#faces but anyways there was a nazi there. like actual. nazi. white guy sitting in his booth with literal nazi flags.

[makedamnsvre]

remembered when me and my mom were ???? somewhere going to little shops and my mom stopped at some place to see if there was a bathroom and i waited in the car and then some old white guy with a bright red hat glared at me through the windshield (i was still wearing my mask but it was pulled down under my chin since i was in the car) and after staring at him for too long trying to see what his hat was even though it was obvious i finally saw "trump" on the front lawl.

[lesbian-deadpool]

Saving Rosie

Part One of Two: “I’m Not A Spy.”

Rosie Betzer x Reader

Words: 5,768

Warnings: WWII (and everything that comes with that era), Nazis, spy shit, arguing, alludes to execution, sadness... I think that may be it.

Request: No.

Summary: You save the woman you have grown close to over the past few years you have been undercover as a Nazi general, and now you’re going to save her family.

A/N: Me, still broken after watching Jojo Rabbit almost a year and a half ago?? It’s more likely than you think... so, apparently I write Rosie Beltzer fics now lol

Also, just some lil notes. The reader in this is undercover as a male Nazi general, and they’re not actually German in this fic.

EDIT: I accidentally tagged this as a Natasha fic lmao. I fixed it now tho.

Ko-Fi

Commissions

(Not My GIF)

***

"It's a lovely night for it, huh?"

For what? You weren't 

certain. Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe, it was the clear sky. The deserted streets, perhaps... what loomed in the following days to come.

Or maybe, just maybe. It was the woman by your side.

The woman hummed, a small sweet smile caressing her face.

"One of the better ones we've had in years. Came her strong German accent. A stark difference to yours, considering you no longer had to mask it. Around her, anyway.

Your smile mirrored hers as it brightened.

"It sure is."

"I can't believe it's almost over. And after so long..." she said, while you grunted, sitting down beside her on the small roof over the open attic window. "This unjust war is finally coming to an end."

"Okay, you're starting to sound like my commander now."

Rosie chuckled at your words, moving to softly lean into your side, keeping her head up to continue looking at the bright white stars that littered the midnight blue sky.

"Why do you always insist on meeting up here?" you grumbled, no malice in your voice, "It's a pain in the ass to get up onto the roof, from the outside, y'know?"

"You're a spy, aren't you? Aren't you supposed to be good at this stuff?"

"Oh cheeky," you laughed, lightly slapping the side of her leg, with the back of your hand. Rosie's quiet giggles following your remark, "And I'm an undercover soldier. Those are two very different things."

"Still." She shrugged.

You sat in silence for a small while. Over the few years, you and Rosie had grown close. Meeting up on her rooftop, at the dead of night, where there was no chance of anyone seeing you together, this way, becoming an almost every day occurrence.

You knew you could trust her the moment you first met, almost three years ago. After you had stolen the identity of a Nazi officer, that looked starkly like you. Luckily, there was hardly any information about this person. So, there was less chance for your cover to be blown.

Soon, the resistance that Rosie had been deeply a part of was un-earthed to you, thanks to your informant and the letter she carried. It wasn't long after that you started working with them too. Helping them better than they could ever hope, thanks to the military resources and information you brought.

"What happened to your neck?" Rosie asked, pulling you out from where you were, deep in your memories.

A hand came up to rub at your slightly sore skin.

"My informant can be cruel..."

Rosie cocked a blonde eyebrow at you, wanting an explanation from you.

You sighed, getting ready to tell her.

***

Eyes burned into the woman from all sides as her heels kicked against the polished wooden, yet stained, floor. Her light brown hair shone under the glowing lights, confidence radiating from her just the same.

"Can I help you?" a German Soldier slid in front of her, she had to stop herself from sneering at the man. For both his being a Nazi and his sweaty stench. But instead, she managed a sultry smirk.

"I'm here to see your General," she replied, in a German accent.

"Don't bother," another Soldier, this one drunk and slightly swaying, called over, from where he was pressed into the wall a few feet behind her.

"I don't think your General would take too kindly to you stealing what they paid for."

"They're gonna have fun with you," he replied, blatantly looking her up and down. Like a wolf would, to a tiny bunny, ready to devour it whole. However, the wolf was not a wolf at all, the wolf was, in fact, the bunny, and the bunny was the actual wolf.

She would tear him to shreds, given the chance.

"The General is in the usual room," the original man said, "Fair warning, though. They're not in a good mood today."

The woman began strutting down the hallway, once again. Throwing, "Aren't they always?" over her shoulder once she passed him by.

When she opened the thick wooden door you resided behind, the sounds of your continued groan began pouring through the crack.

"Sometimes I cannot believe that you got this assignment," she uttered in her original London accent, with her back pressed against the now-closed door.

You finished your groan off and took a deep breath before you uttered your reply.

"Luck-of-the-draw, I guess," you spoke from the floor where you lay on your back, with a shrug, "That, or I look strikingly alike the guy who died. The Nazi prick."

She walked over to you, one foot rising to press her heel into your neck, your thyroid resting in the open space of the shoe.

A choking noise sprang from your mouth as you flailed your limbs around gently. You knew that if she were to press any harder, she would surely manage to choke you.

"You're not suited for this job."

The brunette pressed harder against your throat before she released you. Leaving you to turn on your side, coughing and spluttering.

"Well, no shit. I'm a soldier, not a spy."

"You can tell."

"What was that all about?" You motioned to your neck. Red marks already making their way upon the tender flesh.

"We need to make it seem like we are having sex. Remember? I am supposed to be your hooker after all."

"You're a bitch, is what you are."

She scowled at you as you rolled yourself onto your stomach, sighing when you finally got to your feet.

"Where's the update?"

You hummed, almost as if you were remembering what you were here to do. Removing the crystal tumbler from your lips the whisky sloshing around inside. Reaching behind you, you pulled the file from where it was tucked into your pants and under your shirt. Handing it over to her.

"Is this it?" She asked, weighing the file in her hand, "It's very light."

"Yeah, and so's the information swimming around. Unless you wanna hear about the fish Agatha caught last weekend," you snarked back, moving to point at the file with the same hand that held your glass, "There's some good stuff in there. It's not much. But it's good."

"I'll take your word for it."

She tucked the folder into the long overcoat she wore, then you saw her eyebrows furrow.

"Aren't you supposed to take care of that?" She nodded towards the uniform jacket you had thrown across the room not long after you had entered it.

"You sneered at the fore-talked about item.

"I hate it and everything it stands for." You turned back to face her. "As soon as all of this bullshit is over, I'm burning that fucking armband. And then the rest of the fucking uniform."

"Real calm there, aren't you?"

"Don't start shit with me, Hannah." You took a large swig of your drink, almost emptying the glass. "I know that you wish you had somehow gotten this mission. But trust me, you don't fucking want it. The shit I've seen and done. The stuff that I've had to authorise, just to keep my cover. The fucking horror storied these monsters have told proudly, or as if they're fucking jokes." You were panting now. "You don't want that."

You had her startled into silence. Hannah had never expected this to come from you.

"How's the resistance?"

You grunted. Downing the rest of the brown liquor before moving to pour yourself another glass three fingers tall.

"It's going." you gave a heavy nod. "Still trying to spread the word."

Hannah hummed, slowly making her way towards you. Fingers coming up to razzle her hair, and wipe her lipstick, so it smudged onto her cheek.

"How's the blonde?"

"What-?" you were cut off when she wiped the red lipstick on her fingers across your own lips, leaving a smudge like hers there. "Ugh," you groaned, moving away from her palm, only to utter small obscenities and sounds of pain when her lipstick freehand messed up your short, slicked-back hair.

"What blonde?" you finally managed to ask.

"The one from the resistance. What's her name?" She clicked her fingers together, in realisation, "Rosie."

"Oh! Yeah, she's fine, and so are the kids."

"You seem to be taking a shine to her, from what I hear from the resistance. You and Rosie seem to be something of a dynamic duo."

Suddenly your shirt was ripped open, from the collar to your ribs. Making your eyes widen in shock.

However, you were used to this by now, so they soon returned back to their regular size.

"Yeah, we're friends."

Hannah hummed, something akin to a knowing smirk on her face. As she untucked your shirt.

"I'd keep an eye on her, though."

She opened your pants.

"She's being watched."

Breathless at what she just said, you stood stock still, watching as she walked towards the wooden door.

"Oh." Hannah stopped, her hand upon the handle, pulling some pieces of paper from her pocket and threw them to the floor, "I'll leave you to deliver the bad news."

And with that, she left.

***

You forewent telling Rosie everything from the mention of her.

Thinking it the best if she heard it differently.

"That really sounds like a spy meeting to me," Rosie said with a smirk, knowing it would annoy you to no end.

You closed your eyes before you could roll them into the back of your head. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled, "I'm not a spy."

"So, you've said," she giggled.

"You're drunk," you mumbled to yourself.

"What was that?"

"How are the kids?" you asked, clearly watching as Rosie groaned lightly. Her head down-turned, almost sad looking.

"Jojo's still obsessed with Hitler and everything. And Elsa's doing her best. But I can tell how much this is affecting her. And in what world wouldn't it?"

"She's strong." You nodded. "She'll get through it. We all will."

"And what about Jojo?"

Rosie turned to face you, hair swaying as she did. You could see the glazed look in her eye's, telling yourself to be extra vigilant with the woman upon the roof. You had to make sure she didn't fall off in her drunken state.

"Is he going to be like this for the rest of his life?"

Tears were building in her eyes now.

"Supporting evil dictators, wanting to take over the world, and fill it with hate?"

"No. No, of course not," you whispered. Reaching over, you clasped her cheeks between your rough, war-hardened hands. Wiping away her silent tears. "He's just a boy. A boy who wants to be a part of something, even if he doesn't understand what that is. What monster's he's following. He will realise one day. Trust me."

"I trust you." She nodded. "It just. It's hard. It's so hard. Especially when he plays up, like he did at dinner today."

"He did?"

She hummed with a nod.

"We're low on food right now. I had to go without to feed Elsa. But Jojo, he didn't know, obviously, so he took that too. Then he started arguing about his father-"

You inhaled sharply, shoulders tensing. But luckily for you, she didn't notice your reaction.

"-I yelled at him... we made up not long after, but I still feel awful about it. I'm a terrible mother."

"No, you're not-"

"I am-"

"No. You're not," you said firmly. Grabbing her forearm, gently moving it side to side, to get your point further across, "You're such a caring and amazing person. Your heart is so big and kind. And you're an even better mother. It's like all of that is doubled for those kids."

"Thank you," Rosie whispered, tears in her eyes once again, before she moved to wipe them away.

"Anyway, you're way better than my mother. She abandoned me at a farm. I was lucky a cow didn't shit on me."

She giggled at your little joke.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"There's no need. I wouldn't change it."

Things were quiet for a few minutes when you suddenly remembered.

"Oh!" You reached into your pocket and pulled out three packages, wrapped in brown paper and tied together with string. "I guess it was just lucky that I brought these then."

"What are they?"

"Beef sandwiches, I thought you would like them."

"Oh, you're a lifesaver," she spoke in something close to a moan as she took a bite out of her sandwich.

You gave a small chuckle at the woman seated beside you, "I'd thought you'd say that. I'll have to start bringing food over to these meetings of ours because it's not like I can do it out in the open."

"People would think something was going on between us," Rosie hummed.

"You're right about that. Everyone is so bored around here. Gossip is like their life sauce."

"Would you be surprised if I told you that it was the same before the war?"

"Not at all," you laughed.

Rosie finished her sandwich, and you dreaded what was coming next.

"I need to tell you something," you almost whispered.

She bumped her shoulder against yours when you didn't continue.

"Well? What is it?"

"It... it's about your husband..."

You watched her carefully as you said that, all the while emotions, flew into her while she processed them.

She held back more tears, ones from the look on her face that she had shed more times than she could count. Face contoured into one of concealed pain. Looking away from your gentle, caring eyes while rubbing her hands together.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so." You nodded, looking out before you, into the starry night sky.

That's when you felt a tiny jolt beside you. Looking over at the blonde, you watched as a tear trickled down her cheek.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered.

With a gasp and a wet sniff, Rosie wiped her tears away.

"What happened?"

"There was a raid, some members of a resistance was there, your husband included. None of them made it... they saved the people they intended to, however."

She nodded with a sad yet proud smile.

"How long ago was this?"

You swallowed. Hating the words you were about to say.

"A little over a year ago."

You winced when you heard her sobs, ones being held in so hard just so no one could overhear her cries.

And, sickeningly so, the worst thing of all was that you didn't know how to help her.

Placing a hand upon her back, rubbing small comforting circles into her shoulder. Feeling her lean into you, face now pushed into your neck.

"I'm here. Everything's going to be alright."

You left not too long later, after already spending way too much time up on that roof.

Rosie wished you a "goodbye" with the promise that she would be fine. However, she didn't reply to you when you told her not to finish the rest of the wine. That she had been pounding for the majority of the day.

Before you arrived "home" and promptly collapsed onto the bed.

***

The afternoon sun was warm upon your face as you walked the streets of the German town. Watching as children ran around, women worked, and well, gossiped, and Nazi soldiers came and went.

Soon. You thought. This will all be over soon.

That's when you heard the murmured words from the women you had just walked past.

"Yes, the Gestapo. They're here right now."

"Who for?" the other woman asked, voice slightly higher at the aspect of such "juicy" gossip.

Sometimes it surprised you just how detached some of these people were from human lives. But then you took a step back and saw everything that was happening in the world. And you weren't surprised anymore. Just disappointed.

"The traitors wife. Beltzer."

And now you were scared.

"-They should be taking her to the square, right now."

It was like the world had slowed down as you turned to look at them, meeting their curious eyes.

The last thing you heard before taking off at a run towards the town square was a fading, "Like husband, like wife. I guess."

The people you passed by looked at you like you were insane. To see a, what they thought, General, sprinting down streets and panting like crazy, it set them on edge.

But you didn't give a damn about what anybody thought.

You just had to get to the square.

And quick.

***

By the time you got there, you had a light shine over your skin. Thanks to the sweat from both the running you had done and the worry that coursed through you.

"Remove your hands from her," came your faux German accent.

"She is a traitor to the Reich," one of the Gestapo's, seemingly the leader, replied assuredly.

"And what proof do you have of this?"

Rosie was terrified. You could see that as clear as day, no matter how she tried to keep calm. It was written all over her face.

So, you forcefully pushed their hands from the heavily breathing woman and pulling her to stand by your side and away from the group of men dressed in black suits.

"I'll have you know, we have very probable tips from some of the community-"

""Probable"?!" you shouted, causing the on edge woman beside you to jump slightly. To which you pulled her closer to you as a form of comfort. Your hand, coming to rest on her shoulder.

"Yes. Probable. We cannot have risks."

"Well, I say that it is bullshit."

"You have no jurisdiction or authority over our department."

"And I never said I did. I am saying that I vouch for this woman."

"But the tip-off's-" another man began.

"You choose to believe lonely and bored housewives over a General?!" You watched as their faces fell, and they tried to grab onto any straw they could to change your mind.

"There is still a chance-"

"There is no chance!"

"And can you be so sure?!"

"Do you really believe that I, a General, would be with her if you were right?"

"With her?" a third Gestapo asked curiously.

You knew what you had to do to get her back home, safe and away from the men trying to execute and make a spectacle of her. Just like the poor people hanging to your right.

"It means that I have been seeing her. Romantically, if you still do not fully understand, what I mean."

They didn't say anything for a few short moments, only stumbling and stuttering over their own voices.

"So, tell me. Who are you choosing to believe?"

"Uh. Y-You General."

"Good." You nodded once. "Now, I'm going to take her home. Goodbye, gentlemen," you spat. Turning on your heel, with Rosie under your arm, and walking away.

"Are you okay?" you whispered. Not drawing any attention to yourself or Rosie.

"I'm fine. Thank you for saving me," she replied in the same way.

"I wouldn't have done anything else." Your hand slipped down to the blondes dip in her lower back, helping to guide her back home. "Where are the flyers? Did you have any on you?"

"Yes. I threw them down the drain before they could see."

"Good. You did good." A squeeze to her hip before your hand returned to her lower back, just to keep up the appearance of the lie. "They're not gonna find them."

***

Rosie had relaxed more by the time you were at the bottom of her street when you saw a distinctly expensive car parked outside of Rosie's house. A car that everyone knows belongs to that of Gestapo's.

"Is Jojo home?" you asked, just stood there starring at the sight, with Rosie by your side.

"Yes," she husked.

"Shit."

And that's when you both broke out in a run.

You, being faster than Rosie, arrived at the building first. Barging through the door, with her hot on your heels.

Pounding your way up the stairs, only to come face to face with a gang of men, identically dressed to the Gestapo's, you had just saved Rosie from. Along with Jojo and Elsa, in clothes that didn't look like they belonged to her. Not to mention the demoted soldier, holding an identification book.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

"What are you doing in my house?!" you and Rosie said at the same time. Your yell angrier, compared to her more so worried one.

"We are searching the premises," the lead man, who wore round glasses, spoke. Face confused as to why Rosie was still alive. But as soon as he saw the anger chiselled upon your face. He could take a successful guess as to who had stopped the execution.

"Mama, they were just checking Inge's identification," Jojo said as his mother rushed towards him. Her hands, on his cheeks, as she checked him over.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Rosie pulled Jojo along to bring Elsa into her side, just as you had done for her mere minutes ago. "Are you both alright?"

She gained words and nods of confirmation from the two children.

"I think it's time that you all left."

"But-" one Gestapo said, looking to Rosie.

"But nothing," you continued, "I'm sure your associates will fill you in on their mistake. Now, if you are finished, I ask that you leave this house."

"We were just about to, anyway," the leader said, leading the way out for everyone. But not before the ID was handed back to the assumed Inge. With you trailing after, to slam the door behind them.

You turned, leaning your back against the wooden door, sighing deeply.

"Are they gone?" Rosie called down, leaning over the railing, to peer down at you.

The stairs creaked below you, the layer of carpet doing nothing to quiet them. You spoke your confirmation, as you reached her, "They're gone."

The kids looked like they had just been caught with their hand's in the cookie jar.

"So..." the caring woman started, "You two know about each other."

They nodded.

"For how long?"

"A couple of weeks, at most," Jojo said.

"How did you even find out about her?"

"I-I found the hatch-"

"He crawled in-"

"And I found her-"

"He was terrified."

"Was not!"

"Was too."

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Okay, enough," Rosie raised her voice, gaining the bickering children's attention.

Taking a breath, she ran her hands through her soft blonde hair.

"And you never told anyone?"

"No." Jojo shook his head. "I didn't want you to get into trouble..." It was at that point, he realised you were silently stood behind his mother, watching as everything unfolded and who you were.

Rosie caught this and looked over her shoulder at you.

"Don't worry," she told both of the kids, crouching down before them. Elsa's face one of mild terror.

This is when it hit you that these kids were exactly that.

Kids.

Kid's that were too scared of their mothers, or motherly figure, scolding them, than the actual, apparent danger that lurked not too far away.

"They're not going to tell anybody. They know. And won't let anything happen. To any of us." she manoeuvred to face you. "Right?"

You nodded. "Absolutely. I will do my best to protect all of you."

"Speaking of." She slowly rose to her feet, walking towards you.

The hand that Rosie placed upon your arm was gentle, almost like she was worried she would hurt you. Fingers curling into the jacket of the uniform you loathed.

"I have to speak with the General. So, you two stay up here. Understood?"

They nodded.

"Good." She pulled you through the open door, but before she could close it fully, her head popped through the door, "Oh. And we're not done yet. We still have a lot to talk about."

Then the door clicked shut.

"You're really good at that."

"What?"

"Being a mother."

"I know. You've told me before."

***

Things had changed rather quickly when you arrived downstairs.

Sat upon the blue cotton cushions of the wooden framed couch. Watching as Rosie paced around in front of you, fingertips rubbing against her full lips, worry etched across her face.

Your eyebrows shot up, and your body straightened when she turned to face you. Arms now down by her sides.

"So, we're together, huh?"

"I'm sorry," you replied, German accent dropped, "But that was the only thing that would get them to back off and drop the suspicions against you."

"I know." She nodded, completely understanding. Before her minimal composure dropped, and the worry came back. "What do we do? Jojo obviously thinks you are a traitor now. What if he tells someone?"

"He won't." You stood abruptly, taking Rosie's shoulder's into your hands, squeezing them gently. "He didn't tell anyone about Elsa when he had so many chances to do so. Hell, he had the chance, not even five minutes ago. But he hasn't said a word, purely just to keep you safe... he doesn't understand that this could hurt him and Elsa too. He doesn't know what's happening."

"But this is different-"

"Yes, it is different. It's better he thinks I'm a traitor, helping his family, than him knowing I'm an undercover soldier."

"You mean a spy?"

"Don't you start with that shit." You pointed at her playfully.

Rosie's smile dropped when a thought popped into her mind.

"Do you think they will still come back?"

"It is possible," you said honestly, "Which is why we should leave as soon as we possibly can."

"And go where?"

"Anywhere that isn't here."

"What do I tell the kids- What do I tell Jojo?" she clarified.

"The truth. You tell them that they could come back and that we all need to leave because we could all be in danger."

With her head in her hand's, the blonde scoffed tearily, "God. This fucking war."

"I know. I know."

You pulled her into your chest, letting her cry into you. Arms wound around your torso tightly.

"I hate it, For so many reasons."

"I know," you repeated again, "I feel the same."

"When will it just end? When will people be safe again?"

Deciding that it would be best to tell her the truth, you said, "I don't know. Soon I hope."

And there you sat, for a small while longer, allowing the blonde to cry into your chest.

***

You had left.

Gone to go gather some of your things, thinking it best to stay with Rosie and the kids while you were forced to stay in town.

All the while Rosie, spoke to the kids about leaving.

"I don't understand why we have to go!"

Was what you were greeted with as you entered the home.

"Because it is not safe for us here anymore," Rosie's voice came, calm but firm.

"But they won't come back."

"That's not entirely true," you spoke, entering the kitchen. Placing the leather bag you carried and the wicker basket upon the small table against the wall, you continued, "There's always a chance, no matter how small."

The young boy watched you silently for a minute. Not knowing what to say.

"Trust me, Jojo. I know how all of this works. I just want to keep you all safe, so does your mother. And this is the best way to do it.2

Jojo sighed.

"Where will we go?"

Rosie looked at you intently when her son asked this, wondering the same thing.

"We'll get out of town first. Then we'll focus on a safe place for us all to go."

"Jojo, would you. Would you go to your room, please?" Rosie asked, "I need to speak with the General, alone."

Just as the blonde boy was about to protest, he was cut off.

"Now. I also have to start preparing dinner."

He huffed and walked from the room, bounding up the stairs rather loudly.

You felt bad for the woman as you watched her grip the sides of the oven, bow her head, and give a great sigh.

"Where's Elsa?"

"She's in her hiding spot." Then she turned to face you. "Y/N, K know that Elsa isn't Inge."

"What?"

"She got Inge's birthday wrong, and he didn't say anything."

Your eye's wandered as you took in the information that was just given to you.

"Do you think he will say anything?"

"I don't know," you said with a shrug, "But I don't wanna take any chances. It's too risky."

"I agree." Rosie nodded once. "So, when do we leave."

"As soon as possible. Tonight if we can. Only pack the essentials. And not yet, we can't raise any suspicions."

Rosie's only reply and indication that she had heard you were a good few nods.

And then.

"What's in the basket?"

"Oh," you said chipperly, "Don't worry about cooking. I brought dinner."

***

Turns out "tonight" wasn't a viable option for skipping town, as with loud, almost deafening sirens of dread filled the sky came the air-raid strike.

"Wouldn't it give us a good cover, though?" Rosie had asked, preparing for bed.

You had resigned yourself to staying over, as a sort of bodyguard, while still in town. And the threat was still very much weighing in the winds.

You looked over your shoulder at her. Being spotted by her through the mirror of her vanity, where she sat. Removing her makeup and then applying some face cream.

"I'm not the only one by a window," you told her. Then moved to peer through the window, at the moving lights in the black, midnight sky. "I'm sure I heard Elsa and Jojo in the attic watching them."

"They are," she confirmed.

"See. We're not the only ones. Too many eyes. A good distraction," you admitted, "But almost impossible. And with two kids added to that? No chance."

A hum came from Rosie.

"So, what are our options?"

With a sigh, you began explaining, "People will be too jumpy tomorrow, so our best bet would be the day after."

The blonde, now ready for bed, came over to you. Moving to stand right in front of you, looking out the window herself.

"Wouldn't it be too risky, staying here that long?"

It seemed it was your turn to hum, shrugging your shoulders.

"I'd rather stay here a few more days than risk it out there. But there is a good side to these change of plans."

"And what's that?"

"Now, we can sneak stuff to the car. And won't risk being caught doing it all at night. That way, all we have to do is get in, then drive off."

"Good plan. Partner," Rosie spoke in a slight mocking about sultry tone. Which only made you roll your eyes good-naturedly.

"Yeah. Yeah. You're welcome."

"Seriously," you halted at Rosie's serious tone, raising your head to peer at her, "Thank you for everything."

"You don't have to thank me." Your lips ticked up in a small smile before you lightened the sober mood and atmosphere. "And you definitely won't be thanking me if I accidentally kick you in my sleep."

Rosie laughed at your words, watching as you said into bed beside her.

"Do not worry. If you kick me, I'll just kick you out of the bed."

"Now that's just rude."

Waking up the next morning was strange for you, to say the least.

With the bright sun shining through the thin drapes, across the cosy room, and onto the bed. Duvet lumpy above your forms.

And then there was Rosie.

The blonde pressed up against your side, head resting on your shoulder, arms curled around one of yours, still fast asleep.

Now that.

That was very unusual for you.

But then again. You were too sleepy to process anything at that moment. So instead, you just watched her breathe soothingly, looking so peaceful by your side, with your eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinted in curiosity.

It was a wonder how someone could look so contest face asleep like Rosie was, with everything that is going on in the world.

The world wouldn't be that way for much longer, you thought, it was only a matter of time before everything was over.

And the same thing could be said for the blonde sleeping by your side.

The wooden door barged open, alerting you fully awake, as Jojo strutted in. Only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of you. In bed. With his mother.

You could see the slight anger in his eyes, purely out of protection for his beloved mother.

"Good morning, Jojo," Rosie said sleepily as she moved to sit up, looking at the boy with a sleepy smile.

You grunted as she pressed her palm into your abdomen to raise up into a seated position.

"What are they doing here?" he asked, nodding his head towards you.

Rosie looked over her shoulder at you, tired eyes evaluating you. Before she turned back to her son.

"There's something I forgot to tell you yesterday."

You watched the mother and child with slightly wide eyes, not uttering a word, just looking like you wanted to escape this situation.

"What did you forget?"

"The General here-" she patted your abdomen where her hand still resided. "-And I, are seeing each other."

It was a few good long moments as Jojo processed the words. You thought he was going to be angry. It would be natural. You would understand. He was a young boy, one who undoubtedly missed his father and would not be happy with his mother being with anyone else.

But you also had to understand that he idolised you, if only for your -albeit fake- position in the German military.

And yet, you were still surprised and confused by what he said next.

"A lion?"

Rosie smiled brightly, nodding her head, "A lion."

"A lion?"

That was the first thing you said that morning, and it was full of confusion.

But it fell on deaf ears.

Jojo nodded once at his mother before turning on his heel and walking from the room, without saying what he initially came in for.

"What?"

Rosie smiled at you.

"Come on, we should get moving."

The bed shook and bounced as she got up from the bed, preparing to get ready for the day.

"I'm so confused," you almost whimpered, only gaining a soft giggle in return.

***

Permanent Tag List: 

@imnotasuperhero, @veteranwerewolf95, @natasha-danvers, @marvelfansince08love, @higherfurther-romanova, @lesbian-x-blackwidow, @sestra-inestro, @thelastavenger-3000, @mixed-fandom-mess,

SFW Tag list: 

@peggycarter-steverogers, @natalia-quinzel,

(I didn’t know if you guys wanted to be tagged in this, but...)

[ryuichirou]

I saw one very stupid post on my dash about how snk is OBVIOUSLY nazi propaganda and trying to convert all of us into imperialists and white supremacists. tbh it’s not the first time I’ve seen that kind of stuff and probably won't be the last, but for some reason this time it gave me a lot of anxiety (I got wordy, I'mma need to send another ask, sorry)

(part 2) It's been more than half and hour and I still feel this awful sensation in my chest. It's just overall pretty fucked how to have something you hold dear being misinterpreted in the worst way possible, and I was just wondering what are your thoughts on this situation or how you deal with people claiming all sorts of awful shit.

(part 3) I imagine that as an artist some people probably direct their issues with snk towards you, 'cause I don't even post that much fanart and I've gotten anons "trying to educate me" on why this series is so wrong, after posting drawings. Of course, you don't have to reply, maybe the topic makes you anxious too and I don't want to bother you, so sorry for the depressing topic (｡•́︿•̀｡)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tiiish, I want to hug you, I’m really sorry that this happened to you. I hope you’re feeling a little bit better now.

Like we already mentioned a while ago, when we were talking about that darn article, after we read through it and did a little fact checking (and I mean it when I say a little, because there weren’t many facts to check), we stopped caring about it. It’s not research at all, just a manipulatively written speculation on Yam’s motives and worldview, but sadly, people easily believe these accusations because they hate SnK and want to find a valid reason to hate it and shit on its fanbase. Because “I hate it because it’s nazi propaganda” sounds much cooler than “I hate it because it’s popular”, doesn’t it?

It’s easier to ignore the article itself though, and it’s much harder not to think about tumblr posts or those Twitter threads that get very popular (although there are a lot of bots on twitter, trust me…), and it’s especially difficult to ignore it when it’s specifically directed at you. But the only thing that these people deserve is a good ol’ block and (if they’re getting too offensive and abusive) a report for harassment. The thing is, their opinion doesn’t matter: it won’t change SnK’s story, it won’t affect its success and popularity, it doesn’t affect anything other than our mood (temporarily lol). Because they aren’t critics who actually give a flying fuck about the subject matter, they’re just random assholes with a hateboner for SnK, who sit in their echochamber and discuss the same shit over and over again. And if they’re “fans” of the SnK, it’s just them “consuming it critically” 🙄 such a convenient phrase and so easy to abuse.

If we think about these accusations again… they’re so damn nonsensical, it’s almost amazing. I’m not going to reread it or to make a proper counterpoint article out of this ask, so this is just based on how we remember these accusations.

Like, what part of SnK approves and pushes the idea of imperialism in any way? When the entire idea of the story is that war is bad? When people like Onyankopon, whose homeland was invaded by Marley, exist? And it’s never portrayed as a good thing? Having only one country dominating the world’s situation is literally the main reason why everyone’s suffering??

And come to think of it, Isayama is one of the few manga artists to kind of sort of openly critique Japan: he literally drew Kiyomi losing her cool and drooling while thinking about all the profit and wealth she would get from the deal with Paradis. Why do people never talk about that? What is it, if not a critique of greedy and two-faced nature of people from Azumabito clan, who are heavily implied to represent Japan? I don’t read a lot of manga in general, but do you know how many mangakas I’ve seen who directly talked shit about Japan while being Japanese? Two. Excluding Isayama.

Isayama is clearly invested in the Western culture and he understands the World’s History. He understands that political relationships are complex and that there are no “bad” or “good” countries. I don’t want to make assumptions about how much perspective of the world’s relationships the average person from Japan has, but I still feel like Yams has a pretty good understanding of it. He did his research for the subject matter, and while it’s obviously not perfect, it’s clearly there.

These people also claim that SnK is anti-Korean and anti-Semitic, but if Hetalia had taught me anything, it is that if the story has or used to have any anti-Korean undertones, the Korean readers wouldn’t want to have anything to do with it. They would be the first people to ditch the manga, they would be the first people to critique SnK, and rightfully so. They burnt Uniqlo clothes, their overall domestic policy is pretty anti-Japanese, so there’re literally zero reasons for them not to destroy SnK if they see it as anti-Korean. But the size of the Korean SnK fandom suggests otherwise, doesn’t it.

And the “big noses = Jewish caricature” argument, seriously? How anti-Semitic can you get? Who the fuck looks at people and goes “oh, those have big noses, bet they’re caricature of Jews”?? Sorry I’m getting heated lol The argument about “Asian artists portray Westerners with prominent noses because that’s what we look like to them” has been done a lot of times, I’m not going to go over than again.

And god forbid Isayama to use Germany and Europe to draw a story where his characters are (approximately) Germans and Europeans! Let’s go fetch our pitchforks to punish Isayama for using their aesthetic to make his story look more believable and authentic, right? “Oh, those areas where they hold Eldians resemble places from real life”, like no shit???? Ofc they would??? That’s what references for making the story more grounded are used for??? If I were to write a story about a fictional place based on a real one that I don’t live in, I’d use some visual references to help me to make it more believable??? Why do I even need to explain that?

In my previous post I talked about the armbands and ghetto and stuff, but I’ll reiterate: even if there are thematic similarities, it doesn’t mean that the story mirrors our history. And it doesn’t mean that there is an analogy, since Eldian’s situation is quiiiite different than what Jewish people had to go through. It’s just thematic similarities. And it still doesn’t plant any specific idea in the reader’s head, other than “having people shoved into ghettos with 0 civil rights is a horrible thing”, and I can’t comprehend what’s anti-Semitic or imperialistic about it. Also I’m sorry, but nazis are not the only people who genocided a bunch of people, breaking news. Nor did they invent armbands. Same goes for Japan in WWII.

And now for my favourite argument: Erwin is nazi because his name is Erwin and he was born on the same day than some nazi guy died… I won’t even talk about why this idea is hilariously stupid, I just want to appreciate the level of nitpicking that’s going on here.

So… yeah. People who have nothing else to do but to complain about the show they hate don’t matter. And people who consider themselves a part of the SnK fandom and still say this bs (yep, there are people who do that) are huge hypocrites. The heck are they doing in this fandom then?? Of course, any story is up to interpretation, but this is so backwards?

Sorry for rambling so much… anyways. We’re happy enough not to encounter any hate related to this topic, but we think it’s because we ship Ereri and people already hate us for that, so the majority of shit we get is related to that, I guess we’re a lost cause for them. We’ll see if anything happens after this post though.

But once again, I’m very sorry that you had to go through this. Please remember that this isn’t personal at all, and people who harass strangers on the internet just want to flex their high moral ground while acting like complete assholes. You don’t have to explain anything to them, you don’t have to talk to them, you don’t have to listen to them or give them any attention. I hope you’ll never stumble upon anything like this; but if you ever do, please block them, don’t even bother reading their attempts at “educate” you. Isn’t worth it.

Please have a good day, Tish. And everyone who’s reading this reply.

[absolutepx]

So I've been playing Death Stranding lately. Wait, that's not what this post is about. Well, it kind of is. Hang on. What is Death Stranding about?

A: Norman Reedus getting bare ass naked B. Sneaking around ghosts with the help of your sidekick, an actual baby C: Carrying 50 Amazon packages up a hill while trying to not topple over D: Waking up in the morning and drinking 5 Monster Energy™ for breakfast

For those following along at home, the answer is actually none of the above. Despite the set dressing being bizarre to the point of near absurdity, what the game is actually about, like thematically, is actually really simple.

See, the development of Death Stranding was actually quite a trip. Hideo Kojima is the video game world's equivalent of an auteur director. He has a very recognizable personal style. It's thoroughly horny – he caught a bunch of shit for the design of Quiet in MGSV, but like, a lot of Kojima characters are just -like that-, including the dudes. Also, this is going to possibly be important later.

Anyway, so Kojima was going to do a rebootmakequel of Silent Hill, and the demo actually made it to the PS store and I could actually write a whole side essay about why P.T. (it was called P.T. for some reason btw) was brilliant game design for how it used the same hallway over and over and it was somehow beneficial to the overall feeling of horror. So Konami it turns out kinda sucks nowadays and they like, fired Kojima (they were huge dicks about it behind closed doors, too) and scrapped the project and kicked him out on the street and kept the Metal Gear series which was his baby (literally the baby in the sink in P.T., he snuck a bunch of messaging about the Konami situation into the demo like a breakup album) and Kojima would go on to form his own studio and poach some of the people who worked with him to boot. So the thing about Kojima is this: he's got a reputation for already putting some wild shit in his games, like a ladder that takes like 10 real time minutes to climb in MGS3 for dramatic effect, and a boss in MGS3 that summons the ghosts of all the people you were too lazy to stealth past and killed, or a sniper battle with a really old guy that he wanted to have last two weeks or some shit until he died of old age but he was "told that "this was impossible and not recommended." That is a real quote I just looked up. So he's coming off the heels of making this hugely successful game with MGSV and the hype of the P.T. Demo and he fucking, he like took all the people that were going to be working on P.T. Along like Guillermo Del Toro was going to co-write it and Norman Reedus was going to star in it, and he's like, I'm going to make this game called Death Stranding. And the first trailer comes out for it and it's completely nuts. Norman Reedus wakes up naked on a beach crying with a baby and there are floating people in the sky? So we're all like hooooooly shit, there's no one to tell him "this is impossible and not recommended" anymore. What's he going to make now!?

So the whole time the game is in development I keep seeing these tweets where it'll be like, Kojima and one of his homies smiling with some saccharine message about being spiritual warriors and changing the world. And not just Del Toro and Reedus, there was Mads Mikkelsen (another guy Kojima puts in the game just because he apparently loves him), and the band Chvches, and also like, Keanu Reeves at one point? You know how everyone has just kind of accepted that Keanu is a being of light? Here he was endorsing Kojima. The hype was pretty confused and frantic.

The game eventually comes out. A lot of game journos hate it because I think there was this expectation it was going to be, you know, less weird and have more of the conventional structure of a video game. That's not to say the average gamer wasn't also dismissive of it, but I think on the ground level there was more of an understanding that like, yeah, Kojima just be like that sometimes.

Because the game was a timed console exclusive and your homie don't play like that, I spent the first year or so cautiously viewing Death Stranding from a distance. I wasn't sure I was going to like it – except for being really impressed with P.T., I wasn't actually a big fan of Kojima's games as games – but I -was- sure that I was going to buy it, because of the way Konami fucked him over, just out of support. And the shit I was hearing was really out there. The primary mode of gameplay is just delivery packages. You collect Norman Reedus' bathwater and pee and use it as grenades. You get a motorcycle that looks like the one from AMC's The Ride with Norman Reedus, and when you sit on it, his character in the game says "Wow, this thing is like the one from AMC's The Ride with Norman Reedus!"

But I didn't really want to know that much about it. Something has that much fucking crazy person energy, you want to go in mostly blind, right? So maybe people just weren't talking about this, or maybe I wasn't seeing it, but then I watched Girlfriend Reviews' video about it and they came right out and said it (link provided if you want to hear Shelby say it more articulately than me):

Death Stranding is basically about the exact opposite of Twitter. It's about remembering how to be kind to each other, how to reconnect in a world where people are so often hostile to each other by default. Prophetically, it's about a world where people are afraid to go outside or touch other people and how damaging that is. It's not a game about carrying packages, it's a game about helping people by being brave enough to walk through a wasteland carrying their burdens because they can't. It's about rebuilding the lost connections between people, about restoring roads and giving people hope. I bet, for Kojima and the people close to him, it's about how to answer hostility with compassion. You can't kill people in Death Stranding. You can and are absolutely encouraged to fucking throw hands with people sometimes, but all the tools and weapons are nonlethal. So I think Kojima took all the Twitter heat he got over the Quiet nontroversy, and all the feelings of isolation he had from Konami separating him from his team during the end of the development of MGSV, and all the support and encouragement he got from his bros Del Toro and Mads and the rest, and decided to channel that into making a game that was a statement about all of it. And sure, it's a little heavy handed, and sure, it's a little saccharine, and sure, the gameplay sometimes borders on miserable in service of creating emotional payoffs. For me, especially in 2020, this message is a huge success. Social media should be an opportunity for all of us to feel more connected to each other, yet primarily it feels like one of the main forces driving people apart. Why is that? Why is the internet of today such a hostile place? I'm old enough to remember web 1.0: I can haz cheezburger memes; YTMND; the early wild west days of Youtube... What happened to us? I've thrown the blame at Twitter in the past, and I think the architecture of the user experience on Twitter is absolutely a big piece of the puzzle, because it fosters negative interactions. But in terms of the behavior, people have observed that 2018 Twitter was actually almost exactly like 2014 Tumblr. (For the record, Tumblr is now one of the chillest places left on the internet, because so few fucks are left to give.)

I think part of it is the anonymity. The dehumanizing disconnection of the separation of screens and miles. Louis CK, before he was cancelled, had a great point about cyberbullying, and why it's so much more savage than kids are IRL. When you pick on someone in person and you are confronted with seeing the pain you caused them, for most sane people it causes negative feedback and you become disgusted with your actions and eventually learn to stop being a shithead. Online, at best you can "break the wrist, walk away".

At worst, you can become addicted to "clout chasing" and the psychological thrill of being cheered on by your social ingroup. It's even worse if you feel like it's not bullying and your actions are justified because whoever you've targeted is a bad person so you don't have to feel bad about what you do to them. This is where reductive, unhelpful catchphrases like "punch a nazi" come in. For every argument, one or both sides have convinced themselves that the other side is subhuman because their beliefs are so disgusting. And sometimes it's even true! A lot of times, especially these days, people really are acting like animals or worse online. Entire disinformation engines are roaring day and night, churning out garbage and cluttering the social consciousness. (Kojima talked about this bit, too, way back in MGS2. As if I wasn't already in danger of losing my thread through this.)

The human brain was not built to live like this. You can't wake up every morning, roll over and open your phone, and be immediately faced with a tidal wave of anger and indignity. It wasn't built to be aware of fully how horrible the world is at any moment ALL AT ONCE, ALL THE TIME. And you will be. Because of another way that our brain works – the way we are more likely to share negative opinions. And because of the cottage industry built on farming outrage clicks, and because of constant performative activism.

It's not that I don't agree that being informed is important.

It's not that I don't agree that the causes people get riled up about are important.

They are. They absolutely are.

But we can't keep living like this. The constant, unending flood of tragedy, arguments, and hot takes. How much of the negativity we associate with online culture is the product of this feedback loop? What if the rise of doomer culture has been, if not entirely created by, has been nourished and exacerbated by our hostile attitudes toward each other?  Incels and TERFs, white supremacists, radfems, tankies and Trumpers – it seems like on every side of every issue, there are people simultaneously getting it wrong in multiple directions at once and there are more being radicalized every day. They are the toxic waste left behind by the state of discourse. And any hill is a hill worth dying on.

So what am I actually advocating? I don't know. There are a lot of fights going on right now that are important and we can't just climb into bunkers and ignore our problems hoping that Norman Reedus and his fine ass are going to leave the shit we need on our doorsteps. We need to find the strength to carry those hypothetical packages for ourselves sometimes - and hopefully, for others as well. Humans are social creatures. We need interaction and enrichment.

We need love.

So just try to remember the connections between humanity. Try to put more good stuff into the world when you can. Share more shitposts and memes. Tell your friends and family that you love them. Share good news when you hear it. Go on a weird fucking tangent about Death Stranding. Find a way to "be excellent to each other, and party on, dudes."

[peppersonironi]

Batfam/Avengers Crossover Chapter Three: Morning Routines

Tagging: @the-fair-maiden-of-fandom

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types

Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Natasha Romanov & Damian Wayne, Clint Barton & Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tim Drake & Duke Thomas, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Roy Harper/Koriand'r/Jason Todd,

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Barbara Gordon, Justice League (DCU), Alfred Pennyworth, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Clint Barton, Thor (Marvel), Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, Alfred the Cat (DCU), Bat-Cow (DCU), Goliath (DCU), Selina Kyle’s Cat Isis, Kate Kane (DCU), Duke Thomas,

Additional Tags: Batbrothers (DCU), Avengers Meet The Batfam, MCU/Batfam crossover, Crossover, no beta we die like robins, rated T for Jason’s language, I bleeped it out though. Just to be safe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, canon? What’s canon?, Deaf Clint Barton,Deaf Character, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Happy Batfamily (DCU), Birdflash and joyfire are implied/referenced,

Summary: Now that the Avengers have begun to settle into the Manor, they get to know the inhabitants.

Notes: Yo, I do take requests for scenarios, pov’s, and characters to show up!

Steve awoke in one of the most comfortable beds he had ever slept in. For a moment he was relaxed as the sun streamed in through the large window. Then he sat straight up. How did he get here?

Then he remembered. After the Justice League had left, Batman - he still felt weird calling him Bruce - led them into an elevator which emerged in a richly adorned sitting room. The entrance to the elevator being in the Grandfather clock which lay to the side of the room. A butler - a butler! Even Tony didn’t have one of those - had met them there. Batman had informed him that they would be staying for a while, and the butler had quickly led them to free rooms, assuring the Avengers that clothes would be provided before dinner. He had spoken the truth, as a change of clothes were provided shortly. Steve suspected they were pilfered from the manor’s residents.

Steve got out of bed and went over to the neatly stacked pile of clothes, and got dressed. He had been given cargo pants and a gray t-shirt. He then left his room and began to follow the smell of breakfast - a heavenly mixture of coffee, maple syrup, bacon, and blueberry pancakes.

Nat, Tony, and Clint were already in the kitchen when he arrived. They were sitting on stools at the island along with Tim Drake and Cassandra Cain. The Butler was placing a heaping pile of pancakes on the table whilst handing Tim a pot of coffee.

Steve walked over and sat down. "Good morning," he said. "They look great sir, thank you."

The Butler smiled. "Call me Alfred, everyone else does." He spoke with a crisp british accent, which Steve hadn’t noticed the evening before.

Steve nodded as he took some pancakes and bacon. Everyone else started chowing down as well, with the exception of Tim. Tim looked horrible, if Steve was being honest. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his lids were drooped.

Tim was about to pour some coffee, when Steve noticed he was clearly going to miss the mug. Steve opened his mouth to say something when Cassandra Cain reached over and casually pushed the mug over.

Tim filled up the mug. He either hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t cared.

Cassandra went back to her  seat. "You sleep?"

Tim shrugged. "No more than usual. I had patrol, then worked on that eastside murder case."

Cassandra frowned. “ Sleep ,” she said vehemently.

"What's patrol?" Clint asked curiously.

Tim frowned. “We go out and patrol Gotham. Take care of crime. Typical vigilante stuff.”

This gave Steve pause. “You handle petty crime?”

Tim blinked. “You don’t? I thought you said you were superheroes?"

Natasha nodded. “So you’re like Peter. He protects Manhattan. The rest of us only got together due to an alien invasion. We’re what you would call the . . . heavy hitters.”

Cassandra nodded. “City needs us. Without . . .” She pursed her lips and moved her hands around. “Bad things happen.”

“Once you have finished, might I suggest you explore the manor or cave?” Alfred said as he placed more bacon on the table. “Master Bruce has a full gym and training areas in the Batcave which you are welcome to use. After all, if you are to stay here, you might as well have something to do.”

Steve stood up from his now finished meal. “Thank you Alfred, I believe I will. I think I remember the way to the cave. Thank you for the meal.”

Tony nodded. “See you down there, I guess.” Clint and Natasha agreed.

*****

Steve entered the cave to find that he was not the first one there. Standing on the main platform was an honest-to-god cow.

It was brown and white, with stubby horns and a baleful look. On its forehead was a brown patch that looked suspiciously like a bat. The cow mood.

“Bat-Cow! Get away from the invader!” Damian Wayne swooped in out of nowhere and landed in front of the now named Bat-Cow. “What are you doing in the cave?” He asked, his sword drawn and pointed at Steve’s chest.

“The butler - Alfred -  said I could come down here to workout,” Steve replied. He was still trying to get over the fact that a cow was in front of him, being guarded by an eleven year-old in black training clothes that looked a lot like a ninja’s.

“T-t,” Damian replied, clearly unimpressed.

“Well, um. . . Is that a cow?” Steve couldn’t help himself.

“Yes of course. Are you blind? This is Bat-Cow. Bat-Cow, this is one of the invaders by the name of Steve Rogers. Stay away, he’s probably not even a vegetarian.” With that, the boy and the cow strolled away, and Steve turned to go.

*****

Steve found the gym platform and set to work. It was quite nice equipment, and Steve enjoyed using it. He wasn’t the only one, as both Jason Todd and Stephanie Brown were there with him in gym clothes. They both wore gray sweatpants, but Stephanie also wore a purple sports bra, almost the same color as her suit. Stephanie was using some resistance bands and Jason was bench pressing.

Steve walked in muttering about cows, which gained a smile from Jason, who inevitably heard him.

“If a cow surprises you,” Jason said between lifts, “then wait till you see Goliath.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Steve asked as he settled into a warm-up.

“One of Damian’s other . . . pets.” Stephanie said, a grimace on her face. “But boy, I can’t wait till I see your face!” She laughed as she finished up, and moved onto chin-ups.

Steve frowned, but let it slide. There was silence after a while as he settled into his routine. Eventually he moved over to bench presses. He began to set up the weights, glad there were so many, as he usually needed a lot more than the average man.

Steve looked over at Jason, who was still pressing. On closer inspection he was benching almost 400 pounds.

“Do you have super strength,” Steve asked before he could help himself.

Jason snorted and finished up his last few reps, setting the bar down then sitting up. He wiped his face as he answered Steve. “Nope, I don’t need superstength to get these babies.”

He lifted up his arms and flexed. This sent Stephanie into a giggle fit. “You,” She said between snorts, “Jason Peter Todd, are utterly ridiculous.”

Jason smiled as well before turning back to Steve. “But really, none of us bats have super strength. All we have is skill, and kicka** personalities.”

Steve frowned, but nodded anyway. He went to begin bench pressing when Stephanie asked him, “That Stark guy said you were a supersoldier, I assume that super strength comes with it?”

“Yup. There was an experimental serum that the scientists of World War II chose me to test. I worked in the army for a while, before I got frozen in ice due to taking down a Nazi ship. I got rescued and joined the Avengers to help stop an alien invasion.”

Jason muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “cheater.”

Stephanie glared at him. Before standing up and speaking cheerfully “Well, I’m going to go spar with whoever’s available. See you later?” Stephanie walked off, grabbing a purple water bottle on the way out.

Jason nodded. He moved on in his workout, and Steve went back to his bench presses. After a while, Jason had left to spar. Steve finished up himself, then decided to follow. He remembered seeing a fighting area on his way down, so he left the gym and started his search.

*****

Steve didn’t have to search for long, as the platform in question was easily the most crowded. It was the largest, with some thin mats on the floor. Steve wasn’t sure that they would provide much protection.

Thor was standing near the center, holding Mjolnir, and looking quite uncomfortable. He was seemingly being questioned by Damian, Jason, and Cassandra. Tim, Duke, Peter, Nat, Bruce (Banner), Tony, Bruce  (Wayne) and Clint stood to the side. Their faces were a mixture of worry (Nat, Bruce Banner, Tony, and Clint), Amusement, (Tim, Dick and Duke), and confusion (Peter and Bruce Wayne).

Steve walked up to Nat. “What’s going on?” He asked.

“They're questioning the technicalities of being worthy of the hammer,” She said with a frown. “Specifically how many and how often you murder to be excluded.”

Steve frowned right along with her as he turned to the conversation.

“But is there a time frame?” Jason was asking. “Like say you don’t kill for like two weeks, and you’ve been super good? Would that get you points?”

“Uh. . .” The look on Thor’s face was priceless.

“T-t,” Damian said. “What about the technicalities behind the actual murder? Perhaps if a seven year old went on a killing spree? Would age exempt him?”

“I’m not sure a child would-”

“Not their fault?” Cassandra asked. “Forced? Didn’t know?”

Jason frowned. “Yeah, would the kid be declared unworthy if they were forced to kill? Or they didn’t know what they were doing?”

“Well, I-”

“What about mind control? Manipulation? Amnesia?” Jason asked.

“I’m sorry, but -”

“Do the more you kill, the more unworthy you become?” Damian asked, “Or until you hit a certain body count, it's a free-for-all?”

Thor sputtered. “Free-for-all?!”

“Or what if they were really bad people?” Jason asked. “Like other murderers? Pedophiles? Rapists? Drug dealers who sell to kids? If they did something wrong, would that cancel out your own wrongness?”

“These kids are hard-core,” Clint muttered.

“They raise a good point though,” Duke replied.

Tim nodded. “Ten Bucks its Damian who throws dear Thor off the edge.”

“Cass is feisty though.” Dick replied

Duke snorted. “Hah, never bet against Jason!”

All three exchanged handshakes.

“Okay,” Jason said, waving his arms about as he spoke with the utmost seriousness. “Does the way you kill affect how bad it is? Like would slowly and painfully bleeding to death be worse than a bullet to the head? Or say a sniper rifle compared to a handgun? Since one is more personal?”

Thor gaped at the young man.

“ Why kill.” Cassandra asked. “Told? Want? Accident?”

“What if it was to save yourself?” Damian asked. “If it was self-preservation, would that account for anything?”

“What if you were saving someone else?” Jason added. “Either directly, or just making the world a safer place?”

Thor frowned. “I do not speak for Mjolnir, but I assume all murder is murder.” The kids looked disappointed, so Thor continued. “However, if you wish to try to lift it, You have my permission to do so.”

“Naw, it's okay,” Jason said as the kids walked off looking dejected. “Doubt we could anyways, as Thor here just clarified.”

This caused the most uproar out of everything else in the conversation. Thor looked stricken, along with Peter, Bruce Banner, and Tony. Natasha and Clint looked at each other worriedly, Bruce Wayne, Tim, and Duke just rolled their eyes. And Steve was just confused.

“You kill?” Steve asked, as he started to worry if this universe was much more different than he had originally thought.

“Cassandra, Damian, and Jason had … unusual circumstances.” Bruce Wayne said simply. There was a silence after that. Then Bruce continued. “Well, we were about to start some sparring. If you’d like to join us, you are more than welcome to.”

Steve stood straight. He’d been looking forward to seeing them fight. “Sure,” he said as Tim, Dick and Duke exchanged ten dollar bils. “Sounds fun.”

[platypanthewriter]

The Prince and the Pauper (that drives an Uber) Ch. 2

Part One | Two | Three | Four

Prince Steve paid for the hotel—he wanted one with neon lights, ideally a blinking palm tree, for some reason, until Billy explained you couldn’t order food. In the face of a royal pout, he offered to pick up pizza, and Steve studied the menu on his phone before ordering five pizzas, deleting them, and yanking Billy closer to consult.

Billy watched him scroll through, and leaned closer. “I could tell you all the reasons you don’t want to stay in the cheapest motel,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Steve’s ear to make him duck his head in a grin, “—but...I’ve never stayed in a nice hotel.”

“Ohhhh,” Steve trailed off, then pulled him into a soft kiss. “You should—you should definitely get to, I’ll take you somewhere nice.”

Billy breathed a sigh of relief, remembering driving back from his dad’s place, Max silent as he got a motel room and brushed rat droppings off the pillowcases. The sticky carpet had adhered to their shoes, making a crisp tape-like noise when he returned with sandwiches, and realized Max had gotten him out of the way so she could cry in the bathroom. He had tiptoed out, walked around the block, and come in again.

The idea of taking a prince to a motel with foot-long wads of hair and crud whipping wildly from the front of the AC units, or pipes so rusted out the water looked like old blood...was a great idea for a horror movie, he thought, imagining the cursive, loopy pastel font of the movie he was currently in. I want a romcom, he admitted to himself, watching Steve flick the pizzas away to frown at tourist guide listings.

“The nicest,” said Steve, scrolling through search results. “Hot tub?”

“I’d probably be impressed anyway,” Billy told him, staring at the pictures of penthouse suites. “That’s so much money, no!”

Steve grinned at him. “Their security is best. Technically I am a target of assassination attempts—”

“Technically?! What happened?!” Billy choked, his hands tightening on Steve’s arm without his permission, like he was going to prevent...something. Steve blowing away in the wind, maybe, or someone shoplifting him. This was what the money was for, he reminded himself, resisting the urge to laugh hysterically—he had driver duties now, and one of them was to hang onto his prince’s hand like a helpless moron.

Steve grimaced. “It’s been years. And I was in the car with an archbishop—”

“What happened,” Billy said, and Steve grimaced, hunching his shoulders.

“A...car...bomb?”

Billy didn’t even think, he just yanked the other full-grown man in the car towards him, squeezing his muscular shoulders until Steve banged into the the gearshift. “Jesus christ on a cracker,” Billy whispered.

Steve was muttering something else in a language Billy didn’t know, swearing and rubbing his hip, and Billy let him go.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” Billy apologized. “Sorry.”

“I don’t think I was the target,” Steve laughed, reaching over to pull Billy’s face close enough to kiss his cheek, while Billy’s head played a unhelpful recording of every movie explosion he’d ever seen, burning tires spinning away, and people trapped in crushed metal as the gas pooled near the flames. “I was greeting a black archbishop from Zimbabwe,” Steve said casually. “There were nazis—” he flapped his hand.

Billy made some kind of weird noise in his throat, cleared it, and said “Give me the fucking directions, we’re getting you to a fucking hotel.”

“A nice one,” Steve laughed, checking his phone. “We can get dinner.”

“Is that the only time somebody tried to kill you?” Billy asked, staring at the phone and repeating the address in his head, as a mantra.

Steve winced, opening his mouth, then biting his lips. “Uhhhh...noooooo?” he trailed off, and Billy smacked randomly at the passenger seat, unwilling to take his eyes from the road. He connected with something, soft hoodie over muscle, and Steve laughed, pushing his hand away. “Um. I…”

“You are a shitty liar,” Billy told the prince in his passenger seat.

“Maybe don’t google me,” Steve said, grimacing, and Billy gunned the motor to get through the yellow light. “Why,” Billy hissed. “Did your family get gunned down behind a theater? Are you the goddamn Batman?”

“What?” Steve snorted. “No? Aneurysm.”

“Holy shit, jesus christ,” Billy said, clenching the steering wheel. “Fuck, I was kidding, goddamn.”

“Just my mom,” Steve shrugged, as Billy shot him a disbelieving glance. “It’s fine, I don’t even remember her, I was just two—”

“Oh my god,” Billy choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry, holy crap.”

“She was a beautiful princess?” Steve said brightly, laughing at Billy’s enraged muttering. “My dad didn’t take royal title when he married her—he didn’t want to quit his job—so everybody joked that if he’d been a prince, he could’ve woken her up with a kiss. If only he thought ahead, right?”

“That’s horrible,” Billy whispered. “That’s so fucked up.”

“It’s a little funny,” Steve said, shrugging, and Billy groaned, pulling into the parking lot under the hotel.

Steve was watching out the window, his brain probably somewhere else entirely, when Billy pulled up to the window and accepted the paper ticket. “Oh, wait,” Steve said, as Billy pulled around to look for a parking space. “Did you have to pay? I never have to pay, I forgot—”

“Poor little rich boy,” Billy muttered. “Nah, I’ll pay on my way out.”

“Mmn,” Steve said, sighing. “Okay.”

“Sorry I said stupid shit about your parents,” Billy told him, grimacing as Steve got out of the car and wandered away to frown around the parking garage before smiling, waving back at Billy, and pointing triumphantly to the stairs. Billy started to follow, then remembered there was an entire goddamn crown rolling around in his backseat, and climbed over to stretch for it, and wrap the thing up in Steve’s discarded starchy white wedding jacket. “Jesus,” Billy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and getting out. “Sorry, again,” he said again, trotting up, and Steve shrugged.

“How nice? You want the honeymoon suite, or—”

“I just don’t wanna wake up to a crack-smoking rat sucking my dick,” Billy told him, eyes narrowed. “You can get STDs from the sheets in some of those motels.”

Steve blinked, staring at him, his mouth twitching. “That’s...vivid,” he said, biting back a snicker. “What do you think? I think I deserve a honeymoon suite,” he said thoughtfully.

You deserve anything you want, Billy didn’t say, or I love you. He cleared his throat. “Sure. What’s that do? You get wine or something?” He wasn’t, strictly speaking, supposed to drink on work nights, but Max would understand. Probably. Billy ran his fingers through his curls, making a face.

“This one sounds like it’s breakfast in bed for two—”

“I’m onboard—” Billy cut in immediately, and Steve laughed.

“—they put rose petals on the bed, I guess?”

“Only fair,” Billy nodded, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder to look at the pictures. “Princes probably need some flowers to feel right. Few woodland animals, maybe.”

“...you saying I should sing at the birds on the balcony?”

“Yeah, charm some pigeons,” Billy nodded. “Tell ‘em you got good and laid on your honeymoon.”

The lady behind the hotel desk didn’t realize they were together, and tried to step between them to take Steve to his room, but she apologized profusely when Steve grabbed Billy’s hand.

Once they got there, Billy stood staring at the glass shower in the middle of the room. “...I feel like a creep just standing here,” he said, frowning.

Steve snickered, pulling the hoodie off over his head. Billy watched him fold it and sit it on a chair, and missed it already—Prince Steve, cozy in Billy’s faded hoodie, smelling like laundry soap. Steve pulled the shirt off too, and then Billy wasn’t thinking about anything but skin.

Billy peeled out of his shirt, and swaggered closer to lift Steve’s chin for a kiss.

“Mmn,” Steve hummed into it, then pulled away, sprawling back across the bed. He propped himself up on his elbows to rake his gaze up and down Billy’s body.

“Surveying the goods?” Billy asked, flexing, and resisting the urge to cover the slight softness of his stomach, come from nights eating in the car between fares instead of hitting the gym, and evenings with Max eating ice cream and watching stupid TV.

“Never done this before,” Steve said, off-handedly, and Billy folded his arms on reflex, feeling his smile turn a little mean.

“Never what,” he laughed. “Never fucked a guy? Or a what, a servant? Never been this bored?”

“Jesus,” Steve sat up again, brows scrunched over uncertain brown eyes. “You want to stop? We can—”

“No, no,” Billy took a slow breath, imagining his therapist’s voice. Listen to what people actually say, she’d said. “Sorry. I—I’m—you’ve never done what. Exactly.”

“Any of this,” Steve said, pulling his legs up on the bed.

He was scrunching himself up, Billy realized, pulling his limbs in to protect his tender underbelly, and Billy forced himself forward and put his hands on either side of Steve’s hot, slightly stubbly face. “Hey, hey, you’re all...pillbugged up. Uh...nobody knows you’re gay?” he asked the prince, in the honeymoon suite, trying to be...gentle.

“I’m not,” Steve said, scooting back against the headboard, and Billy jerked his hands back.

“Well, I’m glad I helped you get that straight,” he shot back, scrambling off the bed and yanking his pants off the floor.

“Wait, wait, Billy—” Steve crawled after him, swinging his legs down, and Billy stopped, registering his prince was so hard he was leaking, his dick rubbing shiny streaks across his legs as he moved. “I’m not straight, wait, I’m—I like men too, and—” he frowned into the middle distance, bending his knee up again, to lean his chin on it, “—I was at a red carpet thing and Indya Moore walked by and my heart stopped, I swear to god, I am definitely into…” he mouthed at the ceiling, frowning. “Thudes?”

“...sorry,” Billy said, dropping his jeans, and rubbing his face with his hands. “Sorry. I keep—I’m waiting for the punchline, tonight, sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said cautiously, and Billy walked back over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No, shit, I’m sorry. Sorry,” Billy said, reaching out to squeeze his prince’s hand. “You’re...perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” Steve shot back, narrowing his eyes, and Billy snorted a laugh and coughed. Steve sighed. “I should look up the words,” he said, beckoning. “So that doesn’t...happen again. Come back. Come here.”

“Thought maybe I scared you straight,” Billy huffed a laugh, scooting closer, and Steve smirked up at him.

“Gonna have to try a lot harder than that,” he said.

“Lemme kiss you,” Billy told him, feeling hoarse, then jerked with surprise as Steve surged up to kiss him open-mouthed, tasting of mint and latex, and pulling Billy across him onto the bed in a crash of elbows, knees, stiff bridal uniform trousers, and bumping teeth. “God, feels like I just married you,” Billy whispered, rubbing his nose with a wince where it had connected with Steve’s jaw.

He could feel his face getting hot again, but with Steve grinning under him, all he could think about was soft lips, and the warm, firm skin against his. “Should have carried you across the threshold,” he whispered, bracing himself on his elbows to hover over Steve’s chest.

“Maybe you should’ve,” he said, laughing. “Maybe—”

“Maybe I should,” Billy said, sliding off the bed to scoop the royal heir into his arms, spin them both around—Steve whooped, slinging his arms around Billy’s neck and kicking his feet—and walking them out the door of the hotel room.

It locked.

“Oh shit!” Billy breathed, and Steve burst into snickers, hugging him tighter around the neck.

“I’ve got the keycard in my pocket,” he whispered, kissing Billy’s jaw. “Husband.”

“Shit,” Billy answered, laughing along now he knew he hadn’t locked them out. Steve squirmed around to dig into his pocket, and waved it at the door. “Good thing it’s not real,” Billy said into his hair. “Married to me, jesus.”

“You want a divorce already?” Steve asked, blinking wide eyes up at him, and Billy spun them around, kissing him on the way to the bed, his muscles complaining as he wished he’d spent more time at the gym and less time trying to keep track of Max’s anime addictions.

“No, no, you want me, you’ve got me,” Billy panted, sitting on the bed and letting them both fall sideways, so Steve’s legs were half on top of him.

“Good, I can’t take getting dumped that often,” Steve mumbled, sliding his hand around the back of Billy’s neck, and yanking him into a kiss.

Steve was warm, and laughing, and Billy pushed back on questioning his good luck. Something had to go right eventually, he told himself. Balance out the rest of my life. He oofed as Steve rolled on top of him.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, sliding his hands over Billy’s chest and shoulders with a little intent smile like he was exploring the unknown.

“Hey,” Billy whispered back, folding his arms behind his back, both so he could watch, and to make his arms flex. “Finding anything good?”

“Started out good, keeps getting better,” Steve mumbled, narrowing his eyes as he scooted forward to lean in for a kiss. Billy was already feeling his face heat, wondering who even said shit like that, when their cocks brushed, and he groaned, bucking his hips into the sensation. “God, I’m so lucky,” Steve mumbled against Billy’s lips, and Billy barked a laugh, yanking him in by the back of his head and hair for a slow kiss, the kind where Billy could see what made his prince hum happily and press closer.

Steve shifted on top of him, squishing and sliding their cocks together, and Billy made an undignified squeaking noise into his mouth. Steve lifted his head, laughing, and then leaned in again just as a knock came on the door.

Billy didn’t even register the noise, pushing himself up on his elbows to chase the kiss he’d been deprived of, but Steve pushed him back down, laughing. “Stay here, I’ll get it,” he whispered, and Billy blinked after him, bereft.

Room service brought half the menu, it looked like, and Billy stared, sitting up. “...you’re probably hungry,” he said, laughing, and Steve lifted a few lids and stuck his finger in one, then closed the lid again and crawled over, sticking a finger full of maple syrup in Billy’s mouth as he dropped next to him.

Billy watched him, feeling his skin heat again at Steve’s matter-of-fact appraisal of his dick, which was hard as rock, dripping from watching Steve peel back out of the robe, and bend over the cart.

“Hungry for you first,” Steve said, lying half on top of him so he could fist their dicks together, and looking kind of delighted as he tried it. Billy wondered in passing if Steve had watched something similar in porn, or invented it himself, but couldn’t hold back a groan at the feeling of tight, warm skin on his cock, and Steve’s smile as he kissed the syrup off Billy’s lips. “Even sweeter,” he whispered, and Billy snorted a laugh, his face so hot it burned.

He’d meant to make it good for Prince Steve, soft and slow, and there he was, pinned and writhing, his fists clenched in the sheets, while the royal hand worked his cock. “Billy,” Steve whispered, his breath hot as Billy moaned against his mouth.

“Anything,” Billy mumbled back, and came all over their stomachs. Steve was only a few seconds later, and Billy hugged him close, sticky and panting. “Anything,” he whispered again, burying his face in Steve’s hair.

“You’re enough already,” Steve laughed, smiling. “I was just saying your name. You’re perfect.”

Billy snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure,” he said, smiling back.

Steve sat up, frowning down at his messy stomach, and Billy swung his legs off the bed and ran to the bathroom. He returned with a wet cloth to wipe up his prince’s belly, then fold it and scrub it over his sides, and up his chest, until Steve laughed and kissed him again, squishing the gross washcloth between them.

The next morning, Billy went to slide out of bed and get to class, and Prince Stephen of Blois, Grand Cross of the Order of the House of Orange, rolled over to slide an arm around his waist, kissing his side. The royal stubble tickled, and Billy squirmed around to face his attacker.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, reaching up to stroke his knuckles down Billy’s stubble.

Billy realized there was no reason compelling enough to leave, and crawled back over his fare-turned-seducer and prince. “…what are you doing today?” he asked, and Steve raised his eyebrows, then pulled Billy down to lie on top of him. His warm hands slid up Billy’s back as he hummed thoughtfully, and Billy was relieved to find the squirming body under him was nearly as hard as he was.

“…thought you said you had class,” Steve whispered, and Billy laughed, nuzzling in to kiss his neck.

“I get…okay grades…” Billy mumbled, catching the skin of Steve’s neck between his teeth, and feeling him groan. “…miss a day.”

Steve’s groan turned more resigned. “How about we meet again after class?” he asked, and Billy froze, then sat back, frowning down.

“…you can just tell me to stop,” he said.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Steve told him, grabbing Billy’s hand and kissing it, so Billy could feel the royal breath, warm across his knuckles. “But you—you stopped working to take me bowling, I can’t make you miss school.”

“It’s okay,” Billy laughed, his eyes fixed on the prince kissing his hand, like they were at Cinderella’s ball. “I’m not that dumb,” he muttered. “I can miss one day.”

“You’re not dumb,” Steve frowned, and Billy’s grin widened.

“You wanna bet, pretty boy?”

“I was…what if I want to…see you again?” Steve muttered, and Billy raised his eyebrows. “You have to tell me no, if I’m interrupting something—“

Billy squinted. “The fuck do you mean, see me again. You’re going back to—to Europe, right?”

“Not today,” Steve sighed, stretching, and then rubbing his face so Billy couldn’t see his expression.

“Just a few days, though,” Billy insisted. “I can free up my time, I’m nobody important—“

Steve dropped a hand to Billy’s thigh. “So you do want to see me,” he said flatly, and Billy swallowed.

“Y-yeah,” he laughed, watching Steve’s hands, instead of his face. “Of course. You got time for me, I’m there.”

“...okay,” Steve said, and he sounded like he was smiling, so Billy looked up to see his foreign royalty with a little grin on his face, and pink cheeks. Billy leaned in to kiss him, and Steve mumbled happily against his mouth. “...alright,” Steve said, stroking his fingers through Billy’s tangled hair. “I’ll see you after your classes. Text me.”

Billy half-wanted to threaten him. Say ‘if you don’t mean that, just fuck me now,’ but he took a slow breath, and didn’t do anything insane, like punch next to Steve’s head, and whisper threats about liars. “Yeah,” he said, getting up off the bed, wishing he could just—just jack off looking at Steve, lying there with his long legs and the curve of his ass cheek hanging out of the blankets. He thought about Max’s face if he admitted he’d tried to ditch work and school for some kind of sex marathon with a stranger, and yanked his jeans up.

“Love to watch you leave,” Steve sang, hanging half off the bed, and Billy burst out laughing, and nearly stumbled and fell with his jeans halfway up his hips.

“Call me,” he called back as he yanked his sweatshirt on. It smelled like expensive cologne, and he didn’t look back as he left, thinking hard about cleaning the kitchen drain to try and get his cock to go back to sleep. Steve yelled something as he closed the door, but Billy just ducked his head and ran for the stairs.

Billy’d organized his classes to be done, most days, by eleven in the morning. It left time for homework, and packing lunches for he and Max the next day, and a nap before work.

At eleven-oh-three, he was playing with his phone, biting his lips, and looking at the contact picture of Prince Steve failing hard at bowling. Finally, he tossed it in the passenger seat and drove home.

There was folded, stacked laundry on the table, along with a piece of paper that said ‘BROTHER SHAMING: what has he left in his pocketses’ on which dwelt an empty bottle of sunscreen, a pile of quarters, the now-half-wrapped, linty Starburst candies he’d grabbed instead of cigarettes, a handful of shredded Kleenex, a tube of eyeliner that was oozing blackened water onto the note, tiny bottles of mint schnapps and mint mouthwash, and a gooey pile that might once have been a cookie. Billy bit his lips together, raising his eyebrows, and cleaned his pockets out right there on the table.

It was sort of the opposite of a treasure hunt, usually—wadded up wrappers full of gum, stuff people left in his back seat—but today he slapped down the wad of hundred-dollar bills Steve had given him, and heard Max gasp from the doorway.

“Oh my jesus,” she whispered. “Billy. Did—what did you—did you—did you get a sugar daddy? Are you—are you letting some asshole millionaire fuck your ass?!” She grabbed his wrist, squeezing it hard, but he was laughing too hard, half-collapsing against the table, to answer helpfully. “Did you rob a bank?!” she squeaked. “Did you fuck a bank robber?! Billy!”

“No!” He cackled, dropping into a chair, and leaning his face in his arms. “No, no—”

“Is it real?!” she hissed, crouching to eyeball the money at face-level, then shuffling close to sniff it. “It smells like Skittles,” she whispered. “Billy...you could go to jail, don’t whore yourself out to counterfeiters—”

He laughed so hard he wasn’t even making noise anymore, and she punched his shoulder.

“At least make them pay with real money!” she hissed. “Is your ass counterfeit?! No!”

“No,” he wheezed, and she smacked his shoulder.

“What did you do,” she growled. “What the fuck, brother mine.”

“It’s real,” he whispered, trying to stop giggling. “It’s real, it’s fine.”

“What did you do to get it,” she asked, eyes narrowed, and he grinned at her ferocity. “Billy. Are you safe,” she asked, grabbing his sleeve, and he nodded, wiping his eyes.

“It’s fine, Max, I swear. I didn’t do anything shitty—”

“Did anyone do anything shitty to you,” she growled again, like a redheaded wolverine, and Billy started snickering again, grabbing her and noogieing her head until she yelled and yanked hard on a handful of his hair.

“I’m okay,” he told her. “I don’t owe anybody anything, I’m not in trouble, and I didn’t do anything I didn’t wanna do.”

“...okay,” she said suspiciously. “Can we...spend it? All we got is cereal and canned beans.”

“Yeah, go nuts,” Billy sighed, leaning his chin on his arms and imagining Steve’s grin, pressed against the door of the bathroom stall as he tried to hand his one-night-stand enough money to let Billy relax for a month. “Don’t, like, blow it all, but get some greens, maybe. I wanna take my car in, see why it’s making that whinny.”

“Damn. Yeah,” Max stared at her hands as she counted the money, then shook her head. “Christ, Billy, we could get a new toaster.”

“...it works,” he muttered, but eyed it speculatively. “Maybe we should wait. Save it, y’know. Just in case I—”

“It sparked so bad yesterday it was—it was like lightning in the kitchen,” she said with a grimace. “I threw a Pop Tart in and didn’t have the lights on, and I pushed the thing down and—GAH. Seriously, one of these days, you—you’re gonna find me on the kitchen floor with smoking hair.”

“Okay,” Billy nodded, making a face. “But then we gotta save some. I get sick, there’s no way to cover bills—”

“I know that!” she yelled. “That’s why I want a job, asshole!”

“I can do this!” he yelled back, and she narrowed her eyes, taking a step back and away, and Billy bit his lips, turning to face the other way. “I—I’ve got this, okay, just—just fucking—go to school and shit, you’re fourteen—”

“You’re eighteen!” she shot back. “You can’t even buy liquor!”

“I know!” he shouted at the wall, wanting to scream. “I know, I—I’m—we’ll get a fucking toaster, okay, I—I got you, will you just—”

“You don’t have to!” she shrieked back at him, and the neighbor started pounding on the wall.

“Shut up,” Billy sighed. He grabbed his phone, stomped into his bedroom, and locked the door.

He could hear Max slamming around in the kitchen, and he groaned, burying his face in his pillow, when his text alert went off. He clicked it, sniffling.

Prince: You off in time for lunch? Or dinner?

Billy stared at it, and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, blew out, and texted back.

Billy: Out of school

Billy: don’t have to work today because somebody handed me a stack of CASH last night

The phone rang, and Billy cleared his throat before he answered.

“You wanna pick me up? I’ll get you lunch,” said his prince.

“Y-yeah,” Billy nodded, wiping his nose.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, and he sounded so urgent Billy wanted to bawl.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, curling up tighter on the bed. “I—I’ll come and—you still at the hotel?”

“Yes I am,” Steve said, “I’m—is there anything I can do?”

“You already fucking did,” Billy grated out. “I have money and my kid sister is all excited to have a toaster that won’t kill us and worried as shit I’ll get sick and we won’t have any money left—”

“A toaster?” Steve repeated, startled. “Are you—you okay?”

“We’ll be fine,” Billy growled out, his vision blurring with tears again. “I’m—it’s fine, it’s just—” Steve waited, and Billy rolled onto his face, punching the pillow. His throat hurt. “I don’t have custody,” he whispered. “She—I’m her step-brother, you know, I just—god. Anything happens to me, she’s—”

Steve was quiet at the other end, and Billy wondered whether he’d hung up. “...but you’re fine?” he asked finally. “Right now, you’re okay?”

“I can do this,” Billy told him, swallowing hard. “She doesn’t need to—she’s trying to—she’s just a kid, she doesn’t need to—”

“...she’s worried about her brother?” Steve asked, and it sounded like he was smiling.

“She wants to get some—some sleazy job that’d hire kids,” Billy growled at him. “Help pay for things. She’s gonna do something dumb—”

“Maybe there’s a way she could help?” Steve suggested, and Billy sat up, glaring out the window, then down at his hands.

“She doesn’t need to! She already—she did all the laundry, and she’s out with your money buying food—she’ll probably cook something shitty—”

“I could get her dinner too,” Steve offered, laughing.

“She’s fourteen,” Billy hissed at him, and Steve was quiet for a long moment.

“Uh.” Steve paused. “Um...you know you’re her brother, right?”

“I’m not, that’s the problem—and I know, I’m—I’m trying, I just can’t—I can’t get it right, I never get anything—”

“Wait, wait, Billy,” Steve interrupted. “Billy.”

“Yeah,” Billy whispered, wiping his eyes.

“Just...why do you do all this?”

“The fuck do you mean why,” Billy yelled. “She called me, she—she needed—she needed me to—”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agreed, “—but why’d you do it?”

“I didn’t want my fucking dad to fracture her eye socket!” Billy told him, squirming under the covers to muffle his voice.

“...jesus,” Steve whispered. “But you did all this for her, right. She moved in with you?”

“I got an apartment,” Billy mumbled. “Ditched my roommates.”

“...so you did it to help her.”

“I had to,” Billy groaned. “The hell was I gonna say?”

���You could have called the police?” Steve suggested.

“What, wait until he does it?!”

“No!” Steve laughed, sounding a little raw himself. “But all this—all these—all this you do, you do for her? You do all this to help her, right?”

Billy narrowed his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“Why can’t she help you?”

“She’s a kid!”

“...can I see you? Can I meet you somewhere?”

Billy cleared his throat, again. “Yeah. Yes. Let me—” he took a deep, shaky breath, and got out of bed. “Where do you want me to go?”

“...what if…” Steve trailed off, and Billy’s throat closed again, as he registered the mess he’d just dumped in a stranger’s lap. “What about a movie?” he asked, and Billy started snickering.

“You can just hang up, jesus,” he said, stretching. “When somebody starts moaning all this shit. You met me once.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Yeah, once. Liked what I saw, though.”

Billy glared at the phone, his heart pounding as he wondered whether princes actually went to some kind of charm school, specifically to cause heart attacks in Uber drivers. ‘Course, somebody smarter might not take him so serious, he realized, then groaned dramatically through his fingers. “Fine. Awesome. What movie you wanna see?”

“I do not know,” Steve said slowly. “...trying to search while I’m talking to you, and it kind of…where is there even...”

“I’ll come get you,” Billy told him, smiling irrepressibly. He ducked his head as he walked out of his bedroom, and caught the pajama pants Max threw at his face.

“The hell are you going?!” she asked, sliding across the floor in her socks to glower up at him. “No! We’re watching Die Hard! You said!”

“Gonna meet him again,” Billy said, pulling his shoes on. “He’s leaving town.”

“You’re trading your ass to your drug lord again?” she asked, sounding resigned, and Billy stared at her. “Uh-huh. Try to get twenties this time, lady at the grocery store thought I was a hooker, I think. Probably. Or I robbed a bank? Or I robbed a hooker that robbed a bank—”

“She what,” Billy mumbled, horrified, but Max shoved a handful of granola bars in his pocket, and held the door open.

“You got condoms?” she asked, her eyes narrowed, and Billy shouted back a YES, MAX, I FUCKING DO as he fled down the stairs, his cheeks burning hot.

Part One | Two | Three | Four

[guessimjoiningthespidermanfandom]

The Zone

Peter Parker x bisexual!reader

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Peter Parker x black!reader

Peter Parker x villain!reader 

Warnings: Mentions of violence, bruising, allusions to corrupt government, drug use, underage drinking, knives, mentions of neo-nazis, bad eating and sleeping habits, a mention of sex, mentions of death and the dead. 

Word Count: 3.7k

Songs: Changes- Charles Bradley, 4 Morant- Doja Cat, Prey-  The Neighborhood, Stay Together- Noah Cyrus, Without me- Eminem, Colors- Halsey, Where’s My Juul??-Full Tac, Pork Soda-Glass Animals, Everyday- A$AP Rocky, Facts- Kanye West,  Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?, Immortal- J.Cole, High Enough- K,Flay, Drugs- UPSAHL.

A/N: This is pretty short but it’s also the fasest I’ve released a chapter after the other was released.

Series Masterlist   Previous Part   Next Part

I smashed the keypad multiple times with the handle of a knife before the metal finally fell. I pulled all the wires out before hearing the words ‘System Malfunction’. 

If I hadn’t disarmed the alarm system already. I’d probably be worried right about now. I manually slid open the cell door. 

That’s when she glanced up at me.

“Took you look enough,” She smirked. 

“I could’ve gotten you out sooner if you didn’t get your ass locked up in solitary,” I tossed her the Black Cat suit. 

“You know I still don’t know your name or what you look like,” She stated pulling the suit up “and I don’t think that's fair seeing as you know those things about me,” She cooed. 

I pulled my mask over my face “It’s Y/N. Happy now?” 

“Wow I always knew your voice sounded attractive, matches the face,” 

“Okay, we can kiss my ass later but now we have about 2 minutes to get out before the guards come and get us,” 

Leaving the building the same way I came in through the vent. You’d think they’d have better security. I was thankful they didn’t when we finally reached the car. 

“Who’s car is this?” Felicia asked hopping in the passenger seat. 

“Dunno,” I said, putting the car in the drive. 

“Hold on tight,” I warned before ramming into the fence at full speed successfully knocking it down. 

I was definitely not holding my breath that whole time. And I definitely was not doubting myself. Okay maybe I was, a little.

“I’m surprised that actually worked, none of this was planned at all,” I laughed in relief.

She laughed along with me 

“Plans are for the ‘good guys’, if you’re smart enough you don’t need plans,” 

“If that’s not the truth,” I replied turning onto a deserted road “You owe me again, I’m not counting, but I believe the score’s 3:1,” 

She was right, you never need a plan. Second moral to the story is that even “villains” never work alone. I know I always talk that “every man for themselves” mess but everyone needs a support team. And for people who supposedly have no morals they haven’t betrayed me yet. 

There are the bad guys and then there are the bad guys. The heroes didn’t seem to care which you were, they just wanted you locked up or dead and to get all the glory for it. I think it’s time one of us gets the glory.

“Ow!” I exclaimed, pulling myself out of my thoughts. 

“Sorry,” Olivia muttered, “You need to be still,” She said, dabbing a cloth on my leg. 

“Well it’s hard to be still when your leg is burning,” 

I was expecting some jab or joke like normal but it was silent. She looked up at me and I could see the tears forming in her eyes. 

“Y/N…” Her eyes drifted over my bruised and cut up body, her voice breaking. 

“You don’t have to worry about me, I promise I’m fine,” 

“How am I supposed to believe that when you won’t tell me anything?”

“I don’t tell you anything cause then you’d worry,” 

“Well I’m already worried!” 

The next day of school was very ordinary. Well as ordinary as it got when you were a kid who was wanted in multiple cities. My body wasn’t as sore as it was the day before, the bruises were clearing up, but honestly these new weapons were no joke. I’d seen them burn straight through buildings and a ferry now. Anyways like I was saying before today was ordinary, nothing exciting unfortunately. 

Rich kids in Queens take homecoming a little too seriously. For the most part, I’m not complaining penthouse parties were fun. Rich white kids love their molly. 

Harry Osborn was one of those rich kids. If we’re being honest I feel like he does coke on occasion. I don’t think he actually liked homecoming all that much seeing as he’s pretty new to our school. I just think he likes being able to brag about his parties and get wasted at parties. 

One of those parties would be the one I was getting ready for right now. 

Olivia walked into the bathroom and stood in the doorway. This bathroom was very modern as well as the whole house. Like an art gallery.

“Hey kitten,” I said since she wasn’t going to say anything. 

“Hey,” 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I asked.

“You know how I feel about Harry’s parties,” 

That I did, her dad and Harry’s dad seemed to have some sort of beef. That I didn’t care enough to get into. But Olivia's family took it pretty seriously. I guess I could say Felicia and Olivia’s family. It’s still weird to see them as siblings. It’s not surprising, just weird. Just a weird family of kleptomaniacs. 

This isn’t something I say often but I looked really hot. Like really fucking hot. I had even winged eyeliner. A nice black tube top. A pastel pink tennis skirt. I had black thong type thing on, you could see the thin straps resting on my waist from above the skirt. It wasn’t like I was trying to get fucked or anything because I was not planning on being the slightest bit of sober. 

I also had thigh high socks on but only because they could conceal a knife and I’d been on high alert lately. Just because I wasn’t going to be sober didn’t mean I couldn’t protect myself. It's a sort of muscle memory when it comes to knives, at least with me 

If I wore this anywhere near the kids at my old school they’d probably call me a wannabe white girl, but those kids aren’t there and they have no part of my life anymore. 

I just wanted to get so fucked up that I couldn’t think at all. 

I couldn’t help but think. That’s all I could do lately. My brain wouldn’t slow down to let me breathe for even one second. I just wanted to breathe and go to bed. I still can’t sleep. At least now I have a valid reason. I don’t like talking about it because it’s not a big deal or anything, but today is the anniversary of-. It’s the day Rose died. No use sugarcoating it. It passes every year, no use being in my feels about it. Couldn’t help it though, every year I’d get sad about it for about 5 minutes until I did so many drugs that I couldn’t blink. 

As soon I stepped into the house. I was hit with the buzz I hadn’t felt in a while. I missed it too. It wasn’t like Liz’s “party” her thing could’ve been fun but the whole headache, Vulture thing and lack of drugs made it suck. 

Anyways who cares about that. I’d been at this school long enough to know who had molly. I’d either have to flirt with them or pay which I was down for either. 

See I knew the chewlery gem rod I had attached to a necklace would come in handy one of these days. Now I wouldn’t bite my mouth. 

Only problem is I could still think.  Which wasn’t good. There was some sort of jungle juice on the table but I just went straight for a bottle of beer sitting on the counter, because I was shaking too much to pour anything. 

Beer has to be the nastiest form of alcohol out there. It looks like pee, tastes like pee, it’s like they didn’t bother trying to mask the taste of yeast in it. 

My body was vibrating in a good way as I started talking to people. By the time I’d made small talk with the third person around me. I’d finished the beer and I went back to the kitchen to fill a cup with some form of alcohol and soda I wasn’t picky. Harry must’ve had the same idea. 

“Hey,” He said. 

“Hey, where’s your groupie,” I said referring to the blonde that’d I seen around him earlier. 

“You mean Gwen?” He said, bringing a solo cup to his lips. 

“Probably,” I moved over grabbing the orange soda next to me. 

“Why’re you wondering, jealous?” He asked being his signature flirtatious self. There was this one time that we… you know. But we were both drunk so it doesn’t count. 

“You wish I was jealous,” I rolled my eyes “We both know you're the one obsessed with me,” I laughed. 

“Yep, dream about you every night,” He joked back. 

I took a sip from my drink squinting as it slightly burned my throat. 

“I’m sure you do,” I headed out of the kitchen. 

I could feel my brain slowing down as I started to calm. That was until Facts by Kanye came on. Then suddenly it felt like my blood was boiling in my veins and I couldn’t breathe and not in the good way. I made my way to the nearest bathroom and hoped no one was making out in there. 

I opened the door and the coast was clear. 

I splashed water on my face. When I looked in the mirror my pupils were dilated and my face was flush. Normally my skin tone masked the effects of blushing but not this time.

 I wasn’t drunk. Maybe I was but I wasn’t enough. I was still laying on the bathroom floor because it was cold and felt good in contrast against my hot skin. I was going through my phone and landed on Peter’s number. I texted him because I was bored and I can text whoever I want. 

you: helo 

About thirty seconds later he responded, guess he was already on his phone. 

P 😜🤚: Hey 

you: do yuo like pengwings

pengns 

fck 

penguns 

penguins 

He read the messages and responded rather quickly 

P 😜🤚: ? 

You okay? 

you: yesh im fine d you like penfuins 

P 😜🤚: Are you drunk 

you: no im nt drunk i m jst hPpy 

P 😜🤚: yeah sure, where are you. 

Before I could think, I clicked the option to send location. Even if I did think it wouldn’t have done much help. None of my thoughts were coherent. I was actually happy, like really really happy. 

I was still laying on the ground when I felt the floor vibrate with the knock at the door. 

“Who is it?” I asked. 

“Peter,” The voice called out

“Come in!” I said in a sing-songy voice. 

He opened the door slowly and looked around before looking down at me. 

“Hiii,” 

“Hey, what are you doing on the floor,” 

I shrugged after slowly pushing off the floor so I wouldn’t lose balance.

“How’d you get here?” Since I know he couldn’t drive. 

“I got an Uber,” 

“That’s adorable,” 

“What’s adorable,” 

“You, you spent money on a ride just to come see me,” I pointed out, voice cracking halfway through the sentence as tears started to well in my eyes. 

 “Wait don’t cry, I’m sorry, did I do something? If I did sorry for whatever it was-” 

“No you didn’t do anything, it’s just me,” I moved a hand off the counter I was holding onto for balance before wiping my face. I don’t cry, at least not willingly and definitely not in front of anyone else.

“Well I was going to…” He fiddled with his hands before continuing “I was going to ask if you needed a ride because I didn’t know if you drove here or not and you’re clearly drunk-“

“I’m not drunk!” I said. “I don’t drink how could I be drunk,” 

“Okay, but like I was saying do you need a ride?” 

I was going to say I didn’t want to leave yet but it’s not like I was doing anything but being pathetic and hanging out in the bathroom. 

“Fine, yeah” 

Peter opened his mouth like he was about to say something but a knock on the door interrupted. I immediately opened the door and grabbed Peter’s wrist running, for no reason except I felt like it. I bumped into a couple doorways 

By the time we’d made it out by the pool Peter was hunched over trying to catch his breath. 

I started running toward the water and I could hear a faint 

“Y/N don't!” As I was running but it was too late seeing as I was already in the water. I laughed as I broke the surface as I floated on my back. 

Peter came over to the edge of the water and squatted down. 

“Y/N” 

“And nothing hurts anymore I feel kinda free!” I sang splashing around in the pool. 

“Y/N” 

“We're still the kids we used to be,” 

“Y/N!” Peter yelled, snapping my attention back to him. 

“Hmm?” I asked. 

“You need to get out the pool,” 

“I don’t wanna,” I whined. 

“Yeah I know but don’t you wanna go home?” He asked. 

The last place I’d ever want to go is “home” 

“No, get in the pool,” 

“Y/N,” He said sternly. 

“Pleaseee,” 

“Get out the pool it’s cold you’re gonna get sick,”

“Fine…” I made my way begrudgingly to the steps of the pool. 

Peter gave me the hoodie he was wearing so I was able to take my skirt and socks off. I put the knife I had in the hoodie pocket. 

The last thing I remember is getting in some car. 

Oh shit 

I woke up in a room that I did not recognize. I swear to God if I got kidnapped again. I sat up quickly and hit my head on something. It was dark but there was a nightlight. Thank God if we’re being honest I’m scared of the dark. Long story I don’t wanna get into it.

I was definitely hungover, headache prominent. It only worsened when I stepped out the room and the light from the TV hit my eyes. I glanced over to Peter laying on the couch. 

Oh yeah I forgot about that. 

“Hey…” I whispered. He shifted a bit “You awake?” 

He sat up and looked at me rubbing his eyes before bombarding me with questions. 

“Did you- Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you need painkillers? Sorry that I brought you here and didn’t ask. That's really creepy but you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you because you seemed tired. Again sorry it’s just I didn’t really even know where you lived and I was-“

“Oh my God, shut up!” I interrupted. 

He looked stunned, blinking a few times. 

“Sorry,” I held my hand to my forehead in exasperation. “Sorry, it’s just you- you were making my head hurt.” 

“Oh I’m sorry,”

“No, I promise it’s not you, if it’s okay with you can I go back to sleep? I don’t really feel like going home right now,” 

“Yes of course you can!” He sat up and pushed the blanket off of him before standing. “Wait I’ll be right back,” He said. I nodded before hesitantly sitting down on the couch. 

He came back rather quickly with a glass of water and some painkillers. I mumbled a quick thank you before taking them. 

I yawned, surprised that I was able to actually feel tired. Normally it took at least a few hours before I could sleep if I even got the chance. 

“You can take the bed,” Peter informed. 

“I just wanna stay right here,” I said lazily. 

He tried to scoot over but I already had my arms wrapped around him so I squeezed him tighter. I looked up and his face was tinted red, smiling before I drifted off. 

I felt light hit my face and I heard the squeak of a door. I sat up and slowly unwrapped my arms from around Peter. Walking over towards May. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t know if it was okay for me to stay here I should’ve called and asked,”

“No, no it’s perfectly fine,” 

“Okay…”

“He talks about you all the time you know,”

I smiled at her and she smiled back.

“Thanks for not killing me for being in your house,” I joked. “But I should probably get home anyway,” 

I didn’t go home. Mostly because I don’t have an actual home. I didn’t go to any of the almost 13 places I’ve stayed at, at some point either. I went to some shitty hotel. I had enough money to stay for about a week. Which was great I could stay for all of homecoming week then I’d have to find somewhere else to stay before I got more money at least. 

The last step for this day was go to Olivia’s house and get my stuff back. I made my way into the house through the back door, and sure enough she was sitting on the couch like parents in movies when they catch you sneaking out.

She eyed the bag in my hand.

“So you’re leaving?”

“I-“ I didn’t get the chance to speak.

“And you weren’t going to tell me, oh okay,” 

“Olivia…” 

“Where are you gonna stay?”

“I’m going back to my grandma's house,” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, again I’m sorry that I tried to leave without telling you I just-“

“Didn’t want to be interrogated?” 

“Yeah…”

”It’s okay, I get it, come give me a hug,”

I moved giving her a hug and she mumbled 

“You smell like booze,” 

As soon as I got back to the hotel I turned on the movie Frozen. Which I knew was a bad idea because the movie always made me cry. 

I ended up crying myself to sleep and by the time I woke up I was late for school. I slept for 18 hours straight.  

If I was going to be late might as well have had a reason. So, I got smoothies. 

“I love smoothies a lot, but banana is so so strong. Which like makes it pointless to put anything else in it. People should stop saying strawberry and banana smoothie because in reality it’s a BANANA and strawberry smoothie,” I took another sip of my smoothie.

“Damn bitch, you’re saying a lot and fast what’d they put in that smoothie,” Bri said examining the cup before turning to me again “And can I have some?” I laughed before lighty shoving her shoulder. 

“Noo! Continue talking you were my reference for my excitement portrait,” MJ said flipping her sketchbook towards me “I’ve missed my one and only chance to see you happy,” 

“Now I know you’re not talking, I don’t think anyone has seen you smile ever,”

I slid down the bench of the lunch table 

“Whatcha watching Phineas?” I asked Peter. He quickly swiped out the app. “Was it porn?”

“No! Wha- What?” 

I patted his shoulder “Relax dude, I was just messing with you,” 

That was the last I’d spoken to any of my friends. In all actuality that was the last time I’d spoken to anyone besides the hotel staff. I hadn’t been to school since...what’s today? Wednesday. Well then I hadn’t been to school since 3 days ago. Which also means I haven’t eaten since a week ago? 

Okay I know how bad that sounds but it’s not like I’ve been eating nothing. I just haven’t been hungry lately, I have had snacks though like goldfish and chips. I’ve just been too lazy to cook and don’t have the funds to cook. I’ve also been too lazy to fake a smile or whatever so I just haven’t been going to school. 

However what I have been and haven’t been eating is the issue of concern here. It’s that alien shit from the Avengers a few years ago is so much deeper than anyone could have ever thought. I’d been in research mode for a while now. I call it the zone, anything you say to me will go unheard, I mean business when I’m in the zone. If I want something to happen it will. 

“Okay so, I’ll start with the government flash drive. So the aliens that attacked a while back in 2012 were called Chitauri. So Loki had control of them and was using them as an army. Loki being Thor’s brother and the God of mischief,” I clarified. 

''And Loki was attacking because he wanted to be king but his brother was king instead. I mean I think, I don’t really get that part. So there was this thing called the tesseract and it’s supposedly like super powerful. This branch of government called Shield doesn’t want Loki to have this so they keep, then the invasion ensues. This tesseract however is some space stone and Loki used it to bring in the aliens. It’s some sort of infinity stone whatever that means. Howard Stark found the stone in the ocean, because a Stark is always gonna be the one to fuck the world up when they think they’re helping. Then he and someone else founded Project Pegasus-” 

“What’s project Pegasus?”

“I don’t really know but I know it stands for potential energy group alternate sources,”

“Oh, so it’s Shield that’s over this… Tesseract?”

“Exactly!” I clapped and the papers with all the information I printed from the flash drive rustled underneath me. 

“What are you going on about?” Carmen asked. “Like what’s the bigger picture?” 

“That’s the thing! I don’t know, this is like so covered up and coded that I can’t figure it out with information that I have,” I turned towards her “But I will, and that’s where your help comes in,”

“Y/N, when’s the last time you slept?” She tilted her head like those dogs in Minecraft when you have food. 

“Last night,” I waved her off. 

I looked down at the information I was able to find out about Kingpin since he was mentioned in the video my mom made for me. Apparently she worked for him for a while. So did Felicia but all she’d ever tell me was “He was an ass he did give me a gift I’m grateful for though,”. He had affiliations with everyone. 

From what Black Widow released out unto the world he had connections with a Neo Nazi group called HYDRA which brainwashed people from what’ve heard. 

Before I’d just wanted to take down the Vulture out of pettiness if we’re being honest, but now. Oh now? I knew I’d have to. 

Another paper I’d printed from Kingpin’s affiliations caught my eye. 

“Hey Carmen,”

“Hm?”

“Ever been to Vegas?” 

Taglist:

@tomdiddlyumptious

[wkemeup]

can you imagine some smug hydra agent working for months to figure out how to get access to Bucky and hack into Tony's super smart technology to read off his trigger words only for Bucky to just plop on some noise-canceling headphones and beat the snot out of him

Bucky has had a long ass day. 

His legs are aching from the marathon Steve insisted he join him on and he’s yet to have his morning coffee, which everyone just about knows is a dangerous situation within itself. He’s got one hand on a plain white mug and another on the coffee pot when he first hears the footsteps behind him.

He wonders for a moment if its Sam and a lame attempt to startle him enough to spill boiling hot coffee on his left arm so it stains the metal for a few days, but not even Sam is as careless with his steps as this man as he approaches.

With his back turned he can tell the man is at least six foot, around two-twenty pounds, though the clunk of the boots might bring that average down to two-ten. He can hear the clicking of metal clasps on the man’s jacket with every step. 

The guy is breathing heavy, chuckling under his breath, and Bucky lets out a tired groan as he sets the coffee pot on the stove. It will have to wait just a moment longer, it seems.

“We’ve finally got you, Soldat.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, turning around to face the man now standing opposite him on the far end of the kitchen.

“Do you, now?”

“There’s no escaping for you this time,” the man replies, far too confident for his positioning. He’s wearing extensive layers of combat gear weighing him down and a bright red Hydra insignia at the center of his chest.

Subtle, Bucky thinks to himself.

It’s then that he spots the red book in the man’s right hand. Dark maroon binding and a black star fused into the cover.

“Really? This is what we’re doing today?” Bucky groans. 

A grin pulls at the corners of the mans lips, revealing a yellowed and jagged smile.

“You know, I really don’t have time for this today,” Bucky warns, enjoying the irritation in the mans face as he flips to the chapter he’s looking for. “I would have much preferred to get my coffee in first. The caffeine doesn’t do much for me these days, but Nat thinks there’s some sort of placebo effect in play. I’m inclined to believe her.”

The man doesn’t respond as he finds the page in question.

“You think we might be able to reschedule for eleven? This just really ain’t a good time for me,” Bucky jeers with a smirk on his face. It’s been a while since a Hydra agent snuck their way into the compound and he needed to spar today anyway. Might as well do it with this moron.

“Hail Hydra,” the man growls, “Желание. Семнадцать. Ржавый…”

“Oh, not this again,” Bucky grunts. 

He reaches for the headphones sitting around his neck, the same ones he wore to the marathon that morning that Tony engineered himself and sits them over his ears. 

He can still hear the mans voice as he recites ‘Рассвет, Печь, Девять,’ but as he pulls his phone from his pocket and restarts the playlist that got him over the finish line earlier that morning and AC/DC floods his ears, the man is drowned out completely.

Electric guitar strums in his ears, followed by a drum beat that has him tapping his toe as he leaned against the countertop, waiting for the intruder to finish. He can see him mouthing the final words and they have no effect. 

‘Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Товарный вагон,” the man says, though Bucky is deaf to it. He stands back with a satisfied, arrogant grin, completely oblivious to the fact that Bucky is still completely and entirely himself. 

Bucky lets out a heavy sigh, pushing himself off the counter.

“Soldat?”

This might actually be some fun.

“Ready to comply, asshole.”

The moment of pure shock on the man’s face might just be enough to make up for the lack of placebo caffeine in his system, as he charges forward.

“She was a fast machine. She kept her motor clean. She was the best damn woman I had ever seen!” blares in his ears and damn if Bucky isn’t singing along.

The man is no match for Bucky, but he takes his time bringing him to the ground, because hell, he hasn’t punched a Nazi in a few days and it’s still just as satisfying as it was eighty years later.

The man only gets one hit in and it lands hard against the shoulder of Bucky’s left arm. Big mistake. The man retreats, cradling his broken fist and staring at Bucky with wide, fearful eyes, like he’s just now realizing who he was dealing with. 

“Yeah you shook me all night long!” Bucky sang out as he stalked the intruder, grinning ear to ear at just how insane he must look but reveling in the quaking at the man’s knees. Serves him right for interrupting his morning coffee.

The agent is knocked out before the final chorus.

Bucky grins, pulling the headphones down to rest around his neck and taps the man lightly on the side to make sure he’s unconscious. The body slumps back over onto his face pressed down against the cold tile of the floors and Bucky exhales a breath. 

“You’re fuckin’ weird, man,” a voice says from behind him. Sam. 

Bucky turns around to find him pouring his fresh brewed coffee into some ridiculous novelty Falcon mug.

“You know that’s mine, right?” Bucky growls, leaning down and snagging the red book from the floor before he makes his way over to Sam.

“You gonna do anything about that?” Sam says, ignoring Bucky’s clear challenge for a fight and nodding over at the unconscious body of the Hydra agent.

“Not before I’ve had my coffee.”

“Alright, Barnes. I’ll fight you for it.”

“Bring it on, birdbrain.”

He puts his headphones back over his ears.

Yeah you shook me all night long!

—-

[ericdeggans]

Tom Hanks, Fox News and Me: Life at the Center of a Media S#@tstorm

When you write a column that puts you in the middle of a media crapstorm, it is one of the oddest places to sit in modern life.

This happened most recently last week, when Fox News decided to misrepresent a column I wrote urging Tom Hanks to bring antiracist action to his work as a film star, executive producer, writer and all-around upstanding guy in Hollywood.

Their hysterical, inaccurate insistence that I was trying to cancel Hanks turned the column into a massive flashpoint for reaction on social media and otherwise. Unfortunately, it seemed people were often reacting to the column Fox News pundits wish I had written, instead of the measured piece I actually did write.

NPR’s weekly podcast Consider This did an amazing, 16-minute bonus episode featuring me discussing my ideas and conclusions after a couple of days at the center of a Fox News-fed media cyclone. Host Audie Cornish was sharp and insightful, as always, and we covered a lot of the ideas I could only hint at in a longish essay.

But I also came away with a few more observations about trying to talk about race, media and representation in today’s media environment. Here’s a few ideas:

Observation 1: In today’s toxic media culture, if an opponent doesn’t make the argument they want, some media outlets say they did it anyway. Nowhere in my essay does the word “cancel” appear. So how did Fox News and other conservative media outlets get the idea that my column was invoking or part of “cancel culture?”

Newsmax TV ran a segment headlined “NPR writer cancels Tom Hanks.” Fox News host Brian Kilmeade said “cancel culture (is) coming for one of Hollywood’s most beloved stars.” A segment in Fox News’ America’s Newsroom program featured a photo of Tom Hanks with the word “cancelled” plastered across his face. A commentator for The Daily Wire who I do not know and haven’t met said that I must believe “white people are villains” and “this is a man who simply hates white people and can't contain it.”

But I wrote in my column, “These stories of white Americans smashing the Nazi war machine or riding rockets into space are important.” The biggest thing that bothered me about them – and Hanks, who admitted as much in his own essay – was that Black people’s stories were too often left out of those tales. They define a type of American mythos that erases Black people’s presence, and that should change.

These outlets wanted to have a one-sided argument about the unfairness of “cancel culture” – with an added side benefit of demonizing me and NPR. So they pretended my column said something that it did not. They took aim at a fictional version of my work which was much easier to criticize. Just another example of all the ways in which Fox News and some of ideologically focused news outlets often broadcast reports which are not fair, balanced or accurate to serve their political agendas.

And, in an odd aside, none of these outlets contacted me for comment or tried to ask me any questions or asked me to come on their shows to debate what I had written.

Observation #2: It feels weird, as a black person, to say something relatively mild and get accused of acting violently or in an extreme way. It’s something that is already an odd feature of the stereotypes Black people contend with; that sometimes, expressing resistance or a contrary opinion is perceived as more hostile and threatening than it really is.

My column had some pretty mild criticisms of Hanks – mostly that he’s helped shape white-centered history narratives, has the power to correct that situation and should have said so in his own guest essay. But the headlines reporting on my column made it sound like I’d advocated running him out of Hollywood with pitchforks and torches.

The American Conservative’s piece was headlined “Shaming Private Ryan.” Breitbart.com’s piece noted, “NPR TV Critic Hits Tom Hanks…” MRCTV’s story said “Sorry Forrest: NPR Blasts Hanks…” Something called American Ground Radio put up a clip on YouTube called “NPR’s TV Critic…Attacks Tom Hanks…”

The less said about the response I got on social media, the better. But there were emails with the n-word and worse; messages on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook filled with insults and hysteria. The overreaction was knee-jerk, often vulgar and completely out of proportion to the measured tone of both my column and Tom Hanks’ essay.

Part of this, I think, is habit. We are used to talking about controversial race issues in combative ways, for many reasons: the stakes are often so high and getting people to think outside their comfort zones sometimes requires a jarring example to get attention. So conversations about racial oppression are centered on when a calamity has happened – something terrible has happened and now we’re going to try and talk about one of the most combustible subjects in American society.

And there are people who don’t want this conversation to be measured. They want to convince others that change to produce equality will somehow destroy what they have or threaten what they love. For these people, when we all argue about equality rather than discuss opportunity, they have a ready-made example for turning away from progress.

There’s a dynamic in racial issues, particularly in America, called “attributional ambiguity.” It’s the idea that, when ambiguously insulting or negative things happen to non-white people in white-dominated settings, people of color have a tough time judging whether racism is playing a part.

Seeing so many, mostly white pundits accuse me of doing something so much more aggressive than I actually did left me awash with this feeling. Sure, some of it was just ideologues doing what they do. But it felt like that wasn’t the only thing going on here.

Observation #3: It was odd to see so many pundits acts as if a Black media critic had no right to suggest how best to address the suppression of Black stories in Hollywood. So many of the negative reactions I got to the column supposedly looked at the issue from Hanks’ point of view, assuming that he would be put off by being told by a Black writer that he hadn’t done enough to combat the erasure of Black stories from history-based works.

There’s always people who say I am revealing bias and shouldn’t express my opinion, somehow missing the job title which indicates that critical opinion is pretty much the central element of my job. And conservative ideologues are always trying to absolve their followers of trying to address racial inequity by saying that liberals will never be happy with anything they do.

But ultimately, I realized what bugged me the most about these criticisms: A Black critic, who has written about race and media for decades, made suggestions about how to solve the erasure of Black stories from Hollywood, and was told he had no right to start that conversation.

It reminded me of something I learned when I did a lot of reporting and talked to tons of experts about antiracism last summer. Sometimes, when people of color step forward and say what they would like to see in the effort to fight racism, the best thing a white ally can do is listen and help lift up their voice.

Listen. And help lift up their voice.

So often, in today’s always-on, always broadcasting, always reacting media culture, that is the toughest thing to do.

[happybeeps-nat]

header by @ao3commentoftheday​

Alternate chapter 2 for You Look So Alive words: 3,401 (yep, I never ended up using them. I’m the worst) context: picks up right after Finn and Poe separated in chapter 1, Pe goes home with Bee-Bee A/N: this is for @imtheoutgoingsidekick-baby​, completely unedited, I didn’t even read through it again before posting so I’m sorry lmao please bear in mind that there’s a reason I abandoned this

“Pa, we’re back,” Poe called as he pulled off his shoes and put his keys in the little bowl like the responsible adult he almost was. He followed Bee to free her from the harness and lead and stashed them in their rightful place.

“I’m in the kitchen,” his dad called back, followed by the distinctive clatter of him obviously trying to sort through their mess of pans.

Poe looked at the clock above the door. It was only 5:17. Wasn’t it a bit early for dinner? He decided to go see what his dad was up to.

And really, there he was, several pots and pans on the stove, apparently trying to figure out what pan to use for whatever he had planned next.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Are we expecting guests?”

His dad nodded while stirring something that smelled like his dad’s famous chili, then moved to chop veggies before checking the oven. “Yeah, turns out we are. Leia and Han are coming over for dinner.” He sounded tense, even pissed, and Poe was massively confused. Leia, Han and his dad were like Snap, Jess and he. Best friends and always up to spending time together even though their schedules didn’t align as often as they’d like.

“Is that not a good thing,” asked Poe, frowning.

“Oh, it is. Let me just--“ he stirred the pot some more before grabbing a fresh spoon and checking if he was satisfied with the taste. Then he took another spoon and put it in the pot right next to it and offered it to Poe. “Try this, this is the one for you and whoever else is veggie or vegan.”

Poe did. It was delicious. As always when Kes Dameron cooked, which was almost every day under Poe’s watchful eyes so he could learn some tricks. “Mmmh,” he nodded. “Very good. And it’s vegan, yeah?” Poe was a bit confused there, he wasn’t vegan and neither were Han or Leia.

“Yeah, don’t know everyone’s dietary preferences, so I though better safe than sorry.”

“Everyones? Paps, what’s going on? Who’s coming for dinner?”

Kes looked at the clock, turned down the heat on the two pots and oven to pull out a bunch of self-made tortillas. They always put them in the oven twice but not too long or they’s get too dry. Really, his dad cooking was more of a science than anything else and Poe usually liked to watch him be very concentrated. Now, though, he wanted answers.

Kes closed the oven and finally turned to look at his son, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked Poe up and down and frowned slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Poe dismissed. “So, what’s happening? What was it with the phone call earlier? Why are you preparing dinner for, like, ten people?”

“Leia called me earlier,” his dad began to explain, turning back around to check if everything was okay, if the heat was off and if it was safe to leave the kitchen. Then he gestured for Poe to follow him into the living room where Bee-Bee was excited to see them but didn’t move from her place on the couch, pretty sure that Poe would come to her. And he did. He was easy like that.

“So, Leia called,” Poe reminded his dad, hoping he would keep going.

He nodded. “She told me Luke was back.”

“Luke?” Poe frowned. “Wait, you mean… uncle Luke? Leia’s brother? He’s still alive?” He felt incredibly stupid to be asking that, because obviously he was still alive, man. It’s just that for years nobody had seen him or heard of him. “It must be, like, what? Ten years?”

“Eleven,” his dad sighed and ran a hand down his face. “He didn’t call, didn’t leave a text or a note. Just disappeared on us and comes back eleven years later, apparently with the brightest smile on his face and two kids in tow.”

“Excuse me?” Surely, that was a joke.

“Yeah. Apparently, he decided to adopt. Because apparently, he can do that now.”

Poe didn’t know what to say but also didn’t feel the right to judge Luke. He had last seen him when he was seven, right after… well. Right after his mother died. He took a deep breath and really, really didn’t want to judge Luke.

“So he has two little kids now, lives here again, and they’re all gonna come here for dinner to have an awkward and possibly bitter family reunion?” he clarified.

“Yup, seems like it. Leia wanted neutral ground. She doesn’t know me if she thinks I’m neutral ground for Luke fucking Skywalker.” The bitterness in his voice, the barely suppressed anger kind of broke Poe’s heart a bit because he knew where it was coming from.

“Paps, hey. Maybe he can explain.” Poe moved to sit beside his old man, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “Let’s just see what happens, okay? Maybe it won’t be too bad. And if it does get bad, this is your house, feel free to kick him out whenever you want to.”

At that, his dad grinned. “You’re right, I’ll just be a real Dameron and kick his ass if I smell funny business.”

“That’s the spirit,” Poe laughed.

After a while, his dad added, “They’re not little kids, though.”

“They’re not?”

Kes shook his head. “From what Leia told me, they’re your age.” He shrugged. “But I guess we’ll see anyway, he’s bringing them along.”

Yeah, that made sense… Poe didn’t really know how to feel about everything he’d just learned. But he tried to be open to anything, maybe Luke was this really cool and outgoing and charming guy and the adults would forget all about being mad at him. And maybe his kids were cool, too, and they’d all be having a good time.

Speaking of a good time! “Hey, is it still cool if Jess and Snap are coming?”

Kes grinned and got up. “Sure, I’ll make some more churros then.”

Poe laughed and stood as well, stretching his back with a groan. He found his dad looking at him, his head tilted, squinting a little.

“Poe. You sure you’re okay? You look beat.” Hah. The irony.

“I’m fine, paps, really. Just tired. And I really wanna go out and cuddle with Bee in the garden for a while. Call me when you need help in the kitchen or wherever?”

“Will do. Call me when you wanna talk about it?”

Poe huffed a laugh but nodded. “Will do. Thanks, paps.”

And as much as he wanted to go lie in the grass with his dog and not be a person for a few minutes, what he needed right now was a hug. So he went in for one, wrapped his arms lightly around his old man and felt him hug back tightly, making Poe tighten his arms, too. Dameron men were always down for hugs and Poe loved it, especially now. His dad was just a few inches taller than him but it always made him feel like he was just a little boy being held safely in his dad’s arms. Nothing could get to him here, nothing could hurt him here, not even Ben Solo. It was weird, it was probably stupid to be feeling that way about his father’s hugs at 18, but he didn’t particularly care about that. Society telling him it was stupid would probably only be one more reason for him to hug his dad, so there was that.

After a while, they let go of each other and Kes gave him a sort of bittersweet “I am your father and I love you but I am worried about you, son”-smile before returning to the kitchen.

“C’mon, Bee, let’s go outside and lie in the sun for a while,” Poe said to his already very excited dog. She yapped and seemed very happy at the prospect of just lying in the sun and getting all the scratches and belly rubs from Poe.

And so they lay there in the warm, soft grass. Poe on his back with his eyes closed, Bee-Bee next to him, her head on his chest, enjoying his gentle strokes and scratches. Lots of people didn’t think dogs could purr but Bee-Bee was ready to prove them wrong as she was practically vibrating, and Poe just loved her a lot, okay.

He was feeling calmer by the minute, breathing slowly and evenly, his eyes closed against the world and feeling safe again. Sometimes he was pretty sure his dad was watching them through the glass door leading to the garden but he was too comfortable to move and see if the was right, trusting his dad would call for him if he needed help.

After a while – it could have been an hour or five minutes, Poe didn’t know and he was pretty sure he nodded off once or twice – he did call, asking if he could prepare the table outside because there was more room in their garden than anywhere else in the house. A delicious smell tickled his nose which definitely made getting up easier. As he stood, so did his loyal, wonderful dog, looking up expectantly, and he smiled.

“Stay, Bee, I’m gonna be right back.” Before he went inside, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her head and scratched behind her ear again. “Good girl,” he cooed when she returned to lying in the grass, her watchful eyes never leaving him.

Poe went to wipe down the table and chairs before getting the cushions to make them more comfortable for their guests. “Paps, how many people are we gonna be?”

“When are Jess and Temmin coming again?”

“Not until after dinner, you know them,” he called back from where he was fastening the cushions.

“Then it’s Leia, Han, Luke and his kids, you and me. That makes seven.”

“So Ben is not coming?” Poe asked just to be sure.

“Is he ever?” his dad grumbled, and Poe could not answer from the sheer relief he felt. Ben was not coming. He was probably out bullying another kid who wasn’t white, rich and hetero. Idiot Nazi piece of shit.

“Poe?” his dad called again.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you could help me set the table, the plates are already on the counter.”

“Yeah, sorry, that one chair gave me trouble,” he tried to deflect from his actual thoughts.

Thankfully his dad did not press and either chose to ignore him or really had more pressing matters to attend to in the kitchen.

Before long, Poe had set the table, prepared the other chairs so they would be clean, warm and comfortable, and helped his dad chop the rest of the vegetables into small bits for the burritos they were going to have for dinner.

6:30 came sooner than either of them had expected and just as the clock went from 29 to 30 the doorbell rang. Wow, someone sure loved being exactly on time.

“I’ll get it, can you put the tortillas in the oven again, por favor?” Kes said, wiping his hands on a towel and greeting their guests. Poe hoped his dad opening the door and dealing with the first inevitable awkwardness would lighten up the whole situation a little. So stayed back happily, preparing the tortillas and checking if the salsa and kidney-bean mix in the pots was warm enough, careful not to let it get too hot.

He could hear his dad and their guests, obviously, their house was not exactly spacious. Leia and Han were there and had apparently brought a bottle of wine that was way too expensive, so his dad made a fuss that Leia chose to ignore. And then there were other voices, strange voices that struck him as familiar in a very weird way. Must be Luke then. It made sense for his voice to be strange yet familiar, it had been eleven years after all.

They hadn’t really moved into the house yet but stayed in the hallway, probably still by the door, and Poe if Poe weren’t surrounded by delicious food, he’d think he could smell the awkwardness in the air. It was very unlike Kes Dameron to let any kind of awkwardness last more than two seconds, and this situation was a testament to how much Like Skywalker seemed to unnerve him. And Han and Leia, too, since nobody spoke for a while.

Well, couldn’t have that! “Dinner’s almost ready! Paps, get our guests something to drink and go outside, I’ve got this!”

That seemed to do the trick. There was a bustle as Kes led everyone outside and asked for their drink orders. After all, he took a Dameron Dinner very seriously, even though it was a very common occurrence. His dad was a picture-perfect people person. And Poe apparently into alliterations. Huh.

Poe took the tortillas out of the oven and covered the plate so they would stay warm, and filled the contents from the pots into bowls. He balanced the two plates of tortillas on one arm and grabbed one bowl of salsa-mix to bring them outside while his dad carried a tray with drinks after him.

He greeted their guests with a charming smile but concentrated on not being an idiot and dropping anything. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Poe, I’m your server tonight,” he joked as he set down the dishes. “Let me just get the rest and I’ll be all yours,” he added before he disappeared again.

He grabbed the last bowls and something to drink for himself before heading out again to properly greet everyone.

This time, he nearly did drop something. Because there, sitting next to who must have been Luke his daughter – a very beautiful girl – sat the boy. His boy. The boy who saved him!

“Poe?” his dad asked, a concerned frown on his face and Poe realised he had stopped in his tracks. In the door. And he was staring. At the boy. The beautiful boy who was looking at his plate and didn’t look like he wanted to be around a bunch of strangers in a stranger’s house.

“Yeah, sorry, hi everyone!” he grinned and set down the last bowl. Then he moved to Leia, greeting her first with a quick hug that could have been awkward for anyone who was not Poe Dameron, Master Of Hugs.

“Hello, Poe, so nice to see you again,” she smiled up at him from where she was sitting in her chair.

“You say that now,” he winked. “Just wait until tomorrow, you’ll wish you wouldn’t be seeing me all that often, General.”

She swatted at him and rolled her eyes. “Just keep out of my office a little more than last year, Dameron, I swear to God!”

Poe laughed. “No promises, ma’am.” Then he moved on to Han who gave him an eyeroll and a handshake, which was their usual greeting. Sometimes Poe thought Han didn’t really like him, but they had their moments. He’d figured a while ago that Han was just a grumpy and cynical person in general.

Then he reached Luke who actually got up again to greet him. Or he thought he did. But Luke was just staring at him. “You’ve really grown up, hm?” was all he said, awe in his eyes, realisation, and maybe something a little sadder.

Before Poe could say something, he heard his dad clear his throat and mutter something but he didn’t quite catch it. He ignored him and smiled at Luke, willing to give the man a chance.

“Well, you’d think that, but in here,” he tapped his temple, “I’m still that little boy that gets himself in trouble. So if I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Luke grinned, then laughed which sounded a lot like relief and pulled Poe into a hug that he reciprocated gladly. He didn’t seem so bad – he laughed at Poe’s jokes after all.

“I’m Rey,” the girl sitting beside Luke said and raised her hand, clearly expecting him to shake it. So he did.

“Poe. Nice to meet you, Rey. I love your hair,” he remarked and while he usually tried to make strangers more comfortable by complimenting them, he really absolutely did love her hair. Three buns of exactly the same size, it seemed.

She grinned and blushed a little, taking her hand back more slowly than she had reached out. “Thank you, Poe,” she said and she really sounded flattered and happier, less tense than just a second before.

And then he moved on. To the boy who was not just in Poe’s garden right after meeting him in a less than flattering situation! Nope, Poe must be dreaming or something. He fell asleep earlier and this was a dream, because the boy was now looking up at him, an eyebrow raised, and a little smile on his face.

“And you are?” Poe asked with an air of what he hoped was nonchalance, smiling politely at the beautiful boy and his big dark eyes.

“Finn,” he answered, very amused or intrigued or shocked or maybe all of the above.

“Poe, hi.”

“Hi, Poe. Nice to meet you,” he grinned and Poe actually felt heat rise in his cheeks. This was not happening! He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be happy or embarrassed or curious or all of the above. And he was staring at the boy, a grin plastered on his face, and Finn was staring at him, too, a very similar grin dancing on his lips. And this was not happening!

“Well,” his dad cleared his throat again and Poe realised everyone was staring at them, curious looks of confusion and even amusement on their faces – or in Leia’s case, a smug smile Poe couldn’t get behind. “Let’s get some food, shall we?”

And so the Dameron Dinner in capital letters, because everything was home-made and his dad a magician in the kitchen, began. “This looks very delicious, Kes,” Leia praised as she grabbed a tortilla and helped herself. There were nods of agreement from all around the table.

“Thank you for this, Mr Dameron,” Finn said and Poe’s heart raced because his voice was so smooth and the smile he gave his dad was so genuine and sweet.

“Stop it with the formalities, I’m Kes to you! And no problem, kid, I hope you’ll like what Poe and I made.”

“Oh, you helped?” Finn asked, curious. And Poe knew exactly where he was coming from.  When did you manage to help with that between getting the shit scared out of you and getting punched in the gut. Twice.

“Nah,” Poe shook his head as he swallowed a bite of his burrito. “He just likes to share the praise. I literally just set the table, al the magic happening here is his fault.”

“You did help, though,” his dad insisted and Poe rolled his eyes but smiled. And Finn smiled, too, carefully taking a bite of his burrito and managing to keep the thing from falling apart.

Luke and Rey looked a bit overwhelmed and unsure of their technique, so Poe felt obligated to show them how to eat a burrito and not make a mess of themselves. He was met with grateful smiles and just so nobody would feel too bad, he loosened his grip a little, causing a bit of salad and cheese and salsa to fall on his plate. One of the two only plates who had until then been very clean.

Naturally, his eyes moved to Finn. Not because he was, like, drawn to him or something, nope. Only because they were sitting opposite each other and really had no choice but to meet each other’s eyes again and again. Because Finn was looking at him, too. And he was smiling a soft smile like he knew exactly what Poe had done just now. That soft smile of his, it was making Poe feel bold above all else. Still meeting Finn’s eyes, he winked at the boy, who looked away immediately, trying to suppress that sweet smile of his from happening, and Poe was sure he saw a flush a little. Although he could not be entirely sure with that wonderful dark skin of his. Anyway, a boy could dream.

[asgardianthot]

Things are changing (sambucky)

summary: Sam and Bucky have an undercover mission going terribly, and concealed feelings ready to burst.

A salad of the following tropes: Sam cutting Bucky’s hair, undercover mission, ‘The new captain America’ debate and bigots and Bucky having no time for bigots, idiots to lovers.

TW: explicit racism, homophobia, censored slurs

word count: 6687

Bucky peaked into the common area where Sam focused on his laptop, a pair of scissors in his metal hand. “Could you help me?”

Sam looked up from the screen and couldn’t help a smile from appearing in his features. He closed the device and followed the man into the bathroom, walking in with him.

After telling Bucky to sit, not as an order but more as a ‘get comfortable’ offer, the soldier did so on top of the toilet seat cover. Sam was happy to help, even though the way his chest felt when his hands ran through the brunette locks, while visualizing where to cut, made the experience difficult. Bucky didn’t stare at himself in the mirror as much as anyone would. He portrayed an image of something close to shame, just staring down to the floor as if the mirror wasn’t right there facing his left side.

“You’re gonna dye it as well?” Sam asked, working on the front of his hairline, where the falling strands framed Bucky’s face.

“Do I have to?”

The words came out in a way that Wilson understood this had nothing to do with Barnes’ voluntary decision-making. He wished the man in front of him had had the time to change his image on his own willing process, because he had the motivation to do so. Instead, he’d been rushed into it by SHIELD, in hopes that the people at the event they would be attending wouldn’t recognize the former Winter Soldier.

So, hiding the sadness behind his words, Sam shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

Bucky reflected on it, though. Perhaps he could dye it. He’d look good in black. Darker suits him. However he decided he would shave first, and then see if he had the guts to dye it; even if he knew for a fact, he wouldn’t do it.

The haircut was working pretty well, not much conversation exchanged except for Sam’s small laughs whenever Bucky would sneeze or complain about hair falling into his face and nose. If they had a better way with words, Sam would have described the scene as intimate. However the position in which the two were getting it done began turning uncomfortable when Sam bumped against the shower trying to reach the back of his head.

“Wait.” Sam said as he put the scissors down in order to leave the bathroom.

He fetched a chair and dragged it inside, planting it in front of the sink and facing the mirror. Bucky sat there, almost forced to look at himself and the way his mane didn’t fall on his face anymore. Minutes later, Sam was already running the machine though Bucky’s nape, smoothing the haircut on the back of his head. One could say it was coming together. Nevertheless, there was still that familiar knot in his stomach as he cleaned some loose strands of hairs from his skin. His fingertips burned against the back of his neck, bumpy with recently cut hair and leaving every pore out in the open.

The funny part was, it was Bucky who was getting goosebumps all over his neck. Sam figured it was because he wasn’t used to air hitting him there unless he had his hair in a bun.

The veteran stared at the reflection of the new man in the mirror, Bucky doing so as well. It appeared like the ‘process’ Sam kept thinking about was taking place right there.

“Looks good.” Wilson spoke, breaking the silence.

“You think so?” Barnes asked genuinely.

There was a sensation of an aching heart taking over Sam’s body. Of course he thought so. He didn’t just look good, he looked awfully handsome. Shaking the thought away, he reached for the razor in the counter by the sink.

Yet Bucky somewhat attempted to stop him. “I can shave myself.”

A smirk settled itself on Sam’s features.

“I like playing barber.” He joked, getting the shaving foam. “Now turn.”

The man on the chair almost rolled his eyes, merely showing the smallest hint of amusement. He usually would have comeback with something funny and mildly aggressive, but it was like he’d had his wit stripped away during the transformation.

While Sam rubbed the white foam on the lower part of the soldier’s face, the latter just looked at a random spot in the shower curtain for the longest time. It felt oddly wrong to be caressing his jawline like that, knowing what it provoked in Sam. But Bucky never seemed to notice the way Sam looked at him. Still, Wilson tried to just get it done quickly and assist with the whole makeover as much as he could.

“All done.” He announced as he shut the water running from the sink rather dramatically, once he had finished with Bucky’s face.

Barnes didn’t even bother to turn his entire body. He faced the mirror frontally, and proceeded to look at himself for way too long. From afar, it looked almost like he didn’t recognize himself. That enigma was what Sam was trying to decipher; what went on in Bucky’s head. Too long, they stayed like that, until Sam broke the tension.

“You like it?”

Bucky didn’t exactly flinch. “Yeah.”

Yet his reaction didn’t change one bit. Perhaps, Sam believed, he was lying.

“Bucky.” He pushed a little.

And Bucky raised his eyebrows without moving an inch, as if he were surprised at what he was seeing, before letting out a relaxed breath. “That’s Bucky, alright.”

Oh.

Sam understood what he was trying to communicate. That, was how he used to look, before Hydra, before the Winter Soldier. The short hair, the clean face.

Oh! Good. That’s Bucky, alright.

A smile propped up in the Falcon’s face. Continuingly, and feeling pretty victorious, he handed the man a towel for him to get cleaned, and then walked out.

“Thanks.” Bucky stopped him, and Sam was faced with genuine gratefulness in blue eyes when he turned to face him.

“No problem.” He offered another kind grin.

The mission was that night.

SHIELD had figured out that the head of a dealing network who had been working for personalities and big companies was, quoting the new head of assignments, “not too shy in public anymore”. He would effectively be attending a Washington gala, one the pair would infiltrate. All they needed to do was overhear information about the deals and distract the big fishes as much as they could, make them feel safe enough so that when they’d leave, Wilson and Barnes would be able to follow the car.

It was now or never.

The reason why Bucky had to get a makeover was to lower the chances of being recognized. Losing the signature facial and long hair, dressed in a tux and acting low profile, he should be playing a perfect cover. People hardly ever recognized him before, anyway.

On his part, Sam wouldn’t be going undercover because there was absolutely no way for him to pretend he’s not who he is. The possibility of the attendants not recognizing him was gone since the press couldn’t stop talking about him: The Falcon, Captain America’s former companion, now carrying the shield in public missions ever since Rogers went off radar.

As a matter of fact, the public had passionately began calling him Captain Falcon, or simply ‘The New Captain America’.

It was, undoubtedly, stirring up quite some debate. And it had nothing to do with the former problems the public opinion had had with the Avengers, no, it was about his worthiness of the title. They specifically enjoyed comparing him with Steve: A war hero from WWII injected with super serum, took down Nazis and saved hundreds of soldier’s lives. America’s savior. Versus, just a guy born in Harlem. Same city as Rogers, different background. Both of them born into proud parents, who were members of the community, respected fellas, yet lacking riches.

“He’s a war hero, as well; did two tours in Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan isn’t Nazi Germany.”

“You’re right, it’s worse!”

That was a good example, a very representative discussion aired in a morning newscasters.

“The guy ran support groups for veterans. He was a hero before he joined the Avengers.”

“All I’m saying is he’s got some big shoes to fill. Rogers has been the prime image of American strength for almost a century.”

“A war veteran counselor isn’t?”

So it went on, during weeks of mute conversations. That’s what that was; people tried saying what they meant without actually speaking the words. Those dialogues weren’t about the two character’s history, instead they were about the image that they sold. On one side, blonde kid born in poverty and illness turns national hero thanks to the government. On the other side, black boy born in poverty represents the American Dream. Which poster boy they preferred selling, was up to politics.

If Steve and Sam were put in front of a TV to listen to crappy reporters comparing them, they would have laughed hysterically and resumed their day.

So, no, Sam couldn’t go undercover. He would instead use the fuzz to his favor and become a distraction while Bucky worked from the shadows of discretion.

-

“Sam, come on, hurry up.” Bucky knocked at his door.

The Falcon was supposed to make an entrance before him, so that he’d go unnoticed. In order for that to happen, the man needed to actually leave the compound. Until that happened, Bucky was stuck there, all dressed up in a classy two-piece suit and putting on the dressing gloves that would hide the metal hand.

“Beauty takes time, baby.” Sam mocked his coworker from behind the structure between them.

He soon opened the door to his room, applying the last touches of cologne on his neck. The smug look of his face faded the second the soldier was presented to him. It was one thing to see him flaunting his new look, but the tux and the tie, the way it not only made him look fancy but also accentuated his figure, and just the manner in which that deep navy blue color collided with Bucky’s eyes, was very different. Very mesmerizing.

It had Sam stopping in his tracks and failing to conceal his reaction.

“You need to get going.” Bucky reminded him.

Sam blinked a few times to get himself back to firm land. It was almost like in cartoons, when the character would blink furiously and no matter how much he tried, the fantasy wasn’t fading away, leading them to know it wasn’t a fantasy. This was pretty much it, only much less dramatic.

“Yeah.” Sam looked down, embarrassed and furrowing his brows. “You’re right. How do I look?”

Bucky did his absolute best not to be snarky. It was hard not to, when he felt all funny inside whenever Wilson made comments about his own appearance; he loved calling himself handsome, showing off his muscles after training, joke about his own butt and thighs being a God given treasure. He would flash film star smiles without even trying, that cheeky face reaching out for everyone’s heart to swoon, and Bucky would just stare, feeling like he shouldn’t be thinking about it. Instead of agreeing with Sam’s playful self-admiration, which holy hell he did, he would mock the man’s ego or something similar, burying his drooling enchantment deep down in his gut.

This time, though, it wasn’t like that. He took one good look at the classical attire, the black jacket and pants, black tie and blindingly white silk shirt peeking through his chest, he took in the way it fit Sam like he had been born to wear that, and he was honest. Honest, yet in no way disclosing his melting inside.

He gifted Wilson a professional smile. “Like the star of the show.”

It wasn’t exactly a compliment. He was, indeed, the star of the show for the sake of the mission, and that’s how Sam interpreted it. Had he known, nonetheless, the real thought process behind those words.

-

Sam made sure the earpiece worked from the moment he set foot in his car, he had only to press his fingers in any way that he could without making it noticeable and his voice would ring through Bucky’s ears. As soon as he had arrived there, small groups of personalities approached him, all eager to shake Samuel Wilson’s hand, make their names known to him. It was easier than he had thought, getting people’s attention, maybe even too easy. He wasn’t used to the fame.

Not twenty minutes later, Bucky went in with the fake identification SHIELD had provided, acting as he had been told to; low profile, yet not creepy. Silent, yet not like he was sneaking out. After all, he wasn’t sure he could have played a different part, let alone an eccentric, participative one. That was Sam’s forte. He spotted their target immediately: Christian Brinkmann. Big bad guy.

Glad that the mission had set its course, Wilson excused himself and announced he would be going out for some fresh air to some people; when others asked, he said he would be going out for a smoke. He immediately took advantage of the fuzz taking place at the outer exit and reached for his earpiece.

“Get his phone.” He murmured to Bucky’s communication device. “He’s been checking it since I got here, keeps it in his jacket. Easy extract.”

He quickly heard his partner clear his throat through the earpiece, letting Sam know he had heard him loud and clear.

-

The ‘star of the show’ as Bucky had described him, was indeed getting loads of attention. TV anchors and actors kept introducing themselves and taking pictures with him. A few worn out business men had actually asked light to rough questions about SHIELD and the Accords. There was, at one point, one shady comment about the former fugitive scandal. Everyone listening, including Sam, simply laughed it off.

From the other side of the room, Bucky gave into his whim and eyed him. He couldn’t stop ogling how comfortable he was around crowds.

Wilson’s maneuvers were taking a toll on his dignity, but he kept playing the part. He didn’t need to pretend in order to give out sassy comebacks to dumb conversations, so whenever he had the chance, that’s what he did. One specific actor or whatever with whom he’d been talking for a while was shameless enough to engage in a passionate discussion about working out. Comparing gym routines with an Avenger seemed to be something he had prepared for his entire career.

Another girl stepped into the group, a beautiful brunette that looked like she was in the entertainment industry stuck around for a lot longer while than the others. She was flirting.

“Is it Captain Falcon, then?” she asked with a false condescending tone, doing her best to show her interest.

He smirked down at her. “You like Captain Falcon?” She nodded, storing her phone which had so far been in her hand, inside her jacket. “Then that’s what you call me.”

He was flirting back. And somehow, his instinct had him searching for Bucky with his eyes. The actively undercover man was standing near a cocktail table, drinking, and probably overhearing people talking. It was a very useful thing that the serum didn’t allow him to get drunk, so he could keep ordering drinks and keep himself busy, avoiding suspicions.

Eventually, the girl told Sam to follow her to the bar, so she grabbed his hand and dragged both of them across the big room. They ended up standing fairly close to Bucky, and when the latter noticed the couple, he felt oddly wrong. He knew Wilson was just playing the part, but for some reason, he felt the urge to overhear them. Perhaps fortunately, he wasn’t able to, because they were too far and in a very noisy spot.

“So…” she ran her hands down the black tie resting on his chest. “Does Captain Falcon like to have fun?”

He raised his eyebrows and spoke in a low tone. “What kind of fun?”

She rolled her eyes, a cheeky smile on her face. “The non-avenging type.” She whispered before exaggeratedly itching the side of her nose for explaining purposes.

He hid his disappointment as best as he could. “Maybe later, doll.”

Soon enough he started feeling like a party trick prop, all of a sudden. All the faces trying to get to him, to be seen with him, they began to weight on him.

Luckily, he had a way out when his earpiece ran with Bucky’s voice. Hallway B. He made his way there, yet his arm was immediately yanked by someone who pulled him behind a door and into a closed staircase. Bucky stared into his eyes, a noticeable hint of fear behind his pupils.

“What are you doing?” Sam scolded him, trying not to raise his voice so that no attention would be brought towards the exit stairs.

“I can’t do this.” Barnes said honestly, shaking his head. Defeated.

Sam didn’t mean to fight him on it, but the guy was literally a master spy. Whatever that was stopping him couldn’t be any worse than plain performance fright.

He tilted his head. “Yes, you can.”

“It’s been an hour, I’m not getting anywhere near this guy.” Bucky insisted, clear lack of self-confidence hearable, along with some desperation.

“Then think of something!” he whisper-shouted, then returning to a calmer state, gathering a deep sigh. “Look, there’s no time to tap it and put it back. Get the phone, take the chip out. We’ll get all the info later, but for now, we can’t let him escape.”

The easy instructions somewhat calmed Bucky a bit, so he nodded. Wilson followed by placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, which made him relax.

“You got this, okay?” Sam soothed him, pressing his other hand to the side of Bucky’s head.

Soon the exchange didn’t relax Bucky as much as it made him freeze on the spot. It was too intimate; both of his hands keeping him close, keeping him supported, and their eyes locked. Only then he noticed how close their bodies were. The feelings were coming back, those he couldn’t explain. Not this again.

“You’re a great agent.” Wilson reminded him. “You’ll do fine.”

Bucky gathered enough strength to nod. Accept the comfort. Realize he might be right. He could do this. He managed to step away, getting Sam’s hands off of him, not in an awkward way, but leaving in a certainly awkward way.

“Bucky, wait.” Sam stopped him in his tracks, getting him to turn; so Sam stepped closer to him. “Your tie’s crooked.”

The man looked down to find his tie, resting not too proudly nor gracefully, as his partner had mentioned.

“Let me.” Sam offered, getting the fabric between his fingers.

He placed his hand over the clothing item once he had finished fixing its presentation, letting him know that he could step back now, yet Bucky physically couldn’t. Every short second Wilson had spent focused on the tie, Bucky had lost himself in his hazel eyes, so that when both of Sam’s arms rested at his sides, ready to part his way, Barnes stood still. And when Sam stared forward, he found some pretty intense orbs gazing into his own.

In right timing, the sound of footsteps from a few floors below forced them to spread, Bucky exiting first, then Sam, returning to the gala as if they hadn’t ever bumped paths.

With his newly set motivation, thanks to Sam’s pep talk, Bucky was quick to spot Brinkmann and analyze his surroundings. There were two men and a woman stuck to his side, the lady seeming more as a date than anything else, by the way big scary man acted towards her. An imaginary lightbulb above Bucky’s head lit up, and he proceeded by grabbing an abandoned glass of what looked like a cranberry martini or something similar, given by the color. He took one last glance at how eagerly the man checked his phone, and specifically the pocket in which he kept it.

Chanting eureka in his head, he walked up to the four of them, all the while he pretended to be focused on something or someone on the opposite side of the room. It was a matter of seconds before he was able to collide into the group, falsely missing where he was going, and pouring the reddish, purply drink over the woman accompanying Brinkmann.

“I’m so sorry!” he let out, a symphony of gasps around him. “Oh my god-“

In the second in which everyone gawked at the ruined dress, Barnes pulled the phone from the man’s pocket and slid it on the back pocket of his own pants. The woman was petrified.

“I can’t believe- I’m so, so sorry.” He continued the farce.

Brinkmann raised his eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed. “That’s gonna leave a stain.” He mocked.

His date faced him, and forced a cynical smile onto her features, yet was unable –or maybe unwilling– to conceal her deadly stare.

“Yes.” She straightened up. “Yes, it will.”

As she turned around, Bucky felt how deep down, he was seriously sorry for doing that; it looked like an expensive dress, it most likely wouldn’t wash off and she would have to go home early, humiliated. Once Sam found out, he would tell Bucky he’s the worst.

Bucky pretended to try and stop her. “Can I-?” Yet seeing how she was already gone, he sighed and shook his head before turning on his heels, embarrassed.

He made sure to continue the shameful walk until he reached the bar, where he stole a quick glance in the target’s direction; he wasn’t leaving with his date. That was good. He had time. He rushed to order something to the barman, then rested his back against the counter and reached into his back pocket for the phone.

“Did I just see you pour a drink over Brinkmann‘s date?” a sudden voice made him jump minimally.

Bucky put the device in the big pocket of his jacket, and had a good look at the man that approached him. Generic face, ugly nose like it had been broken a few times, average looking fella, dark hair, and fancy-looking suit. He didn’t look familiar.

“Yeah,” he answered with a fake awkward smile, letting out some air. “I feel terrible. I probably ruined the dress for good, poor gal.”

“You don’t know who that is, do you?” The man squinted his eyes, some amusement clearly shown.

Bucky put up a frown. “Who, the guy with her?” He asked innocently, awfully nervous about the way his own hand fidgeted inside his pocket.

The guy gestured the bartender for a specific drink with his fingers and turned back to the undercover spy. “Let’s just say you’re lucky she’s just an escort. Had he actually cared, your head would be on a stick.”

Bucky nodded, like this was his first time hearing it. “Powerful guy. You know him?”

“Work for him.” He said easily.

Bucky’s muscles tensed. There was no reason for this man to be lying about it. Most people at this sort of events knew who Brinkmann was and who he was seen around with. The way he spoke sounded like he had nothing to lose, which only came to Bucky’s mind, he actually hadn’t. Therefore, the only one at risk in this situation was himself. On the other hand, interacting this close to one of them was an objectively good opportunity, one he couldn’t miss. The problem was, he had to destabilize the stolen phone right there next to him.

“Thought I’d come and let you know your name’s not on a hit list, you know, be nice.” The man explained. “But I guess you weren’t worried.”

Barnes flashed a smile. “Maybe now I am.” He joked lightly, all the while he tried to get the cover off the phone with one hand.

Ugly nose fella took a sip from his recently poured drink, eyeing Barnes from the side, suspiciously. Of course, he had never seen Bucky’s face, and he was all alone. No ‘nobody’ showed up alone to these things. He rested his forearms against the counter, both bodies way too close and contemplating the horde of people.

“You talked to him yet?” The guy asked, randomly.

“Who?”

By now, Barnes was sweating. Can’t get the fucking phone open. And he couldn’t just leave, it would be even more suspicious. Any second now, that thing would ring, or Brinkmann would notice it missing and track it back to Bucky’s jacket.

“Captain America.” He explained, making Barnes realize the Avenger himself was engaging in a conversation right across the room from them. “Or so they call him.”

The way he spat the title made it clear he wasn’t a fan.

“Right. Haven’t had the pleasure.” Bucky improvised, and when he felt being stared at, he attempted to make conversation in order to take the attention off of the maneuvering. “You don’t like the hero thing?”

“I don’t like the guy.” He snorted. “Comes here, uninvited, the host shakes his hand like he’s got the key to the city or something. He plays it like he’s some sort of superstar.”

There was an inevitable small smile creeping its way into Bucky’s face, luckily unseen by anyone else. That fame and glamour and charm was the Captain trademark, alright.

“Wasn’t Rogers pretty much the same?” he said truthfully.

“Nah, that guy I respected, you know?” The man was quick to sound disgusted with the comparison. “This one, I think it’s a publicity stunt.”

It didn’t make much sense. Steve literally began as a publicity stunt, Bucky remembered. Captain America was literally born as a movie star to get people to buy bonds for the war. Bucky nonetheless bit the inside of his cheek as he was too focused on his hidden task. He finally got the case open and was able to pull the chip out, thus disabling the phone.

By the time his attention was back on the guy, he was rambling on something that had Bucky taken aback. “They wanna sell us something, ‘s why they picked the black guy out of all.”

Barnes froze entirely. His jaw clenched.

“Ya think so?” He said, cold and distant, unable to fake that argument.

“Yeah, man, look at him.” The dark haired man chuckled. “That look like a Captain America to you?”

Something very deep inside –and also something very shallow in him- wanted to kill this man, no thought-process needed. But he had to remain in the part. He couldn’t blow out his cover.

“I guess I don’t know.” He was able to speak without much hate, concealing all emotion from his voice. “Haven’t paid much attention to the debate.” He then smiled and took a sip of his drink.

“I don’t know, the whole thing reeks of politics. I actually heard from a friend he’s, you know…”

“What?” the rash question slipped off Bucky’s mouth with anger.

“A bit of a queer eye.” The guy explained, condescendingly. “And I mean, you look at him for a while, it starts to make sense.”

Barnes gripped the glass in his right hand impossibly tighter before breaking it. A few more seconds of clenching teeth together that hard and he would start yelling some truths.

“Tell me, look at him.” The guy seemed to completely miss Bucky’s discomfort as he insisted, his smile growing bigger like a jokester frat kid. “Look at him for a minute, tell me he doesn’t look like a fairy to you.”

Bucky shut his eyes for a mere second. This can’t be happening. His whole cover depended on him nodding to a dirty bigot insulting Sam, and his patience was hanging by a thread. He tried to focus on steadying his breaths but the burning in his stomach wasn’t going away.

“Look at him, come on!” The man elbowed Bucky’s arm. “If you had to guess, wouldn’t you say he’s one of those?”

“Sure.” Barnes let out, unconvincing. “Maybe.”

“Yeah!”

Brinkmann’s minion chuckled, trying to get Bucky to laugh with him as if they were buddies. Bonding over good ol’ problematic opinions. The spy’s blood was boiling, his palms sweating, his ears ringing. He knew his feelings had gotten in the way. He knew he couldn’t bottle it up for much longer.

“So how about that?” the man began once again.

The following words were strong enough for Bucky to lose it. The following words were bad enough that he couldn’t repeat them. What the following words provoked was all that bottled fury to reach a limit point, a very quickly reached point, fierce enough to make Bucky lift his fist in the air and crash it against the guy’s jaw, with such momentum, it made him fall and land on his back.

The punch caught the environment’s attention, the guests’ eyes flying to the scene and their hands flying to their mouths. Soon enough, pretty much everyone in that ballroom was staring. Two security guards ran to the scene where Bucky was ready to hit the bigot again, and that was when a very attentive Sam locked eyes with him. Fully aware of the mess he had made, of how much he had fucked up, Barnes walked out before he could be escorted by security. All while every eye followed him.

Once people drifted to focus on either the attacked man or to resuming their previous conversations, Wilson found a second to slip away and head to the parking.

When Sam reached the car he knew to be Bucky’s, the ashamed man was sitting inside it, his head resting back on the seat, his eyes closed. He was cooling off, breathing in and out, but as much as he tried to punish himself by thinking how he should have gone along with the offensive conversation, he knew deep down, there was no way he could  have possibly held back after what he heard:

Not only is the new Cap a ‘n’ word but he’s also a ‘f’ word.

That’s what he’d told Bucky. Of course, the guy had had the audacity to actually articulate the full slurs.

Sam opened the co-pilot’s seat door and sat next to the wallowing man, shutting the door as lightly as his rage allowed him.

“What the hell was that?” he spat.

“Sorry.” Bucky sighed. “I got the phone, though.”

“You blew your cover is what you did! I can’t believe you.”

There was such disappointment in Sam’s tone, Bucky felt like rotting inside. Sam was questioning his self-control, or rather accusing him of having none when he clearly trusted him. Before Bucky had suckerpunched a potential prisoner, that is.

“I know.” The spy shut his eyes and breathed through his nose, just as disappointed in himself. “He just got on my nerves.”

“What could possibly justify you beating a man in the middle of a gala?” Sam kept scolding him. “In front of everyone we were spying on, on the one night we have to catch this bastard?”

As Bucky stared at the deserted parking ahead, the empty and expensive cars, and the exit, he thought about not telling him. Perhaps he didn’t need to justify his actions, but simply live up to his guilt. However something deep inside him felt like Sam deserved the truth.

He took a deep breath and addressed his partner without facing him. “He called you something I can’t really say out loud.” He explained, then tilting his head with shame. “And something I technically can but, believe me, I won’t.”

A frown took over Wilson’s features. The sentence was rather confusing. But after some thinking, he understood what he meant by ‘something I can’t say out loud’ and his frown faded, leaving room for a perfectly concealed look of frustration. Then, the question of what he meant by ‘something I technically can’ hit him right in the head. He knew Bucky to have been into men. He knew the stories. More importantly, Sam knew himself to have feelings for Bucky and therefore, qualifying for that kind of slur.

Fully understanding what had pushed Barnes to attack, Sam faced forward and steadied his expression.

“I don’t need you to defend me.” The Falcon let out in rough seriousness.

“You’re not defending yourself.” Bucky jumped to his own justification, suddenly feeling like they could discuss the injustices spoken in Sam’s name. “Do you hear what people are saying about you? Doesn’t it bother you?”

Wilson had no choice but to process the interpellation as judgement. Which is why he also had no choice but to snap in anger.

“That’s none of your business.” He said, rather loudly, before opening the car door and stepping out of it. “Go back. I got this.”

“Sam.” Barnes begged with sadness, ready to apologize.

Sam repeated the order, firmly. “Go back.”

-

Once inside the compound, Bucky got rid of his gloves and jacket. He left the dismantled phone on a nearby counter before losing the tie and stepping off his shoes. He decided to wait for Sam while laying back on the couch. All he could feel besides the mild exhaustion was worry; Sam might have gone after Brinkmann alone. He tried paging Wilson, but it was no use. There was no response. Running a hand down his face, he planted himself on the common area where he would wait as long as necessary. Unfortunately, his tired body made him shut his eyes for a second, and by the time he opened them, he didn’t know for how long he’d been asleep. Perhaps he had missed Sam’s entrance.

He was growing paranoid, so he went up to Sam’s room, only to find it empty. When he turned to head back down, though, he saw the elevator doors open, revealing the man he had been stressing over.

“Hey.” Sam said in a low voice, stepping out of the elevator and not making eye contact.

“What happened?” Bucky asked frantically.

“We lost Brinkmann, that’s what happened.” He replied without an ounce of tact.

Bucky’s eyes shut tight with frustration. This was all his fault. When Wilson went into his room, Barnes followed him.

“Sam, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get to lecture me,” the man snapped without any warning. “about what I do or don’t do regarding people’s opinions on me.” An upset frown took over his face, almost surprised at Bucky’s previous actions. “I know what the news think of me, I’ve known all my life.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“You have no say in me defending myself or not. ”Sam cut him off. I know what they’re saying. You want me to go on Morning America and play friendly monkey for them to accept me? Is that what you want me to do? Or defend every single person with my skin tone on live TV? Maybe that’s what you were expecting.”

Bucky swallowed hard. Of course Sam was right. Of course it wasn’t Bucky’s business what Sam did with the public opinion, because Bucky would never understand. And he felt awfully selfish for missing that point at the gala and later in the parking.

“No.” Barnes said, his head hanging low.

“Then don’t tell me what I already know.”

Sam proceeded to stand near his bed and slipping off his jacket, in complete silence. All that could be heard were their breaths and the rough fabric grazing Sam’s silk shirt.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky let out in the mid quiet. “Honestly.”

Dropping his jacket on the bed, Sam let out a sigh. He looked down, as if praying for God to pump him with strength. He couldn’t stay mad at Barnes. Not only because he had no ounce of malice when punching that bigot, and he genuinely hadn’t thought it through, but most importantly because Sam cared too much for him, and he couldn’t bear seeing him ashamed.

“I know you are.” He nodded, still not facing the spy. “It’s okay.”

“And I’m sorry for ruining the mission.” Bucky added with absolute honesty. “I know we only had one shot.”

Sam sat down on the mattress and offered him half a grin. “It’s fine. We got the info on his phone, that’s something.”

As much as Bucky felt relieved that Sam wasn’t upset, he felt like he deserved to get scolded. He had messed up the operation and Sam had every right to be angry. He thought about how the veteran was always so unjustly good to him.

“Don’t be nice about it, I screwed up.” Barnes shook his head.

“There’s always another chance.”

“Look, it was my fault.” He insisted. “You’re too easy on me. Be honest.”

Wilson opened his mouth, clueless, and shrugged. After closing it back down, he realized he didn’t have any lingering disappointment towards Bucky in his system. He didn’t want to fight him.

“It’s okay.” Sam said.

“No, it’s not.” Bucky’s voice raised a bit.

Sam found himself in a bit of a dilemma. As much as he wanted to get Bucky off the hook, he knew the man felt guilty and needed that acknowledged. So Sam wanted to tell Barnes what he wanted to hear, yet also wanted to end the tension.

Thankfully, Bucky spoke again to derail Wilson’s dilemma.

“Don’t… take pity on me, please.” His voice turned out sadder than he’d hoped. “Not you.”

Sam’s heart sunk. That was what everyone else felt. What everyone else saw: a victim. A poor guy with a tragic past. He needed Sam to see more than just pathetic. Wanted Sam to see him for what he was. And Sam, on his part, didn’t take pity on him, he never had. He simply felt too much for him to ever want to make him feel bad.

Barnes breathed through the silence and insisted on the clarification. “Just… not you.”

Eventually, Sam couldn’t help his own limbs nor his heart pounding in his chest. If there had ever been a right moment for spilling his feelings, this was it. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t speak and appease Bucky’s sorrow.

So he stood up and with one rush of strength he quickly approached the man, grabbed his now clean shaven face, and planted a deep kiss onto his lips. At first, Bucky was shocked, the somewhat disbelief of knowing Sam reciprocated his feelings disqualifying him to close his eyes. Given the lack of reaction, Sam stopped and drew his face further from Bucky’s, proceeding to stare deep into his light-colored eyes with questioning ones.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to snap out of his confused trance and launch to kiss Sam back. He placed both of his hands on Wilson’s shoulders while Sam’s palms kept steady cupping the spy’s cheek, caressing him. As their lips deepened the touch, Bucky embraced the man he had been adoring for god knows how long, while the latter brought him closer with a hand on his lower back until they were impossibly closer.

They were already breathing into the kiss when Sam broke it and pressed his forehead against Bucky’s.

“That’s not why I’m nice, you idiot.” Wilson whispered.

“What, you like me or something?” Barnes mocked him, his eyes still shut.

A smirk creeped its way onto Sam’s lips before he kissed the man in his arms again. Hopefully that would get the idea into his thick skull. As they separated to catch their breaths, Barnes ran a finger down the prominent cheekbones on the veteran’s sculpted face.

“Next time, start with that.” He said softly.

“I thought I was being obvious.” Sam raised his eyebrow amusingly.

On their next mission, Sam sent cheeky looks in Bucky’s way, before hiding behind his glass of champagne, and Bucky couldn’t conceal the inevitable smiles that it brought nor the way his face flushed. On their next mission, they were able to follow a lead and chase a car that directed them to take down Brinkmann’s primary net. And when the mission was over, they returned to the compound to heal each other’s wounds.

[sirduck45]

Book 10

Hey this is just a chapter from a book I’m writing I hope you enjoy. I was also told that someone actually enjoyed reading something of mine???? Im gonna push through and finish the other half of that story for you, thank you for supporting me!!!

1 “Ok you need to tell me what’s going on right now,” Rebel demanded as she slammed the cellar door behind her.  

2 “What do you mean?” Fly said nonchalantly leaning up against a few crates full of booze.  

3 “You know damn well what I mean! You don’t drink, you said you had problems with these guys!  How do you even know them?” Rebel sputtered her fists clenched, she just hoped that the men in the bar wouldn’t hear her yelling.  

4 “Here,” Fly sighed and extended her arm which held out her almost empty glass. Rebel’s nose scrunched up in disgust, she wasn’t about to let the person who dragged her across the country for the past few months get her wasted when they were supposed to be in hiding. If Fly wouldn’t protect them then it was up to her.  

5 “Just smell it,” Fly groaned. Rebel stood for a second with her arms crossed, but soon gave in to her curiosity and stepped forward cautiously. With two short sniffs she couldn’t smell anything. One step forward, nothing. With another step forward and another deep breath she could almost taste it: lemons.  

6 “I told you I didn’t drink anymore,” Fly took a sip from her glass. “Something happened with these guys and I promised myself I’d never let it happen again. So, this was the solution.” Her gaze seemed to be fixed on something far away as the terrible memories replayed in her head. At times like these, her age showed through her young exterior. All the pain and suffering could be seen in her eyes as she recalled all the mistakes she made, all the people she left behind.  

7“What happened?” Rebel asked cautiously. Hoping her leader might divulge her in a bit about her past. Fly looked up at her breaking herself away from the daze that she caught herself in.  

8 Right, like Fly would tell her. But in Rebel's eyes, there was something else. An almost understanding, but how could she possibly understand what it was like to be her, to be a...  

9 Fly shook her head and looked away. This wasn’t happening. Introducing all the other girls to the guys who ran the bar was a trip enough down memory lane.  

10 Rebel took a small step forward, not wanting to let her leave without knowing what had happened to her. “Fly? You can tell me.”  

11 Could Fly even do this? Tell her about what she did? About him? All of it? Fly looked up into Rebel’s eyes, the same soft green eyes that she had, stared back at her. How could the two of them be so alike and so different at the same time?  

12 After a moment of pause Fly spoke, “It all started... back in World War II.” She hesitated for a moment, allowing all the bitter memories to come back. They bit at her like Hellhounds come to take her back to where she belonged. “It was just a regular mission; I was leading a small group to go take down a Nazi official.”  

13 “Well, I say leading but –uh- you know, they had these -uh -handlers, to- um... keep me in check.” She paused remembering what happened when she got home. Fly stood up a bit taller, now looking at the wall past Rebel. Her fists clenched remembering the crack of the whip, the blood, the scars. “They never really could trust something like me.”  

14 “But uh...” Fly smiled remembering the only reason why it was worth it all. The only memory that wouldn’t cause her this pain. Rebel captivated by this indulgence into Fly’s past leaned up against an adjacent crate.  

15 “There was this guy,” Fly explained slowly as she recreated his face in her memory. “He was a bit of an asshole at first but uh... we um...” She paused unsure of how to explain the feeling without sounding like an idiot.  

16 “You fell in love?” Rebel’s voice was quiet. Fly nodded not wanting to admit anything out loud.  

17 Rebel’s eyes softened as she looked upon her leader in a new light. Her fearless leader has never shown such insecurity before, and most likely never will again. After months and months of being dragged around this was the most that Fly had ever talked about herself.  

18 “We... had a few nights together, never really thinking about the future, which I guess was for the best,” Fly’s smile quickly faded. “Last day of the mission we were meeting at the rendezvous but there was an ambush and...” The blood was all over her hands again. The pounding of the gunshots in her ears. The screaming and crying. Unable to see his face as tears blurred even her memories.  

19 She took a ragged breath and continued, “I got back to the states and in all honesty, I was lost. One day I wandered out here and found these guys.” She chuckled at the memory, “They had made a bar based on me when I was a cowboy.” Rebel had figured that when she saw the theme of the bar, every old man up there was saying that everything on the walls was once hers. From the cowboy hat to the Harley in the garage.

20 “Things were great for a while, you know, taking our hogs for rides, they even gave me the nickname Lady. But after Nam we were all changed, the ones who were left anyways. I guess I was... drowning my mistakes seemed better than facing them you know?” There was a brief pause as Fly thought back to those dark days of blackout drunk men and her just sitting alone with a half-empty bottle.  

21 “... I don’t know why or how but we ended up having like a little fight club at the bar. Really it was just them getting drunk and trying to wrestle me as a bear or a gorilla or something.” Fly forced a small laugh as her free hand gripped the crate she was leaning up on.  

22 “But um... one night we all got wasted, like borderline blackout, and I got rough... really rough.”  

23 “How bad was it?” Rebels voice seemed loud as it echoed in the small dark cellar. A twinge of regret spread through her as she hated making Fly remember all this pain.  

24 “He ended up in the hospital,” Fly’s eyes glistened, but no tears fell. “When he got back nothing was the same. They all said it was fine, but I knew it wasn’t... I... I feel like I can’t control it sometimes. This monster inside of me... I just decided to leave. On my own, things would be better.” Fly sniffed as she rubbed her nose, she probably looked so pathetic. With a small cough to clear her throat, she composed herself and stood up straight.  

25 Rebel stood there ashamed. Ashamed for accusing her. Ashamed for not trusting her. Ashamed for blaming everything that went wrong with the ship on her. Rebel took a step forward, but Fly put up her hand.  

26 “I don’t need your sympathy,” Her head was still down, but her voice cracked. “I-I don’t need-” But before she could protest Rebels arms were wrapped around her. She tensed up and didn’t move, not used to close contact. But it felt ...nice.  

27 Slowly Rebel could feel a pair of arms gently embrace her. No words were spoken. Both girls had been broken by this world and the next. Their worlds had been taken from them. Friends killed before their eyes. It was at this moment Rebel realized how similar they were.  

28 Fly let go, her voice hoarse, “don’t tell anyone about this.” All of her respect from the others upstairs would be lost if anyone knew about this exchange. With a small smile Rebel nodded at her leader.  

29 The two girls moved towards the door, but Rebel had paused. An old picture that was lying on a crate had caught her eye. Black and white unsmiling faces stared back at her. Fly stood in the picture in front of a line of four men, looking the same as she did today.  

30 Fly picked up the picture and inspected every face. Jaqu, the French sniper who barely talked. Morgans the medic who would faint at the slightest mention of blood. Patell, Fly’s handler who was supposed to keep her in check throughout the missions. Then there was...  

31 “Is that him?” Rebel asked as Fly’s finger brushed against the picture. His laugh, and sarcastic comments, the way he would show off, it all came flooding back to her. She had been alive for nearly three hundred and fifty years. Memories of her parents, homeland, all the other people who have helped her on her journey had faded away with time. But not him, only three days she had known him, and yet she would never forget.  

32 Fly nodded as her fingers curled around the frame.  

33 “What was his name?”  

34 “Mark.”

[leiazher]

A story about an Angry Norwegian, a Petty Mom, teenagers, a woman who just wants to sleep, and a tired train host.

Okay. So. For some reason I thought about a man that I sometimes think about, because what happened was so absolutely absurd that it has just stayed with me, lodged firmly in my mind and refusing to leave.

Which, honestly? I’m grateful for. Because of the absurdity.

You see, I was fifteen, I was on a train on my way home from the second day of a concrete festival (a music festival without the camping). I was very happy that this festival was close to me, just a 45 minute train ride and ten minutes by tram.

Anyways, I was on my way home. And my friend and I were talking to some other teens about the festival. We were having fun and joking around with each other, and I decide to snap a photo.

It was 00:03 at night, the train lights were dimmed, and my automatic flash goes off on my clunky, state-of-the-art 5 megapixel camera, rousing an older man in the seat row behind the people I’m talking to.

He is... pissed off.

He says I have to ask first, and I was like ??? I didn’t even know someone was sitting there! So I didn’t say anything, because I was dumbfounded.

I don’t know how the argument started, but it did.

This old man starts complaining about young people and their lack of respect, and thens starts boasting about how he’s a youth counselor (poor kids) from Norway, at which point one of my new friends starts speaking Norweigan.

I have an easier time understanding Norweigan than my other mother tongue, Danish, so I’m hanging on to every word. I am fascinated. This guy is arguing with us about everything under the sun, and then some, and through it all this girl is insulting him in Norweigan, and he’s insulting us back in Swedish. Six actual children, and this dude is ripping in to us. Until he (thought) he went in for the kill.

You see, (and this is actually relevant for the story) during WWII, Sweden stayed out of the fighting by being very obliging to the Nazis, letting them march through our country to attack Norway.

Some Norwegians are still pissed about it.

And lemme tell you, this dude certainly was.

“I’m not going to listen to you traitors anymore, you let the Nazis march through your country to enslave us, you’re just another generation of pushovers”

I was... stunned.

Here I am, fifteen years old, being verbally attacked by an old man at least 35 years older. He wasn’t even alive during WWII.

I’m not saying effects can’t be felt. But he’s looking at six teens, and blaming them for what the government did during the war.

At this point a mom to another teen who’s attended the festival decides to butt in. And the argument goes from weird to absurd. I can’t remember what they were saying. But I do remember the dude complaining about teens on public transport putting their feet on the seats, and the mom putting her feet on the seat to really rub her shoes in it. Petty, I know, but the look on his face was tremendous.

At some point I tell everyone to shut up and be happy, because a commuter has made eye contact with me and mimed that she wanted to sleep.

I think the guy was silent for all of two seconds before he launched in to another tirade.

We’re getting in on minute twenty of the argument when i realize what started it all. We have drifted far from the point and it’s now just a verbal back-and-forth between the Angry Norweigan and the Petty Mom. I pick my amazing digital camera from the bag, pull up the picture on the minuscule screen, and shove it in the Angry Norweigan’s face.

And he looks at me, scoffs, and says: “I don’t care about you.” In a haughty voice.

Normally I’d be offended, but I have by this time realized how utterly ridiculous he’s behaving. How childish and laughably immature. And I once again tell everyone to just shut up.

It takes the train host standing in the cart for three minutes for things to calm down, the second he leaves, however, the Angry Norweigan picks it up again, this time complaining more about my personal atrocious actions during WWII.

I, whose mother hadn’t even been conceived yet, I, whose grandparents hadn’t even met yet. I, personally, was apparently responsible for this dude’s grandparent’s suffering. And he was working hard to make sure I knew that.

I stopped listening, I have had lots of practice of just... not listening... So I applied that practice and started talking to my friend about the Japanese musicians we had seen, and how good it was.

Angry Norwegian was livid that I wasn’t paying attention to his insults.

We are nearing 40 minutes travel time, and the argument has lasted for half an hour.

I keep ignoring him, and as I stand up to get off the train, he looks smug, so I make sure to walk by his seat and say: “It was lovely meeting you.”

I swear I have never seen someone turn puce so fast in my life. He was spluttering like a dying engine in a snowstorm, actual saliva coating his chin as he chokes on his rage, vein at his temple looking ready to burst and lips turning white.

My friend and I are off the train by the time we start laughing at the literal explosion behind us.

I almost felt bad leaving Petty Mom in there with him as he started raging incomprehensibly about disrespect and a doomed world.

It made for a spectacular memory though. A memory that amuses me and baffles me in equal measure.

Because...

What. The. Fuck?

What the fuck???

WHAT the FUCK?

What?

[beardycarrot]

Shaq Fu: A Legend Reborn is an... interesting, game. As the name implies, it’s a reboot, and has nothing to do with the original game. In the original Shaq Fu, Shaq is in Tokyo, for some reason, and finds an old Chinese kung fu master, for some reason, and is transported to another world... for some reason. I mean, it’s a SNES fighting game starring an NBA star and sponsored by Pepsi, so there’s really no point in criticizing the story.

Anyway, Shaq Fu: A Legend Reborn takes a different approach. Rather than the Shaquille O’Neal we know, this game features a Shaq who washes up in China as a baby with a lotus flower birthmark on his neck, and is trained by a kung fu master because he’s the chosen one or something. Instead of a fighting game, this one is a brawler, with you doing the typical “walk the streets, beat guys up, pick up objects to use as improvised weapons” thing. It does still have product placement, though. What could be more fitting than...

...No, actually, I guess Shaq’s soda line was already dead and gone by the time this game was made. The product placement in this game is A LOT more stupid:

Yyyyep, you occasionally come across containers of Icy Hot, which fully restore your health. There’s also a joke about Gold Bond at one point, but they didn’t license its likeness for the game, so I’m not sure whether it’s actually product placement or just one of the game’s many smirk-but-no-laugh jokes.

Most of the humor just falls flat completely, and I don’t even get a lot of the jokes. Like, the second level features a whole lot of grape soda, and the boss is a character called Baby Face... who I *think* is supposed to be Justin Bieber (the bosses are all parodies of celebrities), but his method of attack is a gun that shoots chickens. What, uh... what’s the joke, here?

Anyway, the gameplay is... eh? You mash the Y button to attack, which after a few hits lets you press A to unleash a giant foot attack (the game constantly reminding you that Shaq wears a size 22 shoe). You have an AOE ground-punching move that you have to fill a meter to use, and there’s some kind of dash attack that you can use if you’ve collected enough blue balls... though I’m not sure if that attack actually does anything, as it’s only ever gotten me hurt. The game is pretty bad at conveying things, and doesn’t really give you invulnerability frames when using moves like that. There are also potions that transform you, though are only used in scripted segments in the game. Still, it’s a nice change of pace, and the only part I would describe as actually kinda fun. Well, aside from the end of the Shaqtus section in the fifth level, where untelegraphed mines are falling from the sky and getting hit by them twice in a row took out my entire health bar.

Unfortunately, the control overall feels pretty clunky, and you’re just fighting through waves and waves and ambush after ambush of bad guys, almost none of which pose any kind of threat... and even when they do, you just start over from the last checkpoint with full health, full meters, and no consequences other than losing any money you collected when you die. Not a huge loss, considering the money doesn’t count towards your end-of-level score, and there isn’t anything to spend it on. At first I was sure there would be a shop, or maybe a Luigi’s Mansion-style reward at the end of the game depending on how much you collected... but nope, when viewing the coins in the game’s encyclopedia thing, it’s revealed that they do literally nothing. This would probably be funny in some contexts... but this game has so many stupid pointless things already.

The game is pretty short, especially considering it got a physical release. I mean, it’s a budget release at twenty USD... but it absolutely should’ve been a five dollar digital download. I paid five dollars for it, knowing it would be bad and getting it just to point and laugh, and even I feel like I should’ve gotten a better deal on it. There are only six fairly short levels, with the last one being an invaded-by-demons reskin of the first (even shorter) tutorial level.

At some point, I think at the end of the fourth level, the plot point of Shaq’s real mother is introduced... by which I mean, he says “I wonder who my real mother is” out of nowhere, for no reason, before Miley Cyrus crashes her jetpack into the wall he’s sitting on. Yeah man I dunno the game is weird. As you might expect, at the end of the game it’s revealed that Yen-Lo-Wang, the evil demon overlord, is actually Shaq’s mother... and uh, is also Madonna. I mean, her name in the game is Destiny, but it’s supposed to be Madonna. Oh, and she’s also not his real mother because she adopted him... look, the game is dumb.

In the end, Shaq defeats his Momdonna and... I guess destroys an obelisk that can be used to summon demons from hell (he destroys one at the end of every stage, but it’s never explained what they are or why he’s doing it before this point), and then he and his mentor decide to go kill Kanye West. Roll credits.

There’s a lot of stuff in this game that falls into the category of "random pop culture reference”, and a lot of jokes that don’t connect at all. Like, Shaq says that he knew Diamond (a parody of Paris Hilton) was a demon because of the way her eyes glowed in a “low-budget film”, referring to the night vision in the Paris Hilton sex tape. At the end of the game, Shaq befriends a whale named Seymour Prophet, who I’m pretty sure is designed to look like Michael Moore.

The fifth level, Fiji, has you fighting against... militaristic nazi Scotsmen. Why? Brexit, apparently. The boss of that area is Benedict Fender, a Mel Gibson parody in his Braveheart costume, because... anti-semitic Scotsman, I guess. Now that I think about it, they must’ve decided to use Mel Gibson first, then went with a costume people would recognize him in, and then based the rest of the enemies in the area on that. Why they went with Fiji for the setting, I couldn’t tell you. Maybe they just wanted variety after two levels based on Los Angeles.

edit: I looked it up, and apparently Mel Gibson owns a fifteen million dollar private island in Fiji. So uh, guess that’s why. Like I said, this game’s references are a lot of deeps cuts that very few people will get.

There are a lot of other weird minor things. Halfway through the game, Shaq goes from pronouncing his master’s name as “Yee-Yee” to “Yay-Yay”. Aside from bosses, most of the male enemies are just normal location-appropriate guys (nazi Scotsmen in Fiji aside), but every single female enemy in the game is a brightly-colored demon with big horns... I’m guessing Shaq didn’t want to be depicted hitting women. At one point Shaq complains about the endless waves of enemies to the game’s programmer, who agrees to give him something fresh... but then it’s just another Shaqtus section, followed immediately by another wave of enemies identical to the one he’d been complaining about.

The weirdest inconsistency is regarding the Kanye West joke at the end. In that, despite his name being Matisse, it couldn’t be more clear that it’s meant to be Kanye... but then, when you start Barack Fu, they’ve completely changed him. Oh, did I not mention Barack Fu?

Yeah, it’s a short two-level epilogue in which you play as Barack Obama. In it, Matisse is now referring to as Con-Ye, and while he’s still recognizable as Kanye West, he doesn’t resemble the version from the ending at all. This little bonus game is... okay. It feels a bit less responsive than the normal game, since Barack still controls just like Shaq, but isn’t a huge lumbering guy so he comes across as a lot more sluggish. The game starts in France (so, naturally, the standard enemies are guys in black and white striped shirts wearing red berets and using baguettes as weapons), and ends on a space station in which every enemy is some kind of a Con-Ye clone. It’s a bit less of a mess than the normal game... but only because the cutscenes have a guy doing a pretty good Obama impression and delivering cool lines. It’s a shame they decided to end it on a Michelle Obama anal sex joke.

[ghosts-of-the-midwinter-fires]

Bit fucking ironic how you ‘hate nazis’ but dress as one ?? in public ?? on social media??? and think its acceptable to?? Hypocrite !!!

Okay, I’m going to be just as informative as I can here because it’s clear you’re someone I know in real life. One person in real life knows my tumblr, I won’t dox you don’t worry that wouldn’t be fair. Honestly I don’t know why you bother with the whole anonymous thing. And I think we’re well and truly past the threshold for me having to explain myself to you; but I will, since educating is what I love.

There is a very distinct difference between someone being a Nazi, supporting Nazi ideals, supporting what they did etc etc. And doing historical reenactment.... which btw is what I do. It’s not what I used to do. I did genuinely used to just have a collection of uniforms and yes, a German Wehrmacht uniform was one of them. But also so was an American 101st paratrooper, a British Tommy (ww1 variant) and also who can forget the single most amazing uniform of them all.... a women’s red cross uniform. Which btw, I look spectacular in, even if it’s a bit tight.

Anyway, also, do you have any idea how boring a war reenactment would be if there was only one team? Like you can’t have a battle of the bulge reenactment and only have American troops turn up.... you sort of need to have the bad guys there too. Also, reenactment is about entertainment and education. It’s meant to be informative and also fun to watch. In fact, most reenactment groups won’t let you join if they think you actually like the Nazis. They have a pretty good screening process before they let you join. Then you can buy a fake gun and dress up and ride on tanks and stuff - it’s like the worlds best game of Army Men. If you know, you enjoyed playing Army men as a child. Essentially me and everyone else who re-enacts are just really bad actors who don’t get paid - do you think that every actor who ever played a Nazi or German soldier on tv is a Nazi too? Do you think people who dress as Imperial Japanese soldiers are also imperialists who advocate and commit war crimes?

Also, when I dress up I dress up as a Wehrmacht soldier, who technically weren’t Nazis. Most of them were conscripts forced to fight for the Nazi party. Most of them thought they were fighting for home. And yeah, some of them were genuine Xenophobes who hated everyone who wasn’t white or aryan. But I personally won’t touch SS. I’ve got the uniform, I got a laugh out of it at 17 and now it just sits and takes up space. Why? Because SS is like genuine Nazi stuff. Even I was smart enough to realise that was a path I didn’t want to go down.

So, basically long story short.... yeah, I have Uniforms. Some are German, some are Nazi, some are just other uniforms. Do I wear the Wehrmacht one? A handful of days a year to sit in a muddy field without actually getting shot at. And on Halloween, because if you’d spent over £2000 on what is essentially a costume you’d fucking wear it too. It gets lots of compliments, it starts lots of conversations, people are positive about it because they’re willing to listen to why I’ve got them. Do they think it’s weird? Probably. But does owning something catogorise you into a group? Well let me ask you this, if someone dresses as Jimmy Saville for Halloween are they a Nonce? If someone dressed as trump for Halloween were they automatically a racist bigot? If someone owns a football top are they automatically a footballer? No. So yeah, it’s not hypocrisy. Hypocrisy would be saying I hate Nazis.... whilst also advocating, enjoying, supporting and encouraging the behaviour of Nazis. Whilst being a Nazi. Someone can hate something, someone can absolutely detest and loathe something to its very core... and still use that hate in a productive way, and that way for me is to help educate people. It’s to keep alive the memories and the experiences of those that lived it. It’s to give people a fun day out and to meet new people who also hate something to its core, but understand that it’s not something that can be swept under the carpet and forgotten about. It’s teaching kids that flags and uniforms may be associated an idea, an idealology, but it doesn’t always represent the people. The suffering, or the horrors committed, or committed against.

Anyway, I hope this has been informative for you. For the anon and anyone else who could be bothered reading the absolute bible that this ended up being. I hope it was all nice and clear enough, and you know, maybe you should be less concerned with what I like and dislike or what I’m doing with my life. I’m happy now, I’m in a good place now where I’m doing stuff I love. So remember, fuck Nazis, fuck neo Nazis, punch them in the face. Keep up the good fight, merry Christmas.

[imjustthemechanic]

Glockenspiel

Part 1/? - Transmission Part 2/? - The Sandhill Hotel Part 3/? - Piccadilly Part 4/? - The Future Part 5/? - Too Late Part 6/? - The Mystery of the Missing Time Machine Part 7/? - Underway Part 8/? - The Sierra Bunker Part 9/? - Cross-Country Part 10/? - The Pit Part 11/? - Calls for Help Part 12/? - Campout and Reunion Part 13/? - Apocalypse Bunker Part 14/? - Terrible Truths Part 15/? - Library Crystals

Peggy’s first reaction was to roll her eyes – of course Howard assumed a ‘civilian contractor’ was himself.  He did have a point, though.  Stark Industries was the company the SSR went to, again and again, because Howard built things nobody else could… and because Peggy trusted him.  The odds, on reflection, were pretty good.

“HYDRA obviously got most of the crystals back,” she observed, “because there were boxes and boxes of them in that bunker.” Not to mention the ones the supposed electricians had been using in London.  “I suppose we didn’t let you keep all of them.  Look up library crystals.”

Howard did, and came up with more corrupted documents. Somebody had wanted to remove every trace of the machine and its workings, and had very nearly succeeded. They had to hope Howard’s hunch was correct, because it was all they currently had.

They headed back to the hotel, since Toulouse would have to return there to pick up her luggage, but rather than waiting out front they sat down on a bench near the back hallway, where the entrance to the bunker was.  Toulouse would hopefully look for them there.  While they waited, Howard put some more thought into possibly locations for the library crystals.

“To extract the information from them I would have needed my own matter duplicator, or some other device,” he said.  “If I didn’t want anybody finding that, I would have destroyed it, but if the crystals themselves still belonged to the SSR I would have hung on to them.  You guys might have wanted them back someday.”

“Very wise,” said Peggy.  “Where would you have put them?”

“It would have depended on where I was living at the time,” Howard said.  “If I were still in Malibu, I bought some land on the point that I was thinking of building a house on, but the engineers told me there were caves in the rock and it wasn’t stable.  I could have hidden something there.  Or if I were in New York, I’d probably put it in the Mansion vault.”

“Because we both know that’s impregnable,” Peggy remarked.

“I’ve been fortifying it,” Howard informed her.

Well over three hours passed between them parting ways with Toulouse and someone coming to find them again, and when someone did, it was Kevin.  “Sorry we took so long,” he said, “we tried to text you, but then we remembered you lost your phones. We figured you’d be in the hotel somewhere but we didn’t want to draw attention to you while Cass was still here, and Toulouse doesn’t want to come back in anyway.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Peggy.  “How did it go?”  She hoped the meal hadn’t ended in disaster.

Kevin grimaced and held up a hand, tilting it back and forth.  Peggy had not seen the gesture before but it suggested a foundering ship – which already told her what the answer might be.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

They followed Kevin back out to the front of the hotel, where they found Toulouse sitting in the front seat of a car, in tears. Kevin got in the driver’s seat and Peggy and Howard climbed in the back, and then an awkward few moments went by in which the only sounds were the air conditioning and Toulouse’s sniffles.

“So what happened?” asked Peggy.  How had the situation just gotten worse?

“Nothing,” whimpered Toulouse.

“It actually wasn’t that bad,” said Kevin.  “Mostly I just talked about my work until Cass nearly fell asleep.  He’s probably gone to tell his father Toulouse is marrying the most boring pond scum scientist in the world.”

“Then why…” Peggy began.

“I’m stressed!” Toulouse wailed.  “The whole time I didn’t know whether Cass knows about the bunker and the stuff that’s in it, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it!  Does he know it’s there?  Did he put it there?  He likes Klimt for some reason and he’s got like four Klimts down there so maybe he did!  But I had to keep smiling and pretending I was interested in what Kevin was saying… you’re not boring,” she added, to Kevin, wiping her nose.  “I was distracted.”

“It’s okay,” Kevin sighed.  “Pond scum is an acquired taste.”

“So now it’s all done I’m just venting,” Toulouse added, and hiccupped.  “You can only bottle things up for so long, you know?  Then they have to come out, and this is how mine come out.  Oh, god, I need a shower and I need to fix my makeup, but where are we gonna stay? I can’t go back in there!  I just can’t!”

Kevin shrugged.  “Last time I was in California I was giving a SETI Talks lecture on extremophiles,” he said.  “They put me up at a Super 8 in Menlo Park.”

They ended up finding a Holiday Inn in a questionable-looking neighbourhood further inland.  Toulouse once again expressed a hope that nobody would recognize her, and it seemed that nobody did.  Her smeared makeup probably helped.  Once they had a room, Toulouse took a very long shower and Kevin sat down with his computer to answer some email.

“People are gonna be wondering where I am,” he said.

“What are you telling them?”  Peggy was curious.  How would anyone explain this mess?

“Well, I’m definitely not going to say I’m hanging out with time traveling clones looking for a Nazi superweapon,” Kevin said.  “I think I’ll say I’m dealing with a family crisis.  That’s technically true, it’s just not my family.”

A few minutes later, the shower finally shut off. Another quarter of an hour passed, and Toulouse emerged, wearing a robe and with a towel wound around her hair, and flopped face-first on the bed.  She looked utterly miserable.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by the comforter.

“It’s all right,” Peggy assured her.  “Everybody has to break down sometimes.”  Even Peggy herself, although she preferred not to let anyone see.

“It’s not that,” said Toulouse.  She turned her head so she could speak more clearly.  “When I went with him, I thought I was going to subtly interrogate him, like people do in movies, or like you hear about Black Widow.  I would bring up the apocalypse bunker by telling him the maid asked me…”  Tears spilled over in her eyes again, and she pulled the towel off her hair to bury her face in it instead.  “And I thought he would tell me because he doesn’t know I’m with you guys, or at least he’d let something slip, you know?  But I couldn’t do it.  I was too scared.  I Just let Kevin do all the talking.”

“To be fair,” Kevin said, “get me started about my work and I talk a lot.”

“So now I went through all that and I didn’t learn anything,” Toulouse sniffled. “I wanted to help but I just couldn’t.”

Peggy patted her on the back.  “Honestly, I’m glad you didn’t,” she said.  “It might have been very dangerous to let him suspect how much you know.  But Toulouse, we need other kinds of help now.”  She was starting to hate using this young woman for her money, but it wasn’t as if they had a lot of choice.

Toulouse looked up again.  “What kind?” she asked.

“Well, while you were at lunch Howard and I did some digging of our own,” Peggy said.  She explained that they’d gone back to the Best Buy, and what they’d learned from their searches there.  As Toulouse listened, her eyes dried and she sat up and began drying her hair.  Peggy half expected to see rainbows appearing on the white towel, but evidently Toulouse’s hair was colourfast.

“Good for you,” Toulouse said, managing a tear-streaked smile.  “You’re getting the hang of the twenty-first century already.  I’m proud.”

“We’re quick learners,” Howard assured her.

“So the missing library crystals may be in Malibu or in New York,” said Peggy.  “We need to check both places.  This time I think we’ll start with the closer one.”  If they’d done that in the Sandhill Playa Del Rey, it would have saved them a lot of trouble.

“Oh, you don’t need to go to Malibu,” said Toulouse. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe.

“Yeah,” Kevin agreed.  “Malibu’s out.  Your son built a house there, and a terrorist knocked it down.”

“What?”  Howard’s eyes widened.  “Is he okay? What happened?”

“Long story.  Christmas 2013,” said Kevin.  “But if you hid anything there, I’m sure he would have found it.”

“Definitely,” Toulouse agreed.  She got up and went to the desk, where Kevin was sitting with his computer.  “What’s the address of this mansion in New York?” she asked, reaching over his shoulder to access Google maps.

“1E 70th Street, Manhattan,” said Howard and Peggy in unison.

“That sounds familiar,” said Kevin with a frown. He typed it in, and a result came up.

“Oh!” Toulouse exclaimed.  “I’ve been there!  That’s the Stark Gallery – it’s an art museum!”

“It is?” asked Howard, surprised all over again.

“Absolutely,” Toulouse nodded.

Kevin selected a link.  “Yeah, says it was opened sometime in the nineties, in memory of Howard and Maria Stark.”

That didn’t sound like good news to Peggy.  “Then it can’t be there, either,” Peggy said. Surely somebody would have found a thing hidden in a museum.

“It still might,” Howard told her.  “One of the things I did when I repaired the vault was make sure it was better hidden.  I made it smaller, and I had plans to conceal the entrance.  If I managed to finish that, they might not have found it, even if they renovated the entire interior.”

“They’ve got a lot of rooms that still have the original furnishings,” Toulouse said.  “They might not even have done that.”

“You see?” Howard asked.  “They’ve got to be there!”

“It’ll be worth checking,” Peggy decided.  “Toulouse, you don’t have to keep helping us…”

“Yes, I do!”  Toulouse had already moved Kevin’s chair aside, and was looking up plane tickets.

“If your family really is involved in this, then it could be particularly dangerous for you,” said Peggy.  It was clear that Toulouse had already had a narrow escape during lunch with her brother, and by now HYDRA would certainly have noticed that she kept turning up where Howard and Peggy were.

“If my family is involved in this, then it’s my responsibility to do something about it,” Toulouse insisted. “Whatever they’re up to, I need to know about it!  I should have known about it already!”

“They deliberately hid it from you,” Peggy reminded her.  “It’s not your fault.”

“Well, I’ve been ignoring them because they ignore me,” said Toulouse.  “Maybe if I hadn’t been out shopping and getting degrees and stuff, I would have noticed something was up earlier!”

Peggy really didn’t know what to say to that.  Such things were always obvious in retrospect – she sometimes still lay awake at night wondering how she’d ever trusted Dr. Ivchenko.  “I understand you feeling that way,” she said cautiously, “and we do appreciate your help. But Toulouse, remember what I told you. If we say something is too dangerous for you, there can’t be any argument.  You need to sit it out.  Promise me that.”

Toulouse bit her lip, hesitating.

“Toulouse,” said Peggy firmly.  “Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Toulouse, but this time Peggy wasn’t sure she could believe her.

“How about you, Doc?” Howard asked Kevin.

“I work in Yellowstone,” said Kevin.  “If there are people who are planning to blow it up underneath me, then I shouldn’t stay there.  I’d rather be with the people who are trying to do something about the people trying to blow up Yellowstone. I know the geology of the region, too,” he added.  “So I might even be useful.”

“Looks like we’ve got help whether we like it or not,” said Howard with a smile.

In the morning they went looking for another thrift shop, because Peggy and Howard really needed more than two outfits each. Peggy found herself a blue floral blouse with elbow-length sleeves and a high enough collar not to show any cleavage, which was a relief – full-length sleeves were very uncomfortable in the California heat.  Howard, meanwhile, came out in a black shirt with a pattern of pink flamingos on it.

“If we were going back, I’d tell you to wear that just to see what Mr. Jarvis thinks,” Peggy told him.

“He’d probably throw something at me,” said Howard cheerfully.

Despite this banter, Howard was quiet on the drive to the airport, and Peggy was too.  She was sure she knew what he was thinking – her joke had reminded him, as it had her, that they were unlikely to ever see Edwin Jarvis again.  If he hadn’t died years ago, he would be very old now, and perhaps have lost his memory the way Peggy herself had.  So would Anna, and Angie, and Jason, and Daniel, and everybody else they’d ever met.  Even if they did see any of these people again, what could they possibly say to each other?  It wasn’t even as if anyone had thought Peggy and Howard were dead and would be overjoyed to find they were wrong.  In the minds of their friends, they’d been there all along, and now these imposters arrived out of nowhere.

“Peg?” Howard asked softly.

“Yes?”

“I don’t mean to sound like a schmuck,” he said. “But… I’m glad you stepped onto that platform with me.”

There were several things Peggy could have said in response to that.  She could have told him he’d better be, because if she hadn’t he would almost certainly have been shot.  She could have remarked that she wished he hadn’t felt a need to play with the bloody thing.  She could have commented on his use of the word schmuck, which was not something he would normally have said unless he were rolling drunk.

But instead she just squeezed his hand.  “It’s nice to be appreciated,” she said.