#kinda wanna squat too and maybe deadlift who knows

[no-one-hears-me]

before I lift weights I'm like noooo I don't wanna then afterwards I'm like yay I love lifting

[louislouisrap]

in which bakugo accidentally explodes at the gym

So I know I said I wasn’t really planning to make a fic out of this but uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I kinda want to now? I might? Make this a thing? Or at least write up a little drabble about how each character discovers their power? I have no idea but this was fun and I wanna do it again.This was super loose and rough, very little editing. Was just for fun  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also the entirety of my time spent in the gym until now was in preparation for writing about Bakugo and Kirishima going to the gym, so never give up on your dreams I guess

Also it’s super cool that some people started following me after reading my previous drabble! Thanks for doing so and I hope you continue to enjoy my dumb lil writings! （*´▽｀*）

It had been a week since Uraraka had been to the dermatologist, and they were still no closer to figuring out why her skin was behaving the way it was. The doctor had determined, at the very least, that the pads on her fingers were benign, and had suggested she try a callus cream. If nothing else, surgery to remove the pads was a last resort, but as they weren’t necessarily bothering her, Uraraka had initially dismissed the option.

It wasn’t alarming, but it stuck in the back of Bakugo’s mind as he headed to the gym with Kirishima.

“Hey man.” Bakugo greeted the redhead with a hearty clap on the shoulder as he emerged from his apartment.

“Hey!” A grin spread across Kirishima’s face, his mood infectious as always, as he stepped out into the apartment hallway. His broad hand enveloped the back of Bakugo’s neck and he went in for a combination chest bump and back slap, with a bit of a hug mixed in. After a moment, however, Kirishima broke their embrace and gave Bakugo a funny look.

“Dude, you’re like, really sweaty. Or greasy or something.”

“I know, right?!” The tips of Bakugo’s ears went pink in spite of himself. He wasn’t ever really ashamed of his body, and bodies did weird things from time to time, but he had found it odd that in even in the comfortable autumn air, he was suddenly working up a noticeable sweat. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on but I’ve been sweating like crazy the past few days.”

“I’m telling you, you need more cardio,” Kirishima laughed as they made their way out of the apartment complex and into the quiet morning streets of Shibuya.

“It’s not even that,” Bakugo argued. “It’s like I’m sweating, but it doesn’t even smell or feel like sweat. Like—” he rolled up the sleeve of his hoodie and sniffed the crease of his elbow, then shoved his arm in Kirishima’s face— “it sort of smells like chemicals? Kind of like a sweet chemical smell?”

Kirishima cautiously sniffed, then looked up at Bakugo suspiciously. “That’s weird, man.”

“I know.”

They walked on in silent contemplation for a few minutes. Then Kirishima peered at Bakugo’s face.

“Your skin looks really good, dude.”

Bakugo regarded him quizzically.

“Like it looks really smooth. Like a baby’s butt. Maybe it’s your weird sweat.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kirishima.”

Kirishima laughed, a low giggle that erupted into hearty peals. It wasn’t that funny, but Kirishima somehow managed to find humor in almost everything, and with his childlike, friendly demeanor, he was often mistaken for a high school student, rather than twenty-two. This was especially true when he let his normally spiked hair go natural, falling around his face in a way that brought out the baby fat roundness in his cheeks. Today, however, Kirishima had decided against his usual styling routine, in favor of pulling his hair back in a low ponytail for their gym session. “I’m serious! Well, kinda anyway. Here—” he grabbed Bakugo’s forearm and rubbed his cheek against it— “we’ll see tomorrow how my face looks.”

Bakugo tore his arm out of Kirishima’s grip, then smacked him on the back of the head. “You’re a fuckin’ weirdo, you know that?” he barked out, suppressing a laugh. “Besides, that’s not even how that works.”

Kirishima shrugged. “Worth a try.”

“This is why you failed science in high school,” Bakugo snorted.

Kirishima was still arguing that he had been unfairly graded in science class (“Every science class?” Bakugo had asked) when the two of them reached the small gym. It was on the ground floor of a bigger building, not necessarily large, but tall, like most buildings in the area were. The gym itself was cozy, not really exclusive, but its members were more like a community, a family rather than a collection of random gym-goers. Bakugo liked it that way, and had convinced Kirishima to switch from the commercial gym he’d been a part of for the past year.

It was early in the morning, and while there were a few early risers like themselves that frequented the gym, today they were the first ones in the building. Being as tight-knit as it was, Bakugo and Kirishima had keys to open the gym whenever they pleased. They let themselves in and made their way to the locker room to change. Bakugo tore off his black hoodie and shoved it in his locker, revealing a very plain grey t-shirt that matched his grey and black gym shorts and black and white sneakers.

Kirishima, in comparison, had a slightly louder fashion sense. Unzipping his bright red sweatshirt revealed an equally bright red tank top that did a wonderful job of showing off his chest and broad shoulders. His gym shorts were, similar to Bakugo’s, an average dusty grey, while his maroon and white sneakers finished the ensemble.

Bakugo stuck a pair of earbuds in his ears, slipped his phone into the pocket of his shorts, and followed Kirishima to one of the squat racks in a far corner of the gym. Today was deadlift day. Nothing too hard, just some lighter reps for more volume and to help with his grip strength. Before Kirishima set himself up with the barbell to start warming up for his squats, Bakugo grabbed a second barbell from behind the rack, set it on the metal spotters, and loaded two large plates on either side.

With a quiet grunt, Bakugo lifted the barbell off the spotters and shuffled over to set it down next to the squat rack where he and Kirishima could lift side-by-side. He started off with a few light warm ups: positioned the bar midway over his feet, pulled back against its weight, straightened his back, and pushed his soles into the ground as the heavy barbell lifted up off the floor. He felt the pull in his hamstrings, the fullness of his lungs holding in a giant breath of air and the slight dizziness of holding that air in until it all came out in a whoosh after a couple reps.

Bakugo counted out ten quick reps, then took a minute’s rest to get some water at the drinking fountain. He returned, then added another 45-pound plate to each side of the barbell to start the actual work.

Even with his earbuds in and his music playing, Bakugo could still hear Kirishima next to him, whooping and grunting every so often. The two of them were usually courteous enough to be as quiet as possible whenever there were others in the gym, but since it was empty, they could let loose a bit this morning.

Bakugo bent down and adjusted his hands on the bar, the grippy crosshatched metal digging into his skin. He sucked a breath deep into his belly, bent down, back straight, and pulled. The barbell was heavy, but lifted with little resistance. Bakugo held his form for a second, two, three. He felt an itch in his palms, felt sweat trickling down his face, his forearms, into the creases between his fingers.

Suddenly, he felt the bar in his hands slip, his skin too slick to keep a tight grip.

“Fuck,” Bakugo muttered as his forearms strained to keep the bar up. “Fuck!” he shouted again as the bar slipped farther, and he felt the knurling grate against his palms.

And then, out of nowhere: a multitude of whip-like crackles, then an intense heat bloomed and spread through his arms. A bright flash of fiery orange-red, dark smoke enveloping his hands. An explosion, loud enough to shudder the squat rack that Kirishima was occupying, made louder by the accompanying thud of the barbell as Bakugo dropped all 225 pounds in an instant. The force of the explosion was enough to knock him back on his ass, and he rolled back a bit onto his shoulder to soften the blow. His palms buzzed with heat and energy, and even though the explosion seemed to have come from his very own hands, he felt no pain. Just an all-encompassing warmth that traveled up his forearms and left his heart racing.

Bakugo’s chest heaved as he stared at the barbell on the floor. Thin trails of smoke whisped and curled from his hands. Kirishima rushed to his side, eyes wide and terrified. “Holy fucking shit, Bakugo, are you okay? What the fuck happened?” He knelt down and placed a firm hand on Bakugo’s sweaty, trembling back.

“I have no fucking idea,” Bakugo breathed, his voice trembling as badly as his body. He swiped at his brow with his forearm and noticed that the sweat that had been dripping down his face a moment earlier had almost completely dissipated.

Kirishima sat down next to Bakugo, drew up his knees and rested his elbows atop them. “You hurt?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern. He regarded Bakugo, who glared intensely at his open palms.

“I…I don’t think so, but—Kirishima, my hands literally just exploded.”

A beat.

“Your hands—”

“Exploded, Kirishima. It sounds insane, I know, but I swear to god that’s what happened just now. I felt it.” Bakugo’s voice regained some of its strength. “When the bar slipped out of my hands, it like, ignited or something.”

“What did?” Kirishima asked cautiously.

“I think,” Bakugo said slowly, “it’s this stuff I’ve been sweating.”

Kirishima was silent, then carefully reached out to touch Bakugo’s hand. Bakugo recoiled immediately.

“Are you crazy, Shitty Hair?”

“Just relax, would you?” Kirishima rolled his eyes and grabbed Bakugo’s wrist, pulled it close to him, and brushed his fingertips across Bakugo’s open palm. Both boys stared at Bakugo’s hand, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, Kirishima seemed to noticeably deflate. “Well that was disappointing.”

“So you wanted me to incinerate your hand?”

Kirishima shrugged. “I dunno, I just…wanted to see if something would happen. But your hands didn’t feel sweaty at all, you know.”

Bakugo opened and closed his hands a couple times, brushing his fingers along the edge of his palm. Kirishima was right; all of the perspiration from earlier was practically gone.

“Something fucking weird is going on,” he muttered. He scrambled up off the floor, then held a hand out to Kirishima to hoist him up.

“Yeah,” Kirishima agreed as he let Bakugo pull him to his feet. “Between you and Uraraka, there’s something in the water these days, man.”

Uraraka. Bakugo pulled his phone from his pocket and saw, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that she had called recently. For reasons that Bakugo would later attribute to the mysterious workings of the universe at large, he knew he needed to call her back right then. He didn’t know why, but he just knew.

With a heavy thumb he tapped on the missed call notification and brought the phone to his ear. She picked up after one ring.

“Uraraka? Hey, I—”

The sinking feeling in his stomach bottomed out as she interrupted him, her voice shaking as badly as his had moments ago. “Bakugo, I need you to come over, right now.”

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Just get here as soon as you can. Please.”

Bakugo ended the call immediately and grabbed Kirishima hard by the arm. “We have to go,” he explained, forcing down the panicked edge in his voice. “Now.”

[tisfan]

All American Road Trip

Chapter One: Get out the Map | Chapter Two: (A Very Little) Leg Room | Chapter Three: (You’re) Gonna Sing the Words Wrong | Chapter Four: You Make Me Live | Chapter Five: Count Only Blue Cars

Chapter Six: Reignite Your Memory

Hey, wake up, your eyes weren't open wide For the last couple of miles you've been swerving from side to side You're gonna make me spill my beer, If you don't learn how to steer Passenger side, passenger side, I don't like riding on the passenger side --Passenger Side, Wilco

“Okay, so we have a spare,” Sam said, in that voice. Steve was getting ridiculously familiar with that voice. The one that vaguely reminded him of his mother, dead so very long ago. She’d had that same sort of fond, hands on her hips, look what this idiot has done, tone.

“I’m sensing a but, here,” Steve said. He set out the road flares.

“You’ve got one following you around,” Sam said. He leaned against the open trunk and gave Steve a long look, raking him up and down. “I mean, you could be one of those rap guys' girlfriends.”

“What?” Steve crinkled up his forehead.

“He means your ass is huge, Stevie,” Buck piped up. He was still poking around in the trunk and through their gear that they’d unloaded, as if extra looking would make a miracle happen.

“Nice, though,” Sam pointed out. “If you like that kinda ass. If that was the sort of ass you’d want to tap--”

Buck grabbed a crowbar out of the trunk and waved it threateningly in Sam’s direction, then scoffed, disgusted. “It’s a rap song, Stevie. Jesus Christ, you been awake like five years, ain’t you paid attention t’ nothin’?”

“Been a little busy saving the world, Buck,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest. He manfully resisted the urge to lean against the car as well so that Sam couldn’t see the ass he was commenting about. Steve wasn’t quite sure what was going on there; Sam had never flirted with Steve before. He had to assume, therefore, that Sam was doing it just to get under Buck’s skin.

(mobile users, beware the read more, or read the entire fic on A03)

Buck rubbed at the side of his face with his middle finger. “Too busy t’ listen t’ music? Too busy t’ read any books? Stevie, you ain’t livin’, you’re just survivin’.”

He was still working on a response to that with more class than “fuck you, too, pal” when Sam added, “He ain’t lyin’, Steve. You had a whole list of stuff you wanted to try, when we met. You ever make it through that list? You ever figure out what makes you happy?”

“Before we start on a general critique of my life, you think you can tell me what’s distressing about the tire?”

“No jack,” Buck said, succinctly. “Not a problem, really.”

Sam stopped giving Steve the “I’m waiting” look to flatly stare at Bucky. “What’s not a problem?”

“Car only weighs in ‘bout four thousand pounds,” Buck said, reasonably. “An’ you got two supersoldiers, s’long as you know how to change a damn tire--” Buck raised an eyebrow as if he wouldn’t be shocked to discover that Sam was, indeed, lacking in that skill “--we can hold up th’ car for a bit. Jus’ make sure you put on th’ parking brake.”

“You’re going to hold. Up. The. Car?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you pick up a car, Steve?” Sam asked, incredulous.

“Can? Yeah, I think so,” Steve said. He hadn’t ever exactly checked. There had been a whole list of tests that Erskine wanted to perform on him, after Project Rebirth went through; Steve had gotten a look at the list, and with a little concentration, even now, he could bring those things to mind. Some of them had been repetitions of tests that he’d done before they’d injected him, so there could be a direct comparison. How much did he weigh, how much could he deadlift. How long could he hold his breath? How far could he throw a five pound object?

There’d been other things, under Erksine’s heading of For Science that Steve wasn’t too sure of, either. Average sperm count. Refractory time. Performance issues? Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure there weren’t a group of scientists in a basement somewhere who still jerked it to his file. There’d been some photographs taken for that line of questioning, too. Steve wondered if Stark would be interested in helping him get those files back so Steve could burn them, or if Stark already had them. Steve’s mouth twitched a little.

“More a matter of getting th’ proper leverage,” Buck was saying when Steve tuned back into the conversation. “Ain’t like a car’s made t’ be picked up by the door--”

“--or the steering wheel,” Sam interrupted.

“If I said I’s sorry ‘bout that, would you let it die?” Bucky demanded.

“Ain’t likely,” Sam responded.

“Good. Because I ain’t sorry,” Bucky said, his mouth turning up at the corner, just a little. “But yeah, if Stevie an’ I can get a good grip, we can lift the car, no problem.”

“Yeah,” Steve added in, “When Bucky says don’t make him turn this car around, he means it.”

“You can pick up a car?” Sam turned that question on Bucky, this time. Repeating it, like he didn’t believe them. “Like, the whole car?”

“You wanna show him, pal, or should I?” Steve asked.

Buck sighed. He dropped to the ground, slithered under the car, and with a grunt, pushed the car up. He was balancing it, feet on the undercarriage, hands spread wide to hold the weight. “This ain’t the best position t’ lift for a tire, change, but yeah, I can lift the whole fuckin’ car.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam demanded. “I mean, fuck the muscles, man, you both got muscles, but how do your bones take that kind of stress.”

“Very well, thank you,” Steve said. “Put the car down and stop showing off.”

“Pick the car up, Bucky,” Buck said. “Put the car down, Bucky. Sheesh.”

“That should not even be possible,” Sam said.

Steve shrugged. He wasn’t the science guy; even though he’d had a pretty good brain before Erskine had started his experiments -- his dismal grades in school had reflected his many illnesses rather than his intelligence -- and afterward, he’d gotten a memory like a steel trap and the ability to see and analyze patterns, but he still didn’t understand Erskine’s thought patterns that had made Project Rebirth a success. He only knew what he could do, and half the time he didn’t even know that until he tried it.

He rather suspected Buck had been thoroughly tested. That his abilities were as well known to him as they had been to Hydra. He didn’t ask about that.

There were a lot of things that happened to Buck under Hydra’s control that Steve didn’t want to ask about. He was pretty sure those things would scar his soul.

It’s enough. We got him back.

He hadn’t said a word, but Buck seemed to have also developed some sort of ability to read Steve’s mind. Or maybe it was a gift, from having known each other so long. Buck put the car back on the ground, clawed his way out from under it, and patted Steve on the shoulder. “I’m okay, pal,” Buck said.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve responded, blowing out a breath. “Where do you want me to stand while we change this tire?”

Buck showed him where the jack-grooves were. “Lift there. An’ don’t pull too hard, or the a-frame’ll come right out an’ then we’ll be in trouble.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Steve said, mildly.

“Get ready t’ change the tire, fast as you can.”

Sam loosened the bolts and on a count of three, Steve and Buck lifted the car about a foot and a half to let Sam work on it.

The car wasn’t heavy. Not the way Steve had thought about heavy, back in the day when he weighed about ninety pounds with his clothes on, but it had also been a long, long time since Steve had felt anything heavy, or anything like muscle-strain.

The car was… just awkward. Holding it at a precision height, knees bent in a half-squat, fingers with the pads flat against the metal because he didn’t want to dig his nails into the material and rip it free. And knowing he probably could do those things, if he wanted to.

Had he ever, really, cut loose? Analyzed what he could do, just to see, and not because lives would be lost if he didn’t actually manage to jump across the factory floor while it was on fire?

“Don’t get any bright ideas, pal,” Bucky said. “I ain’t fixin’ to go fetch this piece o’ shit if you throw it halfway down the road, there.”

It's an itch we know we are gonna scratch Gonna take a while for this egg to hatch But wouldn't it be beautiful Here we are, we're at the beginning We haven't fucked yet, but my heads spinning Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you Why can't I speak whenever I talk about you It's inevitable, it's a fact that we're gonna get down to it So tell me Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you --Why Can’t I, Liz Phair

Supersoldiers were fucking show offs, Sam thought, resentment burning just a little in the back of his brain.

Wasn’t it bad enough that they were both drop-over gorgeous? Brilliant in combat, expert tacticians. Barnes was a marksman, beyond what any training should have compensated for. Sam had seen him take a shot without even looking, using his ears like some sort of sonar, triangulation shit, and how was that even fair?

And then there was the shared hivemind thing they had going on. Sam wondered if they even noticed that they were going it; sentences flowed from one of them to the other, even if Barnes was only commenting or agreeing with the subtle tips of his expression.

Sam was starting to feel seriously outclassed.

At least neither of the fuckers could fly.

Of course, neither could Sam, at the moment. His pack was still back at the Avenger’s Compound, waiting to the Accords celebration, waiting for a signature to say that everything Sam did for the rest of his life was going to be under the jurisdiction of most of the world.

He still wasn’t sure it was a good plan; in fact, Sam would be willing to say it was a pretty bad damn decision.

First off, as someone whose great-greats had come over to the Americas, collared and registered on a document as property, he didn’t have what you’d call happy, shiny feelings about being on any damn sort of registry, super-hero or otherwise.

Second, while Sam didn’t have any direct evidence that General Ross was under Hydra control, the man was absolutely not to be trusted. The number of human rights violations in the Sokovia Accords were staggering; and Ross just happened to have access to an enormous, submersible prison that no one knew about, right up until he threw half the Avengers into it without due process? Yeah, that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Sam continued to brood about the Accords while he worked the hubcap off the tire, listing all his arguments and reasons; much more articulate in his head than he ever managed to be in person, but one of the things Stark had done -- and Sam would probably rather cut his own tongue out than admit that he was relieved about it -- was get a whole team of lawyers on it. Just because the Accords were a global initiative didn’t mean that the United States Constitution didn’t apply. Just because it was convenient didn’t make it law.

He was going to lose his fucking mind when Steve reached out and grabbed the tire with one hand, working the torque backward against the crowbar when Sam was having a little trouble getting one of the bolts loose. Sam had to restrain himself from smacking Captain fucking America with a crowbar, because really? Really, Sam could change a goddamn tire on his own, without any--

Holy hell, how the fuck? Even?

Steve’s bicep bulged attractively.

“It was rusty,” Sam explained, like normal guys never had trouble with pickle jars and wrenches. But he got the flat off, and the spare on, and then Steve dropped the car. Sam jumped back, the crowbar clattering against the pavement and bouncing under the car.

There was a terrible shrieking sound of metal on metal, a tearing, grinding noise that set Sam’s teeth on edge and his eardrums on fire.

“Christ, Stevie, warn a guy,” Barnes said, holding up the rear bumper, that he apparently accidentally torn off. He folded the bumper up -- at least the older car was mostly made of metal instead of that fiberglass and plastic compound with built in crumple zones -- and tossed it off the side of the road like it was an empty fast-food cup.  

Sam stopped running his brain on that particular hamster track when Barnes used the collar of his tee to wipe sweat off his throat, the hem of his shirt riding up, showing off ridiculous abs and the dip in his hips… Jesus, Sam. Get a grip.

“You’ve got --” Steve pointed, and he was just making shit worse, because Barnes yanked his tee all the way up to scrub his face on it, showcasing that chest and lower back, and Sam really needed to not fall in lust with the unobtainables. There was a little somethin’-somethin’ going on with Steve and Barnes, and Sam was trying to stay out of the middle of it. That way lay heartbreak and possibly losing the best friend he’d had since Riley died.

But he wasn’t blind, and he couldn’t help but look.

Fuck.

“You best be havin’ an idea about what we’re going to do if now that you tossed our bumper,” Sam said, folding his arms over his chest.

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “Stealing a better car comes to mind.”

Let the heat of the sun Reignite your memory 'Cause if we just turn and run Let them fire the gun No I don't know why seasons change Or how we fell so far Before our hearts go up in flames Let's go throwing stones And stealing cars --Stealing Cars, James Bay

“Relax, Stevie,” he said. He laid his tools out on the cheap hotel room table. “I ain’t takin’ someone else’s money. This is Hydra cash, I’m just accessin’ it.” He reinforced the credit card with a few pieces of packing tape across the front.

“That’s someone else’s credit card, Buck,” Steve pointed out.

Idiot; like he didn’t know that, he was the one who lifted it from the tourist family who was checking in before them. He held up one shiny metal finger. “Ain’t attached to their account anymore, I jus’ need somethin’ to swipe.” He slid the magnet over the card a few times, degaussing the strip. “You got that number for me, Wilson?”

“I don’t even wanna know why this stuff’s public information,” Wilson commented, handing over the notepad where he’d written the codes.

The night clerk probably wouldn’t miss the strip-encoder that they’d liberated from behind the desk; not until check out, at least. There were a few of them, for high turnover time at the hotel, but it was unlikely that all three would be required at once, and the device was portable. Chances were good the clerks wouldn’t even notice it was missing at all. And he’d put it back, the next day.

He entered the new credit information onto the strip-encoder and then ran the hotel card key over it, imprinting it with the account; an old Hydra slush fund for high level executives. That one was one of Pierce’s old funds, where he slid extra campaign money and used for various bribes -- as well as some of his little luxuries -- that he’d managed to retain after Insight. Only Pierce and a handful of his top agents had known about the account at all, so he wasn’t worried about being tracked down by accessing the funds.

Painting down the old stripe with clear fingernail polish kept any residual information from seeping through the card-reader and a few slices with a razor and he transferred the magnetic strip from their hotel card-key onto the back of the credit card. He pressed, using the sealant of the polish to hold the new strip in place

He took the finished product and heated it in the microwave for a moment to bond the tape and polish together.

“Shiny new credit card,” he said, handing it off to Steve. “With almost as much funding as a Stark account. Now… go buy us a new car, hmm?”

“What about getting our old car fixed?” Steve crossed his massive arms over his massive chest and looked massively disapproving.

“Consider it backpay for puttin’ Insight outta commission, if ya gotta, Stevie,” he said. “Th’ money’s there, ya might as well use it. Ain’t nobody with better intentions gonna have access to it.”

“And we’ve already pissed off our regular mechanic,” Wilson piped up. He’d been fascinated by the whole process, that gap-toothed smile sneaking out when he thought no one was looking.

Steve flicked an angry look in Sam’s direction. “I’m not asking Tony for help.”

“Which is why you’re gonna use Hydra funds t’ get us a new car,” he said.

“If you hadn’t ripped the bumper off our old car--”

He turned Steve in the direction of the door. “Car.”

Wilson waited a bit longer than strictly necessary before turning to him. “You’re smooth,” Wilson admitted. “Tell me, didja rip th’ muffler off on purpose?”

He was getting practice with the whole rolling-the-eyes thing. “This was a dumb damn idea t’ start with,” he said. “Can’t believe you said yes t’ a six week long road quest with Captain America.”

Wilson’s arms were less awe-inspiring than Steve’s, but he’d mastered the unimpressed look. “I’m not the only one who coulda put a kibosh on this.”

“You think I ever had any influence over what Steve does?” He shook his head. “Not even when he was so tiny I could sling ‘im over my shoulder an’ cart him away. Steve always was a stubborn cuss.”

One of Wilson’s eyebrows achieved altitude and the side of his mouth twisted. “What’s your plan, soldier?”

“Thought Steve was the man with a plan?”

“You calculatin’,” Wilson accused. “Ever’thing about this op’s been on your dime, since the words left Steve’s mouth.”

He gave Wilson a quick nod, respectful. “You’re a sharp one.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Wilson agreed. “Except around a direct question. What are you up to?”

“You know what happens to a pocketwatch, when gets overwound?”

Wilson puffed out his cheeks and made a soft explosion noise.

“Thing is, you can’t tell. Steve’s… man, Steve’s runnin’ on empty,” he said. “Man’s been done, years now. An’ they keep callin’ him back. An’ he can’t help but go. If Stark asked him t’ stay, he would’ve. What happened in Siberia, that shouldn’t have happened. The Steve I knew, he wouldn’t never have done that. He’s broken already. Ain’t that I’m tryin’ to keep him from breakin’. He’s already done that.”

Wilson nodded, reluctantly. “So, what’s this?”

“Little bit of peace,” he said. “Him, you, me, open road.”

There went the dubious eyebrows again. “You and I ain’t never gonna be a little bit of peace, hoss.”

He chuckled, letting his wry amusement show. “Little problems,” he said. “Little solutions. Somethin’ he can do, an’ fix. Be annoyed with me. He’ll sleep better. Hell, sleep at all. You’ll see.”

Wilson was nodding slowly. “When I first met him, I asked him what made him happy. Said he didn’t know.” Wilson shot him a long, knowing look. “That’d be a different answer now, wouldn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. There’s a lot of road between us an’ that bridge we burned down. Leastways, I aim to see if it grows again.”

“I… I won’t get in the way of that,” Wilson said.

He shook his head. “You can’t. Not between us. There’s more there than either of us can ever put aside. But Steve’s got a big heart, Wilson. More’n I can fill. Don’t… I ain’t possessive. I ain’t gonna warn you off. If--” he trailed off, not sure how to express it. Steve… Steve needed to be needed. And he… both did and did not need Steve.

“What?”

“My comin’ back messed things up for him. He was gettin’ over me. Maybe not so easy. An’ this… well, this is just a grade A clusterfuck, ain’t it? What I’m sayin’ is, this didn’t have to mess things up for you.”

Those were more words than he’d used in a long time, and he was done. He started cleaning up the scraps and tape and polish from building up the false credit card. Steve should be back soon, and this conversation… was over.

[kiara-shannon]

Do you have any tips on how to set up a half marathon training plan that incorporates strength workouts as well? This is gonna be my second half but I wanna build muscle and run at the same time. And I don't even know what kind of strength exercises to do like lifting ot more interval body weight? I just love mixing things up but also wanna run

Hello!! Great question 👍🏼👍🏼

Generally a good half marathon training plan will be about 12 weeks long. Because you’ve done one before I’m guessing you’ve got a fairly good base which is an awesome time to add in some strength training. Generally what I like to do is lift/strength train twice a week, so for instance like Tuesday and Thursday, during the middle weeks of my training to ramp intensity without taxing my legs (maybe like weeks 3-8/9). And then when I’m tapering I back off the lifting to not over work my legs or make them sore.

Since you’re new to strength training I’d start with more body weight exercises to begin to learn proper form before adding in weight. My go to exercises are squats, lunges (forward and side), calf raises, single leg deadlifts (for strength and balance), push-ups, pull-ups, and then of course all the ab exercises :)

Once you’ve kinda got those down start to work up into using weights! YouTube tutorials are great for learning proper form (which I very very high key recommend because improper form is a great way to injure yourself). With weights I add in bench press, shoulder presses, bicep curls, deadlifts, and power cleans. And then I add weights to both the squats and lunges.

That’s a lot of exercises there, if you don’t know any of them definitely let me know or you can always just do a quick google search. I generally like to super set exercises so for instance I’ll do something like:

3x10 bench press3x10 each leg calf raises

And I’ll alternate between the two to not over tire my arms or legs. I know some serious lifters who will do just one day devoted to arms or one to legs but I just do everything all at once because I don’t ever do too much but that’s up to you.

I hope this helps! Sorry if it was kinda long/confusing.

Best of luck with your half and feel free to reach out if you need anything else ❤️

[seouliloquy]

Futsal, and yesterday’s Monday PT with Coach hrrrrrrrr

Saturday was FC Elise’s first 친선 with 동덕여대, our friends over at Wolgok. They have in indoor futlas court (almost like playing indoor soccer back in the day because it was a hard court not a turf court) and we played for 2 and a half hours. Most of us have been pretty sedentary during the vacation, and also haven’t played futsal in a LONG time, which is a really fast paced quick back and forth game. So i was pretty worn out at the end of it. it felt so good though. i’m getting a lot better at ball handling.   So I’ve been going to the gym regularly for about 2 months now, at least 3 times a week i’d say. I’m lifting weights and i’m really getting into it. 

I had asked my team’s new director/coach for some tips since he’s certified in PT on some exercises that i could incorporate into my workout that are not just good for strength and aesthetics/weight loss but sport specific, to improve my performance and endurance for soccer. 

So he suggested doing a kind of group PT at our school’s other gym in the 418 building, since he knows the grad students who manage it. So a few of us met at 10am yesterday and did some lower body exercises. most stuff i already do or mix in sometimes, and he knew that, so of course when he handed everyone a dumbbell to try the exercise with a weight he hands them the pink dumbbells and then to me 2 5kg ones like “here you go kaela i already know you can handle this with no problem.”

i’m not embarrassed by that, since i kinda like that i’m strong. i probably could have done a heavier weight but lighter is better for correcting form. but i still felt kind of crappy. especially watching myself during exercises like jump squats while my whole midsection and chest jiggled all over the place. i hate jumping because of my breasts being all floppy and crap. there is nothing cool about being busty. i don’t care what anyone says. i want the jiggle to be gone asap. 

i’m quite obviously stronger than everyone on my team. I can squat almost my own weight (which is overweight so think about that) and i’ve managed to succeed a deadlift max of 35kg so far. Which is a great accomplishment for me but my teammates struggled with bodyweight squats or holding an ez bar on their shoulders, and I can sprint 20m in 6 seconds. 

Everyone starts somewhere. so i’m not judging them for being ‘weak.’ they didn’t play sports growing up like i did and have different dietary habits and metabolisms and genes and cultural expectations about their bodies. 

but it doesn’t make me feel better being stronger because i’m still fatter than the others and not as fast or quick footed. i don’t want to be scrawny or thin but i definitely should be down at least 10kg... :( 

and when my favorite dongsaeng is like “i wanna lose weight” and she’s like tiny as fuck and i keep trying to tell her that she just needs to gain muscle and balance because she keeps getting pushed around on the field and doesn’t know how to start-stop sprinting without falling over like a rag doll. She’s already had a bad knee injury and her scar keeps splitting open when she falls so i wish she would listen to me in that respect instead of always just jumping on the treadmill and not doing anything else. like i said, she’s my favorite dongsaeng and we’re really close. 

but, either way i’m glad we had this sort of PT session. The other girls plan to do it monday wednesday and fridays, so i’ll just keep going to the other gym that i’ve already paid for and am accustomed to (also has a squat rack. 418 building doesn’t bleh) on my own and join them again next time our coach offers to teach us some other exercises. 

i need to lose weight AND fat. the others just need to gain muscle and burn some fat to get leaner and stronger. so i gotta put more effort on my part. my biggest problem is diet. i eat a lot of carbs...bread and rice...cause it’s what i can get on the go more easily. and i probably underestimate my calories terribly because i haven’t lost even a hundred grams in ages. 

so i’m thinking maybe i should still go to the gym for my upper body workout today before practice in the evening. Since i didn’t go to my gym yesterday, i feel annoyed if i don’t go today too just because i’m already going to be exercising for practice in the evening (freezing cold zero degrees, no less ugh) because i’m paying for it. 

ok, yeah. i’ve decided. i’m just gonna go workout. it won’t kill me and i can just go straight to practice so my body will already be pretty warm up.