#when these fucking machines get trained to steal from us to do our job for us for less money and way less soul?

[discoshhtick]

Only very close to crying thinking about how it seems like all the fucking websites are thinking of launching some type of system to feed all the images uploaded onto them to an AI learning system. It's so beyond fucked that this is what artists today have to fight against, just to be seen we risk getting our shit stolen by greedy capitalist machines

[berry-s0da]

AI “art”

Yesterday I argued with an idiot that thought giving directives to an AI makes you as much of an artist as someone that is actually capable of creating art. It’s extremely worrying that our youth is so incapable of understanding this topic, too self absorbed on their own rigid conception of reality and utterly detached from the real world and the importance of the people you share it with, of consequences, of tangibility. They don’t know how to define art, such a core concept for our species, they are unaware that it’s an exclusively human practice a machine cannot produce by itself or for them.

Some of Oxford Language Learner's Dictionary definitions if you want tangible sources for something that has existed for longer than any piece of technology;

Definition of an Artist: a person who creates works of art, especially paintings or drawings.

3 definitions of Art:

1) the use of the imagination to express ideas or feelings, particularly in painting, drawing or sculpture.

2) the skill of creating objects such as paintings and drawings, especially when you study it.

3) an ability or a skill that you can develop with training and practice.

(defining a piece through words could turn into literature, writing is an outlet for creativity and imagination too, the problem is that they want to claim a graphic piece they had no part on as their creation…which makes no sense for obvious reasons. This might blow your mind but you actually have to be involved in the making of a piece in order for it to be an artist. Writing a brief description of what you want the AI to make for you is not a form of creation, it’s a directive for a machine to do what you can’t)

If you don’t have mental resources, talent, skills, capacity of handling different tools, mediums and techniques then you are not an artist (and that’s okay), but you could be if you tried. Writing a prompt is not making art, everyone with enough mental capacity can come up with a concept for a piece, people that commission artists do that and that doesn’t automatically make them artists.

An AI won’t do shit the way you request it even if you say it does. An AI makes an interpretation of the request but asides from mild guidance, you have absolutely nothing to do with the process or the final “piece” (Frankenstein monster of already existing pieces, taken with or without consent).

An AI without regulation isn’t a new medium or something comparable to the fucking Industrial Revolutionjust, specially considering it isn’t a new, easier way to do the same task (like with an art software). It’s but a shameless way of reusing or straight up stealing pieces produced by the same artists you deem to be now useless and outdated. What you call the future is nothing but plagiarism, the usage of things that already existed in a much higher quality, a wonky replica that is only valued because it’s free for your cheap ass.

“Good artists have nothing to worry about, only shitty artists will disappear” im sorry you have to find out this way but every good artist had to be shit first. We reached a point where we are unaware of periods of time any artist needs in order to grow and develop. This logic is baffling because if only good artists are worth of being respected and having stable jobs then we’ll eventually run out of artists, which is not only silly but impossible. This is but an excuse to avoid the obvious issue that represents stepping over people and making it seem as a fair, natural process.

Finally, If you wanna draw, learn to draw first, nobody stops you but yourself. If you wanna paint learn to paint, if you wanna sculpt, learn to sculpt, if you wanna be an artist then get your ass to work. Not everything is laid out for you in life, you actually have to put work into something, as shocking as it sounds. There are people that draw masterpieces holding pencils on their mouths, you have no excuse other than self pity for being useless, being jealous of those that can actually make things and, ultimately, the unreserved, unapologetic disinterest in those affected by this monster y’all wanna have fun with.

[hoperays-song]

Sing 1 Commentary and Review Pt. 3

Welcome back to the madness loves!!! Also, I tried to tone down the commentary so I get further in the movie this time. Is this an elaborate plan to distract me from my fic being with my beta reader? Yes! Am I using it for content? Also yes! Enjoy!

Yes, I am trying to restrain myself more this time, it's hard.

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Guys, guys, guys, here me out here... I think Barry minds.

Also, headcanon I'm not sure I ever mentioned on here before but the reason Barry minds Johnny taking his spot isn't jealousy of being passed over but because he didn't want his honorary nephew to have a larger role in the gang than he already did. He was trying to protect him.

HERE. This is the moment where Marcus confirms they were going to stop stealing after this last heist. They were legit only doing it out of necessity because the needed money.

(aka my debt theory is going strong bwahahaha)

Ok but the way Marcus looks at Stan and Barry when Johnny storms off, just his face of "that's weird right? or is it normal teenage angst? what's going on?" is so funny. He's so lost.

Also, I genuinely believe that Johnny might have been planning on telling his family about the singing here (he comes back much later but seems still really hyped up like he was getting the confidence to do so) but didn't when he was given the role of getaway driver. Even if it was just for one job, it clearly made him feel way less seen as a person and like he was a disappointment for not fitting into the mold of who he thinks his father wants him to be (the queer metaphor is still going hard I see, lovely).

👏 Relationship👏  Counseling👏 

Engineer Rosita My Beloved!!!! <3

This woman definitely has at least two masters degrees in mechanical engineering because the machine she made is something out of Willy Wonka.

So... there either were intake forms where they all listed their talents and Johnny put down a skill he hadn't done since he was little or... Buster legit just asked this teenager to learn an skill that takes years upon years of training in like a month. For some weird reason, i'm leaning towards the latter and Johnny having experience is a coincidence.

Horrified Punk Rocker™️

I completely forgot that Meena wrote out what she was gonna say to Buster on her hand. I love that and I will be including it everywhere.

Also, unrelated, but Buster is on his second felony of the movie right now and we barely are passed the 30 minutes mark. Not to mention the numerous misdemeanors.

And, the workshop where they build their props in apparently on the second floor according to Buster. That seems like you're making more work for yourself with all the moving up and down but, you know, you do you.

Mike puntable moments counter: 19

He really does not think things through does he?

Lance puntable moments counter: 17

Dude, she's your girlfriend, for fucks sake, be supportive!!!! It's not rocket science over here!!!

Johnny making fun of his dad and exaggerating his accent will never not be funny to me. He's acting like a regular teenager, not a gang member, and it's both adorable and hysterical.

Judith has arrived!!! We love characters who are actually just trying to do their jobs here. Like imagine being the bank representative assigned to Buster freaking Moon. You'd be pissed off too.

... Gay. That's the only commentary I can add here. That's very gay.

Gunter, the chaos enabler, Rosita, the chaos handler, and Caspar, the chaos.

You just know as soon as Caspar got home he was begging him mom to let him hang out with the fun dance guy again.

Johnny's over here going through the nine stages of grief about his singing career.

Also, do we know why Johnny was called away this time? Because they weren't planning any heists in between the one we have already seen and the failed one to our knowledge. So, was he actually called back because of something to do with the garage? It would technically be a family business thing then after all.

Ash, I am so sorry. About everything you go through in this movie. So sorry. You get adopted by a crazy guy and an old rockstar by the end of the next movie if it's any comfort (probably not but worth a shot).

Also, their apartment is huge!!! How are they affording that when struggling to find and keep gigs???

Lance puntable moments counter: 27

I am once again reminded that the mob canonically exists here and Mike thought cheating them was a good idea?!?

Mike puntable moments counter: 23

The last moments those poor flowers had. RIP.

The dramatic music that appears whenever she does is honestly amazing. And I love how she just seems to despise Buster on principal here.

But the fact that Eddie's grandmother knows Buster? And a fair bit about his life? Eddie has definitely mentioned him and also Buster went to Eddie's graduation!! That's so sweet, you know he was one of those people who make huge posters of their loved ones faces and their degree.

This, my lovely gentlefolk and assorted cryptids, is what a bad idea looks like!

Ok, we have arrived to the failed heist. Now personally, I would have just pretended to be sick so that Buster would have let me go without worrying about the show. That way my role in the show would be safe while I would also be out of debt, win-win. However, that's clearly not what happened here.

I stand with the fact that this could have been easily avoided but I do not solely blame Johnny here. He's a kid. Kids make mistakes all the time. He just made a mistake. Was it a bigger mistake than a lot of people's? Yes, but it was still a mistake. He is not at fault here.

As for the gang, smart move on their part to immediately surrender. That way they lessened their sentence by not resisting arrest. Also, Marcus looks genuinely worried when he realises Johnny is not there, and I completely understand that. He has no idea where his son is and there's police everywhere, he's bound to be panicked.

Rosita is amazing. I love her, she's so sweet.

Ok, genuinely forgot about Gunter and Rosita's fight at the dress rehearsals.

Also, Mike puntable moments counter: 25

Ok, I feel like we missed a part of this conversation. We jump right to Marcus asking where Johnny was and looking pissed. I can almost guarantee that that conversation did not start like that. Marcus and Johnny are shown to be close, despite their communication issues. He's going to be upset, yes, but he's still gonna be worried about his kid. Marcus definitely asked if Johnny was ok or arrested or sick first.

Also, ouch. This scene hurts. The overall message of familiar rejection for you just trying to be yourself, of who you actually are is not good enough? It makes me sob every single time. This is just insanely painful.

(Yes, this is a central part of Johnny's story being queer coded and as someone who had a similar situation happen when I came out, I'm just saying it's very realistic).

Then the stealing bit afterwards being reference for pushing yourself into who others want you to be to feel love? And Johnny choosing even then it's better if he is his actual true self? Amazing, perfection, true cinema.

This is the emptiest grocery store I've ever seen in my entire life. Seriously. Is anyone other than these two there? I'm guessing a cashier but I don't see one.

Also this security dude is an amazing hype man, just cheering and blasting music.

Buster, stop encouraging kids to commit felonies. I know you're on three now but seriously man???

WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND GAVE THIS GREMLIN A BLOWTORCH?!?!?!?! ARE YOU TRYING TO DESTROY SOCIETY???? Also, Meena and Buster were renovating the theatre at the same time as Johnny was practicing with Mrs. Crawly. I completely forgot they were there at the same time?

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This is taking way longer than I thought but hey, it's time consuming!

Be back in a few (these take a bit to edit sorry)! - <3 Gooseless

[skullshoal]

Ok lol talking about the job I quit

So I didn't outright say it but I had to report them to OSHA because they made me clean up a biohazard with no training and no equipment. I worked in housekeeping at a condo resort and a guest broke a shower door and I was told to clean up the bloody glass. Afterwards OSHA made them right up a big letter and hold a meeting about how we are no longer allowed to clean biohazards and then ultimately nothing changed because when we asked if we could get sterile gloves and training on how to deal with biohazards because we were constantly getting them back in the laundry (which was processed on sight by us and a large part of the job despite never being mentioned on my job listing description lmao) they gave us a biohazard bin to dispose of stuff and nothing else. We got like.......blood and shit and piss and barf on sheets and towels constantly. Also I worked here during the monkeypox outbreak and had to convince my coworkers to even wear gloves when handling the dirty laundry in the first place. I strained my back from loading a washing machine and when I tried to go to the doctor I was denied after waiting an hour and a half because it was "supposed to be" workers comp and I hadn't gotten permission from my work place to be seen and it was sooooooo upsetting it sucked so bad. And then I was told to return to work on light duty even though I could hardly walk or stand straight and I told the doctor there is no sitting position at my work and he literally was just like ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯. When I returned I went back to normal work after like a day and it definitely did not help.

Also the whole place was so fucking racist oh my god. Unsurprisingly but I hated it the only poc were me and another housekeeping person and then all the contracted cleaners are Latino. And they were treated like shit they paid them the lowest in our area and had unreasonable expectations. Also one condo owner in particular was a huge racist and kept accusing her assigned cleaning company of being bad at their job and stealing stuff and when we did deep cleans during the winter she emailed out manager and said I spoke with your singular white cleaner (and not her black superior in the company she did not own) and we agreed she should do the deep clean so do it instead. I printed out the email here it is.

Oh also during deep cleans which are a week long and more than triple the price of a normal clean they started taking away units from companies who had been working in them all year long and didn't tell them to give them to another company. Our managers would not speak to them and one time one of our cleaners came in crying and the non management housekeeping had to tell her what was happening instead of LITERALLY ANYONE IN CHARGE.

Ever since the OSHA report they were like ohhhh we need to get ready cause their could be a surprise inspection anytime and came to find out MDMS sheets for the DANGEROUS CHEMICALS we used to process laundry were last updated at 2010 the latest and 2003 the earliest. 19 years out of date. Btw of course we didn't store them properly either :) here are pictures I took of the inside of house keeping. Oh yeah also we used pilot light dryers and there was no carbon monoxide alarm in this room. Also halfway through me working there we found out that one of the two fire alarms didn't even work. And no sprinklers!

Yes that is our only eyewash station and yes it did expire in 2019 😊. The Ceiling leaked and in multiple places mold grew that we had to keep spraying with bleach. All those open five gall buckets? They say to store in locked containers and keep them sealed. Yes we were breathing in evaporated hydrogen peroxide. And as you can see the walls of this room are lined with towels sheets and blankets all the way to the ceiling.

Anyway the reason I quit was the last day I worked there we were pulled into a meeting suddenly where our manager told us that everytime she was mad at us she added it to a list and now she was going to give us this list as our job guides. Because we had been saying "that's not my job too much". There are 2 dedicated maintenance departments of that property and they were sending me and my coworkers to fix a leaking shower, lift 50-90 lb packages that had been delivered to units containing freezers and chairs, change lightbulbs, and fix windows with 0 tools or training. We were in that meeting for over an hour and at the end she gave us all a write up for something that happened two weeks ago and we were never even told was a problem. My direct manager was there the whole time and said not one word in support of us despite verbally agreeing with us on all these issues. Oh and also she and my coworker had been getting into explosive fights on the reg that were giving me panic attacks. My coworker refused to work in the dangerous weather during a hurricane and my direct manager said "you aren't allowed to tell me what you are and aren't going to do." :) And by explosive I mean screaming and crying.

So yeah. There's like one billion other things but that's all for now I'm done I just started thinking about it this morning and thought I should share.

[loveinstreams]

silver + charlie adamo/hank mccain

“I should get you a ring.”

Hank almost crashed the car on the side of the road.

“What?” He squeaked. “The hell you’re talking about? “ He scoffed, giving Charlie the side-eye while trying to hide his confusion. The other man merely shrugged. “Well, he started, any proper gang leader has one. Makes them look rich and important and intimidating, especially if it’s one of those big chunky rings. Makes you wonder what kinda mark it’s gonna leave when he punches you, y’know?” There was a small grin over his lips and Hank mirrored it.

“Don’t think I wanna look like that fat Italian Don you used to work for.”

“Of course not. But to be fair I don’t think you’d pull it off even if you tried, shorty.” Hank tried to smack him with his hand, eyes on the road. He was still smiling though.

“Ok smartass, why the fuck would I wear a ring anyway?”

“It would help us I think. Make it seem like there’s more than just the three of us on those heists. Like you could have a whole crew behind your back ready to pounce.” Hank wanted to argue that they didn’t need to. That it was good enough like it was. Just him, Charlie and Rosemary against the rest of the world. But somehow Hank couldn’t bring himself to say it. Something in the way Charlie was staring at him on the passager seat. In the way he felt his palm sweat over the leather of the wheel at the thought of Charlie wanting to buy him a fucking ring.

“How do you even plan to get that ring?” He asked instead.

“Hummm, I have a few ideas.” He sounded like he was talking about something else than jewel robbery, somehow. Hank couldn’t figure what though, but who the fuck talks about stealing precious goods in that kind of voice? Hank tried to not to go down that train of thought.

“I don’t know, man.” He chuckled nervously. “Besides, what would Rosemary think?“ He shot Charlie a smirk, trying to joke, but the man just hummed pensively. “Guess I’ll have to ask her too.”

Hank didn’t know how he felt about that.

—

A few weeks goes by, they continue their business as usual and Hank had forgotten everything about that stupid ring. Until Charlie drops a little red box on the bed beside him one late afternoon.

“What is that?” He asks, looking away from the machine gun he’d been polishing.

“It’s for you, Charlie says, almost sheepishly, got it after our last job.” Hank shots him a questioning look. How the hell did you manage without me noticing?, he wants to ask, but then remembers Rosemary and how good she is to hide things from him. God dammit.

He puts down his gun and takes the little box in his hands.

“Go on.” Charlie whispers, encouraging.

Hank opens it.

It’s silver. That’s the first thing he notices. It’s silver and round and shines so fucking bright. When the light hits it just right Hank thinks it could blind someone. It’s not big though, it looks small and elegant, with no fancy design or anything. But it’s been polished in a way that makes it reflective all around.

“Here, Charlie says again after a few seconds of silence. Let me-“ He sits down besides Hank on the bed, taking the little red box from his hands and Hank cannot fucking talk, doesn’t know how to, because Charlie is pulling the ring out and taking Hank’s hand in his own and ever so gently he-

The ring slides perfectly on his finger.

“How’s it?” Charlie asks, almost whispering.

Hank moves his fingers, feeling the weight of it, how it hugs just right. How it just seems to be made for him.

“How did you-?” He can’t finish the question but Charlie winks. “Well I can’t tell you all my tricks, boss.”

They both snort at that, letting go a bit of the tension between them.

“Guess I’m gonna have to act a Don now.” Hank chuckles, still not looking at him. “Nahh, Charlie says, still too short for that.”

They fall in comfortable silence. Hank can’t stop staring at the ring, transfixed by its polished shine. The smooth surface twinkles when Hank moves his hand. Even here, on his calloused finger, the silver band looks pretty and…pure.

“Do you like it?” There’s something in Charlie’s voice, hidden behind his usual assurance. Shyness. Anxiety. Hank’s words are stuck in his throat again. He can’t talk about this, doesn’t know how to, doesn’t have the skills or even the fucking knowledge. He’s better with actions, gestures. Kissing Rosemary is always easier than telling her.

So Hanks nods. That seems to satisfy Charlie who grin, says he’s glad and starts to get up. Hank stops him by the wrist.

“Charlie-“ he starts, but the other man raises a hand to stop him.

“You don’t have to say it.” His smile has turned soft around the edges. “I know.”

He lets go, turning to the door and leaves Hank there with his silence.

—

The next day, when Rosemary sees the touch of silver on his hand she doesn’t say anything, but happiness is written all over her face. And when Hank sees the same warmth in Charlie’s eyes, he welcomes it and smiles back.

[lanatusnebula]

Alt take on AI (plus bonus ramble)

AI sucks ass.

Ok.

So with that being established, there's one site I do think about using sometimes. "This Person Does Not Exist", right. FUNNY STORY about that one.

Normally, like 10 or so years ago, I used to use a tumblr site called "humanae" to reference real faces to practice drawing humans. It helped a lot because there were a lot of different ethnicity and people that had deformations and variations etc- just generally a very educational site from an artistic point of view. Naturally I think the site was getting traffic by a number of other artists or something behind the scenes happened and it went full paywall. Just links to paid stuff. I think it was some sort of photography project that showed off the diversity of mankind and now they wanted money for it.

And I'm cheap. Real cheap. Dangerously cheap. I'm broke and I know I'll be that way until I get a better occupation. So I didn't pay, thus, I didn't get to use their resource. Fair enough.

But in the end it got harder to find faces to draw from because things I used search engines to find ended up being heavily edited to hide blemishes to the point of being noticeable. It was getting difficult to draw *people* and just generally became a resource I didn't look up for a long while. Like... what.. 8 years?

I used to play with the This Person Does Not Exist generator a lot when it was younger of a program thing, and had hilarious glitches that made eldritch monsters. Now that it has blown up, I think the thing can actually be a great reference too? Maybe some of the humans aren't quite as human as a real human would be, but there's enough diversity for me to use it to practice drawing faces of random ethnicity and ages. I just thought I'd ramble about that.

I know AI is stealing stuff and art websites are getting good deals and are being payed to let them take our shit. And honestly I think we're getting to a point where the financial benefits to the sites to betray artists outweighs the amount of distress the artists express. ANd there are individuals that manually steal art from artists on 1-on-1 conversations in order to train machines. I don't think it's a battle we can truly win.

I did like the approach some artists had to just either clean up AI art or use it as a stepping stone to improving their own art.

If anything, I'm settling. I've been in denial for so long. It's either I stay obscure with my poor skill level, or I improve and become noticeable enough for someone to jack my art style. There's no winning. I wanted to stop drawing overall due to the hopeless outlook I had on life. But I do know there are some things AI can't draw quite yet. (fucking megaman characters outside of classic for one LOL) And some people really do like the "handmade" side of art - just as they do for crafts. I obviously don't make enough to create a stable financial income off of my art, and I do feel like quitting and putting my all into a 9-to-5 job is the smarter route.

But I don't know. It's like an addiction. I like creating fanart that doesn't already exist, something that doesn't feed into mainstream because it's too obscure or weird. "Become the change you want to see" type of practice, except it's just for selfish reasons. Nothing noble - just self-indulgence. LIke wanting to make Grey and Reg eating pizza in a Rainforest Cafe. I could do it with enough dedication, and it'd be the first of its kind. And I think the novelty of doing like "-insert game-'s first fanart" or first r34 is freaking hilarious. It's stupid and it's fun.

If I gotta jack someone's AI and use it as a reference, I might. Most of the styles that I see AI stealing aren't quite the kinds of art styles I'd use myself. Painted animes and westernized furry stuff. I'm kind of in this weird space with a lot of other obscure artists where the art style doesn't really have a word or a clear leaning into any specific genre. I'm not trying to say "my art is super duper unique and i'm not like the other girls" - it's just that I don't know what to call it.

But then again I haven't exactly posted what my style looks like. I'm just doing style mimicry. It's not much better than an AI, some of the stuff I'm making - I still copy someone else's art style (Toru Nakayama is my bitch of choice I guess??????? and I do a poor job at it when I attempt LOL)

I forgot why Iwas here.

[anika-ann]

Just a Human (S.R.)

Type: mini-series turned one-shot, SHIELD recruit!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word count: 8750

Summary: Being a SHIELD recruit was a dream come true, especially with people like Sergeant Barnes or Captain Rogers offering an input to your class’ training.

It was also hard work for many different reasons. One of them being all those guys around; not all of them were exactly fit to become heroes, simply because they were not good people.

Maybe you shouldn’t have pointed it out so openly though. Then again, what would the world turn into if you kept your mouth shut when feeling like speaking up?

WARNINGS: so-so graphic description of assault almost turned sexual, violence and a bit of blood, boys being boys in a real bad way, language

A/N: Steve Rogers vs assholes, round 2. Also, ‘you’ vs. assholes. And Bucky in the mix.

A/N: This was originally posted as a miniseries on AO3, but now edited, I decided to thrown it in as a long, sort-of three part one-shot. Enjoy and mind the warnings.

(gif source dailymcugifs, divider by firefly-graphics)

A Handful of Spite

“Can you believe the fucking nerve on him?!” Henry hissed, punching the bag harder and catching your attention. The statement was followed by his companion nodding grimly.

You tried to ignore the walking testosterone jerks; you never liked either Henry or Jim. The reason was simple – they were, as you loved to remind people, an advertisement on toxic masculinity. Bullies on top of that. The kind of people you wanted to avoid at all costs.

You weren’t that lucky to have that chance though.

So instead, you scoffed under your breath and continued your sit-ups series. You had more important things to do than wonder about what they were talking about this time.

It was your regular training session with the other SHIELD recruits led by Sergeant Barnes – which--- oh my. When joining the academy, you had no clue that the director’s ‘you’ll be learning from the best’ meant that of all things; trained by the more-than-once-believed-late James Buchanan Barnes. Everyone here knew his story – or at least some of it. The brainwashing. The murders. His heroics to make up for them as much as he could. His everlasting friendship and a nickname that was tied to it. Bucky; the very best friend of the oh-so-praised Captain America.

Oh, speaking of which, he joined the sessions too. You were being trained by not one, but two supersoldiers slash war heroes. You couldn’t believe this was your life sometimes, but you were not one to dwell on it. You just accepted it as a fact. An abso-fucking-lutely incredible fact.

“He’s just a fucker, man. Forget about Barnes, you have Cassie in your pocket. Just ‘cause he’s all sticky sweet on her doesn’t mean she’ll suck his-“

You made a disgusting face, pushing harder to tune out the conversation. You wanted to gag and at the same time, your blood was boiling.

Could there be a jerk who was objectifying women more than Jim? A guy who was using his lower brain more frequently than him? Doubtful. You really wanted to throw up at rubbish that was leaving his mouth.

Not to mention that he was throwing dirt on Sergeant Barnes who absolutely didn’t deserve it.

“-he’s like that to all of them. The chicks. And they fucking dig him, it’s disgusting. He makes the poor brainwashed kicked puppy face, reminding the sob story of his and they’re all dropping to their knees I swear…” Jim continued, practically spitting the venomous words.

You squeezed your eyes shut, half furious and half guilty; the sergeant did have a heart-breaking backstory and many girls were making eyes on him, their hearts softened by the tragedy and his bravery, yes. And you couldn’t say it wasn’t moving you as well, filling you with compassion – but compassion only. Obviously, Sergeant Barnes was objectively a very attractive man too, but what they were saying… ugh.

He didn’t deserve these insults; he was not trying anything on anyone, he wasn’t offering his ‘sob story’, actually being rather secretive about it for obvious and no doubt painful reasons. He couldn’t really couldn’t be blamed for the girls fawning over him a bit more because of it, could he? What was he supposed to do? Stop breathing? Stop doing what he chose to be his job?

It wasn’t his problem – and thank god for that – that these two assholes had egos the size of Texas and couldn’t handle a little competition.

Seriously. Walking testosterone-filled jerks. You seriously considered moving from the station you had been given, eyeing Captain Rogers, checking if he would notice.

“Well, he’s not. Getting. Any. From. My. Chick. Asshole!”

The bag swung wildly under Henry’s blows despite Jim holding it. You laid off, taking your fifteen second break.

“I bet he’s fucking them all on side. Always so… so soft on them. I bet he’s leaving all the hard shit for bed,” Jim snorted, somewhere between angry at him competition and amused at his own crude joke.

You were gonna puke. You were sure of it.

“And he’s too hard on us. Showing off for them. I would fucking want to see him holding up against us without that metal arm-“

You had enough. You sat up sharply, panting, your face flushed, unsure whether it was from the exercise or the exchange you were listening to.

“Are you serious?!” you hissed their way, earning their shocked glances.

And then, Jim’s face twisted in annoyance and disgust.

“Oh geez, you’re one of them, aren’t you?” he snarked, rolling his eyes. “The fangirls.”

More heat burned in your cheeks. You weren’t kidding anyone; both the sergeant and the captain had showed up in your not so innocent dreams, but you were only human, alright. There was only so much time you could spend with two very fine men like them in one room, a bit sweaty and rough (or just slightly gentler with the ladies) until your brain reacted. Mostly to the captain. Not the point.

But actually crossing the line? Being a part of the thing they were describing if it ever existed? Waiting in the line until one of them picked you for the evening with a promise to do it again after they… Jesus what, tried all the others? No, thank you. You had some dignity left.

Also, you simply couldn’t imagine them doing such thing. Raised in a different era, tried by war and pain and lost, yet remaining the great men they were? Just nope.

“No! Jesus, are you even listening to yourself?” you hissed, minding your volume. You hoped that the low hum of voice in the room, of others working out, giving each other pointers and the noise of the machines would offer you a cover from the rest of your companion.

“What, you wanna tell me they’re not going easy on you? On any chick, really?”

“Yeah, well, maybe because they don’t actually want to break our bones during training. Supersoldiers. Superstrength. Does that ring a bell?” you pointed out, reaching for your water bottle, hoping either of your trainers would forgive you when seeing you only took a sec to have a sip.

Henry scoffed, leaning onto the bag. “Sounds like someone has a crush…”

You couldn’t help the motion of your hands, inconspicuously throwing them in the air in frustration.

Why were you even speaking to them? You should have kept your mouth shut!

“Oh go to hell, Ulrich! You’re just jealous and scared that your girl whom you treat like a piece of shit will run off,” you murmured, wiping your forehead off sweat.

“Yeah, because they’re sure pulling their punches with guys too,” Jim complained again, rolling his eyes as Henry now watched you, eyes narrowed in anger – oh you hit a nail on the head, alright.

You couldn’t but mirror Jim’s action, deciding to stick to Devil’s advocate, because…. yeah, because it wasn’t fair to either Rogers or Barnes. They were good people and didn’t deserve this.

“So they’re not beating the shit out of us like they do with you, get over it.”

“They’re humiliating us! Showing off their big muscles, trying to impress all the chicks-“

You chuckled incredulously as they actually admitted the real reason behind their bitching so openly; as if you hadn’t known the whole time. Ego. Ohhh, the ego was bruised. Call 911, CPR is gonna be needed! God, how did they even live with ego this big? Compensating for something?

“They’re doing their job. Training. Yes, they go a bit harder on you, because your physiology can take it. Did it ever occur to you that they have bigger problems than entering a pissing contest with you just so they could steal the girls? Jeez… just… maybe try to be less of assholes and the girls will be into you too… ”

You missed the hard look Henry gave you, laying down again, this time on your belly to work on your back.

You wheezed when a knee suddenly dug into your back, violently and painfully knocking the air out of your lungs. Before you could react, one of your arms was twisted behind your back, Henry’s voice raspy right into your ear, low and dangerous.

“Listen, you little bitch, you don’t get to talk to me like that. Understand? Huh?”

He was so proving your point, but you didn’t have the time You tried to breathe in properly, and free your arm while pushing up on the free one, your muscles burning with the effort. Shit, he was heavy. You wheezed again instead of the answer.

“Can’t hear you, sweetie. What was that?”

Peripherally, you could see heavy boots approaching rapidly, making a quick guess of who that could be. You gritted your teeth, tears of humiliation pricking your eyes. You were not about to give Henry the satisfaction of proving his point of your trainers being sweet on all the girls even if this so wasn’t that.

“Screw. You,” you let out with the last oxygen left, grabbing his left calf and sharply tugging to the very same side. A half-second later when his weight of you eased just a fraction, you threw your body to the left as well, adding a jerk of your legs.

Both of you rolled over, him ending up under you and you quickly spun away, gasping, desperately fighting for air. As it burned your windpipe, it was as painful as welcomed. Little spots danced inf ornt of your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away – luckily for you, Henry didn’t dare to attack you again.

You shook your head before pushing to sit up, only to meet with Captain Rogers’s strict gaze.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded, sharp blue eyes flickering between the three of you.

Maybe you were hallucinating, but he seemed to be murdering Henry with his eyes. Uh-uh. You would have been glad he was, hadn’t Henry been talking about favouritism only few moments ago. You pushed up simultaneously with him and you both stood straight, facing the captain.

“Apologies, sir,” you stated mechanically, his gaze immediately shifting to you. Your heart stopped. Oh wow, you would swear the blue of his irises was on fire. You gulped. “We had a slight disagreement with Mr. Ulrich. I’m aware I shouldn’t have been talking to him in the first place. I’ll take whatever punishment is given to me.”

“Yeah, I bet you’d liked taking a punishment from him, wouldn’t you…” Jim muttered under his breath, making your gut twist in disgust.

Was he ever not thinking about sex? You prayed the captain didn’t hear him and you had to stop yourself from shooting Jim a murderous glare.  

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Consider it a warning. Mr. Ulrich? You have something to add before you take a few laps?”

You could literally hear Henry’s blood boiling. You opened your mouth to ask for the same punishment, not wanting to have his point proved. You never got the chance to speak.

“No, sir. I only don’t understand why I’m the only one being punished,” Henry questioned innocently and you gritted your teeth.

Maybe because you attacked me, you dickhead?

Captain glared at him for a moment before his gaze shifted to Jim. “You’re not. Mr. Larkin is following your example.”

You pressed your lips together, this time to stop a smile threatening to spread on your lips. God, who knew America’s Golden Boy could get that sassy? You cleared your throat.

“If I might speak, sir, I deserve to run the laps as well,” you noted carefully, earning a curious expression from your superior. You could tell he wavered, a strange spark appearing in his eyes.

You desperately wanted him to let you run too even if you breathing was still a bit difficult; because otherwise Henry would be proved right. Yeah, nope.

“Very well, then. Ten laps around the gym, recruits. Then you move to the station free at the moment. Go. Don’t let it happen again.”

The three of you nodded dutifully and picked up a pace. For some reason, you could feel the captain’s eyes on you while he walked back to assisting his friend with hand-to-hand training. You glimpsed the sergeant leaning to him, probably asking what was that about, but the blond just shook his head.

Towards the eighth lap, you were being overpassed by Henry and Jim, who ran together; faster than you, whether you liked it or not.

“This isn’t over, bitch,” his hateful hiss reached your ears and you picked up speed stubbornly, not showing them that they might intimidate you even for a second.

They wished.

Even when leaving the room after the session was finished, you would swear there was a pair of blue eyes burning a hole to the back of your head. You hoped that you’d soon be free of the captain’s attention.

You sure didn’t want him to watch too closely. You didn’t need him behind your back to see mistakes you sometimes made just like anybody else. Also, it would be harder to admire and ogle him; you did that occasionally, okay. You were just a human, after all.

A Handful of Mistakes

Shauna, your roommate and bestie from science division of SHIELD, was very patient listening to your lament about guys being dicks; she was awesome like that.

So you vigorously vented your frustration with male population, rolled your eyes when mimicking the silent threat of ‘this not being over’, had a very unhealthy piece of cake at the cafeteria that afternoon and moved on.  

You should have known better.

Henry’s words came haunting you few days later; which was too bad, because you had already forgotten about them, until the very moment they had punched you to the face.

…or rather to your shoulder and it wasn’t even a punch, more like one of those bumps people did, especially when they were being jerks, shoving you too hard for you to believe it was an accident.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” you threw over your shoulder sarcastically, continuing your way to the women’s locker room.

In hindsight, that was probably mistake number one; ignoring Henry and not starting a fight right there, not to mention being mouthy.

To be fair, you had no interest in further interaction; you were exhausted from the training, you were sticky and sweaty and all you craved was a shower. You would have just gone to have one at your dorm, but Shauna was having a hot date and you didn’t want to step on her toes. So you had taken your toiletries with you, using the showers near the gym.

Using the gym shower; mistake number two. It meant all of the students being gone by the time you emerged in fresh homey clothes, hair dripping water, because you hated hair-dryers and avoided them unless they were completely necessary.

You had spent much longer in the shower than needed, allowing your muscles to completely relax under the spray of water. That was mistake number three.

The fourth mistake was your pride. When you saw Henry, Jim, George (at least you thought, you weren’t sure, not having many classes with him) and Frank in the corridor, clearly waiting for you, since they bounced off the wall they had been resting against when you appeared, you should have probably been smarter and scream for help right away.

But no, you were being Miss Future Agent and you weren’t intimidated by four equivalents of high school jocks. Yep, this one was definitely the biggest mistake of yours.

“Fellas,” you beckoned to them, passing them gracefully, your bag over your shoulder along with the wet towel.

You barely made a few steps before a hand gripped your arm, harshly tugging you back. Your heart jumped into your throat, but you tried your best not to let it show. You turned to Henry, looking at his face, head tilted back just slightly due to his height.

“Is there a problem, Ulrich?” you asked calmly, earning a lift of his eyebrows at your tone.

“You know there is. I told you it was not over.”

You tried to ignore your pulse skyrocketing and the panic rising in your gut. You were not that stupid – you understood the implications. You knew that with four guys slowly circling you, you would have to fight bites and nails if it came to it and probably still lose. Sometimes it was just better to walk away and swallow your pride; a concept Henry and Jim clearly didn’t understand.

You jerked from Ulrich’s grip, still hoping you could walk away and call it day.

“It is over for me. Now if you’ll excuse me…“

Yes, you were being naïve thinking it would work.

The bag was torn away from your shoulder, your fingers automatically letting go to stay attached to your hand. You gritted your teeth, blood slowly reaching the boiling point.

Also, maybe you were more than just a bit afraid. Not that you would ever admit it to them.

Henry’s hand reached for your chin and your snatched it away in disgust before he could even make contact with your skin. Amusement dances in his eyes along with a flash of anger.

“Oh, kitty has claws?”

You felt another hand on your backside, sending a shudder up your spine, so you grabbed it, shoving it away as well.

Jim. Why weren’t you surprised? Pigs. What the fuck was their problem?

“I’ll let you know when I meet any. Now get out of my way,” you spat, your gut twisting as a sly grin spread on Henry’s face and he made a step right into your route.

“Or what? You’ll scratch, kitty? Or you’ll scream? Like a little girl?” he mocked you in high-pitched voice, his face lowering to yours so you were only inches apart.

“Bet you’d like that,” you murmured, narrowing your eyes when his breath with an unmistakable hint of alcohol fanned over your face. “No, I’ll offer you a breath-mint, because honestly you should do something about your breath.”

Yep, that was the mistake no.5 and definitely an enormous one.

You heard one of the guys chuckle, but you never got to enjoy the thrill of victory.

Out of blue, there was something around your neck, the weight of the towel shifting (add that to the mistake list) and your body flew backwards, colliding with a male one. George was it?

Your hands went to instinctively grab after the towel crushing your throat, but suddenly they were wrested down and pinned to your sides by strong arms. Jim had caught one, Henry another. Fucking cowards.

With your breath coming out short with both lack of oxygen and rising fear, your pulse thundering in your ears, you tried to jerk from their grip, but they wouldn’t budge, having an undeniable advantage.

Oh fuck, fuck, you were so fucked.

“Sassy little mouth, aren’t we?” Henry hummed, wry expression on his ugly face. “So dirty, feels like we should wash it with something. Who wants to go first, fellas?”

Loud alarm bells rang in your head, icy shiver running down your spine, stomach turning over.

Oh no, you don’t.

Your knee snapped up on instinct to gain the momentum, followed by a swift low kick to Jim’s knee.

He yelped and let go of your arm, allowing you to send an elbow straight to George’s face; and finally, your airways were free as the assault as the towel trap loosened.

You coughed, fighting for oxygen and mindlessly threw the item away to have at least one arm free.

“Bitch!” one of the men yelled; you weren’t sure which one, but you didn’t waste time thinking too much. Survival instinct took over.

Tears prickled in the corners of your eyes and you barely silenced the scream when Henry took advantage of your hesitation, twisting your arm behind your back. Fuck he really had a thing for that, didn’t he?

You tried to kick him, but someone else’s leg somehow managed to swept their leg under yours and you fell on your knees. Sharp tug on your hair caused you to cry out and obediently tilt your head back. Few tears escaped you, but you pushed up in attempt to get up again.

A kick coming from behind threw your body forwards and you nearly fell on your face when Henry finally let go of you. You tasted blood as you bit your cheek, but you managed to at least land on your shoulder instead of face-planting.

It still hurt like a bitch, but at least you still had all your teeth… or you thought so, not having time to check. Catching a movement from the corner of your eye, you managed to roll over before a kick to your side could hit you with full force. Frank’s foot only brushed you, but you were sure you’d have a bruise as a souvenir anyway.

A punch landed next to your face when you dodged it in the last moment, someone grabbing your legs and holding them together. Between your efforts to free them, you didn’t have time to chase away the body suddenly holding your arms as well.

“Fuck--- she’s a handful.”

A ragged battle cry erupted from your throat as you tried to jerk your body from their grip on pure instinct, every self-defence move you had ever learned flying of the window.

“More fun to break her, don’t you think?” Henry purred, his hand sneaking around your waist under the hem of your t-shirt.

Your head spun like crazy at the skin-to-skin contact and nausea hitting you hard. You wanted to puke and scream and punch and you couldn’t make yourself to do either, tears rolling down your cheeks as your body convulsed in a desperate attempt to break free.

There was ringing in your ears, disorienting you, but aware of the hand suddenly covering your mouth you tried to bite it on instinct holding you down.

“Oh-ho, biting!“ you heard, strangely muffled as if you were under water.

“I like them feisty-“

“Playing hard to get!”

“Shit, SHIT-“

The pressure on your legs eased all of sudden and you immediately kicked with all you had, catching the rising figure in the calf, knocking them off balance.

“Fuck!”

You would swear the floor vibrated, but in must have only been your mind playing tricks on you. George disappeared from your field of blurry vision; you only saw a fist sending him flying sideways.

Yep, your mind was fucking making up things, because there was no way he could have been thrown away like this by a single punch. You weren’t complaining; the relief the illusion provided was almost blissful.

Henry’s body weight vanished as well in nearly supersonic speed as if he wanted to escape the illusion. So you did the first thing that came to your mind; with your hands free, you grabbed his ankle, stopping him from running away. Which, thinking about it, was stupid, because only a moment before, you would have given anything to get him the fuck away from you.

He kicked back blindly, but his sole never met with your body – he was dragged away and… and lifted to the air as if he weighted nothing.

Blinking your tears away, your fuzzy mind cleared.

Only to reveal a very muscled and very much pissed off blond slamming Henry against a wall and then letting his suddenly unconscious body slide down.

You gasped, your eyes catching a glimpse of the fourth figure – Frank – several feet away, running for his life.

“Buck?!” came a shout and before you could question it, a metal arm emerged from behind the corner, stopping Frank dead as he rushed straight into it.

“Yep?!” the dark-haired supersoldier yelled back, sounding almost amused.

What the hell was happening? What the hell just happened?!

You blood sizzled in your veins, loud and rapid thump-thump-thump banging in your ears, face damp with several shed tears, body aching and your mind fucking racing.

You heard a whimper on your left, automatically turning to the sound. It left Jim’s lips, his form crumbled on the floor, struggling to stand up.

The captain’s knee seemed to come out of nowhere, digging into Jim’s back and pinning him down again before you even registered a movement.

“Is it fucking over now?”

“Steve, let him be. Not worth it,” Barnes’ voice tried to reason, sounding rather growly, but not nearly as loud as before. He approached your group in rapid pace and Rogers scoffed and let go.

You gulped at sergeant’s angry grimace, crazily convinced he was angry with you for all the mistakes you made that lead to this; but his expression softened when his gaze fell on you.

“Hey there,” he greeted you almost casually, holding out a hand to help you up. “Can you stand?”

You blinked several times at the suddenly dispassionate tone, even if you still sensed something bubbling under it. You shook off the thought and accepted the offered hand – the flesh one. The detail didn’t escape you, your bran in overdrive. Of course he hadn’t offered you the metal arm. He didn’t want to scare you. He was thoughtful like that-

-or not. The strength he dragged you up with was way too much for you, more so when combined with the speed and your state. You stumbled over your feet, a wave of dizziness messing with your balance.

You awaited the upcoming reunion with the floor, unable to stop the fall, but it never happened. Before you could as much as reel, gentle hands supported you in a firm grip, pleasantly warm against your bare arms.

“Whoa, take it easy,” Rogers’ voice warned you, soothing. For some reason, it felt more like ‘I got you,’ instead of ‘take it easy.’

You took a deep breath, Barnes’ hand letting go of yours as he semi-voluntarily handed you over to his friend.  

“You’re bleeding from your mouth.”

Thanks for the reminder, I noticed.

You swallowed the snarky remark, well-aware of the sergeant’s care. You fought against the urge to spit the blood out.

“Is fine…” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Bit my cheek. I’m pretty sure I—“ you quickly ran your tongue over your teeth just to confirm your theory, “-still have all of my teeth.”

Sergeant Barnes gave you a tiny smile, the worried crinkle that had found its way between his brows disappearing.

“Whatever you say.”

His gaze flickered to something behind your head, probably in order of exchanging a wordless conversation with your still present crutch. Not that you were complaining. The weight of what had happened was slowly settling on your shoulders and you were grateful for any support – and who were you kidding, Captain America made for a pretty reliable support.

“Why don’t we leave you in pu- Cap’s capable hands while I-“ Barnes’ jaw clenched, pale eyes scanning the four bodies on the floor, calculating. “-take out the trash?”

You nearly choked at the choice of his words, wincing. Captain Rogers’ hands squeezed your shoulders reassuringly and you nodded, not sure what else to do.

You didn’t want to look at Henry. Or Jim. Or their loyal companions.

So when the captain carefully spun you on your heels, you didn’t protest and your feet started moving on autopilot in the direction he had set.

“You okay to walk without support?” he asked softly, a stark contrast to the voice you remembered from earlier or from the training sessions.

You knew that if you said yes, he would let go of you. Honestly, his touch felt damn nice, firm and yet somewhat gentle, a pleasant contrast to harsh fingers of the men who had the nerve to attack you – you had to swallow bile rising to your mouth at the awfully fresh memory. Fuck, it had been so close, just a minute later and--- you shook your head mentally and tried your best to erase this memory from existence.

You decided not to abuse the kindness the captain was offering. After several indulging steps, you quietly confirmed he could release you. You found out that sensing his large frame by your side as if he was your bodyguard was nearly as comforting. Nearly.

You didn’t have the strength admonish yourself for basking the light of his protective persona. Future agent of not, you still had the right to want to feel secure at times.

After all, you were only human.

A Handful of Truths

You didn’t realize you were shaking until a blanket was tossed over your shoulders.

You were sitting on a short couch in what looked like a cosy office, hair still damp, body finally registering the ache caused by previous events, just like your brain was slowly taking in what had happened.

Captain Rogers, whose courtesy was to escort you from the hellhole you had been attacked in, had clearly took it as a personal mission to take care of your injuries; it hadn’t dawned to you until you were seated and your mind helpfully supplied you with ‘This isn’t the infirmary’.

He pulled a swivel chair to sit face to face with you, a box of medical supplies left open on the coffee table at your side. You didn’t realize he had moved the chair or dug the box from god-knew-where until the items were simply there.

“How do you feel?” he inquired, attentive eyes scanning your hunched form. You instinctively curled onto yourself, snuggling further into the blanket. You knew you should come up with an answer, but your brain started to hurt with the effort to do so. “I guess that’s fair. Can you tell me what hurts the most?”

You quickly glanced at his openly kind face, his baby blues still watching for any reaction that would clue him. Your throat went dry at the compassion of display and you had to swallow before speaking – and think. What hurt the most…?

You didn’t know what possessed you to tell him what you did, but it came out before you could stop yourself.

“My pride,” you croaked, causing his eyebrows jump just like the corner of his lips.

“That’s probably fair too. Then again, I’d rather know about something I can fix.”

You felt your body relax a little at his informal tone – you might even say a jovial one, but you could still sense too much worry behind it to call it that. You attempted a tiny smile at least to show him that you were more or less fine – you weren’t – and brilliantly failed.

“Landed on my shoulder. Probably gonna have a bruise on my side from when… when they kicked me. Ribs and arms might be a bit tender for few days, ‘cause they were heavy as they--- they’re heavy,” you voice wavered as you saw the muscles on the captain’s forearms clench and his hands curled up in fists. You sheepishly looked up to his face. “I got lucky.”

His eyebrows rose again in a ‘figures’ manner as he leaned back to the chair.

“Nothing else apart from that, your cheek and your pride?”

“I’m a little cold, but you took care of that,” you admitted, taking a deep breath in as you tugged on the blanket pointedly.

Despite what you were saying, you didn’t feel okay, the tremble never quite leaving your body. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. You stared at your knight in shining armour, gathering courage to do what was needed. You tried your best to meet his gaze, feeling so small and embarrassingly weak in front of him.

“Could have been much worse if you haven’t showed up. Thank you.”

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head. He leaned in, his elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t faster... I should have kept closer eye on Ulrich,” he muttered under his breath, making you wonder if you only imagined it. “Your pride shouldn’t be hurt. You held yourself against them just fine.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honestly his voice held – and you were honestly grateful for the slight shift of attention. Oh. Had he forgotten how things had been when he had arrived?

You weren’t sure whether you should remind him. You definitely didn’t want to remind yourself, but before you could solve your little dilemma, he clarified.

“You haven’t started training the combat against multiple opponents yet. Let alone four opponents, all of them having both height and weight advantage. You couldn’t exactly go all Black Widow on them if no one showed you how.”

He accented his words with a reassuring smile and you almost believed him. The shivers finally eased, most likely thanks to the warm treatment you were being given in all senses of the word. The inner cold gradually melted and you were left in nothing but pleasant warmth.

Mentally, you patted your pride gently on its head; you couldn’t quite disagree with him. No matter how helpless you had felt earlier and how ashamed for it you were, the truth was you were still learning. You weren’t a finished agent yet.

You breathed in and out, avoiding the gaze that was still on you. It felt like a freaking brand with how intense it was. You couldn’t say you hated it necessarily, you only wished you at least didn’t look so pathetic. No make-up, probably red with a smudge on blood somewhere, perhaps with some bruising already forming, hair wet and messy. You absently ran your fingers through it in attempt to fix it a bit as if it could help.

What had you been talking about? Right… those assholes being cowards and coming at your four against one.

“I… I just fucking hate bullies,” you grumbled darkly, your hand immediately covering your mouth when you realized what you had said. Oh. Language. Still your superior you’re talking to, no matter how nice. “Sorry. Please, pretend you didn’t hear the f-word. I just hate bullies, period.”

“I might have sworn earlier too, so let’s call it even,” the captain offered, one corner of his lips raised. Oh. He had, hadn’t he? ‘Is it fucking over now?’ What did that even mean? “And so I heard.”

“What?” you yelped, your mind racing again in search for the meaning behind his words.

“I mean… I heard you. When you were defending Bucky, in the gym. I’m pretty sure your exact words were about a ‘pissing contest’.”

“Oh god,” you breathed out, your face no doubt set aflame. He had heard you; that was why he had said he should have kept a closer eye on Henry. Oh. Ohhhh.

Also, did he just say ‘pissing’?

“You weren’t wrong by the way. But… neither were them.”

You blinked in surprise. What? “About?”

You knew he didn’t mean the sleeping around with recruits, your gut was screaming that at you, because they wouldn’t, but still, you rather asked for clarification. If he didn’t mean that part, which one then?

“Ladies do fall over for Bucky,” he hummed with a lopsided smile, a playful twinkle in his eyes. It did something to your belly, a strange familiar shift that was very inappropriate, but hell, people needed to cut you some slack. He was impossible not to ogle and you didn’t have the energy to control your reaction after today’s events. “And I don’t really pull my punches when I’m training those two in particular.”

“Why?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself and think better of it.

His gaze bored into yours, burning with intensity and with a glint of something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I don’t like bullies either.”

Did he lean in even more or were you so focused on his face it only seemed closer?

You weren’t able to look away. His blue eyes simply locked you in, not allowing you to escape. The strangest thing was that it wasn’t scary. It should be, he was— he was a freaking captain, your superior, a superior to a lot of people, which you were constantly forgetting ever since he had saved you from falling on your ass in the hallway and you had to remember that.

Before you could though, your racing mind packed up and let your body, your mouth to be precise, act without supervision.

“Not trying to impress the ladies then, huh?”

His tiny sheepish smile cut off the uprising panic in your chest when you realized how bold of you was to say that. He lowered his gaze, giving a subtle shrug. “Guess I wouldn’t want one falling for guy’s muscles and a show-off of dominance.”

“What for then? Honesty? Sincerity? Kind eyes? Strong moral compass?” you heard yourself prying, internally horrified how far you had come when saying that. Your face was drained of colour when it clicked. You were literally naming things you liked about him, absolutely shamelessly putting them in the open. Oh shit. Fix it, fix it, fix it! “…the sass?”

His eyes went wide and he burst out laughing so loud it startled you for a second, especially as he threw his head back with the outburst. Then you reluctantly joined him, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment.

“The sass!” he howled, unable to hold back another fit of laughter and when you peeked at him through between your fingers, you saw his palm resting against his chest as if it could help him stop laughing.

Just like that, blood rushed back into your cheeks.

“Oh god, I made it worse!” you cried out, wishing for the earth to swallow you, frantically looking around for the fastest escape route. “Oh my god, I have to switch schools now… excuse me-“

You hastily got up from your seat, but a quick hand snatched yours, pulling you back.

You stumbled, landing ungracefully right back in your place, this time without the blanket. Captain Rogers was watching you with the corners of his lips high, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Sorry for grabbing you like that. But no, please. Stay.”

Your throat closed off when you heard his soft plea, only traces of humour in it. Yeah, you bet he hadn’t met anyone with such big mouth for a while, so he thought it was better to keep the comic around.

“Captain Rogers, I-I- what I said, it was completely out of line-“ you stuttered, only to be interrupted.

“Were you making it up?” he questioned.

You gulped, your mind screaming at you to say yes to save you the humiliation. And yet, with the cerulean irises staring into your eyes, your mouth did the exact opposite.

“No.”

Dammit.

“Then why would you go?” he questioned softly. His hand still didn’t leave yours, only easing the grip into a kinder one. You felt like a brand was being burned into your skin. A pleasant one, so you didn’t retreat. Oh, you’d never. But what on Earth was he getting at? “We need someone honest like you. People who stand up for others, even if only to defend their honour. That is the kind of people who should be in this line of work. The good ones.”

You opened your mouth, no sound coming out as his speech shook you to your core, tickling your stomach pleasantly along with your pride. His words seemed to be coming from heart, genuine, which was not helping your blood pressure and suddenly wobbling limbs.

“Even when they have potty mouth and put their foot in it? ‘Cause I seem to excel in that.”

“Especially then,” he chuckled and you could tell there was no pinch of a lie in it.

Something was in the air, crackling deliciously, and you liked it. You wouldn’t be able to describe it properly, the feeling simply too unique, but it was tickling your fancy so weren’t about to complain.

“O-okay. Thank you, Captain,” you whispered, revelling in the sight of the gentle curve of his lips.

“You started with the compliments, Agent.”

And just like that, you wanted to run for your life again, drowning in embarrassment.

What were you even still doing here? Complimenting him? Enjoying his touch? Flirting with him?

Were you nuts?!

Him, a captain— no, the captain. And you, an agent--- hell, you were not even an agent yet!

The captain whose eyes flickered to not-an-agent’s lips for the shortest of moments, widening a fraction before returning to her eyes.

Oh, now you were definitely going nuts. You were hallucinating. You must have hit your head too. He wasn’t into you and you being into him was very stupid.

You should go.

…any moment now.

…just get off your ass for god’s sake-

“Can I ask you something?”

You blinked yourself back to reality, shushing the voice in your head, curious smile appearing on your lips involuntarily. The softness of his voice felt better than the blanket before and you wanted to cocoon yourself in it, postponing the leaving plans to never.

“Sure,” you replied, the smile remaining on your face despite your better judgement.

He lowered his eyes to your joined hands, his thumb running over the back of your hand in a feather-light touch. You heart positively stopped at the moment, your breath hitching. Holy shit, what was he doing?

“This, does it… do you hate it?” he whispered the question, not meeting your eyes as if he was too shy, which was… ridiculous. He had no reason to be shy.

It still felt like a shot through your heart – a nice one, though, it that was possible. The words combined with the way they were spoken, it stirred something in your belly, warming it up and you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You really wanted this man; whatever this was, it was getting beyond a silly crush. Also, for some reason, it seemed as if he was trying to tell you he was interested too, which you thought was pretty freaking crazy.

“Stay honest, please,” he pleaded when you didn’t answer right away.

Did you hate it? The chastest display of affection if you dared to call it that? Your mind raced, trying to figure out why on earth he would ask that. Because the only reason you had come up with so far was completely impossible.

“No,” you said simply, earning a brief glance up before he looked down again. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Good. That’s good… and would you… I’m aware this is out of line and I—I want you to answer truthfully without fearing the consequences-…“

It was your turn to swallow loudly, because what? What did he want to ask that he considered it out of line? He was your superior – you could think of thousand ways of how you could get out of line, but him? And why should you fear the consequences?! Did he want you to help him to hide a body?

That’s not it and you know it. You know what he wants to ask, you rational side admonished you.

Oh please, shut up. Since when you switched sides?

“O-okay. What— what is it-- Steve?” you stuttered out, freezing when his name left your lips and his head snapped up, his hand giving yours a squeeze. Oh boy.

“Would you possibly say you like it?” he blurted out and your brain went to overdrive at the hope behind his expression.

Huh. He really just asked that. Oh shit. Oh wow. Your jaw fell into your lap – only figuratively, you hoped –, your ears buzzing, your blood bursting in excitement.

Oh yeah, you understood why he mentioned the consequences. Either you could say no and you’d fear he might treat you differently or you could say yes and you’d ‘fear’ he might treat you differently.

The fire in your insides burned hotter at the idea of the latter.

His hand slowly left yours, giving you a simple choice you still couldn’t believe you were given.

Holy shit. What do you even say to something like that? Coming from someone like him? Your brain froze as you only managed to stare.

Did his— did the corners of his lips turn down? Was that sadness pooling in the sea of blue of his eyes?

Oh no, you don’t.

“Y-yes,” you admitted sheepishly, closing your eyes at the heaviness of your confession.

You could feel the weight on your shoulders as silence fell, only interrupted by your soft breathing that sounded ominously loud.

Your fingers twitched when his warm palm covered them again, your lips parting in surprise. You kept your eyes closed, indulging the strange moment. His free hand caressed your other as well, the gentlest of touches, tender, contrasting with rough callouses on his fingers.

“I like it too.”

At that, you gathered enough courage to look at him, only to see him inspecting your face closely, observing your reactions. It shocked you that it wasn’t uncomfortable as you would expect; must have been the kindness and wonder in his gaze. You forced your lips to curl up in a tiniest smile. Steve smiled back with same hesitance, his face lighting up.

He looked like a boy next door (making it to a modelling agency), shining eyes and happy grin forming on his lips. He was more gorgeous than ever.

Still keeping your hands, he raised his right one, his knuckles brushing your unharmed cheek. The gesture was so tender it brought tears into your eyes, causing him quickly retreat.

“Sorry-“

You shook your head with a self-deprecating chuckle, squeezing his fingers before he could let go of you completely.

“It’s not you—I mean… it is you,” you babbled nonsensically, taking a breath to gather your thoughts. “It’s just— that was really sweet. No, that’s not-“ Not the right word. “It was beautiful. I swear I never felt so…” loved “-cared for in my life.”

He frowned, a shadow of pain running over his face. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that today was… unpleasant.”

Seeing his reluctance and discomfort, you went for the first thing that came up to your mind. You straightened up and pressed a light kiss on his cheek, withdrawing much slowly because once you were in his orbit, it was hard to leave.

His breath hitched, his eyes glued to you intently, flickering to your lips again.

“You didn’t upset me, Steve. That’s the last thing you could do with that,” you assured him, face still inches from his. His name rolled off your tongue easily this time, even though it still left your heart fluttering.

“And if I asked you to have dinner with me?”

Your stomach twisted in a pleasant knot at that suggestion, your lizard brain already thinking about having a dessert for a second; and you weren’t thinking cake or ice-cream.

Yeah, barely. This was a guy ready to treat you right, you were sure of it. He certainly wasn’t about to kiss you now, not afar what happened today, he might go for it after the dinner and that was only if you got lucky enough. You swallowed the disappointment at the idea, quickly shaking it off.

Make up your goddamn mind, woman. You should be glad that men who weren’t thinking with their lower brain still existed and one of those was clearly interested in you, which… yeah, what the hell, that might take a while getting used to. Add the fact that he was being incredibly considerate of how you might feel after being assaulted and you had a winner of your heart. You realized you were actually happy he wouldn’t try anything even nearly ‘funny’.

You were fine with hand-holding and brushes of his fingers on your face, which honestly, the tenderness behind that gesture made you toes curl. You didn’t care much if that made you a freaking sap.

“Still not upset,” you gave an answer at last, deciding he probably liked when you were a bit cheeky.

He offered a closed lipped smile in response, confirming your theory.

“Does that count like a yes?”

You shrugged, the corners of your lips twitching. You had no idea when the change had happened, but all you wanted now was to giggle. And maybe snuggle, but you weren’t about to say that out loud.

“You tell me.”

He licked his lips and shook his head as he retreated. Before you could protest – or have a heart attack, because the motion of his tongue attracted your gaze like a magnet, setting your core on fire –, he sat beside you, leaving enough space in case you didn’t like it.

You liked it, subtly moving an inch closer to his side. Damn, he radiated warmth. Maybe just a bit closer…?

“Cheeky dame, aren’t you?” Steve more stated than asked, reaching for the blanket pooled around you to cover you again.

You didn’t realize you had goosebumps before his hands gently tugged you in, careful not to touch you where you could consider it inappropriate.

Yeah, forget about any funny business any time soon.

You huffed. “Clearly. It did get me into trouble before.”

His eyes darkened a bit, his face noticeably falling.

No, nope, bad move, miss not-an-agent.

“I should walk you back to your dorm,” he remarked, already rising to his feet.

You first reaction was to say no, because you weren’t ready to say goodbye yet. Your second was to say no also, because Shauna probably still had her hot date.

Instead, your hand shot up to catch his, effectively stopping him. He froze before returning to his seat, tiny question mark in a place of his face right next to his soft smile.

You cleared your throat, deciding to give him the latter reason.

“Uhm… my roommate has a date. If I go there, I’ll probably find a sock on the doorknob,” you admitted, biting your lip when he raised an eyebrow and relaxed to the cushions.

“People still do that?”

You chuckled, the fact that not only he was a captain, but also Captain America, which meant he was about hundred years old, hitting you like a train.

“Yeah, people still do that,” you assured him, amused.

He pouted, which you found unfairly adorable and… kissable. Nope, later.

“Sure, make fun of the old man…” he uttered, but a spark of laughter lighted up in his irises, so you assessed he wasn’t too offended. He was most likely used to the teasing.

As an idea of interpreting his words differently popped in your mind, you grinned.

“Is that a permission to make fun of Sergeant Barnes?” you pried playfully, sending Steve into another surprised fit of laughter, not unlike when you had complimented his sass. Your heart swelled at the joyful picture of him and the prospect of seeing more of it in future.

Due to his laughter, you didn’t hear he knock on the door if there was any n the first place. The door simply swung open, revealing the other supersoldier. Speak of the Devil…

Seeing his friend, Steve burst out laughing once more. Sergeant Barnes closed the door with a puzzled look.

You just shrugged in response, opening your mouth without a sound coming out and he took in the scene in front of him again, a smirk appearing on his lips. Under that gaze, you felt your face heat up. You could only imagine how that looked like, Steve cosily close to you, laughing, your hand right next to his thigh as his outburst had sent it sliding from his hand.

The smirk on the supersoldier’s face only deepened when he noticed how flustered he had made you.

“Punk?” he questioned and Steve wheezed once more, raising a palm in the sergeant’s direction, turning to you first.

He offered you a hand to shake. Confused, you accepted as his eyes twinkling in mischief bored into yours.

“Deal,” he mouthed, sending your lips twitching, and only then he shifted his attention to his friend. “Buck?”

The supersoldier had his eyes narrowed, watching you suspiciously.

“I’m gonna regret sending you with her instead of doing it the other way around, aren’t I?” he stated, not actually asking as his gaze flickered between the two of you.

His expression pushed you over the edge and the giggle building up in your chest for the last few minutes finally broke free. You simply couldn’t contain it anymore despite having two superiors in the room. Steve gave you a warm smile as the sound left your lips, clearly not bothered by it.

You hoped you’d be forgiven by Sergeant Barnes as well. After all, you were just human.

“Yeah, Buck, I think you are.”

S.R. masterlist

Sorry for the cavities at the end. Or should I say ‘you’re welcome’? Whatever works for you :))

Thank you for reading! 

[prouvaireafterdark]

We’ll Let the Flame Burn Once Again - a 3x07 Coda

My take on 3x08, with 100% more bed sharing, love confessions, and blow jobs than I’m sure canon will give us tomorrow.

Also on AO3!

***

Alex is halfway through the file on the Lockhart Machine when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Michael’s name flashes across the screen like an accusation when he digs it out of his coat.

“Fuck,” Alex sighs. He’d been so preoccupied with being kidnapped and faced with a life-changing career dilemma he’d completely forgotten that he’d never returned Michael’s voicemail or given anyone an update on the Kyle situation.

“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, I—” Alex starts when he answers the phone, but Michael cuts him off. 

“Are you home?” Michael asks sharply. He sounds panicked and out of breath, like he’s just been running for his life.

“Uh, no,” Alex answers. “Why, what’s wrong?”

The laugh Michael lets out is strangled and more than a little hysterical. “Better question would be what isn’t, but I’ll give you the cliff notes: Jones took over Max’s body and now he’s trying to kill us.”

“What?” Alex asks, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Oh, and he’s also my fucking dad apparently,” Michael continues.

“What?” Alex says again. If that’s true, Alex has a few questions about where the hell those curls came from. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Michael says bitterly before he adds, all in a rush, “Look, I don’t know what he’s planning, but if he’s trying to get to me it’s only a matter of time before he goes after you and something tells me I won’t be able to build a bomb to get you back this time. You need to get somewhere safe, somewhere he won’t be able to find you.”

Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t know about our history? Alex wonders. 

He looks around at the wooden beams of the abandoned barn-turned hospital room he’s currently stuck in as he replies, “Don’t worry about me. I don’t think he’ll be able to find my location.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Alex assures him. If he knows Ramos half as well as he thinks he does, he’s pretty sure this building wouldn’t even show up on a map. “Where are you going to go?” 

“No fucking idea,” Michael says. “My place isn’t safe and neither is Isobel’s so maybe we’ll just find a motel for the night or something until—“

“No, don’t do that,” Alex interrupts. “He’ll probably be expecting that and with Max’s face he’ll have access to police resources. If he’s motivated enough, he’ll track you down by the end of the night.”

Michael lets out a loud sigh before he says, mostly to himself, “Fuck Max for being a fucking cop,” frustration heavy in his tone. “You got any other ideas then?”

Alex considers that for a moment before he remembers the cabin Jim left him. It’s not a top secret military bunker, but it’s remote and about as secure as they can hope for right now.

“I do, actually,” Alex says at last. “Where are you right now?”

“The hospital,” Michael answers. “Maria’s fine, Liz and I just checked on her.”

“Okay good,” he says. “He probably won’t attack you if you’re in a public place so just stay there and wait for my call, okay? There’s something I need to take care of and then I’m all yours.”

Alex cringes at his own wording, but Michael doesn’t seem to notice.

“Okay,” he says. “Just—hurry?” 

“I will,” Alex promises. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” Michael replies, and then the line goes dead.

Alex turns back to his phone screen and pulls up his contacts. He hesitates for a minute, asking himself if what he’s about to do is really the right choice.

But then he thinks of Michael and how much easier it would be to protect him with access to all of the resources and intel Deep Sky has to offer. If Jones is even half the threat he seems, Alex has a feeling he’s going to need all the help he can get.

Alex makes the call. It rings twice before he gets an answer.

“Have you made up your mind then?” Ramos asks, foregoing a greeting entirely.

“I’m in,” Alex says, projecting confidence he doesn’t quite feel. “Now do you think I can get a ride back to my car? I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Thirty minutes later, Alex leaves Kyle in Ramos’ care and hits the road. He’s careful not to speed too much—the last thing he needs is to get pulled over right now—but he’s definitely pushing it.

Alex had called Michael back while he waited impatiently for Ramos and gave him instructions on how to get to the cabin—an indirect route with minimal traffic cameras along the way. Looking at the clock on his dashboard, Alex guesses Michael will probably have already let himself in by now.

Sure enough, Michael’s pick-up truck and Isobel’s SUV are already parked outside by the time Alex pulls into the dirt path he calls a driveway. When he opens the front door, he sees a small crowd of people in his living room, all wearing various expressions of exhaustion and defeat.

Rosa has her boots propped up on the coffee table next to Michael’s hat where she sits in the armchair in the corner, her eyes trained on Liz who looks to be wearing a hole in the carpet with all of the pacing she’s doing. Michael is sitting with Isobel on the couch, her head resting heavily on his shoulder and her arms drawn tight across her chest. 

They all look up at him as he steps over the threshold, but Michael’s the first to react, his back straightening against the couch the moment he lays eyes on him.

“Alex,” he says, little louder than a whisper. Alex feels the sudden desire to pull him into his arms. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Alex says, closing the door behind him. “It’s a long story, but I found Kyle.”

“You found Kyle?” Liz asks, her eyes wide as she takes a step closer to him. “Where is he?”

“With his uncle,” he answers.

“His what?” Rosa asks at the same time Liz says, “Kyle doesn’t have an uncle.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a lot to talk about,” Alex says. 

This time of night, Alex figures they could all use a pick-me-up, so he heads to the kitchen and gestures for them to follow. 

While he gets the ancient coffee pot going, he can hear the sound of chairs scraping against the floor behind him as they all find a seat at the table in the middle of the room. There’s an empty seat next to Michael when he goes to sit, so he takes it, figuring it’ll be easier to stay focused on the task at hand if he doesn’t have to look directly at him.

As he sits down, he catches Michael’s eyes shifting toward the dusty bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, but he surprises him when he doesn’t ask for it. Alex isn’t sure if that’s for Rosa’s benefit or his own, but either way he can’t help but feel a little proud of him.

They talk for what must be hours, starting with Kyle and Alex’s involvement with Deep Sky and ending with the shit show that went down with Jones tonight. It’s a lot to process, for all of them, but they do manage to come up with a plan for tomorrow. 

Michael is understandably suspicious of Deep Sky, but after Alex relays what he learned about the Lockhart Machine’s origins in Caulfield, he wants to get his hands on it. The idea of working so close to him makes Alex nervous for more reasons than one, but Michael’s right—he needs his help if he’s going to make any meaningful progress before the other shoe drops with Jones and pretending otherwise is going to get someone killed.

Liz, for her part, is eager to dive into the science to see if there’s anything she can do to help Kyle, so Alex will take her to the barn in the morning before he and Michael tackle the Lockhart Machine. 

With no leads on where Jones took Max’s body, Isobel and Rosa decide to check on Maria and see if there’s any progress they can make on freeing her from the hold Jones has on her mind. 

It’s as solid a plan as they’re capable of making with what they’ve got, so the moment Michael yawns behind the grimy bandana on his hand Alex is ready to call it a night.

“Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Alex says. He pushes back from the table and starts collecting coffee mugs to put in the sink as he continues, “There’s a guest bedroom down the hall and an extra bed in the secret bunker under the coffee table in the living room for people to crash in.”

“The what under the what?” Liz asks, bewildered.

“Alex Manes, do you have a sex dungeon in your basement?” Isobel asks, sounding intrigued and a little impressed before she grimaces suddenly and turns to Michael. “Ew, wait, did you know about this?”

Alex resolutely does not look at Michael as he sighs, “It’s not a sex dungeon.” 

He considers telling them about the room’s true intended purpose, but decides against it—there’s been enough revelations about distant fathers for one evening. 

“It’s just an extra bedroom,” he continues, before turning to Liz and Rosa. “The bed down there is big enough for two people to fit in if you guys don’t mind sharing. The bed in the guest room’s just a twin, so it’d be a tighter squeeze.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Rosa shrugs, eyes on Liz as she continues, “As long as you don’t steal the covers.”

“Oh come on, that was one time when I was seven,” Liz protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

Isobel interrupts their sibling banter to say, “Dibs on the guest room then. Sorry, Michael, you’re on the couch tonight.”

Michael shrugs like he expected that, but Alex stops him with a hand on his arm as he goes to walk toward the living room.

“No, take my bed,” he says. Michael’s eyes drop down to where Alex’s hand has caught his forearm and Alex lets him go. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“What?” Michael asks, cocking his head so his curls fall into his eyes. “No, I’ll take the couch. Sleep in your own bed.”

“Michael, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch after the day you’ve had,” Alex argues. “You need a good night’s sleep in an actual bed.”

“And you don’t?” Michael counters. “Besides, if you sleep on that lumpy-ass couch you’re definitely going to fuck up your leg and I think we can both agree that that would be kind of a problem if Jones catches up to us.”

Alex sighs and tries to stare him down, willing him to let him do this for him, but Michael just keeps defiantly meeting his gaze.

“Oh my god, would you two shut up and just share the bed if the couch sucks that much?” Isobel asks and they both turn to look at her in shock. “It’s not like it would be the first time,” she adds under her breath.

Alex shares another look with Michael and waits a moment for him to react, to give any sign he wouldn’t be okay with that. 

All he does is shrug and say, “I’m game if you are.”

If he’s honest, Alex has no fucking idea how he’s supposed to get any sleep lying next to Michael all night—his stomach is already in knots just thinking about it—but he nods his head anyway.

“Alright,” Alex agrees. “It’s just down the hall that way, I’ll show you. Does anyone need anything to sleep in? I’ve got some spare pajamas.”

There’s a chorus of yes’s all around, so Alex heads down the hall toward his bedroom to grab some clothes with Michael not far behind him. 

“Looks, uh—nice in here,” Michael comments awkwardly as they step inside the bedroom, and Alex can’t help but laugh.

“You don’t have to lie,” he says as he starts digging through the dresser for some old t-shirts and sweatpants, glad for once that he never got around to cutting down the right pant leg on them. “Besides the new sheets, this is all Jim Valenti’s old stuff.” 

“The clothes too?” Michael grimaces.

“Oh, no, these are mine,” he says as he hands Michael a bundle of clothes. “Bathroom’s through that door there if you want to shower. There should be an extra toothbrush and towels under the sink.”

Michael nods, and then scoffs when he sees the Air Force logo on the t-shirt Alex hands him. Alex rolls his eyes at him as he heads back out into the living room to distribute clothes to the rest of his guests. 

It takes some time getting everyone settled—the sheets on the other beds need to be changed and Liz and Rosa have some questions about the giant hole in the wall in the basement—but soon enough, Alex heads back to the master bedroom. When he gets there, he sees Michael standing by the far side of the bed, water weighing down his curls and a pair of Alex’s sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He isn’t wearing a shirt either, the Air Force tee Alex gave him sitting on the comforter on Alex’s side of the bed.

Alex isn’t sure if this is an act of protest against the United States Armed Forces or if Michael is simply trying to drive him insane, but either way, Alex scoops up the t-shirt on his way to the ensuite bathroom along with the emergency crutches he keeps here and another pair of sweats for himself. 

He goes through his nightly routine without issue, grateful that he’d gotten around to buying a shower chair for the cabin so he can actually wash the last few days off his skin. 

He’s expecting Michael to be asleep when he gets back, but instead he finds him sitting crosslegged in bed with the lights still on, his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. Alex’s heart aches at the sight.

“Hey,” he says softly as he makes his way over to the bed. 

Michael looks up at him, an inscrutable look on his face, and waits for him to speak. 

“I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay because there’s nothing about today that has been okay,” Alex tells him, “but I’m here if you want to talk.”

A small smile tugs at Michael’s lips. “Thanks,” he says.  

When he doesn’t say anything else, Alex gets into bed with him, resting his crutches in the narrow space between the bed and the nightstand. Michael gets the lights with his powers, plunging the room into darkness, and Alex lies down on his back while his eyes adjust, too aware of Michael shifting in bed beside him to really let himself relax enough to sleep. 

It’s a few moments later when Michael lets out a huff that sounds a little like a laugh.

“What?” Alex asks, turning to look at him. He can just see the curve of Michael’s nose in the moonlight bleeding through the curtains.

“Nothing, I just—“ Michael starts before he sighs again, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s a little ridiculous that this time last year we were dealing with your homicidal father and now we’re dealing with mine. The more things change the more they stay the same, I guess.”

Michael says it like it’s funny, but Alex feels a twinge in his chest at the thought of Michael going through what he went through last year. Feeling unsafe around your parent is a special kind of pain, one Alex knows intimately, and it’s the last thing he would have ever wanted for Michael. He’s been through enough.

 On impulse, Alex reaches across the bed for Michael’s hand. It takes some searching, but eventually he finds it resting on top of the comforter between them. He half expects Michael to pull away from him, but he threads their fingers together instead. Michael’s palm is warm against his own, his grip secure, and Alex feels his eyes begin to burn as something inside his chest settles at the touch. 

He swallows down the emotion in his throat as he tells him, “We’re gonna figure this out.” 

“You don’t know that,” Michael says, scarcely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah, I do,” Alex insists. “Jones may have crazy alien powers we can’t comprehend, but we have the Lockhart Machine. If it was your mother who built it, it could hold the key to taking him down.”

At the mention of his mother, Michael goes quiet again, and Alex watches his chest rise and fall with the deep breath he takes. 

“You really think she built it?” Michael asks at last, hesitation in his tone. 

Alex gets it—this machine, if it works like the radios the Valentis had, could have alien glass with his mother’s voice inside. It makes sense that Michael doesn’t want to get his hopes up and invite the crushing disappointment he’ll feel if it doesn’t.

Alex squeezes his hand reassuringly as he answers, “I think if there’s anyone who can find out for sure, it’s you.”

Michael is silent for another long moment, so long that Alex thinks he’s done with the conversation, before he finally asks, “Why are you being so nice to me?” 

“What do you mean?” Alex asks, taken aback by the question.

Michael shifts onto his side to look at him directly. “Yesterday you didn’t want me anywhere near what you were doing and now you’re holding my hand and telling me it’s all gonna be okay if we work together,” Michael says, lifting their joined hands off the bed for emphasis. “What’s changed?”

Alex’s throat clicks as he swallows, something like shame weighing down the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t meant to make Michael feel like he didn’t want him around or that he wasn’t useful.

“I’m sorry,” Alex apologizes. “I was just scared.”

“Of what?” Michael presses.

“Of what Deep Sky would do if they found out about you,” he answers. “I knew if you kept investigating the bats, you would find Deep Sky sooner or later and I was terrified that for all their talk about changing narratives and building bridges between humans and aliens that they wouldn’t be any different than my father if they actually met one.” 

“Well, you could have told me that,” Michael says after a moment, his voice softer than the accusatory tone Alex is anticipating. “I would have understood.”

“But would you have let it go if you knew you were onto something?” Alex asks. 

“Not a chance in hell,” Michael admits, something like a smile playing at his lips. 

Alex sighs heavily, expecting the answer but no less happy at being proven right. 

“But being cagey and lying to me about what you knew didn’t make me want to let it go either,” Michael continues. 

“I know,” Alex says. “I just thought—If I didn’t try to protect you and just let you walk into something like that and you got hurt, I… I would never forgive myself.” 

Alex feels Michael’s thumb caress the back of his hand and closes his eyes at the sensation, letting it wash over him and remind him that Michael is here, that he’s safe—that he hasn’t failed him yet.

“Well, it was for nothing anyway,” Alex sighs as his eyes drift open once more. “Turns out you’re the whole reason they wanted to hire me in the first place, so—“

“Wait, what?” Michael asks, raising his head off his pillow to look at him better, and Alex curses his own sleep deprivation for letting him admit that so easily. “I thought they scouted you because of your dad.”

He swallows audibly before he answers, “That’s part of it too.” 

“But not all of it,” Michael says, not a question but a confirmation. “What, did they think they could get an alien on their side if they played the long game with you?” 

“Probably, yeah,” Alex says, hoping that’ll satisfy him.

Michael must sense that Alex is holding something back, though, because he releases his hand and sits up on the bed next to him. “Alex, what aren’t you saying?” 

Alex sighs and pushes himself up against the headboard so he and Michael are on the same level. He pulls his left leg in toward his chest protectively while Michael looks at him, his eyes intense and expectant.

Alex finds the words eventually. “Ramos wanted me to join Deep Sky because he thinks I view life differently than other people.”

“Because you already know aliens exist?” Michael guesses, his head quirked to the side.

God, is he really gonna make me say it? Alex thinks, his stomach dropping at the thought.

But then he takes in Michael’s earnest confusion, how far away the fact that Alex still loves him must be from his mind that he still doesn’t get it, and realizes they can’t keep doing this to each other—talking in riddles and euphemisms because it’s easier than being honest. That’s not who Alex wants to be anymore, and it’s certainly not what Michael deserves.

“Alex?” Michael prompts him, his voice dipping with concern, and Alex thinks, Fuck it. 

He’s already made a few major confessions tonight—what’s one more?

“Because I’m in love with one,” Alex admits at last, his heart thundering behind his ribs as he braces for Michael’s reply.

There’s a beat where Michael does nothing but stare at him blankly, the words taking a moment to register in his ears, before he asks, eyes almost comically wide, “You’re in love with me?” 

Alex laughs humorlessly, his eyes beginning to burn again as he answers, “Of course I am.”

“But I thought—you and Nazi guy—?“ Michael starts.

“Are over,” Alex finishes for him. “Forrest was nice and fun to hang out with, but he’s not you. He’ll never be you.”

A second and a year pass in the excruciating moment Michael takes to process that statement. It makes him feel raw and impossibly exposed, like Michael is holding his beating heart in his hands and Alex is begging him not to break it, but the next thing Alex knows Michael is pushing into his space and capturing his lips in a harsh and desperate kiss. 

Alex’s heart nearly bursts with relief, his leg dropping back down to the mattress. He reaches up to cup both of Michael’s cheeks to keep him close, his days-old stubble a pleasant scratch against his palms. 

Michael breathes a contented sigh against his mouth as he tilts his head for a better angle and tries to deepen the kiss, his tongue flicking out against Alex’s bottom lip. Alex opens for him without a moment’s hesitation and as soon as Michael licks into his mouth, Michael’s tongue sliding across his own, Alex feels like he’s been set on fire, the desire he’s been suppressing for over a year now flaring hot and inexorable inside of him. 

Alex wants with an intensity that almost scares him, his cock stirring against his thigh already and Michael’s barely even touched him. The feeling amplifies when Michael throws his leg over Alex’s hips and settles heavily over his lap, the solid weight and warmth of him pulling a moan from Alex’s throat.

Michael swallows the sound eagerly as he snakes his arms behind his neck, his hips shifting restlessly over Alex’s lap as he kisses him. Alex drops his hands from Michael’s face to wrap around his waist instead, pulling him closer until they’re nearly chest to chest. 

One of them has to break the kiss eventually, and as Alex gasps for air with his head tipped back against the headboard, he can see Michael looking down at him with adoration in his eyes. He takes Alex’s face in his hands and laughs, a soft, wet sound, before he kisses him soundly once more. 

“I love you so much,” he murmurs against his lips, and Alex’s grip tightens as he feels those words brush against his skin and settle in his heart.

Alex leans that little bit forward to kiss him again, slow and languid this time as the heat continues to simmer between them. Michael peels Alex’s shirt over his head and begins to rock gently against him, his ass rubbing back and forth over Alex’s growing erection with every movement of his hips. 

He can tell that Michael’s getting hard too, can feel the heat of his cock through his borrowed sweatpants. Alex removes his hand from Michael’s waist and slides it lower until he feels Michael’s happy trail peeking out above his waistband. 

He strokes his thumb over the hair there, teasing the skin at the edge of the fabric without ever dipping beneath it. Michael squirms against him with a soft, plaintive whimper when he does that, so Alex gives him what he wants, lets his hand slip lower so he can rub his palm over the hard line of Michael’s cock, relishing the way Michael moans softly into his mouth as his hips twitching closer on instinct. 

“Are we really doing this right now?” Alex pulls away to ask, his thumb rubbing a slow circle around the head of Michael’s dick through the soft fabric. 

“Are you saying you want to stop?” Michael asks him, tipping forward until their foreheads meet.

“No,” he answers.

“Then yeah,” Michael breathes, reaching down between them to cover Alex’s hand with his own. “I think we’re doing this.”

“In that case,” Alex says, “I want you in my mouth.”

“God, yeah,” Michael whispers, his cock jumping beneath Alex’s hand at the thought.

Alex gives him a hard kiss before he pulls back to say, “On your back.”

Michael climbs off of Alex’s lap without another word. He rolls over onto his back next to him, his thighs falling open to give Alex room to work with. 

Alex slips between them easily and moves in to kiss him again, once on the lips before he begins pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses down his chin. He lingers at his neck, sucking a bruise into the spot underneath his jaw that he knows drives Michael fucking crazy. 

Michael rewards him with a choked-off moan, his legs spreading wider around his hips. Alex wishes he had the time—and supplies—to ruin him properly, work him open with his tongue and fingers until he’s a keening, whimpering mess before he fucks him like he deserves. For now, though, his mouth will have to do.

Alex can feel Michael’s pulse jackrabbit against his lips as he continues down the column of his throat, Michael’s hands burying themselves in his hair. He dips his tongue into the hollow of his collarbone before he slips further down his chest, cupping Michael’s pecs in his hands and squeezing just enough to get a reaction from him before his mouth latches on to one of his nipples.

He scrapes his teeth against the bud before soothing the hurt with his tongue and Michael’s breath catches in his throat again. He’s always been so sensitive, so responsive to Alex’s touch, and Alex can’t get enough of it.

When he’s teased both of his nipples to hard buds, Alex starts to move lower still, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses down the length of his belly until he stops right above the waistband of his pajamas.

“Alex,” Michael moans as Alex sucks another bruise into his skin, his fingers tightening their grip on his hair. “Please.”

Alex gives one final kiss to the sharp angle of Michael’s hip bone before he sits up to pull his pants off. He drops them off the side of the bed carelessly before he settles between Michael’s legs once more, running his palms along the soft skin of his inner thighs and enjoying the way the muscle jumps beneath his fingertips.

Michael’s cock leaks against his belly, flushed and wet at the tip. Alex wastes no more time getting his mouth on him, lapping at the pool of precome shining against his skin before he takes the slick, swollen head into his mouth. He revels in the feel of it forcing his mouth wide open and moans softly at the bitter taste he catches on his tongue. 

Alex looks up at Michael through his lashes as he starts to suck him, sinking down onto his cock a little lower with every pass of his lips. Michael’s got his bottom lip caught painfully between his teeth, his eyes trained hungrily on the way his cock is slipping in and out of Alex’s mouth. 

The soft, needy whimpers Michael makes as Alex swallows around him are music to his ears, stoking the fire inside of him until the pressure in his own cock becomes unbearable. Alex grinds his hips down against the mattress for relief, but it only makes him more desperate to come. He slides one of his hands straight into his own pants and groans around Michael’s cock as he starts to fuck his fist.

It’s not much longer that Michael’s hips start to twitch against the mattress and his fingers tighten their grip on Alex’s hair. He barely gets out a warning, “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” before he’s pulsing hot and wet across Alex’s tongue. Alex swallows it greedily, moaning softly as he works Michael through the rest of his orgasm and keeps chasing his own with eager, shallow thrusts. 

When Michael’s had enough, Alex pulls off of his cock and buries his face against his hip as he comes quietly over his own fist, making a mess of the inside of his underwear. He’ll probably be embarrassed about that later, but for now he’s content to come down to the feeling of Michael gently petting his hair.

“Get up here,” Michael says when he’s recovered the ability to speak, tugging lightly on the ends of Alex’s hair to get his attention. 

Alex groans as he lifts his head off Michael’s hip and maneuvers himself until he’s lying next to him again, his stump crossed over Michael’s thigh. 

“Did you—?” Michael cuts off, eyes caught on the sticky mess on Alex’s hand now that he’s pulled it free from his pants.

“Yeah,” Alex admits, a little sheepishly. 

Michael stares at his hand for a long second before he grabs his wrist and pulls his hand closer to his face. He looks Alex in the eye as he sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, grunting softly as he licks them clean.

“Fuck,” Alex whispers, his cock twitching in vain against his thigh at the sight and feel of Michael’s tongue sliding between his fingers.

“You missed sucking my cock that bad, huh?” Michael asks when he lets them fall from his mouth, voice low and rough as gravel as he pushes into Alex’s space, so close he can smell himself on Michael’s breath. 

Alex lets out a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he answers.

Michael leans in to kiss him, quick and dirty and possessive, before he pulls back and says, “Guess I’m just gonna have to wait until the morning to return the favor then.”

“I guess so,” Alex says, hooking his clean hand around the back of Michael’s neck to bring him in for another one.

Michael kisses him back eagerly for a long moment before he pulls away. “Be right back,” he says, and climbs out of bed.

While he’s in the bathroom, Alex shimmies his dirty sweatpants and underwear off his legs and onto the floor. It’s only another minute before Michael’s back, a damp washcloth gripped between his fingers. 

It’s warm against Alex’s skin as Michael uses it to clean him up, and when they’re done they settle down for bed, Alex’s head resting on Michael’s chest and his arm thrown across his waist.

And as Alex finally closes his eyes for the night, his thoughts naturally drift to all the problems they’ll be facing tomorrow morning:

Saving Kyle. 

Freeing Maria. 

Stopping Jones. 

Unlocking the secrets of a mysterious 50 year old alien device and hopefully not going insane while trying.

But as the steady sound of Michael’s heartbeat lulls him to sleep, the loudest thought in his head is that Michael loves him. 

Whatever happens come morning, they’ll deal with it together.

[kallard]

Night Terror

Human dreams... Such fertile ground for the seeds of torment.

(( The following post contains subject material that may be triggering to some. These include drug use, excessive violence, horrific imagery and body horror. Read at your own discretion. ))

(( Recommended listening - https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL04F49846B75B860C ))

Kallard stumbled his way through Ul’dah, his movements sluggish. He looked straight ahead as the world spun around him, barely walking in a straight line. He reached out with his right hand, touching the wall that ran parallel next to him, hoping the contact with stabilize him. His mind was a jumbled mess, as it always was whenever he took too much Somnus.

Time seem to stretch out for all of eternity, Kallard’s head bobbing up and down. Dark blue eyes fluttered closed briefly before lazily popping open, bloodshot and glazed over. His heart felt as if it was going to explode out of his chest, each beat sending a shock wave through his body. He could feel his legs giving out from under him, his clunky boots feeling as if they weighed a metric ton. Before he could stop himself, Kallard was tumbling forward.

As he fell forward, his hands shot out on instinct in an attempt to absorb some of the impact. But he was far too high to react in time. The moment his arms made contact with the paved walkway his body was only a split second behind. The air was forced out of his lungs as his head hit the ground and bounced back up before hitting it a second time.

-----

Cassian and Kallard lay cuddled close together, the two men wrapped in a lover’s embrace. A thick comforter was pulled up over their naked bodies, their heads propped up on plush pillows. Kallard was smoking a cigarette, an ash tray resting on the nightstand next to him. It wasn’t very often that the two got shore leave at the same time, so whenever they had the opportunity they spent most of the day in bed either making love or just enjoying each other’s company.

“Babe,” Cassian said as he looked over at Kallard with a smile on his face. “Let’s go do something today. Don’t get me wrong, I love fucking you, but I wanna stretch my legs.”

“What do you wanna do?” Kallard asked, pulling Cassian close.

“How about we go to the museum? I heard they have a new exhibit.”

“Gods, you are such a nerd!” Kallard said, snorting back laughter.

“What, and you’re not? Last I checked you’re the only soldier who reads technical manuals for fun. How is that fun! It’s just pictures of machines,” Cassian responded, ruffling his lover’s hair.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. If I didn’t read those manuals who’d fix our armor? Certainly not you since you can’t even hold a wreck right.”

“Oh shush. I can hold a wrench just fine. We can’t all be grease monkies like you and your sister. I swear, it’s like you guys were born with a set of tools in your hands.”

“Nah, we weren’t born special. Before we joined up with the military we were homeless. We just did the jobs no one else would do. Learned a lot that way. Not many kids are willing to climb into a robot to get it up and running again,” Kallard said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“How long were you two homeless?” Cassian asked, reaching out and stealing Kallard’s cigarette for himself.

“Few years, five at the most. We didn’t really have a way of keeping track of time back then, so neither of us are sure how long it was. Honestly, it was all a blur. We were driven to join up and become officers so we spent a lot of our free time training.”

“Is that why you’re so good with that revolver of yours?”

“Mmhmm,” Kallard said, nodding his head, taking back his cigarette after Cassian took a few drags. “I learned how to shoot when I was eight years old. That was around the same time Mari took up the bow.”

“You two are scary together,” Cassian admitted, resting his head on Kallard’s chest.

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Kallard said softly.

Cassian shifted around and looked up at Kallard, still using his lover’s chest as a pillow. The sound of his heartbeat filled his chest with warmth, thankful that he met a man who treated him as well as Kallard did. He reached up and brushed Kallard’s black hair to the side and gently trailed the length of a small scar on his forehead.

“When did you have your eye removed?” Cassian asked as he swiped back and forth on Kallard’s forehead, just where the scar was.

“Shortly after we were assigned to the Frumentarium. Sis and I both thought it would be a good idea to have it removed after we were assigned out first black ops mission. It would’ve given us the opportunity to go undercover without exposing our Garlean ancestry. A lot of good came out of having our third eyes removed. It’s been so long since we hand ‘em that we barely even notice it anymore. It was weird at first but we adapted.”

After Kallard finished with his story, Cassian leaned up and kissed him on his scar before pulling away. He flung off the blanket and rolled out of bed, yawning as he moved. Kallard snuffed out his cigarette in the ash tray before he too got out of bed, stretching out once he was standing up. He glanced back at Cassian, watching as the blonde wandered around the room, gathering his hastily discarded clothing.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your ass?” Kallard asked with a toothy grin.

Kallard turned around to fully face his lover only to discover that he wasn’t in the bedroom. As he made his way over to the bathroom, he stepped into his boxers before coming to a halt in door frame. It appeared that Cassian wasn’t here either, the bathroom feeling cold and empty.

“Babe?” Kallard called out. “Where’d you go?”

A glass hit the ground and exploded from somewhere else in the apartment, the sudden noise causing Kallard to jump. Instinct kicked in and he cautiously padded over to the door leading out of the bedroom. He poked his head out of the room, looking first right then left before stepping out into the main room of his apartment.

“Cassian? Where are you?”

A gurgle sounded in the direction of the kitchen, thus drawing Kallard’s attention. He slowly made his way through the living room that was just a glorified giant study and eventually into the cramped room he called a kitchen. Standing in the center of the room was Cassian, hunched over with both arms wrapped around his chest. A broken glass that once contained some orange juice decorated the floor, razor sharp shards glittering in the mid-day sun.

“Whoa, Cass, you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Kallard asked, stepping forward and placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Babe?”

Cassian jerked up at Kallard’s touch, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his back as he hugged himself. He stumbled backward a few feet, bare feet stepping on the glass, sending shards into the soles of Cassian’s feet. The pain didn’t seem to bother him as he started jerking around where he stood, mouth agape in a silent scream of pain. His flesh bubbled and rippled, moving as if something were slithering around just beneath the surface of his skin.

A low groan escaped Cassian’s mouth as his head fell back, the noise growing louder and higher in pitch with each passing second. Something bulged under his loose fitting shirt, looking like a squirrel trapped under a tarp as it darted around his chest. A pinprick of red could be seen forming in the center of Cassian’s chest, quickly going from a tiny marking of red, blossoming into a crimson flower.

“Babe,” Kallard said, pointing at the growing crimson stain on Cassian’s chest. “You’re bleeding. C’mon, we’re getting you to the hospital.”

Just as Kallard took a step forward, Cassian let out an ear shattering roar. His chest split open, the new growth forcing his shirt to tear exposing the horrors beneath. With the shirt out of the way Kallard could see a laceration form at Cassian’s neck and going all the way down the length of his chest, stopping at his belly button. It looked as if someone was ripping his flesh apart, the whites of his rib cage visible.

From the spaces between Cassian’s ribs exploded forth over two dozen small, slender fleshy tentacles, thrashing about in the air. A sickening crunch sounded from the blonde’s chest as bone was split in two, the sternum of his chest torn in two. Another set of arms extended forth from the gaping hole in Cassian’s torso, a pair of bony blades jutting forth from the wrist.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Kallard shouted as he took several steps back, arms pinwheeling around as he struggled to remain his balance. His eyes were fixed on the gaping hole in Cassian’s chest, watching as the errant strands of flesh flapped around.

Whatever it was that Cassian had transformed into took a step forward, glass crunching under its feet. The creature let out a deep, throaty howl and surged forward. Bony blades were flailed around, Cassian’s head drooping backwards. His neck split in two and several, sharp teeth jutted forward from the flesh, gnashing at the air. Blood poured forth from the two alien openings in Cassian’s once human form, oozing down his legs and staining the white carpet crimson.

Kallard kept moving backwards until he hit a bookshelf, the sudden jolt causing a handful of books to rain down on him. His mind was racing, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. How could this have happened?! What the hell was happening to Cassian? One thing was certain, for the first time since he was a child, he felt afraid.

The monster that was once Cassian let out another inhuman roar and surged forward, all four of the creature’s arms flailing around. It appeared as if the beast was blind, given that Cassian’s head had drooped so low that it hung behind him on stretched out strands of skin. Kallard let out a cry of surprise and quickly shuffled to the left.

The cold surface of the apartment’s wall caused a shiver to run up Kallard’s spine as he backed himself into a literal corner. He moved as fast as his rattled nerves would let him, shimmying across the wall. Cassian slammed into the bookshelf where Kallard had been standing. The bookshelf decided to empty itself, raining books of various sizes onto the monster that had once been Cassian. The creature thrashing around, confused and angry, swatting books away as if they were flies.

Kallard kept shuffling down the length of the wall and came to a halt when he locked eyes with Cassian. The blonde’s head was hanging by a literal thread, eyes wide with confusion and anger. The warmth that usually filled the man’s eyes were gone, looking more like a rabid animal than a person. Whatever had caused this to happen had clearly driven the man insane with rage, the creature assaulting the bookshelf with all its might.

Once the creature realized that it wasn’t attacking Kallard it spun around to face him, arm blades held close to its chest, resembling a praying mantis. Letting loose a roar, the monster angrily surged forward, tentacles thrashing around in the air. Having nowhere to go, Kallard pressed himself up against a window set into the wall. The window itself was large and swung out, but was seldom used due to the often cold temperatures outside.

Unable to move out of the way, Kallard closed his eyes and readied himself for the worst. The creature slammed into him and pulled the other man close as the tentacles lashed out and wrapped themselves around Kallard’s arms. The foreign flesh was cold and slimy, slick with some unknown substance.

Kallard started to scream as the creature slammed into him once more, using its body as a battering ram. Behind the two, the glass started to break, a spiderweb of cracks forming. The web grew in size every time Kallard was slammed into it and upon the third impact, the window shattered completely. Kal could feel himself falling backwards, the monster clinging to him as if its life depending on it.

Rather that making contact with the ground, it seemed to give way under him. Upon impact it felt as if he had hit a water surface and was now being dragged underwater. The creature that had once clung to him was long gone, feeling like a distant memory. Kallard was defenseless as some invisible force dragged him deeper and deeper underwater.

Whatever it was that had taken hold of him released Kallard and he flew backwards out from under the water. He flew a few feet into the air and was suddenly forced back down as reality righted itself. Kallard hit a hard surface and let out a groan as he rolled around in the icy cold, ankle deep water.

Dark blue eyes fluttered open and Kallard took in his surroundings, finding himself in a vast and empty void. He slowly sat up and eventually stood up, feeling as if he just went a few rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. Kal glanced up at the sky and saw that that it was just an extension of the void. Not a single star hung in the dark, featureless void.

“Hello?” Kallard called out as he looked this way and that, finding nothing but more emptiness. “Is anyone there?”

Something stirred off in the distance, a shapeless figure silently flying through the void. Kallard squinted, trying to focus his eyes on the horizon. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind was telling him to run, the rational side of his brain telling him to stay put. Whatever it was that caught his attention was growing closer and closer.

A loud BOOM sounded as a large figure slammed into an invisible barrier that Kallard wasn’t aware of until just now. He jumped backward a few feet, startled and confused as a lance of intense fear shot through his heart. A cold shiver ran up his spine, every ounce of his body suddenly urging him to run far, far away. Despite this, Kallard steeled himself and balled his hands into fists, trying desperately to suppress the fear.

“What are you?” Kallard asked, unable to mask the unease in his voice. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Have you forgotten all about me? I am so deeply hurt,” the formless figure said. When the being spoke, it sounded as if a handful of people were speaking in unison, perfectly interlaced so that they spoke as one. This only amplified the mounting feeling of dread, standing face to face with something behind his comprehension.

“Wait…” Kallard said, suddenly remembering the black gemstone he had stolen not too long ago. “You’re that thing that lived in that stone I stole. Why did you bring me here?”

“Ah, so you do remember me,” the being said as a skeletal head drifted to the surface of the murky, shapeless cloud of black smoke. A pair of silver eyes gazed down at Kallard, the skull forever grinning down at him. “I grow hungry.”

“And? What does that have to do with me?” Kallard asked the creature, doing his best to avoid looking directly into its inhumane gaze.

“You are the one who currently holds my prison, so it is you who must feed me. Kill someone, anyone. Make their death slow and painful. The more drawn out, the better. Do this and I will stop giving you these delicious night terrors,” the creature replied, placing a giant clawed hand on the barrier. Sharp talons dug into the surface of the invisible wall that separated the two beings, Bridget’s perfect spell weaving preventing the monster from touching Kallard.

“Fuck off. Why the hell would I do that?” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Do you not love your sister? If you refuse to feed me I will turn my sights on her. Is that what you really want?”

“You touch her and I’ll kill you,” Kal spat out.

“You cannot kill me, Decimus Sas Panthera,” the creature said, sounding as if it were smiling. “Do my bidding and your sister will live. Time to wake up, Decimus.”

-----

Kallard shot upright, causing a Lalafell to let out a surprised scream as she fell back onto her rear, scooting away from the man that had been dead asleep just a second ago. The Lalafell watched as Kallard looked around as he tried to gain his footing back in reality. He could no longer feel the comforting effects of the Somnus, his mouth dry as a bone.

“Whew!” the Lalafel said with a big smile. “I thought you were dead! You okay, mister?”

“’M fine,” Kallard managed to get out, resting his head against the wall behind him. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all!’

The Lalafel jumped back up to her feet, dusting her rear off. She was wearing the guise of a Blade, one of Ul’dahs guards that ‘kept the peace.’ Kallard typically did his best to avoid dealing with them, as they weren’t the most reliable sort of people. They were either bought out by the cartels or motivated by their own self interest to ‘do good and serve the people,’

“You just do your best to stay outta trouble, okay? Somnus is dangerous!” the Blade said as she placed her helmet back over her small head.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s bad. I don’t care. Thanks for checkin’ in one me.”

Kallard watched as the Lalafell wandered off, heading in the direction of the Gold Court. Once she was out of sight Kal fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. He remained where he sat, keeping the wall to his back. The feeling of dread lingered in the back of his mind, a constant reminder that he didn’t just have a nightmare. This was something on a completely different level, a dream gone wild. He chalked it up to the Somnus, but he’d never had a nightmare that bad before.

“Fuck,” Kallard muttered as he thumped his head against the wall. “I hate this. Is this what my life has become? Drugs and regrets? Fuck…”

It was some time before Kallard removed himself from where he had woken up, content to just sit there and process what had just happened. He didn’t want the monster to be real, but he did remember feeling the same presence the first time this being reared its ugly head. Kallard decided to not listen to the creature’s words. The last thing he wanted was to kill someone to appease some creature trapped in a soul stone.

For now, Kallard would continue as he had been. If this turned out to be a real threat, he’ll deal with it when he’s ready. If this was nothing more than a dream, he had nothing to lose. And so, Kallard dragged himself up off the ground and headed in the direction of Pearl Lane. Maybe he could find some entertainment to take his mind off things.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

No, It's Definitely Funny

Prompt: Can I request a second part to "Let's Call It Funny" where Bucky, Sam, Steve, and Peter unite forces to confuse and concern all the other avengers (with at least one instance where two or all of them respond to something by pretending to jump off a building?) Love you! -Auggie

Does it count as being back on my bullshit if I never left?

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: none, unless you need a warning for gen z humor

Pairings: it's still found family hours

Word Count: 2259

Peter’s gonna be honest, he may or may not have some competition for the funniest person in the Tower right now.

Because let’s look at the list here:

Traumatized? Everybody and their private jet’s worth of vintage and designer baggage needs therapy.

Queer? If you think Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or Sam Wilson is straight, you need to tell them everything they’ve ever done to make you think they’re straight so they can stop doing it immediately.

Superhero? Yeah, okay, shush, now you’re being stupid.

Neurodivergent? Have you seen the way these men behave? Definitely the model of Perfectly Normal Person™, what on earth are you talking about, absolutely 100% Normal™.

The only things he’s still got going for him that the others don’t are high-schooler and trans. That’s not a lot when it comes to the fact that hey, two of them are from the Great Depression—let’s be honest, they’re the OGs when it comes to fatalistic humor—and they’ve all got years of practice.

Sure, Peter’s got some trauma-given raw talent, but it’s not refined by years and years of throwing yourself off of buildings and out of planes to avoid having conversations about your emotions.

The day Aunt Nat dropped all of SHIELD’s files on the Internet and Peter found out that Steve yeeted himself out of a plane—without a parachute!—to avoid Nat’s prodding about getting a date was the best day of his fucking life.

“Don’t you go stealing my moves there, kid,” Steve had scolded playfully, winking over the rim of his mug.

“Try and stop me, I dare you.”

“And this is why,” Tony had sighed, looking every bit his 79 years—“Hey!”—as he watches this interaction go down, “you have a parachute built into your suit.”

“I’ll just wear my old one, don’t worry about it.”

“That heinous thing that’s just a cut-up old hoodie and goggles? Peter, no, that thing is being held together with safety pins and hope!”

“I mean, me too, so it’s fine.”

“Peter!”

“Also, like, it’s the one I almost got crushed to death in, so it’s got the emotional trauma seasoning already.”

“Wait—“ Bucky had sat up— “you almost got crushed to death by a building? Sheesh, kid, you’re really flirting with the reaper, huh.”

“It wasn’t so bad, I had training from the years and years of carrying the weight of my sins crawling on my back.”

“At least ask Death for his number next time, he’s not returning my calls.”

“Sergeant, I swear to God—“

“Actually, Death uses they/them pronouns, I asked when I met them last weekend.”

“What the fuck did you do last weekend?”

“Really? Oh cool, well, can you get their number for me? We had a date back in ’45 that they missed.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.”

“Tony, why are you screaming? Not keeping dates is a very serious matter.”

“Trust me, I speak from experience, Tony, it’s not a good habit to get into.”

“You should respect your elders and not scream while we’re talking to you, mister.”

“All of you shut the fuck up.”

See? On one hand, it’s great to have more partners in this venture of making Tony’s hair turn grey—he’s that age, it’s bound to happen any time soon now— “One more crack about my age, kid, I swear.” — but on the other hand, Peter is seriously losing his massive lead on funniest person in the Tower.

The other thing he’s worried about is Sam’s ability to make it so the others can’t actually worry about him.

Because—listen, Sam Wilson is a fucking national treasure and all you fuckers better acknowledge that. It’s no secret that the Captains take turns going out with the shield, all of them answer to ‘Captain America’ because that’s what they are, but no one—and Peter will never say this under threat of death because he does not need any more of the Steve Rogers’ Puppy Dog Eyes™, thank you very much—no one does it better than Sam.

And that means that Sam fucking Wilson can turn a fatalistic, self-deprecating joke into a motivational speech that doesn’t feel disingenuous or cliché at all and everyone is too busy processing the philosophical revelations they’re having to scold him for his, frankly, outstanding sense of humor.

It’s not fair and Peter can’t do it.

He tried. Once.

Didn’t go very well.

No, he’s not gonna talk about it, let’s just move on.

Sam has offered to catch him a couple of times when he gets himself a little too deep into the Mamma Spider™ or Iron Dad™ trap of feeeelings, and he gratefully scoots out of the way when Sam sits down next to him and just makes another joke.

Sam is also a fantastic role model for the brand of ‘I’m going to the store and only have twenty bucks, stop asking for your will to live back’ jokes.

“Hey, Pete!”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go, bodega run.”

“Can we pick up some hopes and dreams, too, all of those got scribbled out in fat red Sharpie yesterday.”

“I said bodega run, not Court of Miracles run.”

“But Sam~”

“Listen, kid, if you manage to find your hopes and dreams in this bodega, keep an eye out for your childhood innocence, that might be on the next shelf over.”

“Deal.”

“Do you two need some more therapy appointments?”

“Only got fifteen bucks, man.”

“I’m literally a billionaire!”

Peter eagerly studies under this pinnacle of humor and keeps his worries to himself.

Because if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and Peter’s sense of humor is wonderful, but he is a tad intimidated by the amount of variety the others have got going for them.

“You’re a fucking terror, Spider-ling, that’s what you are.”

“Not true! I was ‘a pleasure to have in class.’”

“Oh, is that why you’re taking ‘Little Shit’ lessons from Barnes and Rogers?”

“And Sam! Don’t forget Captain Wilson, he is an invaluable part of this team. I’m surprised at your ignorance.”

“Pete—no, that’s not—“

“I’m ashamed for you, Mr. Stark.”

“Listen here you little shit—“

Anyway…

Steve and Bucky have a habit of telling these like, really awful jokes that have Peter in stitches for half an hour. It’s not fair and he doesn’t get why they’re so funny because they aren’t, and yet here he is, laughing anyway.

It’s probably some combination of Steve’s perfected innocent face that he wears when he has to do interviews and Bucky’s habit of not giving a single solitary fuck. But they’re able to make the worst jokes with completely serious expressions and it’s not fair.

“Hey, can you guys come help me with something?”

“Sure, Peter,” Steve says instantly, bounding over with his 95-year-old Golden Retriever energy as Bucky trails behind him like a cat that’s sitting in your lap because he wants to, not because he likes you or anything, “what’s up?”

“I have a history project on WWII due tomorrow and I haven’t started it yet.”

Bucky snorts, taking a swig of coffee and sitting down on the floor. Which, same. “You got your eulogy planned?”

“Drafted, sighed, notarized, but Aunt May said no so I gotta do this.”

“Well, if Aunt May says no then I guess that’s that.”

Tony, from far away in another part of the Tower, has a sickening feeling that May Parker has once again proven that she is the most powerful parent and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I, um,” Peter mumbles, fidgeting with his pen, “I want to be respectful of your boundaries, and if you don’t want to talk about anything then—“

Because it’s one thing for someone to make jokes about their trauma and another for someone else to go poking and prodding at it.

“Hey,” Steve interrupts softly, nudging him with his knee, “first off, thank you for saying that and we appreciate your respect, but we got you. You worry about enough, sweetheart, let us take care of ourselves.”

Peter gives him a look.

“When it comes to this,” Steve amends, having the decency to look a little sheepish, “we’ll take care of ourselves.”

Bucky scoffs. “Uh-huh.”

“We will, Buck.”

“My therapist will be real happy to hear that.” He looks up at Peter and winks. “Besides, what good is our trauma if we don’t pin it up and display it for good grades?”

Peter huffs, the joke undercut a little by the way Bucky knocks his foot against Peter’s and Steve’s arm stretches over the couch behind him.

Peter has to resist the urge to lean his head onto Steve’s shoulder, because then Steve’s hand will come up and ruffle his hair and Peter’s eyes will droop slowly closed as he loses himself in the warmth and safety of Steve’s embrace and then Steve will lean down to press a kiss to his temple and—

Right. Homework.

“What’s it on specifically,” Bucky asks, clearly spotting the temptation on Peter’s end, “home front? Overseas? Time period?”

“Uh, it’s an analysis of total war.”

“Like, how much of the country was devoted to the war effort?”

“Yeah, basically. It’s talking about how the Nazi War Machine made their war total and how that extends to a lot of other countries, but also about the reasons why the war was fought—“

They delve into a conversation about total war, Peter pointing out how Italy’s motivation for territory keeps it from being a total war on their part, Bucky speaking to how the different dynamics worked in various countries and the fallout, Steve bringing up how much of the home front was devoted to bringing attention to the war being fought overseas. Then, of course, as is inevitable, they devolve into storytelling.

Peter’s notebook—with notes! He did his job!—is set aside as he gives in to the need to let Steve cuddle him on the couch. Come on, the man is warm and big and gives good hugs, how is he supposed to not? Bucky sprawls out on the floor, leaning back on his hands as he smiles fondly.

“You know,” he remarks casually, “I fought a Nazi in my pajamas once.”

Peter blinks sleepily. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, though how he got in my pajamas, I have no idea.”

Peter snorts. Then he giggles. Then he’s collapsing into Steve’s side, positively sobbing with laughter.

It’s not funny.

It’s really not that funny.

But here he is, fucking dying, and he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to welcome the sweet embrace of oblivion.

“Okay, note to self,” Bucky murmurs when he’s calmed down a little, wiping away tears, “sleepy spider likes corny jokes.”

“Just don’t break our baby spider, Buck, Momma Spider would kill you in cold blood.”

“Listen, if Natasha Romanoff kills me, don’t prosecute. That’s on me.”

Peter can’t do corny jokes. He really can’t. He just sounds like he’s a recording so old it’s unintelligible and it’s bad. He has a reputation to maintain here!

However, there is one sense of humor that Peter is very eager to learn and adopt, and hey, it might actually be Iron Dad™ Approved!

It’s a rookie mistake, asking Bucky Barnes for a hand, but in his defense, Peter was left unsupervised and was distracted.

“Hey, Bucky, can you give me a hand?”

“Sure thing, Peter.”

Something nudges his arm and he looks down. It’s Bucky’s metal arm, bumping up against his elbow.

It’s a cheap joke. It’s bad. It does not deserve Peter’s laughter.

He snorts anyway.

“That’s on me,” he says after a second, “you know what, that’s my fault.”

“What, is this not what you meant?”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Peter scruffs a hand through his hair. He looks down at the prosthetic again. “Well, that’s disarming.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to snort. “You gotta hand it to me, though, it’s a good joke.”

Oh, it’s on.

“No, no, of course, I understand. You really can’t let an opportunity like that slip through your fingers.”

Steve chokes on his next sip of coffee. “Stop making the kid shoulder the burden of making puns with you.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Don’t palm this off on someone else, Steve, you’re as bad as he is.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.” Peter shrugs. “You just gotta knuckle-down and find the right one.”

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to reach for puns?” Bucky hefts his arm.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say a lot.”

“Jeez, Pete, good one.”

“What, are you not finding them humerus?”

Sam’s gone, Steve shortly after. Bucky just grins proudly at him.

Then there’s a massive thunk from behind them. Peter turns around to see Tony slamming his forehead into the counter.

“You are all going to kill me,” he mutters, glaring up at them, “all three of you.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark, Captain Barnes would never hurt you.”

Tony raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“After all,” Peter grins, gesturing to Bucky who is doing a very good innocent face—he must’ve been taking notes from Steve— “look at him, he’s completely armless.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker—“

Okay, so maybe it’s not Iron Dad™ Approved.

Oh, well.

[elwenyere]

A Very Small Grease Fire (and Other Human Disasters)

(Thanksgiving ficlet for the Stony and Avengers fam; also on AO3)

The Avengers didn’t have the best track record with Thanksgiving. The first time the dinner had ended in disaster, it had been Steve’s fault. One rainy fall Sunday, just months after the Battle of New York, Steve had been picking at a bowl of mint-chip ice cream, feeling tired of getting looks of sympathy about the holidays and absolutely exhausted by feeling sorry for himself. If Bruce and Clint hadn’t chosen that particular afternoon to ask him whether there was anything special he wanted for Thanksgiving – raising the question with just enough gentleness to make Steve’s jaw tighten – he probably would have said, “I’m a sweet potatoes guy” and left it at that.

Instead, Steve had been seized by a spirit of mischief. Putting on his most morose poker face, he had proceeded to invent a series of Depression-era dishes, from “Hoover Rolls” to “Poor Man’s Potatoes,” the recipes for which he concocted out of the blandest ingredients he could imagine. By the time he was in the process of describing his third Crisco-based dessert, Steve was sure he had gone far enough to reveal the joke; but Bruce and Clint had continued nodding encouragingly and jotting down notes.

The results had been borderline inedible. And even though the sight of Tony doubled over with laughter when Steve finally fessed up had thawed out a part of his heart he hadn’t even known was still on ice, the experience of eating a holiday dinner in which half the dishes tasted like over-starched socks forced even Steve to admit that the prank had been a bit of a Pyrrhic victory.

The second time…well, Steve would have said the second time was his fault too – though he supposed the rest of the team would blame the extremists who tried to kidnap the governor. Clint had just started basting the turkey when the “Assemble” alarm went off, and the team had to pile in the Quinjet to deal with a hostage situation at the capitol. It should have been an easy job – in and out with plenty of time to take the butter for the piecrust out of the freezer – but then one of the extremists had pulled the pin on a grenade just yards away from a state senator’s eight-year-old son, and four hours later Steve was waking up in the burn unit at Walter Reed hospital with the anguished sound of someone shouting his name still ringing in his ears.

“You fucking idiot,” the same voice had greeted him, and Steve looked up to see Tony sitting by his bed, the lines around his eyes drawn tight over a surgical mask. “You’re supposed to be a tactical genius, and you haven’t learned a single new method for containing explosives since basic training in 1943? I’m going to equip your suit with goddamn ballistic plates.”

“Tony,” Steve managed, feeling a halo of pain radiate up his scalp. “Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?”

Steve thought he saw something mist across Tony’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. The more fully he became aware of his body, the more he noticed the pull of his skin cells contracting in uneven loops around the burns on his torso, and it was taking a considerable amount of energy to keep Tony’s face in focus.

“Everybody’s fine but you, Steve,” Tony assured him. “And the doctors said you should be able to move to the general floor in a few hours. So shut those baby blues and let the serum do its job, because there’s a whole team of keyed-up superheroes waiting to see you, and they’re emptying the hospital vending machines fast enough to cause a run on the Frito-Lay factory.”

Steve had drifted in and out of consciousness for a while after that, finally waking up long enough to eat a holiday dinner of contraband take-out, which Natasha had smuggled into the hospital using only Thor’s tendency to knock over delicate instruments and Bruce’s oversized jacket.

“When you sign up to be an Avenger, no one warns you about doing overtime as a falafel mule,” Bruce had mused, leaning back to let Natasha steal a fry off his plate.

“I still think we could have gotten that eighth kebab if you’d been willing to consider pant legs as additional real estate,” she told him.

"You should all be eating stuffing and pumpkin pie,” Steve grimaced. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here on Thanksgiving.”

“Listen, Cap,” Clint replied, waving a dolma at him, “if you’re going to apologize for anything, apologize for the purgatory potatoes you tricked me into making last year. At least this year we have food that doesn’t have the texture of fast-drying cement.”

“Those tubers had truly been abandoned by the gods,” Thor agreed solemnly. “But I maintain that the Big Band Banana Pie was actually quite delicious.”

“Just don’t make the third-degree burns and hypovolemic shock a holiday habit, Rogers,” Tony put in. “Some of us are trying to watch our blood pressure.”

Tony had leaned over to adjust the settings on Steve’s bed as he spoke, and by the time he finished, a dull tugging sensation across Steve’s chest had loosened – the pain subsiding almost before Steve could register that it had been bothering him.

So that was why, after two years of throwing wrenches in the Avengers’ Thanksgiving plans, Steve was determined to make sure that year three went off without a hitch. He’d drawn up an elaborate plan for maximizing the utility of the Tower kitchen’s two ovens and seven burners and for optimizing the team’s various culinary skills. The operatives had been briefed the night before, and by 10:30 AM on Thursday, Steve was fluting a pie crust, Bruce was stripping fresh thyme leaves into an herb blend, Clint was whipping up a roux for the mushroom gravy, Thor was mashing potatoes and parsnips in an industrial-strength metal vat, and Natasha was dicing carrots and celery with a speed and precision that felt vaguely unsettling.

After checking the team’s progress against his itinerary, Steve turned to the next task on his own list: bringing Tony Stark his emergency coffee. Bruce had just made a second pot, and Steve poured some into the largest cup he could find: a purple novelty mug, featuring a drawing of the Hulk and the words “You Wouldn’t Like Me Without My Coffee.” He paused to tuck a few biscuits into a napkin (Tony’s relief at sighting fresh coffee sometimes opened up a narrow window during which Steve could feed him breakfast without being noticed), and headed down to the lab.

He found Tony standing with both arms braced against his worktable, designs for what looked like the paneling of Steve’s uniform projected in front of him. Steve cleared his throat, and Tony whirled around, the slump of his shoulders morphing into a graceful lounge by the time he was facing Steve.

“I was just about to come up,” he said. “I have a few finishing touches left here and then I’m all yours, Cap. Give me everything that can survive being the tiniest bit overcooked.”

Steve walked over to put Tony’s coffee on the table and then felt his breath catch in his throat when Tony reached out and took the mug from his hand instead.

“There’s no need,” Steve responded to cover his reaction, flexing the hand that had brushed Tony’s as he let it fall back to his side. “We’ve got the schedule covered for now. I was actually hoping I could talk you into a snack break.”

He waved the napkin of biscuits experimentally.

“Are you cutting me from the Thanksgiving roster, Rogers?” Tony asked. “Just because one time I set a very small grease fire – which I contained almost immediately, by the way.”

“The vase I broke when I sprinted into the kitchen would beg to differ,” Steve smiled. “But it’s not that. I just wanted to do this for you: a big dinner and sitting down with family.”

“For me?” Tony blinked at him. “Why?”

Steve started to cross his arms across his chest before realizing that he would risk crushing the biscuits. He settled for clasping his wrist with his free hand instead, widening his stance slightly and taking a deep breath. Come on, Rogers. Take it on the chin.

“Because I wanted to tell you that I woke up in this century alone,” he said, “and that you were the first person stubborn enough to make sure I wouldn’t stay that way. Now I wake up to a kitchen full of people who tease me about my lists but who know why I need them – who will eat dinner rolls that taste like soggy chalk just to make me feel at home.” He paused. “People who stay by my side for eight straight hours at the hospital.”

Steve looked up and caught Tony’s eyes, his heart rate picking up speed as memories of those same eyes flashed through his mind in quick succession: tearing up with laughter over a plate of cornstarched bananas, pinched with fear over a surgical mask, narrowed in concentration over the remote control for an adjustable bed.

“Romanov has an awfully big mouth for a spy,” Tony said with a rueful smile.

“I think it was a tactical leak,” Steve acknowledged, “to motivate her mark. She knew I needed a push. Because I’ve messed up the past two years, and I needed to tell you: pretty much everything I’m thankful for in my new life is here because of you.”

Tony was staring at him, his eyes darting quickly across Steve’s face as if JARVIS were scanning it for data. Steve held up under the silent scrutiny as long as he could before letting out an explosive breath.

“Anyway, sorry to interrupt you,” he said quickly. “You’ve got work to do, and I’ve got to go make sure everything’s on track upstairs. I’ll uh – I’ll have Bruce come get you when dinner’s ready.”

He started to make an about face toward the door, but Tony caught his arm and held him in place.

“Give a guy a goddamn minute, Steve,” he said softly. “I’m having to do a major cognitive reboot over here. It takes a while for the operating system to come back online. Just…sit down? Let me show you the new flame retardants I’m adding to your uniform.”

Steve complied. And as he watched Tony run through the specs, gulping coffee and nibbling absently at the biscuits, he realized that he knew what Tony was saying even before Tony finally spoke the words: “I’m thankful every time you wake up.”

[sweetiepie08]

RebelZ (Chapter 9)

Invader Zim fanfic

While analyzing Zim’s PAK for weaknesses, Tak discovers strange coding that sends her on a search for answers. The clues lead her to uncover a conspiracy that governs all of Irken society. When the truth sends her on the run, she has no choice but to return to the one place the Tallest would never willingly go: Urth.

Meanwhile, Dib has noticed odd changes in Zim’s behavior. Has the invader simply grown bored of his mission over the last few years, or is there something more interesting going on?

People who asked to be tagged: @incorrect-invader-zim , @messinwitheddie, @reblogstupids, @cate-r-gunn, @agentpinerulesall​

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list feel free to message me. Also, if you’re on the tag list and you changed your name, please just let me know.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10.

[-]

“Care to tell us what the fuck that was?” the Dib shouted as they ran down the hall.

“A coup, obviously,” Zim shot back. “Just not one where you seize power at the end. So, half a coup.”

“So then who seizes power now?”

“The Tallest Red and Purple still have it,”

Dib nearly tripped over his own feet in his shock. “You mean you didn’t kill them?”

“It’s nearly impossible to poison an Irken,” Tak explained. “The PAK filters out most toxins. You can incapacitate them, though, for a short period of time.”

“So you basically just quit your job in spectacular fashion,” Dib said indignantly.

Tak almost couldn’t believe it. Zim must be sincere in his betrayal. He poisoned the Tallest and declared to the entire upper crust of the Irken military that it was intentional. There was no coming back from that. Every other disaster he caused could reasonably be argued as a mistake. But there could be no doubt here. Zim truly had turned on the empire.

Yet, something still didn’t sit quite right with her. If he had gone rebel, if he had truly turned traitor, then his life clock would have gone off like hers did. One would reasonably assume the impotence for this betrayal was her discovery of the Control Brains parasite, but she was with him ever since she told him that news and she never saw his life clock go off. But that could only mean something else prompted him at an earlier date. So the question was, what made Zim finally snap?

They came to a split in the hallway. Tak started going right while Zim went left.

“Uh, the Voot is this way,” Tak called.

“I’m not going to the Voot,” Zim yelled back. “I’m going to the control room.”

Dib and Tak cast each other a glance, then followed him. They found him crouched behind a door at the end of the hall and joined him in his hiding spot. Dib took a peak inside. There, dozens of Irkens worked at their stations. They seemed unaware that, for now, their leaders were incapacitated.

Zim tapped his PAK and a metal ball flew into his hands. He pulled a pin, tossed it in, and smashed the control panel, shutting the door. They heard coughing from the other side and, after a few minutes, opened the door to find the Irkens unconscious on the floor.

“So, what are we doing in here again?” Dib asked, as they stepped into the room.

Zim grabbed one of the Irkens who still slouched in their chair and threw them to the floor. “Wiping Urth off the navigation map.” He sat down and the monitor and started messing with the buttons. “If I’m going to continue to use it as my home base, I can’t have them finding it.”

“Not so fast,” Tak slapped his fingers away from the buttons. “Before this goes any further, I need answers. If you’re truly on our side, there’s only one way your life clock didn’t go off.”

“We don’t have time for this!”

“You had a rebellious thought!” Tak declared. “When?”

“Three Urth years ago.”

“Three years?” Dib shouted, stepping up to them. “But I’ve been watching you. Why were you still trying to conquer Earth if you kinda-quit three years ago?”

“I wasn’t.”

“But I saw you building machines!” Dib argued.

“They weren’t for me!” Zim shot back.

Tak began to ask “But how-” before Zim cut her off.

“Silence!” he shouted. “Silence your questions! I need to concentrate.”

Zim continued typing on the buttons until a picture of the Earth appeared on the screen. The stats were scarce, save for the coordinates and the note, ‘that place where Zim is.’ The little blue ball of dirt and water had gone unnoticed by the empire, noteworthy only as a banishment site. To them, it was merely a place to keep Zim contained, far away from anything important. But after the stunt they pulled today, it would be a target.

Another few clicks of a button and the Urth was gone, leaving only a blank file in its wake. All Irken military ships automatically synced with the Massive. If it was gone from this data base, it was essentially invisible to all Irkens. If they wanted to find Urth again, they’d have to scour the universe for it. But why stop at Urth?

“Let’s dump it all,” Tak said.

“What?”

“Erase the database,” she said. “It’ll be a crippling blow to the empire.”

“Do we really have time to erase everything?” Dib asked. The human made a good point.

“Jut the maps then,” she suggested. “They would have to rebuild their navigation systems from scratch and it would send the fleet into disarray.”

“Zim is no radical!” Zim snapped. “I’m only doing this to cover my own ass.”

“Not a raical?” Dib scoffed. “You just poisoned your own leaders.”

“That was personal,” Zim argued. “This is political.”

“And what about those weapons you’re building?!” Dib shot back. “If they’re not for Irk, then who are they for?”

“Zim’s business deals are none of your… um… business!”

“Shut up!” Tak commanded, taking a seat at another monitor. “We don’t have time for this! Let’s get these maps erased and get out of here.”

“If you even make it that far,” a chorus of voices answered.

Dib looked around. “Who said that?”

“We did, human.”

Every Irken in the room rose to their feet. Tak prepared herself for a fight. Her eyes darted as she watched them all, poised to deploy the weapons in her PAK. But none made a move to attack. They all stood there, stalk still, with a dead look in their eyes.

Dib gaped at the sight. “H-how are you…”

“Silence Urth Creature!” the possessed Irkens shouted in unison, turning their cold eyes toward Dib. “Do not interrupt us again!” Dib shut his mouth and the Irkens calmed. “Congratulations defectives” they said, now addressing Zim and Tak. “It’s been centuries since we had to resort to total override, but mark our words, you will pay for this waste of food.”

“What do you care for waste?” Tak spat back at them. “You throw Irken lives away every day in your conquest.”

“A calculated cost to bring me more to feed from in the long term,” the Irkens explained with their eerily monotone voices. “You should know about calculated risks. Don’t forget, we see everything you do.”

“When have I ever sacrificed good soldiers?”

Every possessed Irken in the room wore the same mocking smirk. “All through your training days. Don’t you remember? We saw everything you did, every little cheat to get ahead.”

The Irkens tapped buttons on their control boards and soon, every monitor showed various scenes from Tak’s training years. “Electrodes hidden in your boots to cripple race opponents. Stealing test answers and planting them in a rival’s locker after copying them for yourself. You got top scores on your exams and excelled at your drills, but is it really victory if you have to sabotage your competitions? Oh sure, you studied and trained, but it never felt like enough, did it? Never thought you could win a fair fight. Had to tear someone else down first. Maybe, if it weren’t for all your cheating, we’d have let you make up your Elite ranking test. After all, we allowed everyone else who was inconvenienced by the blackout to take it.” Their smirks grew as they twisted the knife further. “Just not you.”

Tak ground her teeth together as she watched the images play out on the screen. There was no denying them. The monitors played footage from her own memory bank. They showed her and everyone else who she really was. She work so hard. She clawed her way to the top and did everything she could to stay there. But it was all a lie. And now they knew it. What was worse, Zim knew it. That little pain in the ass managed to make it to elite the first time, even while being a walking disaster, and he never had to deliberately cheat. The idea of him lording that over her was enough to make her blood boil.

“Perhaps you can prove everyone wrong, though,” the Irken voices went on. “Take the honest route for once in your life. Tell Zim what you learned on your little trip to Refirencee. Tell him what you suspect.”

“Fool!” Zim scoffed. “Zim already accessed Tak’s memories. I know everything she knows about the Control Brain parasite.”

“Yes, you saw the same books. But did you reach the same conclusions?”

“Guys! Don’t you see what it’s doing?” The Dib burst in. “It’s distracting you. It’s keeping you here until your leaders recover. Let’s erase those maps and get out of here!”

“Silence!” Zim snapped at Dib, then turned back to the dead-eyed Irkens. “Tell Zim what you know, creepy hive-mind…thing!”

“Have you ever wondered why you’re such a failure? Why you destroy everything you touch? Why, no matter what you do, everything always blows up in your face? It’s because you have no choice in the matter. It’s what you were made for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Before we push for something big, we require extra sustenance. We take this sustenance in what some have called a blood toll. On our first planet, we made many mistakes, one was asking our hosts directly for sacrifices. We know better now.”

“Ans what does this have to do with me?” Zim growled impatiently.

“Since the beginning of our reign, one PAK has been passed down through generations, carrying a suppressed impulse for destruction. We need only to activate it and we have our blood toll. Clearly our PAK has become quite damaged over the years. It no longer works quite right. You’re so defective, you couldn’t even declare your name right.”

The screen flashed the name Zim across it. It then reversed the letters and spread them out to reveal an acronym. ZIM became MIZ. And MIZ became Massacre Initiator Z.

“You were supposed to live as a low-ranking drone until we activated your destructive impulse and die in the disaster. You, however, defied us at every turn. We kept you alive out of sheer curiosity. We wanted to see how your life would play out. It’s been entertaining, however, you’ve become too great a burden to bare.”

Zim stood motionless, staring straight ahead. They waited for the typical Zim outburst of “lies!” or declaring his greatness, but nothing came. His eyes looked as dead as the possessed Irkens around them. He said nothing, did nothing. As much as Tak couldn’t stand Zim’s obnoxious voice or erratic behavior, watching him be so still was chilling.

Tak’s antenna perks at the sound of footsteps trooping down the hall. The Dib’s head darted for the door. “Guy! Come on! We’re out of time!”

Tak smacked Zim’s lifeless body away from the control panel. “Do you think you can stop us by getting into our heads?”

“Oh simple Tak,” the Irkens sighed. “We've lived in your heads since you were fitted with your packs.”

Tak sneered at them. “I cut you off for me and I won't rest until every Irken is free of you.”

“Please, you worked your whole life to get our attention. You finally have it. Do you want to throw that away? Perhaps we can find a place with someone of your drive and ingenuity.”

“Liars!” Did they think she was stupid? She knew as well as it that treason of this scale would never go unpunished. Even if they tried to appease her with a higher rank or a cushy job, it’d only be a matter of time before they got rid of her. But even the fact that it was trying to negotiate meant something. She was a threat to it, and she would stay a threat until the day she died.

“We you know you, Tak. You’re a plotter. You won't do anything rash.”

They don’t know me half as well as they think. “Want a bet?” She started hitting buttons on the control board. An alert came up on the screen and the voice blared from the speakers. “All maps queued for deletion. Are you sure you want to proceed?”

She hit one more button and the screen went black. “Deletion successful.”

“Take that you parasite bitch.”

“Come on,” Dib begged, pulling on her arm. The footsteps were noticeably louder. “We have to go now!”

Tak took off running and Dib pulled on the frozen Zim until his legs moved. They burst into the hall and immediately came across a group of Irkan soldiers. “There they are!” one of the soldiers cried.

Tak led the way as they ran toward the ship’s hanger. The soldiers fired at them. A laser cannon popped out of Tak’s pack and returned fire, but it was difficult for her to aim while leading the dash to the Voot. She wished one of her companions had could back her up with a pistol but Zim was still barely conscious and Dib was preoccupied with keeping his legs moving. The sound of little metallic feet running beside them gave her an idea.

“Zim, tell me your SIR unit to go into defensive mode.

There was no response. Zim was as helpful as a sack of empty ginzor cans.

“Hey Zim’s robot,” Dib said to the little SIR unit.

Gir looked up at him curiously. “Hmm?”

“Don't you have any weapons or something?”

“Huh?”

“You know, something that makes pretty lights and goes ‘pew, pew’?”

“Oh that. I got that.” A giant laser cannon popped out of his head and he fired wildly into the soldiers behind them, forcing the Irkens to scatter for cover

Finally, they made it to the hangar and all jumped in the Voot. Zim slid zombie-like into the pilot seat.

“Come on,” Dib said, shaking Zim’s shoulder. “Get us out of here!”

“Zim!” Tak snapped. “If you don't fly this ship, I will!”

That seemed to work. Zim shook off whatever stupor he was in and his usual look of single-minded determination returned to his eyes. “No one pilots Zim’s ship but Zim!” He took hold of the controls and the ship roared to life. In a flash, they took off into the stars.

[aries-writingblog]

Stay With Me (2)

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes had never looked at himself as a family guy. He never even thought of it until she came around, flipping his world inside out. Bucky likes trouble and this girl? Well, she seems to invite chaos to dinner.

Pairing: Mob! Bucky Barnes x OC! Alex Grant

Chapter Word Count: 1898

Chapter Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, actual violence (one little hit, nothing big)

A/N: This is an OC story but I try to make them with the least amount of physical description as necessary. The pronouns used are feminine for the character.

“Hey, Alex- you’ve got another package on the front porch.” Wanda announced, walking through the door with Peter and Pietro in tow. The woman groaned, pressing her head to the kitchen island countertop.

“Again?” Alex asked, she looked over to Peter. “It’s the third time in two weeks- are you telling your boss the supplies we need?” Peter’s eyes widened and he shook his head. For the past two weeks, three unmarked packages arrived on Alex’s doorstep. The first just had some essentials for wood working- stain, paint, putty, a couple of new carving knives. The second had been similar- then she read back over a receipt as she was balancing her cheque book, noting the exact same products were present in the boxes. She could only imagine what was in the next one.

And she absolutely refused to change hardware stores- the workers were always so kind to her and the youth that typically dropped by- most of them attending the annual auctions to show support. More than once, they banded together and presented the group with a donation- which prompted Alex to make holiday cookies for the store employees every year. So, no- she would not give up on her family simply because of one idiotic, stupid rich criminal, who seemed hell bent on forcing his way into her life.

“What makes you think they’re from Bucky?” He asked, snatching a drink from her fridge. Pietro grunted, jumping up and sitting on the island, leaning over to Alex.

“If he’s giving you free shit, I wouldn’t complain.” He commented, tugging at her hair gently. Alex looked up, cocking an eyebrow at the teen. “Wring that fucker dry.”

“Pietro.” Wanda scolded, slapping her brother’s arm. “I don’t blame you, Alex. He’s a shady character, with even shadier money.”

“Okay, why are two teens giving me advice, right now? Shouldn’t you be... I don’t know, cleaning your rooms or something?” She snipped, pushing Pietro off the countertop. “People eat here, get your ass off.”

“I’m serious, Alex.” Pietro stopped her, gazing at her. She stopped pushing, meeting his electric blue eyes. “It would help with some of the expenses here. You know that.”

“We aren’t broke. You are, dickhead.” Alex shoved him down the hallway. “Now go- I need laundry in five minutes or your ass is grass.”

Wanda laughed, following her brother down the hallway. The two had been orphaned kids when Alex found them. They were on the streets, trying to survive. Pietro had been caught stealing from a grocery store, Alex stepped in and apologized for his behavior. The, at the time, nine year old played along and then told Alex their situation. She immediately offered them a place in her home. Pietro had accepted, trusting her fully. Wanda had been suspicious but eventually warmed up to her. They’d lived together for six years, the teens would have their sixteenth birthday in a few months. Every time Pietro or Wanda offered to help out and get a job, she turned them down.

“I make plenty of money at the hospital. You’re only kids now, enjoy your time as kids.” She’d tell them.

“They’re right, you know.” Peter supplied, tossing his backpack to the floor. “He may make dirty money but he has plenty of it. If he’s blowing it on you- what’s the problem?” Alex scoffed, swallowing her last bite of cookie.

“The problem is that you don’t live here, Pete. Why are you always here?” She passed the last of the dessert over to Peter.

“Aunt May is working night shift again and I told her I would stay with you so she wouldn’t worry.” He explained, trying to talk around a mouthful of cookie. He swallowed, taking another swig of his drink. “Plus, Pietro and I have a science report due tomorrow and we haven’t started it yet.” Alex took a deep, calming breath, closing her eyes.

“That’s great, Peter. But I’m also working night shift this week. So, you’ll be here by yourselves.” Alex stood up, stretching her back out. “Don’t burn my house down.”

“Sure thing.” He beamed at her, a chuckle falling from her lips as she started up the stairs.

Alex quickly got dressed for work, pulling on her scrubs. She made sure she had her ID badge, clipping it to her pocket. She then stopped by Pietro and Wanda’s rooms to double check if the clothes were picked up. On her way down the stairs, she heard quiet whispering from the teens.

“- what’s the harm in a date with the guy?” Pietro asked. Wanda sighed, Alex could almost picture her pressing her fingers to her temples in annoyance.

“So what she doesn’t want to date anyone? Just let it go, Pietro. And no one said anything about her dating Bucky, Peter just said that he has an interest in her. And sending random gifts isn’t gonna win that woman over, trust me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, do you know something?” Peter asked. Alex stopped on the steps, curious to hear what Wanda was going to spill to the group.

“Well... here’s the thing. In the back of Alex’s closet, there’s a-“ Wanda stopped, turning around and greeting Alex with a sheepish grin. “Oh, hi Alex.”

“Kids...” she narrowed her eyes, skirting around the group and going into the laundry room. There was a pause before three pairs of feet scurried after her.

“Can we order pizza tonight?” Pietro batted his eyelashes at her, giving his signature pouting smile. She returned the smile, mocking him.

“Pizza in the freezer. And stop going into my closet, Wanda.”

“In my defense, you told me I could borrow that top a few weeks ago and it fell off the hanger. So, was I really in your closet?” She asked, narrowing her eyes. Alex cocked an eyebrow and continued the laundry.

“What would you do, if hypothetically Mr. Barnes was like really interested in you?” Peter asked her, leaning over the washing machine.

“Peter.” She sighed. “I’m not dating your boss. End of story.” She started the machine before turning to Wanda. “Pizza’s in the freezer, keep an eye on it while it’s baking. Don’t let strangers into the house and keep an eye on your brother and Peter. Keep the laundry going and don’t work with any of the auction stuff until I get home. I don’t want any of you showing up at the hospital, wounded. Got it?”

Wanda nodded, repeating everything back to her. Alex grabbed her phone and keys, tucking them into her pockets. She hugged Wanda goodbye, ruffling Pietro‘s hair, before going out. She passed by the large box on the porch, groaning. She pushed it over to the edge of the porch, kicking it for good measure. Then, she got into her car and started to the hospital.

~~~~~~

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Bucky.” Steve advised, crossing his arms. He’d been slightly pissed all day, as soon as Bucky told him of the plan. Sam laughed, watching the buildings out of the window. Bucky groaned, throwing his head back onto the headrest.

“I’m just gonna ask if she got the deliveries. That’s it. No flirting, no banter, nothing. Zilch. Just a question.” Bucky reviewed, once again.

“But in practice, the deliveries are flirting tactics.” Steve pointed out, rolling his eyes. “She threatened to shoot you if you came back, Bucky. Leave it alone.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Bucky griped, cutting his eyes over to Steve. “You never give me shit for anything- girls in clubs, you’ve seen me beat guys senseless, shoot people, more questionable things than being interested in a woman.”

“She’s a woman who has her life together, man. Don’t pull her into this life.” Steve sighed, causing Bucky to shut his mouth. The SUV pulled to a stop in front of the house. Bucky unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out, slamming the door behind him. He jaunted up the steps and rapped his knuckles against the door. When it opened, he saw a teenaged boy with bleach white hair behind it.

“Can I help you?” He asked. He didn’t let the door open further than his shoulders. It was excusable. A strange, tattooed man at seven thirty standing on the porch of a woman who threatened to kill him. Bucky flashed a bright smile.

“Is Alex around, kid?” He asked, glancing over and spying the box still sitting unopened on the porch. “Ah... she hasn’t opened them?”

“You’re Bucky Barnes?” He asked, ticking an eyebrow up. Bucky nodded, reaching a hand out to shake hands. Pietro didn’t reciprocate, keeping the door tucked to him. Alex trained these kids well. “Well, thanks for the shit but Alex said she didn’t really want it.”

“Pietro, you left the oven-“ A girl with red hair stopped in her tracks. “What’s going on?”

“This is Barnes.” Pietro looked back at her.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Barnes!” Peter peeked his head around Pietro, opening the door wider. Pietro grumbled something but stood back a little to accommodate for the other boy. “What are you doing here?” Bucky silently sent a thanks to any deity currently listening in. Peter he could work with, the other two kids weren’t gonna give him the time of day. Much like Alex.

“Alex around?” He asked, trying to peek into the house further. Pietro shifted, blocking his view. He crossed his arms, scowling at the bulky mass of a man standing on their porch.

“No- she’s at work-“

“Peter!” The girl hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up!” She turned to Bucky again. “Listen, mister, we don’t want your gifts or you loitering on our porch. We’ve found Jesus, don’t need your depression pamphlet, and we don’t want any of your fucking cookies. Our mom doesn’t condone talking to strangers. Good day, sir.” She slammed the door in his face, the audible sound of several locks clicking.

“Wanda- what the fuck! He could kill you, you know that right?” One of the boys shrilled on the opposite side of the door. Bucky stood in shock- mom? Alex definitely did not look old enough to have two fifteen year olds.

“Oh please, as if. That’ll look real good to Alex, wouldn’t it? He won’t touch either of us.”

Bucky turned and jogged down the steps back to the car. When he opened the door, Sam was doubled over, laughing so hard he was crying. Steve was watching with a ‘I told you so’ smile.

“Alright, you’ve had your laughs.” He grumbled. Shoving his way into the car. Sam snickered, straightening up and looking over at the man.

“That little girl kicked your ass!” He burst out laughing again, pounding his fist on his knee. Bucky mimicked Sam’s words mockingly as he began a search on his phone.

“Whatever.” He breathed out, looking up to the driver. “Saint Quincy’s Hospital, Davis.” The driver nodded, starting the car.

“Why are we going to a hospital?” Steve asked, mirth in his voice. Sam began wiping the laughter from his face, sniffling. Bucky turned to Steve, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Punch me in the face.” He instructed, unbuttoning the top buttons on his shirt. Steve raised an eyebrow, cocking his head. Sam turned, serious again.

“Now, wait a minute-“ Sam was interrupted by Steve throwing a punch directly into Bucky’s nose. Bucky doubled over, holding his now bleeding nose. His eyes watered, stomach rolling.

“Shit!”

[qvid-pro-qvo]

cold, your toes against my knee (warm, your hand in mine)

mike dodds x gender neutral reader. reader is an svu detective, and mike dodds is a lieutenant at homicide.

word count: 2867

rating: mature, because of a distinct winter chill (this is a fic that attempts to tackle a mere part of the struggle following a traumatic event. mike therefore experiences symptoms of ptsd/post-intensive care syndrome. tw: mentions of gun violence, scars, blood, hospital scenes, flashbacks). 

-

you meet mike dodds on a beautiful fall day, some kind of conference that you get pulled along to with lieutenant benson. when she sees him across the way, her voice calls out to him, and he responds with an eager smile, a fervent shake of her hand in place of a hug. professional settings and all that.

“mike dodds, this is one of our newest transfers,” benson says, and her voice is warm, gesturing to you. he turns to face you, and you have to blink when he smiles full-force at you, taken aback by the earnest way it hits you. but you recover.

“lieutenant dodds,” you say with a grin, offering your hand. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

“only the bad stuff, i’m sure,” he offers, and your chuckle is light, shaking your head.

“well, my partner is sonny carisi,” you return, and he’s able to laugh in return.

-

november starts to fade, and mike feels the aches. they’ll always be there, because physical therapy can’t fix everything, and they’ll linger as long as he wakes up afraid of the snow outside. he trembles as he moves through his apartment, not thinking about the sleep he’ll inevitably sink into. it’s voluntary this one, and the bed isn’t in a damn hospital with ten blankets piled up –

never mind.

the gas bill is outrageous. he turns the heat up another degree. just until he leaves the house.  

“sweetheart,” you call out, and when he turns it’s with a small smile. your arms reach to wrap around him from behind, and while your head can’t rest on his shoulder, you let your face press into it. he can feel your kiss even through the layers.

“just for a few minutes,” he starts, feeling self-conscious, and your smile is evident in the sound of your voice.

“hey, you’re okay,” you tell him, and every time you say it, it seems a little truer. did you put on a thermal this morning?”

at first, he’s certain he did. and then his fingers lift to his neck, where his shirt collar is unbuttoned. no tie yet, and he’s able to feel bare skin. he turns to face you, so you can see where his collarbone is, and with a little chuckle you push to kiss the spot before cupping his cheek with your hand.

“while i do enjoy the little look… you want the white one or the gray one?"

he thinks on it, the whole time focusing in on the way you smile.

“gray. there’s no snow in the forecast.”

with a nod you move to the dryer, and he can hear the machine is running. in that moment, his love for you hits hard, and before he can think he’s following you to the laundry space, insisting on a few more kisses before he puts the warmed shirt on.

-

“good to see you again, detective.” he reaches for your hand to shake it, polite. a slight tremble to his fingers. his bare fingers.

“where are your gloves?” is your response.

at first, he just blinks, then pulls his hand back. shoves it into his coat pocket. he can only offer a shrug before you’re patting down your own coat, searching the pockets for something.

when you uncover them, they’re deep within the confines of your outerwear. three inside pockets have already been searched when you yank them to the surface, waving them a bit to shake the lint off before offering them over. the lieutenant blinks again, something like uncertainty playing on his lips as he glances at the proffered pair.

“well, come on, then,” you say, holding them up again, pushing them towards the hand that had offered to shake in the first place.

“i don’t want to take your spares,” he starts, and you have to scoff.

“you’re not taking them, i’m giving them,” you laugh out, shaking your head. “i always have a pair of extra gloves. i’m always cold and they’re good to have. i’ve got three more pairs just like it at home, sized up for comfort, and you could take every one of them if it means your hands don’t turn blue. take ‘em. trust me, lieu, take ‘em.”

he’s boggled, you can tell. you don’t know why, and it’s for long enough that you roll your eyes, and without a thought push forward, grab his wrist with your hand. it’s how you end up curling his fingers down over the offering.

“here. the day is still young, and we can save your fingers if we work fast.”

and they’re great gloves. he kind of sings their praises the rest of the day, and you just chuckle at his words before helping him adjust them on his hands. you’re glad you size up, because his hands are bigger than yours, and they fit snug, tight. warm.

he keeps them. you insist on it.

-

he heaves out a shudder, and his blankets are pulled down even tighter over his shoulders. he’s in three layers, with a down comforter, and it’s still not enough to push the feeling back.

it settles over him, like fog. one moment, he’s waking up for work, and the next, he’s curling in on himself. one hand pushing against the scar like it’s the off button.

he’s so… he’s so cold. he’s lost so much blood, he can’t move, he can’t think, and he’s so goddamn cold. all he can see is bright white, all he can hear is steady beeping, and all he can think about is the way that he can’t get warm. he can’t get warm. they chill him on purpose and then bring him back up to room temp, and he feels like he’s in a fucking freezer.

another sharp press, one that makes him hiss against the pull of scar tissue. it pushes the bright white away, brings him back to the present. his knees are up to his chest, and the insistent buzz of his phone against the nightstand tries its best to help him emerge.

“mike?” you’re coming back from the bathroom when you see him, curled up, and immediately your hands are on him. you’re grabbing the second blanket from the foot of the bed, the weighted one with the fleece cover, and with a little grunt you’re pulling it over before settling in beside him. “mike, sweetheart, i’m here.”

your hands go to work. rubbing up and down the bare skin you can see, moving through the layers to use friction and build up some heat.

the phone stops buzzing. and you’re curled alongside him, pressing kisses to his hair. your hand reaches for his and pulls his fingers up so you can kiss the knuckles.

“five minutes,” you say gently.

he nods, eyes squeezing shut as you wrap around him.

“i’m here. let’s get you warm.”

-

“i’m always cold, too,” dodds admits one day, while the two of you are hunched over a case file. special victims and homicide usually don’t coordinate this often, but homicides are up this month and liv insisted on taking on of the cases that would’ve fallen across his desk. he’d come over personally to tell her what’d been found, what’d been checked out what hadn’t. had paired the two of you up for the transition while she handled some meeting at one police plaza.  

“hmm?” your finger is moving across one of the documents, your eyes following it before you glance up at him. he’s standing up straight now, and you watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets, elbows flapping a little as he shifts.

“just. you mentioned, last time i saw you. that you’re always cold,” he says, and he doesn’t quite stumble over his words. he’s trained too well for that. but you hear the hitch at the top of the statement, and watch as he doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, glancing down at the case file again. “it gets bad for me in the winter. always have a chill.”

suddenly realization hits you, and you smile at him, standing up straight again, closing the case file and picking it up to hold against your chest. “i just have poor circulation,” you say, shrugging. “i’ve macgyvered a lot of tricks to keep me sane when winter comes around.”

and it makes him chuckle, thankfully. his hand lifts to his head, moves through his hair, and you’re watching the movement without thinking about it. how it makes his short brown locks flop forward a little over his forehead. now you have to duck your head, avoid his gaze, and try not to think about how good he looks with that blue dress shirt.

“willing to share some of your tricks with homicide? in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation.”

and that makes you snort.

“maybe not with homicide,” you laugh. “but with you, lieutenant dodds, no question.”

“mike,” he returns immediately, and it makes your tongue feel a little thick in your mouth.

“r-right. mike.”

-

you’re undercover, and it’s… the worst. third night in a row. not a text to be seen, a call to be heard from. he’s worried, and he’s chilled, and the apartment is surely roasting as he tries to fight the air from outside that insists on leaking in.

it’s been hard to sleep. hard to close his eyes without thinking about what could go wrong. he knows the risks of the job, better than almost anyone, but it feels like he’s walking on eggshells the next few days, trying to direct his squad while your safety sits in the back of his mind.

and liv is with you. that makes him feel better, but makes the tightness in his chest amplify. the thought of losing you both in one fell swoop makes his eyes cross. but he can’t linger on it, he can’t, and by the fifth day he’s taken to stealing your fuzzy socks for a third layer on his feet.

then he gets a text, that fifth night. it’s from sonny, an update, and he’s grateful until he reads the words “concussion” and “bellevue.” 

outside the wind is howling. he can feel the tremors start before he’s even begun to move. but he grits his teeth, not letting the outside air see his trepidation. mike starts moving, starts layering up, and he’s willing to face any winter night if it means that he’ll be there for you.

when he arrives, and you see him, there’s visible relief on your features. you look haunted, exhausted, like you’ve just been undercover for the past week and haven’t eaten since you started. it makes mike’s anger bubble up, but he’s stopped by the way you reach for him.

“i’m here,” he tells you, and you chuckle, burying your face into the front of his coat. his arms wrap around you easily, pulling you tight against him. “i’ve got you.”

“you’re so warm,” you groan out, and his chuckle chokes up, his nose pressing into your hair as you grip him. 

-

you start dating in the late moments of spring, after a couple months of dancing around it. a winter of trading secrets to keep hands and feet from turning blue turns into a wonderful friendship, and with that friendship feelings soon blossom.

and after all, it’s easy to fall in love with him. anyone could, you’re certain, looking at him from a distance. you take a glance at mike dodds and you see what everyone does. the brave cop, injured in the line of duty. the incredible lieutenant, who runs homicide with ease. the good man, who smiles at everyone he can, fighting for what’s right. the son of the chief, making his own path.

and then you see a little bit more, the stuff under the surface.

you see the way that he is never shy of curling up close, his touch almost always a full-body one. the nights get hot and stifling, but he’s always under the blankets. you see the way he picks and chooses socks with intense concentration, never afraid to grab two pairs instead of one. you watch the summer months pass and fall come even closer, and that space between his eyebrows furrows more and more.

and then there’s the conversation. as october hits, and you can see your own breath in the mornings, mike asks to talk to you.

he seems shaky. you can’t tell what it is that has him trembling, but your hand reaches out for his on instinct, pulling both of his hands into yours to warm them up.

and that gesture seems to be what pushes him to speak at all.

“a couple of years ago i got hurt on the job,” he starts, and you watch, intently. your own brow furrows as he describes waking up that first night in the hospital, dad and liv and squad around him, and feeling nothing but the chill.

“i couldn’t escape it. i couldn’t do anything. and when my body got worse before it got better, i was trapped.”

part of it was the fever, he tells you. there were moments he was delirious, an infection after the surgery almost wrecking his body. part of it was the blood loss, his body having to fight to rebuild what had gone missing from the bullet, from the operating room. part of it was the room itself, a faulty thermostat sending the whole hall into the sixties.

“nothing seemed to help. but… i managed to recover,” he admitted lowly. his voice is bitter, and you find yourself pulling his fingers to your lips, kissing his palm. because in that moment you’re hit with how close you came to losing him before you ever found him.

he tells you how he doesn’t feel it all the time. how spring, summer, and even the start of fall is okay. and then the temperatures start dropping, the sun starts to fade, and in winter he locks up. the cold sinks into his skin, and.

“all i can think about is that damn room. i go to therapy, i talk through what i can. my therapist tells me this is a hump, a mental block, but. i don’t know if it’ll ever end. if the cold will ever stop sending me into a... spiral.”

he’s frustrated. his hand is gripping yours back tight, and before you can stop yourself you’re sliding out of your side of the dining room table and slipping into his lap. you pull him against you, running your fingers through soft brown hair. you don’t let go of his hand, you can’t, and you feel his shoulders shake as he fights back the tears, face pressed into your chest.

and you… you hold each other. for a little while.

the minutes pass by. you’re uncertain what to do, besides assure him that you’ll never let him go. those promises are whispered into his hair, his ear, against his lips as you kiss him.

“i’m proud of you” is said a lot. you hope he hears it, believes it. because in that moment, you’ve never been prouder of this man you’re so lucky to call yours, a man fighting a battle he’s so scared of losing, a man who faces months on end with his chin held high. he’s unsure if it’ll ever come to an end, but you know that one day, it could. you’re gonna see that day, you’re certain of it. you tell him that, too.

and when the silence stretches on, the two of you in each other’s arms – when he comes back to himself, you tilt his chin so he can look up at you, holding his jaw with a small smile.

“so. what i’m hearing is that we’re gonna need a fireplace when we move in together.”

it shocks a laugh out of him. “what?”

“well, if we’re gonna stay warm, central heating and a fireplace will help do the trick. i’m not going anywhere, mike dodds, so you better start house hunting now.” you have a grin on your face, big and bright and bold, and when he looks up at you again he’s stunned into chuckles. leaning forward to press a kiss over your heart as he shakes his head.

-

winter comes. steadily. gently. like the hush falling over the crowd. and mike dodds hates every second of it.

he can feel it creeping up his spine – the inevitable chill that lingers, stretches its fingers over his shoulders and grabs him. october is gone, november is here, and he lets out a shaky gasp each time a breeze hits him wrong.

he wants to yell out. holds the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip. but he doesn’t. he just lifts his chin. he pushes on, he handles it.

he is michael dodds, isn’t he? the son of the chief, the brave soldier. and yet, he fears the turn of the season.

the days keep coming. one after the other. nights get longer, get unending, get colder.  

but this winter something is different. this winter he has you. and the icy grip that the season has starts to fade with time. with time, with time, with time. with therapy, with talking, with time, with time.

with you, your hand in his, and time.

[k-writesthings]

The Fool Who Fights (Mike x Reader: Pirate AU)

Word Count: 3975

Warnings: Slight mention of blood, mention of puking, implied sexual content (still SFW)

 As much as I didn’t want to be tying ropes at this late hour, I had to admit that the sea was truly breathtaking. It was a warm evening, the sun was just setting, and I had the perfect view from the largest mast as I fixed some faulty rigging. I wanted nothing more than to sit up there and watch the sun sink below the horizon, but unfortunately, I was a “pirate” and I had duties. 

   And just as I was about to finish those duties-

    “Weigh anchor! Prep the sails! We have to reach the channel by midnight!” 

    The booming voice startled me, throwing my focus off and causing me to nearly topple over.

   “Shit,” I swore softly, releasing the rough wood I hastily gripped in anticipation of falling. Great, now I have a splinter. The devilish wood chip was imbedded far into my palm, painfully protesting as I flexed my hand open and shut. My own jumpiness was really biting me in the tail.  I did my best to ignore the slight throb from my hand and tugged the knot I had made one last time for good measure. Shimmying across the beam, I reached the netting and began the climb down to meet up with the loud, splinter-inducing Fleet Commander. 

   He stood on the upper deck, towering over every sailor that ran past him while preparing the ship. His green eyes scanned the progress, but always seemed to find their way back to me just long enough to cast a wary glance and look away. 

   Fleet Commander Mike Zacharias didn’t trust me, but fortunately, the feeling was mutual. 

   It wasn’t like I had signed up to be a part of his swashbuckling pirate party. No, quite the opposite happened. I was forced here by none other than Erwin the Egregious, famed leader of the ironically-named pirate clan The Wings of Freedom. He had “hired” me after I attempted to steal his gold rings that constantly adorned his fingers and a satchel of gold he was carrying as well. Ambitious, yes, but I was feeling lucky. As a talented pickpocket, I had usually made off with my bounty fairly easily. I overestimated my skill and underestimated how astute a rugged-looking pirate was. 

   Erwin caught me almost immediately, seeing right through my sweet-talking and seduction as I approached him in a shitty dive bar. Of course, I didn’t know that until he invited me into an alleyway behind the building and threatened to cut my fingers off if I didn’t give him his stuff back. At that point, I thought about making a break for it, but as soon as a dagger was to my throat, I dug through my pockets to return his goods. When he didn’t drop the dagger, I panicked, thinking he was gonna slit my throat and leave me to bleed out. 

  But instead Erwin offered me a job. 

   A place on one of his ships, under one of his right-hand men. I’d talk to royal sailors we planned to rob, making myself look like a noblewoman captured by rogue-ish scallywags. When they eventually bargained for my release, his men would board their ship and take their riches by force. In exchange, he’d let me live, give me my own room aboard one of his ships, and offer a purpose for my “dull, cowardly existence” as he put it. I would’ve accepted regardless of if he had a blade pressed to my jugular, but the threat of death made me answer quickly. Erwin dropped the dagger and smiled, offering a large hand for me to shake. 

   I was in.

   Not a week later, I moved my little amount of belongings onto Fleet Commander Mike’s ship. Erwin had originally given me an option between him, Fleet Commander Hange, and Captain Levi (who led a small flotilla that did special jobs for Erwin). After meeting both Hange and Levi, I decided Mike was the least intimidating and opted to join his fleet.

    At first, I mostly did charting under close inspection by a fellow sailor named Nanaba, but slowly Mike “trusted” me with harder tasks like checking rigging, fixing sails, and sometimes even steering the large ship. Even though I had been hired to trick royal sailors, I was starting to like being a pirate. It was freeing; the sea air filling my lungs, and the salty wind stinging my eyes. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere, something I hadn’t experienced before. It was nice.

   What wasn’t nice was the splinter in my hand. 

   I was pretty annoyed about it as I climbed onto the upper deck and walked towards Mike, who still had his eyes trained on me. He stood up a bit straighter as I approached, as if he needed to be any taller. With a quick inhale through his nose, he gestured for me to follow him into his office. I did, keeping pace with his long strides as best I could without looking strange. The large door swung open and he stepped inside, waiting for me to do the same before he swung the door closed behind me. 

   “Are we any closer to the Odetta yet?” I asked, knowing exactly why he called me in here.

   “Yes, we should be there in a couple hours. Are you ready?” Mike confirmed, walking behind his desk and checking over some supply reports that Captain Levi had stolen to help us pull off this robbery.

   “I am. Can’t be too hard, right? Fooling a bunch of rich, horny bastards?” I joked, trying to get the stoic commander to crack a smile. Of course, he smiled, even laughed, in the company of his friends. I had seen it many times with Nanaba, Hange, and even Levi (who didn’t smile or laugh, ever) in the month I’d been a part of the clan. 

  But he didn’t smile at my words, or even look up from his reports. The only indication I got that he even heard me was a grunt and the words, “Need any help getting into that outfit Hange gave you?”

   “No… I’ll be alright. I can cinch a corset myself.”

  “Well, go do that. Make yourself look as much like a kidnapped noblewoman as possible.” The way he said it sounded like the end of the conversation, and I began to wonder why he even brought me in here in the first place. 

  “Aye, aye, commander.” I saluted sarcastically, which he didn’t see with his nose in the reports, and began to make my way back to my room.

-

   So… the job did not go according to plan. The royal sailors on the Odetta never saw through my act, but they were smart enough to realize that the pirates boarding their ship did not plan on bartering for me. They refused to hand over any of their gold, and when Mike decided to go over to talk some sense into them, they pulled out guns. 

   Oh shit, we did not plan on them having guns. I thought frantically, quickly freeing myself from the loose ropes that had “bound” me to a mast. Running to the side of the ship, I tried to see everything happening on the Odetta. Mike had his hands up and he was speaking calmly, but he was too far away for me to make out any words. But I did see that he was buying time. As he spoke, many of our sailors crept back across the planks of wood they used to board the noble ship in the first place.

   Among them was Nanaba, who had climbed back first. As soon as she reached our deck, she gestured to two other sailors, Lynne and Gelgar, and then to the row of cannons lining the ship’s perimeter. I understood the order, but not the intention. Were we going to sink the ship? The ship that had our reserve on it? I watched as Lynne and Gelgar made short work of setting up the cannons and aiming them for the Odetta. Nanaba stood behind them with her back turned to me. But as if she could feel me watching her, she turned around and met my eyes.

   “You know how to shoot a cannon?” She asked, crossing her arms. Fuck. 

   “Uh, no, not exactly. I could learn though.” I hoped my answer would suffice. I did want to help, and maybe this was the right way to do that.

   “Good, get over here.” I did, quickly joining her behind the rows of cannons. “These are all loaded.” She started to explain. “It’s a simple process, really. You just aim for the other ship, light this,” Nanaba grabbed a rope protruding from the back of the cannon. “And stand back. It’ll fire on it’s own, but you don’t want to be near it when it does. When you aim, go about halfway down the hull. We need to have enough time to collect the money and get everyone off the ship before she goes down, but if we hit too low, we won’t have time to do that.” As she finished, she turned back to me. “Got it?”

    I ran through the process once again in my head. “Yes, I got it.”

   She nodded. “Don’t shoot unless Mike gives the order. He’ll raise and lower his left hand twice if he wants us to fire.” And with that, I was in charge of a death machine. 

   Turning my attention back to the confrontation happening on the Odetta’s deck, I watched Mike’s hands carefully. They were still above his head, and he was slowly backing up towards his escape route. Now, he was the only one from our ship over there, and I didn’t understand how he was planning on getting the gold and leaving with his life. It really seemed like one would prevent the other from happening. But if I had learned anything about Mike in these past weeks, it was that he was persistent, brave, and confident almost to a fault. It would be attractive in any situation besides a life-or-death one. 

   And these noble scumbags weren’t letting up. 

   They continued to advance on Mike, even as he was retreating, seemingly issuing apologies, and weaponless. Their guns were held in defense, trained on his figure as he finally made it to the planks. Showing off a bit, he walked back across, hands still up. I caught a few words he said to them as he walked back. 

   “Sorry, fellas! Won’t happen again, our mistake entirely!” 

   Alright, he has to have a plan. What’s his plan? The situation seemed increasingly hopeless as the noble men began to dislodge our only way across to their deck. Mike was still walking across, and their guns were still trained on him. What are they-

   Oh. Oh, no.

    “Mike, run!” I screamed, grasping the end of the rope leading to the cannon, striking a match, and lighting it up. He looked back at me, confused, before realizing what I was doing. I jumped back while he ran as fast as possible without falling off the planks. 

   Two different booms rang out at once. A gunshot and cannon fire. 

   The massive lead ball shot out of the barrel of the cannon, flew towards the Odetta, and hit her dead center. It was so structurally damaging that the ship immediately cracked and began to take on water. The impact had also knocked the planks off, and for a moment I thought I killed Mike. But Nanaba had grabbed his hand and threw his entire weight behind her and onto the deck, saving him from an impromptu watery end. 

   So, down went the Odetta, down went the treasure, and-

    “(Y/N), what did you do?” 

    -down went my life. 

-

    Mike was cradling his left bicep as he walked towards me, which was slowly dripping crimson blood. I would’ve reached out and tried to help his injury if he wasn’t so visibly angry at me. His entire face looked like the beginning of a massive thunderstorm, telling me, in no uncertain terms, that he was absolutely furious. 

   “Mike, wait, let me explain!” I began, but he silenced me with one massive palm held out in front of him.

   “That was our funds for the next three months. Because of you, it’ll be at the bottom of the ocean in about an hour. What on God’s green earth were you thinking?” Mike asked, his voice still calm and level, his emotion only portrayed by his face.

   “They were going to shoot you! I couldn’t let them do that!” I fired back, feeling my face flush as I realized everyone was watching our exchange. 

   “That wasn’t a decision for you to make. You are not the captain of this vessel.” He sighed, wincing slightly as he shifted his arm in order to pinch the bridge of his nose. “25 lashings with the Rope’s End.”

   “What?” I asked, dumbfounded. I saved him. I saved him, and this is what he had to say to me? “You would be dead if it wasn’t for me! And you’re going to lash me?”

   “We will reconvene on the upper deck in half an hour, where (Y/N) (L/N) will receive her punishment.” Mike didn’t meet my eye as he delivered his “ruling”. The crowd of onlookers immediately dispersed, Mike included. 

   Before he could get very far, I called to him. “Wait!” He turned around. But I didn’t have anything to say to him. Gathering as much dignity as I could, I ran past him and into my quarters with tears stinging my eyes. 

-

    I was bad with pain. I always had been. Even splinters, like the one I got earlier, had bugged me immensely. Being flogged would likely be the death of me. Whether it be from pain or embarrassment, the Grim Reaper was knocking on my door.

   Okay, I was being dramatic.

   The Rope’s End wasn’t the worst flogging tool, not by a long shot. It was short and only had one tail, which wasn’t even knotted. While, yes, it would hurt and I’d likely be sore for days, I would not bleed or pass out from the pain. It wasn’t the Cat O’ Nine Tails, which absolutely would make you bleed. That was a small kindness, at least.

   I had just begun my climb to the upper deck when the nausea hit. Luckily, I had eaten very little today, but that didn’t stop the rising bile in the back of my throat. Oh, I really shouldn’t have shot that cannon. But then where would we be as a captain-less vessel? Erwin would be mad, he would probably take his anger and grief out on this crew. We would probably be split up among Hange and Levi’s crew, some of us even let go or killed to keep us from talking about our previous career as bloodthirsty pirates. No, I had made the right decision. I saved Mike, and I would be tough and take my punishment. If that meant he stayed alive, so be it.

   Steeling myself completely, I stepped onto the deck. The crew had gathered in a circle around Mike, who had a bandage around his wound and a whip in his hand. A path cleared for me as I approached him. As I reached the inside of the circle, Mike grabbed my hands and tied them above my head by a hanging rope attached to the sail. Nanaba was suddenly by my side as well, and she lifted and secured my loose blouse to expose my back (thankfully, she was careful to leave me my decency by covering my chest). She left me once again, and I was alone as the center of attention. 

   I was surprised when Mike started to speak as he disappeared behind me. “A real pirate is fierce, strong, loyal, and brave. They can take a couple lashings with a whip and survive. They are not scared in the face of death. I take pride in delivering this punishment, as there is no doubt in my mind that (Y/N) has every one of the traits needed to be a good pirate. In her time here, I have seen her grow from a common thief to a real lady of the sea. I’m proud to call her my crewmate and subordinate. She will take these 25 lashings like a woman, only to become stronger and fiercer. Now,” Pain suddenly sliced across my back, stinging badly even before the crack of the whip reached my ears. The surprised cry ripped from my throat seemed to echo ominously back at me. “One.”

   “Two.” This isn’t too bad. 

   “Three.” I can do this.

    “Ten.” Everything is blurry.

    “Fifteen.” There go my knees.

    “Twenty.” The nausea is back.

    “Twenty-five.” 

    I was released from the ropes, but instead of standing tall like I had originally planned, I collapsed to the ground. My vision was swimming, I couldn’t think through the stabbing pain in my back. I reached a hand around my own waist as I felt something warm dribble down my back. My fingertips were covered in my own blood when I looked at them. That was the final straw, and all of the acidic vomit from earlier pushed its way out of my insides on up onto the deck. 

   I sat panting for a couple moments until I had enough strength to stand. Everyone was still watching me, their faces probably paler than mine in that moment. I looked to Mike as I wiped my mouth, who approached me and took my hand, raising it above my head. 

   Cheers went up immediately, praises being thrown into the air. I wanted to smile, but I was in such pain that I probably only managed a grimace. This wasn’t the typical reaction, seeing as every one of these men and women around me has probably been flogged at least once. But I hadn’t, and I was not as accustomed to the ways of the sea as they were. So, the support felt nice, even if it was maybe a bit overzealous.

   Eventually, it died down and the crew went about their work. Mike was still holding my hand, though not above my head anymore. I looked at him, only to see his emerald eyes trained on me already. Meeting his stony gaze, I tried to decipher what he was thinking. His features didn’t betray him this time. Instead, he tugged me across the deck and into a room that I didn’t recognize. It was larger than any other room I had been in besides the mess hall, with a small desk, an attached wash room, a massive bed, and a closet. 

   It took me an embarrassing amount of time to realize it was Mike’s quarters.

   “Sit on the bed.” He mumbled after closing the door behind us. I did, wincing slightly as I lowered my body to the mattress. Mike retrieved a wet rag from his washroom and moved to sit behind me. The calloused hands on my sensitive and bleeding back made me jump, but the warmth from the rag calmed me again. “I’m sorry…” He whispered softly, his breath tickling the back of my neck slightly.

   “It’s alright, I understand why it happened. I shouldn’t have disobeyed you. You had a plan and I ruined it.” I replied, running my hands down the fabric on my thighs to keep my mind off of the gentle hands on my back.

   “No, it’s not alright. I-,” He sighed heavily, pausing the gentle touches to my back. “I didn’t actually have a plan. I didn’t know how we were going to get the money off the Odetta, and I didn’t know I was about to die. If you hadn’t shot that cannon, I would be dead right now.” My eyes widened at this, and despite the pain in my back, I turned around to face him. 

   “You mean…”

   “I lashed you for being a hero, just to save face. If people don’t respect me as their superior, we may have an uprising and they could attempt to overthrow Erwin. I know it doesn’t make up for what I did to you, but… I did it for the good of our Regiment.” Mike’s eyes were trained on his hands, which still held the bloody rag he had been cleaning my back with.

   All of this… to save The Wings of Freedom? He was so loyal, almost to a fault. Even this, which clearly went against his moral code, was not too far for him if it meant he saved his comrades from a theoretical uprising. And, though I should’ve been furious, I could not muster the emotion for it. Instead, I looked at this massive man sitting beside me looking like a kicked puppy and felt sorry for him.

   “Hey,” I cooed, reaching to cup his cheek and bring his eyes to mine. “I don’t hold it against you. You acted for the same reason I did, to save someone you respect. That’s loyalty, and didn’t you say that was one of the qualities of a good pirate? Fleet Commander Mike, you are a great pirate and the bravest man I’ve ever met. You’re so brave you didn’t even realize you were in danger. And I appreciate you. You put me in my place, and everyone with an ego as big as mine needs that sometimes. Thank you.” As I finished speaking, I was surprised to find Mike’s eyes began to shine with tears. I was at a slight loss for words, but before I could say anything else, Mike leaned forward.

   His lips touched mine softly at first, as if he was asking if it was okay. My whole face exploded in heat, but I pushed through my flushed daze and pressed my lips back firmly against his. My hand, which was still on his cheek, was slowly becoming wet with his tears and I brought my other one up to join it. My thumbs rubbed his tears away as we continued kissing, only breaking away for a moment to catch our breath and smile at each other before reattaching our lips.

   At some point, his tongue found its way to the entrance of my mouth, prodding slightly before I parted my lips and let him in. I shivered as he grazed his teeth with my own, and, in a surge of sudden dominance (and maybe fear of laying on my back), I pushed him down and straddled his waist. His muscled arms wrapped around my lower waist (below the wounds) and pulled me down so I lay on top of his chest. From there, his lips left mine and he began kissing down my jaw and eventually reached my neck, quickly finding a particularly nice spot just below my ear that made me gasp. Mike paid extra special attention to that spot, rolling the skin between his teeth and kissing it in a way that sent spikes of pleasure through me. Jesus, he is good at this... 

   Why didn’t we do this sooner?

-

   By the time we were finally done exploring each other with our tongues, the sun outside had completely set, leaving us tangled together on Mike’s bad, bathed in candlelight. He had bandaged my back up for me and was laying under me in just his briefs, leaving me in one of his nightshirt with my hair splayed out across his chest. He traced small shapes on my shoulder and hummed, which sent pleasant vibrations through me and kept time with his heartbeat. 

  As his breathing slowed, I knew he had fallen asleep. I snuggled further under the covers and closer against him, letting the rock of the sea lull me to sleep.

   The fool who fights always comes out on top, hmm?

-

(Hello, all! I am alive! It’s been almost a month, I am so sorry. This was a request from over on AO3 from a super dedicated reader of mine. They are amazing, I wonder if they have Tumblr? Anyway, I love Mike and it is my firm belief that he deserved better, no questions asked. This was super interesting to write. I won’t tell you how much I know about pirates now, because it isn’t even funny.

I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for the continued support!)

[leverage-ot3]

notable moments from The Radio Job

leverage 4.17

Nate: “We’re” not going anywhere -- I am. It’s personal. (leaves)

*later, hardison has information pulled up on the monitors. the screen literally reads: “where nate is going”*

Hardison: I’ll tell you where he’s going. He’s headed to the United States Patent Office in Alexandria, Virginia. Nate even cleared out his browser so we wouldn’t know. It’s adorable

- - - - -

Hardison: Uh, what doesn’t he want? A cure for the common cold, warp drive, a water engine. People, everybody knows the government is sitting on futuristic technology at the patent office.

Parker: They are?

Hardison: Oh, damn straight, girl. Under the invention secrecy act of 1951, the US government has sealed away over 5,000 patents that they say is a threat to national security. It’s all just sitting right there chillin’, locked away in a super-secret vault.

woah that’s fucked

Parker: Is there a time machine?

Eliot: There is. Yeah. Yeah, not so much a machine as probably a portal, though. You don’t really sit down as much as --

Parker: I’m gonna go get that portal, and I will go --

Sophie: Okay, okay, Guys!

okay I LOVE how enthusiastic the ot3 gets over this

- - - - -

Sophie: Fine. Off to the U.S. patent office, then. Let’s go steal a –

Parker: Let’s go steal a time machine.

Eliot: No, you don’t steal –

Parker: I’m gonna steal the time machine.

Eliot: Messing with this damn time machine, man!

Hardison: That’s just on TV. There’s no real time machine, is what I’m trying to say.

this is such a chaotic ot3 moment I love it

- - - - -

the ENTIRE rappelling scene

Hardison: This is the plan?

Parker: Uh-huh.

Eliot: Mnh-mnh. (heads back up the stairs)

Parker: Get ba—

Eliot: Hey, hey. Eliot: Get back down here!

Parker: Go get him.

Eliot: Damn it, Hardison!

we love ⅔ of the ot3 being exasperated by the other ⅓

(A few minutes later, Hardison is strapped into a climbing rig and attached to a rope with Parker and Eliot checking his harness)

Hardison: Why y’all always pushing me off of stuff? Don’t I get a say? I vote no!

Parker: We don’t have a lot of room for error.

Eliot: You can do it if you stop squirming, man. Just stand still.

Hardison: Hey, hey, hey. Where’s Nate, okay? Frank Petrino, arson investigator, was a rock-solid alias.

Parker (to Eliot): It might be easier if he’s asleep.

Eliot (to Parker): Want me to put him to sleep?

Hardison: Hey! I’m standing right here, okay? It’s not my fault y’all can’t spoof a CCTV.

Parker: Relax! (grabs his shoulders) We’re gonna lower you really slowly, but if you bump into anything, the walls, the windows, anything, you will set off the alarms.

Hardison: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. It’s like the game “Operation,” except I’m the tweezers. Look... Whatever you do, do not drop me. Come on. I’m tired -- I’ve had it. Being pushed off of damn buildings and stuff and windows.

(Eliot and Parker share a look and push Hardison off the ledge)

poor hardison

Hardison: Wh-o-o-oa! (comes to a stop inches from the floor) Really? It’s not funny. It’s not funny. I see you laughing. I see you laughing. I’m a person... Human being! I got feelings, and I don’t feel none of this. I’m tired of being pushed off of stuff. We all having a serious conversation when this is over with. (takes a step forward) This is... s-squishy. Oh, peed my pants. All right

my sweet summer child hardison

- - - - -

Jimmy (referring to radio): Do you believe this guy? Blames all our problems on immigrants. (turns off radio)

bruh that’s america for you

- - - - -

are you fucking KIDDING ME eliot beat people up with a role of duct tape ???

- - - - -

Eliot: Hang on. I want to tell you something. If you wouldn’t have been so selfish, you could have had another pro here just like yourself, and I’d be fighting two guys instead of just you. This may have turned out differently for you. I’m just saying.

Thug 3: Aaah!

(Thug 3 swings again and misses, Eliot blocks and hits him several times, knocking him back to the ground)

Eliot: You got to learn to share. Where do they get these guys?

I LIVE for the conversations eliot has with the goons he fights

- - - - -

parker working with nate and his father being a mastermind in training

- - - - -

[Patent Office Warehouse]

Hardison (going through items on a shelf): “Run a radio play.” A radio play takes a week to set up.

Parker (riding something down the aisle behind him): Incoming!

Hardison: Hey! Trying to make a radio play using... whatever.

Parker (backs the item behind him): Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!

Hardison: Woman!

Parker: What? (rides the item back down the aisle) I’m trying to help you?

Hardison: You know what? Then you want to help? Get me something that I can actually use...

Parker (holds up a Mr. Butler): Oh, hello. I’m Mr. Butler. You like a sandwich?

Hardison: Yes. Thank you

parker is a child and I love her for it

- - - - -

sophie with the fake pregnant belly (and how it freaked her out earlier in the episode)

+

Paramedic (listening to the Belly): Okay, well, heartbeat sounds... normal. Absolutely, perfectly, almost mechanically normal.

Sophie: 👀😬

- - - - -

Eliot (walking away from window): Welcome to the party, pal.

Eliot (tosses radio to the floor): Yippee-ki-yay, mother--

eliot is a nerd who quotes action movies

- - - - -

eliot, hardison, and parker army crawling behind nate like little ducklings

- - - - -

Sophie: Where do you think he’s going?

Nate: I don’t know, I-I—

Parker: Where? Don’t you mean when?

[Flash]

(Jimmy walks out of the building holding some sort of device. He dials 1962 on the display and disappears)

[Exterior Street]

Hardison: Now, why would he go back to 1962?

Nate: Don’t encourage her

never, ever change parker

- - - - -

Parker: What is that?

Hardison: It’s a bow tie. Bow ties are cool

hardison is ALSO a nerd and we love to see it

- - - - -

Jimmy: Tell them -- tell them…how much Jimmy Ford loves his son

HAHAHA IM NOT CRYING YOU ARE

- - - - -

how eliot screams nate’s name and the panic on his face

how the team rushes to get nate after the explosion

- - - - -

this episode in summary:

wHaT tHe FuCK