded. "We lived there for our entire lives. To hide from the world."

"And why should I believe you?" The commander hissed, narrowing his eyes. "For all I know you could be dangerous threats to our peaceful city."

"We've been alive for seventeen years. If we were enemies, wouldn't we have done something by now? Besides, the only dangerous thing I see here is you, and those guns you pointed at us." Leo raised his chin. "I'd say that's pretty suspicious. We wouldn't have gotten to this if we were just left alone." He glanced at Joan, who stood by the police tape, her cameraman still recording everything that was happening.

Joan flinched at his comment, then looked down at the ground guiltily, biting her lip.

The commander scoffed. "Left alone?? This is New York City! No one gets left alone, especially not mutant freaks who don't belong here! Only spies and enemies hide in big places!"

"Hey!" Raph shouted angrily. "It's not our fault we got mutated! It just happened! And we wouldn't be hiding if you humans didn't hate us for the way we look!"

"So you steal our stuff? You obviously didn't get those weapons yourself. Or anything else you might have had that let you live." The commander spread his arms. "Just admit it; You don't belong here, you don't fit, and you never will. You know why? Because freaks don't belong in my city."

"That's it!!!" Raph roared, and plunged forward, pulling out his sais. 

The others immediately caught him, holding him back desperately with all their might--Mikey grasping onto one of his arms, Leo tightly hugging around his shell, and Donnie grabbing a leg--as the commander flinched back and immediately barked, "fire!" into his walky talky.

"WAIT!!!!" 

A little girl stood in front of the four, who had stopped upon hearing the shrill shriek of her voice, her arms wide open on either side of her with a pout on her face and a determined glint in her eyes.

Leo blinked. "Chloe?"

"You will not hurt Mr. Turtle and his brothers!" Chloe shouted at the commander.

"Wh- Who's child is this?!" The man roared in bewilderment, looking around to the audience, which had began to murmur with surprise. "This is no place for a little girl!" 

"Chloe, get back here now!" A woman cried from behind the police tape. "Get away from those dangerous creatures!"

The little girl shook her head. "No Mama! They're not dangerous! They saved my life!" She looked back up at the commander angrily. "And I'll protect them, no matter what!" She looked back at the turtles, who wore stunned looks on their faces. "They're my friends."

"Ours as well." Came yet another voice, and one the turtles immediately recognized as they turned their heads to watch April and Casey come up to them. April stood at Chloe's side, crossing her arms. "They've done so much more for us humans than you could ever realize or imagine. It's sad how this is how we thank them."

"You government scum make me sick," Casey growled. "Trying to make them look like the bad guys. Truth is, you're the ones trying to look good by making the worst decision of your life."

The commander snarled angrily. "You must be kidding! I am not listening to some crazy weirdo kids while my city is infested by monsters like them-!"

"They're the monsters?!" April scoffed. "Let me ask you this, commander- Who do you think saved New York from all those alien invasions? Have you ever seen them before?"

"Why does that matter?!"

"Because you're looking at 'em!" Casey yelled.

"O-okay, guys," Donnie finally butt in, pushing in between Raph and Mikey as he tried to place a hand on Casey's shoulder. "I-I think that's enough."

"No, Donnie, it's not enough." April protested, turning to him. "It's about time you guys get some recognition. I'm tired of seeing the world treat you like this. If this will convince them, then you can finally stop hiding from everything. It's time you get that chance."

She walked forward with authority, towards the audience, no falter in her steps whatsoever. She cleared her throat, then took a breath to speak.

[ilikeoldchangke]

My boss is an influencer

This is a work of fiction.

..................................................

I met Ning when we were both doing temp jobs at a pharmacy.

She’s doing it as a temp job during her school holidays whereas I’m doing it because I need to make a living.

Armed with only a ‘O’ Level cert with mostly ‘F’ grades, there’s not much for someone like me in Singapore.

The only ‘B’ I got is for English.

At 16, I started working, hoping from temp jobs to temp jobs, I wanted something permanent too but no one wanted me.

Most companies stopped using me after the initial trial period.

The pharmacy job was the one that lasted the longest, 6 months.

So for 6 months, I worked with Ning in the same shop, arranging items, attending to customers, her sweet demeanour made her the customer’s darling.

Everyone wanted to be served by Ning instead of me.

It’s not a gender thing, it’s because I’m stupid.

Yes it’s true.

I’m stupid and clumsy, I make mistakes all the time and despite repeated reminders, I would still make the same mistakes.

I can’t help it. I know I’m stupid, low IQ , I don’t know. Something is wrong with me.

Ning on the other hand, is so much smarter. Let’s not forget she is smoking hot as well.

Her long legs looked so good when she turned up in shorts. I always imagined I was hiding in the store where she changes into her long pants for work. That way I would be able tot steal a glimpse at her panty.

Ning scolds me sometimes when I mess things up but it’s ok with me.

She will always remain the sweet helpful girl in my heart.

You can probably imagine by now I’m that loner hiding in a corner of the room with a book in hand.

The one with no friends.

It’s true, I feel more comfortable spending my time with books that with other people.

Ning knows this, and she gives me quite a few books she no longer wants. I took them all. It didn’t matter if the covers were pink and the titles were girly.

I treasured everyone of them, arranging them neatly in my shelf.

I would even smell the books and imagine I was smelling Ning’s hand.

I masturbated to Ning regularly, I want her but she would never want someone as stupid as me.

She’s a smart university undergraduate, whereas I’m just a lowly stupid guy working in a retail store. It wasn’t long before I started writing poems and love notes to Ning.

She read each one and laughed. She thinks it’s a joke.

I don’t blame her.

It’s like a toad lusting after a swan.

We kept in touch after she went on to study full time in university while I enlisted in the army.

Kept in touch meant sending each other a merry Christmas, or New year message once a year, usually one of those meaningless animated stuff other people forward.

I followed her social media feed, I stalked her postings.

Everytime there is something new for me to masturbate to, I will download and keep it in my computer.

We may be apart but my infatuation with her grows ever stronger.

After my service in the military, I started doing work as a security guard in a condominium.

It was simple work, recording vehicle numbers, and patrolling the grounds and scanning the various checkpoints. I still get scolded though, some residents can be pretty mean, expecting me to do everything from catching a lizard from their unit to changing a light bulb or helping them bring their trash to the recycle bin.

3 months into my work at the condominium, I got a shock when I saw Ning walking towards me at the pool.

Ning : JAMES !!! oh my god !!! what are you doing here !!!

James : Oh…. Ning…. You stay here ??

Ning : are you a security guard ?? hahahaha….

James : Yes…. It’s…. the only thing I can find … after I finish my army….

Ning : It’s been so long since I last saw you !!! my god… years… !!

It may be years since she last saw me but it was only last night when I saw Ning, not in person though.

On a screen, with my hand wrapped around my cock.

We caught up a little and Ning told me she is starting her own branding company slash online ecommerce slash marketing company.

James : wow… that’s impressive….. you’re so smart… I’m sure you will do very well….

Ning laughed as she looked at me in the ill fitting security uniform.

Ning : James…. Cannot la… you… you don’t look like a security guard… hahaha….

I smiled and immediately was a bit conscious of how I look.

I was about to excuse myself to save me the embarrassment when Ning held me on my shoulder.

Ning : JAMES!! James !!! look… I have an idea….there is no future…. In doing this… I mean… come on… security… ??

James : i…. I’m not exactly flooded with choices…. You… you know how I am…with work and all…

Ning patted her chest and gave me that sweet cock sure smile.

Ning : work for me James….

James : what ?

Ning : I have so many engagements, I have no time to edit my articles…. And write my reviews…. This is perfect….. remember you used to write those notes and peoms…. You write so well !!! what do you think ??

James : huh ?? .. i….

Ning : ok… look… I’ll pay you…. There’s CPF, there’s medical benefits…. I have a proper office….. you have your own desk, computer… a real office job….you deserve better….

This is like a fucking dream come true man.

Working for the girl you are masturbating to regularly.

Even if I’m stupid, I will not say no.

I nodded my head and Ning punched a fist in the air.

Ning : You are my first employee James !!! yes !!!... hahaha

She added that together, we will grow the company to great heights.

It all happened so fast, within a month, I was out of my uniform and i find myself standing in front of Ning at her so call office.

It’s a industrial unit in Paya lebar, it’s big, about the side of a 3 room flat.

It’s stacked full of sponsored clothing and samples. There are shoes and heels piled on top of each other on the metal shelves.

Clothes were strewn all over the place like it’s a war zone.

My own table was a cold metal desk and the computer I was given is Ning’s old laptop with 3 hello Kitty stickers.

It’s ok, I don’t mind.

Beggars can’t be choosers right.

I start work at 9 and I usually leave at 7pm.

There is so much to do.

Besides editing Ning’s work, I need to take photos, I need to drive her to engagements and events, I need to buy her meals, I need to wash her clothes.

I’m being worked like a slave.

Within a couple of months, Ning’s true colours started to show.

In front of the customers, the clients, she is the sweet darling of the influencer world. In front of me, she is at her absolute worst.

“ JAMES !!! OH GOD!!! FUCK…. WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID !!!! “

“JAMES !!! DON’T WASH THE COLOURS WITH THE WHITES !!! “

“ JAMES !! DAMM IT… FUCK…..!! WHERE IS THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS SOCK !! “

“ JAMES !!! WHERE ARE THE SCISSORS !! “

“ JAMES ….MY GOD.. CAN YOU FUCKING DON’T BE SO STUPID !!! “

Abuses like this fly on a daily basis.

Ning gets especially angry when the photos I take are not satisfactory.

“ MY LEGS ARE LOOKING FAT YOU STUPID !!.. NOT THIS ANGLE… !! “

“ AGAIN… NOT NICE !”

“ THIS VIEW CANNOT !!! ARE YOU DUMB ??  YOU’VE SHOT ANGLES LIKE THIS BEFORE SO MANY TIMES !!! “

“ NO… NO… NO…. TAKE AGAIN….!!! “

“ I SMILE UNTIL MY JAWS HURT ALREADY… YOU STUPID….FUCK…”

“ CAN YOU DO IT PROPERLY…?  USE YOUR BRAIN FOR ONCE !! “

I continued working quietly and I took the abuse, because I like Ning.

She looks so good in the photos. Especially in her sports attire. She’s pretty big in the sporting scene, doing active style type of clothing and endorsements.

The smile, the slim and tone body, that pair of sexy legs.

In photo, everything is perfect.

What about my pay ? Well, I’m being paid 1200 a month. The same rate I get for being a security guard. At least I get to work with Ning, a pretty and hot babe.

How do I handle the stress then ?

I masturbate of course. Almost on a daily basis.

Ning’s clothes, her worn shoes, socks. Everything her sponsor gives her, she wears them for the shoot then chugs them in the office.

I was tasked to wash and hang all of them up nicely. Before I do, I would indulge in them.

Sports bra ? Yoga tights ? those are my favourite.

Sometimes I wonder myself if I deliberately made the shoot more difficult to see Ning sweat and get all worked up, or maybe for her to stay in the clothes longer.

The longer she wears the clothes, the more of her smell accumulates on them. The greater the satisfaction when I use it to masturbate.

She usually leaves office around 5pm, leaving me with enough time to jerk off with the day’s offerings before heading home.

It’s a good thing for me, I get to see Ning, masturbate to her clothes.

Ning did not know that I have secretly taken pictures of her undressing.

I also have video of her peeing in the toilet.

Yes, I also have plenty of her upskirt.

At the days turn to months, and the months to years, Ning got more popular.

She started to get more busy but I remained her only staff.

My pay went up to 1.4k and I spent many night in the office.

Our office expanded to include a small studio and with 2 sections converted into 2 small bedrooms.

One for me and one for Ning.

There are nights when we are simply too tired to go on and we would just sleep over in the office.

I would touch myself under the blanket, thinking of Ning sleeping next door from me.

I thought maybe one day the shouting, the scolding and the verbal abuse would stop but it never did.

It’s ok.

It’s ok because I like Ning. She is my angel.

Until one day everything changed.

It was a Sunday.

I felt this throbbing need to jerk off and I did not want to do it at home.

I want to do it in the office, surrounding by Ning’s belongings and clothes.

I want to smell the clothes she has worn that week that is still lying in the laundry basket.

I made my way to the office and I was in the midst of picking out a bikini she modelled a few days ago when I heard commotion at the door.

I could hear Ning but she was not alone.

I panicked and I tried to find a place to hide.

I dashed into a large full height wardrobe with held all her long dresses and gowns and I held my breath.

Seconds later, I saw Ning come into office with a guy.

Another man.

They were smiling and giggling, they were holding hands.

I felt the anger rising in my heart but I felt that familiar rise in my cock.

Ning’s giggling stopped when the guy took her in his arms.

My erection throbbed when I watch them kiss and the guys hand started roaming downwards to Ning’s breast.

I find myself shaking and trembling in the wardrobe.

I was angry.

So angry that I felt like charging out and pulling them apart.

I watch Ning pull her own top off as she smiled at the guy.

That slut.

That fucking slut.

She has never smiled in that manner at me before.

I watched her remove her skirt, revealing a cream pair of lacy panty I’ve masturbated to before and before I realised it, I was smiling.

I was smiling as I look at Ning.

I smile not because I’m watching her undress.

I smile not because I know I’m going to get to see Ning have sex.

I smile, because my mind started to get flooded.

Flooded with images of the things I’m going to do to her.

She’s so proud of her body.

She like to show of her flesh and tone abs and humble brag about it.

I should grant her that wish of sharing her body with the world.

And before I do that, I’m going to enjoy her body.

Every

Single

Inch

………………………………………………………..

Get it here

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BTS Reactions| Helping Them With Their Insecurities (Hyung Line)

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Warning: None. I don’t think!

A/N: This was a request, and it took me SO long to do, and I’m not even done lol. Whoever requested this, I’m sorry for making you wait! You’re an angel. 💖

- - - - - - - /

Jin

You could hear Jin crashing around the kitchen. This was the third time he had tried to make this dish, but it kept getting burnt. He was off his game, and you knew it had to do with work. You set the tv remote down, and pushed the heavy fleece blanket off your lap, and padded to the kitchen.

“Jin, baby?” You asked, cocking your brow.

“I can’t make this damn dish,” he threw another pan in the sink, steam rising as it reacted with the cold water.

You sighed, walking up behind him. You reached around his slender figure and turned off the stove, grabbing his hand. He groaned as you dragged him from the smokey kitchen.

“What’s really going on?” You ask, pulling him on to the couch.

He hung his head, sighing. You reached forward, and brushed the hair from his face. Your thumb caressing the little line that formed when he frowned.

“I’m getting so old, jagiya,” his voice was laced with sadness.

“Jinnie,” you scooted forward, making him look at you.

“No. You are not. Age is nothing but a number, it identifies how long you’ve been on this earth, but it means nothing. You are one of the youngest people I know. Your child like wonder, the way you can find the humor in anything, your cheesy jokes, and the light in your eyes. Youth isn’t a number, my love, it’s a feeling.”

His eyes found yours, and there he found safety. He saw the sincerity and honesty behind every word. You knew exactly what to say, and when to say it. You grounded him in ways he didn’t think possible. A small smile started to form on his beautiful lips.

“Not to mention, you’ll always be worldwide handsome,” a grin cracking over your cheeks.

Yoongi

Yoongi hadn’t been home for two days, and it wasn’t because he slept at the studio, it was because he had worked for two full days. You had finally had enough. You stopped at one of his favorite restaurants on your way to the office, grabbing a few dishes you knew he couldn’t resist.

You didn’t bother to knock on his door, you entered the code and pushed the door open with you shoulder. You set the food down beside him, a few empty coffee cups spilling on to the floor, with a heavy sigh you began to pick up the studio. By the time you were done the trash was full of coffee cups and energy drinks.

“Min Yoongi,” You said sternly, but getting no reaction.

You walked up behind him and forced his chair around to face you. His normally pale face was void of any color expect for the heavy bruise like bags under his tired eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Yoongi,” you gasped, kneeling down, cupping his face in your hands.

He tried, unsuccessfully, to tear your hands from his face, but he was far too tired and weak. His eyes barely able to focus on your face.

“Why haven’t you slept?” You growled, angry because he wasn’t taking care of himself like he promised he would.

“I’m losing my touch,” he said, flatly.

“What do you mean?” Your confusion clear in your voice.

“All the music I’ve been making lately is absolute shit.”

“First of all, I know it’s not, because I heard Hobi and Joon praising how well your music has been coming out, and secondly, you haven’t slept in almost three days. You’re not going to get creative by depriving yourself of things you need.”

His heavy lids closed, his body leaning into you. You kissed his cheek as you helped him up, slipping his arm around your shoulders. You lead him to the couch and lay him down, covering him with one of the few blankets that covered the couch. As you were about to pull away, he grabbed your wrist. You turned back, and his eyes head peaked open slightly.

“You told me to stop depriving myself of things I need,” He stated, tiredly.

You were glad when he closed his eyes cause your cheeks were bright red. You pulled up the blanket and slipped under it with him. You tucked your head under his chin, closing your eyes. His snores started to fill the room not long after you had put him down.

(This was supposed to be an Angsty gif, but for some reason it’s really hot???)

Hoseok

Hobi sat in front of the tv, staring at the screen flipping through the channels. He was torturing himself watching the scene over and over, every gossip and news network replaying the incident. You had watched this far too long, you couldn’t bare to see him punish himself like that. You stomped over, ripping the remote from his hands, turning to fade the screen to black. Silence filled the room, as you two didn’t make a move to speak, you were waiting for him to make the first gesture, but he didn’t.

“Okay. This has gone too far,” you set the remote away from his reach, and sit next to him on the edge of the couch.

You could see him replaying the incident in his mind, trying to think of ways he could have prevented this.

“Jagiya, why don’t they like me? I’ve never been good enough. I knew it...”

The question you was hoping to never hear. It completely tore you apart. As hard as you tried, you couldn’t get the image out of your head, either. It was an impromptu show for the boys anniversary as BTS, the tickets sold out in less than five minutes. The stadium was completely packed full, extra security was onsite as well. The boys were talking to everyone near the end of the show when a chant started somewhere in the back. “Replace Hoseok, Replace Hoseok,” it started to grow, almost the entire back half of the stadium had joined in. It only took a few minutes for the rest of the ARMY to step in and start a new chant, “We love Hoseok, We love Hoseok,” their chant far out cried the first, but the damage was done. He tried his best to make light of situation, but it was clear as day to all the members, the staff, and yourself that it destroyed him.

Of course the clip of the first chant was passed around, and the hashtags #JhopeIsOverParty was birthed into the cruel world. It started trending till it was number one on twitter. It caught the attention of every gossip show and blog, it was now every where. BigHit was trying their best to handle the situation, but here at the home front you had to be his shield and take all the bullets. You fighting this war all on your own, and you felt like you were losing.

“I don’t know why those people did that, baby, but the real, true army loves you so much. They don’t call you hope for no reason.”

You pull him close to you, wrapping your arms around him, his body sinking into you. He began to cry quietly, his tears soaking your shirt. You ran your fingers through his hair. You were so angry, he worked so hard. He loved them so much, and to see people try and take that from him was devastating.

You gently began to tap the rhythm of save me, against your spine, humming softly up until his part, where you tried your best to rap it.

“I knew that your salvation is a part of my life and the only helping hand that will embrace my pain. The best of me, you’re the only thing I have, please raise your voice so that I can laugh again.”

You could hear over your own voice that his cries had softened, and finally stopped. He didn’t move from your arms for a while, his hands stayed on your back, under your shirt. He always loved the feeling of your warm skin, he said it reminded him of feeling the sun on his skin. After about an hour of holding one another he finally came out of hiding. You opened your eyes, to see him watching you rest.

“The title of Mrs. Hope is perfect for you. You give me so much of it,” he leaned in, kissing your lips softly.

“One day, baby,” you smiled sweetly, returning his kiss.

Namjoon

It was the night after Joon and the boys had gotten into a massive argument. He had made a decision for the group, that the boys did not agree with at all. You had been in the room when it happened, which was rather unfortunate for you. You had never seen Jungkook raise his voice to any of his hyungs, especially not in a serious way, but he was livid. He had stormed out of the room, not bothering to finish the conversation.

Joon had been on at least four walks today, and although it was raining, he went anyway. It was the best way to clear his mind, enclosed spaces weren’t healthy for him, even more so when he was stressed and full of anxiety.

You heard the door to your apartment open, and the sound of his wet shoes trudging through the house. It wasn’t more than a minute before he walked into the kitchen, and you turned to hand him a hot tea. He looked up at you with a tired smile.

“Go sit down at the table, I’ll get a bath going for you. You need to warm up,” you kissed his cheek before walking down the your bathroom.

Namjoon was always the one that had to make choices, and be in control, but right now that’s the last thing you wanted for him. You let the bath water run till it was hot, plugging the tub. You waited till it filled just the perfect amount and dipped your hand in before turning off the water.

As you walked into the kitchen, Joon was sipping on the tea you had made, looking at his hands. You frowned, hated seeing your normally happy boy, so sad. He missed his brothers, even if they were all mad at each other. You walked over, and gently tugged on his jacket which was dripping wet. He helped you by pulling his arms out. You folded it and placed it on the counter. He set down the empty cup, looking at you with sullen eyes.

“I know, Joonie,” you stood on your toes, kissing his forehead.

He slid from the chair as you took his hand. He followed behind you, one hand laced with yours, and the other on your hip. The bathroom was warm and steamy, almost immediately calming him. You turned to face him, looking up at him to meet his gaze. You gently place your hands on his cheeks, his eyes automatically closing, leaning into your touch. Your heart pounded in your chest, seeing him so vulnerable and open for you, baring all his pain for you to see.

You dropped your hands and let them fall to his pelvis, you tugged on the bottom of his shirt, causing him to lift his arms for you. You stood on your toes once again, pulling off his shirt, tossing it on the floor. You rested your hands on his chest, guiding your thumbs over his pecks. He shuddered under your warm touch against his cool skin, he looked down at you with heavily sedated eyes.

“Did I do the right thing?” He asked, his voice laced with anxiety.

“Did you look at it from every side?”

He nodded.

“Is it for the best for the boys?”

He nodded.

“Would you do anything that would hurt them?”

He shook his head, his eyes widening with panic. Afraid that he may have hurt them with his decision.

“Baby, breathe. You didn’t hurt them, I promise. They’re afraid, just like you, but you did what was best, and it’ll all work out. I know that you like knowing the outcome for everything the moment you do it, but that’s not life.”

“I’m a terrible leader, aren’t I?” His chin quivered for a moment, before he took a breath, steadying himself.

“Absolutely not. You are an amazing leader. You are there for them, you are put them together when they fall apart, you bandage their emotional wounds, you find problems and fix them.”

You helped him with the rest of his clothes, before undressing yourself. You slipped into the water first, and he got in after you, sitting in front of you. He rarely ever let you get behind him, because he felt like he couldn’t protect you when you were there, but today you needed to protect him from his own thoughts. You dipped a wash cloth into the water and ran it over his back. He let out an audible sigh.

“I have no idea what I would do without you, y/n. You keep me sane. I am so lucky,” he looked over his shoulder to see you.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his bare shoulder, looking in his eyes for a moment.

“I love you, Kim Namjoon.”

“I love you more, Y/N Y/L/N.”

[itsybitsylemonsqueezy]

So I finally saw Endgame. And I’m not remotely sorry I waited this long. 

But now I do understand why when I came back to tumblr there was absolutely nothing on my dash about it. 

I saw it last night and I’ve been so angry this whole time I couldn’t sleep. What even the fuck was that?! Look, as a Thor fan, I’ve grown accustomed to having my baby written poorly. but WHAT the FUCK was THAT?!?!?!

Holy christ. Holy god. Just... just... I’m so angry. 

I thought Tony’s arc was good, but, as usual, he carried the fucking movie because Tony is the only character they can consistently write. Everyone else eventually devolved into trashfire. Well, that’s not true, Scott Lang sure got some good shit in. So, if you’re an Ant-Man or an Iron Man fan, this movie was a good time for you.

But everyone else... ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my god. 

I’m 50-50 on Steve. There were some good Steve moments, I liked that FINALLY we got a taste of the consequences of Civil War that I have BEEN WAITING FOR. It fucked me up watching Tony pull off his heart and shove it into Steve’s hand saying, “Take this and hide behind it.” I... wow. holy fucking shit. I’ve been waiting for THAT. And Steve did a good thing when Tony comes back, all fucked up about Peter, and Steve has the good grace to say “We lost him” to acknowledge Tony’s guilt and to understand, apparently for the first time, that Tony always thinks it’s his fault and he will carry this burden right into the fucking grave. Thanks for retroactively paying attention to Tony’s character arc Steve. 

So, that bit was good. But then we married him to Peggy? Really? Like, Peggy Carter is a wonderful lady but... we’ve spent the majority of Steve’s arc digging him out of this, getting him to move on. And I know every team movie has amnesia and doesn’t understand how character development works, but you have all of Steve’s relationships right here. Bucky’s alive, Sam’s alive, but no, Steve goes back in time to live out his days peacefully with some lady? Again, not that Peggy doesn’t matter, she does, but.... oh my GOD WHAT EVEN WAS THE POINT of introducing Bucky back into Steve’s life if not to force him to live in the NOW? Why bother giving Steve ANY friends??? I just... UGGGGGHHHH. And doing that ACTIVELY CREATES MORE PROBLEMS. What if they had kids??? We don’t know if the super soldier serum can get passed on. What if the descendants of Steve Roger are running around??? I just... I get that we had to put these characters at peace and they tried to give them a “happy ending” but... this seems like a backtracking. Steve could still pass on the mantle in the present without totally fucking over his character arc. 

Bruce... was fine. Thought it was a little rough how they addressed the Bruce/Natasha situation but as apparently everyone retroactively thinks that was a bad idea... I guess this is what we get. Also, I love how we nixed all of the possible ships with Valkyrie in this one. Which I guess follows what with NO ONE knowing how to pick up from Ragnarok. I mean... okay, I guess. 

But SPEAKING OF NATASHA.... fuck you. Just... fuck you. Clint easily could have died there and it would have been justified and it would have been fine. It wouldn’t have affected the plot in any way. You do sort of double-down on taking fathers away from their families by killing both Clint and Tony, but... Clint’s character has been a trashfire this whole time. The man wanted to go to atone for what he had done in his family’s absence. And I know Marvel offered us the peace offering of lining up every female Marvel character to protect Spiderman to prove how many female characters they have and it was really nice to see Pepper matter again and that great scene with Frigga and that’s all really sweet but... you still killed Nat for no reason. And definitively made her one of the two people that cannot ever come back, Incidentally, the only two people who can never come back are women, so. No matter how you sliced that, it was always going to be one-sided one way or another. 

But I really do think it was justified to sacrifice Clint to the Soul Stone. Clint had other people in his life, his family, he was functional, supposedly, before all the shit went down. Natasha has always had nothing, Clint’s always been remarkably important to her. As a sacrifice, killing Clint feels worse than killing Nat. And Nat’s been trying to die for her found family this whole time, those scattered people she was trying to hold on to, that she struggled to function for. It just would have been nice to reward all her trials by giving her her family back and letting someone else take the bullet for a change. *siiiiiigh* 

Nebula was great, I liked what was done with her. I fully gave up on our time travel making any sense when she shot her past self and then didn’t blip out of existence. I guess the argument for that is that the Nebula that exists branched out further back in the time line so killing herself from slightly further ahead does nothing, but... still, our time travel was a hot mess and y’all know it. 

I think I’ve covered all the major players now except... my baby. So, the first half was great for Thor. I love that he was the one to behead Thanos. I love that he was SUPER fucked up about his failures, his failure to protect his family, to protect his people, his failure to make good on all his promises. Absolutely accurate, Thor WOULD be wrecked by what he couldn’t do. And, sure, okay, he drank enough to give him beer gut, I... fine. I do NEED to point out that he’s a god, his metabolism is different so the quantity he would need to drink to even achieve that level of pudge is beyond reckoning. And, as a god, he should have been able to drop it too. But Okay.

And then there’s that sweet scene with Frigga. I did love that we brought back an underserved female character and let her have a moment with her son. I enjoyed that a lot. What I did not like was Everything That Came After That. I don’t like that they wrote Thor tackling his guilt as a stumble in his self-confidence. I don’t like that because Thor’s depressed now, he’s also stupid. But, y’know, no one has EVER written Thor’s intelligence well (Except you Taika, you, as always, did nothing wrong and I love you) so why the fuck should that change now. I don’t like that Thor ABSOLUTELY should have used the gauntlet the first time because then MAYBE YOU WOULDN'T FORGET TO WISH BACK ASGARD. Like that’s an actual, genuine plot hole. Half of Asgard is STILL DEAD and that’s never addressed because y’know fuck the Asgardians I guess. What they lost doesn’t really matter because that didn’t happen during the Mass Dusting so fuck your problems Thor. No no, it’s fine, it’s absolutely fine that Thor had to destroy his homeland, lost half his people, lost every meaningful relationship he had and then FUCKS OFF WITH THE GUARDIANS?!?! FUCK THIS FUCKING SHIT! 

No no ABSOLUTELY FUCK YOU. FUCK. YOU. I am SO mad. God, what a CARDINAL misreading of Thor’s character! And HOW DARE YOU use that “Be who you are, not who you’re supposed to be” BULLSHIT! How DARE YOU use Frigga’s words to negate Thor’s character development! We settled this back in THE FIRST FUCKING MOVIE but no one can EVER be bothered to write Thor right so FUCK ME I GUESS. Absolutely FUCK THIS. No yeah no, Thor who has been constructively making amends and shouldering his father’s mistakes FROM THE BEGINNING no no, he’d just fuck off, abandon the people he failed, yeah no it’s FINE That’s ABSOLUTELY FINE yeah Thor feels absolutely no loyalty to his people or desire to do right by them, fuck every last one of you sons of bitches. 

And I won’t lie that I am personally pissed about Loki but this disgusting, final betrayal of who Thor is is the Last Fucking Straw. And if the point was to retire the originals WHY DID YOU SADDLE HIM WITH THE GUARDIANS WHO OBJECTIVELY ARE NOT FINISHED?! Like, they have past Gamora now who has no relationships with any of these fucks, their shit is NOT straightened and you’re just throwing Thor into the mix??? What the fuck for?! Just let him be king of Asgard and then you NEVER HAVE TO SEE HIM AGAIN. That was his retirement! Ruling his people like a GODDAMN MONARCH. Y’KNOW. LIKE HE’S ACTUALLY GOOD AT AND HAS ALWAYS WANTED TO DO. *screaming* 

I can’t, I just... and “Asgard already has a king” exCUSE ME?! Valkyrie’s only been back with her people for FIVE YEARS after being gone GOD KNOWS HOW LONG. Literally LONGER THAN YOUR LIFESPAN THOR. And Valkyrie ISN’T a leader! She’s a soldier! What did we watch her lead??? What exactly are yoru examples of her credentials??? What proof do we have that the, I remind you, GREATLY traumatized, Asgardian people even trust her?! It heals far more damage to let the prodigal son redeem his family and make up for the mistakes. And this isn’t to shit on Valkyrie, she’d probably do fine ruling Asgard but she DOESN’T want to, there’s absolutely nothing in her character description that says ruler and this was all just a fucking excuse to let Thor go off and play Big Lebowski with the Guardians of the Galaxy and I am PISSED TO HIGH HELL about it! 

The thing that pisses me off the most is that it would not have materially changed their plot in anyway to just bring Asgard back, let Thor use the Infinity Gauntlet. Yes it would have fucked him up, but does that really matter? You weren’t using Thor for jackshit anyway. Let Hulk triple team Thanos instead, you know you want to. As you bothered to write Bruce like a person today. What would it have changed to bring back Asgard? Other than y’know providing more hands to fight Thanos’ army. Like, did anyone else notice that Wakanda is apparently the only army we know? That was some fine ass tokenism at the end there, woof. Letting Thor use the gauntlet was their last chance to let him be the person he actually is. And... instead they trashed them. Because they have never cared about Thor. They NEVER believed they could sell him, never had confidence in him as a character, never marketed him effectively, convinced themselves that the audience didn’t care for Thor... and so here we are. 

I’m so... mad. About all of that shit. That not once could these writers do right by Thor. I’m just going to go back to living in Ragnarok, fuck all of this.