#Pursuit aircraft

[nocternalrandomness]

1928 Boeing P-12 on display at the Museum of Flight in Seattle Washington

[bigglesworld]

Curtiss. Y1P-36 (Model 75E). USAAC. Powered by Pratt & Whitney

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Meet The Teacher - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley Bradshaw's re-entering civilian life with a new mission - teaching second grade.

a/n: thank you to @nerdgirljen for suggesting the idea with her breakdown of Bradley's military file, and thank you to @floydsmuse, @mamachasesmayhem, and @purelyfiction for reading this over for me last night 😅

pairing: teacher!Bradley Bradshaw x single mom!reader (last name is given to reader) warnings/content: mentions of trauma/injury, mentions of death/parent loss, Bradley pining for a student's mom, allusions to smut (masturbating (m)).

word count: 2.9k

taglist: @avengersfan25 @nouis-bum @sorchathered @hangmansgbaby @sarahsmi13s @jessicab1991 @atarmychick007 @b-bradshaw @djs8891 @primroseluna @silversprings-mp3 @drxgxnslxyer @gardenavenue @seitmai @unhinged-bitch @mattyskies

“You’ve got this, Bradshaw. You’ve got this. It’s just two dozen second graders. You’ve flown fighter jets and stared enemy aircraft in the eye, shot them down midair, you can handle a classroom of second graders.” 

Bradley repeated his mantra over and over in the rearview mirror of his car, taking a deep breath as he nodded his head. He adjusted the collar on his baby blue and white striped dress shirt, fingers tracing over the silver chain of his dog tags. His breath hitched in his throat as he ran his fingertip over the beaded chain, letting it out in a strained sigh. He was venturing into uncharted waters here, and he was beginning to wonder if he was in over his head. 

Six months ago, he was flying planes, one of the US Navy’s finest aviators. He’d never cared much about what he could have been doing if he hadn’t become a pilot - he’d known as long as he could remember that he wanted to fly. Since his accident though, he began to process all the things he’d let himself miss out on over the past 18 years. At 40 years old, he knew he was pushing his body to its limits, but he didn’t think he’d reached that threshold yet. 

He was wrong. 

It’d been a routine flight exercise, the kind he’d done about 40,000 times before in his career. His plane’s engine cut out, a mechanical failure beyond anyone’s control that couldn’t have been predicted. He kept his composure, pulled the ejection handle and parachuted his way to the ground below. In an ideal situation, he would have landed perfectly, safe and sound and taken to the hospital for observation but released the next day. 

Instead, he’d blown his knee out on his landing, making walking next to impossible, let alone flying. 

Presented with his options, returning to flying seemed unlikely. His knee would only likely get worse, and he realized, he sort of liked the idea of settling down someday — he knew forty was a little late in life to realize it, but damn it, he did want a family. He didn’t want to be that dad who couldn’t keep up with his kid. He wanted to be an active, fun parent like he’d remembered his mom being in her lifetime. He wanted to be able to dance with his new bride at his wedding, if it ever happened, and he couldn’t do any of that if his knee was fucked beyond repair. 

Dreams of coaching Little League and dancing around kitchens in the soft, yellow glow of overhead lights had suddenly flashed before him in his hospital room, and when the proposition of an honourable discharge came up, an offer absolving him of any guilt for abandoning his post in the pursuit of a civilian little fairytale life, he seized it. He loved flying, but he knew he couldn’t do it forever, despite his best efforts. He needed something to fall back on. And if these hopes and dreams suddenly crossing his mind — having a wife and a family, being a doting dad — were to come true, he needed to start somewhere.

Bradley always swore he’d never leave a wife and family behind. He’d seen what happened when a service member didn’t come home first hand - his dad was killed in a training incident when he was just over two years old, and he’d seen how his whole world turned on its side when it happened. Even as a toddler, he remembered a lot of crying from his mother, and suddenly noticing a huge absence in his life that couldn’t be explained. 

He didn’t understand what happened until he turned five, when he finally worked up the courage to ask his mom where his dad was. Why he left. Why he didn’t want to be home with Bradley. The moment he was old enough to decide his career path, he knew he wouldn’t be able to put a wife and children through the things he and his mom had been through. He was better off alone if he was serving. And it suited him just fine for the most part. The odd pang of jealousy when a colleague got married, the occasional feeling that he was missing out on something each time someone he knew announced the arrival of a new baby — they were easy enough to ignore when he focused his attention on his work.

Now, sitting in his parked car, an hour before the start of the school year, he was talking himself through how to survive his first day in his chosen back-up profession — teaching. 

He’d minored in education studies at university when he went. He’d promised his mother when he was applying to colleges that he’d pick a good back-up option to flying, just in case he didn’t get into the academy, and everyone knew he was great with kids. He’d often babysat for his mom’s friends, volunteered to coach softball teams and run summer camps at the community centre throughout high school. Teaching seemed like a no-brainer.

He let out a heavy sigh as he strolled into the school, his head held high, lesson plans tucked neatly in a file folder under his arm, his coffee cup in the other hand. He was ready to face the day, and whatever these seven-year-olds had to throw at him.

The day went on without a hitch, much to Bradley’s relief. Twenty-three little darlings sat in their desks, on their best behaviour for their first day of class. He knew it was unlikely that they’d continue to be so well-behaved, but he savoured it while it lasted. His co-workers seemed laidback and relaxed, friendly smiles and waves exchanged frequently in passing, words of advice and encouragement spoken at length over lunch and prep times. 

Three o’clock came faster than anticipated, and Bradley felt like he’d barely covered any of his plans for the day. At dismissal, he’d politely waved goodbye to each and every child, introducing himself to the parents he’d missed that morning at drop off, and greeting the ones he’d already met with brief updates about their child’s day. The last child to be picked up was a sweet little boy, with blonde hair and hazel eyes, freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose. Bradley’s brown eyes scanned over the attendance record in his hand. Wells Montgomery. 

At 3:10, Wells had grown bored of kicking his soccer ball around the grassy area around the side of the school. He picked his ball up under his arm and hurried back to Bradley. 

“Mr. Bradshaw, is my mom here yet?” 

“Not yet, bud. She’s probably stuck in traffic coming over the bridge into town. You know, it gets really busy around now. Do you want to come inside and read for a little bit in the classroom?” Bradley squinted, the sun shining brightly into his eyes as he scanned the parking lot for anyone who might be Wells’ mother. 

“Ok,” Wells said with a heavy sigh. Bradley furrowed his brow for a moment before looking back to Wells as the two of them headed back into the building. 

By 3:20, Bradley was beginning to worry about his new pupil. He didn’t anticipate a parent going missing-in-action on him on his first day of teaching, but faced with the possibility, he began going through the list of possible actions he could take. Just as he pondered over the idea of taking Wells down to the staff room to rummage the cupboards for a still-at-school-after-school snack, you came practically flying through the door, a panicked expression on your face, cheeks reddening when you saw Wells sitting at his desk, quietly reading. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I got held up in a meeting until 2:45, and then traffic was a nightmare, everything was backed up and there’s only two ways onto the island but I couldn’t ditch my car to take the ferry over, I’m so sorry,” you apologized profusely, nodding your head as you looked from Wells, to the teacher seated in the desk and back again, unsure who you needed to apologize to more.

Bradley turned to face you, his eyes raking over you as he assessed the situation. Dressed in a fitted lilac coloured pencil skirt, white tank-top and matching lilac coloured blazer, you looked like something out of a dream to him. He’d never given much thought about what his type in women was before. He’d dated blondes, brunettes, redheads, the occasional girl with bright pink hair, curvy girls, petite girls, mid-sized girls - he never had much of a preference one way or the other as far as appearances went, but God, if he had to sum up his dream girl right now - you were it. 

“It’s alright, honestly,” Bradley nodded his head, smiling warmly at you in an effort to ease your concerns. “I’m Mr. Bradshaw, Wells’ teacher for second grade. He’s had a great day today, we were just about to head down to the staff room and see if there were any rogue granola bars hiding in the cupboard for him and I to share.”

“Thank you,” you nodded, your expression softening as Bradley spoke, an instant wave of relief washing over you. “You ready to go, Wellsy?” 

“Mom, please,” Wells whined, shaking his head as he grabbed his book and shoved it into his backpack. “She thinks I’m a baby,” he griped, turning to Bradley for a sympathetic smile.

“Moms, huh? Mine was the same way with me.” Bradley laughed softly, waving as you and Wells headed out.

Later that night, Bradley sat on his couch, settling in to watch a baseball game as he poured over the plans for the upcoming week. Cracking open his beer bottle, he sipped the drink, sighing tiredly as he read over the social studies plan, visiting the list of important historical figures he was expected to familiarize the class with over the course of the school year. With one hand, shakily written notes were made in a notebook, scribbling out ideas for fun ways to engage the kids with each important person he was required to introduce. 

Setting the beer down on a coaster, he exchanged it for a slice of greasy pizza, his reward for himself at the end of a successful first day of school. He shovelled it into his mouth, sighing as he watched the baseball game unfold. The Padres were down 3-7 in the bottom of the eighth, with not much hope left for them to pull through tonight. Bradley swallowed his mouthful, brushing the grease off his hands onto the leg of his grey sweatpants.

Bradley yawned, tired bleary eyes blinking as he padded down the hallway to his bedroom. He sighed softly and settled into bed, his mind wandering as his head rested on the pillow. Before he realized it, you were on his mind. He’d thought about you a lot that evening, brief intrusions of your smile flashing through his mind as he tried to plan out the upcoming week. 

This time though, as he laid there looking up at his ceiling, he thought about your apologies for being late, how it felt like you were pleading with him or Wells to not be upset with you. He thought about how your hair, although tousled from clearly running through parking lots to your car and to the school, framed your face perfectly, and how even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the classroom, you managed to look nothing short of beautiful. 

He thought about how well the soft, purple hue of your skirt and blazer suited you, bringing out the glow of your skin and the colour of your eyes. He thought about how it hugged your curves as you left, hand in hand with Wells, the swish of your hips as you walked down the hallway. He thought about how he was pretty sure he didn’t see a wedding band on your finger, but also admonished himself for even checking. He couldn’t date a student’s parent. He knew better than that. 

But still, he couldn’t help but think about you. 

The next couple of weeks went by and Bradley’s interest in you grew fonder. He’d begun watching for you subtly at morning drop-offs and pick-ups, hoping to at least say hello once a day. On the last Friday of the month, you stopped him as he headed for his car, watching as Wells played on the playground equipment facing the parking lot.

“Mr. Bradshaw!” you called out, and Bradley couldn’t help but feel like you were making his name sound like a chorus of angels singing. 

“Hey, Mrs. Montgomery! Is everything ok?” Bradley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Everything’s fine, yes,” you nodded, smiling as you gently corrected him about your name. You hadn’t been Mrs. Montgomery in two years, but, you couldn’t fault Bradley for slipping up, you knew the school secretary likely didn’t alert him ahead of time. You stifled a giggle as Bradley’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, now his turn to apologize profusely to you.

You waved a hand dismissively and smiled, turning to watch Wells play once again. 

“You know, it may have only been a few weeks, but Wells speaks very highly of you,” you started, nodding in confirmation as you watched him play, your gaze turning to land on Bradley for a moment, “He hasn’t been this interested in anything since his dad moved across the country.” 

“Oh? I’m glad I could help him enjoy school again. I try my best to keep things fun and exciting in the classroom — kids learn better when they’re excited and interested in something. No one has fun being read to from a textbook over and over again all day,” Bradley explained.

“Well, Mr. Bradshaw, you’re doing a really good job of it. He came home excited to tell me that he learned about George Washington yesterday. I’m pretty sure two days ago he had no idea who that was.”

“Please,” Bradley laughed softly, shaking his head, “You can call me Bradley. It’s less formal.”

“Bradley,” you repeated, nodding as you chuckled to yourself, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

“My dad had a sense of humour,” Bradley shrugged, looking out at the playground as Wells chased one of his friends around. “He’s a good kid, you know. Wells.”

“I know, I’m proud of how well he’s handling things now that his dad got relocated. Pensacola’s a lot further than he anticipated. He was hoping for Corpus Christi at least.”

Bradley’s ears piqued at the mention of Wells’ dad relocating. Pensacola and Corpus Christi both housed Naval Air bases, he was more than familiar with both of them. He’d only ever been stationed between Oceana, Miramar and North Island, but in his eighteen years of service, he’d met plenty of service members who hailed from one of the two bases originally. 

“Wells’ dad is a pilot?”

“Mhmm, well, mechanic, actually. He doesn’t fly them in combat,” you commented, raising an eyebrow at Bradley. “You seemed to guess that really well. Most people don’t guess pilot.”

“I used to be a Naval pilot, m’am,” he nodded, smiling proudly as he thought about his accomplished Naval career once again. “Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw, US Naval Air Force. I was stationed at NAS Oceana, transferred here to North Island, wrecked my knee, now I’m a teacher.” 

“That’s quite the pipeline into teaching, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Please, it’s Bradley. It’s nice not going by my rank, actually.” 

“Well, Bradley, I’d love to hear how exactly you landed on teaching second grade as a backup to flying F/A-18s for the United States Navy some day.” You nodded, hoping Bradley wouldn’t take offence to the suggestion of getting together at some point. Even if it was just as friends, you’d welcome it.

“That sounds like a good idea to me, actually. I’d love to.”

As Bradley headed to his car, he felt a little bounce in his step. He couldn’t help himself. Even if this just turned into a friendship and nothing more, he felt grateful that you wanted to spend time getting to know him better. 

His drive home was filled with more thoughts of you, thoughts of your pretty pastel coloured outfits you always seemed to favour, thoughts of your perfect smile, always beaming and cheerful, bright enough to brighten his entire day in a way that should make the sun jealous, thoughts of your hair, how it always looked so perfectly imperfect. 

In bed that night, Bradley thought about your legs, how they were long and lean, curving at your thigh. He thought about how good your ass looked in your skirt earlier today, how the material hugged it tightly. He thought about your thighs, how they looked so perfectly smooth and soft, how your plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your skirt did little to hide the swell of your breasts, and the way the curve of your neck looked irresistible, how badly he wanted to plant his lips on your skin and cover you in a trail of kisses. 

Bradley thought about you in a lot of ways that night. None of them were ways he was proud of. But as he stared up at the ceiling this time, you were the only thing on his mind. He didn’t know much about how he’d go about this newfound infatuation with you. All he knew was that if he was going to settle down with anyone, he was almost positive it would be with you. 

[usaac-official]

A 36th Pursuit Group P-39D in Puerto Rico, probably 1943. The aircraft would be destroyed in a crash landing in New Orleans on 31 May 1943

[aimeedaisies]

King pays tribute to ‘heroism and sacrifice’ to mark 80 years since Arnhem

Monarch’s words spoken by the Princess Royal to remember troops who fought in Operation Market Garden

21 September 2024 5:57pm

The Princess Royal is representing the King at the Arnhem anniversary events PA/Ben Birchall

The King has said the “heroism and sacrifice made by so many in the pursuit of peace” will never be forgotten as the 80th anniversary of a famous Second World War operation was commemorated.

The King’s words were spoken by the Princess Royal, representing the King at events this weekend marking the efforts of troops who in 1944 fought in Operation Market Garden, with the bold aim of ending the war that year.

The Princess, joined by her husband Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, delivered her brother’s speech at a reception staged at the Airborne Museum Hartenstein in Oosterbeek, the Netherlands.

It is a former hotel that served as the headquarters of the British 1st Airborne Division during the Battle of Arnhem, part of the operation that aimed to push through the Netherlands and into Germany just a few months after the D-Day landings.

The Princess met Geoff Roberts, 99, believed to be the only British soldier to travel to Arnhem for the commemorations this year PA/Ben Birchall

The Princess said on behalf of the King: “Eighty years ago, on this very weekend, Operation Market Garden was under way in this region of the Netherlands.

“An ambitious joint airborne and ground forces operation designed to seize crucial bridges to enable the advance into Germany, its ultimate aim was to end the war within a matter of months.

“The friendships made during those difficult days of September 1944 between the Dutch and their liberators continued after the war.”

“I saw this for myself five years ago when, as Colonel in Chief of the Parachute Regiment, I attended the 75th anniversary commemorations.”

The Princess met Geoff Roberts, 99, believed to be the only British soldier to travel to Arnhem for the commemorations this year.

Mr Roberts flew by glider into Arnhem during Operation Market Garden but was captured as the Allies retreated after their efforts. Immortalised in the film A Bridge Too Far, the Allies were thwarted by strong resistance from Nazi troops, and he spent the rest of the war in a German prisoner of war camp.

The Princess Royal watches a fly-by at the Airborne Museum Hartenstein in Oosterbeek, Netherlands PA/Ben Birchall

The Princess continued the King’s speech, saying: “Tragically, despite the endless courage of all those who served in an operation whose renown echoes through the generations, the Netherlands had one more terrible winter to suffer before liberation finally arrived.

“Today, on this 80th anniversary, it is with a deep sense of gratitude and humility that we remember all those in the British, Allied and Commonwealth forces who served and died fighting for our freedom.

“Let us also remember those magnificently courageous members of the Dutch resistance and gallant civilians who endured so much during the Second World War.

“We will never forget the heroism and sacrifice made by so many in the pursuit of peace and liberation. My wife joins me in sending the warmest possible good wishes to all those taking part in this weekend of commemoration.”

On Sunday, the Princess, in her role as president of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, will attend the annual service marking the operation’s 80th anniversary at Oosterbeek Airborne Cemetery.

She will join around a thousand guests and will read a lesson and lay a wreath at the foot of the Cross of Sacrifice.

Earlier, paratroopers from eight Nato member countries, including the UK, the USA, Portugal and Spain, parachuted from 12 aircraft into Ginkel Heath, a nature reserve near the Dutch town of Ede.

Some 700 paratroopers took part in the jump, including the Red Devils, the British Army’s freefall parachute display team, as part of the commemoration of the Battle of Arnhem.

Turned into defensive battle

Among those to parachute into the occupied Netherlands were 1,900 allied airborne soldiers from Britain’s 4th Parachute Brigade.

The plan involved seizing key bridges with a combination of airborne and land forces.

But the airborne forces’ landing zones were around nine miles from the bridge at Arnhem, losing them the element of surprise and giving the German troops time to build blockades.

While the operation succeeded in capturing the Dutch cities of Eindhoven and Nijmegen, it failed in its key objective: securing the bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem.

A defensive battle was fought, which saw nine days of prolonged street fighting, until the order to withdraw was given on Sept 25.

More than 8,000 British soldiers were killed, missing or captured in the offensive.

[niftyandinterestingstuff]

1933 Lockheed Vega DL-1B One of ten built in Detroit purchased by the Morrell Meat Packing Company in 1933 becoming the first Executive Aircraft. This is the last one flying and is painted in the USAAC colors of the 35 Pursuit Squadron based in Langly Field, Virginia in 1932.

[usafphantom2]

In hot pursuit of an ALCM…

credit Cold War Aircraft

@CcibChris via X

[pinturas-sgm-aviacion]

1941 07 21 MiG 3 vs Dornier 17 - Mark Postlethwaite

The first Luftwaffe air raid against Moscow was launched during the evening of Monday, 21 July 1941, and it consisted of 195 bombers -Ju 88s from KGs 3 and 54, He 111 s from KGs 53, 55, 28, lll./KG 26 and KGr.100 and Do 17s from KGs 2 and 3 - concentrated against the Soviet capital. No fewer than 170 fighters were scrambled to intercept the raiders, and one of the latter fell to Soviet test pilot Capt Mark Gallay. His victim was a Do 17 from 9./KG 3, flown by Leutnant Kurt Kuhn. Gallay was serving with the 2nd Separate Fighter Air Squadron of the Moscow Air Defence Forces at this time, the unit having been hurriedly established and manned by test pilots from the Flight Testing Institute of the Peoples' Commissariat of Aviation Industry. A test pilot from 1937, Gallay made ten sorties in MiG-3s from July to September 1941, although the 9./KG 3 machine was his only success during this period. He gave the following detailed account of this engagement in his memoirs;

'I clearly saw the angular stumps of the aircraft's wings, engines and two-fin tail. It was a Dornier 215 or possibly a 217, and I was flying straight into it - my MiG shook slightly when it passed through the bomber's slipstream. Crosses, crosses on the wings. Immediately, as if by instinct, I fired a long burst at the crosses. This was the wrong thing to do, for the Dornier was still about 400 m away. I removed my finger from the trigger. Then, as I got closer, I started firing at the cockpit and engines. It seemed that I had hit the bomber. Suddenly, lines of return fire from both the upper and lower gunners' stations stretched out towards my fighter. I still do not know how they did not shoot me down. I managed to escape, and continued my pursuit. I made my second approach from slightly below so that the upper gunner could not aim at me. I fired a short burst at the cockpit and starboard engine and quickly slipped off to the side so that any return fire missed me 'I made several more approaches like that, aiming my guns at the bomber's fuselage and engines. The return fire also stopped. I fired and fired, but the bomber kept on flying. One last approach, followed by a long burst, and suddenly the Dornier jerked oddly off to the right in a banking turn. It seemed to hang in mid-air in this position for a few seconds, before the angle of bank increased sharply and the bomber dropped out of the searchlights and crashed a few seconds later'

[anika-ann]

Cracks in Foundation (S.R.)

Type: one-shot, standalone or part of Love on the Brain series

Pairining: Steve Rogers x reader    Word count: 6000

Summary: Dating Steve Rogers is a curse and a gift. Even as it was always a privilege, right now, it feels like the former. You really want to smack some sense into him so this never happens again, but you know it will – after all, that’s half the reason you love him.

In other words, Steve is stupidly brave on a mission and it has consequences neither of you could foresee. But maybe you should have; because now you’re here alone to pick up the pieces.

Warnings!!: Steve being an absolute dumbass, mentions and images of death, hypothermia, PTSD, flashbacks, probably not an ideal treatment of a flashback, canon typical violence, language

A/N: reader is called “Agent Jones”, works for the Avengers Initiative; you do not need knowledge of Criminal Minds or Love on the Brains series to read this, but it will, of course, make more sense. I imagine this taking place much later - in about a year after the events of Love on the Brain; divider by firefly-graphics

In my body I fight fire With the snow, my hell is cold (SYML – Body)

This shouldn’t have happened. This nevershouldn’t have happened but it had – of course it had. You should have seen it coming, both the action and the reaction. All of you should have known better, but you in particular.

Unfortunately, sometimes, despite your ability to profile people, you still failed.

Sometimes, despite your best knowledge of Steven Grant Rogers, you still managed to underestimate him. His literally unhuman body. His profoundly good heart. His incredible strength in both muscles and psyche. His ability to have you burn for him with a single touch. His ability to touch your heart in ways no one ever could.

His extraordinary dumbassery.

You really should have known so much better.

If you had, you wouldn’t have him here, face ashen, lips turning blue, eyes wide and unfocused; he looked like death itself.

You swallowed your tears and tried to battle the ever-rising panic crawling up your throat, closing your eyes for a moment as if it could erase the terrifying sight.

“Steve? Stevie? You’re going to be okay… I’m here. You’re going to be okay…”

You repeated the mantra so many times you weren’t sure anymore whether you were saying it to him or to yourself.

The craziest thing was, it wasn’t even the worst sight of the day you were offered by your exceptional dumbass of a boyfriend; no, that had been what your own mind had shown you. Now that image was going to haunt you forever and despite knowing yelling solved nothing and it couldn’t change the past, you were going to scream your lungs out when you’d get the chance. Later. Right now, you had more pressing matters to attend to.

Like making sure Steve Rogers, your GG, would come back to you.

You needed to get to work.

It was a routine mission really, if such things as routine existed within the Avengers Initiative. It was rather routine in terms of involvement of the actual Avengers; Steve and Natasha joined missions like these – sweep a base, gather intel, make some arrests if lucky enough – on a regular basis. Tony Stark coming with? Less so. Still, one could call it routine enough, even when located in the death of tundra in Russia around 100 miles from the border with Finland.

Besides the cold and Tony, there was nothing extraordinary. Just another mission.

And it had been; until the agents scattered and you heard several voices in the comms reporting they were in pursuit of the enemies. Until you found out they were chasing them through the tunnels and suddenly found themselves outside of the base. Until you learned that outside meant the landscape of the very frozen lake Natasha had purposely avoided landing the quinjet on for the fear of the heavy aircraft destabilizing the already risky environment.

Until you heard agent Smith was down. And by down, they meant under the ice, because a thinner layer of it cracked and broke under his feet. Until Steve fucking Rogers, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and zero brain power at the moment had the wonderful idea to rush to Smith’s aid.

You had made it out of the base just in time to see his navy-blue suit disappear and your sleep for the following nights probably with it. You had stood there holding your breath as if you were the one in the icy water, as if subconsciously testing how much oxygen – as if that was the only concern – you had left before you’d have to make it to the surface for another breath.

It was long. It was too long. You had taken at least two breaths in the meantime and you weren’t sure the panic rising in your chest with every frantic beat of your heart, with every second they did not appear above the surface, was to blame.

Your hand flew to your comms and you cursed yourself for not having done it moments ago.

“Tony-“

“I’m onto those idiots, Squirt, don’t worry,” his voice sounded in your ear, not quite easing your worry in fact.

Steve was still under. Still in the water. Even though you were aware that he survived much worse than a few seconds of icy cold water – try decades – you’d rather he was still conscious when Tony would get his stupid ass out. And the second Steve would be able to hear you, were going to yell, very loudly and probably more than a little hysterical, because what the hell had he been doing beside tempting fate to give him another involuntary icy nap. You were going to chew the hell out of him, your fists curling in your thick microfibre gloves, because you felt like punshing him too, anything, just so you could stop holding your breath.

But you needed him to get out first.

“And get to the jet, your bae will need some warming up,” Tony added, causing you to grit your teeth, even as you were grateful; not a second later, the whoosh of Iron Man’s suit flying above your head blew the few stands of hair that escaped your hat in your face.

Completely ignoring Tony’s inappropriate comment and his sound advice, you remained right where you stood, gaze transfixed where you had last seen Steve, slipping under the surface. Your pulse thundered in your temples as you watched the red and gold of Tony’s suit fly like a flare above the flood of white surrounding you all, nearing the break in the ice, no doubt searching the heat signatures you assumed were fading with each passing moment.

And then the Iron Man himself performed an obnoxious superhero-like landing, complete with fist on the ground and your anger, gathering since you saw Steve dive into a fucking ice soup without a second thought, exploded, your vision turning bloody red for a split second. What the fuck was Stark doing that for?! Did he really just feed his ego while on a rescue mission?! You were going to-

And then the fist landed again. And again and again and then it hit you. You didn’t have the capacity to scold yourself for assuming and assuming completely wrong; the realization stunned you, blood freezing in your veins having nothing to do with the snow and harsh wind hitting your face.

The ice had frozen over. Steve jumped in and before he could emerge, the ice had frozen over his head. The image of a him under water, holding Smith, the fucking moron, to his chest and fighting to punch his way through the solid surface, swinging his arm heavily through the icy water stinging every inch of his skin, losing oxygen by the minute, that was an image that would haunt you forever, even as you had never set your eyes on it.

Then again, the arm of Tony’s suit diving into water and pulling out two men as easily as if they were helpless kittens was etched into your brain just as effectively, arriving with overwhelming relief. With a wordless prayer on your lips, you squinted against the snow blowing in your face to search for a lump of beloved and hated navy blue suit contrasting against the endless white of the plain surrounding the incident.

You’d swear you could hear him coughing, hungrily drinking in air in between when he doubled over as soon as Tony dropped him off in a safe distance from the crack. In the back of your mind, you were aware of the red and gold figure carrying the motionless body of Agent Smith, flying it to the quinjet, the medical team having prepared on the ramp with a stroller and equipment, but your eyes were transfixed on the dark mass of a supersoldier good hundred feet away still. You were almost certain, even from the distance, that he also managed to empty his stomach to make him feel even more miserable. Not that you blamed him; it had to be, apart from really fucking cold, extremely terrifying. It definitely was for you. Just the memory made your feel throat as if squeezed in a vice.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, pick-up number two happening right away,” Tony assured you face-to face, uncharacteristically humourless now that he had set eyes on the momentarily lifeless body of Agent Smith.

You thought you uttered a thank you, but he couldn’t hear it as he was already off to carry your exceptionally idiotic boyfriend along. And so you ran to the jet, boots heavy with snow falling in and biting coldly into your calf and shins, legs stiff from the shock of the experience still.

When Tony finally brought Steve after what felt like a lifetime, you certainly didn’t speak a word of complaint when he also hauled him further into the quinjet into one of the medical cubicles sans a team. You followed, painfully aware of every single muscle in Steve’s body trembling, the tips of his fingers having turned white.

“You can yell at him first,” Tony told you graciously, shooting Steve an ugly look before glancing at you entering just behind them.

“Gee thanks,” you snarked back automatically, tone softening when you met his genuinely worried eyes. “Thank you, Tony, really.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed, but a small smile passed over his lips. “Jarvis, heat up this room for our Capsicle, will you?”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. Steve wasn’t going to live that down any time soon, probably ever, not after attempting to became an icicle for the second time.

“Certainly, sir. Gradually heating up to 25 degrees Celsius, as recommended in the medical manual,” the AI chimed helpfully, the wave of heat washing over you instantly. The air felt almost tropical after the arctic wind outside, but you were grateful. Steve would need that.

“Thanks, J,” you said, throwing off your gloves, hat and parka as quick as you managed with your fingers freezing, not bothering with more as to help Steve strip his soaking garments as soon a possible.

The silence that settled after rang a sudden alarm bells; it dawned to you at last that during the whole exchange, Steve remained quiet. Way too quiet.

You’d expect the sounds of zippers and Velcro as he was tearing off his uniform, the fabric dripping icy cold water despite the best engineers and designers having worked on the material. You’d expect his teeth to clatter in doing so, colourful curses on his blueish lips, especially when in company of only you and Tony. He had been coughing out water, quite violently, barely just having been dropped in the jet, so you’d think his air-ways would still fight spasm and the biting intrusion of ice, the raspy wet cough not ceasing.

But Steve was doing neither of that, tripling your worry for him in the process.

You moved to round him to get a look at him with an urgent whisper of his name, stomach flipping in fear when he didn’t answer.

The lack of any action or sound was incredibly disconcerting, because it could mean two things: either, he was absolutely stunned, the weight of what could have happened finally falling on him, or he had been already struck by hypothermia severe enough to be acutely in danger despite being a far cry from what Smith had looked like when Tony dropped him off.

When you finally laid your eyes on Steve’s face, your heart nearly stopped. His skin was scarily pale, his lips turning alarming blue, but that, while worrying, wasn’t surprising at all. What shocked you was his eyes; his pupils were blown wide, unfocused, misted over to the point that had he been lying on the ground, you’d swear he was--

Do not even think it. You can’t. He was going to be fine, he was alright, he just needed to warm up, he was not—He was very much alive, you were sure of it, he had to be. But the fact was, Steve couldn’t see you. He wasn’t seeing anything.

With horror, your gaze fell to his chest and in a split second, you realized that his whole body was still. Way too still. He wasn’t moving at all; he wasn’t even breathing. And yet, he was standing upright, almost as if his feet simply froze to the ground and that was the only reason why he hadn’t collapsed yet- But you knew, you knew that wasn’t possible, and despite the panic clawing at your throat, you were hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t be standing upright had his heart stopped, so how was he still standing?

It would be baffling if it wasn’t absolutely terrifying. Why was he so still? It literally looked as if he was frozen, as if-

He was frozen.

When it finally clicked, a choked noise erupted from lips, your heart shattering into thousand pieces; but your mind snapped into action, already working on solutions.

“Tony, get us as many of towels, blankets and those small heat packs, as you can manage  and give me full access to J. Make sure we have complete privacy. No one needs to see this.” Your throat was too tight for you to be able to speak on normal volume, but that was the least of your concerns, truly. You were sure Tony heard you just fine.

At least someone did.

“Kinky-?” Tony uttered, confused by your sudden escalated panic and the look you shot him – if looks could kill, he’d already be lying in a pool of his blood.

“Tony, get your ass fucking moving or I’ll swear to god I’ll strangle you in a way that will make Sam McDowell look like an amateur.”

Whether he knew the name of the prolific serial strangler or simply understood the urgency in your tone, he had enough wit to take his leave without further protest and with relative hurry, leaving you focus fully on Steve. Oh Steve. The absent brilliant blue of his irises had your stomach make another unpleasant somersault, your eyes filling with tears, nose tingling in anticipation of a full sobfest.

You so couldn’t afford that now. You couldn’t afford screaming either, but good god, did you want to – you wanted to stand in front of a mirror and scream your lungs out because how could it have not punched you straight in the face right away? How could you have not seen it coming?! You only had years of experience in profiling, with dealing individuals struggling with PTSD among other things. You only known Steve for years, knew what he had endured. You only learned about the sacrifice of Captain America in high school, several years ago.

God, the icy water. Could there be any more obvious and deadly trigger?

Of course Steve’s gaze was absent, his whole mind was. He wasn’t here with you, not in time and not in space; he was in the water. In a water so icy it was turning solid, trapping him for decades to come. People couldn’t breathe under water. People couldn’t breathe when frozen in a mass of ice.

Now you understood the reason for the absolute stillness of his whole body including his chest. Steve’s mind was locked so firmly into the memory that it either shut his body – because logically, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, let alone move in the prison he found himself in – or it latched onto his survival instinct, screaming at him not to breathe to prevent the water flooding into his lungs.

You fought your instinct to gag when the iron fist that realization hit you square in the stomach and sent bile up your throat.

So not the time. You needed him to snap out of it. And you needed it fast before you’d lose any more precious seconds.

“Steve?” you called out lowly, giving zero shit about the crack in your voice. “Stevie? You’re going to be okay, but I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?” you pleaded.

Grimacing, you released an involuntarily whimper when you got zero reaction. You pushed through the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to repeat the words in normal volume. The only response you got was the ever-present unnatural stillness; and Steve’s lips gradually turning bluer.

Your thoughts whirled in your head, mind desperately trying to latch onto any knowledge and experience you had with dealing with PTSD. You had never encountered someone with similar problem, never dealt with a flashback of this magnitude; Gideon had once taken the lead with a soldier trapped in his mind, murdering civilians for he believed them to be enemy soldiers, but that was Gideon. Jason Gideon, with his mind of steel and twenty-five years of experience. Jason Gideon, one of the founding fathers of the Behaviour Analysis Unit himself.

On your own, you were at loss with someone so far gone; but what you knew had to be enough. What you knew was that the only way of breaking Steve out of the prison his mind had created was to anchor him in reality, to appeal to all his senses.

The problem was that the majority of stimuli Steve was receiving from his senses matched the very environment of his flashback. The reality you would try to ground him in was his clothes soaking wet in freezing water and him being on a planewith a voice of a woman in his ears, trying to sooth his suffering. In other words, the reality was how he ended up buried in the ice in the first place.

Aware that you were shaking like a leaf yourself, jaw set so tight it was beginning to hurt, you were also painfully aware you couldn’t just stand there doing nothing with cheeks wet with tears and stare at the strongest person you had ever knew involuntarily depriving himself of oxygen. You had to do something.

Touching him was, frankly, a terrible idea; touching anyone with a flashback would be, because you’d be risking triggering a fight or flight response instead. Touching Steve and triggering the fight part in a supersoldier however, get him run on pure instinct? Now that could result in your broken neck or crushed windpipe really quickly. That idea truly didn’t sound appealing to you; and Steve would never forgive himself. You’d rather avoid that.

You took a deep breath, releasing the air shakily as your mind raced. Alright. Time. If you couldn’t ground him in space, you needed to ground him in time.

“Steve, GG, look at me. I’m Agent Jones – I’m Sparkles,” you said urgently, taking care to voice every syllable, daring to step an inch closer to him, hoping to fill his field of vision completely. “And I’m right here with you. There’s no water. Nothing’s stopping me or you from breathing.” You exaggerated an inhale and exhale, the warm air washing over his face, but without any effect. “There’s plenty of air, GG, for both you and me. Please.”

You dug your nails into your palms when nothing happened but your love staring back blankly, unnaturally stiff.

Steve could hold his breath for a long time – much more than an average human, his lung capacity unmatched – but he had also been drowning, so you really couldn’t count on that. You were running out of time. He was going to pass out. Sure, his breathing would kick in then and hell, maybe losing consciousness would be a blessing compared to this, but that sleep would not be peaceful and there was no telling what the wake-up call would look like other than really fucking unpleasant. The idea of him escaping one nightmare only to be find himself in another and then another until he woke up to the reality just as harsh, as if freshly having lost the whole world he knew all over again, chased fresh tears into your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Tony’s voice snapped you from your focus, your heart nearly bursting through your chest.

Jesus, how long had he been standing there?

Not important; and you didn’t have time to explain. Without thinking, you spilled the truth in as few words as possible, in the very same breath you tried to appeal to Steve again, your gaze never shifting from his pale face.

“He’s having a flashback, please leave, thank you for the blankets-- GG, please. Breathe with me, there’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise. I’m right here. Trust me. I can breathe just fine…”

You could not. You felt as if someone smashed your ribs with a crowbar for laughs and hit and hit until you couldn’t breathe in without blinding pain, but you knew, you knew it had to be nothing compared to what Steve was facing and you needed to get a grip, you couldn’t wallow in it and you couldn’t let the biting fear consume you. Not with Steve like this.

You were out of other options. Gulping, you oh so slowly lifted your trembling hand, settling it against Steve’s ashen cold cheek. You only got as far as your skin brushing his when a vice-like grip on your wrist stopped you, tearing your touch away and completely immobilizing your hand in the process.

He didn’t look at you as you hissed in pain; he was still far, far away, not moving an inch more than strictly necessary to stop you. But the jolt of pain into your wrist was accompanied by a loud gasp for air, his ribcage expanding right in front of your eyes.

A wet laugh escaped you. “Oh thank god.”

His fingers might as well be made of ice, just as freezing and just as rigid, clutching at you with all the might his body was probably capable off and it hurt. But at least it wasn’t your throat in his grip; you could both breathe. That was a tremendous win.

You still needed to anchor him further and actually bring him back, but the door to his mind were unlocked at least. Now you needed to appeal to all his senses, talk him through it, so he could open the door himself.

“Agent Jones? Do you require assistance?” Jarvis asked warily, no doubt reacting to your physical distress.

Rightfully so, because it was growing – if it was possible, Steve’s fingers dug further into your flesh, already making for a bruise, you were sure. Your fingertips begun to tingle, strange numbness spreading through your hand, but you were far too gone to give up now. You could handle this. You’d get Steve release you on his own.

“Not for now, J, thank you. We’re good—actually, Jarvis?” you called out lowly, the artificial intelligence instantly letting you know he listened. ���Can you play me a song? I need to get Steve in the modern times.”

“Certainly. What would you like me to play, Agent Jones? Something contemporary?”

“Yeah. Contemporary and irritatingly ear-worming,” you muttered, mind racing.

A song Steve would hundred percent know, one his mind would without a single doubt identify as something modern. It was the biggest assholery of your mind to push the melody of Let It Go into the forefront of your overstressed brain before anything else, but a hysterical chuckle escaped you anyway, forcing you to lick off tears from your lips. It was the stupidest thing and the worst irony ever – because yeah, the cold really fucking bothered you now and it sure bothered Steve.

“Something way too overplayed on a radio, preferably without the words cold, snow, ice and such in it, J.”

It was only half a second later, when Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off came out the speakers.

Despite yourself, you snorted, fresh tears springing out. This time, you appreciated the irony. That was what Steve needed, right? He just needed to shake it off. He’d be fine.

Taking a deep breath, smiling through your tears and the growing pains in your wrist, you got to work.

You told him what he was hearing. The engines, the song, the heating running, your voice. You told him what he could see, your hair, the colour of your eyes, the Avengers logo etched onto your uniform and not an SSR one, the high-tech equipment you knew he could have never seen in his original time. You told him about the heat washing over his face and hair, your hand in his.

The owlish, painfully slow blink you elicited was a victory, bringing a smile to your face, drying your tears, bringing a softer and softer tone to your voice as you continued speaking.

“Steve? GG? I know it’s cold and I want to help you,” you said gently, trying to meet his gaze as it began to slowly roam to room; still absent, but not misted over anymore. “I could help you by taking off that wet suit, taking away the cold. But for that, I need you to let go of my hand so I can-“

You gritted your teeth and squeezed your eyes shut when the response you got was the exact opposite, as if he was mad at you for even suggesting it; you stifled the whimper at the prickling his grip sent through your arm. It was hard to tell whose hand was paler now; he definitely cut off your circulation and it was not a pretty sight. But you only had yourself to blame and you promised yourself you’d never do otherwise.

It was only when the numbness replaced the pain that it dawned to you where the problem might be.

“GG, please? I promise I won’t leave. I’ll stay right here with you. But I need you to release my hand so I can take that cold away. Only the cold, I swear.”

You nearly cried when the pressure on your wrist gradually eased, a shaky exhale sounding a lot like a whine escaping you. That was most definitely more than a bruise; you allowed yourself a few seconds of deep breaths, fighting off the dark edge in your vision.

Then, you grabbed after one of the small heating pads, snapping the thin metal plate inside to initiate a chemical reaction; in an instant, the thick liquid began to solidify and warm up. You placed in into Steve’s still open palm, hanging loosely by his side, enclosing his icy fingers around it despite the gloves getting in the way. You winced at the sharp pain shooting through your arm. Definitely more than a bruise. You repeated the process to warm up his other hand, finally going for the Velcros and zippers on the front of his suit.

Thankfully, the temperature Jarvis had set melted the microcrystals of ice around the metal, allowing you to undo it relatively easy. You felt Steve’s eyes on your now, his body slowly, oh so slowly getting on with the programme, fists unclenching when you needed to pull the sleeves over his hands without dropping the pads.

“You’re doing so good, Stevie, so good,” you praised him softly, loud enough to speak over the second playing of the song in the background. You were going to hear it for days, you were certain. And you’d hate it forever, too. “You’re a great help, GG, thank you.”

When he dropped the pads, you made a quick work of undoing his gloves too, before pushing new pads into his hands. His thick pants followed; the boots though, those were trickier.

Fuck this. You swiftly searched the transparent cabinets for scalpel, slicing the material through as carefully as you could with your still trembling hands. The water was still brutally cold against your fingers; and your wrist was beginning to throb. Almost there, you soothed yourself, wondering whether you’d manage to make Steve sit down so you could take off those boots and the pants… and underpants. You’d rather have him keep his dignity, but his boxer shorts were soaked through as well and way too close to his core… maybe if you placed enough heating pads around…

The truth was that despite your instincts screaming at you, you knew you didn’t have to worry that much about the physical effects of the low temperature on him. As awful as it sounded, you knew he could take the icy cold – that was part of the problem. It was the numbing memory constructing the perfect trap for his mind, the dissociation, that took precedence, as unusual as it was. And if you weighted the pros and cons…

Well. It wasn’t like his dick was going to freeze right off.

You stood to your full height, licking your lips as you faced Steve again. He was watching you now with surprising intent; you tried to give him a reassuring smile, raising your unharmed hand slowly enough for him to register and placed it on his ribs, almost under the armpit, ready to support him in case his muscles didn’t quite respond to his command as expected when you’d ask him to sit down.

What you didn’t expect was for him to crumble under your touch.

Over two hundred pounds of muscle was too much for your body to carry. When he leaned onto you without a single warning, his knees giving way, dropping his whole weight on your shoulders, you tumbled to the ground as you were without a real chance to slow down the fall. Your hands instinctively attempted too, but you knew you could add bruised backbone and your other wrist to the list on your injuries.

And while pain briefly shot through you very bones, you soon didn’t give a damn.

Not when Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, arms gripping onto your body like as if it was a lifeline, harsh breaths and heartbreaking sobs escaping his lips, shaking his usually strong frame; but maybe that was just shivers from the cold. His skin was still almost icy to touch, his nose like an icicle as he pressed to your collarbone over your thermals, wet hair tickling your chin; his pants at his ankles, his boots, barely keeping together, still as his feet. You let them be as they were. Instead of stripping him further, you managed to reach for at least one of the pads and throw it into his lap, the blankets and towels too far away.

You enclosed Steve in a hug, achy hand carefully resting in his hair, the other running soothing circles on his back in a poor attempt to console him. His tears seeped into your shoulder and you never cared less for anything in your life; yours in return disappeared into his hair. Sweet nonsenses were spilling from your lips, drowned in his ragged sobs; you whispered his name over and over, his name and all endearments that came to mind and even remotely fit him. I’ve got you, love. Sweetheart, I’m here, sweet, I’m here… oh GG, my gentle giant, giant heart, I’ve got you, this will pass, I’ll help, I’ll help, I’ll help you stand up again. You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you, baby, so proud…

The song, thank god, stopped playing as soon as Steve broke.

You could feel his body weighting a ton, every muscle weary, strung and feeble at once, and yet, it was his mind making for most of the weight he couldn’t bear. Feelings he normally hid behind a wall as tall as Tower of Babel so he could lead others into battle with a brave face now oozed off him and soaked your skin and mind. You could only imagine the onslaught of emotions and memories, reminders of all he lost, the ghost of having woken up in the new millennium for the first time looming over him.  

The way his fingers dug into your forearm, clutched at the flesh of your waist, it would hurt later; but at the moment, those long agonizing minutes that felt like an eternity, you barely felt it, instead consumed by overwhelming grief for the kindest and strongest soul you had ever met. The best man, breaking in front of your eyes and in your arms.

It took long minutes before you dared to move, just enough to reach for the blanket and strip him off the pants and shoes at least. You never went too far. The volume of your voice decreased along with Steve’s, along with the tremble of his exhausted body. He melted into your frame, falling asleep right there, held in your considerably weaker arms and you were grateful.

In a low voice, you asked Jarvis to notify Steve’s therapist – and yours, even if with less urgency. The worst of it was over, but you weren’t naïve as to think that just because the storm was over, there would be no damage and no need for restoration.

For now, you held Steve and tried to keep him warm, not blind to the fact his body combined with Jarvis’ service was already drying off the last piece of clothing he wore. You ran the fingers of your unharmed hand through the golden damp strands of his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead every now and then, hoping his sleep was dreamless.

Minutes or hours later, Natasha was the one to find you still curled one into other, gently telling you that everyone had already left the jet and that she’d send medics over in a few. You gave her a brave smile even as you were feeling everything but, your adrenalin wearing off and leaving you on the brink of breaking yourself.

When two medics rolled Steve away and you followed, refusing to move an inch farther from Steve than necessary just in case he’d unexpectedly wake up, a third one forced you to take an x-ray as your hand was already swelling.

As it turned out, there was a crack in both your ulna and radius, the mass, however strong, having been unable to withstand Steve’s strength. The swelling was bothering your nerves and your veins, hence the painful tingles and numbness; but in the end, they were just cracks. They’d heal.

Cracks actually usually hurt more than complete breaks, Doctor Jackson told you. You thought it was quite fitting. What Steve had experienced was not a break, for he was never broken; you weren’t certain he could be. It was but a crack; the foundation of who he was had so far been strong enough to withstand horrors unimaginable. And even though the cracks hurt like a bitch, you’d be there for him to help him through the pain.

The cracks in your bones could be solved by a few pills and rest; his would be a little more complicated.

But you’d help build him up again. You’d help him stand tall. Not for the sake of Captain America, the shining beacon of hope, the façade that could be speedpaint with shines of red, blue and white with ease. No, you’d help repair the real cracks for Steve, the gentlest of giants you knew, even if it would take more time and effort than an icon.

He was worth the trouble; even as you suspected that once he’d wake, he might have a thing or two to say about that. You’d convince him otherwise; you wouldn’t be alone.

And neither would he.

With a splint all over your forearm and wrist and a promise you would do a session in Doctor Cho’s cradle to speed the healing, you settled on the bed by Steve’s bedside, the surprisingly serene expression on his face and the gentle beeps of the heart monitor making for a warm hum of satisfaction in your chest.

You’d heal together. Of that, you were sure.

I was hearing words in black and white Twisted up inside my broken mind Outstretched dirty hands just like a child Hungry little fool, but you were mine (SYML – Body)

Steve Rogers masterlist // Love on The Brain masterlist

Notes (because the first aid trainer in me screams and severe hypothermia is a bitch): normally, first concern would most definitely be the cold, hypothermia and the impending arrhythmia (can be caused by the cold), but a) it was established Steve’s body can take it (proved the hard way) and b) his suit probably kept the absolutely worst away… PSA over.

ANYWAY. I hope you – well – liked it ("enjoyed" feels like a little too strong of a word for Steve’s suffering) 🥰 Thank you for reading! Feedback is life.

P.S. – this will likely be followed by a second part called Restoration, but I make no promises.

P.P.S. - if you wish to read a fluff about "Steve fell through frozen lake" situation, I recommend Frozen by @tilltheendwilliwrite 🥰

P.P.P.S. -  if you are a CM fan, know that the title is a loose reference to Emily's issues in the second half of season seven when she tries to re-settle down with the team and at Quantico.

[brucewaynehater101]

I'm rewatching the BTAS episodes "Heart Of Steel" part 1 and 2 for the first time in years and I already have hard evidence that H.A.R.D.A.C. is a psycho. It's not even 10 minutes in. (MINOR SPOILERS)

Look at this tiny fellow:

This little dude emotes more in the 2 minutes of screentime he has than Batman does the whole episode, and I think he might be sentient as well (it's kind of hard for nonsentient life forms, even purpose built artificial ones, to execute entire vault heists and take action on the fly if it goes south). Isn't he cute?

Unfortunately, he got caught. Can't have that! So what H.A.R.D.A.C. did was to

Detonate a hidden explosive inside him just after he fired off a rocket containing the thing he stole.

And a little bit later, when Batman is in pursuit of the rocket and it's picked up by a Duplicant in a car, and then this happens:

The funny thing is that H.A.R.D.A.C. hadn't taken over the building he was in yet, so the finances for this presumably had to go through human channels.

"Why the fuck is there a budget item for 20mm anti-aircraft shells and a custom AA gun?"

"Eh, must be for the Department Of Defense."

I love the way that little guy's legs are all loopy and then straighten up when he notices something. I don't know enough about this lore and you're making me want to try to binge watch it, lmao.

Online, they say the breakdown of seasons is like this.

Season 1: 60 episodes

Season 2: 16 episodes

Season 3: 10 episodes

Season 4: 5 episodes

Not sure if that's true, but that is a really weird way to break up the plot and stuff

Oh! This is the show with the sassy Alfred!

Anyways. At the least, I wanna try to watch the episodes with H.A.R.D.A.C. in it

[nocternalrandomness]

Boeing P-12E Pursuit Aircraft at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, Dayton, Ohio

[petermorwood]

Based on reality...ish.

After seeing this post, @elizabethgoudge wondered:

"Wasn't there a real prototype like the Hydra plane in Captain America?"

TL:DR -Yes, there was. Indeed there were several, though "real" is a bit bit up in the air (or not, considering that none of these things ever flew...)

*****

"Captain America: The First Avenger" based some of its hardware on four or maybe even five Nazi-era prototypes, "real" in the sense of having a nebulous existence as sketches, blueprints, or concept / wind-tunnel models.

The film's design department clearly knew their stuff. They may have used other things instead or as well (there were so MANY), so the following is just my own speculation, based on many years of making many model kits :->

The Hydra mini-sub...

...seems based on a cross between the (real) "Seehund" midget submarine...

...and the design-concept Focke-Wulf Ta 283 ramjet aircraft.

Red Skull's escape plane, though never clearly visible...

...wasn't just based on but WAS a Focke-Wulf Triebflügel ("powered wings" - meaning the ramjet-driven rotor blades around its waist).

This was a proposed tail-sitter VTOL interceptor where taking off straight up might (?) have been possible, but landing straight down and backwards would invite all sorts of unwanted excitement.

It also made a brief background appearance in "Loki".

The Valkyrie flying wing…

…was based on, and hugely upscaled from, the Horten H.XVIII, one of many pie-in-the-sky "Amerikabomber" projects.

Resemblance to a Northrop YB-35 (props) / YB-49 (jets)...

…is coincidence based on form-follows-function, since - and rather importantly - the Northrop planes were built for use by the US Air Force, not the Luftwaffe (though given the way some plotlines went, their use by Hydra is another matter…)

The flying bombs which it carried...

...seem based partly on a Messerschmitt Me 334 project fighter...

...and partly on a Sombold So 344 bomber-destroyer, which had the same detachable-bomb arrangement.

The So 344's explosive nose was meant to be launched into a formation of Allied bombers, after which - despite aerodynamics now wildly out of whack and a bunch of angry escort fighters in hot pursuit - the piloted part would land safely.

Yeah, right...

*****

Despite "what if...?" suggestions on the "History" Channel that one or other of these contraptions could have "won WW2", they didn't even help to lose it less severely.

IMO their probable main purpose was to keep numerous engineers and designers safe(-ish) with pencil and ruler in workshops and at drawing boards, rather than very much not safe with rifle and grenade on some bomb-and-bullet-swept front line.

*****

Besides the midget submarine, there's one other exception to all this based-on-paper stuff, and that's Red Skull's car...

...whose inspiration seems to have been the Mercedes Benz W31 G4 heavy staff car and a Hispano Suiza H6A limousine custom-built in 1923 for the King of Spain.

All of which goes along with my own notion, that starting with a real - or merely "real" - object is a great way to make fantasy objects look, and sound in description, more convincing.

Or, as @dduane says, "The more truth you mix with a lie, the stronger it gets..."

:->

[captain-price-unofficially]

Consolidated P-30 / PB-2A (pursuit, bi-place), circa 1936. Designed for high-altitude combat, the aircraft featured a pressurized and heated cockpit, an exhaust-driven turbo-supercharger, and retractable landing gear.

[still-not-over-transformers]

Hi,

I saw you were taking transformers requests and uhm... If you don't mind?

Transformers Earthspark or Animated Megatron reunited with their Conjunx (fem) after the war? Headcanon or one shot you pick...

Thank you 🙏

This request was a lot of fun to write! Also check out my gloriously kind requester's Tumblr page please!

*Original Character featured in this oneshot, "Huntress" belongs to the-reddish-muse*

Be Still My Beating Spark

TFE Megatron x Cybertronian Fem OC

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1600+

Hunger… The overwhelming sensation that drove her through the forest. It felt like she had been hungry for a long, long time now. She had been on the trail of an energon scent for some time now, having traversed many miles of terrain in pursuit. Her senses were powerful, and she salivated at the thought of finally reaching her quarry. Long claws moved gracefully across the dirt before she came to a stop, bending down to smell a drop of vibrant magenta liquid. So close… 

There was a sudden loud metal creak from up ahead, and our mysterious beast stalked closer to find an old hangar bay, and a Cybertronian mech prying open the large rusted metal doors. The mech was clutching his left shoulder, which was leaking energon, most likely from a fresh wound. The drive to satiate her hunger drove her into a frenzy, emitting a ferocious roar before charging out from the brush, briefly locking optics with her surprised prey. 

*Meanwhile…..*

It had been a relatively uneventful day for Megatron, and the mech was resting in his alt-mode in one of G.H.O.S.T’s air fields. It was a quiet day, until the ever-familiar alarm went off, only meaning that he was being called into action.He sighed, Another Decepticon for the humans to lock away… Megatron was disliking this human alliance with each passing day. Begrudgingly, he responded to the alert and soon received coordinates, before activating his engine and taking flight. As Megatron approached the coordinates, from above he could see an old aircraft hangar bay in the middle of a rural field. He recognized the bright firetruck red and cobalt blue paint job and internally rolled his optics, Of course he got here first. Optimus Prime, G.H.O.S.T’s lap dog. 

As Megatron began his descent, he transformed mid-air and landed with one knee and fist meeting the ground first. It was a superhero-pose landing for sure. Along with Optimus, they were joined by Elita-One and various G.H.O.S.T agents. “So where is this dangerous Decepticon we are to neutralize? Or did you ask me here for a social visit?” Megatron said, clearly not wanting to be here. “Well, oddly that’s not the issue, Megatron.” Optimus stepped forward and gestured towards an unconscious Decepticon laying prone on his back right outside of the hangar bay doors, “It appears that Cutthroat was ambushed. He’s alive, but he had a significant amount of energon drained from him.” Megatron knelt down, getting closer to the unconscious Decepticon before him, “Mandroid’s work?” Optimus shrugged, “At first, that’s what we surmised, but this attack doesn’t share Mandroid’s usual signature.” Upon closer inspection, Megatron could see clear puncture marks on Cutthroat’s… well… throat. 

Megatron froze as a wave of memories came flooding back to him, How? After all this time? Optimus studied the expression hanging on Megatron’s face, “What is it, Megatron? Do you have any idea who or what might have done this?” Megatron cleared his throat, “...Perhaps.” Suddenly there was a loud rustle in the thick underbrush in the forest to the right. Two armed G.H.O.S.T agents activated their weapons and went to investigate. The sound of screaming soon followed, along with the sight of those two G.H.O.S.T agents being launched out of the woods, hitting the ground with a resounding thud. Fearsome growls and roars were heard from the thicket, and a pair of glowing red optics peered from the shadows. Of course the first action G.H.O.S.T took was to start firing their weapons  in that direction. The roars became angrier and a slender tail with a bladed spade at the end whipped around furiously, before the mystery bot darted from its cover and bolted deeper into the forest. 

Megatron saw a flash of distinctive yet familiar blue armor and freezes. It couldn’t be…

His thoughts rushed through his processor, wondering if it could really be… her. Turning towards Optimus, Megatron bellows “Stay behind and secure Cutthroat! I will deal with the second one!” And with that, Megatron sprints into the thick forest ahead. His optics dart around at every tree and shadow, determined to locate this mystery bot. Before his next step could reach the ground, the wind is knocked out of him as he is tackled by a massive blue bestial Cybertronian. Megatron’s frame falls onto the ground, however he is unable to get his bearings as he is forcefully pressed down upon by his attacker. As he looks up, he sees a large lion-like predacon with vivid azure armor, and a helm akin to a wolf. The beast’s scarlet optics stare down at him, and a golden tail flicks aggressively. Pinned down, Megatron locks optics with his assailant and freezes, recognizing this bot, “…Huntress?” 

The hybrid bot before him stopped in its tracks, before transforming into a Cybertronian femme with pointed ears, scarlet optics, and a vibrant blue side part on her helm, “…Megatron? …What are you doing here?” It felt as if time had gone still for Megatron, his optics open wide as they lock onto the azure femme before him. The last time he had seen her was just before the end of the war. The Autobots needed someone to take-on an important mission and Huntress had volunteered. Megatron was strongly opposed as he deemed the mission too risky and dangerous. 

But she made her point, and Megatron respected her decision and off she went. That would be the last time he would see her, until now. “I looked for you when you didn’t return. I tried everything I could to contact you but… you never replied. I wanted to search every piece of this planet but Optimus… he feared that would risk revealing our kind to the world and that protecting our cover was imperative. …I wish I hadn’t had listened.” The prior gladiator could still hardly believe this wasn’t a dream, “…Where have you been all this time?”

That was an interesting question, and Huntress wished the answer was simple. Well it was simple, but not to explain. She stepped backwards, allowing Megatron room to get up, her face full of shame. “…I.. I’m sorry. How.. how long has it been?” Megatron stared at his conjunx, his sparkmate, realizing she must’ve been through a harrowing ordeal, “…It’s been many years, Huntress. The war is over and we have new human allies. …For better or for worse.” She turned to look at the ground before placing a servo on her chest, her spark sinking at Megatron’s words, “….that long?” Her mind swirled and she panicked No… how could I have allowed this to happen again?

Huntress had been forged with a specific quirk, one which she was able to run on both energon, as all Cybertronians did, but with a twist. Additionally, she could also gain sustenance from the energon running through the veins of Cybertronians themselves. If her energon levels were to become too low and close to critical, her survival instincts would override her programming and she would become locked in her beast mode, starving for fresh energon. 

“M-Megatron… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear or leave you and the others. The last thing I remember clearly before today was being on the mission. I remember feeling weak… starving, then everything went black. Like I was there but not? My next memory was from today… the smell of Cybertronian energon and the taste of it running down my throat. I remember hearing shouting and then I was shot at and then you…” She shuts her optics and sucks in a deep intake and she begins to shake slightly, struggling to keep her emotions in check. “I…I’m ashamed. I should’ve prepared better. I should’ve listened to you—“ The femme stopped as she felt a gentle touch on her chin, feeling her faceplate being lifted upwards. 

She opened her optics to see Megatron’s soft gaze staring back at her, his digits on her chin as he had lifted it to meet his gaze. “How I have missed gazing into your beautiful optics…” his voice was soft, but pained with deep yearning. Huntress struggled not to break down as she stared into his optics. How could he forgive her so easily? After so many years of being apart, Megatron still looked at her as if nothing had changed. She messed up astronomically. She had forgotten her mission, her comrades, her friends, …and worst of all, Megatron. Her emotions overpowered her, and tears rolled down her cheeks, “...Megatron, you can’t mean to tell me that you aren’t angry with me at all? After all this time you’ve been searching for me, and still you look at me the same as if nothing happened?” 

Huntress was taken aback as she felt the sudden embrace of Megatron’s arms, and the sensation of his warm lips upon hers as he pulled her close. It felt as if time stood still as she took in his warmth, feeling his pure adoration and love through their bond. After what felt to be an eternity, Megatron slowly pulled his lips from hers, staring down at her with an intense longing, “There is no distance that could separate us. No amount of time that could make me forget your love. Nothing in this universe could ever make me stop cherishing every nanosecond I am able to be yours.” 

And with that, he pulled her closer to his chest and kissed her with the warmth of a thousand suns…

*END*

I hope everyone enjoyed this!

[cyb-by-lang]

I kinda already commented and it felt weird to do it again? So I thought I’d ask here instead:

I just saw a post on tumblr that Batman did try to kill Joker and Superman stopped him??? And it was because Joker was somehow linked with Iran, and couldn’t be killed cuz it would start a war. And other Batkids also tried to kill Joker???

I’ve honestly always thought Batman didn’t kill Joker cuz he’s too popular a villain so it was just sort of waved off because of ‘Batman rules’ and publication reasons.

Is Batman almost killing Joker included in your fic? I have very little knowledge of the comics and hearing about newer versions overwriting previous stories makes me even more confused.

Congrats to you for having unlocked a secret level of rambling through deciding to send an ask rather than a comment. This would totally have ended up on AO3 below your comment. :p

And it is going below the cut because it's long as hell.

The scenario you've heard about was from the original run of A Death in the Family, which is the story arc where Jason was killed back in the 80s. In the aftermath of Bruce finding Jason dead (and Jason's birth mother dying shortly thereafter), he hunts for the Joker after realizing that the warehouse explosion didn't, in fact, kill the clown. Somehow (racism!) the Joker ends up being appointed as the Iranian ambassador to the UN. This was later retconned to the fictional country of Qurac, because even DC realized that was a step too far. In the scene after that fun little reveal, Superman is on hand to try and keep shenanigans to a minimum, the Joker predictably tries to gas the entire UN assembly chamber anyway, and then flees via helicopter. Batman, who has been trailing along this entire time in a rage, pursues.

He's planning to kill the clown. Superman, for reasons related to "we don't whack ambassadors and start wars," has been holding him back for the arc thus far. Helicopter pursuit turns into a helicopter fight, during which the Joker's henchman fires a spray of bullets that kills the pilot while everyone is on board and having a bad time. Batman exits the aircraft alive, intact, and furious, and doesn't give a single shit if the Joker died when the chopper hit the sea.

And then a month later the fucking clown comes back again like nothing happened. Only the entire setting has undergone a serious tone shift since Jason's death, which means you're gonna see a lot heavier, dramatic stories that have more significant body counts. Batman cannot get over the death of his son, because no, and eventually Tim Drake pops up in the middle of that death spiral with a hypothesis: "Batman needs a Robin."

He's not wrong.

He also doesn't go about it super gracefully, including an attempt to convince Dick to come back to the Robin mantle that goes nowhere, but eventually he convinces the Dark Knight to take on a third Robin. Unlike Dick and Jason, Tim is locked the fuck down for training and not allowed out in the field willy-nilly. And when he does go out, he is ferociously competent.

Incidentally, this is because the writers/editors realized that after the child murder storyline they'd just done, Batman had to have one hell of a reason to ever take on another kid sidekick. And they needed to try and drag the Robin role's popularity back up, since killing a kid sidekick was also a symptom of DC's tanking sales at the time; the whole thing was ultimately a publicity stunt. It was a bad idea and now we just live with it.

So Tim is, broadly, never portrayed as incompetent in any aspect aside from maybe high school socializing. I don't think he gets kidnapped even a tenth of the number of times Dick did during his decades-long career as Robin. Certainly never falls for a honey trap plot or anything like that.

But yeah, the meta reason why the Joker never dies is because he's an iconic villain who drives plots. But unless you step out of the main continuity, he's also never just been a "no-frills funny" villain since.

ANYWAY.

As far as the rest of the Batfam taking a swing at the Joker, there's one incident that I can recall off the top of my head.

Dick Grayson, currently Nightwing, wasn't especially close to Jason while he was alive. During Jason's original run, they had a cordial (if brief) relationship, but they basically didn't get any storylines together, so it's hard to really tell how strongly they bonded. After Jason died, Dick began experiencing...I wanna call them chronic night terrors. The idea is that a boy in a Robin costume is falling, and falling, and Dick can never save the kid.

I'm sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with his dead brother, no sir.

So, some time later, the Joker gets told he has terminal cancer by a psychiatrist who assumes that if the clown was convinced he was going to die, he might try reforming or something. A terminal turnaround. Lots of people do that, right?

He assumed wrong.

The Joker goes on an utter tear, doing all sorts of escalating villainy that starts with gassing everyone he can get his hands on, including other Arkham inmates. Somewhere amid this rampage, Robin III goes missing and the Joker cheerfully tells Nightwing that yeah, he killed the kid. And he has the gall to bring up Jason in the middle of all the gloating. By name. (The Joker knows Jason's name due to some nonsense involving Crane and Fear Toxin hallucinations and Batman in a prior story arc.)

And Dick

fucking

SNAPS.

Pummels the Joker right there on the floor. Barehanded. No sticks, no pausing, just beats him to death.

Two seconds later, a very alive (if hurt) Tim manages to get there and go "oh god what happened." Because Dick is not doing well! He has a crisis about killing a dude, no matter how terrible. He never thought he'd go that far.

Batman swoops in and resuscitates the clown. In the time between Jason's death and The Joker's Last Laugh, he has apparently decided that it's more important to keep Dick from suffering a breakdown than it is to kill the clown. DC editorial was gonna keep him alive either way, but whatever.

And now for the third part of my ramble.

As for Under the Red Hood, Jason's death is seriously streamlined for the film. In this version of events, none of the UN chicanery happens. Ra's al Ghul hires the clown for a distraction job while trying to crash the world economy (again) and whoops, the clown killed Batman's son. Crowbar, bomb, whatever. Before Jason's body can be buried, the League of Assassins steals it, hucks Jason into the Lazarus Pit, and now he's alive again!

Except, given how he died and how long he spent dead and how that interacts with the magic, he wakes up as a berserk ball of rage and pain, kills two of Ra's al Ghul's guards with his bare hands, escapes, falls into a river, and disappears.

...So much for making that whole thing up to Batman. The League of Assassins just quietly lets Bruce bury a latex dummy and doesn't ever bring it up.

Cut to Gotham, years later, when Red Hood is tearing up the place and Batman goes "Ra's al Ghul, what the fuck" and the whole story comes spilling out.

In A Ninja's Guide to Gotham, Jason's dropped hints in his narration that he was actually with the League of Assassins for a while, even before going 'round the world training with assassins and stuff. The Lazarus Pit just got him back to full functionality. So, you can assume it leans more on the comics' "spontaneous resurrection" scenario.

If Bruce ever tried to kill the Joker while Jason was dead, Jason doesn't know about it. And because we haven't been in Bruce's head, there's no indication either way.

(Bruce makes mention of how easy it would be kill the Joker in the film, but that he could never come back from doing so. It is not specified if he made the attempt or just thought about it a lot.)

I've been holding back on Jason's and Bruce's accounts of events because they're both owed a moment of dramatic catharsis (and shouting). You can generally rest assured that it'll be more likely to be a mix of events than a pure account of any one take on what happened in the warehouse that day.

Thanks for setting off an exposition bomb~

[handoverthekawaii]

We Go Together | Homelander x You | Chapter 28 [FINAL CHAPTER]

Taglist: @theaudacitytowrite @hom3landr

Secluded from the wailing sirens and panicked screams on the street below, the Analytics Department control room in Vought Tower has fallen eerily silent. Shoulder to shoulder with the rank-and-file techs, Translucent and Lamplighter focus all their attention on the control room’s largest screen, where footage from a U.S. fighter jet is broadcasting live.

The camera jerks around wildly in the high-altitude winds, but Viridi Aurora’s aircraft remains clearly visible in the frame. And Homelander should arrive any second now…

“There he is!” one of the technicians shouts, pointing to a tiny caped figure shooting into frame from below.

Everyone leans in closer as the figure closes distance with the plane. The tension in the room is so thick it could be cut with a blade. Lamplighter grips his lamp staff tightly, knuckles white, and Translucent whispers, “Come on, come on, come on…”

What happens next is difficult to discern from the camera’s grainy feed, but the group sees Homelander hurtle toward the plane at incredible speed. The plane and the Supe collide, but there’s no visible fire or explosion — instead, impossibly, the aircraft seems to slow down and begin rotating horizontally on its axis.

The rotation gets faster until the plane has made a full 360-degree turn, then another. On the third spin, suddenly, the aircraft shoots up and away from where Homelander hovers in midair. As the plane careens out of sight, the truth of the matter becomes clear — America’s hero wound up and threw the craft into the upper atmosphere with all the grace of an Olympic shot putter.

After another beat of silence, Lamplighter shouts, “FUCK YEAH!”

And the room erupts into raucous whoops and cheers, the reality sinking in that the ecoterrorists’ plot has been foiled. The shift boss weeps into a colleague’s arms as Translucent and Lamplighter high-five, then embrace one another in sheer relief. There will be no bio-attack on New York City today.

Meanwhile, thirty-thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, a detachment of fighter jets streaks through the sky in pursuit of the out-of-control cargo plane. John threw the aircraft with such force that it should end up in low-Earth orbit, which will buy enough time for the global space powers to determine how best to neutralize its cargo.

But John cares little for the fate of the aircraft right now. Instead, his attention is fully consumed with your limp form held in his arms. The force of the collision appears to have knocked you unconscious, or worse… but John can’t think about that.

He won’t think about that.

Trying not to panic, the Supe lowers his mouth to your ear and says, “Come on, Y/N. Wake up.”

[continued on AO3]