#joey is the tough guy who's actually a pussy

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

Thinking about how the friends cast is my hypothetical ideal horror cast dynamic

[gallavictorious]

Fic: Pressure

He is eleven and Sandy tells him keep still while she trims the hair on the side of his head with a look of outmost concentration on her face. He is seventeen and tells the wide-eyed kid before him that he'll cut his fucking tongue out if he tries to kiss him. He is twenty-three and wakes up to bright sunlight in his eyes and someone's arm draped over his waist.

Mickey, being touched. It's complicated.

---

He is six and he can't hold back the tears because his foot really hurts and he wants his mom to come pick him up and hug him tight until the pain passes, but his mom isn't there and his dad tells him to stop with his goddamn whining and just put some fucking ice on it. Milkovich men don't go running to their mama like some fucking faggot over a twisted ankle anyway, they man the fuck up and deal with it. Mickey's not a man yet, he doesn't think, but he's pretty sure he's supposed to be one soon, so he doesn’t stop crying but he limps to the freezer to get the ice.

He is nine and walking home from school with Joey when they spot Jimmy Linetti and Sarah Sengupta under a tree in the park. Jimmy is lying on his back with his head in Sarah's lap and she's putting flowers in his hair and they're laughing and there's something about the whole thing that makes Mickey feel... Well. He dunno. He feels something and he doesn't like it, it's weird and he needs it to go away. Joey follows him without question – does that already – as Mickey cuts across the grass and at first there's only curiosity in Jimmy's trusting eyes but it soon gives way to confusion and hurt and Sarah runs off and as Mickey aims a final kick at Jimmy's curled up body he feels a rush of something that, for a moment, is stronger than fear.

He is eleven and Sandy tells him keep still while she trims the hair on the side of his head with a look of outmost concentration on her face. He's not sure she knows what she's doing, and maybe he'll have to shave his whole fucking head once she's done, but whatever, she asked if she could and she's his favourite cousin, so yeah. Occasionally her fingers brush over his scalp; her arm rests on his shoulder for a moment; she grabs hold of his chin to tilt his head this way or that, and he bites his lip, hard, and he sits very, very still and doesn't make a sound.

He is still eleven and Stephen isn't exactly a friend but they've been in the same class for years and years and now there's a science project and Stephen's mom is having a party with her friends or something so they're at Mickey's house. Maybe they do try to study for the first half hour or so but it's a hot day and there's ice cream in the freezer and the walk there somehow turns into a race, with them jostling and pushing at each other, playfully, the way real friends would. They end up on the kitchen floor, rolling around, and they're laughing between insults when his dad walks in and tells them to cut it out because they look like a couple of queers tangled like that. Terry grabs a beer and disappears again. Mickey and Stephen climb to their feet in silence. They don't get ice cream and they don't talk to each other outside of class again.

He is thirteen and he's always been small for his age but it's never really been too much of a problem until now, until his first stint in juvie. The Milkovich name offers some protection and some measure of notoriety here but it offers challenges, too; people who want to see if he can live up to it; if he's as tough as his brothers and his cousins and his father. It's the second day and the boy behind him in the cafeteria line is several years older, almost twice his size, and he didn't actually push Mickey, just put his hand on his shoulder to get his attention, so maybe Mickey could let it go – except, no, he really fucking can't, can he? He ends up with bruised knuckles, the other kid in the ward, and they give him another month for it, but as he walks down the halls and no one moves to stand in his way, as people moves out of it instead, he knows that it was worth it.

He is fifteen and Iggy tells him that maybe he should go down to the clinic because the gash in his arm is pretty deep and he's not real good with stitches, man. Mickey swears at him and tells him to get the fuck on with and stop being such a pussy, it's just fucking stitches. It hurts like a motherfucker when the needle Iggy's boiled goes through his flesh, but he's had worse, and cursing helps with the pain, somewhat. Mickey can tell that Iggy's doing his best to be quick about it; doing his best to gentle when he's put the needle away and is wrapping up the wound. ”Jesus Christ,” Mickey snaps before chugging the beer Colin hands him, ”quit it with the goddamned concerned nurse shit and finish the fuck up.”

He is sixteen and Mandy is laughing as she breaks the embrace by poking her fingers into his ribs, hard. He laughs too as he moves to retaliate. They don't, like, hug a lot, because what kind of pussies go around hugging their fucking siblings all the time, but sure, if he's getting out of juvie or she's back from a summer with their aunt in Springfield, like now, they'll wrap their arms around each other and hold on tight for just a moment. Nothing weird about that. Mandy's his baby sister, and he's gotta look out for her, because that's what you do, you look out for your family. And girls, even tough ones like Mandy, they need hugs and that sort of shit, 'cause they have all these emotions or whatever. So yeah, he'll give her a fucking hug when they haven't seen each other in a few months, why the fuck wouldn't he, it's not like he's got anything to feel insecure about, so you can fuck right off if you have a problem with it.

He is seventeen and tells the wide-eyed kid before him that he'll cut his fucking tongue out if he tries to kiss him. Sex is one thing – even if it's the kind of sex his dad would kill him for having – 'cause that's just fucking urges, right? Goddamned biology or whatever. Everybody wants to get off. Kissing though... That's different. That's some fucking gay shit, and he doesn't fucking do gay shit,  and if Gallagher puts his hands over Mickey's when they bang in the Kash 'N' Grab back room a few weeks later and Mickey doesn't tell him to fuck right off, that's still just sex. It's just sex.

He is eighteen and he kisses Ian because fuck you, he ain't scared of shit, and Ian's lips are dry and soft and there's a jolt of something warm and thrilling that feels a bit like horniness and a bit like somethinge else entirely.

He is nineteen and he's been sharing a bed with Ian for weeks but it's the first time Ian's wrapped his arms around Mickey from behind, full-on spooning him, and Mickey stiffens for just a moment – but then he relaxes into the touch, into Ian's arms, because he's fucking earned this. Bought the right with blood and broken teeth and if the whole fucking world is gonna know he's gay anyway he might as well have Ian's chest pressed against his back, Ian's leg pushed between his, and the soft press of Ian's lips against his shoulder before they both close their eyes and drift off to sleep.

He is twenty-two and the inmate moonlighting as prison barber hums while he works. His hand is hot and heavy on Mickey's forehead and Mickey wants him to take it the fuck away because... because it's fucking hot and heavy, that's why. Makes him feel like he's got a grilled fucking pork chop pressed to his face, real sexy, and he's sent people to the infirmary for less. But there's another part of him that doesn't want the barber to take away shit, and well, he'd look pretty stupid throwing a fit over it anyway, so he keeps quiet. Returns for a haircut the next month, and the next.

He is twenty-three and wakes up to bright sunlight in his eyes and someone's arm draped over his waist. It takes him a moment to realize that the weight is wrong, the smell is wrong, this isn't Ian behind him. He starts then, violently; sits up to stare down at... Gabriél, who's staring back at him with a frown. ”¿Que pasa?” he murmurs, sleepy still, but Mickey doesn't answer because how fucking drunk was he last night if he didn't only let Gabriél come back to his place but let him fucking stay there once they were done banging? He likes the guy okay, sure, he's got a nice cock and is fine to hang out with for a few drinks before they fuck, but Jesus. ”Yeah, you need to get the hell out of here,” he says, reaching for his cigarettes and ignoring the hurt look in Gabriél's eyes. ”¡Sal! ¡Vamos!” That fucking faggot better not make an issue out of it, because Mickey is this close to punching him in the face. Maybe Gabriél senses that, because he leaves without another word. Mickey doesn't call him again.

He is twenty-five and his husband shifts slightly to accomodate him as Mickey plops down next to him on the couch. Ian's arm snakes around his waist, his hand settling on Mickey's stomach as Mickey leans back against him and turns his head slightly for a quick kiss. ”If you two gonna make out the whole time again I'm leaving,” Carl warns from the armchair. ”Yeah, no one cares, fuckhead,” Mickey replies, even as he is smiling, even as Ian assures his younger brother that they'll be good, fingers momentarily digging into Mickey's flesh, not quite painfully. On Mickey's other side Debbie's got Franny on her lap and Liam propped up against her legs on the floor, and the smell of beer mixes with the smell of popcorn and of Ian, and Mickey breathes it in, once, twice, as his left hand finds his husband's, their fingers intertwining, hands rising and falling with every rise and fall of Mickey's chest, slow and steady and sure.

---

I treated the timeline like Shameless treats the timeline: with extreme liberty.

This fic was partly inspired by this discussion and my current obsession with Mickey's complicated relationship to touch. If you want to read different, smuttier and less vignette-y takes on Mickey, touch, violence, and love, I heartily recommend sadwhale's love, let your hands be tender and Captain_Jowl's Almost there.

[notyetneedcoffee]

Wrong Number

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: +18 for smutty dirty talk

* * *

“Thank god you answered. I need you to save me.”

There was a long pause. You knew you sounded desperate.  

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky Barnes stopped dead in the street forcing several people to weave around him. He looked at the phone in his hand, not recognizing your smooth female voice. The number was not familiar either.  

“From what?”

“This team building, touchy-feely conference is going to make me vomit, and if I don’t convince Kevin -” you said the name with distain, “that I have a boyfriend, I’m going to be forced to stab him in the neck with my pen. I like this pen. It’s a Monte Blanc. It doesn’t deserve to be bloodied up.”

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. It was deep and rich. And, completely unfamiliar. You whispered. “This isn’t Joey, is it?”

“Nope, sorry. Name’s Bucky.” Came his amused response. “But I can’t refuse a dame in distress. Anything I can do to help? I’d hate to see you have to resort to stabbings.”

You laughed. Not only did this man’s voice feel like audible whiskey, he was willing to play along. “Really? You’re an angel.”

“No one’s ever accused me of that.”

“Even better.” You smirked. The annoying executive from Palm Springs, Kevin, drifted closer to you. He tried to be discrete, but instead came off as a creeper. You switched to a fake conversation. “I told you, Love, I can’t get out of this. I’m stuck here until Friday night and before you ask, no you can’t come.”

“Is Kevin there?” Bucky asked.

“You’re right.” You sighed, as if answering something completely different.  

“Is he close enough to over-hear if you held the phone out?”  

“Oh, sure.” You purred.

Damn. His low chuckle sounded like pure sin and caused your crossed legs to tighten.  

“Okay Doll, here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to explain exactly why ‘your boyfriend’ wants to be there, and in shock, you’re going to hold the phone out a little. Turn the volume up a touch so he catches what I’m saying.”

You giggled. “There’s a reason I adore you.”

He laughed. “Ready?”

“Oh yes” you breathed, a little heady. Kevin looked sideways at you.

“Come on, Doll, you know you want me there.” Bucky’s voice rumbled through the phone. “It hasn’t been that long, but my cock is aching for that tight pussy of yours. You need me to fuck you senseless. I know it ‘cause I’m ready right now to bury myself in that wet cunt. I want to taste you everywhere, goddamn Doll, I can imagine your honey on my tongue. Let me come and set you on fire. I don’t care if the whole conference hears you scream, cause Baby, when you come all over me it’s the most beautiful sight in the world. I know I’ve wrecked you for any other man, haven’t I? The way you come for me again and again. I don’t think we can survive until Friday. If you make me wait, when I get ahold of you, I’m going to fuck you until we both pass out.”

You didn’t need to fake the flush on your cheeks. His words, his voice, soaked your panties.  

It did the job. Kevin blanched, then reddened, before making a quick escape to the other side of the lounge.

“Oh, you are so good.” You smiled wickedly. “Your real girlfriend is a lucky lady.”

“Got rid of him, huh?” He was silent a moment. “Ain’t got a girl.”

You cradled the phone closer, turning more fully to the bar and waved for another drink. “Shame. Good sense of humor. Quick on mark. Great voice. Extra bonus points for the dirty talk. You even came to my rescue. I’d say you’re quite the catch.”

You could hear his breath, as if he were holding the phone very close to his face. Finally, he spoke quietly. “That’s nice, but you don’t know me, Doll.”

“Well,” you rolled the amber liquid around in your glass. “Now that I don’t have creepy dude breathing down my neck, we could actually have a conversation.”

Again, silence stretched for a moment. Background voices became clearer and somewhat insistent, though you couldn’t make out all the words. Bucky’s voice suddenly filled you ear with a clipped tone. “Good luck with things. I have to go.”

The phone went dead. Well, damn.

You finished your drink alone, imagining what kind of man could possess that voice, dripping with smoked honey and filthy words. You blamed your warm skin on the alcohol, but the slick between your legs resulted from that interaction.  

Bucky. That’s what he said his name was. Before you could lose it, you saved the best wrong number you’d ever dialed to your contacts.

* * *

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Sam Wilson nudged Bucky in the shoulder, earning a glare that would terrify most.

“Something is bothering you, Buck.” Steve Rogers punched the up elevator button again. They’d gone to an emergency briefing and his friend seemed distracted the whole time. “I can tell.”

Bucky just shook his head slightly, frowning. Steve’s head dropped to one side in a clear ‘really?’ expression. He sighed. “I was speaking with someone on the phone when you guys came to get me, and I realized I never got her name. That’s all.”

“HER name?!” Sam grinned. “What, pray tell, were you talking to HER about?”

“Can it.”

“C’mon. Who is she?” Sam beamed and they all piled in the elevator. “If you’ve got her number, you know we can get, like, everything on this girl. We do have spies here, you know?”

“Sam.” Steve warned as Bucky looked murderous. “If Buck wants to find her, he’s got the know how to do it. Let him be.” Then just to dig a little, he added. “It’s not like she could have made that much of an impression. He didn’t even get her name.”

When the elevator doors opened on the living quarters floor, Bucky bolted straight to his suite. Fuck those guys.

All evening he kept staring at his phone. Her number was there. He could call her. Of course, she’d probably be sleeping by now. What time did normal people go to bed? Plus, she was at some sort of conference, which probably meant early morning meetings. Yes, he decided, she was probably sleeping.

He watched another hour of the history channel before the lure the phone had it in his hands. He could just text her.

Sorry I ditched the call so fast. Work.  

There, he felt a little better. He apologized. Sort of.

The beep of his phone made him jump. He looked at the words in shock.

It’s ok. Glad you texted. Would still love to talk some time when I’m not tucked into bed, unless pillow talk is an option! Call me after my sessions. 1600 tomorrow?  

You answered him back..  

I don’t think I gave my name. It’s Y/N, but you can still call me Doll if you want.

Buck smiled at his phone and said your name aloud, tasting it on his lips.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow. ‘Night. B

He threw the phone down, smiling to himself.

He got ready for bed. Sam’s words began plaguing him as he brushed his teeth. He could look her up. It’s not like people didn’t put their whole lives on the internet for anyone to see these days. Even though he never uses any of that stuff, and didn’t even know how, Bucky knew just who to ask.

“Friday,” he called out to the building’s AI as he sat back in front of the big screen.  

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes. How may I assist you?”

“If I provide you with a name and a phone number, can you show me if they have any stuff on the internet?”

“Of course.” Bucky spoke your name and phone number. Almost immediately images began to fill the screen. Friday offered a summary. “Y/N, age 33. Born in San Francisco, California. Is a medical doctor with a degree from Stanford Medical University. She is currently employed with the CDC in the city of New York. Five years ago she filed for divorce from her husband only 5 months after –“

Bucky put both hands in the air. “Stop! This isn’t what I was looking for…”

The AI voiced a disturbingly thorough list of information that could be obtained with just a name and cell phone number. He stopped her again. “Friday, is there’s anything on Social Media, stuff she’s shared openly.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.” The screen opened to an Instagram account and a Facebook page.  

Bucky stared at her profile picture. He picked up the controller and began to skim through the posts full of dark humor, beautiful smiles, random things around the city, and for some reason, her toes. There were pictures of her toes in the grass at the park, in the sand at the beach, propped on the rail of a balcony. He found it oddly adorable.

He found a short video of her trying to say a tongue twister. There was that voice. This was definitely her. Bucky watched the video clip again. Finally, he went to bed, her voice in his head.

* * *

Your phone rang at 4:02, just as you stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor. “Hello, stranger.”

“Hi, Y/N.” Bucky sounded tentative. “Is now okay?”

“Sure, I’m just getting back to my room. We’ve got a two-hour break before a boring ass dinner with a keynote speaker.”

“Any trouble with Kevin?” He asked.  

You giggled. “None at all. In fact, he turned the brightest shade of red. Poor fellow, got all muddled looking. All day he kept stealing glances my way, so I kept checking my phone and subtly acting hot and bothered.”

“You’re mean.” He laughed.

“He’s a jerk, and if his pompous ass can’t handle the thought of a man being more virile that he is, tough shit.” You giggled again. “Besides, it was fun.”

“See. Mean.” Bucky grew more serious. “Didn’t mean to cut you off like that. Just some guys I, uh, work with came up with an urgent matter.”

“At least they didn’t walk up to hear you say you want to bury your cock in my wet cunt.” You purred, smiling to yourself as you kicked off your shoes and laid back on the hotel bed. A long silence followed. “Bucky?”

“Sorry.” His rich voice sounded an octave or two lower.  “I’m, uh, it’s just -” He stumbled for a moment before falling silent again.  

You frowned, asking quietly. “Did I go too far?”

“No.” His voice still held that deep sexy tone, only softer. “I’m just not real used to hearing such things from a woman’s lips, and -” he took a deep breath, “your voice is like silk. It just does things to me.”

“Mmm, good to know I’m not the only one affected by our conversations.” You purred.

“Damn, Doll.” Bucky chuckled. “I don’t even know you, but I could listen to you all day. And I hate being on the phone.”

You wanted to crawl through the line and see if he looked and felt as good as he sounded. “Well, I sure am happy to have dialed a wrong number.”

“Me too. Uh, who were trying to reach when I got so lucky?” Bucky asked.

“Joey. He’s friend from my building. Both him and his husband both work at home, so I thought of them first. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t have him in your contacts?”

“No, new number and I just had it jotted on a post it.” You stared out the window at the rain pelting down. Your phone said it was nice at home. “So, you’ve got a New York number. Is that home?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.” You smiled to yourself.

“Where are you now?” Bucky asked. You heard something conspicuously like a bottle of beer – or a soda, but probably as beer – being opened.  

“Orlando. It’s a conference on pandemics. Unfortunately, it’s less science and more ‘we all just need to get along’ communication bullshit.” You sighed. “I’m probably being harsh, but there’s better things I could be doing with my time.”

“So, you’re what? A doctor?” Bucky asked, although he already knew the answer.  

“Yes. But I do research, not practice. What about you? What do you do when you’re not saving ladies from creepers?”

“That’s pretty much my job.” He deadpanned.  

You busted up. Typical.  

“I’m - um – you could say I’m in the high-stakes security business.” Bucky answered when your laugh faded away.

“Can’t really talk about it?” You knew a lot of federal agents and private security officers through your work. They didn’t talk about their work either.  

“Something like that.” He hesitated.

“Well, then, if you can’t tell me about your work,” You purred, “you’ll just have to tell me what gets your motor running, Bucky.”

“Oh, really?” His chuckle came deep from his chest.  

“Yeah, and don’t give me any ‘slow jazz, sunsets and long walks on the beach’ horseshit.”  

He laughed, full and light. “But I like jazz.”

* * *

Getting through the conference with a bunch of phone calls and regular text exchanges with Bucky turned out to be much better than the first few days without. His humor was dark and sarcastic. Although you didn’t delve into anything about his work, and you both kept the exchanges fun, you felt like you’d gotten to know him well. How could you feel a closer connection to someone you’d never met, than you did with the last man you dated for two months?  

Bucky had sent you a text stating that he would be on a job and unreachable for several days on the night you arrived back in New York. It was sweet the way he wanted to assure you that he would call, and he felt bad he could only text a farewell. You assured him you understood. He called you an amazing dame.

Work the next week barely allowed for time to miss the text exchanges, so much had piled up in your absence. On Wednesday, you were thirty-two pages into the clinical results of a recent test when the phone beside you rang.  

“Dr. Y/L/N.” You answered.

“Good morning, Y/N. It’s Rebecca Kim.”  

You recognized the name immediately. She was a private researcher and you both served on several committees together. “Oh, hi. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve had a situation,” Dr. Kim used the term loosely. “There’s a potential exposure here. It looks like, damn I’m not certain, but it might be XF3058.”

You froze. It was a designer pathogen, a targeted and weaponized disease. All the information on XF3058 was highly confidential, kept under tight security. “Is it active, or inert?”

“Currently Inert. But the subject shows signs of full infection and he was among the populous. I need help here.”

“I’m on my way.”

It only took twenty minutes to pack up what you needed and catch a cab to Stark Tower. Rebecca waited for you in the lobby. You would need escorting to the top security research levels. You’d only been here twice before. It was like Candy-Land, all the best tech.  

The two of you were joined by Doctor Banner. He was a kind man, bright and quick to offer you a smile. “So, you’re here help figure out if we’re all doomed?”

“It’s a targeted pathogen.” You shrugged. “Unless you have the correct genes, we’re not ALL doomed.”

“We just don’t know how many people it could infect.” He nodded.

“My last estimate was .14% of the populace could be potential targets, which is still hundreds of thousands of people on the eastern seaboard alone.” You began reviewing the data.  

Nearly seven hours later the computer in front of you beeped, indicating the test simulation finalized. Looking at the report, you jumped up. “Yes!”

“What?” Banner removed his glasses.

“Gotcha, you little bastard.” You pointed at the screen before turning to the other two in the room. “I’ve been running down the genetic signature. This is an old strain. The degradation in the proteins made me think about sixty years. I then pulled the profiles of the known examples of that time frame, and I can say conclusively this is from the Cold War lab of one Kazimir Maksimov. I’ve got the exact genetic sequenced.”

“So, we can engineer an antidote.” Rebecca sighed. “I’ll get the system on it right away.”

“I’m going to take Dr. Y/L/N up to brief the team.” Doctor Banner stood.

You followed him out of the room and up in bright steel elevators. It wasn’t until then than by ‘team’ he meant ‘Avengers’. Nervously, you smoothed your clothes and tried to check your reflection in the metal wall.

“Don’t worry. They’ll just be glad you found the solution.” Bruce smiled.

“Kinda wish I’d at least been wearing something other than jeans the first time I meet Stark, you know.”

He laughed. “Tony’s all bark and no bite. If he gives you shit, give it right back.”

The elevators doors opened and Bruce led you to a glass encased conference room. Tony Stark, a red-head woman, and sandy-haired man stood around an interactive screen at the end of the room. “Hey guys,” They all turned when you entered. “This is Dr. Y/N. She’s the one Becca brought in. We’ve got news. She’s worked it out.”

“Ah, the CDC doc.” Stark propped a hip on table. “So why aren’t you here working for me?”

“You haven’t offered.” You retorted with a smile. “Can I pull up my files from here?”

Turns out Stark and the others, Natasha and Clint, were far more forthcoming with the details. The victim of the pathogen was actually a Hydra agent taken down in the process of eliminating a hold-out base.  They weren't sure if he’d been exposed when the building blew, if he’d been accidentally exposed or purposefully infected.  

You were explaining that the virus had been in his system for at least four days when he died, and had they’d not killed him, he would have died within 24-hours. He’d been infectious for seventy-two hours.

“Well, it’s a good thing they decided to torch the place. We didn’t find any survivors after that.” Natasha drawled.

“It’s still hard to believe they just kill them all.” A strong voice came down the hall.  

“That’s the way those assholes work, you know that. No loose ends.”

Your head snapped around. You knew that voice. Two extraordinarily handsome men came in. One you recognized immediately as Steve Rogers. The other, he had the voice of liquid sex. Nearly the same height as Captain America, strong – damn look at those thighs – and dark haired, your mouth fell open at the sight of him. His blue eyes locked on yours and he stood a little straighter.

No one missed the exchange, looking back and forth between the two of you.

“Bucky?” You breathed.

A sly smile grew on his face, and you felt yourself flush. “Hey, Doll.”

“Okay, how do you know the good Doctor and I don’t?” Stark scoffed.  

“Not your business.” Bucky leveled a solemn stare at Tony.

“Yeah, well.” Bruce interjected. “Doctor Y/N has uncovered the source of the pathogen and we’re working on antidote if it becomes necessary.”

“I thought you said that could take days.” Steve asked Banner.

“She’s good.” He shrugged.

“And I still don’t know why she’d not working for me!” Tony threw his hands in the air.

“I’ve told you before. You’ve yet to make an offer." You threw back at Stark, but your eyes still had not left Bucky. Your brain spun. Thankfully common decency kept your feet planted in place, because every cell in your body wanted to touch him, to smell and taste his skin.

“I may have to change that.” He grumbled.

“You know where my office is.” You finally looked back at the group. “It’s been a long day. I think you’ve got what you need for now. Is there any objection if I call it night?”

“I may have to contact you about the final reports, but that can wait.” Bruce nodded.

“I may have to contact you about what sort of furniture you want in your office.” Tony smirked. Then he waved his hand towards the door. “Go on, get going. We’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Bucky stated immediately.

You both walked to the elevator side by side, not speaking. You stopped at the doors, facing each other. He hit the button, giving you a shy – oh my god – smile.  

“So.” You sighed, “an Avenger, huh?”

“Of sorts. Steve brought me in a while back.”

“Ah,” You took his metal hand in yours. All the pieces click in place in your mind. “I seem to remember seeing a briefing about that somewhere.”

You could see the concern in his eyes. You didn’t know much about him. You did know he was enhanced, by Hydra, with a derivative of the same serum used on the Captain. Other than the friendship between the two men, you didn’t know much else from his past.  

“Does that bother you?” He asked finally.

You smiled up at him. “Not in the least.”  

The elevator doors opened and you stepped inside. Even though the car was empty, you remained close enough to feel the heat rise off of him. “Smart, funny, and gorgeous.” Bucky moved a strand of your hair off your shoulder. “And you smell incredible.”

You placed your hands on his strong chest. He was magnetic, a forceful draw. His hand cupped your cheek, a simple gesture that felt so intimate in this small space. His other hand slapped the stop button, halting your progress. Everything stood still.  

“Hey.” He breathed, face close to yours.

“Hey, back.” You whispered.

Bucky’s mouth touched yours, soft full lips brushing lightly. When you smiled into the kiss, his tongue reached for permission but was met with your own. Flaring from sweet to fevered, he pulled you tight against him. Wet, hot, your mouths explored one another.  

He turned, pinning you against the wall, hands roaming over your body. You clung to him, fingers in his hair and relishing in the hard muscles pressed against you. When his mouth trailed down to your neck, you breathed out a heavy “Holy shit, it’s good to meet you.”

He laughed against your skin. “Pleasures all mine.”

You took his face in your hands and kissed him again before sighing. “This elevator is probably monitored, huh?”

“Definitely.” He stepped back a bit, allowing you to stand fully on your own feet. “And I’ve been dying to ask you out. Dinner?”

“How about pizza?” You gave him a devilish grin. “We could order in.”

“Anything you want, Doll. Pizza in sounds perfect.”

Bucky released the elevator but hit a different floor than the lobby. The doors quickly opened to an obvious residential floor. You laughed, “Damn, that’s convenient.”  

He took your hand and led you down the hall. “I aim to please.”

“I have no doubt.”

You glanced sideways at his sparkling blue eyes, utterly taken by the intensity as he stared at you. The smell of him drew you closer. He smiled as you leaned into him.  

Damn he was glad he answered that unknown number.

[coryperlaportfolio]

Artie Lange: Crazy Funny

(Originally published 8/30/2012)

For comedian Artie Lange, heartbreak and catastrophe go in, and humor comes out. It’s really that simple for the 44-year-old best-selling author, comedian, radio show host, and actor. Lange has learned to take the pain of addiction and depression and turn it inside out. He hasn’t had the easiest life, as anyone who has read his New York Times best-selling book Too Fat to Fish has learned, but Lange has persevered if only to make people laugh, and work out his problems on stage.

Lange and his radio show partner Nick DiPaolo will perform comedy on Saturday, September 1, at the Seneca Niagara Events Center in Niagara Falls.

When you sit down to an interview like this are you ready to answer anything thrown at you or are you just sitting there thinking "For the love of god, don't let them ask me about drug addiction or suicide"?

Artie Lange: I’m ready for anything. Whatever you want to talk about brother.

I think most of your fans know by now that you attempted suicide a couple of years ago. You spent some time in a psychiatric ward for a while. Obviously those were some dark times. Were you thinking about comedy at all while you were going through that?

AL: Was I thinking about comedy?

Yeah, when you were sitting in the psyche ward did you ever think about comedy or your career?

AL: Oh well yeah, when I was in the psyche ward, sure. Everything that I had ever done that was normal was on my mind. I was wondering if I would ever do any of it again. It’s funny because no matter how dark it gets you never stop being a comedian. Stuff would happen to me on the ward and I would go “God this would be a great story to tell on Letterman or a funny thing to put in my stand-up act.” So sure, you never stop thinking about it, but at that point I didn’t know what was reality or what wasn’t. I thought maybe I did die and I’m in fuckin’ hell, because that place was disgusting. The biggest thing in my mind was how the fuck do I get out of here?

What popped you back into reality?

AL: Time, really. Everyone who I talked to who was clean or in some sort of program told me that everything that I was thinking at that point, I couldn’t really count as being real because of how warped my mind was from drugs, specifically heroin. They said the longer that you’re off that shit, every single day that you’re off it you’ll start to think clearer. You’ll start to think normal; you’ll come back to the real world. You’ll realize that there is a chance that you could get back into life and maybe be as good or better than you were. That’s what it was for me, being literally locked down in a facility where I couldn’t take drugs. It took time; it took almost a year and a half of not being on dope to get back to normal. Time is what happened.

When did you realize you were funny?

AL: When I was really young. I grew up in an area that had a lot of tough kids. I realized I could get out of fights with someone who I knew could kick my ass by being funny. I can remember there was this black chick, Tanya Davis, and she was big. In the fourth grade she was big and she broke my friend Joey’s nose in a fight. Joey was a tough kid but she punched like Muhammad Ali. She came over with a right hand. I tried to break up the fight but then she wanted to fight me so I started doing a Howard Cosell impersonation, like I was the announcer of the fight or something, and I made everybody laugh. That sorta freaked her out a little bit and she didn’t know what to do, so she didn’t break my nose. That’s when I first learned I was funny.

As a stand-up comedian you're essentially talking to yourself on stage. You have audience reaction but there is no conversation really, at least hopefully not, unless someone is heckling you. As a radio personality it's all about having an interesting or funny conversation. Which do you prefer?

AL: That’s a hard question, radio or stand-up. I love stand-up comedy but when stand-up comedy goes well—and by that I mean not just killing. I’m talking about when you’re killing the material that you actually like and respect and it’s not just something you know people will laugh at so you can get out of there and get a check. When that’s happening, it’s fantastic. But you know, I never really did radio until I sat in on Howard (Stern’s) show. I’ll never forget what Howard said to me after that first show. I knew I did really well because everyone was laughing, and Howard looked at me and said “it’s fun, isn’t it?” and I said “my God, yeah.” Just sitting in front of that microphone and just goofing around and it’s going out to all of these people live. It’s amazing. I got to learn how to do this radio stuff by literally sitting four feet from the best guy who has ever done it for nine years. Talk about a training school for radio. I would see the way he would handle callers or guests, and I’d see the way he’d change and what he would do. There is nothing about radio that I don’t like. If I could only do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be a radio show.

Is radio more spontaneous?

AL: Oh God yeah. Absolutely. Stand-up is supposed to seem spontaneous, but normally it’s an act you’ve been doing forever on stage. It’s a comic’s job to make it seem like he’s thinking of all of this stuff off the top of his head. Even heckler responses are something you’ve done a million times. But radio is. It has to be spontaneous.

Tell me about one of your favorite moments on the Nick and Artie show.

AL: A woman called up, it was probably a woman doing a character because nobody could be this crazy, or maybe she was just crazy, who knows. But she said that if you kill and boil a cat, and eat its bones you would become invisible.

Was she a witch?

AL: She claimed to be a witch, yeah. She had a really funny voice, I think her name was Jen and she was from Naples, Florida. She kept saying that she was stalking me and she wanted to kill me.

When you talk to someone like that are you thinking like “Yes, this is the caller I’ve been waiting for” or are you just a little freaked out?

AL: No, with this person I wasn’t freaked out at all. I could tell she was either too crazy to pull it off or it was a joke. She had a real entertaining voice and I wanted to bang her by the end. But anyways, I tell her that I want to try the cat thing and Nick makes a really funny cat sound—he can make a sound almost like you’re choking a cat. So he started doing it into the mic and she started almost having an orgasm and she’s screaming “kill that thing, kill that thing!” That’s the hardest I’ve ever laughed.

You appeared on Louie this month as a Chemical Truck Driver. I see a very, very subtly ironic message there, you being a Chemical Truck Driver. How was it working with Louie CK?

AL: I’ve known Louie for a long, long time, from the comedy scene or whatever you want to call it. He would always tell me he wanted to do something with me on the show, and I would always tell him that I’d love to do the show. He called me probably about 12 hours before he wanted to shoot the thing and told me “Tomorrow I’ve got this thing you can do, it’s a small thing but I think it’ll be funny. Would you want to do it on the show?” and I said “Heck yeah, whatever you need.” So he gave me his address in the East Village—it’s funny because we didn’t go through an agent or anything, he just called me on the phone—so I stopped by and he told me what to do and it was hilarious. Louie has the perfect combination to become successful. First of all he’s brilliant, second of all he’s really funny, and third of all he does everything. He’s got a work ethic like a Mexican who comes here illegally and wants to stay here. I’ve never seen anything like it. He holds the camera, he directs the stuff, he writes it, and then he acts in it. I’m going “My god I just don’t have the energy.” It was impressive to see a buddy of mine doing all of that. He’s a true sort of auteur, and he’s got a deal with FX—what they call the “Woody Allen” deal—where he just tells them; “look, give me money for a season of shows and you can’t give me any notes, no one from FX can come from the set, and at the end of the year I’ll give you 13 episodes and you can’t change anything.” That’s impressive to see. I’m very, very happy for him.

I have some friends who won't watch Louie because they say it's too depressing, which is funny because it's a comedy show...

AL: [Interrupts] Well it is and it isn’t. I understand where they’re coming from but I mean look, those friends sound like pussies. They gotta man up and just watch it. Here is how I describe a Louie episode: It’s like an Edgar Allen Poe short story. Louie is great because he knows how people behave. Even in a Woody Allen movie you’re going to get unbelievably funny stuff or you’re going to get depressed because he’s a realist. This is how people act. People act in ways that are very, very disappointing most of the time. Louie keeps it real like that in every episode and also gets hilarious comedy out of the way people really act. The episodes have both, so I don’t think you can call it a comedy show. It’s just its own thing. If you read Edgar Allen Poe, some of the stuff is so dark it’s funny, but ultimately it’s depressing. That’s what I think it’s like. If those buddies of yours appreciate art it’s a chance to actually see it happening on TV. They’re not going to see it on Two and a Half Men.

I feel like you kind of walk that same line, taking something that is very depressing and working it into your comedy. Is that a tough thing to do?

AL: Yeah, sort of. I’ve dated girls who have told me that when they watch my act and I’m telling a story about, you know, shitting my pants on heroin or drunk driving—and even though everybody laughs—they wish that I could do something more like Jerry Seinfeld. For the people that love me it could be depressing to hear because maybe they were there the night that that happened and it was anything but funny. It’s like being in the psyche ward. I have jokes in my act about being in rehab and being in a psyche ward. I do an impression of a counselor I had in rehab in Miami. While it was happening it was anything but funny, but people laugh at it during my set and the people that are close to me are thinking “well shit, I wish it was that funny when it was happening.” It depresses them but I’d rather tell my tale in a funny way and maybe people will get something out of it.

Looking at the way your life has gone, it seems like there is nothing you could do but be a comedian.

AL: [Laughs] I’m not going to be on the police force. Now a days, with background checks—you’re right man—with my background, forget it. I can’t even vote for Christ’s sake. You’re right when I think about it. I better make this work.

Tell me about the best thing you've ever done in your life, and the worst thing you've ever done.

AL: Well the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life was stabbing myself in the stomach that morning because I knew that the only two people who could have found me were my mother and sister. I wasn’t thinking like that, I wasn’t rational, but in the back of my head I had to know that. They did find me and I’ll never get over that guilt. Thank god they seem better and everything seems fine but the guilt of that will never fully leave my body, so that’s a no brainer. The best thing I’ve ever done I think was going to do stand-up in Afghanistan for those guys. I always said I wanted to do it and my agent kind of called my bluff and told me there was an opportunity to do that. I said to myself “Wow, I can’t pussy out here. I gotta do this.” I realized I was going into a war zone and my mother was worried but I was with Marines and everything. Guys would come back from missions doing God-knows-what, and they’d sit down in all of their gear, in that heat, and they would just be like “Ok make me laugh, dance like a monkey or something.” I would have done anything at that point, dance around like a monkey or whatever. How grateful they were. So if I had to pick one thing, it would probably be that and I would do it again if I could. I just hope we get all of those guys the fuck out of there soon.

Can you tell me a little bit about your new book, Crash and Burn?

AL: It picks up where Too Fat To Fish left off. It’s about what happened to me. My stand-up act has a quick snippet, a comedic version, of some of the stuff that happened. Crash and Burn is what happened in long form: What I was going through and the darker side of the rehab and the psyche ward, and what was going through my head the morning I stabbed myself. What I was thinking afterwards. What it was like waking up after that. It’s got a lot of comedy in it that comes from that, but it’s the real, full story, which has a lot of darkness in it. The title comes from when I was working at a port as a longshoreman. I was deciding whether or not I should quit the port and become a comedian. I was sitting at the bar with my buddy’s older brother, Chucky, and he goes “fuck it man, go for the good life. If you got talent just go do it. If you crash and burn at least you tried. You’ll feel better if you crash and burn than if you never tried.” So every time I’d see him after that he’d shout “crash and burn!”